Sweet Lamb of Heaven (10)

I couldn’t find an attribution anywhere. No results.

But in general such great swaths of what it said were borrowed or adapted that they were already familiar—part of the background of culture somehow, part of the landscape of the commonplace. I sometimes wondered if all of it was borrowed, if it was all pure appropriation, a colorful textile made only of copies.

I’d started reading in philosophy, every so often, and that was when I came upon its first word to me, the sound I’d heard in the hospital before it spoke English. That word was Phowa, or poa, meaning “mindstream” in Sanskrit—the transference of consciousness at the moment of death, was one meaning.


Phowa (Wylie: 'pho ba; also spelled Powa or Poa phonetically; Sanskrit: sakrānti) is a Vajrayāna Buddhist meditation practice describable as a “transference of consciousness” or “mindstream.” —Wikipedia 6.20.2009

Sometimes there were brief flickers of foreboding, brief intimations of the voice’s departure, but I tried not to invest too much in those. I didn’t want to be disappointed so I didn’t hope too hard. When I caught a glimpse of a future leave-taking, a tiny slip of possibility, I didn’t trot out the streamers or confetti or whistles, the bejeweled gowns and conical party hats, the jeroboams of champagne.

I waited quietly, holding my cards close to the vest.



CURIOUSLY TWO MORE guests have arrived at the motel right on the heels of Kay. By the standards of this place, it’s a madding crowd.

They’re two middle-aged men, a couple, and I can’t help but feel that they, like Kay, are in some state of dismay. Maybe it’s conjugal, a conjugal problem, but I feel like it’s something else. One of them seems to be consoling the other half the time, he has a steadying hand on the other guy’s shoulder practically whenever I see them.

They checked in at the cocktail hour—I have a glass of wine before dinner most days, while Lena and I play “Go Fish” or “War”—and shortly after that we heard a knock on our room door. When I opened it there was Don, the two men standing behind him, politely waiting, and Don peered past me and asked Lena if she wanted to conduct a tour. Typically she has to pester him for that; she’ll run along the row of room doors to the lobby as soon as she sees a car pull in and beg to be the tour guide, and Don will check with the new guests to see if they’re sufficiently captive to her charms. But this time Don sought her out, and it thrilled her, of course.

So we set out, the four of us—Don peeled off toward the lobby again—and I talked to the balder of the two men while Lena kept up her monologue with the other, a gaunt, handsome blond called Burke who seems to need consolation. The balding one, Gabe, said they wanted to take advantage of the off-season rates, they don’t go in for tanning anyway, the cancerous harm of the sun’s rays; winter beaches are just fine. Nor do they like to swim, he said, except in pools that are very clean. They also do not fish, surf, parasail, or favor any other ocean-related activities.

It became clear to me—as we stood near the ice machine and I listened to Gabe rattle on about bikini-and Speedo-clad crowds lying on beaches, the rude spectacle of this—that the two men knew Don, that Don was a personal friend of theirs, and that was why he’d felt all right bringing them back to our room.

At that moment I saw Don coming out of the lobby again, this time with Kay; they walked with their heads inclined toward each other, talking low. And it struck me with certainty that Don knew Kay, too. In fact it could well be that everyone else staying here already knew Don; that Lena and I were now the only guests who had not known Don before we came to stay at his motel.

I felt a little jarred.

And now I couldn’t remember how I’d found the place, when we first came to stay. Had I driven past a billboard? Had I sorted through online reviews of budget motels? But I couldn’t remember a billboard or a review. All I recalled was driving up the long gravel road in an exhausted reverie, hardly thinking, and turning into the small parking lot, shaded with pine trees. I’d liked the peeling wooden sign.

Welcome to THE WIND AND PINES.

I had a feeling of unease, flashing back to the movies I’d watched when the voice was first with me, a vision of black-clad people leaning over a baby carriage. I thought of a sedate old apartment building that was in truth a hive of sinister insects, where behind the ornately carved doors, in sleepy luxury, the neighbors quietly worshiped some dark beast.

I wondered, if I asked Don how he knew them all, whether he would tell me a simple story about how he’d gotten to meet them or would avoid answering my question. I felt a temptation to try this, to confront Don shockingly, demanding information.

But my misgivings are absurd, I realize that. The motel is Don’s home, and motel managers can have friends to stay like anyone else.



WHEN THE VOICE fell silent relief washed through me like bliss. I know everyone has reliefs as the days run their course: the feeling of relief is as familiar as a hiccup or jolt of fear. But this relief was the swiftest joy of my life.

Lena said her first word early in a day, so indistinctly that at first I took it for a murmur. She crawled across the rug and began idly banging on my shoe with a red sippy cup. I was skimming the news on my computer, a mug of coffee at my elbow, when she repeated the word, Ma-ma, Ma-ma, until I pulled out of my reverie and looked down.

Then she stopped saying it, her mouth falling open as she gazed at me. And in the wake of her utterance a new silence fell around us like a sheath.