place to live. There was a small, colorful rug in the area opposite the kitchen where the dining room table sat, and the Times , nearly two weeks old, was lying there as if Lisa had just gone to heat up her coffee. Or more likely, get another hit of herb tea. Over the table, hanging upside down from the ceiling, were dozens of dried bouquets of roses, still fragrant, and on the table was a teal blue vase, empty now. Near the vase were Lisaâs appointment calendar and a small address book. I slipped them into my pocket.
The kitchen was small, utilitarian, and neater than mine. No big trick. On the floor, opposite the sink, were two bowls, one obviously licked clean by a large dog with a healthy appetite, the other with a small amount of water still in it. I picked up the water bowl, rinsed it in the sink, then let the water run until it got cold. It was a ceramic dish, cream with a rust-colored dog bone, rimmed in blue, smack in the center. On the outside, in the blue, was written âMy Dog.â I filled it and put it down for Dashiell. I could hear him drinking as I stood in the center of Lisaâs living room and looked around.
On my left there was a wall of books, with photos of Lisa doing tâai chi tucked between the volumes. All the photos were of Lisa, none of anyone elseânot a boyfriend, not even her Akita.
Under the huge windows there was a comfortable-looking black couch, a small glass coffee table, and two black leather chairs. The rest of the room was empty. I tried to imagine Lisa practicing tâai chi there.
Dashiell was on his way upstairs, his nails clacking on the wooden steps. I followed him up, then sat on Lisaâs double bed. The Tao-teching was on the nightstand, with a piece of lavender string as a bookmark. I opened it and began to read. This was enough to make me want to end it all.
I had gone through a Zen phase years before, when I was nineteen or twenty. I wore black, studied tâai chi, and for the hours between lunch and dinner one day became a vegetarian. But aside from an occasional line that made sense to me, most of what Iâd read and heard was incomprehensible.
âMystery of mysteries,â it said on the page where Lisa had marked her place. She had not only underlined it but copied it in the margin in her small, neat handwriting.
How could you come to understand something that couldnât be explained and couldnât be taught? Moreover, when you finally thought you had a handle on it, you didnât. Give me a break, I thought, putting the book back on the nightstand. Life is difficult enough without Zen.
But then I picked it up again. Lisa had been reading it. Probably for the hundredth time. Maybe I ought to give it one more shot. I left it on the foot of the bed to remind me to take it home. I would put it on my nightstand. Beyond that, I couldnât say.
I looked at Lisaâs clothes. Almost everything was black, soft cotton tops and pants you could wear when you practiced or taught tâai chi. But there were a few cheerful touches in her neat closet, tooâa pair of pink high-tops, a pair of red cowboy boots, a sort of patchwork quilted jacket, and silk scarves, lovely ones in nearly every color, long ones, the kind you could wrap around twice, knot, or play with seductively as you leaned close to chat. I pulled out a lavender one and draped it around my neck, smelling Lisaâs perfume, which still clung to the fabric.
On the tall oak dresser, there was a wooden jewelry box. I opened it and pawed through Lisaâs treasures. I looked in the dresser drawers, too, at her underwear and sweaters. I rifled the nightstands. I checked under the bed. Snooping was my profession, wasnât it?
If Lisa had been depressed, I couldnât see any signs of it. There were no clothes strewn around, no pile of neglected laundry or unpaid bills, no Prozac, Valium, or sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet of the upstairs bathroom.