Elizabeth Zelvin - Bruce Kohler 04 - Death Will Save Your Life by Elizabeth Zelvin Read Free Book Online

their late spring glory. Bursts of flame-colored poppies glowed in the brilliant sun. Irises at their peak displayed an astonishing range of rainbow hues. Purple alliums, their fuzzy heads impossibly round, poked up in regiments. Peonies exploded in masses of silken pink and cream petals, releasing an intense fragrance.
    Barbara sat and closed her eyes, letting the sun and the light breeze bathe her upturned face. At the meditation this morning, they’d practiced deep listening. Now she imagined herself breathing in through her ears. Four different bird calls. Insect sounds: a buzzing, a whine, a dry repeated click. The highway’s intermittent faint rush of passing cars. A quickening breeze that tossed the treetops into a chorale of sighs and whispers.
    Three or four people walked by: soft voices, footwear that crunched, scuffled, and creaked. She folded them into the meditation. A distant train whistle wailed. The prolonged clackety-clack of a long string of freight cars followed. Shouts, crows of laughter, and a rhythmic thumping came from the basketball court behind the dining hall.
    She smiled at the thought of telling Jimmy later that she’d been at one with the treetops and the dragonflies. It was her last self-aware thought as she slid into a trance state. She came back to herself to hear a soft percussive shushing that she couldn’t identify.
    She breathed deeply in and out and opened her eyes. The flower beds shimmered; the sky dazzled. A small, weathered Asian man was combing the fine gravel of the path with a wooden rake. He worked steadily with a slow, smooth motion, smiling as if the task gave him enormous pleasure. Very Zen. He was probably one of the many Tibetans who visited the Farm.
    “Good afternoon,” Barbara said. “What a beautiful day.”
    She drew her legs up on the bench and twisted, arms leaning on the back, so she could see him better. He wore a faded denim shirt a few sizes too big for him, the sleeves rolled up over arms so muscular they looked like bundles of ship’s cable. Grass-stained khaki cutoffs and surprisingly new-looking running shoes completed the ensemble.
    He beamed at her and waved the rake exuberantly.
    “Hello. Yes, it is beautiful!”
    “It certainly is. Don’t you do tai chi? I’ve seen you in the group down by the lake in the morning.”
    “Up with the birds. Early, early.”
    He laughed, as if using the cardinals and finches as an alarm clock was the best joke ever told. The Tibetans had a reputation for joyousness. Everyone here loved them.
    “Martial arts are not Tibetan, are they?”
    “A-clicketa.”
    “Sorry, I don’t understand,” she said.
    “Eck-a-leck-i-ta,” he pronounced carefully. “A little tai chi, a little yoga, a little mandala from my country. Lots and lots of sitting.”
    “Oh, eclectic, I get it. Sitting? Oh, of course, you mean meditation.” She slapped herself lightly on the side of the head, which made him laugh.
    “Sitting and chanting very spiritual, but not good exercise.”
    “Doesn’t burn any calories.”
    They laughed together. Barbara could imagine finding a hundred years had passed when she stopped laughing and left the garden.
    “Where do you sit?” she asked.
    He slapped his rear and laughed so hard he dropped the rake.
    “Where do you think? Wise man or woman not need many turns of the Wheel to figure that out.”
    “I meant do you have some special place?”
    “Ahhh. Sure, I go up.” He waved his arm in a graceful gesture.
    “Up the mountain?”
    “Hmmph. Not much of a mountain.”
    Of course. Compared to the Himalayas, Woo-Woo Farm was flat.
    “But you climb up there. To the Outlook? Where you can see out over the, uh, hills to the river?”
    “Sometimes see, sometimes dark. Quieter in the dark.” He shook his head. “Stay away last few days. Not good, what happen there.”
    “Not good,” she agreed. “How do you get up there in the dark? You can’t see—you could twist your ankle.”
    “I