I grumbled to Leo as I put down the landline phone. ‟My family . . . ” ‟Don’t they know your cell?” ‟They believe there’s a better chance of getting a return on a call here. They believe you’ll prod me to call.” Leo smiled, as if to say not yes, not no. He was sitting cross-legged on his futon, books lined up in front of him on a long rectangular furoshiki, one of the Japanese cloths used as bags, folded to cover gifts, boxes, and in this case books. Empty spaces in the bookcase revealed where the texts had been and now the furoshiki suggested they’d be wrapped and traveling elsewhere, though maybe only downstairs for lecture next Saturday. As his jisha, I’d be piling them in the center of the furoshiki, folding over both its ends and carrying them to a table next to his rectangular black zabutan in the zendo. ‟My brothers believe,” I admitted, ‟that I don’t want to look irresponsible in front of you.” He swung himself around to face the wall in a surprisingly graceful manner, leaving me talking to his back.
