and I’d dream about it every night. I knew that if I could train a little, even just stretch, it would be helpful, but I had no energy for it. None.”
Samuel sits silently, looking at me for a moment, his hands folded on his lap. “The fourteenth Dali Lama said, ‘Through violence, you may solve one problem, but you sow the seeds for another.’ In your case, you did solve the problem of the evil person, but other problems were created by that action.” He raises his palm. “Do not take that as a condemnation of what you did. Your intention was right action, which is one of the aspects of Buddha’s Eight Fold Path. But even with right action—well—sometimes shit happens.
“Remember in Portland when I told you that when I was with the Green Berets, I got fourteen confirmed kills? There were more but that is the number confirmed. Each one was in the heat of battle; each enemy soldier was trying to kill me or my brothers. I was using right action, but each one caused me great problems; each one haunted me for a long time… sometimes they still do.”
Samuel pauses and looks at Kim’s painting for a moment. “Each man had a family, you see, who suffered when he did not come home to them. But with the death of each enemy, one or many of my men lived. But someone who loved those I killed suffered pain of the heart. But with each life saved, another wife, another child, another mother did not suffer.” He shrugs, glances toward the foyer and back to me. “But but but, eh? This is the terrible burden the warrior must carry.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, as the full impact of his words hit me.
“And Buddha,” Samuel says. “Both great men.” He leans forward as if to emphasize his next words. “Son, there are no magic words that will make the pain go away. What I just offered is nothing more than another way to think about it.”
We sit silently for a few moments. Sitting together without speaking is something we did a couple of times in Portland. It was never awkward or uncomfortable. In fact, it felt… right. I know he is letting me digest what he said, though it will take a lot longer than a few quiet moments. A lifetime?
“Or longer,” he says.
“Dang! I keep forgetting that you can do that.”
“Samuel bobs his eyebrows. “He-he. Not all the time and with only a few people. Like I told you before, it is easier with you because we are blood.” He thinks for a moment. “Do you know who Pema Chodron is?”
I shake my head.
“She is an American woman, in her eighties now, I think. She is an ordained nun in Tibetan Buddhism. She wrote, ‘It isn’t what happens to us that causes us to suffer; it is what we say to ourselves about what happened.’”
“Hmm, I like that.” I chuckle, thinking about my shrink. Samuel knows about her. “Doc Kari would agree.”
“Did she help you?”
I nod. “She’s a tough gal who takes no prisoners and suffers no b.s. from her patients, which is good since she has to deal with pig-headed cops all the time. Seriously, she’s good, and she always seems to find the right thing to say to make me feel better.”
“It sounds like she is a good sensei, a good guide. You probably know this, but one of the definitions of sensei is one who points the way.”
“I do. Sort of like a wise father.”
Wow, I just referred to him for the first time as my father. His eyes flicker with surprise, while mine, I’m sure, are less subtle. To be accurate, I didn’t actually say, you’re my father, but it was pretty darn close. Straight from the subconscious, I’m guessing.
“Tea come,” Tex says, slapping quickly across the floor toward the love seat.
“More on this later, Son,” he says, his eyes blinking rapidly.
“Before you sit back down, Tex,” Samuel says. “I told Sam about your martial arts and he doesn’t believe me.”
“What?” I say loudly. “Tex, I never—”
Samuel laughs. “I am kidding, Tex. But would you mind a short demonstration?”
The legless man plops his lower torso on the floor, leans on one hand, and makes little chopping motions with his other hand. “Heee-yah! Your father teach me that.”
“Everyone is a comedian,” Samuel says. “How about you throw a roundhouse kick at Tex?”
“Uh…”
“Well said, Son. But give him a kick and do not go easy.”
Tex nods, “Fast better,” he says. “Easier for me.” He centers himself on me, his torso planted on the floor, arms raised, palms forward. When he smiles, it’s with his mouth, not his eyes.
I’m not a stranger to Samuel’s somewhat freaky fighting style, so I’m a tad reluctant to do this. But I’m the son so I have to. I stand and shake my legs a little to rid some of the stiffness from twenty-some hours of flying. Tex is motionless, still doing that stony-eyed smile thing.
I skip up with my back leg and snap out a lead-leg roundhouse to the man’s head. He ducks it easily and steps hand over hand behind my kick.
He nods a couple of times. “Pretty kick. Pretty slow. More fun time for me when kick fast. You can do fast, right?”
“Yes,” I say, my machismo tweaked a little. “I wasn’t sure how fast you wanted.”
“Fast, Son,” Samuel says. “Do not insult Tex. You will not like it if he gets insulted. That is a variation from what David Banner says in The Incredible Hulk.”
I was just thinking that I’ve yet to hear a movie quote from him.
“I was going to wait a while,” he says, unnerving me. “Now kick him!”
I shuffle step to confuse him as to which leg is kicking, then fire a fast lead-leg round at his waiting, smiling face, which is no more than three feet off the floor. He ducks again, but this time snaps up an arm and hooks my leg in the crook of his elbow as it passes over him. The weight of his hanging half body pulls my kick to the floor, but not before he swings on it like a monkey on a vine and loops around it to slam his torso stump into my chest. The impact feels like I’ve been hit by a battering ram and I’m the Middle Ages’ castle door he’s trying to break down. It sends me sprawling onto my back. Fortunately, I tuck my chin to keep the back of my head from colliding with the stone floor.
Tex is standing now, or whatever he calls what he does, on my abdomen. He’s actually heavier than he looks making it hard for me to get a complete breath. Just as I think that he is going to jump up and down and screech in triumph, he reaches out and tweaks my nose with his thumb and forefinger.
“That is what Mr. Miyagi did in Karate Kid,” Samuel says excitedly. “You saw that one, right, Son?”
I choose to ignore the question. Tex scoots off me and pulls my arm to help me sit up. “That was amazing,” I wheeze. “Very creative. You might have mentioned that it involved a takedown on a stone floor.”
“Sorry,” he says, dusting off my back.
“That is a good point, Tex,” Samuel reprimands. Then to me, “Usually when he does that defense, he climbs up the kicker like a spider and makes like Buddy Rich.”
“Who?”
“Old time band drummer. He was known in music for having the world’s fastest hands.”
Tex apologizes again, and says, “Kick very fast. Surprised me. I did not expect you to kick a man with no legs so fast.”
Samuel laughs at that and helps me to my feet. “He is a real card, no?”
“Samuel,” Tex says. “You please tell panther story.”
Samuel chuckles. “Okay.” He looks at me and winks. “He identifies with this. It is a story about a wise old dog and a hungry panther.