Elsewhere in Success by Iris Lavell Page B

‘Fever’ playing from the CD stacker.
    There was no debate regarding Buddha’s place in the grand scheme of things. For once they were agreed. It was as if the spot beneath the pink rose tree had been waiting for him all along. A welcoming of petals had been prepared by the breeze.
    Buddha’s chip glinted white against the dark green paint that covered the rest of his expansive body. At first when theylooked out onto the garden from the dining room window they could see it clearly, but after only a week it had begun to disappear. Dirt was covering it, and a petal from the rose had bandaged it. The petal shrivelled and stuck, and eventually dried out and was blown off and absorbed into the general background. By this time, the white had virtually disappeared, leaving an interesting black scar that could be discerned only at close quarters. Although the wound healed with the passage of time, Buddha retained a triangular mark on the tip of his toe, a point of focus for the observant to meditate upon.
    They each noted the event as a minor miracle, and independently wondered about its significance.
    Louisa stands in the mist watching the drops of water form and trickle over Buddha’s bald head. He smiles. The winter grass has almost obscured him from view, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
    â€˜Let nature take its course,’ she murmurs, on his behalf. ‘You don’t seem to mind, do you Buddha? Of course, you’re not actually alive. That might have something to do with it.’
    At that the rain gets heavier, encouraging her to go inside.
    There was a man, Floyd, who worked on the station for her father when she was very young. He used to play tricks on her and Zoe. Part of his job was to kill sheep for the homestead meat. It’s not a pleasant job, her father said when she came crying to him that first time, but it has to be done. Floyd actually seemed to like it though. He liked other things too – making her feel safe and then ridiculing her for trusting him. Zoe seemed tougher, more able to handle things like that. She stood up to him a bit more.
    It takes a long time before a person looks back at the child and the adult and realises that, logically, the child can’t be held responsible. It takes even longer to feel it is true. Responsible for what, she’s not sure.
    â€˜Come on,’ says Floyd. ‘Come with me.’
    Zoe is there too. She must be about six years old. Louisa is four.
    â€˜Where to?’ says Zoe, tripping after him.
    He’s walking away. He has the dog with him – a bitzer, part kelpie, part several other things. A bit of dingo. He expects them to follow. They do, of course. They might have an inkling about Floyd’s tendency for mischief by now, but they are curious. The yard, which is attached to a smaller pen, is a short distance from the homestead. Mostly it stands empty, but today it holds about a dozen animals including some ewes with their lambs, already weaned, but with some still trying for milk.
    â€˜Pick one,’ he says.
    â€˜What for?’ says Zoe.
    â€˜Which one do you like best?’
    â€˜That one is cute,’ says Louisa, pointing to one of the bigger lambs.
    â€˜That one it is,’ says Floyd.
    Louisa hasn’t thought of Floyd for years. She wants to approach the subject obliquely, talk about it generally, and not get into the particulars. She doesn’t like to think about Floyd, but he has emerged in her consciousness for a reason. He might hold a clue. Louisa thinks of Buddha then. He could be the bridge she needs. She tells Lucy that she’s interested in Buddhism because it doesn’t shy away from the subject of death, and how she thinks she might be looking for some sort of spiritual or philosophical answer. ‘What do you think?’
    â€˜About what?’
    â€˜The meaning of death.’
    Lucy says, ‘The meaning of death? I think that we can dwell on it, or just