Short Fiction: The other side of the wall

It seemed too easy, he thought, then stopped himself before the refrain “a little too easy” to enter his mind.
She’d never seen him this relaxed. It worried her. She was worried a lot.

He slammed the hammer against the brick and mortar. More in frustration than focus. She sighed. His shoulders slumped.

“I know,” he muttered, the hammer limp in his hand. With his free hand, he wiped his forehead. He placed his sweaty hand against the wall and leaned on it. “I know,” he repeated.

“What if I go back to the car and get…” she trailed off.

Get what? He wondered. We’d brought everything we thought we needed. We were wrong, that’s all there is to it: we were wrong.

“Time to leave,” he said aloud. He began dropping the tools into his North Rim backpack.

“Leave? But, we’re so close! We can’t leave!” She wailed.

He finished packing the tools. He dropped the pack and turned toward her. He put his arms on her shoulders. She knew he would’ve taken her hands if she hadn’t tucked them under her armpits.

“We and the wall are out of harmony. We need to leave to restore the balance.”

There was a time not too long ago when she’d thought his Zen sayings cute, if not wise. This was not one of those times.

“No. You listen. We need to break through that wall. We need to break open Box 24A and steal the stock certificates. We must break open Box 762C and steal the jewelry. We will break open Box 9821B and steal the cash. You remember the cash? Clean, untraceable and all ours. All two million dollars of it.” She paused. “That will restore the balance.”

He’d struggled with this dichotomy before. Monks lived in abject poverty, begging for their subsistence, growing more and more bhudda. Yet he was called to this. This wasn’t begging. It was stealing. He was good at it and he really did feel more and more bhudda as he stole. In the act, he was at one. He was aware. The more difficult the score, the more complete his zanshin.

She sat fuming at him. Looked at the pack, shoved him aside lunging for it.

“Just let me. You sit there and zone out.”

It was true, he thought. The more difficult the score, the more enlightenment possible.

He grabbed the pick from the pack, picked a spot on the wall, set his feet and started swinging.