A Matter of Time

by David Manuel

  Bartholomew groaned aloud, flinging the pad away from him.

  Go take a shower, said God to his heart, you need one. And hurry; you don’t want to keep Father Francis waiting.

  As soon as they were seated on the bus, Bartholomew told the old priest of what had happened to him in the past 24 hours—all of it, leaving nothing out. “It feels like it’s been a week!” he concluded.

  Father Francis just nodded and smiled. “You’re having a good retreat, Bartholomew.” He chuckled. “Finally.”

  “So now what?”

  The old priest smiled, as he gazed out the window of the bus. “Build on the foundation you’ve laid. Stay close to God. And when you go home, ask Him to give you renewed love for Novice Nicholas and all your brothers.”

  Bartholomew turned to him. “Will that be—soon?”

  Father Francis laughed. “A lot sooner today than yesterday!”

  They watched a flock of people in shorts and T-shirts, running along the side of the road for some good cause.

  “God will tell you when it’s time to leave. I shouldn’t think it will be that long now.” He looked at the younger man. “And when you do, it will be with a heavy heart.”

  Bartholomew nodded. “I know. I can’t believe it, but I’ve grown fond of the cottage.”

  The old priest had one more surprise for him. As they were walking up the hill to the Cathedral, he said, “I want you to take this afternoon off, starting as soon as the Mass has ended. Just drift, wherever you sense God’s Spirit leading. Don’t leave Hamilton until the three o’clock ferry.”

  He reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here’s some money for lunch and the ferry.” He gave him $30. “Let Him guide you. Practice His presence.” He smiled. “The two of you spend the afternoon together.”

  They had reached the Cathedral’s main door. “Remember,” murmured the old priest, “Vaya con Dios.” And with that he entered, leaving Bartholomew nonplussed.

  21 flawed paradise

  In the high pulpit, the bishop in his red vestments paused before commencing his sermon. To Bartholomew, looking up at him, he was an imposing figure, like Orson Welles in “Moby Dick,” playing a Puritan minister/ship captain, casting a weather eye over his flock of whaling families.

  Had he ever met a bishop? He seemed to recall a retired one years ago, a friend of Father Francis, as this one was.

  But the man in the pulpit was far from retired. Black, mid-fifties, heavyset—Bartholomew smiled; pontifical fit perfectly. But not pompous. For all his gentle, self-deprecating wit, this bishop imbued the office with immense dignity and a quiet, deep spirituality.

  “No man is an island, unto himself,” he began. “John Donne wrote that four centuries ago, in one of his best sermons. It fits this one, since we are an island people. Some English adventurers around Donne’s time came here accidentally. But they came back on purpose. They’d found paradise—or as close as they were likely to get on this side of the veil. And perhaps the other.”

  The bishop smiled at the ripple of laughter. “But my friends, it is a flawed paradise. Happily God seems to have drawn a curtain over the flaws, so our visitors are unaware of them. But we who live here are all too aware of them. And the principal one is drugs.”

  People nodded. “What are they doing to us? We’re an island family—a large one, but family, nonetheless. We used to trust one another. But there’s only one way to support a drug habit.” He shook his head. “Members of the family are now stealing from other members, doing things that were unthinkable when I was a boy. And the victim of this national tragedy is Trust.”

  More heads were nodding. “We’re beginning to distrust one another, to become apprehensive. And to start withdrawing from one another.” He paused. “Race is becoming more of an issue between us.”

  He let that sink in, then smiled. “But God has an answer. He is the answer!” He spread his arms to the congregation. “Look around, my friends, and see our great strength: half of us are white, half black. That’s not integration. That’s unity. Family unity.”

  He caught the eye of some of the children in the congregation. “You know what? God doesn’t care what color paper the present is wrapped in. He wants to see what’s inside.” As the children giggled, he turned to their parents. “What color is it in your heart? Is it light? Or is there darkness there? That’s the only color He’s interested in.”

  Again he paused. “My friends, we are strong because God’s Spirit has drawn us together. Given us caring concern for one another. Made us a church family. It’s the unholy spirit who would divide us, instill fear, plant seeds of distrust.”

  He smiled. “He can’t get away with that in here. But we need to keep our love for one another on the front burner. And sometimes that’s going to cost.”

  It grew quite still in the cathedral. “Sometimes we wonder if we would die for our faith, as the martyrs were required to. ‘Of course!’ we say. But we won’t know till that moment comes.” He sighed and smiled. “I pray for all of us, it will never come.”

  He grew solemn. “But there’s another kind of death. Death to pride. Death to self. Death to preoccupation with the approval of others.” He looked from one to another. “Friends, God may require one of these lesser deaths of you, if you are to remain true to your faith.”

  He put his hands on the lectern and smiled. He was finished. “And so, friends, in the words of John Donne, ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.”

  The Mass was ended, and Father Francis went to join the others in the fellowship hall for coffee, and to pay his respects to the bishop and the canon. Bartholomew elected not to accompany him, preferring to linger in the now-empty cathedral. Its walls, bathed in sunlight from the southern clerestory windows, exuded soft, golden warmth.

  For a long time he sat there, enjoying the stillness and the peace. Gradually he became aware that he was not alone. There was a young man at the back of the nave, staring at a notice on the bulletin board. He was not a walk-in; Bartholomew vaguely remembered him being there during the service. Nice-looking kid—17 or 18, thin as a rail, blond hair long but combed, coat and tie.

  At length, the boy drew a deep breath and headed resolutely toward the corridor that led to the clergy offices. But just as he was about to go there, he stopped, slowly turned and went back out the main entrance and disappeared.

  Curious to see what had transfixed the boy’s attention, Bartholomew went back to see. It was not hard to find; the headline was arresting:

  YOU DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT

  TO REMAIN SILENT

  “Not where drugs are concerned,” the flyer went on. “If you know something, you have to tell someone.”

  Bartholomew wondered what the boy knew. Was he on his way to tell someone, when he lost his nerve?

  He looked at his watch; almost one o’clock. Time to drift. He went out into the sunlight and ambled down the hill toward the waterfront. At the door of the Hogpenny, he paused. He’d heard the food was good in here, and it would be a blessing to have a meal prepared by someone other than himself.

  Are you hungry? came the thought.

  Not particularly

  Then don’t eat.

  I have the money.

  Save it for now.

  Where are we going?

  Nothing came, so he continued down the hill. Arriving at Front Street, it felt like he ought to go west, so he did.

  For no reason, he paused in front of a large yellow building on the waterfront.

  Go in.

  He looked up. A sign identified the building as Shed #1. Had he heard correctly?

  Go in.

  He did. Bermuda’s annual cat show was in progress. About a hundred hopeful cat-owners had brought their household pets to be judged in different breed categories. Bemused, Bartholomew bought a ticket, went upstairs, and entered the hall.

  There were rows of cages, with the owners, mostly very young and accompanied by parents, sitting beside
them. Wandering down the rows, Bartholomew suddenly felt homesick, specifically for Pangur Ban. The friary cat had preferred the bottom of his bed at night, but he had booted him off enough times that he’d finally chosen another.

  Listen, you dumb cat, Bartholomew told him in absentia; you want to sleep on my bed when I get home, you can.

  How on earth could the judges pick prizewinners without crushing those owners whose cats weren’t chosen?

  He soon found out. A judge, plump and gray-haired, looking dapper in his hound’s-tooth sport-coat, stood in the middle of a semi-circle of ten cages, each with a feline finalist awaiting his assessment. In front of him, sitting on four rows of folding chairs, was an audience of perhaps forty, comprised mostly of hopeful young owners, parents and friends.

  One of the cages behind him was open, and with both hands he held up and extended its occupant—a large, tawny, ring-tailed male—for the audience to admire.

  “Now this is a fine specimen of the Maine Coon breed. His eyes are clear, his muscle tone is firm, his coat is full and rich. Whoever is caring for this animal is doing a splendid job!”

  In the front row, a little girl in pigtails positively shone. Her mother, sitting next to her, happily patted her shoulder.

  “This excellent cat is my eighth choice,” said the judge, returning him to the open cage.

  Bartholomew was surprised. From the generous praise, he had assumed the cat would get at least the red ribbon, if not the blue. Then he realized that all of the finalists would be similarly commended—and all ten owners would be similarly delighted.

  In the foyer, he strolled among the booths and displays, stopping at one called BFAB, the Bermuda Feline Assistance Bureau. A lady explained that they trapped feral cats—cats that had been either discarded or born in the wild—had them spayed or neutered, gave them shots against distemper and feline leukemia, and returned them to their natural habitat. In this way, they were doing what they could to help control the feral cat population.

  Bartholomew told her he was staying on the Harris Property and had seen several feral cats as he was cleaning out brush there.

  “Nell?” the lady called to an associate, two booths away. “This gentleman’s staying at the Harris Property.” She turned back to Bartholomew and explained, “That’s Nell’s territory.”

  In a moment Nell came over. “We took seven from there just a week ago.”

  Bartholomew looked at her. “By any chance was one of them black? With a white blaze on the chest?”

  “And two white socks on the front feet?”

  Bartholomew smiled. “That’s the one.”

  “Oh, yes,” nodded Nell. She’s a beauty, that one.” She tilted her head. “You’ve made her acquaintance?”

  “Well, we dined together once—almost. I named her Noire.”

  “She’ll make a good companion, if you have the time and patience.”

  “Listen,” said Bartholomew, reaching in his pocket, “I’d like to help your work.”

  “Why don’t you buy a cap?” suggested Nell.

  He looked at the navy blue ball cap with the BFAB insignia. “How much are they?”

  “Fifteen dollars.”

  He took it. Holding back four dollars for the ferry, he would have two left over.

  As he left Shed #1 with the cap on, he was the happiest he’d been since he’d come to Bermuda.

  There was still a little time before the ferry. He continued drifting west, and turned left toward a little park, next to the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club. Beside him was an ice cream and notions shop.

  Go in.

  He did.

  Ask if they have Rum Raisin ice cream.

  They did.

  Licking the best-tasting cone he’d ever had, he emerged from the shop and retraced his steps to the ferry terminal. He got aboard, taking a seat on the upper, open deck. As the ferry left, he gazed at the receding skyline of Hamilton. Like the houses, the office buildings were either white or pastel shades of pink, blue, and yellow. And above them on the crown of the hill, like a mother watching over her children, was the square, gray cathedral.

  Bartholomew leaned back in the sun and closed his eyes. For the first time in years, he knew perfect peace.

  Your retreat is ended, my son, came the thought.

  I don’t want it to end.

  It does not have to. You can take what you have learned home with you, and you can remain as close to me there as you desire.

  Does this mean I’ll be going home now?

  Soon. I have need of you here for a few more days.

  So be it. Father, one thing puzzles me. The ice cream—yesterday it was not all right; today it was.

  Whose idea was it yesterday?

  Mine.

  And today?

  Yours.

  He thought about that. In other words, if I give to me, I am both giver and receiver. But if the gift comes from you, then I receive it as love, and respond with love.

  That is the surrendered life, my son.

  Clouds sailed across an azure sky, driven by a northwest wind that raised whitecaps on the surface of the harbor. In the distance off the port bow, two sailboats, side by side with spinnakers in full bloom, one red and one blue, jockeyed for position as they approached a buoy.

  Perfect peace—it really did pass all understanding.

  22 knock you down

  Perfect mayhem described the scene aboard the boat with the red spinnaker.

  “Stand by the jib!” cried Anson Phelps, his hand on the tiller. “Buoy in thirty seconds!”

  “Jib leader’s jammed!”

  “Well, unjam it, Kerry!” shouted Anson, letting fly a stream of invective. “Twenty seconds to buoy! Colin, where’s the wind going to be, when we round her? You don’t know?” He ripped off another peal of epithets.

  “I don’t care if it’s just changed! That’s why you’re out here! Now give me input on the other boat! Kerry, jib ready? Good! Ten seconds! Colin! Where’s the other boat? Input, man! All right, Alex, down spinnaker in five! Four… three… Watch the boat! Watch the boat!”

  Bam! The two boats collided as they rounded the buoy together. The impact threw Alex off balance, and he lost the spinnaker line. Like a suddenly deflated balloon, the spinnaker collapsed, draping the bow, dragging in the sea, stopping them dead in the water.

  Anson was in a white-knuckled rage. A litany of the crude and the vulgar poured from his mouth, until he started to lose his voice. Since that was a luxury a captain could ill afford, he fell silent. But he was no less angry.

  “All right,” he muttered, “that’s it for today!” He spun the wheel and headed for the yacht club. “In all my 33 years, that is the worst piece of seamanship I have ever encountered! Novices on Sunfishes could do better!” On and on he went, until they reached the assigned berth at the RBYC docks.

  Later, after they’d showered and cleaned up and were out on the covered terrace, Anson ordered a Heineken for Colin and a Foster’s for himself. He led them to a table over to the side, where they would not be disturbed.

  “Where were you out there, man?” he asked Colin, not unkindly. “Because you sure weren’t in the boat with the rest of us.”

  Colin didn’t answer. He just shook his head slowly.

  “Look, man, I’m counting on you! Not just to read gusts before they knock us down, but for leadership! There’s nothing wrong with Alex and Kerry. They’re young, but they’re good. And they handle stress well—like the kind I dish out. They just need to be steadied down, and you’re the one who can do that.”

  Anson waited, but there was no response. Finally, frustration mounting, he exclaimed, “I need the Beater out there, man! Tell me he’s going to be there tomorrow!”

  “He’ll be there,” said Colin quietly.

  “Well, good!” sighed his friend, relieved. “Because tomorrow we start racing for real! And I don’t ever want to go through that dog’s breakfast again!”

  As the ferry headed for
Somerset Bridge, it passed through the shadow of the towering cruise ship Crystal Harmony, parked at anchor in Great Sound. On her fantail, for the pleasure of any passengers who had not gone ashore, a solitary bagpiper was playing “Bonny Dundee.”

  The skirl of the pipes made Bartholomew homesick—for the first time in several days. The abbey had two pipers who led their outdoor processions, like last year on the anniversary of their basilica’s dedication. That was a gorgeous day—all of them in their robes and white surplices, following tall banners with colorful streamers and Latin exhortations—Benedicamus Te, Laudate Dominum, Laetantur Caeli. Led by two pipers in full kilted regalia.

  Brother Dominic had questioned whether bagpipes were appropriate at a religious occasion, but to Bartholomew they were clearly descended from an obscure tradition of Celtic Christianity. Besides, he’d loved them ever since his father had taken him to see “Gunga Din.” Just when it appeared all was lost, the beleaguered heroes heard the faint skirl of pipes in the distance, signaling the approach of the rescue column of Highlanders and Bengal Lancers. No wonder the English had once banned their playing in Scotland and Ireland! That sound would inspire anyone to fight like a lion!

  He was jolted back to the present—literally, as the ferry docked at Somerset Bridge.

  It was four o’clock. He was about to walk back on the Railway Trail, but he’d walked it so many times during the past two weeks that he decided to go by the road, even if meant climbing Scaur Hill. He’d just reached the top when two men on scooters motored past him.

  Abruptly one of them braked and stopped. The man looked familiar. He couldn’t make out the face under the helmet and behind sunglasses, but there was something….

  “Brother Bart!” the man cried. “Is that you?”

  “Dan?” Bartholomew could not believe it. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re fishing! Staying at Sandys House.” Through the narrow cut in the rocky hill, cars whizzed past. “Look, this isn’t the best place to chat. Climb on, and I’ll take you to our place.”