by Tom Clancy
As Elmer got up to leave and walked towards the door, Steve stopped him. “Hold on a minute. There’s one thing I asked you about before, but you never gave me an answer. What about those priests in the refectory who have their cowls pulled over their heads? And, I can tell by the seating, it’s not always the same ones. Have they been in fights?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then, what for heaven’s sake?”
“Forgive me, Steve, but as I said before, I just don’t want to talk about it.”
13
Janet walked up to the Colonial Inn which faced Monument Square in the heart of the historic district of Concord. She loved the picturesque inn that dated back to revolutionary times. Old North Bridge where the Minutemen routed the British with the ‘shot heard round the world’, was just a short walk from the inn. The town of Concord lay at the western end of Battle Road, the bloody road stretching twenty miles west out of Boston along which the revolutionaries fought the British redcoats.
Whenever she returned to Concord, her mind flooded with memories. As a schoolgirl, she had visited the graves of the great literary figures of early America and their families buried on Authors’ Ridge in Concord’s Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. On her walks around the town, she had often visited Orchard House, the former home of the Alcott family, built by Bronson Alcott—father of Louisa May Alcott, author of Little Women. The house was now a museum. She never ceased to be enraptured as she paused in front of the former homes of Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Henry David Thoreau. Unbelievably, all right here in her hometown.
The scent of aged wood permeated the air as Janet entered the inn and snaked her way through the narrow corridors to the tavern in the rear. A hostess showed her to a table in front of a large open fireplace in the dark paneled tavern. With the exception of a couple lunching in a dark corner, the tavern was empty. The only light came from a few soft orange sconces mounted on the walls, and the fireplace with its crackling logs that every now and then catapulted bits of glowing chips up through the yellow flames.
She ordered a drink, took a sip when it came and cradling the glass in both hands, waited staring into the dancing flames. She reminisced about past summers at home in Concord with pleasant afternoons sunbathing and swimming in nearby Walden Pond. In winter there was ice skating, and later after dark, hot chocolate and roasted marshmallows beside bright roaring fires that cast their flickering light on the branches of the tall pines surrounding the pond. Sitting on logs around the fires, she and her friends would laugh at silly jokes and preposterous tales. But her fondest memories were of Christmas eve nights when she and her brothers in warm woolens and holding lighted candles, would gather with hundreds of other carolers in Monument Square, the heart of Concord, their voices rising in joyous harmony on the frosty night air.
Now she felt very close to Steve in Concord even though they had been brought up a generation apart. A man appeared in the doorway. In the dim light of the tavern, she was startled to see Father Steve Murphy. He was casually dressed, not wearing the black suit and Roman collar. She was taken by surprise because she had expected only to meet with his brother, Jonathon. Smiling, she jumped up ready to throw her arms around the priest in an enthusiastic, friendly hug, but as the figure drew closer, she hesitated, puzzled. Was this Steve? Had he aged that much in a few months at a monastery? This man was tall, ruggedly built like Steve, but as he approached, she could see from the reflected light of the fire that he was quite a bit older than Steve. Realization dawned. It was not Steve. It couldn’t be. It must be Jonathon. But the resemblance was remarkable—almost eerie. She knew that if the brothers had been closer in age they could easily have passed for identical twins.
Jonathon walked up to her. “Janet?” he asked in a voice that sounded like he had a bad cold. “Janet Tarentino?”
“Yes, that’s me,” she said, nervously holding her hand out to grip a hand that looked and felt uncannily like Steve’s. As she took her seat again, she realized it was more than the resemblance in face and stature that unnerved her. The sound of Steve’s voice coming from this older look-alike, simultaneously attracted and puzzled her. But after a few seconds she noticed differences. She remembered what Steve had told her about his brother. This voice had traces of a tremor and hoarseness that she knew was due to the early onset of Lou Gehrig’s disease.
Jonathon slipped into a chair at the small table and waved to the waitress to order a drink. “I recognized you as soon as I saw you,” she said, trying to cover up her mistake. “You look so much like Steve.”
“Only older.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she replied honestly.
“Janet, when we talked on the phone, you said you were born and raised in Concord. Steve and I were raised near here.”
“Steve told me about you and the famous Murphy family of Wayland,” she said, settling back in her chair and trying to regain her composure. “I’m impressed. Your father was Congressman Murphy. That was somewhat before my time. But I haven’t heard or read anything about the Murphy family in a long time.”
“My father died some years ago” Jonathon explained, “and since neither Steve nor I were interested in politics, the Murphy family fell into a kind of obscurity. And quite frankly, it was OK with me when we were no longer fodder for the media. Of course, we still had several of the family businesses to run, handed down by an uncle. But tell me, how is Steve? And how did you come to know him? Did you meet here in Concord?”
“Steve and I met at Catholic U. while he was teaching there. We became good friends.”
Jonathon arched an eyebrow, wondering how a man could manage a simple friendship with such a stunningly beautiful woman without falling in love.
“Just friends,” Janet said, trying to appear casual, but from his facial expression, she knew he suspected it was more than a simple friendship.
“Forgive me,” Jonathon said, “but for a moment I was hoping Steve had found someone to love and to love him. I mean, in addition to God, the pope and the saints. You see, I never could fathom why he wanted to become a Catholic priest. It seemed to me a waste of a potentially happy and productive human being.”
“I’m a Catholic,” Janet said, growing slightly vexed at Jonathon’s comments. “Even if you don’t, I think I understand why he chose the church as a way of life. You asked me how Steve is—that’s what I want to find out. I agreed to meet you hoping you could give me some information about him. The last time I saw him he told me he was assigned to a monastery in Arizona. Since then, I’ve heard nothing. Do you know anything about this and when he might be coming back?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” Jonathon said, holding up the empty peanut dish to attract the waitress for a refill. “I thought he was still in that parish in Maryland he was pastor of. It’s news to me that he was teaching at Catholic U., and now you say he’s gone from there. Maybe Steve never told you, but he and I have tended to drift apart through the years. I don’t make much of an effort to stay in touch. He doesn’t either. No great falling out, it’s just that our lifestyles and interests go in different directions. I did see him briefly last year when our mother died. At the time, he was still head of his parish church. After that, nothing.”
“I’m worried about him. He left months ago. He turned his car over to me and left some of his other things with me. There’s been no word. I contacted the Archdiocese of Washington, a Bishop Rhinehart’s office, but all I learned was something that confirmed what I already knew: Steve was in Arizona. When I pressed for more information the secretary or whoever it was, refused. And, I hate to admit unpleasant treatment from the Catholic archdiocese, especially to a skeptic like you, but I was then abruptly cut off. What’s going on?”
“You’re asking me?” said Jonathon with an incredulous look on his face. “How would I know what goes on in the secret chambers of the Catholic Church? I was a Catholic long ago, but those days are gone forever. For a long time, I used to refer to mys
elf as a lapsed Catholic, but eventually, lapsed became ‘ex’ and ultimately, ‘ex’ became ‘non.’”
“What kind of brother are you not to inquire or care about Steve’s whereabouts?”
Janet had touched a nerve. It was Jonathon’s turn to be annoyed. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Go ahead.”
“You’re attending a university. Are you studying to become a trial lawyer or something?”
“I’m in graduate school, training as a psychiatric social worker. In other words, a psychotherapist.”
“Well forgive me, young lady, but I always thought psychotherapists did a lot of sympathetic listening rather than hurling blunt accusations.”
“I was hoping to come across as anxious rather than accusatory.”
The waitress approached and asked if they would like refills of their drinks. “Yes, I’d like another,” Jonathon said managing a laugh, “but none for her. I’m cutting her off.”
Janet hung her head embarrassed that the meeting had turned into an argument. “I’m terribly worried, that’s all,” she said.
“Since you’re interested in Steve, let me tell you a few things about him that you may not know. Yes, I do care about him, but I haven’t heard from him since last year. Steve was never very good at keeping the family informed as to his whereabouts. And this goes way back. Years ago, after he left home for the seminary, he pretty much turned his back on the family. When Steve was sent to Rome years ago, the first we learned about it was by a postcard. The only one he had contact with was our dad, and even that was sporadic at best. Then, after dad died, nothing. He turned his back on the family.”
As Jonathon talked, Janet remembered Steve had told her he came from a dysfunctional family—the mother was a lush, one who lavished all her affection on her older son. The father was a politician, away in Washington much of the time. “Jonathon,” she said, “my interest at the moment is in finding out how Steve is and when he’s coming back. And since you’re family, I thought you’d be in a much better position to do it than I.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Jonathon said. You’re not the only one who contacted the Archdiocese of Washington and learned absolutely nothing. And they didn’t even tell me anything when I called Steve’s parish. I left a message and never got an answer. I hit a dead end just like you did. So what was I to do after that—report my missing brother to the police? Let’s face it, Steve is buried somewhere in that huge ancient mystery known as the Catholic Church, and although I’m inclined to think this whole business is worrying, maybe even suspicious, all I can do is trust that since he’s in the church he loves, he’s in good hands.”
Janet sat back in her chair. She turned partly away from Jonathon as she stared disconsolately into the fire. “My intuition tells me he’s not all right. He’s in some kind of trouble.”
Jonathon pulled his chair up closer to the table. He tilted his head and leaned closer, smiling, attempting to make eye contact with her. He regretted having sounded off, especially to someone he hardly knew and who obviously was so upset about his missing brother. He studied her delicate face, her captivating blue eyes. In silhouette, a body that Aphrodite herself would envy. He wondered if he hadn’t suddenly become jealous of Steve as flames from the fireplace highlighted wisps of her chestnut hair. As she glanced over at him, then quickly looked away, he saw a glint of tears in her eyes reflected from the fireplace.
Jonathon took a sip of his drink. He sat back wondering. He studied the leaping flames and the red sparks that flew when a log crunched down in the fireplace. She can say she’s just a friend of Steve’s, he said to himself, but I think I just discovered something. This beautiful young lady is head over heels in love with my brother.
14
Ash Wednesday. The first day of Lent, and the beginning of the Lenten fast. In the Passion Monastery Church, the crucifixes were covered in a coarse brown burlap wrap to be removed on Easter Sunday. The only exception was the large wooden cross leaning against the wall just inside the door of the church. A large white Paschal candle, taller than a man, was set up near the altar. The small red pieces of wax imbedded in the candle signified the wounds of Christ. In the refectory, throughout Lent only one meal a day would be served—dinner. Breakfast would comprise little more than a few tiny morsels—hardly worth eating. The bell would not ring for lunch. No meat would be served.
On the first Friday of Lent, as the priests were shuffling out of the church following the evening service, two of the brothers suddenly grabbed Steve, one on each arm, and pulled him out of line. As soon as the last priest left the church, one of the brothers quickly bolted the doors shut. Steve, wondering what was happening, started to protest. He received a backhand slap on the face. Before he could move to defend himself, four of the brothers stripped off his robe and tied his hands behind his back. His head was wrapped in a ring of thorns which were forced in to penetrate his head. As the blood trickled down his face and the back of his neck, he remembered some of the priests he had seen in the refectory. He now knew why they wore their cowls pulled over their heads. Now it was his turn.
Two of the brothers stepped out of the shadows holding short leather whips. Steve was surprised to see they were wearing knee-length tunics and shiny metal helmets. The other brothers formed a ring around him shouting at him, spitting on him. As the reincarnated ‘Roman soldiers’ began to beat him the way the Romans flagellated Christ, Steve was scared. It was clear they intended to reenact Christ’s Crucifixion. He was the sacrificial lamb. How far he wondered did they intend to take this reenactment? Had some of the elderly priests been put through this torture? Had any of them died? Maybe the brothers only picked priests they thought could come out alive, but perhaps not all did, and maybe the priests with the cowls over their heads in the refectory were the lucky ones. As the beating proceeded, Steve noted that although the thorn wounds were real, the beating was painful but relatively superficial. He suspected that if the victims were beaten to the point where they passed out, the show would come to an abrupt end.
The beating over, his hands were untied. They loaded the huge wooden cross on his back. An edge of the wood pressed a groove into his bare shoulder. He had always wondered about the big cross that leaned against the wall just inside the front entrance to the church. What was it used for? Now he knew. The weight of it pushed him down on one knee. They prodded him with poles until he stood up and clumsily adjusted the cross on his back. He was pushed in the direction of the altar. Stumbling under the massive weight, and whipped by the brothers imitating Roman guards, Steve inched toward the altar surrounded by a small group of following brothers. The remainder of the brothers—perhaps 30 in all, hurried up the side aisles and slipped into the front pews of the church. There was no sign of Bother Berard.
There were moments during the staggering walk through the nave of the church when Steve was not sure he was going to make it all the way to the altar.
As the bleeding stand-in for Christ approached the altar, the ‘soldiers’ lifted the cross from his shoulder and laid it slanting down on the altar steps. Next, they pushed him down on his back spreading his arms on the crossbar. They tied his wrists and ankles to the cross with strands of rope. He thanked God that he was tied rather than nailed to the cross. It took six brothers to elevate the cross, sliding it into the hole in the floor in front of the altar rail. He realized then why the hole he had seen before had never been repaired. As the base of the upright hit the bottom of the hole, Steve felt his body slump under its own weight. The wrist ropes grew taut, rope burns reddening his skin. His arms were almost wrenched from their shoulder sockets. Small pools of blood collected on the floor beneath the cross. Blood streamed down over his face and chest from the crown of thorns on his head. As he hung on the cross, it became clear to Steve why Elmer never wanted to talk about this ritual whenever Steve had asked about why some priests had their cowls pulled over their heads in the refectory. Elmer mu
st have known that his friend might be a candidate for crucifixion, and Steve might have been so disgusted he would risk death by trying to escape from the monastery.
From high on the cross, Steve looked down at the congregation of brothers kneeling in awe—each of whom seemed almost overcome by the sight of Christ, their Christ on the Holy Cross. They believed that by being crucified he was atoning for their sins.
Steve, looking down, realized he was the only priest left in the church. He recognized at once that the grisly ceremony was not only intended as a reenactment of the Crucifixion but also as a punishment for the priest selected that it was truly their Christ hanging above them—and by his suffering, as the stand-in for Christ. But why was he being punished? Was it to restore humility after his popular performance in the football games? Did they think he had committed the sin of pride?
As Steve hung on the cross, his head lolled to right and left in pain as the brothers in the congregation looked up at him in a growing fanatical religious fervor. Then in a loud voice, a brother standing at the foot of the cross shouted the words of Christ during the agony: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.... My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?...I thirst...today thou shalt be with me in paradise...Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit...”.
Although he was in a fog of pain, Steve knew that the brother had left out the words that Christ spoke from the cross as he looked down at John: “John behold thy mother.” Then Looking at Mary, “Mother behold thy son.” Steve was not surprised. The brothers did not include anything in their services that made reference to women—not even the Blessed Virgin, Mary the Mother of God who the Bible says stood at the foot of her son’s cross.
As Steve hung, struggling for air, he knew that although he had lost a lot of blood, the death of the cross was not due to loss of blood, but rather to asphyxiation. The body hung in such a stretched position that getting air into the lungs was difficult and when the arms and supporting feet grew tired, the body slumped and asphyxiation began to set in. His breath came in short gasps. After two hours, he knew he was fading. He drifted in and out of consciousness. How long would this go on? If it did not end soon, he would die. He prayed. “Am I the priest that thou, O Lord has forgotten? My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”