by James Martin
Why was Mark talking about me to the monks? So rude.
She leaned against the cold brick wall and closed her eyes. She could rest while the monks did their prayers. How tired she always felt.
Then she heard the first note of the organ, a low tone that seemed to make her heart vibrate.
A strong baritone voice echoed from the church, singing, “Let my evening prayer ascend before you, O Lord . . .”
Then the rest of the monks answered, chanting, “And may your loving-kindness descend upon us.”
Instinctively, she looked around to see if anyone else was in the hallways listening. But she was alone. The monks chanted their prayers with growing confidence. Were they singing psalms? She wasn’t sure. And were the psalms in the Old Testament or the New Testament? She wasn’t sure about that either. Though she wasn’t a believer, she decided that as long as she was here, she might as well enjoy the beautiful music. She had occasionally wondered what “Vespers” meant and imagined it as a boring prayer service with lots of Bible readings and dull sermons. But this was lovely.
After a few psalms and a reading that she couldn’t quite hear, the monks began to sing something that sounded like a real song, a hymn. The first few notes tugged at her memory.
Yes! How could she have forgotten? Anne’s father hummed that tune when he was working around the house. That’s right. Her mom used to tease him about it. “Oh, honeybunch, please. Not that hymn again. Pretty soon you’ll be making jam!”
Her father’s hymn. She closed her eyes and allowed the song to carry her to her past. Sleepy now, she started to nod off. Then she had an image of her father holding Jeremiah after his birth, in the hospital, and she felt the hollow in her stomach open up. The memory of how much her father loved his grandson was like a knife in her heart. Jeremiah, I miss you so much!
Her normal defenses weakened by drowsiness, Anne began to cry. She couldn’t help it. She was so tired—and it felt as if the incense and music were touching her innermost parts. On some days she thought that sadness would overwhelm her, drown her, destroy her.
Reaching into her backpack for a Kleenex, she heard the bell toll. The monks began to file out of the chapel. She wiped her eyes. Just what she didn’t need: to be caught crying in the hallway.
The monk with the Buddy Holly glasses was standing over her. “Are you okay?”
Anne was determined not to look foolish. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, and shook her head up and down quickly. “I’m just fine.” But she started crying again, though she was trying hard to stop. The tears that she didn’t want came anyway.
When the monk sat next to her, she worried that he would put his arm around her, but he didn’t. He just sat there, as the other monks silently passed and disappeared into the doorways from which they had materialized. Anne wiped her eyes. She shifted slightly, and the wooden bench creaked loudly. After a while she spoke.
“My son died.”
“I’m so sorry,” said the monk. “May he rest in peace.”
She nodded and paused. “Thank you.”
“When did he die, if I may ask?”
“Three years ago.” She thought it sounded absurd. The monk would think that she should be over her grief by now. He wouldn’t say it, but he would think it.
“Very recently then,” he said. Anne looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and surprise.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s right.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. What was his name?”
Anne noticed that he wasn’t whispering. She began to sob. Saying her son’s name sometimes made her cry, as if she were summoning his memory in a more concrete way, making him present to herself and others. But she couldn’t believe she was crying in front of someone she didn’t know.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “This is so embarrassing.”
The monk looked down at his black-and-white habit and waited.
“Jeremiah,” she said, finally.
They both noticed Mark approaching.
“I found it!” said Mark, in a loud whisper, holding his cell phone over his head as he loped across the red tiles. Anne withdrew from the monk, dried her tears, and shoved the Kleenex pack into her backpack.
8
Mark saw her tears and seemed unnerved by them. “I see you’ve met the abbot,” he said.
“You’re the abbot?” said Anne, turning to the monk.
“I’m sorry,” said the monk, who stood, as if formality were now in order. “I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Father Paul.” He offered his hand, and she shook it.
“He’s the abbot,” said Mark.
“Yes, I got that,” Anne said, looking perturbed. She stood up and then said to Paul, “Nice to meet you.”
“Where was the phone?” asked Paul.
“Oh,” said Mark. “I’m an idiot. I looked all over for it, but then I found it in chapel. I guess I left it there when I was changing the flowers from last week.”
“Did you pray to St. Anthony?”
Mark looked at him blankly.
“Oh, come on,” said Anne. “Even I know that one: ‘St. Anthony, St. Anthony please come around. Something is lost and cannot be found.’”
“Oh, a Catholic!” said Paul.
“Sort of,” she said.
“I see. Are you from around here?”
“Oh yeah, a Philly girl. All my life.”
“Have you been to the abbey before?”
“Funny enough,” she said, “my father used to bring me here when I was little. Believe it or not, he used to do the books here. He was friends with one of the monks—a Father Edward, I think. In fact, I’m pretty sure that he baptized me.”
Father Paul smiled. “Oh yes, Father Edward sometimes got special permission to do baptisms for the children of people who worked here. He’s quite old now of course, but he still—”
“He’s still alive? He must be a hundred years old!”
Paul laughed. “Oh no, Father Edward’s only about eighty. But I guess he must have seemed old to you when you were little. Would you like to visit him? He’s in our infirmary at the moment. I’m sure he’d love to see what happened to the baby he baptized.”
Anne was alarmed by the sudden invitation. “No thanks.” She hoped the abbot couldn’t tell that this was the last thing she’d like to do right now. Then, feeling guilty, she said, “But tell him I said hi. And tell him that my father liked him a lot.” That was true. Her father used to love telling Anne’s mom funny stories that Father Edward told him about the other monks. His favorite was about the addled monk who tried to wash his clothes in the dishwasher.
“I’ll tell him tonight that I met you,” said Paul. “He’ll be happy to hear it. And happy that you stopped by to visit us.”
Anne thought that was a generous thing to say. The abbot made sitting on a bench for a few minutes sound like some big act of charity.
“Well,” said Mark, “we should get going.”
A gust of wind swept through the cloister garden, shaking branches on the trees, and the rain started again. In a few seconds it became a downpour.
“You know what?” said Mark. “Let me pull the truck around to the front of the church, so we won’t have to walk down that path in this rain. Is that okay, Father Paul?” Anne was relieved they would be able to avoid the cemetery.
Paul nodded, and Mark darted out a door. “Woo-hoo!” he shouted cheerfully as he ran through the rain. Paul grinned as he watched Mark skitter down the flagstone path, momentarily lose his balance on the slippery gray stones, right himself, and jump into his truck.
“That Mark,” said Paul. “He amazes us with his energy. He’s a holy man, you know, in his own way.”
Anne had absolutely no clue how to respond to that, so she just nodded.
Once Mark was in his truck, Paul turned to Anne and said, “As Jesus said, ‘Follow me.’”
“Are you allowed to say things like that?” asked Anne as they walked over the tiled floor
s.
“I just did,” said Paul with a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Besides, who’s going to correct me? I’m the abbot.”
When they entered the chapel, Paul knelt on his right knee and quickly stood up. Anne did too, out of courtesy.
The chapel had a high dark-timbered ceiling, a red tile floor identical to the hallway floor, and stained-glass windows with chunky blue and white glass arranged in abstract designs. The altar was a colossal block of gray stone, impossibly heavy. Anne wondered how on earth the monks brought it into the chapel. Draped on the altar was a long white cloth, apparently recently ironed: there was not a wrinkle on it. Its hemmed ends lightly brushed the floor. Two twisty wrought-iron candlesticks sat on either end of the altar, each holding a fat white candle.
Hovering above the altar, supported by nearly invisible wires, was a peculiar crucifix. The cross itself was simple: plain wood painted red. Jesus’s body was made of black metal, and his nailed hands were not raised over his head, as in other crucifixes Anne had seen, but perpendicular to his body. And his head did not loll; rather, his face, sad and severe, looked straight out, which disturbed her.
Overall, though, it looked like most large 1950s Catholic churches. Except for one prominent architectural feature. Occupying the front half of the church, where you would expect to find pews facing the altar, were two consecutive rows of wooden stalls, which faced each another, on opposite sides of the church. Each set of stalls, in blond wood, had approximately forty seats. Anne tried to puzzle out the purpose of this arrangement.
“This is where the monks sit while we pray,” said Paul as they passed through the middle. “Some sit on one side, and some on the other. That way we can see one another. It helps us feel more like a community when we’re together.”
Centered on one side wall of the church was a framed portrait of the Virgin Mary painted on a white canvas. Supported by an iron stand, it stood on a heavy wooden table with elaborately carved legs. Beside it was a flimsy metal table upon which a thin, fluted glass vase stuffed with red roses was placed.
Wearing a dark red dress, an olive-skinned Mary held in her arms Jesus, who was clad in a white robe. Jesus’s mother seemed to be looking directly at Anne. Her expression was inscrutable—a mixture of sadness, resignation, and defiance. Anne suddenly found herself wondering whether Mary ever knew what would happen to her son. Did she have a clue? Anne had never thought of that before. Was that in the Bible? Did Mary know that her little boy would end up being killed? Did anything prepare her for what was to come?
Father Paul was busy ticking off the times of day that the monks prayed, but Anne wasn’t paying attention. For a few seconds, as Father Paul talked, she focused on the portrait, which met her gaze and held it, as if to say, “I know.”
“Let’s go this way,” said Paul, and he led her past the monks’ stalls, down the main aisle, and past a waist-high brick wall with an opening in its center. On this side of the wall were standard pews, highly polished, which faced the front of the church, in the style Anne was accustomed to.
“Our visitors sit in this part of the church,” he said. Why didn’t the visitors pray with the monks? she wondered.
When Paul opened the front door, a wet breeze swept through the church. Some leaves skittered into the church, and Paul pushed them back outside with his sandaled foot. The two stepped onto the portico and saw Mark’s truck in the front of the parking lot, the door open for her.
“Would you mind waiting a second?” asked Paul, who ducked into the church.
Mark rolled down the window of his truck. “Where’s Father Paul going?”
Anne shrugged.
Paul emerged from the church. “I saw you admiring our icon,” he said, pressing a small card into her hand, “and I thought you might like this.”
Anne looked at the image of Mary and Jesus. A few heavy drops fell from the eaves onto the card. Something was written on the back.
“Thanks,” she said, touched by the small kindness.
“Come back anytime,” said Paul. “You’re always welcome. And maybe you could visit with Father Edward. I’m sure he’d love that.”
“Thanks,” she said, though she had no intention of seeing the old priest with bad breath.
Anne dashed a few feet in the rain and climbed into the truck. As Mark pulled out of the parking lot, she admired the tall pine trees that lined the driveway, whose heavy boughs dripped rainwater onto the grass.
“He’s nice, isn’t he?” said Mark. “Father Paul’s a nice guy.”
“Yes,” she said, staring out the window. “Seems so.”
She shoved the card into her pocket and felt it wetly bend.
9
By the time Mark pulled into her driveway, the rain had passed, leaving the air fresher. Anne was grateful for the ride. It was generous of Mark, though she wondered whether that’s what made someone “holy,” as Father Paul said. Was Mark some sort of saint? He didn’t seem like one. For one thing, he partied too much and dated a seemingly endless parade of women. At least that’s what Brad’s father told her. She doubted that saints did that.
Anne checked her mailbox, opened the door, pushed back her dog, and threw her keys on the round kitchen table. Then she set out some dog food in Sunshine’s dented metal bowl and sat down to the sound of his contented chewing. Though there were four chairs around the table, Anne sat where she had when Jeremiah and Eddie were still with her, in the seat nearest the sink. She had never once sat in Jeremiah’s seat after his death. It was his place.
She unbound the packet of mail, which the mailman had helpfully bound with a thick rubber band. Bills and ads, mainly. Entertainment Weekly, a guilty pleasure. The New Yorker, for the fiction, not the cartoons. The Economist, which she got hooked on in college, even though she was the only person she knew who read it. And a card from her cousin. She slit it open with a steak knife, grudgingly. Elizabeth had a way with cards, and Anne was unsurprised to see a yellow sun holding hands with another yellow sun. Both suns were smiling. “Love!” said a little word balloon coming from the mouths of both suns.
“Oh God,” said Anne out loud.
On the inside her cousin had written, “I know Jeremiah’s birthday is coming up, and I wanted you to know that I was thinking of you. Lots of love, Elizabeth. OXOXOX.”
One of the happiest days in her life had become a day that depressed her. The only day she dreaded more was the anniversary of his death. She stared at the suns and hated their stupid happy faces. One day she would tell her cousin that if she was going to send a card that mentions someone’s dead child, she should make sure it doesn’t have anyone, much less any celestial objects, grinning.
As she settled into the chair, Anne felt something shift in her pants pocket; she pulled out the card from the monastery. It was slightly wrinkled where the rainwater had touched it.
Mary’s face hadn’t looked so sad in the abbey. On the card, however, she seemed on the verge of tears. Or maybe she was just serious. It was strange seeing a picture of a mother holding her baby and looking somber.
Anne’s father used to pray the Rosary every night, and her mother kept a blue-and-white porcelain statue of Mary on her nightstand, but otherwise Anne didn’t know very much about Jesus’s mother. Sometimes she wished she knew more about the Bible. All she remembered from Sunday school were drawing pictures of Noah’s ark, singing Christmas carols, and fashioning clay models of Jesus’s tomb. She thought again about Mary.
Would Mary have given birth to Jesus if she knew what was going to happen to him? Of course he did rise from the dead, but how could she stand to see him suffer? Anne once saw a movie in which Mary knelt at the bottom of the cross while Jesus was being crucified, then gripped the cross, and screamed.
Mary had a son, she thought suddenly. Anne didn’t know why she had never thought of it like that before. She felt stupid. Mary was Jesus’s mother, of course. But somehow when she thought of the words, “Mary had a son,” it sounded different. Fel
t different. And Mary had a son who died. Did someone have to tell her when her son was going to be crucified? Did they have to run through Jerusalem to find her on Good Friday? Did someone have to say “Mary, come quickly! They’re doing it.” Whose terrible job was it to tell Mary?
Anne remembered opening the door and seeing the police on her doorstep, on that summer night.
She turned the card over.
At the cross her station keeping,
Stood the mournful Mother weeping,
Close to Jesus to the last.
O Mary, Mother of Sorrows, pray for us!
When she read the words about being close to Jesus, her throat tightened. That’s exactly how she felt when she saw Jeremiah in the hospital bed. She wasn’t embarrassed that she screamed when the police told her the news. She wasn’t embarrassed that she couldn’t stop crying in the police car on the way to the hospital, the sirens tearing apart the humid night air. She wasn’t embarrassed that people heard her wail when she first saw him in the intensive-care unit. She just wanted to be near Jeremiah. His hair looked the way it did when he had a fever—damp, plastered to his head. But now it was caked in blood. She knew when she saw him that he was dying. Because somehow Jeremiah didn’t look like Jeremiah.
All she wanted to do was to be close to him. She wanted to hold him so tight that he would never leave her.
Anne stared at the words on the back of the card. “Close to Jesus to the last.” She placed her hand over her mouth and sobbed. She hated the monk for giving her this card, and she was grateful to him. Sunshine nuzzled her ankles.
“It’s okay,” she said to the dog and petted its golden brown head.
Carefully, Anne dried the card with a paper towel and affixed it to her refrigerator door with a red Phillies magnet Jeremiah bought for her the first time he went to a game.
10
The abbot could hardly believe how much work he had to do that night.
One of the things that occasionally bothered Father Paul about being abbot was what “seculars,” those outside the monastery, would say about his work. “It must be nice not to have any responsibilities,” said one wealthy Catholic benefactor who paid him a visit a few days ago. He set aside his annoyance, because the monastery depended on her generous benefactions.