The Abbey

by James Martin

  “Is that Annie?” he said in a cracked, hoarse voice.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m Anne.”

  The old monk, bent over but with a nearly full head of steel-gray hair, grabbed the edge of the stall, pushed himself to a standing position, and smiled.

  “Annie,” he said, as he slowly made his way down the steps that led to the elevated back row. Anne felt as if she were seeing a ghost. He shuffled toward her.

  “Father Edward?”

  “In the flesh!” he said. “Well, what’s left of it anyway.” He smiled at her and showed her his large, misshapen teeth. She wondered if he still had bad breath.

  “Let’s go outside,” he whispered. “We’re not supposed to talk in here.” He shuffled toward a door, dipped his fingers in the holy-water font, and blessed himself. Anne followed, and he led her into the same hallway she had been in with Mark and the abbot a few days ago. In the glassed-in garden, a slight breeze stirred the delicate pink blossoms of the cherry trees.

  The hallways of the abbey were suffused with orange light from the setting sun. She wondered why it was so dark before and so light now, and realized that it had been raining the last time she was here.

  “Oh, Annie,” he said, as he gripped the arm of a wooden bench against a brick wall and slowly lowered himself onto the seat. He wasn’t whispering. “The abbot told me you had come. I was so happy to hear it. It’s so good to see you! And I’d recognize you anywhere. With your brown hair and that smile. But you’ve lost your freckles, haven’t you?”

  She blushed and smiled. There was hardly anyone around who remembered her as a girl—her parents were dead, and only a few cousins remained, scattered around Philly. They were supportive after the accident and in the weeks following, but after a few months she grew uncomfortable around them, not knowing what to say; she was also shocked and saddened by how much she resented their doting on their own, living children. Eventually, she stopped calling them.

  “Your father was such a friend to us here—such a friend,” said Father Edward emphatically. “So generous, doing our books for free for all those years.”

  Huh. She always assumed he had been paid.

  “Yes,” she said, “he was very generous in that way.”

  “What are you doing standing up? Sit down next to me. Right here, dear. And your mother! Your mother was a wonderful woman.” He leaned in close to her on the bench and said, “They used to take me out to dinner every once in a while, and I used to enjoy playing hooky from the abbey.”

  Anne suppressed a smile when she noticed that he smelled like minty mouthwash. At some point over the past thirty years, someone must have told him about his breath.

  “They took you out to dinner?” Anne asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “There was a wonderful restaurant near here called the Inn of the Four Falls.” Anne remembered the place, situated near a busy highway, beside the sheer face of a rocky cliff down which four small waterfalls cascaded. “I loved the Clams Casino there.” He closed his eyes in fond remembrance. “Once I had two helpings! Your mother got one, and I got one, and she gave me hers, because she knew I was embarrassed to order two for myself. Hah!”

  How odd to sit here with a man she’d thought long dead, and one who spoke so freely about her parents. Suddenly, a window into her past opened up.

  “Abbot Paul told me you had come, and I was so sorry that I didn’t have a way of getting in touch with you. Where do you live?”

  “Oh, just up the Blue Route. In Plymouth Meeting.”

  “Ah, not far at all. Was the other night the first time you’ve been back?” Without waiting for an answer he continued. “I’ve wondered all these years what had happened to you, Annie. I’m so sorry I couldn’t find you. After your mother’s funeral, I realized that I didn’t know where you lived, and I didn’t have your phone number. And back then it was difficult for us to use a phone, and we had only one phone book, and I didn’t know your married name, and then I just lost touch. I’m so sorry, dear.” Father Edward’s regrets spilled out, and Anne was moved by his sadness.

  She didn’t know which of his comments to answer, so she started with the first one. “Yes, the other night was the first time I’ve been back in a long time.”

  Father Edward stared at her, smiling.

  “I’ve always lived nearby, but I guess . . .” She didn’t know how to say that she hadn’t given the monastery much thought since her parents died.

  “Oh, of course, you were busy,” he said. “You have a life! Who would want to visit an old monk anyway?” He waved his hand, sweeping away any of her lingering unease.

  Had he always been this kind? She began to see why her parents enjoyed his company. Father Edward hadn’t stopped smiling from the moment he called her name in the chapel. He was smiling still, so happy to see her. She wondered if he was lonely. Does anyone visit him?

  “Abbot Paul said you came by here with Mark the other night. Is that right? Did you come for Vespers? Did you pray with us?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Father Edward waited expectantly to hear why she had come back, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

  “Mark Matthews was giving me a ride because my car broke down, and then he remembered that he lost his cell phone.” She laughed. “It’s a little complicated.”

  Father Edward’s cheerful face indicated that he was grateful for some conversation, even eager for a long story, so she told him the story of that evening, hoping it didn’t sound too dismissive of the monastery—she’d come there by accident after all.

  “It was Our Lady who brought you back,” he said.

  She stared at him.

  “I saw you looking at the icon of Our Lady. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve always liked the way she’s holding Jesus,” said Father Edward. “What do you like?”

  Anne hadn’t expected this sort of conversation, but Father Edward was so kind, and she found that she actually wanted to talk about this.

  She told him how much she liked the way that Mary looked at the viewer in such a straightforward way. Mary was both tender with the baby and strong. She liked that combination.

  “That’s right,” said Father Edward, who fixed his eyes on Anne as she spoke. “That’s just the way Mary is. Tender and strong. And guess what? That icon is called Our Lady of Tenderness.” He seemed grateful that Anne saw what he saw.

  “So what have you been doing all these years? Are you married? Children? Are they in school anywhere near here? Catholic school, I hope!”

  This time Anne refused to be led into tears. She shook her head sharply. “No, I’m afraid I’m divorced.”

  Father Edward said, “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s a painful experience.”

  She paused. Finally she said, “And I had a son, but . . . he died a few years ago.”

  “Oh no!” Father Edward said, his eyes wide. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” He reached out, grabbed her hand, and squeezed hard. “What was his name?”

  “Jeremiah.”

  Father Edward closed his eyes.

  “Jeremiah,” he said softly. “I will pray for him.”

  Anne nodded and felt her chest tightening. She would not cry.

  “What happened to him?”

  Anne told him the story. She had told it so often that she had memorized two versions, one short and one long. Tonight she used the short version: the accident, the hospital, the funeral. As she told the story, she stared into the cloister garden. Oddly, in the telling, even with all the details, she felt her emotions diminish. When she finished, she saw that Father Edward’s eyes were filled with tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Annie. I’m sure you miss him terribly. May he rest in peace.”

  She nodded.

  The great bell rang out.

  “Vespers,” he said. “Would you like to join us?”

  “No,” she said, “I’ll just sit here.”

  He released her hand.
“I will pray for Jeremiah every day,” he said. “But I’m sure he doesn’t need my prayers. I’m sure your wonderful boy is already in heaven. And I’m sure he’s been praying for you all this time, Annie.”

  She’d never thought of that before, and now she felt sadness and gratitude and guilt. She could have been praying for Jeremiah, and now he was praying for her. Now she was so confused that she didn’t know what she believed. Anne dropped her head and fought the urge to cry.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Father Edward. “I always seem to say the wrong thing.”

  Monks materialized out of the many doorways in the hall and walked silently into the chapel, as the bell continued to toll.

  “Annie,” he whispered, “I’m sorry, but I have to go to Vespers. But I want to tell you something.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Don’t forget that I’ll be praying for your son and for you. And you come by here whenever you like. Ask for me too.” Father Edward grabbed the arm of the bench, pushed himself up, and then bent over her as if speak to Anne again, but then straightened up. “God bless you,” he said, and then walked slowly toward the chapel.

  From the corner of her eye she saw the abbot approaching. He moved more swiftly than the other monks. As he drew nearer, he nodded and smiled, then stopped smiling when he saw her red eyes, and then smiled again.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “I’m glad to see you.”

  Anne nodded and smiled. He nodded back and entered the church.

  She heard the monks move into their stalls and then settle in. A single organ note sounded.

  “Let my evening prayer ascend before you, O Lord,” sang a monk.

  “And may your loving-kindness descend upon us,” answered the others.

  As she listened to the monks chanting their prayers, Anne wondered how she had arrived here. She hadn’t planned on coming and was angry at herself for not being able to get that painting out of her mind. But now she was glad she had come. The music was beautiful, she liked the painting of Mary, and Father Edward was so friendly. It was almost like talking to her father again.

  Then the monks began singing that song her father sang. She listened.

  When Vespers ended, both Father Edward and the abbot returned to her bench. Before they had a chance to speak, she asked, “What was that last song you sang?”

  “Oh, the Salve Regina?” said the abbot. “We sing that every night.”

  “My father used to hum that all the time. I never knew what it was.”

  Father Edward said, “You know, he used to love coming to Vespers and Compline. He prayed with us here all the time.”

  “I never knew that,” she said. “I didn’t know that at all.”

  13

  Mark stood at Anne’s front door the next Saturday morning wearing khaki shorts and a Boston Red Sox T-shirt.

  “You know, you could get into trouble wearing that around here,” she said.

  He looked down at his chest and smiled. “Sometimes I don’t even remember what I put on in the morning.”

  Anne laughed. “Men are lucky,” she said. “At least you are.”

  Mark offered her a white letter-size envelope, blank, with no address or return address.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s from Brad and his friends. To pay for the window. They promised me, or at least I made them promise me that they’d pay for it. So here you go.”

  She took the envelope and thought of how much she liked Brad. Always so good to Jeremiah, who had been a somewhat introverted child before he met the boy who would become his “best bud,” as the two of them said. Brad—fearless, lighthearted, adventurous—unearthed a side of her son that she had never seen before, if she even knew it existed. One of her favorite memories of Jeremiah was when, at age eight or nine, he banged open the front door, raced into the kitchen, and shouted, “Mom! Brad asked me to play street hockey up at the school! Can I?” It was as if he had been given a free ticket to the World Series.

  After the accident, although Brad was unfailingly polite, Anne could tell that he was avoiding her. And she found it hard to tell Brad—and never could find words that wouldn’t make them both cry—that she missed her son’s best friend. She missed having the two of them running through her living room, even if they were usually trailing mud, or in one case dog poop, on their shoes.

  Privately, Brad’s father, John, told her how much his son grieved after the funeral, locking himself in his room and throwing photos of himself and Jeremiah into the trash. John carefully fished them out of the trash can on the curb and kept them secretly, knowing that someday Brad would want his memories back. John said that Brad blamed himself for twisting Jeremiah’s arm to ride his bike to the movies against his mother’s wishes. Anne told her son’s friend many times that she didn’t blame him, but he seemed deaf to her forgiveness. And it was true: she knew how much Brad liked Jeremiah, and she didn’t blame him at all. She was glad that she harbored no resentment against him. It simply wasn’t there. One day she hoped to be able to tell him that.

  Whenever Anne saw Brad, she felt an overpowering urge to hug him; he reminded her so much of Jeremiah. He was a living connection to her son. But at sixteen he was almost a man. The other day Anne had seen him driving his father’s car. That meant that Jeremiah would have been driving too . . .

  “You okay?” said Mark at the door.

  Anne returned to the present. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Fine. Just tired, that’s all.”

  She looked at Mark’s kind, open face and wondered whether she should tell him about her visit to the abbey. She wanted to tell someone. It was starting to feel weird to keep it secret. Plus it was really no big deal.

  “Hey, I stopped by the abbey the other day on the way back from work.”

  Mark’s eyebrows shot up toward his sandy hair. “You did?”

  “You don’t have to be so shocked. I went there when I was a kid, remember?” she said, then regretted her tone. If she had surprised herself by visiting the abbey, why wouldn’t it surprise him?

  “Yeah,” she continued. “It was pretty interesting seeing P&J after all those years. Did I tell you that my father had worked for them as an accountant? Did their books?”

  Mark nodded.

  “They’re pretty nice there. And I ran into an old monk who knew my father.”

  “They’re not just pretty nice—they’re great. I love those guys.” Now it was Anne’s turn to be surprised.

  “Sure,” he said, “some of them are a pain in the ass, but I really like them on the whole. Who’s the one your father knew?”

  “Father Edward.”

  Mark threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, Father Ed! He’s a stitch. Do you know he’s so forgetful that when we were helping him clean out his room last year we found about a hundred dollars in loose cash?”

  “Are they supposed to have all that money?” asked Anne. “Aren’t they monks?”

  “Yeah, they take vows of poverty, so they don’t have any money of their own, and any gifts they get—you know, cash and stuff—they turn over to the community. Anyway, Father Ed sometimes gets cash gifts from his family for Christmas and his birthday, twenty-dollar bills and the like, and do you know where he puts them?”

  Anne shook her head.

  “He uses them as bookmarks!”

  “What, he uses twenty-dollar bills as bookmarks?” Anne said. “Like some millionaire? So much for poverty.”

  “No, no,” Mark said, “That’s just it. Father Ed doesn’t care about money. He’s really, you know, pretty free that way. I mean, he usually turns it in, but sometimes he just . . . forgets. Money just isn’t something he thinks about.”

  Anne didn’t know how she felt about that. Was that being free, or stupid?

  “Anyway,” Mark said, seeing her apparent disapproval, “Father Ed’s a great guy. He’s really nice to me. And so are Father Paul and Brother Robert. Brother Robert’s my favorite though. Always telling me he’ll
pray for me, and I figure, hey, it can’t hurt.”

  “No,” said Anne. “I guess not.”

  She thanked Mark for the envelope and started to shut the door just as Sunshine tore down the hall and hurled himself at the doorway in a vain effort to attack the stranger. Mark bent down, narrowed his eyes, and glowered at Sunshine, which enraged the tiny dog. Anne waved to Mark from behind the screen door, and then shut it.

  “Shut up, you demon!” she said to the dog, who barked once, insolently, as if he knew that Mark would hear.

  Inside the envelope was a single sheet of unlined paper. When Anne unfolded it, cash rained onto the living room carpet: several twenty-dollar bills, a few tens, and two fives. Brad and his friends had probably pooled their resources to come up with the payment for the window.

  She bent down, picked up the money, and read the note.

  In terrible handwriting was written, “I’m sorry.”

  14

  “Get out of here!” Kerry said when Anne explained why she couldn’t go out for a drink after work. “You’re going to the monastery? Since when are you so religious?” Kerry and Anne were seated at a faux-wood conference table at the end of the working day, with financial records spread before them—a maelstrom of bills, receipts, income statements, balance sheets, and bank reconciliations.

  “I’m not,” she said, immediately regretting telling her friend. “I’m just visiting a friend of my father’s, an old monk who lives there.”

  “They creep me out up there,” said Kerry. “No sex for your whole life? Praying all the time? Thanks, but no thanks. On the other hand, their jam’s pretty awesome. Yum. Pick me up a few jars, will you? I like the blueberry preserves.”

  Initially Anne was inclined to defend the monks, but then realized that she agreed with Kerry, at least on a few points. The last time she was at the abbey she caught herself thinking, What do they do all day? Still, she knew enough not to get into a religious discussion with Kerry, who had little time for anything religious. When anyone in the office mentioned the word “church,” usually on Mondays, Kerry would sigh heavily and roll her eyes.