Cat's Eyewitness

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Ah.” Brother Thomas loved Susan as he had loved her mother and her grandmother before her. When he looked at Susan he could see three generations reflected in her face. “Well, Ned, you made all the right choices.” He placed the bone-china cup on the side table, then folded his hands. “I’ve lived a long time. I don’t know if I’ve done much good in this life, but I hope I haven’t done harm. The war—” He stopped. “I did harm in the war, for which I ask God’s forgiveness. I put the desires of my government before the tenets of God. ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ and I killed.”

  Susan interrupted, “If you hadn’t gone to war, Uncle Thomas, we might not be here today.”

  “Perhaps.” He smiled at her. “I won’t be here next Thanksgiving. I feel fine, but I feel my time on earth is nearly over. I really do feel fine. Poor Brother Sidney, only sixty-two, has to get transfusions of blood to keep going. And here I am, no obvious problems. Yet, I feel I will soon be called to our Lord. I want you to know, Susan, that I have arranged for the Bland Wade land, those fifteen hundred acres that wrap behind Tally Urquhart’s over to the edge of the Minor place”—he used Harry’s maiden name—“to go to you. There’s not much else that I have of value. I thought for years about what to do about the land. As our numbers dwindled I knew the monastery couldn’t manage the Bland Wade tract, and I can’t bear the thought of it begin broken up and sold. So few large tracts these days. A great pity. Land is the ultimate wealth, you know.” He paused again, took a deep breath. “All the pastures are overgrown, second-growth timber on them pretty much. I can’t tell you what to do, but if I were a young man, I’d restore the pastures, because the soil is good. And I wouldn’t harvest the hardwoods, although I’d thin them. Whatever you do, Susan, and you, too, Brooks, don’t sell the land. I assume some day the Bland Wade tract will pass to you and Danny. No matter how great the temptation, don’t sell that land. It’s one of the last land grants intact. Land is a breathing thing.”

  A silence followed this, then Susan, overcome, said, “Uncle, I never expected anything like this. I promise we will cherish the land, and I promise Ned will create easements so it can’t be subdivided.”

  “Just leave me room to build a house, Dad,” Brooks blurted out.

  Ned, with gravity, stood up, walked over, and shook the old man’s hand, inhaling as he did so the odor of lanolin from the virgin wool of Brother Thomas’s robe. “This is a great blessing to our family. I don’t think I can properly express my gratitude.”

  Brother Thomas smiled, squeezing Ned’s hand. “Care for the land, Ned; she is under all of us.” Then he laughed. “Since not one of you is a good Catholic, I can’t exhort you there.” He laughed again. “A Lutheran, Susan. I could have died from mortification when your mother became a Lutheran before her marriage.” He paused a moment. “But then, the years have taught me perhaps that the denomination isn’t as important as I once thought, so long as one fears and loves God.”

  Brooks didn’t take to the fear part, but she kept that to herself. “Uncle Thomas, how do I know God loves me?”

  He blinked, then replied with a depth of feeling that reached each of them. “Every time you behold the Blue Ridge Mountains, every time you feel a snowflake on your eyelashes, every time you see a frog on a lily pad, every time a friend gives you his hand, Brooks, God loves you. You’re surrounded by His love. We look for it in all the wrong places as we pray for worldly success. We say that must be proof of God’s love. Some people pray not for material success but for an easy life.” He shook his head. “No, even our pains are a sign of His love, for they will lead you to the right path, if you’ll only listen.” He opened his eyes wide, touching his fingertips together. “Ah, well, I’m not much of a preacher. I didn’t mean to go on. I spend so much time in prayer or fixing pipes or both,” he laughed, “or with Brother Mark, my apprentice. This summer when we repaired the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mother he asked so many questions he made me dizzy. He’s still a chatterbox around me.” His eyes twinkled. “Sometimes I forget how to carry on a true conversation.”

  “We will never forget what you’ve said,” Ned replied.

  “Well, you’re kind. I’m an old man with an audience. That’s more intoxicating than wine.” He laughed at himself. “Or cognac?” He lifted his white eyebrows.

  Ned rose, returning with three brands of cognac—each expensive—and four snifters, all on a silver tray. He placed them before Brother Thomas, pointing to one brand. “I think this was first made by monks.” Ned wasn’t sure that the precious liquid had been created in a monastery, but the possibility shouldn’t be overlooked.

  “Yes. Well, I mustn’t disappoint my brethren. I’ll try just a taste of each of these to see if the spiritual life improved the product.”

  Ned poured Hennessy Paradis for Susan and a little drop of Rémy Martin Louis XIII for Brooks after he poured Uncle Thomas’s Hors d’Age No. 9. “Ladies.” He then poured some of the amber liquid into his own snifter, holding it high. “To Brother Thomas, a man of love and a man of light.”

  They toasted Brother Thomas and he acknowledged the accolade, savored his cognac, then held up his glass for Ned to fill it with another brand. He tasted that. “Hmm, the distiller may not have been a monk, but I’m certain he was a Christian.” He took another sip. “A very good Christian.”

  6

  Driving slowly through the fast-falling snow, Fair kept his eyes on the road.

  “Can’t see the center line.” Harry squinted.

  “It’s the side I’m worried about. Damn, it’s easy to slide off. We’d be sitting in a snowbank until morning.”

  “Well, at least we’d be well fed. Miranda knocked herself out.”

  Fair smiled. “And who would have thought that a big, tough Korean vet like Tracy could bake? I still can’t believe he made the pumpkin pie.” His shoulders dropped a bit as he could just make out the sign to the farm. “Whew.”

  As he turned his truck off the road, the wheels sank deep into the snow. He geared down.

  “Glad I put the snow blade on the tractor. It must be snowing two inches per hour. Jeez, I’ll be out on the tractor all day,” Harry exclaimed. “Any scheduled calls?”

  “A full book, but it’s exams and X rays; can be rescheduled if need be. It’s the emergency calls that worry me.”

  “Maybe I’d better plow the drive tonight. Still be covered with snow tomorrow but not as deep.” She turned to look at him as the bed of the truck slowly swung right.

  He corrected the slide but didn’t breathe normally until he pulled up by the back porch door. “Thank God.”

  They hurried inside, Harry carrying a take-out bag. “Aunt Miranda made Thanksgiving dinner for you all.”

  She picked up their bowls, putting in giblets, gravy, and some dressing.

  “Hooray,” the three cheered in unison as they pounced when the food was placed on the floor.

  “Honey, don’t plow. It’s late. Let’s trust to luck. If I get an emergency call we can worry about it.”

  “Sure?”

  “Sure. Let’s sit in front of the fire and remember Thanksgivings past.” He walked into the living room, removed the fire screen, and began placing hardwood—oak, walnut, one precious pear log on top—in a square.

  Harry picked up the bowls, instantly licked clean. She rinsed them in the sink.

  “Is a saint bigger than the Blessed Virgin Mother?” Tucker thought for a second.

  “No. The BVM is the Big Cheese.” Mrs. Murphy cleaned her whiskers.

  “Think any human has ever made a statue to cheese?” Pewter thought honoring food with a statue not a bad idea.

  “Not that I know of.” Mrs. Murphy intended to join Harry, who had just walked into the living room, but her belly was full and the distance seemed too great.

  Harry inhaled. “Pear wood smells fabulous.”

  Fair smiled, holding out his hand.

  She took it and he led her to the sofa. They put their feet on the coffee tab
le, continuing to hold hands.

  “Remember the other Thanksgiving when it snowed so much? Not that common. We were in junior high.”

  “Yeah. Dad had to put chains on the tires.”

  The fire crackled and glowed. The two cats were fast asleep in the large basket filled with old towels that Harry saved. They were in the kitchen. Tucker managed to totter to the hearth before conking out.

  “I remember digging Mrs. Clark out of that big snow. So many of our teachers are gone now. Mrs. Clark died back in 1989. Liver disease, and she never even drank.”

  “An entire generation is leaving us. Funny how fast time goes.” He squeezed Harry’s hand. “I don’t have anything else to say about what I did, what I learned, where I am at this exact moment. You’ve heard it all. I want to marry you. I won’t ask again. I know making a big decision is very hard for you. You can be so good in a crisis, but you don’t like change, and life is change.”

  “I’m trying. I’m studying viticulture, other ways to make money,” she softly replied.

  “I know. Skeezits, give me an answer by Christmas Eve.”

  “This is an ultimatum?” She liked ultimatums about as much as she liked change.

  “I guess it is, but I don’t think about it quite like that. There’s a lot of life left to me. I’m staring at forty. I want to love a true partner. I want a family. I love you.” He took a deep breath. “But if I’m not really the man for you, I have to move on. It will kill me, but I have to go. I can’t live in limbo.”

  Harry heard him in her heart, yet she feared making the same mistake twice. And it was true, she feared change. She’d adjusted to single life. She liked it. No, it wasn’t as fulfilling as a deep partnership, but could she be that partner?

  “Fair, you’ll have your answer by Christmas Eve.” She paused. “And whatever it is, I do love you.”

  Tucker, ears sharp, eyes closed, heard every word.

  7

  The long, slanting rays of the rising sun reached the statue of the Virgin Mary at 7:02 A.M., Friday. The back of her snow-covered robes shone pale pink, then deepened to crimson. The frozen blood on her cheeks glowed dark in the blue light for she faced west and it would be hours before the sun would climb high enough to warm her face.

  Brother Mark, trembling in the biting air, again threw himself in the snow. He wept, he wailed, he prayed.

  He pulled himself to his knees, his hands bright red from cold. He clasped them together, his face upturned to that most perfect of faces.

  “Blessed Virgin Mother, forgive me, for I have sinned. Forgive me for the hours I have wasted, for the destructive things I did. Forgive me for being weak.” A persistent memory of himself lying comatose at three in the morning in the middle of Beverly Street, Staunton, crept into his head. He had nearly died from a speedball overdose. “I come to you. I come to your Son. I give my life to this life, to your wishes. Make me your vessel.”

  He prayed dramatically, fervently. He seemed not to hear footsteps coming up behind him.

  “Brother Mark, you’ll catch your death,” Brother Frank said gruffly.

  “My life is of no importance.”

  Brother Frank was about to say, “Your history confirms that attitude,” but instead he said, “Your life matters to our Blessed Virgin Mother, otherwise you wouldn’t be on your knees before her. You must stay strong and become wise, Brother Mark. There is much to do and fewer and fewer young men to do it.”

  A radiance washed over the young man’s face at this. He clasped his hands tighter. “Yes, yes, of course. I must be strong. We must bind the wounds of the world.”

  “What we can.” Brother Frank long ago gave up on improving the world. He’d even given up improving himself. “Now, please, Brother, on your feet and come back inside.”

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Brother Mark couldn’t tear his eyes away from that face.

  “Yes.” Brother Frank remembered only too well the beauty of women. He felt he had been led astray by women. Perhaps he had, but then again, blaming women for one’s own weakness was a central part of Judaism and Christianity, starting with Adam and Eve.

  As the two men, one middle-aged, stout, the other younger, slight, carefully walked back to the main section of the old stone buildings, Brother Mark alternated between tears and euphoria.

  “This sign must be shared. I know it. In my heart.”

  “Not yet,” Brother Frank chided.

  “We have to tell the world.”

  “No. The world is, well, a world away. This is our world now, Brother Mark. We need to think this through before, like Pandora, we open the box.”

  “Our Lady will overcome all obstacles, including the evils of man.”

  “Why make her task more difficult?”

  “Two women already know. Why should we remain silent?”

  “Brother Mark, give me one day. You’re a fully stoked furnace and, I confess, I’m embers. But the years give one perspective. Announce this prematurely, and our haven will be overrun, and not just by those coming to worship or coming to Mary for her intercession. The media, the mountebanks, will turn this into a circus, a degenerate entertainment.” He drew in his breath, the cold air filling his lungs, painful to inhale. “She deserves better.”

  Unconvinced, Brother Mark did promise. “Twenty-four hours.”

  People visited the grounds, the various shops. This was the only mark of the outside world on the Greyfriars. The products the monks made barely kept the order in the black. Some monks had more contact with the outside world than others due to their special skills. All of the brothers, whether totally withdrawn or more “worldly,” would feel the impact of people flocking to see the miracle.

  The lures of the Internet disturbed the older brothers greatly, partly because the temptations therein could so easily be hidden from others. Each shop contained a computer to keep accounts of their wares, the candles, goat’s milk soap, jellies and jams, iron trinkets, flowers, and potent applejack, their best seller. The order sold every kind of apple product, including even dried apples for decoration. Every Christmas the brothers wove huge wreaths, some as costly as five hundred dollars, filled with gleaming red apples and other dried tidbits, wide flat gold and red ribbons adorning the soft pine needles of the wreath itself.

  Brother Frank walked down the long, cold corridor to his office. The job of treasurer suited him. He had hoped to find a successor among the few younger men in the order, but no one seemed suitable.

  As treasurer, he used a computer for business purposes. He used the telephone sparingly. He found the hidden costs for both on-line and phone service infuriating. He checked his file, then dialed.

  Harry, in the barn, heard the silly “Jingle Bells” ring on her cell phone. Fair had programmed it for Christmas. She pulled the tiny cell phone out of her belt.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Haristeen, it’s Brother Frank.”

  Harry sensed Brother Frank did not like women, despite his good manners. “Hello, Brother Frank, how are you this crisp morning?”

  “Crisp? It’s cold as ice. But I’m well and thank you for asking. How about you?”

  “I love the snow.”

  “Well, at least one of us does. I’m calling to ask you a favor. You beheld an unusual occurrence yesterday, I believe.”

  “The statue. Yes.” She dropped her voice slightly. “Very strange.”

  “Indeed it is, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Would you mind keeping quiet about this? Now, I’m sure you’ve told a few friends. May I rely on you to ask them to also remain silent as a favor to the brotherhood? I’m afraid a premature announcement could send people here looking for, well, miracles, perhaps. We need more information first.”

  “Yes, I understand. Of course, I’ll do what I can. Luckily, no one will want to drive the icy roads up the mountain today; you’ll be alone.”

  “I appreciate that. God bless you.”

  “You, too, Brother Frank.”

&
nbsp; Harry called Susan first, since they had seen the tears together, and filled her in on the conversation.

  “Not an unreasonable request.” She reached for an ashtray. “What a time Ned had last night getting G-Uncle back to the monastery. We wanted him to spend the night, but he pleaded to go back up. He’s a little obsessed with the statue—and perhaps a little dotty, too. Then again, I don’t trust my own judgment these days. Maybe I’m dotty.”

  Susan was sneaking a cigarette, letting out a loud exhale. A recent gain of ten pounds had driven her back to her blue menthol Marlboros. Her worry over Ned accentuated her fretting over her weight. She thought her kitchen needed an overhaul and she was falling behind in the decor department. She was nervous about so many things.

  “You’re not losing it.” Harry paused. “Something’s wrong up there on the mountain.”

  “Harry, you’re always looking for a mystery.” Susan laughed, then coughed.

  “I told you smoking isn’t a good way to lose weight. Help me muck stalls or go to the gym. ACAC is really good.” She mentioned a local gym.

  “Who said I was smoking?”

  “Susan.”

  “Oh, all right! One.”

  “Well, if you’re going to lose weight, then one isn’t going to do it, is it? Either light up or hit the gym. So there.”

  “You’re a big help.”

  “What do you want me to say? I think you look great. You’re the one who complains that your thighs rub together when you walk.”

  “Must you be so graphic?”

  Harry giggled. “You look good. You and Brooks could be sisters.”

  “Liar.”

  “No. That’s true. I’ll forgo a lecture about smoking. It’s your body. But back to this Virgin Mary thing. My sixth sense tells me something’s not right.”

  “Your sixth sense has gotten us both into one mess after another. I wish you’d turn it off.”

  Harry was right, though. Brother Mark proved unable to contain his deep emotions. He snuck into the chandler shop when Brother Michael, a nearsighted man, was helping a customer. Since he’d grown up with the computer, using one was natural to him. Brother Mark fired off an e-mail to Pete Osborne, an executive at the Charlottesville NBC affiliate, Channel 29. Whenever he could he’d watch the local channel, since Nordy Elliott, his college friend, anchored the news. He’d learned who was who at Channel 29.