Thursday Club Mysteries: All 7 stories

by Sheila Hudson

  In the adjacent dressing area, I heard a lot of Korean words accompanied by scuffling, and Hattie yelling, “What is this foolishness? Give me a proper towel. Put on some clothes. Are you people crazy?”

  To which I heard a lot of raised voices and the words JjimJil Bang bandied about a lot. Hattie emerged with several of the burlap bags across her middle. She was undoubtedly fuming as a large Korean woman directed her to the sauna, which was the Korean word they kept saying.

  I stretched the burlap rag to cover as much as possible while walking to the open area with tables. Other naked women including Suzy, Amy, and Clara were staring at the ceiling as we lay stretched out nude in front of God and everybody else. Our version of a Korean Hitler instructed me to recline like the others. She removed my loin cloth and washed me vigorously everywhere and I mean everywhere. I could only assume that the others were getting similar treatment. Then we were herded into the sauna that resembled a crock-pot and cooked until fork tender.

  Later I read that the sauna makes the skin tender for the exfoliation that follows. Hattie had been given a shorter version of the bath so she was taken out first in a special chair for her exfoliating scrub. We were given a hot drink, probably that mugwort tea, and instructed to rest.

  When they finished with Hattie, the rest of us were given a vigorous rub down in a salt-like element to remove dead skin. We were pummeled, massaged like Kobe beef, and then bathed in a green tea-ginseng mixture and showered off. They still hadn’t given us our little burlap squares back so we were doing this all in the buff.

  The next room contained little pots of steaming herbs. The pots were low to the ground so I wondered how my face would reach it. I didn’t wonder long as our Korean ajuma (which I learned meant middle-age mother) took away the rest of our dignity by making motions for us to sit down. I was first in line and balked.

  Ajuma yelled, “Chai-yok.”

  I looked for a mug of tea, but this was not what she meant and encouraged her to be more demonstrative and even louder. Why do they always sound mad?

  “Chai-yok. Chai-yok.” She pointed to me and motioned for me to sit.

  Like a flash of enlightenment, I remembered someone telling me about vaginal steam baths being popular in Korea and now trending in the United States. Putting my tooty at risk and with a lot of hesitation, I eased my naked body down over the steaming open stool and waited.

  “Not bad,” I lied to my girlfriends.

  “For real?” Clara asked.

  I nodded and clenched my fists as the temperature of my squatting position rose uncomfortably. This facial for my pubic area was not as restful as a real facial would be, but we had paid big bucks for this and I was determined to make the best of it.

  Amy and Clara giggled as they watch Suzy straddle the big pot of herbs. The steam made us all tear up. No one was willing to admit their coochie was baking. It was a game of chicken with the winner having a singed crotch.

  Hattie whooped and hollered.

  “Just wait till I tell the gals at Golden Palms about this. Maybe we can get one of these for our spa in Athena. I’ll bet this is what hell is like for the adulterers and prostitutes. What d’ya say girls?”

  I responded. “Hattie I think it may be time for your cool down. You got pardoned from this part of the program, but sounds like you are still over-stimulated. Remember your age.”

  I got the head masseuse person’s attention and fortunately she understood English. The escort closest to us grabbed Hattie’s chair and wheeled her to a quiet room. She waved as she passed by. She was high on life, at least that what I hoped, and not on something she imbibed in the herbal concoctions that the underwear models were passing out.

  Our spa day concluded with a massage, still in the nude, and a facial (actually on our face) by one of the black bra and panties brigade. We dressed, said our goodbyes, and barely made it into Scarlett before bursting into laughter.

  Suzy, sober as a judge, presided. “I hereby enact Thursday Club rule #3: We never, I repeat, never tell anyone about this humiliating, yet strangely exhilarating experience,” she said.

  There were a few moans and giggles. Hattie started a “but” however a stern glance showed her that Suzy meant business. I was inclined to agree.

  That night we rehearsed the spa day, minute by minute with the Korean attendants in black lingerie.

  “Wow that was some different spa,” Clara remarked. I am going to do some research into that vagina steam thing.”

  Hattie did a splendid imitation of our Hitler-esque ajuma complete with gestures. We roared until an attendant reminded us of the quiet after 10 p.m. rule. Like school girls at a pajama party, the more we tried to be quiet the worse the giggling became.

  “Girls, girls. We have to get some sleep. More adventures tomorrow. Although I have to admit today would be hard to top. Lights out in five.”

  In spite of playing mama hen to this brood, I had to smile. How many women could say they had shared the most intimate of details like we had today? Even Clara the most conservative among us found it utterly stimulating and hilarious at the same time. Like many of our adventures this scenario only made us closer. Who knows what tomorrow would bring? I feel that I could tell these women, my sisters, anything. The future would let me know if my intuition was correct.

  ~5~

  Again I blessed God and the monks for coffee that is made quickly, black and strong. The scripture for today was, “And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:19).

  My thoughts once more turned to Dr. Peterson and the lab test results. I wondered what the future held. I repeated this verse again as Hattie rolled up beside me.

  “I know a worried look when I see one. What’s up?” she asked.

  Hattie caught me in a vulnerable moment. I dabbed my eyes and looked around to see if anyone else was up. Then I began with the doctor’s appointment and told her everything. Before I finished we were both crying and holding one another. Hattie broke the silence.

  “Have you ever wondered why I never married?” she asked and looked me straight in the face.

  “No not really. I guess I never gave it much thought,” I confessed.

  “I was engaged once to a young man, a soldier in fact. We were very much in love. All was perfect until I got a diagnosis of breast cancer. It was in the early days when not much was to be done but a complete mastectomy. He kept saying that it didn’t matter, but I could tell that he was struggling. We postponed the wedding and eventually called it off. The way he and his family reacted made me feel like less of a human being – less of a woman. From then on, I never let myself get into a position of intimacy for fear of being rejected.”

  “Oh Hattie. I am so sorry. I know that it must hurt for you to relive all of this.”

  “Roxy. I was wrong to feel that way about myself. I was wrong to let them pass judgment on me. You are a strong woman and whatever you have to face, you have Tom, your dear family, and us for support. Don’t ever forget that. Besides, aren’t you being premature?”

  “I suppose I am but it’s something I’ve always feared. I push it down and then it rears its ugly head especially when I am alone.”

  “Then we will have so much fun that it is banished. And if possible, I’ll see that you aren’t alone. If Tom doesn’t make it back in time then I will go with you to get the test results. How’s that?”

  Hattie smiled, gave my hand a squeeze, and said, “Now what do I do to work this Keurig thingy to get a cup of coffee?”

  I dabbed my eyes, blew my nose, and got Hattie’s coffee. By the time the others awoke we had mapped out the day’s activities beginning with bonsai – its history and how to create one of our own. I only hoped they weren’t delicate because I don’t think a fragile plant would survive the Thursday Club girls.

  Clad in jogging suits, jeans, and sweaters, we filed out of our quarters in order that the attendant could clean and replenish our water supply. Monks s
eemed to be big on drinking a lot of water.

  Brother Francis handed out a booklet on bonsai that he had written. We covered a little history before another monk plopped down a straggly little potted plant before each of us in the class. They must use the rejects for us to practice on. Pretty smart because we will probably kill them anyway.

  Brother Francis had his assistant furnish us with wire, snippers, and instructions on pruning our mini trees. It was a fascinating lecture but I kept watching Suzy who hid her cell in her gardening glove. Every few minutes she folded back the glove and looked at her phone. How did she get past the “turn in your cell phones at the door” command. Somehow Miss Langford got by the monk in charge. Come to think of it I remember Amy distracting him with a question when we arrived. The minx duo I should have known.

  Brother Francis’ soliloquy was interrupted by a tap on the classroom door. A monk whom I hadn’t seen before entered the room with a piece of paper in his hand. Brother Francis scanned the message and exited without a word. The monk messenger began his departure, realized we were all in the dark about what was going on, and turned to say ‘class dismissed.’

  “What was that all about?” Suzy remarked. “I thought Brother Francis was going to throw up or faint or something.”

  “I’m surprised you noticed what with your nose buried in your glove where you hid your cell. What a juvenile act! Wish I’d thought of it,” Amy said. “William hasn’t been in touch for days. I hope he’s okay and not playing dead again.”

  Clara interjected, “Derek is wonderful to keep in touch every day even on the days he has class. He is so thoughtful and always considerate of my time.”

  Hattie aimed her scooter toward the exit. She turned and said, “Are we through eulogizing or are we going to find out what the H E Double hockey sticks is going on?”

  Everyone looked at me.

  “What? At least she spelled it and didn’t blurt it out,” I said.

  We took refuge from the spring shower that was in its beginning stages inside the Visitor’s Center. Marcella was on duty. Maybe if I befriend her, she’ll let me in on what the furor is about and why class was canceled.

  Just as I was about to approach her, she received a telephone call.

  “No, absolutely not,” she said into the receiver. “I’ve got to keep this on the down low or I will lose this job. Don’t call me here again.” With that she replaced the handset and whirled around to greet me.

  “Good morning Marcella. I wonder if Brother Ignatius is about. I wanted to ask some questions about the leaded glass class,” I ventured.

  “Brother Ignatius is in the infirmary I’m afraid,” she answered. “I’ve just received a call from there. He seems to be ill with an intestinal problem. I doubt he will be able to teach your class, but I’m sure his apprentice is quite up to the task.”

  She quickly dismissed me and returned to her rearranging of the display gift items. The girls made silent gestures meaning ‘go on ask her more stuff.’ Marcella was a middle-aged, plump creature with an intimidating way about her. I wasn’t about to push too far. The tone she used on the telephone was quite different from her usual one. She was either angry or frightened – maybe both.

  I tried again.

  “Could I check out the current monastery history volume?”

  “Of course,” Marcella responded. “Just let me unlock the cabinet and fill out the borrower card.”

  The others filed out of the Visitor Center. When all formalities were done I tucked the book under my arm and headed to the library for some light reading. After slogging through the monastery’s construction and remodeling plus a list of Abbots and Bishops who were in charge this century, I found what I hoped would shed some light.

  It was a paragraph about helping monks choose their name. It seems that the name a monk chooses often reflects what their skill set is. For example, Thomas Aquinas, Benedict, and Ambrose are associated with education. Dominic addresses problems with juveniles whereas Jude is the saint who is associated with lost causes. Boy do I need that one.

  Brother Ignatius chose his name because he was a Retreat Coordinator for a prestigious corporation in his former life. Nicholas Gerard was in fact the CEO, President, and head honcho of a pharmaceutical firm that went belly up a few years back.

  I used my password and googled Mr. Gerard only to discover a Facebook page, which hadn’t been erased. It seems that he was married to our intimidating receptionist and had in fact fathered two children. The photos were no doubt snapped in happier times of their marriage before he renounced all and became a Trappist monk. Now there’s a story if ever I’ve seen one. Clara needs to know about this one.

  I was opening my Gmail account when the computer died – literally – along with everything electrical. I gathered my notes and left the library via the Visitor Center.

  “Did your password work?” Marcella inquired.

  “Yes. It did. Right up until the electricity went out.”

  “Oh. I forgot to warn you. It does that all the time. That’s why we always have candles and lanterns. Have a nice day.”

  I always hated that saying and now even more. The wife that Nick got rid of works with him in the place that took him away. Now he is in the infirmary. My curiosity was aroused.

  Hattie was taking a nap while Clara tapped away at her laptop computer. Amy and Suzy were pouring over the latest fashion magazines oohing and aahing over the spring collection. I decided to go visit Brother Ignatius at the infirmary if that was allowed.

  The infirmary was just off the main campus and I decided that the walk would do me good. The building was of simple white frame construction. It was the kind of building that you had to know it was there in order to find it.

  I opened the front door and was greeted by a hooded monk behind a standing desk.

  “I would like to visit Brother Ignatius if I may,” I said.

  “Of course, but you must sign in,” he answered and pushed a clipboard in my direction.

  I signed the visitor sheet. I noticed that Marcella had visited earlier. He retrieved the clip board and said, “Follow me.” I walked behind the brother who hadn’t introduced himself down a narrow hallway. We turned left and entered a tiny room containing a single bed with a crucifix over it, a straight back chair, and a small table. An orange ceramic mug was next to the table lamp. Brother Ignatius looked very pale. He tried to smile but only grimaced as he was obviously in pain.

  I sat down. When the spasm subsided, Brother Ignatius looked into my eyes and said, “Help me. I’m dying.”

  The anonymous brother was still in the room.

  “Don’t pay any attention to what he says,” the monk answered. “He is in a delirium. Dr. Glenn says that he has a gastrointestinal upset – in other words – the stomach flu and not to take what he says seriously.”

  Since I’ve never been asked to help someone who says that he is dying, I found it hard not to take him seriously. The mothering instinct within me took over. I felt his forehead. Brother Ignatius was burning up with fever. No doubt he was delirious and by his twitching movements, he gave every indication that he was indeed in great pain.

  The brother left to attend to his reception duties, so I pushed the call button beside the bed. No one came, so I gave him a sip of tea in the mug beside him. He swallowed it with great difficulty.

  I stayed with him until he eased off to sleep. When I returned to the front desk, no one was there. Perhaps the brother was with another patient. As I turned to leave, the front door burst open and two paramedics appeared carrying a stretcher. They pushed past me into the hallway and in minutes returned with a patient strapped to the gurney. I tried to identify who it was but the patient’s face was covered with an oxygen mask. The woolen blanket covered the rest of his body.

  Seconds later a siren blared and the ambulance was gone. I rushed down the hallway to Brother Ignatius’ room. His bed was empty and so was the orange mug filled with tea.

  Where
was everyone? Surely Brother Ignatius wasn’t the only patient. Where was Dr. Glenn? And where was the brother in charge of the reception desk?

  My hands trembled at what I had just witnessed. It seemed to me that Brother Ignatius aka Nick Gerard was seriously ill. What to do? I decided to follow the creed of any good busybody, I would talk to his ex, Marcella.

  The chimes for dinner sounded as I entered the gift shop portion of the Visitor Center. Marcella had closed her register and left for the day. Evidently she was not aware of the ambulance visit. Sometimes she ate in the dining hall. I wondered if she would be there tonight.

  I met the girls at the entrance to the dining hall. It was hard to keep silent when I had so much to share. Still, the five of us plus the brothers ate in solitude. I scanned the room for Marcella. My thoughts were on anything and everything at once. I almost burst until we reached the confines of our room.

  Once inside I gathered the Thursday Club and spilled everything. I could see by their expressions that it was a lot to take in.

  “Let me get this straight,” Suzy questioned. “Marcella was married to Brother Ignatius before he became a Trappist.”

  I nodded yes.

  “Then he was Nick Gerard, not Ignatius, right?”

  “Why would he choose that name and not just be Brother Nicholas?” Amy asked.

  “I read that monks choose their names themselves. They often pick named of those they admire or one of the names for a saint who does the sort of work that they do. For example, Thomas and Benedict are affiliated with schools, learning, and children. On the other hand Francis and Luke are more align with artists and authors. Anyway, Ignatius is associated with retreats and group activities. I assume that’s why Nick selected it. I wanted to talk with Marcella. It’s very interesting that she works here alongside him. I should think she’d want to be a million miles away from her ex.”