All for One Child, page 9
Paul picked up the oval basket. St. Benedict didn’t say one needed the best and newest. Yet on his travels, he saw both the poor communities rich in joy and the rich communities divided in loyalty.
He attended a county fair with four monks, astonished to see the amount of money they had. Here one asked for money and explained why it was needed. Sometimes one didn’t get the money. A monk at the fair bought a sizeable amount of art and a poster of KISS for Paul. Not sure if he should decline the kindness, Paul had accepted the gift, noticing that the man used a credit card that had his name on it, minus the title Father or Reverend.
“Do you all have your own cards?” Paul asked.
The monk laughed, “Oh no, this is mine.” Paul winced at the word. Joannicus would not like that word. “My friend pays the bill. That way, I get things I want.”
“Does the Abbot know?” Paul asked, knowing the answer to the question. Monks didn’t have accounts, monks receiving gifts asked the Abbot if they could keep them. Personal possessions weren’t something monks had. Paul wondered if Abbot Jacob would have found out if that monk lived here.
Why did that monk have to lie? His monks were always good at raising money. Brother Moses would wander the campus gathering glass bottles and cans so he could request a tool and money to buy it. Barnabas made glazed donuts and sold them to the students, and he baked breads he sold to those who came to Mass on Sundays. With his cash, he requested and got permission to buy several serving carts for the kitchen.
Paul stuck his hand under the warm hen and gathered the eggs. She clucked in protest.
Memories of secrets he had uncovered at other monasteries flooded back to him. old Sister Phoebe, a soft-spoken, thin woman, with large thick glasses hanging from the tip of her nose. She had died suddenly during his stay with the sisters at Fort Smith. She was the librarian and was strict about her domain. During her funeral vigil, loud barking and whining echoed through the convent. The perplexed community sent him and a novice to find the problem. When he and novice entered the library office, a large black dog raced past them, obviously tired of being confined. With nose to the ground, he followed a scent. Both Paul and the novice trailed after him. The dog ran to the church and leap to the coffin to be with his deceased mistress and the community sat stunned. Sister Phoebe had more than books in the library.
Paul jumped when the hen struck. He put his bleeding hand to his mouth. “Not ready to share?”
He learned that being in charge doesn’t mean you know what is happening. Paul wondered how many monks had secrets.
The thought intrigued him as he cleaned the stall, laid fresh straw, and fed the cow, sheep, and chickens. With a basket of eggs, Paul climbed the trail back up to the monastery.
Paul got to the kitchen and changed the radio station to hard rock. The recent music didn’t eliminate his other listening choices, just added enough loudness and passionate lyrics that were missing from his choir boy selection.
There is only so much Jesus music one can listen to.
Paul recalled once when he was in the classroom with Father Joannicus, a young man used the word fuck repeatedly in sentence after sentence. Joannicus responded with, “With so many descriptive words in the English language, try a few others along with fuck.” What Paul remembered most was that when Father Joannicus spoke that word, it sent the faces of the students into shock.
He checked the breakfast menu while putting the eggs away. Bacon, sausage, pancakes, and the usual variety.
Paul looked at the clock. An hour left to mix the batter and start the bacon and sausages. He turned on the urns for coffee and then mixed the jugs of juice.
He ate as he cooked.
Brother Daniel came into the kitchen.
“Paul, that is loud...”
“Oops sorry. I was hoping someone would show up. I gotta get going. The meat’s in the oven.” Paul disappeared before Daniel could get a question out.
The sun peeked brightly on the horizon. Lights glowed softly from rooms as monks rose. Paul slipped his headphones on, feeling energized and excited to see the reactions of the monks to a lighter workload. The heavy metal band, Nine Inch Nails, screamed in his ears as he danced his way to the side entrance of the abbey. He did a jump and air guitar as he continued dancing down the dimly lit hall to the church, smiling and bowing at those he passed on his way to the church. It was good to be home.
He was feeling generous and might even say hi to Father Pius. Almost eight years had passed since the man had hit him hard enough to leave bruises. Paul couldn’t stand the man, but if Pius kept his distance, the state was big enough for them both.
Paul sat down in his seat in the front row with the novices, his new place within the community. He’d have preferred a seat with the senior monks, since he wasn’t a novice.
Ambrose pointed out that the novices needed a goal and seeing someone so young, adhering to the Rule with such ease would make them better monks.
No restrictions and all the privileges. Paul could live with this change.
“Oh Lord, open my lips,” announced the acolyte.
The choir responded, “And my mouth shall proclaim your praise.”
On the way to breakfast, there were whispers about Paul’s odd behavior. Some novices tried to explain that it was dancing. Most of the older monks were sure it was possession. Abbot Jacob and Father Gabriel waited behind instead of leading the line into breakfast. Gabriel at once felt Paul’s forehead for a fever.
“You alright?”
“Sure, I’m marvelous,” Paul said with a yawn.
“Please don’t wear headphones to prayers in the morning,” Abbot Jacob said.
“How about evening prayers?”
Jacob rolled his eyes and peered at Paul, who smiled a cheeky grin.
“Okay, okay.”
They turned to go to breakfast. Paul headed the other way.
“Paul?” Abbot Jacob said.
“I forgot something, and I’ll be there soon.”
Paul detoured to the laundry room, took out the wash, and started another load. In his room, he gathered two boxes of music that he had color coded into liturgical seasons. On his way to catch the school bus, Paul stopped and sorted the mail.
“Hey, what are you doing in here?” asked Brother Alcuin with a frown.
Paul paused. What does it look like?
“You know this isn’t your job? Just because the Abbot let you play monk doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want.”
A snarky reply was forming on Paul’s lips when a scene from long ago flashed through his mind. Father Robert was scolding the then Father Jacob loudly about something that Jacob hadn’t even done. Another monk had polished the brass, stripping the years of patina away. Jacob didn’t argue or defend. He just stood there, letting Robert become nastier and nastier. Finally, when the man demanded a response, Jacob lifted his head and said in a soft voice, “Thank you, Father.”
“Thanks Alcuin, I’ll try to remember that,” Paul said, picking up his school bag and heading out the door.
“That’s Brother Alcuin.”
Whatever.
After school, Paul went to the church to set up for Mass. Then he moved to the guesthouse to clean and do his homework. He volunteered to clean after the evening meal, sending the novices on a walk. When he was done, he wandered to the church and sat waiting for the bells to ring, calling them to evening prayer. Wolfgang was playing the church organ. The music was harmonious and gentle. Paul rested his chin on his hand and closed his eyes.
A touch startled Paul, and he woke up disoriented. Brothers Alcuin and Reginald were looking at him.
“Wake up and sleep in your cell,” Alcuin said.
“Shit,” Paul mumbled. He had not intended to sleep.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t snore,” Reginald said. “Not much.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Not our jobs, besides you were supposed to be praying, not sleeping,” Alcuin said.
“I was told sometimes horizontal prayer is acceptable, and besides, the Abbot didn’t wake him, so I figured it was okay. Get some proper sleep.”
“We should have just left you until morning,” Alcuin said, turning off the lights leaving them in darkness.
Paul’s alarm rang at five thirty. He rose and walked to prayers. He sat down and opened his Psalter and there was a note.
We appreciate your kindness, signed Moo, Bah, Nay, Cluck, Meow, Woof, and Cock-a-doodle-do.
Paul recognized the large block letters that were Ambrose’s unmistakable scrawl.
At breakfast, he found a note of thanks on his plate and his juice poured. After school, Paul checked his chores and found that there were none assigned to him. Paul put his bag in his room and noticed that his bed was made, and fresh sheets were on it and chocolate on his pillow. He grabbed his Walkman and wandered to the kitchen to find a plate of cookies and a glass of milk labeled “For Paul.” Paul scribbled thanks on the back of the note.
At recreation, Paul played checkers with Brother Moses, and for the second time that evening, won. Moses was letting him win.
“I won again. It must be because I had you for a teacher,” Paul said. Moses’s face lit up in delight.
Abbot Jacob called the room to attention.
“Little Trappist, come here.”
Paul stared at Abbot Jacob.
“I’m not a Trappist. I’m Benedictine,” Paul said.
“Aren’t they the same?” Novice William asked.
“No, Benedictines believe in moderation in all things, including moderation,” Paul said, rolling his eyes. Didn’t they teach anything to these newcomers?
“Trappist’s are Benedictine,” Alcuin said.
“They are maximizers, taking everything St. Benedict wrote to the limit. Pray, fast, and silence, twenty-four hours a day. Overkill.”
Alcuin turned away.
“Glad to see you notice a difference. Now can you apply it to yourself? We all appreciate your effort to make our life easier, but doing all our jobs…” Jacob said. “I am sure you get the point. On behalf of the community, I would like to present you with this.” Jacob handed Paul an envelope. Inside the envelope were three tickets to the Shakespeare festival in town.
“Wow. Thanks, everyone.”
Paul headed down the hall and knocked softly on Joe’s cell door.
“Enter,” came the response.
“Hi, you’re in bed early.”
“Most Trappists are,” Joannicus said from his pile of blankets.
“Very funny. They gave me tickets to Shakespeare. I would rather have tickets to the KISS concert at the MetraPark Arena in Billings,” Paul said, closing the door realizing he was letting the cold air in.
“KISS? Is that the group with the black-and-white makeup and studded uniforms?”
“The makeup is based on comic-book-style characters and, well, it’s just their stage personality.”
Joannicus nodded. “Seriously, might I suggest you spread out your acts of kindness?”
“I know, the Abbot already told me. I just wanted to express how glad I am to be home.”
Paul fanned himself as he pulled a chair over to Joe’s bed.
“Why are you so cold? I looked up anemia and you’re too cold.”
“Perhaps I am dead,” Joannicus said, pulling the wool cap down on his head.
“Funny. I think I came back to the wrong monastery,” Paul said. “You are all different.”
Father Joannicus peered over his reading glasses. “How so?”
“Do you know that your hair is coming in white? Ambrose complains more, mostly about help, that he has machines to do his work. Abbot Jacob has been fixing things. You know Moses is letting me win in checkers and he can barely play as it is. That makes it hard for me to let him win.”
“Time for a new game. As for Ambrose, he likes to complain. Yes, Abbot Jacob has been improving things, meeting some of our neglected needs. We all got new mattresses,” Joannicus said, wiggling into the bed.
“Do you think Abbot Jacob made me an oblate to keep me here forever?” Paul asked as he stopped fanning himself and let the sweat drip.
“Forever? Are you saying you don’t want to be a monk? I’m crushed, all my guidance gone to waste.”
Paul scanned Joe’s face, relieved that he could see merriment in the brown eyes.
When did Joannicus become funny, and when did Abbot Jacob become gentle in his guidance? They had changed.
Paul didn’t like change.
Chapter 11
Pizza
Psalm 103:14
You bring forth bread from the earth,
and wine to cheer man’s heart.
Paul stood in his old room, the one on the first floor across the alcove from Father Joe’s cell. He locked the door and with trembling fingers dialed the number to Mackenzie River Pizza to place his order.
“Yes, it’s been authorized. Would you like to call the Abbot?” Paul said, trying to keep his voice deep.
Paul breathed a sigh of relief as he put the receiver down. They were going to deliver the pizzas. He had at least an hour before the meal arrived. The bells for Mass rang, and he waited. The halls of the monastery were silent as he crept his way to the Abbot’s office. He listened. No movement, so he opened the door and slipped inside. His hands shook as he punched the code into the safe keypad. The safe door clicked open. He extracted a single check from the checkbook and cash for the tip.
Forty pizzas for forty men, at about ten dollars each. Wow, that’s a big check. Paul pulled forty dollars out of petty cash for a tip. On the ledger taped to the envelope, he wrote, “Movie money, Ambrose.” He had seen Ambrose make entries when they had gone to the movies. Paul closed the safe door as he listened for any noise in the hall. Nothing, so he left the office and the monastery.
Now to stop the production of dinner.
“Brother Barnabas, it’s your lucky day. You get to go to Mass. I’ll take care of the meal preparation. Abbot’s orders.” He tried to sound confident, so the monk wouldn’t suspect anything.
Barnabas smoothed his flour-coated apron. “What did you do?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Slowly, the monk left. Sometimes monks were so easy to deceive. But it wasn’t really a lie. He had done something. He was giving the monks a treat. Abbot Jacob told him to find a different way to say thank you.
“Us too?” the two juniors asked.
“Yeah, go,” Paul said, and they hurried off before anyone could change their mind. Dinner was after weekday Mass; they often excused the kitchen crew from attending Mass. Brother Barnabas rarely attended since he was in charge.
Paul stopped production of the meal and began preparing salads and dessert. After that was done, he glanced at the clock. Mass would let out soon. He ran to his room and pulled out a signed permission slip. He moved to the window, slid the check over the top of the signature. Slowly and carefully, he traced the name. This is not stealing. How can you steal what is yours? St. Benedict says each is given what they need. To some more, to others less. And we need pizza. Our money is shared.
Paul paced the walkway near the empty parking lot. He had pulled three carts from the kitchen. His heart beat wildly. Novices Thomas and Stephen appeared.
“Hi, Paul, what are you doing here?”
“I’m waiting for a delivery, isn’t that what you are doing here?” Paul said as he tried to look nonchalant by leaning on the stair rail.
Thomas and Stephen shrugged.
“Where is Bother Barnabas?” Thomas asked.
“I don’t know. Can you help me bring the pizzas to the refectory?” Paul’s heart thumped wildly in anticipation.
“Pizza? You’re joking, right?”
“No, it’s the feast of Raffaele Esposito, a baker. You knew that, didn’t you?”
The two novices shook their heads.
“He owned a tavern and fed King Umberto and Queen Margherita as they traveled,” Paul said. Hurry pizza.
“Why is he a saint?” Stephen asked, stepping into the shade.
He would have to ask.
“Bread and cheese were food for the poor. The king and queen were royalty. Their arrival was not planned, so Raffaele prayed to God to give him inspiration. He used bread, red sauce, basil, and cheese and basically made pizza, impressing the queen,” Paul said with as much authority that he could muster.
Shut up. They’re going to get suspicious about this babbling.
“That’s why a margarita pizza is plain.”
“That’s a lame miracle,” Stephen said as he kicked a pebble with his foot. “Did the Abbot approve of this?”
“He didn’t disapprove. Didn’t he ask you to be here and wait? I think an oblate is responsible for the celebration,” Paul said, thankful that novices didn’t know one monk’s handwriting from another. Paul had enough “come see me” notes to fake Abbot Jacob’s mixture of cursive and capitals.
“Who?” Stephen asked. “You?”
“Do I look like I have money? No, Mrs. Van Horn. You’ve met her, old and classy. She’s always giving us special foods for our big holidays, sweet bread at Easter, baklava at Christmas.” That was true. Her name appeared next to dishes on holidays.
Come on pizza.
Both Stephen and Thomas shrugged their shoulders. Novices were easy to fool. An older monk might have recognized the name.
Paul could see two cars coming up the hill from the road.
Thank you, Jesus.
Paul raced to the driver with the check in hand.
“You know, I have been dreaming about pizza. I sure miss it,” Thomas said, loading the boxes on to the carts.
Paul and the novices waited inside the refectory for the monks to arrive from recreation. The smell was making Paul’s mouth water.
“What the heck is going on?” Brother Barnabas whispered to Brother Ambrose, seeing his kitchen transformed into a pizzeria.
“Who cares,” Ambrose said. “This is wonderful.”
The delight of the monks made Paul’s heart dance. He could feel Brother Mellitus smiling down from heaven for pulling this caper off with no one the wiser. They would forgive him for the money, especially after tasting the pizzas.
