“Semper Fi sure does seem to be what we need.”
She said, “Brother Gregory was an army corpsman.”
The infirmarian had never spoken of military service.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I thought he had a nursing degree.”
“He does. But he was a corpsman for many years, and in the thick of action.”
Medics on the battlefield are often as courageous as those who carry the guns.
“For sure, we want Brother Gregory,” I said.
“What about Brother Quentin?”
“Wasn’t he a cop, ma’am?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Put him on the list.”
“How many do you think we need?” she asked.
“Fourteen, sixteen.”
“We’ve got four.”
I paced in silence. I stopped pacing and stood at the window. I started pacing again.
“Brother Fletcher,” I suggested.
This choice baffled her. “The music director?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In his secular life, he was a musician.”
“That’s a tough business, ma’am.”
She considered. Then: “He does sometimes have an attitude.”
“Saxophone players tend to have attitude,” I said. “I know a saxophonist who tore a guitar out of another musician’s hands and shot the instrument five times. It was a nice Fender.”
“Why would he do a thing like that?” she asked.
“He was upset about inappropriate chord changes.”
Disapproval furrowed her brow. “When this is over, perhaps your saxophonist friend could stay at the abbey for a while. I’m trained to counsel people in techniques of conflict resolution.”
“Well, ma’am, shooting the guitar was conflict resolution.”
She looked up at Flannery O’Connor and, after a moment, nodded as if in agreement with something the writer had said. “Okay, Oddie. You think Brother Fletcher could kick butt?”
“Yes, ma’am, for the kids, I think he could.”
“Then we’ve got five.”
I sat in one of the two visitors’ chairs.
“Five,” she repeated.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I looked at my wristwatch. We stared at each other.
After a silence, she changed the subject: “If it comes to a fight, what will they fight with?”
“For one thing, baseball bats.”
The brothers formed three teams every year. Summer evenings, during recreation hours, the teams played one another in rotation.
“They do have a lot of baseball bats,” she said.
“Too bad that monks tend not to go in for shooting deer.”
“Too bad,” she agreed.
“The brothers split all the cordwood for the fireplaces. They have axes.”
She winced at the thought of such violence. “Perhaps we should concentrate more on fortification.”
“They’ll be first-rate at fortification,” I agreed.
Most monastic communities believe that contemplative labor is an important part of worship. Some monks make excellent wine to pay the expenses of their abbey. Some make cheese or chocolates, or crumpets and scones. Some breed and sell beautiful dogs.
The brothers of St. Bart’s produce fine handcrafted furniture. Because a fraction of the interest from the Heineman endowment will always pay their operating expenses, they do not sell their chairs and tables and sideboards. They give everything to an organization that furnishes homes for the poor.
With their power tools, supplies of lumber, and skills, they would be able to further secure doors and windows.
Tapping her pen against the list of names on the tablet, Sister Angela reminded me: “Five.”
“Ma’am, maybe what we should do is—you call the abbot, talk to him about this, then talk to Brother Knuckles.”
“Brother Salvatore.”
“Yes, ma’am. Tell Brother Knuckles what we need here, defense and fortification, and let him consult with the other four we’ve picked. They’ll know their brothers better than we do. They’ll know the best candidates.”
“Yes, that’s good. I wish I could tell them who they’ll be defending against.”
“I wish I could, too, Sister.”
All the vehicles that served the brothers and sisters were garaged in the basement of the school.
I said, “Tell Knuckles—”
“Salvatore.”
“—that I’ll drive one of the school’s monster SUVs up there to bring them here, and tell him—”
“You said hostile people are out there somewhere.”
I had not said people. I had said them and they.
“Hostile. Yes, ma’am.”
“Won’t it be dangerous, to and from the abbey?”
“More dangerous for the kids if we don’t get some muscle here for whatever’s coming.”
“I understand. My point is you’d have to make two trips to bring so many brothers, their baseball bats, and their tools. I’ll drive an SUV, you drive the other, and we’ll get it all done at one time.”
“Ma’am, there’s nothing I’d like better than having a snowplow race with you—tires chocked, engines revved, starter pistol—but I want Rodion Romanovich to drive the second SUV.”
“He’s here?”
“He’s in the kitchen, up to his elbows in icing.”
“I thought you were suspicious of him.”
“If he’s a Hoosier, I’m a radical dulcimer enthusiast. When we’re defending the school, if it comes to that, I don’t think it’s a good idea for Mr. Romanovich to be inside the defenses. I’ll ask him to drive one of the SUVs to the new abbey. When you talk to Brother Knuck…alvatore—”
“Knuckalvatore? I’m not familiar with Brother Knuckalvatore.”
Until meeting Sister Angela, I wouldn’t have thought that nuns and sarcasm could be such an effervescent mix.
“When you talk to Brother Salvatore, ma’am, tell him that Mr. Romanovich will be staying at the new abbey, and Salvatore will be driving that SUV back here.”
“I assume Mr. Romanovich will not know that he’s taking a one-way trip.”
“No, ma’am. I will lie to him. You leave that to me. Regardless of what you think, I am a masterful and prodigious liar.”
“If you played a saxophone, you’d be a double threat.”
CHAPTER 28
AS LUNCHTIME APPROACHED, THE KITCHEN staffers were not only busier than they had been previously but also more exuberant. Now four of the nuns were singing as they worked, not just two, and in English instead of Spanish.
All ten cakes had been frosted with chocolate icing. They looked treacherously delicious.
Having recently finished mixing a large bowl of bright orange buttercream, Rodion Romanovich was using a funnel sack to squeeze an elaborate decorative filigree on top of the first of his orange-almond cakes.
When I appeared at his side, he didn’t look up, but said, “There you are, Mr. Thomas. You have put on your ski boots.”
“I was so quiet in stocking feet, I was scaring the sisters.”
“Have you been off practicing your dulcimer?”
“That was just a phase. These days I’m more interested in the saxophone. Sir, have you ever visited the grave of John Dillinger?”
“As you evidently know, he is buried in Crown Hill Cemetery, in my beloved Indianapolis. I have seen the outlaw’s grave, but my primary reason for visiting the cemetery was to pay my respects at the final resting place of the novelist Booth Tarkington.”