MARC BOUDIGNON

Unto The End, For The Winepresses

I look out the window of my cell and see a convoy of three pickup trucks and one utility van turn in from the main road. We’ve been expecting the demolishers all week. They roll up the potholed gravel driveway, axles dipping and lifting in succession. Eventually, the vehicles pass through our rusted and skewed iron gate. The gate stands at about forty-five degrees from the ground, no buttresses. High enough to clear large vehicles like box trucks, but only just. The vehicles pass the entrance then take a right towards the guest house, which is the real focus of their work. One of the drivers stretches his neck out the window for a second look at the gate. I watch as his uninterested face is transfigured into a mix of consternation and astonishment. Perhaps it’s wonder.

“So long as it holds,” says Dom Christopher, to any inquisitive postulant, “that’s as long as it stays.” The crooked portal has persisted in its hunched state for over forty years, which is longer than Brother Gerard, our oldest, has lived at the Abbey of the Presentation. No monk has ever suggested that it should be fixed or replaced. There is no living memory of a time when the gate was properly erect, and no pictorial evidence either. Without knowing why it is the way it is, the fact that it has withstood so many Midwestern storms is unassailable proof to us that our semi-erect gate is indeed God’s permissive, if not perfect, will.

Atop its pinnacle stands a likeness of Simeon, the old temple caretaker. He has the baby Jesus in his arms and his arms are raised. The original intention was that he’d be lifting the baby upwards as an offering to Heaven, but the change in angle means he now offers the baby Jesus to our monastery. Directly towards my cell. It’s a unique cast-iron sculpture: the craftsman has given Simeon triple the number of wrinkles an old man would realistically have, all folded over and triangularly cresting his forehead like chevrons on an officer’s sleeve. His eyes are rolled skyward in their deep recesses. His lips are pursed in a perfect, chapped circle while his beard whips over his shoulder, caused by an invisible gale force wind. Simeon’s whole body is gnarled in uncomfortable ecstasy. Elevated and practically jumping from his cupped palms is the baby Jesus. Pure, transcendent calm. The little Lord’s own cherubic plump arm is extended, his fleshy forefinger pointed. To whom? Me. Or, at least, he’s pointing to me every time I look out my window.

This is a sight for which I am thankful. Each morning when I pull back the drapes, I nod to Jesus as he confers his blessing. I accept his offering of peace with gratitude, although it never seems to stick. Twelve years after becoming a monk, I don’t feel I have much to show for my vocation. Over thirty-thousand hours in prayer, and I’ve never received even one single grace. Unless I count the bent gate and the pointing baby Jesus as a special grace, offered specifically to me, which I do. But I don’t tell anyone I think this for two reasons: one, it would make me seem self-focused, and two, I’m not permitted to speak.

***

Dom Christopher is a smart man who knows exactly how to deal with people. Only a fool would’ve asked the demolishers to observe our Abbey’s atmosphere of silence. All the Abbot asked of them was to get the work done efficiently, since the monastery didn’t have enough money to go over-quote.

We learned about the demolition one week before it began, at our monthly gathering. Some of the monks, Brother Gerard especially, were set on edge by the news. Even though we knew the guest house had to come down, it was obvious that these Brothers found it difficult to accept this intrusion on our space and senses.

“Recall what the Rule of St. Benedict says about hospitality,” Dom Christopher told us. “We are to see Christ in the guests, even if the guests upset our routines.”

As followers of St. Benedict, we’d all read the Rule. We knew it back to front. Yet the Abbot felt it necessary to wield our patron saint like a bludgeon of charity.

“Besides, it’s only for five days,” he added.

Ora et Labora, as the Rule says. Pray and work. We monks also have our work for which we need to be efficient: bread-baking. While the Abbot knows that it’s important for us to feel comfortable so that we can fulfill our duties virtuously, he also knows that we won’t ever complain. As part of our community obligations, we’re not allowed to say anything outside the confessional unless it’s necessary. A Cistercian is taught to keep custody of his tongue until he can raise the matter in front of the whole community, thereby saving himself from the near occasion of sinful gossip. That’s why we have our monthly gatherings: to bring up any issues in an open, transparent environment.

Despite the news of the demolition, nobody raised any concerns. It was a lost opportunity for the apprehensive monks to voice their misgivings. By the time our monthly gathering comes around again in four weeks, the demolishers will be long gone, and normal life will return: baking, Mass, meals, community prayer. The imposition of their noisy presence will be extinguished like an altar candle, and any lingering resentment will dissipate like smoke.

As I said, Dom Christopher is a smart man who knows exactly how to deal with people.

***

The demolishing of the guest house hurts Brother Gerard the most. He is not good at baking. Frankly, he is terrible at anything that requires specialized gross motor skills. But he is a very erudite man. The strongest on Patristics and Sacred Scripture the Abbey has ever seen. Most of the monks believe he’s memorized the entire Psalter, but that could just be a myth to intimidate the novices.

One of the ways in which the Abbey raises funds is by offering silent retreats to guests. Mostly silent, anyway. Brother Gerard’s primary work at the Abbey is to guide retreatants by giving two talks a day as well as personal spiritual direction, by appointment. This affords him his two greatest pleasures: teaching people about the richness of the Word of God and talking. Especially talking in Latin or Greek, wherever he feels the English falls short.

On entering the chapel, Brother Gerard always doffs his cowl with operatic panache. This annoys the other monks, who believe he fancies himself a Cistercian Fulton Sheen. He has been moody for over a week since he learned that retreats have been suspended indefinitely, on account of there soon being no guest house. His emotional volatility takes the form of intense melodrama. Since our last monthly gathering, his histrionics have become so frequent that none of the other monks take recreation with him.

On the first day of the demolition, Brother Gerard looks especially doleful. I feel sorry for him, so we walk together. This lifts his spirit slightly. He informs me of the route we will take: past the cemetery, through the gate and onto the main road, adjacent to the corn field. If there’s time, he tells me, we can extend the walk to the edge of the forest. I don’t add anything. Even if I wanted to, I won’t because of the community’s obligation of silence.

“They have heard that I sigh, and there is none to comfort me.”

I glare at the horizon under my cowl.

“He hath filled me with bitterness, he hath inebriated me with wormwood.”

I adjust my hands in my pockets, forcing my habit to brush up against his.

“How is the gold become dim, the finest color is changed.”

“Shssh.”

“Lamentations.”

I nod brusquely. I didn’t know it’s from Lamentations. I wonder if he has that book memorized too.

“I should never have said anything,” he says. “If I had kept my mouth shut, the guest house wouldn’t be splintering and cracking and buckling under the barrage of sledgehammers right now.”

The workers have only just begun. Nothing’s collapsed yet.

“It was the carpenter. I’m certain of it. He visited in early May. You know the one who shuffled his feet everywhere? Breathed heavily? I pointed out the nineteenth century hand-carved staircase spindles to him—the ones carved to look like the Apostles. I thought he’d appreciate the craftsmanship. Turns out that’s where he noticed termite damage. He didn’t even talk to us before he went to the inspector who condemned it posthaste.”

And rightfully so, if the infestation was that bad. Somebody would’ve been hurt, eventually. Brother Gerard knows this, but I don’t say anything. Besides, he isn’t trying to entice me into an illogical argument. I know him well enough. This is about Brother Gerard listening to himself.

“You know who the Church’s worst enemies are?”

I cough obnoxiously. Ahead of us, corn stalks rustle.

“Her own members. This is always how it is.”

“Shsssh.”

Brother Gerard halts mid-stride, pivots to face me and grabs my wrist with my hand still in my pocket. “You seem tense,” he says. “I can tell.”

He is shockingly strong. I shrug the shoulder of my one side that isn’t pinned down.

“I used to be the same way,” he continues, “until I started following the spirit of the law instead of merely the letter.”

I lower my head, which he probably construes as my agreement. Brother Gerard lets go. My wrist stings for a second.

“I have some advice for you, Nicolas,” He pauses, as if needing to consider whether this advice is truly suitable for me. “I recommend reading the Psalms. Not just reading but meditating on them. In fact, you should journal them! You’d be amazed at the breadth of emotions the Psalms can elicit. I want you to take notes. Journey through each verse.”

I cup my hands together in a middling gesture of semi-appreciation. Like every monk, I read the Psalms every day. He knows this.

“It’s settled then. I’ll give you my Douay-Rheims when we get back. That translation will be best for you.”

The corn stalks rustle again, but closer this time. Brother Gerard looks at me with wide, exaggerated eyes.

“How eerie,” he intones. Before he can say anything else, a blurred streak of beige explodes from the edge of the crop line. It dashes across the road and into the forest, where it disappears into denseness. The sound of crackling underbrush and agitated crows recedes until only the thick ambience of cicadas remain. We audibly expel our breaths at the same time.

“That’s a coyote.”

I nod.

“Only one. There’s never just one.”

Now would be a good time to turn around, I think.

“We should go back now,” he unknowingly agrees. “I’ll get you that Bible.”

We leave at a quicker pace than we came.

***

By the third day, the demolition is well underway. Electric tools hum and buzz while manual tools seem to be powered exclusively by grunts. Occasionally, a part of the house comes down with a booming crash, making the timid monks flinch in their prayer stalls. The noise is so pervasive that it makes sharing the Divine Liturgy difficult. The din of grinding and smashing subsumes our usual audial void, nullifying what is essential to a monk’s inner life and his connection to God. Up and down the rows, monks constantly readjust their clasped hands and shift in their habits. I recognize such distractedness; I’ve been praying this way for years.

I haven’t seen Brother Gerard since Terce at 9 a.m. After prayers he exited the chapel quickly, twirling the arm of his habit over the stall rail as he went. Everyone watched, but he avoided eye contact, likely to heighten intrigue. I wanted to pass Brother Gerard a note, written with approval from the Abbot. In the note, I wrote that I took his suggestion and had begun to journal the Psalms, and that the experience so far has been very edifying.

This is half a lie. I didn’t get very far with journaling. After the first Psalm, I realized that I am not the journaling type; visualizing comes far more naturally to me than stringing together a sequence of words. Instead of writing, I’ve taken to sketching the Psalms. A drawing for each one.

When I was young, I wanted to be an illustrator. After I converted, I thought I’d become a religious illustrator. In those days I was fervent for God and art in equal measure. It was this zealousness that whisked me into the monastery, through my temporary and final vows. The rosary was peaceful. Sketching calmed me. Both slowed the rush of hours. Each hesitation before committing to a line. Little pauses between beads. The definitiveness of black charcoal on white. The immutability of the Rule.

All my drawings are in black and white, including my illustrations of the Psalms. I’ve never been fond of incorporating color. I prefer bold, fast figuration and stark chiaroscuro shading to the tedium of blending hues. It’s silly, but one of the reasons why I chose the Cistercian Order was because of their habit: all white with a chest-wide swath of black which drapes over the front and back. It looked austere and refined, like a religious tuxedo.

I put the note for Brother Gerard back in my pocket. We’ll return to the chapel at noon for Sext prayers. If he leaves hastily again, I’ll catch him at None or Vespers. Barring that, I’ll make sure I sit with him at mealtime. I know my words will cheer him up. He’ll appreciate being made aware that there are still people around who have things to learn from him. It might cheer me up, too. The knowledge that, even though my prayers fall on deaf ears, I can still say something that will make someone else’s life better.

***

Dom Christopher doesn’t require Brother Gerard to help with baking. Our bread, Benedict’s Bounty, is the main source of income for the monastery. The Abbot, with his financial shrewdness, is not willing to ransom a batch of loaves by having Brother Gerard sully his hands in the dough. Not that Brother Gerard has ever shown any interest in doing so.

For this reason, I’m not surprised when I don’t see Brother Gerard between prayer times. The Abbot tasked him with going through dozens of book boxes that were moved out from the guest house, many of them supplied by Brother Gerard himself, who brought them over after he left his teaching position at the seminary. Dom Christopher told him it would be best to conduct this work from his cell and he agreed.

I still haven’t given him my note. I haven’t seen him outside of prayer times or Mass, and the moment those end, he leaves. He stopped joining me for recreation walks. Since yesterday, he no longer sits with the community for meals. This is highly unusual by Cistercian standards.

When the demolition began, Brother Gerard started sighing constantly as he chewed. The other monks found this disruptive. They formally complained to the Abbot that he made it difficult for them to concentrate on the religious text being read aloud during supper. Dom Christopher took the path of least resistance and let Brother Gerard eat his meals in his cell.

As much as I don’t like that the Abbot modified the Rule, I respect his authority. I don’t think it’s healthy for Brother Gerard to separate himself from the community, even if it brings us peace during meals. Moreover, it’s not healthy for the community to be separated from him. I recall some lines from the Rule: Never give a hollow greeting of peace. Do not repay one bad turn with another. To your fellow monks show the pure love of brothers.

It occurs to me that I should visit him in his cell. Nobody else will, for fear of his churlishness. I worry about being a temptation to Brother Gerard; a prompt to loosen his already unguarded tongue. I worry about the walls—not as thickly insulated as they should be—and his natural baritone permeating through them, carrying down the dormitory hall. I don’t want to give the other monks more reason to dislike him, nor do I want to give them any reason to dislike me.

***

It is nearly evening on the last day of the demolition. The time quoted in the estimate is basically over. Walking from the bakery to the refectory for dinner, I peek under my cowl and see the workers rushing around, yelling in Portuguese. It’s clear they want to get as much done before darkness falls and handling the machinery becomes reckless. Perhaps the Abbot was able to extricate himself out of paying for overages? That’s the only reason I can think of as to why they’d be rushing to get the job done now.

I enter the refectory and take my seat. Dom Christopher walks in the room and we stand for prayer. He leads grace. As we join him in thanksgiving, our prayer is punctured by banging noises and several deep thuds coming through the windows. The crew has never worked this late, so this is the first supper we’ve had to contend with any of their intrusions. The Abbot ignores it. We do too. After prayer, the community sits while the monks who are assigned to serve enter the kitchen and retrieve the plates.

In the right corner of the room is a small riser with a lectern. One monk is assigned to read out religious texts while we eat. The content varies: scripture passages, famous homilies, lives of the saints, papal encyclicals. When it’s the anniversary of the death of a monk who lived here, we set aside this time to read his obituary, along with any spiritual diary entries or other reflections he may have left us. It's a tradition for our community, a means of preserving the works and faith of our predecessors. A way of cultivating hope. Ultimately, it’s a fight against the real ravage of death: forgottenness.

Today is Brother Tobias’ day. I knew him, but only for a couple of months. When I entered as a postulant, he was leaving; a former cellar master who had been dodging death in the infirmary for the previous five years. He communicated exclusively by whiteboard and dry erase marker. Just a small board, which could only fit a few lines legibly, but that was enough for Brother Tobias. Extra space was superfluous. One day when I was removing laundry from his room, I asked to use his board and wrote down a question: What is the best wine in the Abbey? He took the board and wrote his reply: It’s gone. He smiled wryly. I motioned for the board again and jotted my follow up: What’s the second best? He retrieved the board and gave his answer: The day I die, you’ll get to taste it.

Brother Damian is the reader for the week. He opens the Abbey’s book of the dead and proceeds to tell us the history of Brother Tobias: Year born, 1919. Year died, 2008. Raised on a farm in Cowan Valley, Ohio. Tobias Brennan comes of age in a two-parent household – a rarity in Cowan, since Tobias’ father is the only man from the valley to survive the Great War. A plate of buttered asparagus is pushed towards me. Tobias ignores his father’s plea not to enter the Second World War. The young man joins the army and soon finds himself in the South of France, in Marseille, eventually fighting his way up the Rhône River with the 45th infantry division. I’m handed a glass of pinot noir. These years shape the strongest parts of his character: intense loyalty, steadfastness, magnanimity, adaptability and an acerbic wit. Also, it is during this time that he falls in love with terroir and wine and finds his faith amongst the war-torn chapels of France, a country known as the Church’s eldest daughter. A German attack in Montélimar is where Tobias takes a bullet to his mid-section, losing over a pint of blood. Miraculously, no vital organs are hit. Salmon now, since it is Friday. He is operated on successfully, and eventually transported to Bristol, England for convalescence. At that time, he encounters the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and his faith deepen–

A grating metallic screech ripples through the room. Monks drop their knives and forks. Several glasses smash on the floor. A sonorous boom reverberates, penetrating our ribcages.

Dom Christopher runs out of the refectory, with most of the monks behind him. I’m not one of them. I go to the window, peering out into the black landscape, but all I can see is my own bewildered expression and the reflection of four monks hunched over, picking up broken glass.

The Abbey’s atmosphere of silence is pulverized. Everyone is yelling now, in English and Portuguese. No screaming or moaning, thank God.

“Flashlights!”

I exit the refectory, inching closer to the chaos. Six yellow beams emerge from the gatehouse, bobbing and swiping in the dark. They land on a flat surface. Getting closer, the pool of light widens. A logo is revealed: Afonso’s Disposal. The beams trace the side of the dump truck then down to the wheels. The first thing we notice is that the back wheels are not touching the ground.

The rear axle is lifted about two feet off the ground, balanced on an iron post. The post itself is pinched and warped under the weight of the dump truck. I hear some monks mumble invocations to Mary. I look to my left and see the dimly lit figure of Dom Christopher shaking his head slowly. The flashlight beams continue along, tracing the declining angle of the iron post. They stop once they get to the end. A pool of light reveals old Simeon’s head half-buried in the dirt. Over his shoulder, his beard points upward.

One monk falls to his knees. He clasps Simeon’s ears and tries to pull his head out of the ground. Simeon doesn’t budge.

“Lord have mercy on us,” says another monk. He runs in the opposite direction. A few of us turn around, including two with the flashlights. The beams crisscross the back of his flapping habit then sink, touching the ground about fifty feet from where we are standing. There is a second casualty.

Lord have mercy on us, indeed. It is the baby Jesus.

“Dear God,” the monk says.

“Don’t pick him up yet,” says another. “The Abbot needs to see how far he went.”

By now it’s clear that the dump truck backed into our gate and rode up the post, collapsing the whole structure in the process. The gate got levelled, Simeon hit the ground, and the baby Jesus popped out of his hands, arcing over the Abbey grounds like a volleyball.

“Abbot, come quickly!”

Dom Christopher runs while the rest of the monks follow. They arrive at our spot and soon a semi-circle forms around the sculpture of the little Lord, who is face up, lying on his back on the ground. It feels a bit like a nativity scene. One of the monks is sniffling.

“I don’t want to do anything about this tonight,” the Abbot says. “We’ll deal with it after Terce, tomorrow morning.” He kneels and touches Jesus on the forehead. Jesus’ countenance is still the same pure, transcendent calm. “Tonight, the priority is to clean up the refectory and finish our meal.”

One by one, the other monks kneel in front of the sculpture and touch his fingers, caress his cheeks and kiss his feet. I do the same.

By now, the demolishers have brought their own lights from their trucks, so the scene is more fully lit. I rise to survey the wreckage. It looks bad. Forty years and, in an instant, the gate we always thought would make it, didn’t. Down to the ground and crushed.

I glance at baby Jesus again then at my cell window. He is now facing the opposite direction. My heart rate escalates in panic, but I’m able to rein myself in by taking deep, purposeful breaths. I look again at his cherubic hands. Possibly the last time I’ll see them, depending on what Dom Christopher decides to do with the damaged items. His chubby index finger is now set in the direction of the guest house. As if the victim of the crime is incriminating his perpetrators.

The Abbot and the contractor speak for ten minutes. After their conversation we all head back inside. It takes a few seconds for our eyes to adjust to the refectory light, but it takes much longer for us to readjust to Cistercian silence. Like children on a field trip, Dom Christopher tells us dozens of times to be quiet.

I think of Brother Gerard and how much he’d love to be here at this moment. The high drama, the chatter, the flaunting of rules. The letter of the law disregarded, and even the spirit of the law shoved to the side. But I don’t see him anywhere. Surely, he heard the ruckus. Likely, in a fit of melodramatic intransigence, he refused to come out and see for himself. I make a mental note: I’ll go and pay a visit to his cell tomorrow.

Poor Tobias, I think. Today was his day, but now nobody is in the mood to listen. His life, only partially told, will be totally forgotten by everyone until this time next year.

***

I decide to take Brother Gerard away from the monastery. We’ll hit the open road together. He can get out of his room and away from his books for a few hours to join me on my bi-weekly delivery errand. It will do him good. Dom Christopher readily agrees.

I go to his cell and knock on his door. The rustling of thick cloth, shuffling feet, then the door opens. His steeled expression softens when he sees that it’s me. I hold up the sheet with my delivery schedule and the keys to the Abbey’s van.

“As you will,” he whispers.

Most of our bread is shipped to retailers through an intermediate company. We supply the entire Midwest, twelve states in total. All the major grocery outlets and even a few restaurants. The reason I have this bi-weekly route is because there are still some local vendors who prefer their deliveries directly from us. They’re all mom-and-pop shops, the very first groceries the Abbey ever supplied to, and they seem to like the human touch. Some of the owners, the Catholic ones and unpicky Protestants use our visit as an opportunity to ask for prayers for various intentions, which of course I say I am happy to pass on to the community. I think this brings them a measure of peace, which in turn gives me a sense of purpose, fleeting as it is.

Brother Gerard and I load their orders into the back of the van. It’s not a big shipment, but because of the distance, it will take about half a day to deliver them all. We’ll miss Terce and Sext prayers with the community, but we can say them together while I drive. I’m confident Brother Gerard will fill the rest of the dead air.

I exit the loading area at the back of the bakery and drive down the main gravel road, going slowly over the potholes so as not to disturb our arrangement of boxes in the back. Brother Gerard clasps the grab handle. The scene of last’s night catastrophe comes into full view: our beloved gate levelled, most of it flush with the ground except for the part of the post closest to where the dump truck is sitting. It is twisted like a soft licorice stick. On the other side of the gate, the base of the post is folded over and nearly snapped clean off. All the demolition workers have shifted their attention from the guest house. A begoggled worker lowers his circular saw to the apex of the gate, at the base of Simeon’s feet. Glowing yellow fibrils explode off the black metal like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. Parked in front of the dump truck is an even bigger vehicle with a large rotating crane. A man is connecting the two trucks with wire rope. By the time we return, the dump truck will be freed, the gate will be dismembered and disposed of. Truly, utterly gone. The piercing sibilance of diamond coating against iron gets louder as we approach, then begins to fade away as we reach the edge of the property. I peer over my shoulder, taking a last look before leaving the Abbey. Brother Gerard is pointed forward, fixed on the road ahead.

“How long, O Lord, wilt thou forget me unto the end?”

“Shssh.” I’m annoyed for always having to shush him.

“My heart is ready, O God, my heart is ready.” He turns to me. “How is your heart?”

I ignore him.

“Not physically, of course. You look the picture of health. Spiritually, I mean.” He waits. “Come now, Nicolas. Speak for once.”

I look at him sideways and shake my head vigorously.

“Do you think they’ve got us bugged? Who’s going to tell the Abbot?”

Nobody, I shout internally. That’s not the point! As of this moment, I regret bringing him. I thought he would be satisfied with the sound of his own voice for the entirety of the drive.

Brother Gerard continues. “I’m sure you could tell that I’ve not felt right for the past month or so. The loss of the guest house has been difficult. I accept that. But you? I can tell that you haven’t seemed right for years.” He glimpses me, trying to coax a reaction, but I don’t give him one. “Have you been journaling, like I recommended?”

I realize that I still have the note in my pocket. I pull it out and hand it to him. As he reads it, the corners of his mouth lift. “Thank you, unreservedly.”

My aggravation wanes. It’s hard to be mad when you’re appreciated. As much as I don’t want to answer, common courtesy obliges me. “You’re welcome,” I reply hastily.

Brother Gerard’s grin expands. “Ecce homo! The man’s tongue is loosed! Blessed be God! I’m not being irreverent. It really is a blessed moment. I think you need to talk more—to me.”

He really is something else.

“The fact is, I see a lot of me in you, Nicolas. We’re not the same as the other monks. We love our community, we love the Rule, but rules aren’t enough for us. Obligations won’t satisfy our restless souls. We need to be reminded what it is we are sacrificing our freedom for. And what is it?”

I shrug.

“Psalm 83,” he states. “That’s the reason.”

With that, Brother Gerard stops talking. Only the wheeze of air-conditioning through the vents and the low, semi-repetitious thump of vulcanized rubber over shallow divots in the asphalt.

I relish the quiet. I don’t like that I spoke, but it was just a few short words. He might reject the letter of law, but I still adhere to it. We’re not as similar as he likes to think. Personally, I take comfort in knowing that I am back in conformity with community obligations. It’s a matter of familiarity, yes, but also self-protection; I don’t want to be thought of the way that Brother Gerard invites himself to be thought of.

And yet, I don’t know Psalm 83. I wouldn’t be able to tell it from Psalm 24 or 144 unless someone told me the number. I don’t have any of the Psalms memorized like Brother Gerard, but there he is, sitting with his arms folded, deciding to go quiet. His theatrics are frustrating. My aggravation returns as quickly as it had left.

“Alright then,” I let slip, “what is Psalm 83?”

“I thought you’d never ask. But I’m not going to tell you. You need to read it for yourself. Meditate on it and journal it. Then, when we go for another drive, you can tell me what you think.”

Enough is enough, I think. I check the dash clock, only to see that just five minutes have passed. I track the road sign on the shoulder, indicating miles until the interstate. Too many miles left. I look down and the speedometer is stagnant at forty-five mph, so I press on the gas. The needle bobbles and lifts like a hookset fishing rod. I’m asking a lot of this old van’s transmission.

We peak at sixty-five mph, passing the sign indicating a limit of forty-five. Beyond the sign, I catch sight of crops rustling. What looks to be about fifteen stalks. Brother Gerard sees them too.

“Nicolas, slow down.”

I can’t. Not fast enough. I bear down on the pedal, asking too much of the old van’s brakes, as a pack of coyotes leap up from the ditch and charge across the road. In my periphery I see one, three, five canines clear the driver’s side of vehicle. I don’t know the first thing about coyotes, but I want to believe this is the full pack. Suddenly, the crop edge rustles again and a larger coyote, what looks to be the alpha male, splits the stalks, running onto the road towards the others. At the last moment, he realizes that he is on a trajectory to collide with our van, so he tries to cut a wider path around us. I yank the wheel in the opposite direction.

A loud thud on my side of the bumper. The left plastic headlamp cover cracks along with the grille. Our tires squeal, harmonizing with the coyote’s yelp. Brother Gerard clasps the grab handle, and I grip the wheel, both pointless. We descend sharply. The odor of burnt rubber wafts through the vents. We hit bottom, lifting me out of my seat, and the van is righted. I look up to see us barreling toward a fence with a green billboard adorned with cartoon red apples, toothy smiles on their faces. I focus on one of the smiles for a split-second, then my body jolts forward, and the seat belt digs into my chest. The windshield spills over with white.

It takes about ten seconds for the immobilizing shock to wane. I look over at Brother Gerard. Thank God his airbag deployed too. He lets out several low moans and I can see blood creeping from the top of his bald head, dripping over his brow. He moves to wipe the blood from his eyes, but flinches, howling in pain.

“What is it?”

A subsequent groan. “My right arm.”

“Broken?”

He nods.

By now, the airbags are starting to deflate. I’m able to unlatch my seatbelt and shift closer to him. My neck and shoulders feel stiff, and I have some bruises on my arms and chest, but I seem to be okay.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll be gentle. Just don’t move.” I lean over, raising the right cuff of my habit sleeve. On it, the stain of pinot noir from last night looks like an unfinished tie dye experiment. I direct the cuff onto his head with my left hand, deftly wiping the blood from his face. Crimson covers the burgundy.

“Does this hurt?”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you.”

There’s more blood than I thought. Bright red soon fills up the rest of my white sleeve. I wipe a bit more then pull back, only to see that I’ve made a mess of Brother Gerard’s face. Swirls and streaks of dried blood around his eyes, across his cheeks, his chin and even his ears.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I did my best. Just don’t look in your sideview mirror.”

Brother Gerard smirks. “I might have to rescind my thanks then.”

I sit back in my seat and rummage through the console. We keep an Abbey cell phone in the van for emergencies. I pick it up and dial 911. The smooth plastic against my face evokes freedom and my life before the monastery. I haven’t used one since the day I made my temporary vows.

It rings through and I connect with the dispatcher. She starts asking questions and taking down my responses. As we’re talking, I can hear Brother Gerard softly mumbling verses: “Unto the end, for the winepresses, a psalm for the sons of Core. My soul longeth and fainteth for the courts of the Lord…”

I tell the dispatcher what happened and give her my best approximation of where we are. The apple billboard makes this easier. She informs me that the ambulance is on its way and instructs me not to try and move Brother Gerard myself.

“Blessed is the man whose help is from thee…In his heart he hath disposed to ascend by steps, in the vale of tears…”

I interrupt Brother Gerard’s recitation. “I’m heading up to the road to make sure the ambulance doesn’t miss us. Yell if you need me. I’ll be able to hear you.” As I move to exit the van, he slides his left hand onto the hem of my habit and tugs it lightly. I stop. “What is it?”

“If I don’t make it—

“It’s a broken arm and a small gash. You’re going to make it.”

“But if I don’t make it, I want you to thank Dom Christopher for making an exception to the Rule for me. It was a very kind thing to do. And I want you to let the other monks know I forgive them.”

“I’m not going to do that. It’s condescending.” I reach for the door handle but feel the pull on my hem again. “Something else?”

“Do you want to know Psalm 83?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“I was telling you.”

“While I was on the call?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Okay then, why is Psalm 83 the answer?”

“You see all of this?” Brother Gerard makes a small circle with his head, gesturing towards the space around us. “This is a sign of our mortality, our weakness as human beings.”

“You’re not wrong about that.”

“Outward frailty is one thing, but you and I, our frailty is internal. That can be harder to understand sometimes. We need to try and detach ourselves. Of course, we’re already detached from the outside world, yet within the Abbey we need to be detached further. From the expectations we have of ourselves, of others, even of God.”

I ponder this for a second. “You might be right, but you know what? I already feel detached from God. I haven’t felt His presence in a long time. I came into the monastery with fervor, and now it’s gone. I don’t even know how it happened. I prayed, made bread, polished chalices, pressed altar linens. I turned the wine bottles in the cellar. I helped to bury our dead. Everything that was asked of me, I did it with a smile, but each step of the way I felt further and further from sainthood. So here I am. What’s the point of wearing the habit? Ask and you shall receive? Knock and the door will be opened? My door’s been shut, except for a tiny crack, and that was my grace. The sculpture of baby Jesus. And do you know who Jesus was pointing to for all those years? Me! God gave me the bent gate. He arranged it so that I got the cell where I could look out the window every day and see his blessing. Why me? Because He knew that I needed it. This was the only sign I ever received from God, so how could He allow it to be taken away?”

A rare look of fatherly consolation overtakes Brother Gerard. “It’s okay to be upset, Nicolas. I am too. Look at my situation. Why did He take the guest house away from me?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I don’t know why God does anything He does.”

“I think I do. God wants us both to find hope in new ways. To ascend by steps, even small, blind ones, with trust. He’s telling us that we need to follow the spirit of law even more boldly.”

Brother Gerard looks pleased with his answer. Maybe he should be. It sounds profound enough and suitably mystical. Impervious to religious contradiction.

“Just like I said, Nicolas, you and I are quite the same.”

“Actually, I don’t think that we are. You seem to know everything: Latin, Greek, the Psalms, Lamentations, the meaning of life. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

“You’re doing the most important thing,” he replies. “You’re helping me.”

I laugh. “Oh right, I invite you out for a delivery run so that you can break your arm and have your face smeared with blood. That’s helping?”

“Yes,” he says. “It finally got you to talk to me.”

Brother Gerard removes his hand from my hem, and I get out of the van. After a couple of hesitant steps on tire-flattened grass, I recoup my confident footing and follow the path of van-made ruin. I slowly ascend the edge of the ditch and scan my surroundings. Skid marks stretch from where I stand to about a quarter of a mile down the road. Slightly closer, a scattered mess of plastic and metal shards mingled with fur. A wide swath of blood starts from the place of impact and extends in a slight curve to the far shoulder of the road, where the body of the large coyote slid and eventually came to a stop. Red paw prints encircle the whole area around the body. Even now, I can see the other pack members make fresh prints as they walk in and out of the blood trail. One coyote circles around to sniff the dead alpha male, then another from the opposite direction, and so forth.

I spend the next few minutes watching the coyotes in their mournful dance. Beige limbs crisscross around their fallen leader with noiseless, poetic grace. Millennia of genetic instinct honed to educe from canines what we humans find so hard to put into practice: simple empathy. This ritual, if that’s what it is, is beautiful and poignant in its elemental plaintiveness. I’m entranced. Then again, maybe I’m anthropomorphizing. They could just be looking for the best part of him to eat.

I make out the sound of a siren in the distance, blended with the lilt of corn leaves twisting in the breeze and the low rumble from the nearby interstate. The paramedics must be driving at quite a clip, since the siren’s wail quickly rises, puncturing the sonic idyll. The sound sets the pack of coyotes on high alert. A bit of growling, some recircling, and they charge into the field. The corn stocks rustle, same as when they first came out on the road. Their crimson paw prints progressively fade to nothing in the span between the gravel shoulder and the first row of the crops.

I step out onto the road and approach the corpse. Morbid curiosity draws me closer than I previously thought I’d go. Hundreds of flies, like a dark brume, enfold the body. I lean forward and the disturbance of the still air causes them to scatter. The odor of the road—hot road repair tar mixed with the coyote’s blood—pushes me back. I retreat a few steps and move to the opposite lane, facing the direction of the oncoming ambulance. After a minute, it comes into view.

I wave high and wide, standing on my toes. One white sleeve of my habit flaps like a flag of surrender; the other sleeve, blood-stained, signifies the cost of peace. The ambulance rolls up and stops a few yards away. Two paramedics exit and take stock of the bleak tableaux. One of them tries to stifle a sordid smirk.

I point to the tire burn marks on the road and the van at the bottom. The paramedics retrieve the gurney and awkwardly roll it down the ditch. Before I follow them, I look back at the dead coyote. The flies have returned en masse to continue their work.

***

By the time we get back to the Abbey from the hospital, we’ve missed all the communal daily prayers. Our return feels like the story of the prodigal son. Dom Christopher ensures all the monks are present; he’s dispensed everyone from their usual duties. The Abbot wants the whole community to show us—Brother Gerard especially—the kind of support a family would show. It’s also a means of suppressing any potential murmuring, should one of the monks not show up and the others presume he’s passive-aggressively trying to make a point.

As well, Dom Christopher chooses to dispense us from the obligation of silence for exactly one hour. This is the best get-well gift Brother Gerard can receive. He spends the hour retelling the car crash with aplomb, revisiting his frightful brush with death from several different perspectives. With each retelling he unearths new details, whether they existed or not.

The hour comes to an end too quickly, even for the monks who can’t stand Brother Gerard. The Abbot sends us back to our cells for sleep until it’s time to reconvene for Matins at 3 a.m. I lie on my cot, unable to settle. My mind whirls, filled with images from the day, including images of things that never happened, thanks to Brother Gerard’s inventions.

I envision dozens of pictures from different angles, all the ways in which this calamitous day unfurled. I see the wreckage of the black gate in daylight, the streak of coyote shearing the road, glint of chrome in the collision, the exploding bleached airbags and all the crimson blood.

I get up and go over to my desk. I turn on the lamp and flip open my sketch pad. The photograph-like images in my mind simplify into a series of lines. I commit to one scene and prepare to sketch it, opening my box of supplies: charcoal pencils, charcoal sticks, a blending stump and pastel brushes. I sharpen my 2B pencil and set it to paper. I pause. A lone dot on white. A period without a sentence. This isn’t right, I think. Something’s off here. But it isn’t off. In my mind’s eye, every scene, every vision of a sketch that I have, all of them are radiant in full color.