A Matter of Time (6 page)

The first morning he had arrived at the chapel at one minute to seven, in true abbey fashion—only to find that he was three
minutes late. (Patience was not Father Francis’s greatest virtue.) After that, Bartholomew arrived at the chapel ten minutes
early. He didn’t mind; the sisters were there, setting up the altar.

When Mass was ended, Father Francis would wish him a good and productive day, and before the monk could strike up a conversation,
the gray-haired priest would whirl away down the hill in his white cassock. The sisters stayed behind to do Lauds, to which
he was not invited, so he went back to the cottage and had his bowl of cereal and went to work. And started looking forward
to the next morning’s Mass.

Tomorrow was Sunday, he reminded himself. Which meant they would be going in to the Cathedral in Hamilton,
the island’s one city. A really big day, he thought, mocking his anticipation.

It was almost dark now, but he decided to finish his supper, a bowl of chili and a sourdough baguette—out here, as he could
not bear the thought of eating one more meal inside, staring at the wall. Now, sitting on the desk chair on the six-foot by
nine-foot cement slab that served as a porch, he gradually became aware that he was being watched.

He kept spooning the chili, and without seeming to, scanned the confines of the quarry. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught
a slight movement—in the brush above the quarry’s north wall. There was a shadow there, darker than the shadow it was in.
Frustrated by the absence of light, he could barely make it out. A cat—a small black one, with a white blaze on her chest.

Her
chest? How did he know it was a female? He couldn’t say; he just knew. He named her Noire.

“We’ve got a cat at home,” he told her, keeping his voice low, so as not to startle her. “A big ring-tailed Maine Coon cat
named Pangur Ban. He’s named that—I named him—because he’s the friary cat, and long ago in a medieval monastery, they had
a cat named that.”

He frowned. I’m talking to a cat, he thought. Well, so what? It was good to hear someone’s voice, even if it was his own.
And besides, Noire seemed interested—well, not disinterested.

“I’m a brother,” he went on. “You probably couldn’t tell that, because I’m not wearing a robe. Actually, this is our working
habit—khaki pants, blue denim shirt. There’s a cross embroidered here,” and he showed the cat the small outline of a cross
over his heart.

If anyone came by here now, he thought, they’d think
I’d just been released from a mental ward—a little too soon. But it was nearly dark; no one would be walking up here now.

“Noire, you belong to anyone? Probably not, or you’d be home having your own supper now. You hungry? Maybe I can find something
for you.”

He went in, and from the fridge retrieved a deli-pack of smoked turkey. Peeling off a slice, he tore it in little pieces,
put it on a saucer, and went back out.

The cat was gone. He put the saucer on the ground in front of the poinciana tree and waited. It was pitch black by the time
he gave up and went inside.

On the little, half-folded dining table next to the brown easy chair was a clipboard with a legal pad—his so-called spiritual
journal. He’d not written a dozen lines since he’d arrived. Tired as he was, it was too early to go to bed. Sitting down in
the chair, he took up the clipboard and stared at it.

Then he wrote:

Why haven’t I opened up a dialogue with God?

Because—I don’t have much to say to Him.

And don’t imagine He has much to say to me.

Or if He does, I’m not sure I want to hear it.

Because—I’ve got to do whatever He tells me.

I’m a monk, aren’t I? His obedient servant.

He scratched that out and put:

His sometimes-obedient servant.

He sighed and put the pen down, then picked it up again. This journal was for his most honest thoughts. Ergo, he would pursue
this, no matter how painful or where it led. He wrote:

I loved Him once.

I must have, to have taken such a vow.

And He must have loved me,

or He wouldn’t have let me take it.

Unless He really is a sadist,

as some would like to believe.

“Well, that’s enough of that!” he exclaimed aloud, setting the clipboard aside.

Every afternoon at four, he would knock off work, shower, pull on his black running shoes, and go for a long walk, five or
six miles. He preferred cycling, as he did at home. But walking was not so bad, once you got into it. Cycling, you had to
pay attention, but walking, you could let your mind go anywhere it wanted or just dome out. Kind of pleasant. And it certainly
taught patience. You might not get where you were going quickly, but you’d get there eventually. So—relax and enjoy the trip.

There was a paved-over railway right-of-way adjacent to the property, and it quickly became one of his favorite routes. Built
in the 1920s, the railroad had run the 21 miles, from one end to the other. But “Old Rattle & Shake,” as the locals called
it, had been a disaster from the beginning, and with the coming of World War II, automobiles became a fixture on the island.
The railroad was doomed, eventually becoming too expensive for the government to support.

The war ended another grand era, with the building of an airbase on St. George’s known as Kindley Field. Before the war, the
great flying boats of BOAC and Pan American used to land here on their way across the Atlantic or up to New York. The ultimate
in luxurious travel, the Pan American Clippers boasted separate
lounges for dining and cocktails, gourmet meals prepared on board, and private, Pullman-style sleeping berths for forty passengers.

Speaking of luxurious travel, Bartholomew had begun to find that the Cunard Line’s famous slogan was right: Getting there
(wherever “there” happened to be) was indeed half the fun.

It could be most of the fun, if you took the time to savor the medley of fragrances of the wildflowers growing along the way.
Or note the amazing symmetry of a perfect spider web, diamondized by the early morning dew. Or engage a mockingbird in a dueling
dialogue by imitating each of his calls. Or fill a mental photo album with images from the trip—close-ups and vistas, cloud-scapes
and color clusters, sun shafts and shape-shifting shadow play….

This afternoon he had walked to the beach at Daniel’s Head. It was deserted, the sand glistening in the late sun. Taking off
his shoes to enjoy its warmth between his toes, he strolled down to where the surf ran up. The foaming slide of blue water
shooed a pair of sandpipers ahead of it; then the fast-walkers became the pursuers, as the wave receded.

Watching them at their endless game, he smiled. “We have you guys at home, too,” he softly informed them, “out on Coast Guard
Beach.” Stretching out on the warm sand, he closed his eyes and imagined himself watching sandpipers on Cape Cod.

All at once he was aware that someone had come up behind him.

“Do you talk to the trees, too?”

He froze. He knew that voice, that gently teasing Irish lilt. Getting to his feet, he slowly turned. It was Laurel.

“What—are you doing here?” he stammered.

“Taking care of business,” she said with a half smile. “Unfinished business.”

“But you can’t be here! It’s—impossible!”

She chuckled. “Never underestimate the power of a determined woman.”

She looked around. “We’re even on a beach. How appropriate.”

“We settled this,” he managed, his voice shaking. “Four years ago.”

“Did we?” she said, gazing at him through lowered lashes. “I don’t feel very settled about it now. Do you?”

He shut his eyes, as he had that time before.

She reached out to him, as she had before.

But this time, instead of stopping short, she touched him. And let the back of her hand caress his cheek.

“Don’t,” he said, starting to tremble.

“Look at me, Andrew, and tell me you don’t want me.”

He opened his eyes and met hers. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” she whispered, taking his hand and placing it over her heart.

With a groan he gathered her in his arms and pressed her to him.

When he awoke, he was still trembling. And drenched in sweat. And guilt.

“Oh, God, what have I done? That was
over
! What—is
happening
to me?”

On the half-hour bus ride into Hamilton, sitting next to Father Francis, he could not bring himself to tell him
about his all too vivid dream and the sleepless night that followed it. So they made small talk.

The old priest greeted several people as they got on the bus.

“You seem to know everyone,” Bartholomew observed.

Father Francis smiled. “I’ve been taking the Sunday 8:47 for many years.”

Gradually the bus filled to capacity. Bermudians were a polite people, however, so it was possible to carry on a very private
conversation in their midst. Finally Bartholomew could no longer contain what was troubling him, and their two-seat pew on
the bus became his confessional.

When he’d finished relating the dream, to his surprise Father Francis laughed.

“Welcome to Bermuda,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There’s great light here, but there’s great darkness, too. Voodoo,
witchcraft—not for nothing was it called Devil’s Island before it got renamed.” He smiled at Bartholomew’s surprise. “The
dark side knows you’re here, and that dream was their little welcoming present.”

The monk stared at him.

“People from home have the wildest dreams, really frightening, when they first get here,” the priest went on, unperturbed
by the younger man’s reaction. “Then they learn to get serious about their prayer life.”

Bartholomew could not restrain his incredulity. “You mean, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’—that sort of thing?”

“I wouldn’t take that attitude, if I were you. That little nursery prayer has kept an awful lot of people in sweet dreams.”
He paused. “I’ll tell you something: Before I
sleep, I request a guard of warrior angels around the property’s perimeter.”

“Father! You’ve got to be kidding, I mean, you’re beginning to sound medieval!”

The old priest looked at him and sighed. “You haven’t been praying, have you.” It was a statement, not a question.

The monk made no reply.

“Well, you’d better start, my son. Or you’re going to be in for some wild nights.”

7
  
  
busman’s holiday

“I think you should go,” said Peg cheerily, putting dessert in front of him. “It’ll do you a world of good.”

Dan Burke, Eastport’s Chief of Police, stared glumly at the grapefruit-and-rhubarb compote she had made for him. It was low-cal,
low-fat, and—boring. Gone were the days of home-made apple pie with a slice of aged cheddar alongside—
and
a scoop of coffee ice cream. Gone forever, thanks to by-pass surgery two years ago.

He had just informed his wife that his old friend Ron Wallace, one of Eastport’s charter fishing boat captains, had invited
him for a week’s deep-sea fishing. In Bermuda. And Peg was more excited about it than he was.