The Man Who Loved Birds (38 page)

At the thought Flavian was instantly physically sick. He recalled the county attorney saying something to the abbot about
mandatory twenty-year sentences but surely that was hot air, puffing and blowing for the sake of scaring people into submission. But this much must be said: a criminal would be put away. Flavian struck himself on the side of the head. He had given Johnny Faye proper warning, and it was one thing to stand by passively while someone grew a crop and another to interfere with the execution of the law. But there was that telephone call to Brother Tom,
Thomas Aquinas, to be exact
. Flavian’s first lie, his original sin. Thank God Johnny Faye didn’t know his proper name. Flavian struck his temple again. He drove through town. The word
vermin
replayed itself in his head. He drove past the Miracle Inn, past the doctor’s cinderblock office, past Father Poppelreiter’s church. By the time Flavian had reached the outskirts of town, his dread had grown into a certainty that something ugly was underway and that he had been intended to overhear the conversation in the ammo store so as to bring him face to face with his own weakness, the heart of his darkness.
The rat I’m after walks on his hind legs
. What if something was really afoot? What could he do about it? Nothing. Hide out in the enclosure. He had four-footed vermin to attend to.

And over all and under all was the knowledge that by any reasonable standard he was himself a criminal, and he was thinking not only about Johnny Faye’s pot but about the vow he had made before his community and before God, that he had willfully broken.

—
Willfully?

—
Yes, willfully. Why do you suppose you were so eager to get over there every Sunday? Why didn’t you ever tell him your real name? You knew what you were up to from the beginning. And you sinned with your mouth, the very instrument of the Word. How can you even speak the name of Jesus with a mouth so befouled
.

—
But he is a man, a living, breathing soul, and—

Flavian’s chest tightened. He pulled to the side of the road and leaned his head on the wheel. He would not allow himself to put
words to the voice in his heart. For some time he sat, uncounted minutes until he raised his head, made a U-turn, and headed back into town.

Flavian had only a dim idea of the structure of local government but he had met Harry Vetch and while Vetch had no reason to be well disposed toward Flavian all the same he was the desk at which the buck stopped—he had said exactly those words, sitting in the abbot’s office with Flavian taking notes. He climbed the steps of the county attorney’s office and summoned his nerve and pressed the doorbell. Somewhere deep in the house a gong sounded and after a moment the door swung back and there was Harry Vetch, looking slightly rumpled. Some perfunctory chat. Flavian was invited to seat himself in the big chair that faced the county attorney’s desk. A pause. Flavian plunged in.

“I mean I know this sounds really crazy but um, you know this guy, a sort of a wild man, actually, Johnny Faye—”

Vetch turned to peer at a document on his computer screen. “Brother Flavian. If you are disturbing my quiet evening to bring me a message from Johnny Faye, I have to ask you to spare me the pleasure.”

“No, this is not a message, no, sir. I should tell you though that he’s been visiting the monastery and I took a liking to him because as it turns out he can’t read or write, that’s why he’s always been such an outsider and so forth.”

Vetch turned back to Flavian and rested his chin on his thumbs and concealed his mouth with his knitted fingers, the tips of his forefingers touching to form a steeple.

“So and I thought I might teach him enough reading skills that he could at least hold down a job, I mean, if he could read and write mailing labels, if he could manage even that much we could hire him on at the monastery. So I’ve been working with him and I realized, let’s see, how to put this—well, I figured out that he was growing a crop of marijuana in the back acreage of the monastery and I was—I had gone there to his plot to see it for myself because
I was going to threaten to turn him in unless he plowed it under right away, you know, I remembered what you said about marijuana growers on monastery land and I have to say I didn’t believe you then but I guess you were right.”

“Of course I was right. Did you think I’d waste the abbot’s time on a social call? Why didn’t you come to me right away? Law enforcement is my job, not yours.”

Flavian flushed with guilt. “I know, I guess I was just—I thought I’d give him one more chance, you know, warn him away. Like Jesus with the adulteress. Whoever has not sinned let him throw the first stone. And I thought if I could just teach him some basic literacy skills, you know, he could get a real job and get out of growing pot. He even wanted to do that at one point in his life, that’s why he joined the army, he told me as much.” Flavian paused for some sign of acquiescence with this simple truth. Harry Vetch was a blank slate. “Anyway, while I was at his plot, at least the plot that I think is his since I didn’t see any sign of him so I’m making assumptions but I have a pretty good idea. Anyway. I have this really sensitive nose and while I was there I smelled this aftershave. Old Spice, you know the kind I mean. And it was a really strong smell, I’m very sure of it. And then today I went to the gun store to buy some shells because Brother José wants me to shoot the rats in the cow barn, doesn’t matter that they’ll all disappear as soon as we get rid of the cows, no, he had to have this done today, so I went to buy some shotgun shells and while I was in the store I stood behind the state policeman, you know, Officer Smith, and I was just overwhelmed by the smell of Old Spice. And you know he was, he is the father of the little boy who was beaten so savagely at the beginning of the summer. And standing in line I couldn’t help but overhear Officer Smith bragging about buying bullets and about how he was going after two-legged vermin and you know that this is the kind of gun you only use for one reason, well, there’s target practice, I guess, but it was pretty clear from what the officer was saying that he was intending to do some human target practice.
And I know this sounds crazy but I just got this feeling—I thought I should come to you and let you know because I felt—I just had a bad feeling and I’m really afraid that Officer Smith is—well, you get what I’m trying to say.”

The light was draining from the room.

“I mean, I know it’s crazy but I figured better to do my duty and let you sort it out.”

A growing weight of silence.

“Maybe you could telephone Officer Smith and just get some assurance as to where he is and what he’s up to.”

Vetch swiveled his chair so that he was looking out the French doors to a view of the garden, where yellow and lavender chrysanthemums were coming into their own. The yard was intensely green in the dying late summer evening light. A few scarlet leaves drifted down from a dogwood planted at its center. “And what are you proposing that I do in response to this, I have to say it, cock-and-bull story?”

“Well, gee. I don’t know. I figured you’d know the answer to that. Check in with Officer Smith, I guess.”

Vetch turned back around. “Brother Flavian. Your story is riddled with holes through which I could drive a Mack truck.”

“Well, yes, I can see that but—”

“All the same I’m ultimately in charge of enforcing the law in this county and you’re correct in assuming that it’s my duty to respond to concerns and complaints of its citizens. No matter how crackpot.”

“Well. Crackpot.”

“
Crackpot
. I might begin by inquiring why you feel so responsible to your duty at this particular moment when by your own admission and evidently for some time you have been abetting a drug dealer and a lawbreaker. Respect for your position enables me to set aside that question but just barely and only for the moment. Now. I can pick up the phone and call the dispatcher and have him locate those officers in this county. You’re correct—I can do that
and I have sufficient respect for your judgment and your position as a man of the church that I would do that for you.

“But let’s suppose your story is true. Let’s suppose Officer Smith is on his way to arrest a man whom you yourself have acknowledged is engaged in criminal activity. Isn’t this his job? And if violence should ensue—well, violence begets violence, and I submit to you that those who willfully break the law are guilty of committing the first act of violence, whether or not they are using a weapon, and that the law is entirely justified in responding in kind. It would be highly inappropriate for me to interfere with an officer who is enforcing the law. Even more inappropriate to interfere on the basis of a rumor. Unless I knew the officer to be in violation of the law. But that’s no more than the responsibility of any citizen.”

“Such as me.”

“Well, yes, I guess you could say that.”

“So you’re leaving any action up to me.”

“I don’t believe any action is warranted. If I felt otherwise then I’d act.”

“Well, then, would it be OK for me to use your telephone to call the dispatcher?”

a silence in which the darkness of the universe distilled itself into this moment, here and now in this ornately furnished room looking out onto a view of a garden where chrysanthemums were coming into their own

“Mr. Vetch.”

Vetch stood and turned his back and spoke with a low tense fury. “Brother Flavian. I would ask that you have some sense except that you have no sense. I guess that’s why you became a monk. Of course you can use my phone, but what are you going to say to the dispatcher? Some crackpot story involving aftershave lotion and a conversation overheard at the gun store?”

“I’d just like to register my suspicions with someone who may or may not sympathize but at least they’ll be on the record.”

At the phrase “on the record” the county attorney sat and
swiveled to face the garden. After a moment he swiveled back, a soundless semicircle. He rested his hands on the glass top of his desk. His face was a mask. The space between them hardened into something tangible, a wall.

“Brother Flavian. Allow me to explain some nuances of the law of which I’m sure you’re aware but you will allow me to refresh your memory. For all I know you have been an innocent and well-intentioned bystander, used as a foil in a way common among hardened criminals, but intentions count for very little in my book, especially when I know you to be aware of the consequences of your decisions since I personally educated you along these lines. I must say that only a few years back I’d have found your actions incredible but this job has taught me that very little on God’s earth is truly incredible. You may pick up that phone and call the dispatcher, yes. But I should make clear that I don’t share your tender heart for drug runners and that I’ll interpret any effort on your part at what I consider to be interference with the law to be another fact in a mounting pile of evidence that incriminates you in this matter.” He lifted his hands from his desk—a slight sucking sound broke the silence. He folded them as if in prayer. “I recall to you our first meeting. At that point I indicated very clearly that if marijuana was found growing on monastery property, I would prosecute to the fullest extent of the law. I recall to you, you may check your
notes
, you are a good note taker, yes?—that I offered to provide the abbey with personnel to search its acreage. No one followed up on my offer.

“Now you sit in my office in a strikingly analogous situation. You may cooperate with the law or you may be an obstacle to its enforcement. I’m offering you a choice. You are aware of your complicity and by extension that of the abbot and abbey in a felony, with all the consequences such a decision entails—confiscation of property, prison sentences, public disgrace, financial ruin. If you’d like to contact the dispatcher by all means do so but know that your doing so will—
complicate
, is a good word, I think—my efforts
to help extricate you, your abbot, and your community from a difficult situation of your choice and making. I believe I’ve made your alternatives clear but I’m happy to entertain questions.”

Flavian wanted to stop time, to have some time, make some time, he needed more time but if what he suspected was correct he had no time, there was no time.

The silence deepened to darkness. What was this mass that pressed on his heart
? When it comes right down to it I’m better at hard and sharp than I am at soft and round
. Flavian could not breathe. How was it possible that he, a healthy man, could not will himself to breathe? He contracted his chest but the air stopped somewhere in his throat. The telephone sat between them. The clock chimed the half-hour. All time passed and no time passed.

The phone rang. Vetch took it up and turned away from Flavian. “I see,” he said into the mouthpiece. A pause. “That is not true,” the county attorney said. “I never authorized—” He swiveled in his chair and glanced at Flavian, then covered the mouthpiece with one hand and waved at Flavian with the other. “Excuse me. I need to take this call in private. Please. The front room. Close the door.”

Alone in the front room. From behind the door the murmur of Harry Vetch’s voice. A fly buzzed Flavian’s ear. He struck at it savagely and there it was, smashed in his palm.

Vetch appeared in the doorway. “I think, Brother, that it’s always right to side with the law. This is after all the teaching of our church, yours and mine. After many centuries we may discover that, for example, the earth is not at the center of the universe. But she is our Mother Church and our first duty is loyalty to her judgment, leaving to history the workings out of right and wrong.

“As it turns out there’s been an incident involving the use of force to subdue a suspect who resisted. I’m not free to divulge more details but I have to let you go. As I’m sure you can understand, I have business to attend to.”

Flavian half-rose from his seat, then sank back. The county
attorney wanted him to leave but once he left where was he to go? The phone rang again. Vetch took up the waiting room extension. A form greeting, then a low but audible “Shit.” Vetch pushed a button and replaced the phone and turned back to Flavian. “My patience has run out. I have important matters that must be arranged in confidence. I thank you for your concern. I’ll inform you if you may be of service. Now you have to go.”