Chapter 19
Late afternoon in the Poconos was in all ways a very beautiful time for Francis; most of the drive from his retreat at the Kripalu Center was now behind him. A brief stop for grilled cheese and salad at a diner had revived Francis from his trip, and speculating about “whodunit” in the book-on-tape he was listening to on his journey south from New England kept his mind occupied during the simple meal. Grilled cheese is a real staple for a lacto-vegetarian. Vegetarians who are “vegan” refrain from all meat and fish, as do lacto-vegetarians, but vegans also refrain from all dairy products, including eggs, cheese, butter, and milk. That was too complicated for Francis, especially if he was visiting family or friends. He did not want to be of any unnecessary bother to them and cooking for a vegan would challenge most cooks.
Francis sometimes “goes wild” and gets his grilled cheese sandwiches on two different kinds of bread. Today he dined on one rye and one whole-wheat grilled cheese. He stopped to eat far before he got to his hometown, hoping to avoid patients or parishioners from the local parish. He liked those people well enough but was trying to savor and digest the fruits of his retreat. His long-term goal was to let the seedlings of the graces he had gleaned during retreat grow throughout the year as a means of helping others and himself to a more peaceful and whole place in life. Sometimes retreat graces took the form of a resolution to be more patient with others, at other times a retreat might yield the thought that God might be asking him to slow down a little with his workload.
After dinner, and before very long, he found himself zigzagging through a few roads in Brodheadsville and then turning left onto the monastery property. Everything seemed peaceful enough, Francis reflected to himself, as he pulled the little red car into the monastery garage. He took some time to bring his luggage to his cell, turned on the computer in his office, and slit open a large stack of mail. These rituals, upon returning from a trip, often helped the monk to clear his mind before talking with the other members of the community.
The abbot then went to the oratory to join the community for Night Prayer, the Office of Compline that completes the day. Before they began the service, he stood at the ambo and said hello to his companions in monastic life. He told them that he had a refreshing retreat and said that he hoped that they were well. He then asked how things were in the community. Their tales of a dead body and a missing community member evoked thoughts of Stephen King and “Murder She Wrote.” A combination of information overload, along with an attempt to practice the virtue of equanimity of spirit, helped Francis to avoid an impulsive response. Well, at least no major appliance had broken. As if on cue, the heater in the oratory exploded, then thumped and then rattled into stillness.
The Office of Vigils begins every monastic day. It is the time when the community members gather before dawn to wait for God to break into the day and reverence their faith-filled belief that Christ will come again at the end of time. The Office of Night Prayer or Compline, on the other hand, brings the day to an end. Most of this last liturgical service of the day is chanted in darkness, by candlelight. Part of the experience is to examine one’s consciousness, raise one’s awareness of the choices he or she made during the day for good or for ill, rejoice in what is good, and resolve to work with what may be weak during the new day yet to come. After Night Prayer, the community begins its experience of Grand Silence. During that time they keep a stricter silence than during the day, listening for the voice of God deep within their hearts as they read, prepare themselves for a night of rest, or even if they wake during the night.
Because he is abbot of the community, Francis often has to work after Night Prayer, sometimes returning phone calls if they cannot wait until the next day. He had twenty-six messages on his answering machine and about two hundred e-mails waiting to be sorted out when he returned from his retreat. He listened to phone messages from Dave, Chantal, Hester, and, he could have guessed it, the Bishop’s secretary.
He returned a call to Chantal and arranged for a meeting with the “mystery team” the next morning. This is how Dave, Chantal, Hester, and the Abbot were being referred to by the community. He was not completely sure why the Bishop was calling him but would find out later the next day when he went to the Chancery Office for a meeting with the shepherd of the Diocese of Scranton. It is probably about the missing novice and the dead body found on the field adjacent to the monastery property. Here we go again.
He was quite worried about Brother Matthew and had mixed feelings about the community keeping all of this information from him while he was on retreat. They had come to a communal decision on the matter, and while he might have acted otherwise, he respected their maturity and their desire to let the Holy Spirit speak through the group and guide their decision-making.
There was not much more he could do this evening so he tried to distract himself by opening the mail. Francis pulled his old tin Lehigh University trash container close to his desk and began opening envelopes and immediately ripping up and throwing out what was of no value to him or the community. He lit a sandalwood incense stick and tried to turn the effort of moving through the pile of mail into a bit more of a meditation. Journals and material to be read at his “leisure” were placed in one pile, bills were placed by the computer to be entered into the Quicken bookkeeping software, payment checks from various health insurance companies for services he had rendered to patients were placed in another pile--unfortunately this was the smallest of the piles.
He pulled a letter out of a white number ten sized envelope with no return address on it. “Salesian Monastery” and the mailing address were scrawled across the front of it. The abbot thought it might be an order for a handmade prayer bench, Bible stand, or for the qigong teaching video that he had produced, and which was being well received. A cryptic message on the eight-and-one-half by-eleven sheet of white paper greeted him when he unfolded it.
“IF WE CAN’T HAVE THEM, NEITHER CAN YOUS.”
The abbot checked the envelope again, wondering if it had come to the wrong address. No, it was clearly addressed to the Salesian Monastery. Having grown up in Philadelphia—the City of Brotherly Love—Francis knew that “yous” is often used for the plural of “you” in that great city. He hesitated for a moment and then threw the paper and envelope into the trash.
Having plowed through the mail, he next went online and checked his e-mails that were waiting for him in the depths of the computer. Once again, he threw most of them into the trash, this time with a “click” rather than with a tear. Ones from family and friends were left in his “in-box” for a more careful reading and response when his head was clearer. He also left some professional messages there. Several had come in from the National Qigong Association USA, an organization in which he served an elected board member.
Francis changed and went to bed, but something above and beyond all the bizarre events in which he had become embroiled during the past few hours tugged at the back of his mind. What is it? What is it Lord?
The mystery team assembled in the community library the next morning after the regular morning spiritual exercises and breakfast. The main piece of information to emerge from the meeting to the mind of the returning abbot was the fact that the girl found buried in a shallow muddy grave on the back five acres of the monastery was a young lady positively identified as Christi Simko--none other than the ex-fiancée of Brother Matthew. The community had tried to ease him into the events that occurred during his time away and didn’t give him all of the details last evening. This was still an abrupt transition, indeed, for Francis from his retreat. Romeo is missing and Juliet is dead.
Later in Scranton: “The Bishop will see you now Brother Cadf… Excuse me, I mean Abbot Francis de Sales,” announced the administrative assistant of the Bishop to the monk “on the carpet.”
“What did you just almost call me? Were you starting to say ‘Brother Cadfael,’ the mystery novel monk from the Middle Ages who was an accomplished herbalist and who had a penchant for finding dead bodies and solving crimes. Was that it?”
The soul of efficiency replied that she had made a slip of the tongue and confessed that many were calling him Brother Cadfael these days. She didn’t mean to offend him.
“No offense taken. In fact, I think that there is a compliment in there somewhere,” said the monk in a light-hearted manner.
There was a change of key, however, when the abbot walked in through the heavy oak doorframe to the office of the Bishop.
“What is this penchant you have for dead bodies and intrigue, Brother?” asked the Bishop, when Brother Francis was just about seated.
“Well it’s only one body this time, Your Excellency.”
“Don’t you go trying to disarm me with that sense of humor of yours again. I’m not as likely to let you off the hook easily this time. We’ve been down this road before, you and I.”
For once in his life, Francis really didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t done a thing to create any of this mess. All he did was go away on a well-deserved retreat, a retreat that the Rule asks each monastic to take every year. “I’m sorry, Bishop, I really don’t know what more I can say. I will do everything in my power to handle these matters discretely and quickly.”
“I realize that it’s not your fault, Brother, but for one of the smallest religious communities in this diocese, you folks get the most press. Why, the papers are starting to call you ‘the mystery monk.’
“Kind of catchy, don’t you think?”
“Now stop that Brother!”
“There is that other matter in the press these days, however, and that is partly why I asked to meet with you today.”
“I’ve been away on retreat for the last eight days, Bishop, so I’m a little out of touch. Can you fill me in?”
The tall and stately shepherd groaned, more than said, the following: “There is a house in the diocese, halfway between your monastery and these diocesan offices, in the Wilkes-Barre area, which people claim is a haunted house. “Action News” has footage of books and lamps and other things flying through the air in the house. There is a Sister who is a pastoral minister at the parish in which this house is located. Whenever she goes there things seems to get worse. The Sisters have always been on the cutting edge of life in the Church but this is pushing the envelope.
Messages of foreboding have appeared on mirrors and windows. The family who lives in the place has moved in with relatives. The media keeps calling us for some sort of response. I would like you to go there and have a look. Take that scientific and clinical brain of yours along. Use the spiritual side of you as well. These phenomena could be the result of a sociopath or they could be something parapsychological. Please see what you can come up with—just no more dead bodies or missing novices please.”
Oh great, just what I need to liven up my boring life! I just want to be a monk. “I will do whatever you ask, Bishop. I must admit that I don’t feel particularly competent in the area of hauntings. We didn’t have courses in that in graduate school, or in internship or residency for that matter.”
“Francis,” the leader of the diocese said, “No one really feels competent or comfortable in matters such as these, but with your penchant for the bizarre, you might just be able to handle it.”
“Agreed, Your Excellency, but with Brother Matthew missing and the dead body discovered on our property, my mind is already whirling. Bishop, may I visit the house tomorrow rather than today, and may I take several professional friends along with me?”
“That will be fine, Brother Francis, I will send a release to the media, telling them that we have an expert who will be investigating the phenomena. Just so we’re clear, you are the expert. Got it?”
“I’m clear on what you’re asking, Bishop.” What would the World Academic Society of Medical Qigong in Beijing have to say about a caper like this one? “I will ask the Holy Spirit to guide me. I’d like to get back to the monastery now and solve a few mysteries of my own if I may.”
The Bishop smiled warmly, and invited the monk to lunch before he left. “We’re having your favorite, grilled cheese—unless somebody kidnapped the cook!”