The Night Office
Robert Boucheron

The tolling of a bell woke Jerry. It was pitch dark, the middle of the night. His bare feet made contact with a stone
floor. He pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt,
stuffed his feet into shabby sneakers, and rushed down a corridor which smelled
of disinfectant. The bell stopped
tolling. He was late again.
In the sacristy, Father Isaac held out a small, plain cross on a cord. Jerry flung the cord over his head. He did not suit up for church services but wore the cross to show he was on duty. He followed Father Isaac and stood beside him in the choir. Six monks in white robes stood silently, their hands joined and hidden by voluminous sleeves. Two elderly monks made their way in, one with a cane and the other with a walker frame, Brothers Luke and Matthew. One wore a black jacket over his robe, the other a droopy knitted garment.
Father Isaac chanted with beautiful enunciation. The opening phrase was always: “Lord make haste to help me.” After that, the sequence of prayers, readings and chanted psalms followed complex rules, with variations and exceptions that might take years to learn. It would be easy to make a mistake, especially if you were half asleep. The night office, also called matins or vigils, was the simplest service. Jerry let the prayers and the biblical language wash over him. With a gift for singing, he easily picked up the chants.
The church abruptly went dark. Everyone sat in silence until the lights came back on. Jerry knew that he should meditate but wondered how, under the circumstances. It was like being asked to invent a joke on the spur of the moment, or tell a stranger your deepest fear.
After the night office, the monks went their separate ways, for meditation or devotional reading. One or two stayed in the church to pray, their heads bowed in silence. Jerry walked outside and looked up at the night sky from the cloister. The stars shone brightly in the clear air, and the moon was a sliver. Was it waxing or waning? Jerry thought back through the week. When he arrived at the start of September, it was a half moon. He breathed deeply and hugged his arms to his chest.
“You are new here,” said a voice from the darkness. Jerry looked all around, but could not see anyone. A ghostly form emerged from the arches.
“Yes,” Jerry said. “Who are you?”
“I am called Laurent.” The monk spoke with a French accent, and he gave his name in French: Lo-rong.
“My name is Jerry. I’m here as an observer.”
“Ah, yes, to spy on us. You will learn our secrets and tell them to the world.”
“No.”
“So you deny it. Maybe you will learn nothing.”
“Maybe.”
“You think I am hard on you. Or you think I am a fool. You are right on both counts.”
“I think you are teasing me.”
“Right again.”
They stood silently for a minute. Father Laurent seemed to be old, like the other monks. At age sixty-one, Father Isaac was youngest in the abbey. Jerry was not yet thirty.
“You are young,” Father Laurent said, as if reading Jerry’s mind. “Still, you are a man. You want to know who I am, if you can trust me. Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“What if I do not tell you? Or what if I tell a lie?”
“Do monks lie?”
A laugh rippled through the darkness. “Day and night, without ceasing.”
“We are told to pray without ceasing.”
“Indeed, we are very wicked here.”
“Then you must confess.” Jerry gazed up at the spangled black vault. When his eyes returned to earth, Father Laurent had vanished.
By day, Jerry studied the monks, hoping to recognize the one who had spoken in the cloister. In their hoods and shapeless robes, the monks looked interchangeable. The vow of silence was a myth, but so far the only conversation Jerry had was with Father Isaac. At meals, they listened to a monk read from some edifying book. At other times—a walk in the fields or a chance meeting in the cloister—casual talk was frowned on.
As they filed out of the refectory after supper, the abbot crooked an index finger. “Follow me.” He walked briskly up a stair and through a small reception room, looking straight ahead.
Dom Stephen was tall, bearded and gray, a vigorous man of about seventy. He looked like a figure in a painting, any European painting of a monk for the past thousand years. He also looked preoccupied, as though his mind continually ran on some detail of administration. His office was dusty, crammed with stacks of paper yellow and curled with age. A stained glass window kept out all but a glimmer of the evening sun. The abbot sat in a wooden arm chair and motioned Jerry to another.
“So, you are staying with us as an observer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I read your application, of course, and Father Isaac consulted with me before sending for you. He says you are a Catholic in good standing, a college graduate, and a certified teacher. In what subject?”
“English. I taught at a public high school, ninth and tenth grades.”
“Ah, spelling, grammar, and the dreaded quiz. Did you like it?”
“At first. There isn’t much time for real teaching, though. Keeping order in the classroom takes so much energy.”
“Did you quit?”
“I asked for a semester off so I could come here. I barely had enough years with the school to qualify. The principal okayed it on the condition that I teach summer school next year.”
“But you don’t want to go back.”
“Not really.”
“A monastery is not an escape hatch, you know. We do not accept people simply because they are unemployed, or bored with their job, or unhappy with their life.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you hope to find here? In your own words, please, not something you read in a vocational guide.”
This was precisely the point. For all his daydreaming on the subject, Jerry was caught off guard. “A home?”
“Go on.” Dom Stephen showed a flicker of interest.
“A community, a group dedicated to something that matters, something beyond the ordinary. Marriage is not for me, but I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone.”
“Do you have family? Are your parents alive?”
“They’re at retirement age. I have an older sister, Anne. She’s married, with two children. They all live at a distance.”
“At a distance.” The abbot ruminated. “Alone is an attitude. You could live near your family if you chose. We are all alone in one sense, and we are all brothers and sisters in another sense. A monastery is a collection of misfits brought together by chance. Some would say by the Holy Spirit. We are dropouts, odd fellows, the boys passed over for the baseball team. We are crazy and eccentric, vain and superior, filled with self-loathing, and passionately in love with the impossible. We live alone together.”
Jerry was too surprised to say anything.
“I wish you every chance of success. What we offer here is time. Slow down, be quiet, and listen. You may not like what you hear, but for once in your life, it will be God’s own truth.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dom Stephen resumed his look of preoccupation. His gaze was directed at a picture of the Virgin Mary with thorns wrapped around her heart.
The monks’ day ended with the service of compline, then curfew or lights out at eight. Jerry was tired at that hour and dropped off to sleep at once. There was no sound of highway traffic, none of the lights and bustle of a city. Cattle lowed in the fields, birds sang, and leaves rustled in the wind. Radio and television were banned, to prevent the world from encroaching. No cell phones or electronic devices. You surrendered them on entering, as at a prison.
The abbey supported itself mainly through its bakery, which produced fruitcakes. Like all visitors, Jerry was invited to help in the work, which took a few hours each morning. The bakery was a metal barn with a concrete floor, equipped with huge mixers and steel bowls large enough to contain a child. The commercial oven was a vast rectangle through which passed a track with metal rollers. Tubs of flour, honey, dried fruit, nuts, and other ingredients lined stainless steel racks festooned with inventory pages.
The bakery manager was Frank, who had been hired when the abbey ran short of able-bodied monks. A lively character with a walrus mustache, Frank welcomed Jerry like a long-lost son.
“What do you know about baking?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
“Nothing,” Jerry said.
“Excellent!”
The abbot, Father Isaac and two other monks stood ready, wearing white aprons tied over their monastic habits. Frank directed them to their tasks, adjusted the equipment, read gauges, and checked quantities of ingredients. He turned to Jerry.
“I saved the best for last. You see this pile of labels? They go on these boxes, which you seal with this handy-dandy tape gun. The boxes then get piled over here, neatly, so they don’t topple like the Tower of Babel. If you run out of boxes, see this stack of flat precut cardboard? Fold the flaps just like the arrows show you, or ask me to demonstrate. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“On your mark, get set, go!”
Jerry got to work pasting labels and sealing boxes. The tape gun felt awkward, and his first box came out wrinkled. Frank was suddenly at his elbow.
“Let me show you. Hold the handle like so, your thumb here.” He thrust the tape gun back at Jerry. “You do it.”
Jerry copied Frank’s grip.
“Bingo!” Frank beamed at him.
The monks worked quietly. Dom Stephen presided over a hoist with a huge steel bowl suspended by chains. The fruitcake mixture dropped into baking tins by measured amounts. As the abbot doled each circular form, another monk slapped a lid on it, moved it to the roller track and shoved the next into position. Another monk greased empty tins by twirling them on a phonograph turntable.
“His own invention,” Frank said over the hum of machinery. “He got tired of the old way where you need three hands. We mix and bake on alternate days. What you see going into the oven was mixed yesterday.”
A long line of fruitcakes assembled and processed into the oven. When the day’s batch was complete, Frank did a last minute check, clamped the oven door and set the timer.
“This is our busy season,” Frank said as they cleaned up. “People buy fruitcake for Christmas, so we need to stock up. After the baking, we pour brandy on the cakes, Chemineaud Frères, very good stuff. They rest a few weeks, then get wrapped and boxed. We ship all over the world.”
As they walked from the barn back to the cloister, Father Isaac fell in beside Jerry.
“Actually, sales have been declining for years,” he said. “Fruitcake isn’t as popular as it used to be. We need to find another product for the bakery. Years ago, the abbey made bread, until the big commercial bakers caught on. Now everyone has a line of whole-grain, healthy bread. We couldn’t compete, so we shifted to fruitcake. Now we’re looking at specialty items, honey and candied nuts.”
“I suppose you have to keep Frank busy.”
“Ideally, we would provide all the labor. Between Frank, the farm help, a secretary and a housekeeper, we have a payroll to meet. It’s a drain on our finances.”
As the days passed, Jerry was given other tasks in the bakery and elsewhere. He placed walnuts and scarlet cherries on top of freshly baked fruitcakes, as decoration. He cleaned bathrooms, swept floors and hauled trash on days when the housekeeper was away. He helped cook and wash dishes in the enormous kitchen next to the refectory. The abbey population had shrunk from its height, when it had up to a hundred monks.
“It was a busy place,” Father Isaac said. “I came a decade later. The pressure had eased, but I heard stories of overcrowding. They pitched tents for the novices, ate in shifts, and used outdoor privies. What with poor diet and austere practices, the disease rate was a scandal. The health department nearly shut us down.”
Father Gilbert, who was licensed as a practical nurse, asked Jerry to help him in the infirmary. The infirmary had become a rest home for monks who were retired, elderly and too frail to look after themselves. Four lived here, in various stages of decline.
“Allow me to introduce you to Father Daniel. Father Daniel no longer talks, and as you see he is bedridden. Our task today is to change the bed, bathe him, groom him, and check for bumps and bruises—give him a good once-over. Were you ever a hospital orderly?”
“No.”
“Just do as I tell you. Daniel, this is Jerry. He’s going to help me clean you up.”
Father Daniel moved a hand feebly. He lay propped in a hospital bed, in a sea of white sheets and cotton blankets. A teddy bear was tucked beside him. Father Gilbert showed Jerry how to lift, how to make a bed with a patient in it, and how to use sponge and basin. As a final touch, he lathered the white stubble on the withered face.
“Here,” he said, handing Jerry a safety razor. “Take your time. I’ll be in the next room tending to Joseph. Yell if you need me.”
Father Daniel gazed at Jerry with trust. Turning the old man’s head on the pillow and wiping with a warm cloth, Jerry shaved him without mishap. He whimpered when Jerry’s elbow bore down on his chest.
“Sorry,” Jerry said.
Father Daniel blinked. His eyes were pale blue, clear and bright. The room was brilliant, bathed in gold by the afternoon sun.
“He’s so light,” Jerry said as Father Gilbert returned. “He hardly weighs anything.”
“You could sling him over your shoulder and run away with him. There we go, Daniel, all sweet and clean. How do you feel?”
Father Daniel managed a faint smile. Father Gilbert retrieved the teddy bear from the night table, placed it at his hip, and moved his arm to rest beside it. As he bent over the old monk, he kissed him.
“Daniel was well-loved by the community.” Father Gilbert gathered a pile of linen in his arms as they left the room. “He was a peacemaker. The younger monks confided in him and looked up to him as a role model.”
“Including you?”
“Including me. If we ever produced a saint here at the abbey, Daniel is it.”
“Does he know who I am?”
“Oh, yes. He’s fully in command of his faculties.”
That night, Jerry stood in the cloister after the night office, gazing up at the sky. The air was sharp, and he needed more than a sweatshirt. A voice came from the darkness, a voice with a French accent.
“How goes the reconnaissance? Do you observe anything of interest?”
“Quite a bit.”
“That is very good. You work and you read and you learn to chant. You meet all of the monks, including the eldest.”
“Except for you. Why?”
“Oh, you miss nothing by that. I no longer live in the abbey. I am a hermit. I live in a hut away in the wood.”
“You seem well informed.”
“I visit. I attend mass once a week. The abbot insists. Indeed, our order requires it.”
“Do you visit by day?”
“Certainly, I am here. I lurk behind a column or mingle in the crowd.”
“Why are you a hermit?” Jerry shivered.
“You perish from the cold. That is a difficult question.”
“The question is easy. You don’t want to answer.”
“Very well. I follow the ancient custom. The desert fathers and Jesus himself went to the wilderness to fast and pray. Monastic life is not Christian.”
“What about St. Benedict?”
“Those early monks who banded together, long before your St. Benedict, they imitated the Pythagoreans, that is to say Greek pagans. Who in turn got ideas from the Hindu mystics, the gymnosophists that Alexander claimed to admire. Today you call them yogis.”
“That hasn’t come up in my reading.”
“Of course not. You are a good Catholic.”
“You make it sound like a slur.”
“Not at all. Do you believe what you are told?”
“I believe what I see. I do not see you.” He peered at the white form but could not make out a face. Hands and feet were shrouded by the monastic robe.
“Maybe I do not bear scrutiny.”
Impatient with this verbal fencing, Jerry looked up at the sky. After a minute of silence, he looked around the cloister. Father Laurent had vanished again.
Under the direction of Father Isaac, who was mainly absent owing to his other duties, Jerry read in the library. The monks seldom came there. When they did, it was to take or return a novel, silently and without acknowledging his presence at the massive oak trestle table. Under the circumstances, Jerry found ways to waste time. He browsed the untidy shelves, packed with scholarly tomes in several languages. He leafed through Catholic magazines from decades before. He discovered a book on the archaeology of Palestine, wonderfully illustrated.
Jerry became more punctual at the many church services. The elaborate ritual grew on him. Still, he preferred the night office. He often stood in the cloister afterward, dreamy and motionless as a statue. He wore a coat now and thick socks.
Toward the end of October, Father Daniel took a turn for the worse. His eyes were closed, and he seemed unaware of his surroundings. Jerry stood beside the bed with Father Gilbert, who absent-mindedly wrung his hands.
“He may have had a stroke,” Father Gilbert said. “He might leave us at any moment, or he might linger for weeks. His life is in the hands of God.”
“How old is he?” Jerry asked.
“I’m not sure. He was old when I came to the abbey.”
“Are you worried?” Jerry grabbed one of Father Gilbert’s hands to stop the wringing. He squeezed in return.
“Yes and no. We will all miss him, but he is nearing his reward.”
One by one, the monks trooped into the infirmary to see Father Daniel.
“He looks peaceful,” said one.
“A soul at rest,” said another.
“He’s still breathing,” Father Gilbert said.
After much discussion, they set up a schedule of watches, so that someone would sit with Father Daniel at all times. Visitors were expected at the abbey for the holidays of All Saints and All Souls, November 1 and 2. The fruitcake operation was at its peak. Dom Stephen approached Jerry.
“Could you watch Father Daniel the night before All Saints? The monks are stretched thin.”
“Isn’t that Halloween?”
“Yes.” Dom Stephen had forgotten this secular version of the ecclesiastical feast.
Instead of lying alone on his creaky cot, then, Jerry sat beside the pale, recumbent figure. He was determined to stay awake. The room was lit by a bedside lamp, like a votive candle but without the flicker. Father Daniel rested peacefully, arms at his sides, his chest rising and falling so gently that it was barely noticeable. Jerry had brought a book he should have read weeks ago, a selection of sermons by monastic authors of the twelfth century. Within minutes, he dozed.
“Jerry, wake up!”
The book on Jerry’s lap hit the floor with a thump. He looked around wildly. Father Daniel lay as before. There was no one else in the room. The voice had been loud and clear. How long was he asleep?
Father Daniel’s lips moved. His forehead crinkled as though he were troubled by a dream or trying to think. Jerry stood to retrieve the book and glanced at the clock. Throughout the abbey, there were clocks with large round faces mounted on the wall, as in the school where he taught. It was almost midnight.
Jerry walked out of the room, then up and down the corridor to clear his head. He returned to Father Daniel’s room. Another monk stood beside the bed, his back to Jerry, hood raised and arms clasped.
“Hello.”
“Good evening,” said a voice with a French accent.
“Father Laurent?”
“The same.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to see our Daniel. Maybe for the last time.”
“It’s an odd time to be roaming.”
“I sleep very little.”
Father Daniel was agitated, frowning and trembling as he lay in bed. Jerry felt a surge of emotion, a protective instinct. He stepped between the two monks, seized Father Laurent by the shoulders and shoved him away.
“Get out!”
The ancient monk stood his ground and glared at Jerry. He was emaciated, with mottled skin and rotten teeth. His breath smelled awful.
“Who are you to order me?”
“Get out,” Jerry repeated. He fumbled for the cross hanging from his neck and brandished it.
“What an absurd gesture!”
Jerry moved slowly toward Father Laurent.
“Get out, or I’ll beat you to a pulp.”
“Oh, how you frighten me!” With a grimace, he turned and flitted out of the room. A gurgle from behind made Jerry turn back to Father Daniel, whose eyes were open. His mouth puckered. At last, it emitted a whisper.
“Forgive.”
“Forgive what?”
“Them.”
“Forgive them. Is that all?”
“No.”
Jerry waited for Father Daniel to continue. The effort had exhausted him. He closed his eyes for a minute, then opened them and stared at the ceiling.
“On . . . the third . . . day . . . goodbye.”
What could this refer to? The resurrection? Since coming to the abbey, where the night sky was so immediate, Jerry noted the phases of the moon. The new moon was two days away—biblically speaking, the third day.
Father Daniel’s eyelids fluttered and closed. So far as Jerry could tell, he drifted back to sleep. He looked peaceful again.
Jerry watched intently for the next four hours. Father Rafael found him perched on the edge of the chair, his back rigid and his hair a tangled mess.
“You can go now. It’s my shift.”
“Is it morning?” The sky outside the window was black.
“By our reckoning. How is he?”
“No change. He woke briefly.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Yes. He said he would die on the third day.”
Father Raphael made a sound of contempt, something like “pfooey.”
Jerry stood and stretched his legs. He strode through the corridor, downstairs, through another corridor to the cloister. Once outside, he breathed deeply.
“Nasty bugger.” Jerry considered praying in the church, but he might fall asleep there. He returned to his cell in the novice wing.
Toward noon, he woke to the sound of shouting from the direction of the kitchen. In the hushed context of the abbey, this qualified as an event. Jerry hurried to investigate. Five monks stood around the steam table. Wisps of steam wreathed their reddened faces. Jerry hung back in the doorway to avoid being seen.
“He belongs to all of us, not to you or me,” Father Gilbert said.
“I was his assistant before you came,” said a short, bristly monk with cropped hair and beard.
“I typed his letters and screened his visitors,” said one with glasses and a long, beaky nose.
“I have been his primary caregiver for the past three years,” Father Gilbert said. “That is neither here nor there.”
“Seniority should govern,” said a bald monk with a whiny intonation. “After Daniel, I have been here the longest, so I should take precedence at his funeral.”
“Luke and Matthew came before you,” said the short monk.
“Lay brothers,” said the bald monk. “They can hardly stand up, let alone carry a coffin.”
“Your little protégé could be a pall bearer,” the beaky monk said to Father Gilbert.
“He’s not my protégé any more than Isaac’s.”
“Speaking of which, has Isaac scared him off yet?”
“We don’t need his kind here, anyway,” said the short monk. “La di da, with his fine air and his lovely way with a melody.”
This remark set them all to cackling. Except for Father Isaac, none of the monks could carry a tune, and they mumbled the chants. Jerry flushed in his recess. He had not imagined that his singing would provoke this reaction.
Dom Stephen swept into the kitchen, with Father Isaac on his heels. The laughter ceased. The abbot scanned the group like a hawk about to dive.
“Shame on you! You sound like chickens squabbling.” He raised his right arm and pointed at the beaky monk. “Where are you supposed to be?” He pointed at the short monk. “If your other gifts matched your gift for mockery, you might amount to something.” The abbot turned to Father Gilbert. “From you I expect more. How could you let this rabble get out of hand?”
Jerry sneezed. This brought him to the attention of the company.
“Bless you,” the abbot said. “Our humiliation is complete. We stand exposed for what we are. May God have mercy.” He made the sign of the cross.
“Who is scheduled to serve dinner?” asked Father Isaac.
“I am,” said the beaky monk.
“Then please lay out the dishes and the serving utensils.”
“Meanwhile,” Dom Stephen said, “we will all go wash. Let us reunite shortly in a spirit of brotherhood and harmony.”
“Amen,” murmured several of the monks. They dispersed, and Jerry was left alone. He fished a tattered handkerchief from his jeans and blew his nose.
Two days later, Father Daniel passed away in his sleep. Father Rafael then spread Jerry’s report of the dying man’s last words. The monks regarded Jerry with a mixture of awe and jealousy. The short, bristly monk, Father Kevin, sought him out.
“The abbot told me to apologize. For what I said.”
Except for the grizzled beard, Father Kevin reminded Jerry of one of his students.
“That’s okay. Father Daniel loved you.”
“He did?”
“He said so.” Jerry reached for his shoulder and gave it a pat.
Father Kevin departed as though floating on a cloud. In short order, Fathers Clifford, David and Gilbert each managed to corner Jerry and express regret. To each, Jerry delivered a personal message from Father Daniel. The abbot summoned Jerry to his office. I’ve gone too far, he thought, but Dom Stephen was as curious as the others about the deathbed conversation.
“Did he happen to mention me?”
“Yes, sir. Just before he slipped back into unconsciousness, he said: ‘Stephen is my son.’”
“That’s all?”
“I think he wanted to say more. He looked happy.”
The funeral took place with a homily by Dom Stephen. He praised their departed brother Daniel for setting a good example. There were no living relatives, so it was a private affair, without flowers or weeping but with a certain grandeur. Midday dinner doubled as a reception, with glasses of sherry. Afterward, Father Isaac spoke to Jerry in the library.
“The past few days have been a trial for all of us. Let’s see if we can pick up the pieces. Three weeks remain of your observer stint. Thanksgiving is approaching. We celebrate like all American families, but without the turkey. We serve a tofu version. The first Sunday in Advent follows soon after. As you know, that is the start of the liturgical year. You are welcome to participate. On the other hand, if you want to leave early, the abbot will understand.”
“Does he want me to leave?”
“I’m afraid we have not made a good impression.”
“How many observers do you get here?”
“Very few. Berry has had no novices or professions for many years. There are other abbeys, of course, other religious orders. You might find one with men your age. My job is to help you go where God calls you.”
“Can I talk to you tomorrow?”
“Same time, same place. I’ll be here.”
Most of the leaves had turned and fallen. The rural setting of the abbey, so appealing in September, was growing bleak. Daylight was fading, and the wind blew constantly. Jerry had never minded the cold, but now he felt persecuted. His jeans were baggy and would hardly stay on his hips. He had lost weight. His appetite had fled weeks ago. The abbey food was bland and monotonous. Some of the monks were fat, though.
“We eat better than most people in the world,” Father Isaac said. “The Rule of St. Benedict prescribes a vegetarian diet.” To Jerry, the Rule was arbitrary and inconsistent. The prospect of tofu turkey was disgusting.
Before curfew that night, Jerry packed his bag and cleaned up his cell. What to do with all the books and notes? He lugged the books to the library and dumped them on the trestle table. The notes amounted to little more than doodling. They overflowed the wastebasket.
The mournful tolling of the bell woke him in the middle of the night. Jerry pulled the blanket over his head. He would get up when he was good and ready.
In the sacristy, Father Isaac held out a small, plain cross on a cord. Jerry flung the cord over his head. He did not suit up for church services but wore the cross to show he was on duty. He followed Father Isaac and stood beside him in the choir. Six monks in white robes stood silently, their hands joined and hidden by voluminous sleeves. Two elderly monks made their way in, one with a cane and the other with a walker frame, Brothers Luke and Matthew. One wore a black jacket over his robe, the other a droopy knitted garment.
Father Isaac chanted with beautiful enunciation. The opening phrase was always: “Lord make haste to help me.” After that, the sequence of prayers, readings and chanted psalms followed complex rules, with variations and exceptions that might take years to learn. It would be easy to make a mistake, especially if you were half asleep. The night office, also called matins or vigils, was the simplest service. Jerry let the prayers and the biblical language wash over him. With a gift for singing, he easily picked up the chants.
The church abruptly went dark. Everyone sat in silence until the lights came back on. Jerry knew that he should meditate but wondered how, under the circumstances. It was like being asked to invent a joke on the spur of the moment, or tell a stranger your deepest fear.
After the night office, the monks went their separate ways, for meditation or devotional reading. One or two stayed in the church to pray, their heads bowed in silence. Jerry walked outside and looked up at the night sky from the cloister. The stars shone brightly in the clear air, and the moon was a sliver. Was it waxing or waning? Jerry thought back through the week. When he arrived at the start of September, it was a half moon. He breathed deeply and hugged his arms to his chest.
“You are new here,” said a voice from the darkness. Jerry looked all around, but could not see anyone. A ghostly form emerged from the arches.
“Yes,” Jerry said. “Who are you?”
“I am called Laurent.” The monk spoke with a French accent, and he gave his name in French: Lo-rong.
“My name is Jerry. I’m here as an observer.”
“Ah, yes, to spy on us. You will learn our secrets and tell them to the world.”
“No.”
“So you deny it. Maybe you will learn nothing.”
“Maybe.”
“You think I am hard on you. Or you think I am a fool. You are right on both counts.”
“I think you are teasing me.”
“Right again.”
They stood silently for a minute. Father Laurent seemed to be old, like the other monks. At age sixty-one, Father Isaac was youngest in the abbey. Jerry was not yet thirty.
“You are young,” Father Laurent said, as if reading Jerry’s mind. “Still, you are a man. You want to know who I am, if you can trust me. Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“What if I do not tell you? Or what if I tell a lie?”
“Do monks lie?”
A laugh rippled through the darkness. “Day and night, without ceasing.”
“We are told to pray without ceasing.”
“Indeed, we are very wicked here.”
“Then you must confess.” Jerry gazed up at the spangled black vault. When his eyes returned to earth, Father Laurent had vanished.
By day, Jerry studied the monks, hoping to recognize the one who had spoken in the cloister. In their hoods and shapeless robes, the monks looked interchangeable. The vow of silence was a myth, but so far the only conversation Jerry had was with Father Isaac. At meals, they listened to a monk read from some edifying book. At other times—a walk in the fields or a chance meeting in the cloister—casual talk was frowned on.
As they filed out of the refectory after supper, the abbot crooked an index finger. “Follow me.” He walked briskly up a stair and through a small reception room, looking straight ahead.
Dom Stephen was tall, bearded and gray, a vigorous man of about seventy. He looked like a figure in a painting, any European painting of a monk for the past thousand years. He also looked preoccupied, as though his mind continually ran on some detail of administration. His office was dusty, crammed with stacks of paper yellow and curled with age. A stained glass window kept out all but a glimmer of the evening sun. The abbot sat in a wooden arm chair and motioned Jerry to another.
“So, you are staying with us as an observer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I read your application, of course, and Father Isaac consulted with me before sending for you. He says you are a Catholic in good standing, a college graduate, and a certified teacher. In what subject?”
“English. I taught at a public high school, ninth and tenth grades.”
“Ah, spelling, grammar, and the dreaded quiz. Did you like it?”
“At first. There isn’t much time for real teaching, though. Keeping order in the classroom takes so much energy.”
“Did you quit?”
“I asked for a semester off so I could come here. I barely had enough years with the school to qualify. The principal okayed it on the condition that I teach summer school next year.”
“But you don’t want to go back.”
“Not really.”
“A monastery is not an escape hatch, you know. We do not accept people simply because they are unemployed, or bored with their job, or unhappy with their life.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you hope to find here? In your own words, please, not something you read in a vocational guide.”
This was precisely the point. For all his daydreaming on the subject, Jerry was caught off guard. “A home?”
“Go on.” Dom Stephen showed a flicker of interest.
“A community, a group dedicated to something that matters, something beyond the ordinary. Marriage is not for me, but I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone.”
“Do you have family? Are your parents alive?”
“They’re at retirement age. I have an older sister, Anne. She’s married, with two children. They all live at a distance.”
“At a distance.” The abbot ruminated. “Alone is an attitude. You could live near your family if you chose. We are all alone in one sense, and we are all brothers and sisters in another sense. A monastery is a collection of misfits brought together by chance. Some would say by the Holy Spirit. We are dropouts, odd fellows, the boys passed over for the baseball team. We are crazy and eccentric, vain and superior, filled with self-loathing, and passionately in love with the impossible. We live alone together.”
Jerry was too surprised to say anything.
“I wish you every chance of success. What we offer here is time. Slow down, be quiet, and listen. You may not like what you hear, but for once in your life, it will be God’s own truth.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dom Stephen resumed his look of preoccupation. His gaze was directed at a picture of the Virgin Mary with thorns wrapped around her heart.
The monks’ day ended with the service of compline, then curfew or lights out at eight. Jerry was tired at that hour and dropped off to sleep at once. There was no sound of highway traffic, none of the lights and bustle of a city. Cattle lowed in the fields, birds sang, and leaves rustled in the wind. Radio and television were banned, to prevent the world from encroaching. No cell phones or electronic devices. You surrendered them on entering, as at a prison.
The abbey supported itself mainly through its bakery, which produced fruitcakes. Like all visitors, Jerry was invited to help in the work, which took a few hours each morning. The bakery was a metal barn with a concrete floor, equipped with huge mixers and steel bowls large enough to contain a child. The commercial oven was a vast rectangle through which passed a track with metal rollers. Tubs of flour, honey, dried fruit, nuts, and other ingredients lined stainless steel racks festooned with inventory pages.
The bakery manager was Frank, who had been hired when the abbey ran short of able-bodied monks. A lively character with a walrus mustache, Frank welcomed Jerry like a long-lost son.
“What do you know about baking?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
“Nothing,” Jerry said.
“Excellent!”
The abbot, Father Isaac and two other monks stood ready, wearing white aprons tied over their monastic habits. Frank directed them to their tasks, adjusted the equipment, read gauges, and checked quantities of ingredients. He turned to Jerry.
“I saved the best for last. You see this pile of labels? They go on these boxes, which you seal with this handy-dandy tape gun. The boxes then get piled over here, neatly, so they don’t topple like the Tower of Babel. If you run out of boxes, see this stack of flat precut cardboard? Fold the flaps just like the arrows show you, or ask me to demonstrate. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“On your mark, get set, go!”
Jerry got to work pasting labels and sealing boxes. The tape gun felt awkward, and his first box came out wrinkled. Frank was suddenly at his elbow.
“Let me show you. Hold the handle like so, your thumb here.” He thrust the tape gun back at Jerry. “You do it.”
Jerry copied Frank’s grip.
“Bingo!” Frank beamed at him.
The monks worked quietly. Dom Stephen presided over a hoist with a huge steel bowl suspended by chains. The fruitcake mixture dropped into baking tins by measured amounts. As the abbot doled each circular form, another monk slapped a lid on it, moved it to the roller track and shoved the next into position. Another monk greased empty tins by twirling them on a phonograph turntable.
“His own invention,” Frank said over the hum of machinery. “He got tired of the old way where you need three hands. We mix and bake on alternate days. What you see going into the oven was mixed yesterday.”
A long line of fruitcakes assembled and processed into the oven. When the day’s batch was complete, Frank did a last minute check, clamped the oven door and set the timer.
“This is our busy season,” Frank said as they cleaned up. “People buy fruitcake for Christmas, so we need to stock up. After the baking, we pour brandy on the cakes, Chemineaud Frères, very good stuff. They rest a few weeks, then get wrapped and boxed. We ship all over the world.”
As they walked from the barn back to the cloister, Father Isaac fell in beside Jerry.
“Actually, sales have been declining for years,” he said. “Fruitcake isn’t as popular as it used to be. We need to find another product for the bakery. Years ago, the abbey made bread, until the big commercial bakers caught on. Now everyone has a line of whole-grain, healthy bread. We couldn’t compete, so we shifted to fruitcake. Now we’re looking at specialty items, honey and candied nuts.”
“I suppose you have to keep Frank busy.”
“Ideally, we would provide all the labor. Between Frank, the farm help, a secretary and a housekeeper, we have a payroll to meet. It’s a drain on our finances.”
As the days passed, Jerry was given other tasks in the bakery and elsewhere. He placed walnuts and scarlet cherries on top of freshly baked fruitcakes, as decoration. He cleaned bathrooms, swept floors and hauled trash on days when the housekeeper was away. He helped cook and wash dishes in the enormous kitchen next to the refectory. The abbey population had shrunk from its height, when it had up to a hundred monks.
“It was a busy place,” Father Isaac said. “I came a decade later. The pressure had eased, but I heard stories of overcrowding. They pitched tents for the novices, ate in shifts, and used outdoor privies. What with poor diet and austere practices, the disease rate was a scandal. The health department nearly shut us down.”
Father Gilbert, who was licensed as a practical nurse, asked Jerry to help him in the infirmary. The infirmary had become a rest home for monks who were retired, elderly and too frail to look after themselves. Four lived here, in various stages of decline.
“Allow me to introduce you to Father Daniel. Father Daniel no longer talks, and as you see he is bedridden. Our task today is to change the bed, bathe him, groom him, and check for bumps and bruises—give him a good once-over. Were you ever a hospital orderly?”
“No.”
“Just do as I tell you. Daniel, this is Jerry. He’s going to help me clean you up.”
Father Daniel moved a hand feebly. He lay propped in a hospital bed, in a sea of white sheets and cotton blankets. A teddy bear was tucked beside him. Father Gilbert showed Jerry how to lift, how to make a bed with a patient in it, and how to use sponge and basin. As a final touch, he lathered the white stubble on the withered face.
“Here,” he said, handing Jerry a safety razor. “Take your time. I’ll be in the next room tending to Joseph. Yell if you need me.”
Father Daniel gazed at Jerry with trust. Turning the old man’s head on the pillow and wiping with a warm cloth, Jerry shaved him without mishap. He whimpered when Jerry’s elbow bore down on his chest.
“Sorry,” Jerry said.
Father Daniel blinked. His eyes were pale blue, clear and bright. The room was brilliant, bathed in gold by the afternoon sun.
“He’s so light,” Jerry said as Father Gilbert returned. “He hardly weighs anything.”
“You could sling him over your shoulder and run away with him. There we go, Daniel, all sweet and clean. How do you feel?”
Father Daniel managed a faint smile. Father Gilbert retrieved the teddy bear from the night table, placed it at his hip, and moved his arm to rest beside it. As he bent over the old monk, he kissed him.
“Daniel was well-loved by the community.” Father Gilbert gathered a pile of linen in his arms as they left the room. “He was a peacemaker. The younger monks confided in him and looked up to him as a role model.”
“Including you?”
“Including me. If we ever produced a saint here at the abbey, Daniel is it.”
“Does he know who I am?”
“Oh, yes. He’s fully in command of his faculties.”
That night, Jerry stood in the cloister after the night office, gazing up at the sky. The air was sharp, and he needed more than a sweatshirt. A voice came from the darkness, a voice with a French accent.
“How goes the reconnaissance? Do you observe anything of interest?”
“Quite a bit.”
“That is very good. You work and you read and you learn to chant. You meet all of the monks, including the eldest.”
“Except for you. Why?”
“Oh, you miss nothing by that. I no longer live in the abbey. I am a hermit. I live in a hut away in the wood.”
“You seem well informed.”
“I visit. I attend mass once a week. The abbot insists. Indeed, our order requires it.”
“Do you visit by day?”
“Certainly, I am here. I lurk behind a column or mingle in the crowd.”
“Why are you a hermit?” Jerry shivered.
“You perish from the cold. That is a difficult question.”
“The question is easy. You don’t want to answer.”
“Very well. I follow the ancient custom. The desert fathers and Jesus himself went to the wilderness to fast and pray. Monastic life is not Christian.”
“What about St. Benedict?”
“Those early monks who banded together, long before your St. Benedict, they imitated the Pythagoreans, that is to say Greek pagans. Who in turn got ideas from the Hindu mystics, the gymnosophists that Alexander claimed to admire. Today you call them yogis.”
“That hasn’t come up in my reading.”
“Of course not. You are a good Catholic.”
“You make it sound like a slur.”
“Not at all. Do you believe what you are told?”
“I believe what I see. I do not see you.” He peered at the white form but could not make out a face. Hands and feet were shrouded by the monastic robe.
“Maybe I do not bear scrutiny.”
Impatient with this verbal fencing, Jerry looked up at the sky. After a minute of silence, he looked around the cloister. Father Laurent had vanished again.
Under the direction of Father Isaac, who was mainly absent owing to his other duties, Jerry read in the library. The monks seldom came there. When they did, it was to take or return a novel, silently and without acknowledging his presence at the massive oak trestle table. Under the circumstances, Jerry found ways to waste time. He browsed the untidy shelves, packed with scholarly tomes in several languages. He leafed through Catholic magazines from decades before. He discovered a book on the archaeology of Palestine, wonderfully illustrated.
Jerry became more punctual at the many church services. The elaborate ritual grew on him. Still, he preferred the night office. He often stood in the cloister afterward, dreamy and motionless as a statue. He wore a coat now and thick socks.
Toward the end of October, Father Daniel took a turn for the worse. His eyes were closed, and he seemed unaware of his surroundings. Jerry stood beside the bed with Father Gilbert, who absent-mindedly wrung his hands.
“He may have had a stroke,” Father Gilbert said. “He might leave us at any moment, or he might linger for weeks. His life is in the hands of God.”
“How old is he?” Jerry asked.
“I’m not sure. He was old when I came to the abbey.”
“Are you worried?” Jerry grabbed one of Father Gilbert’s hands to stop the wringing. He squeezed in return.
“Yes and no. We will all miss him, but he is nearing his reward.”
One by one, the monks trooped into the infirmary to see Father Daniel.
“He looks peaceful,” said one.
“A soul at rest,” said another.
“He’s still breathing,” Father Gilbert said.
After much discussion, they set up a schedule of watches, so that someone would sit with Father Daniel at all times. Visitors were expected at the abbey for the holidays of All Saints and All Souls, November 1 and 2. The fruitcake operation was at its peak. Dom Stephen approached Jerry.
“Could you watch Father Daniel the night before All Saints? The monks are stretched thin.”
“Isn’t that Halloween?”
“Yes.” Dom Stephen had forgotten this secular version of the ecclesiastical feast.
Instead of lying alone on his creaky cot, then, Jerry sat beside the pale, recumbent figure. He was determined to stay awake. The room was lit by a bedside lamp, like a votive candle but without the flicker. Father Daniel rested peacefully, arms at his sides, his chest rising and falling so gently that it was barely noticeable. Jerry had brought a book he should have read weeks ago, a selection of sermons by monastic authors of the twelfth century. Within minutes, he dozed.
“Jerry, wake up!”
The book on Jerry’s lap hit the floor with a thump. He looked around wildly. Father Daniel lay as before. There was no one else in the room. The voice had been loud and clear. How long was he asleep?
Father Daniel’s lips moved. His forehead crinkled as though he were troubled by a dream or trying to think. Jerry stood to retrieve the book and glanced at the clock. Throughout the abbey, there were clocks with large round faces mounted on the wall, as in the school where he taught. It was almost midnight.
Jerry walked out of the room, then up and down the corridor to clear his head. He returned to Father Daniel’s room. Another monk stood beside the bed, his back to Jerry, hood raised and arms clasped.
“Hello.”
“Good evening,” said a voice with a French accent.
“Father Laurent?”
“The same.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to see our Daniel. Maybe for the last time.”
“It’s an odd time to be roaming.”
“I sleep very little.”
Father Daniel was agitated, frowning and trembling as he lay in bed. Jerry felt a surge of emotion, a protective instinct. He stepped between the two monks, seized Father Laurent by the shoulders and shoved him away.
“Get out!”
The ancient monk stood his ground and glared at Jerry. He was emaciated, with mottled skin and rotten teeth. His breath smelled awful.
“Who are you to order me?”
“Get out,” Jerry repeated. He fumbled for the cross hanging from his neck and brandished it.
“What an absurd gesture!”
Jerry moved slowly toward Father Laurent.
“Get out, or I’ll beat you to a pulp.”
“Oh, how you frighten me!” With a grimace, he turned and flitted out of the room. A gurgle from behind made Jerry turn back to Father Daniel, whose eyes were open. His mouth puckered. At last, it emitted a whisper.
“Forgive.”
“Forgive what?”
“Them.”
“Forgive them. Is that all?”
“No.”
Jerry waited for Father Daniel to continue. The effort had exhausted him. He closed his eyes for a minute, then opened them and stared at the ceiling.
“On . . . the third . . . day . . . goodbye.”
What could this refer to? The resurrection? Since coming to the abbey, where the night sky was so immediate, Jerry noted the phases of the moon. The new moon was two days away—biblically speaking, the third day.
Father Daniel’s eyelids fluttered and closed. So far as Jerry could tell, he drifted back to sleep. He looked peaceful again.
Jerry watched intently for the next four hours. Father Rafael found him perched on the edge of the chair, his back rigid and his hair a tangled mess.
“You can go now. It’s my shift.”
“Is it morning?” The sky outside the window was black.
“By our reckoning. How is he?”
“No change. He woke briefly.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Yes. He said he would die on the third day.”
Father Raphael made a sound of contempt, something like “pfooey.”
Jerry stood and stretched his legs. He strode through the corridor, downstairs, through another corridor to the cloister. Once outside, he breathed deeply.
“Nasty bugger.” Jerry considered praying in the church, but he might fall asleep there. He returned to his cell in the novice wing.
Toward noon, he woke to the sound of shouting from the direction of the kitchen. In the hushed context of the abbey, this qualified as an event. Jerry hurried to investigate. Five monks stood around the steam table. Wisps of steam wreathed their reddened faces. Jerry hung back in the doorway to avoid being seen.
“He belongs to all of us, not to you or me,” Father Gilbert said.
“I was his assistant before you came,” said a short, bristly monk with cropped hair and beard.
“I typed his letters and screened his visitors,” said one with glasses and a long, beaky nose.
“I have been his primary caregiver for the past three years,” Father Gilbert said. “That is neither here nor there.”
“Seniority should govern,” said a bald monk with a whiny intonation. “After Daniel, I have been here the longest, so I should take precedence at his funeral.”
“Luke and Matthew came before you,” said the short monk.
“Lay brothers,” said the bald monk. “They can hardly stand up, let alone carry a coffin.”
“Your little protégé could be a pall bearer,” the beaky monk said to Father Gilbert.
“He’s not my protégé any more than Isaac’s.”
“Speaking of which, has Isaac scared him off yet?”
“We don’t need his kind here, anyway,” said the short monk. “La di da, with his fine air and his lovely way with a melody.”
This remark set them all to cackling. Except for Father Isaac, none of the monks could carry a tune, and they mumbled the chants. Jerry flushed in his recess. He had not imagined that his singing would provoke this reaction.
Dom Stephen swept into the kitchen, with Father Isaac on his heels. The laughter ceased. The abbot scanned the group like a hawk about to dive.
“Shame on you! You sound like chickens squabbling.” He raised his right arm and pointed at the beaky monk. “Where are you supposed to be?” He pointed at the short monk. “If your other gifts matched your gift for mockery, you might amount to something.” The abbot turned to Father Gilbert. “From you I expect more. How could you let this rabble get out of hand?”
Jerry sneezed. This brought him to the attention of the company.
“Bless you,” the abbot said. “Our humiliation is complete. We stand exposed for what we are. May God have mercy.” He made the sign of the cross.
“Who is scheduled to serve dinner?” asked Father Isaac.
“I am,” said the beaky monk.
“Then please lay out the dishes and the serving utensils.”
“Meanwhile,” Dom Stephen said, “we will all go wash. Let us reunite shortly in a spirit of brotherhood and harmony.”
“Amen,” murmured several of the monks. They dispersed, and Jerry was left alone. He fished a tattered handkerchief from his jeans and blew his nose.
Two days later, Father Daniel passed away in his sleep. Father Rafael then spread Jerry’s report of the dying man’s last words. The monks regarded Jerry with a mixture of awe and jealousy. The short, bristly monk, Father Kevin, sought him out.
“The abbot told me to apologize. For what I said.”
Except for the grizzled beard, Father Kevin reminded Jerry of one of his students.
“That’s okay. Father Daniel loved you.”
“He did?”
“He said so.” Jerry reached for his shoulder and gave it a pat.
Father Kevin departed as though floating on a cloud. In short order, Fathers Clifford, David and Gilbert each managed to corner Jerry and express regret. To each, Jerry delivered a personal message from Father Daniel. The abbot summoned Jerry to his office. I’ve gone too far, he thought, but Dom Stephen was as curious as the others about the deathbed conversation.
“Did he happen to mention me?”
“Yes, sir. Just before he slipped back into unconsciousness, he said: ‘Stephen is my son.’”
“That’s all?”
“I think he wanted to say more. He looked happy.”
The funeral took place with a homily by Dom Stephen. He praised their departed brother Daniel for setting a good example. There were no living relatives, so it was a private affair, without flowers or weeping but with a certain grandeur. Midday dinner doubled as a reception, with glasses of sherry. Afterward, Father Isaac spoke to Jerry in the library.
“The past few days have been a trial for all of us. Let’s see if we can pick up the pieces. Three weeks remain of your observer stint. Thanksgiving is approaching. We celebrate like all American families, but without the turkey. We serve a tofu version. The first Sunday in Advent follows soon after. As you know, that is the start of the liturgical year. You are welcome to participate. On the other hand, if you want to leave early, the abbot will understand.”
“Does he want me to leave?”
“I’m afraid we have not made a good impression.”
“How many observers do you get here?”
“Very few. Berry has had no novices or professions for many years. There are other abbeys, of course, other religious orders. You might find one with men your age. My job is to help you go where God calls you.”
“Can I talk to you tomorrow?”
“Same time, same place. I’ll be here.”
Most of the leaves had turned and fallen. The rural setting of the abbey, so appealing in September, was growing bleak. Daylight was fading, and the wind blew constantly. Jerry had never minded the cold, but now he felt persecuted. His jeans were baggy and would hardly stay on his hips. He had lost weight. His appetite had fled weeks ago. The abbey food was bland and monotonous. Some of the monks were fat, though.
“We eat better than most people in the world,” Father Isaac said. “The Rule of St. Benedict prescribes a vegetarian diet.” To Jerry, the Rule was arbitrary and inconsistent. The prospect of tofu turkey was disgusting.
Before curfew that night, Jerry packed his bag and cleaned up his cell. What to do with all the books and notes? He lugged the books to the library and dumped them on the trestle table. The notes amounted to little more than doodling. They overflowed the wastebasket.
The mournful tolling of the bell woke him in the middle of the night. Jerry pulled the blanket over his head. He would get up when he was good and ready.