Читать книгу Everyday Ghosts - James Morrison - Страница 7

They met to discuss what was happening and what they should do about it. Deciding on courses of action was not their strong suit as a group. They talked for months about what two kinds of juice to keep in the pantry and could not come to an agreement. One of them thought orange juice had too much acid and was bad for the stomach. Another pointed out the benefits of cranberry. Most could not be satisfied, and the debate went on until Brother Frederic spoke up. He took it as his job to remind them of where and who they were. “A little luxury is a dangerous thing,” he said. “Poverty is best for the soul.” A hush fell. If Pete had not known better, he might have supposed it was a humble silence, accepting of this scolding. But he did know better, and the next week there were thirteen kinds of juice to choose from.

Pete was only invited to meetings about matters of general interest. He was not allowed to vote. Sometimes he was allowed to speak. They argued about whether he should be allowed to speak this time. Someone suggested they put it to a vote. Someone else said that was beneath them. They voted on whether to vote. It was a tie.

“But he doesn’t know the history,” said Brother Matthew.

“What is the history?” asked Pete.

“Don’t be rude,” said Brother Matthew. He had a permanent squint that gave his expression a mean look, but he didn’t need the look. He was mean enough without it. “You will know what it is right for you to know.”

“I’ve seen it coming for a long time,” said Brother James, the baker, who smelled of yeast and the bourbon he used in his cakes. “I knew it couldn’t last forever. Father Gabriel is backsliding.”

“The question is,” said Brother John, “what do we do now? I’ve been here longer than any of you. You have no idea what it was like in those days.” Brother John’s hands were twisted with arthritis. He waved them in the air as he spoke. “We can’t go back to that. He used to carry a skull around with him everywhere, tucked under his arm. He said it was supposed to remind us we were mortal. If anyone looked at him cross-eyed he’d conk them on the head with it. He made us whip ourselves every night to keep us humble and he checked for the marks every day. If he didn’t find any, he’d take the strap to us himself.”

Brother Walter screamed and hopped on the table and began running in place.

“These last years have been paradise,” Brother John went on. “Such freedom!”

“Because he was drunk all the time,” said Pete. “That’s no solution.”

“Brother Peter, I don’t believe it has been decided whether your voice will be heard,” said Brother Matthew.

“Oh, let him talk,” said Brother Walter, a little out of breath. It had been a brief fit. He climbed off the table and took his seat.

“It was a fine idea while it lasted,” said Brother James with a sigh, “but now he has built up a tolerance. We should be thankful it took this long. The drink doesn’t keep him happy any more, that’s all there is to it. We’ll have to think of something else.”

“A fine idea?” said Pete. “Do you mean to say you gave him the liquor?”

“A little with his coffee at first, perhaps, until the seed was planted. There was twice as much every week as I needed for my cakes. He wasn’t one to turn it down. It was so good for his temper, we let it be known we would look the other way.”

Brother Dominic sat in a corner filing his fingernails. His eyes were as calm and blue as a dove. He did not look at Pete when they were among others. If he had anything to say, he kept it to himself.

It was agreed that this was a more complicated question than that of the juice. It could not be resolved in a single session. As the meeting came to a close, Pete spoke up again. “He needs help,” he said. “Father Gabriel needs help.”

This gave Brother Frederic his chance to chime in. “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” he said.