The Family of Max Desir

by Robert Ferro

  THE IMPRESSION THAT HIS FATHER, in entering the monastery, had found a way to kill himself politely had been confirmed in Max’s mind. Robin agreed but felt it all depended on what happened next—a tubful of spiritual blood in Marie’s name, or a return within a few months, a well-considered leap back over the wall to family and self. She said John had confided to her that it would all depend on whether Marie went with him or not. He felt her presence at the cemetery, in Hillcrest, and during Mass at St Jude’s. If she was with him at the monastery, he would stay; if she wasn’t, he would not stay.

  The week before John was to go upstate, right after the New Year, he called Max and invited him to lunch at a restaurant near the cemetery.

  When they had settled into their chairs John said, Max, I couldn’t go where I’m going without trying to square things between us. We’ve had our differences but I don’t think it’s anything a father and son can’t work out.

  I was expecting you to call, Max said.

  Why was that? John asked.

  Because of what you said to Mom before she died. Because you promised her you would do something about—our differences.

  Yes, I did, he said. But even without that I would still want to straighten this out. I don’t think I could have peace of mind up there with this between us.

  For a moment neither of them said anything.

  How are you making out? his father asked, when it was clear that it fell to him to start the conversation. Robin tells me you’re still working for the caterer, and Nick is about to do a play.

  That’s right, Max said.

  I also hear you have some pretty big outstanding bills.

  I hear the same thing about you, Max said.

  Well, that’s different. That’s business, John said. How much do you owe? he asked.

  I live in a different world, Max said. I owe what I usually owe.

  How much is that? John asked.

  I don’t want you to pay my bills, Dad, and Nick doesn’t want you to either.

  Max, I can’t sit in a monastery knowing my son is starving.

  We’re not starving.

  Struggling then. You can’t pay your bills and if you can there’s nothing left over.

  It was not my intention to punish you by being poor, Max said. It just turned out that way.

  Well I turned out rich so why don’t you let me help you?

  Because I don’t need or want your help. I’d rather do it on my own.

  I helped you before, John said. Why not now?

  Because of everything that’s happened, why else?

  But what really has happened? his father said. I removed the tapestry, for which I apologized, and then I put it back.

  You put it back where no one will see it. It shows how ashamed of us, of me, you are.

  Well Max, here we are, at this one point again. What is it you want me to do exactly?

  He thought about it for a moment. He would have liked to say he didn’t care what his father did, but couldn’t.

  I don’t know, he said. I think I want you to be proud of me.

  But I am.

  I think we’d better talk about something else.

  John said, I respect you for what you’re doing. It’s not your fault for being what you are.

  How is it that you think you can get away with saying that to me? Max said quietly but bitterly.

  I didn’t mean it that way. I meant what has happened and the way it happened is not your fault.

  You said, It’s not my fault. Whose fault is it, yours?

  Please Max, give it a chance. I’m trying to see it your way. I really am.

  You can see it any cockeyed way you want.

  Now that’s wrong, John said like a referee. It’s wrong to shut me out.

  I’m not shutting you out. But I won’t be a hypocrite Just to make it easier for you. Besides, you’re the one who’s joining a monastery, not me. I’m not shutting you out. You’re shutting everyone out.

  John shook his head and looked down at his empty plate. Is that what you think? he asked.

  Well what the hell else is it? Suddenly you want to be a monk? When I think of all the speeches you delivered about doing something practical with my life, and here you want to ditch everyone and everything. What is it but shutting everyone out? Do you think if you had died instead of Mom that she would become a nun and never see her family again?

  His father looked at him as if he had been struck, which in a way apparently he had. The answer to the question, however, seemed obvious and hung in the air between them.

  Another silence. Perhaps I’d better leave, Max said. This is not getting us anywhere. He saw his father had begun to cry.

  Dad, I’m sorry, he said, and the two of them sat quietly for several minutes, until John collected himself.

  Look, Max, he said finally, just let me pay your debts, so you can relax and I can relax and have some peace of mind up there. No salary or allowance or anything like that. Just the bills.

  Even if I wanted to let you, I would have to ask Nick.

  What’s Nick got to do with it?

  They’re his debts too, Dad.

  Well, ask him. But please, Max. You’re letting your heart tell you what to do instead of your head. You shouldn’t do that. I’m on your side. I don’t want to get in your way. I want to help. You have to believe that. What’s past is past.

  NICK REFUSED OUTRIGHT, AS MAX KNEW HE WOULD, but something had changed in Max. The edge of his attitude toward John had been dulled, and he found this difficult to reconcile with Nick’s continued, ever justified, dislike. For the annihilated, nothing altered annihilation.

  But Max who had felt the same, now felt differently. He saw his father as struggling to hold up against something more than symbolic removal. The center of his life was gone. Marie was dead, buried, eulogized, memorial-ized-in-stone, prayed for, revered. Everything to be done had been done. John’s devotions took the form of policing the condition of the plot, with gardeners and masons, of changing the flowers in the urn each week, of going to Mass in her name each day. Little else to do. These moments in church were the only ones he could bear. They were tolerable. He wept freely, apparently in the acceptance by God of whatever remained of himself after Marie. He feared death, which was a thief. To pinpoint the idea in some physical manifestation, it began with the urn, which because of the weekly flowers became a symbol of continuation, of life. He saw it as a point of life within the stone. It was this point he pursued in prayer.

  In a letter he sent to all of them he wrote:

  I MUST ADMIT THAT THIS IS GOING to be on a trial basis for a period of a few months or so to determine whether I am suited for this way of life. Life without Mom is empty, meaningless and uninteresting. I know that I still have my children and grandchildren who I am sure love me as I love them and it would be gratifying to devote the rest of my life to them. But I have come to feel that by serving God I will be nearer to Mom. Since I miss her so much and can’t stand to be without her, the thought of this nearness soothes me and gives me peace. In addition, the thought of serving my church and my God gives me a new meaning and a challenge in the waning years of my life.

  Would Mom want me to do this? I think yes, she would approve. In my eyes Mom is a saint and she is doing what she can for all of us in heaven. And while I am here on earth, I will do what I can with my prayers.

  I have spent my whole life storing up treasures and making myself rich. And I realize now that I have completely neglected to prepare myself spiritually for Death. I am accepting the invitation of Christ to walk faithfully in His footsteps to store up treasures in heaven which cannot be destroyed or stolen.

  Christ said, Whoever lives and believes in Me will never die. The fear of death no longer prevails because the partaking of Christ’s glorious resurrection supersedes. Jesus seems to have entered my life and has invited me to respond. I beg you, my children, to wish me well and give me your blessings, as I pray God bless you.


  JOHN WENT ALONE IN HIS CADILLAC to the monastery. The abbot had given him special dispensation to keep the car. The abbot, who kept bees, was also pleased to allow John time off each Sunday after Compline, to visit the cemetery—an hour’s drive each way—and to return in time for Vespers. For the rest John lived precisely like the seventeen monks in residence, in a room like theirs, down a long stone corridor.

  From the first he felt himself to be at a tremendous disadvantage. His problem, more than the mandatory spartan habits and hours, was what to do with his free time. The others had projects, scholarly and physical, like the abbot’s bees. They all read and prayed when they were not sleeping or working. Even when they dined, one of the brothers read aloud from the Bible or Thomas Aquinas. Only breakfast was more or less normal, if taciturn. The abbot immediately put him in charge of the financial end of things. In a letter to Max he wrote:

  The Abbot wants me to make a study of all business transacted, and handle all monies received, etc. I feel flattered and glad to have the opportunity to do my thing. He won’t be sorry. I’ll make this monastery the richest in the country.

  If you could meet me on Sunday, Jan. 18th, I will be at the cemetery between 1:30 and 1:45 p.m. and as far as I know we will be alone. I hope you can make it. Max, I am very happy we got together recently and bridged the gap between us. I wish for our relationship to be even better than it was a few years ago. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you for about an hour or so. Give my best to Nick.

  Very much love,

  Dad

  HE FOUND HIS FATHER STANDING AT THE GRAVE; after an inventory of the shrubs they returned to the same restaurant nearby. As they sat down John put a number of lists on the table, and Max saw his own name at the top of one of them. He knew his father would have liked to put a checkmark next to it and was restraining himself. They talked about the monastery.

  It was very cold, the food was dull and starchy but plentiful. With donations, the sale of honey from the abbot’s hives and Christmas trees, plus the revenues from retreats, the monastery did about a half million a year, John said. This did not require more than an hour or so of his time each day. He had nothing really to do with himself, and was not sustained, as the others were, by the endless reading and meditation. The lists were for Jack, who would be meeting him after Max to discuss the situation at the plant.

  Are you enjoying it? Max asked.

  Yes, very much. My health is good. We pray a great deal. If you don’t like to think and read and have something to do …

  Why don’t you start a project? Max suggested.

  Well, I’ve been thinking I should write a book. I should organize my thoughts and write about my experiences.

  What’s stopping you?

  Where do you begin? his father said.

  WHEN JOHN HAD BEEN IN FOR SIX WEEKS Jack did something about it. It had become obvious from their Sunday business talks that John was not happy, or did not feel he fit in; was in any case probably not going to stay beyond the trial period. A visiting retreat master from St Louis advised him to be patient and to give himself the full six months, but Jack could see that beyond a certain point this would be a waste of time. John was happy but not that happy. His lists were longer, the product of long hours of sitting in his cell imagining the outside world ever more avidly. For his birthday, which fell on the last Sunday in February, Jack arrived with the entire family, with gifts, cards, flowers, a cake and candles. They sat in the restaurant around a huge circular table by the window. Penny announced she was going to have another baby. The following week John came out of the monastery and returned to Hillcrest to live.

  The baby, if it was a girl, would of course be called Marie, after her grandmother.

  IT BEGINS WITH THE SIGNATURE for my name, such as it is known locally, a repeated cartouche for drum, followed by an invitation to attend. Whichever god is invoked comes through me. Depending on the moon, I am the flood, the harvest, the hunter’s god—whichever is white in their imaginations. I play them all, like a visiting actor in the provinces, having only to go where I am called, presenting the grave attitude expected of me. I find food in my path at intervals and whenever I awake. I find costumes and fetishes. Even between distant settlements my position is known. I am tracked from one territory to another. If I keep to myself for weeks, it is known. I don’t understand all of what they think me to be, or wish me to do for them. I make every effort to bless them and to show no fear. I trust their drugs; but no tribe would survive the killing of a god. I am punctual, or as punctual as possible at great distances by water or on foot. The natives are pleased to have this specific and immediate way of propitiation. All that cannot be explained makes me holy—my arrival, my nature, my skin, my gold hair, my eyes, my placid acceptance of all attentions and offerings.