Roland West, Loner

by Theresa Linden

  “You should learn everything you can about him,” she said.

  “I don’t have time. I’m gonna be looking for the key, and calling Dominic, and getting the box, you know, the relic.”

  “I’ll read about him.” Moved by curiosity, Roland took the saint book. No, it was more than curiosity. He felt compelled to discover more about Saint Conrad.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Peter said. “Let’s go get the relic.”

  “Can’t.” Roland stooped for the spiral notebook. “There’s something I need to do.”

  “Like what?” What could be more important?

  Roland shook his head and threw up a no-trespassing sign in his eyes.

  “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll go alone.”

  “How far did you get, interpreting the German notebook?” Caitlyn said.

  Roland tried handing her the spiral notebook. She tried grabbing it. The baby tipped. Roland set the book on the lawn chair under the front window.

  “We don’t need that, right?” Roland looked at Peter. “She can hold onto it.”

  “Yeah, I don’t care. You read about Saint Conrad of Parzham, she can read about the miracles, and I’ll find the key. I hope.” He frowned.

  Chapter 49

  The afternoon sun illuminated the gray stone walls and glittered on the gated windows of the Wests’ house. A warm breeze kicked up and played a soothing lullaby in the canopy of leaves.

  Roland wore his denim jacket tied around his waist and carried the Book of Saints at his side. Rivulets of sweat ran down his hairline and back. His body and eyelids grew heavier with each step. His gaze rested on the teak patio furniture on the porch as he drew near.

  Before resting, he wanted to talk to Jarret. In confession, Father Carston suggested he make an effort at reconciliation. And if it failed, he should still forgive. But it was okay to tell Papa about Jarret’s devious plans and his meanness.

  Roland could honestly say he was glad Peter had convinced him to go to confession. He hadn’t realize how much he needed it. He had emerged from the confessional feeling free of a great weight, knowing he needed to change a few things in his life, and with a new spiritual perspective.

  As he stepped onto the front porch, he breathed deeply. He tore his gaze from the patio chair, his body longing to sink into it, and opened the door. Silence, cool air, and dim light welcomed him home.

  In the foyer, he kicked the shoes off his painfully-hot feet, stripped off his damp socks, and walked barefooted down the hallway. No sound came from upstairs, so he went to the kitchen for a drink of water. With his thirst, he could drink a gallon. He filled a glass to overflowing and brought it to his mouth.

  “You’re home early.”

  He choked on the water and leaned over the sink to cough it back out.

  Papa turned the kitchen light on and went to the refrigerator. “Are you here to stay?”

  Roland coughed but couldn’t get the water to stop stinging. “Yeah.”

  “Good. Did I mention we’re having a family meeting tomorrow night?”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t make plans tomorrow after dinner.” Papa snatched a pop from the refrigerator and cracked it open. “I do expect an explanation from you by then. So if there’s anything you want to discuss, you have today.”

  “Hey, is Jarret home?”

  “Should be.” He strolled from the kitchen but stopped at the doorway. “I think he and Keefe are out riding.”

  Once he left the room, Roland breathed easy and filled the glass again. He’d have time to think over what he wanted to say to Jarret. Carrying the glass and the Book of Saints, he returned to the front porch and slumped into a teak chair.

  “So, Saint Conrad . . .” He cracked open the book. “. . . let’s see who you are.”

  Finding the page Father Carston had shown them, he skimmed the biography. Conrad was the youngest of nine children . . . devoted at an early age to prayer and peacemaking. . . His mother died when he was 14.

  What? Roland read it again. Sorrow tugged at his soul. His gaze drifted from the book and out into the yard, out to the fruit trees ripe with fruit.

  Mama used to gather apples, pears and plums in a big wicker basket, her dark tresses tumbling over her shoulders as she leaned. Roland used to beg to help. She would welcome him in her arms and lift him so he could reach. “You’re getting heavy and so big,” she had said the last time. “Soon you’ll be picking these all by yourself.”

  He was six years old. He never picked fruit again after that, after Mama died.

  Roland sighed, returning his attention to the book. At age thirty-one Conrad realized that God was calling him to a monastic life . . . he renounced his prosperous farm . . . joined the Capuchin Franciscans as a lay brother. . .

  Some of the saint’s own writings were in the book.

  Resolutions of a Novice by Conrad of Parzham:

  I will strive earnestly to form the habit of always placing myself in the presence of God and of often asking myself: Would I do this or that in the presence of God and my guardian angel?

  I will often ask myself when crosses and pain come upon me: Conrad, why are you here?

  I will earnestly strive to preserve brotherly charity.

  I will be careful never to utter a word against charity.

  I will patiently bear with the faults, defects and weaknesses of others, and as far as possible, I will cover them with the mantle of charity.

  Roland flinched. He glanced up from the book, the phrase brotherly charity lingering in his mind. Something stirred deep in his soul. This saint really wanted Roland to know him.

  Straightening in the chair, Roland continued to read, absorbing every detail about Saint Conrad. The words formed pictures in his mind, the saint coming to life.

  After reading the last word, he closed the book.

  A warm breeze blew. Bugs chattered in the distance. His eyelids grew heavy but . . . he needed more.

  Roland jumped up, tossed the book onto the chair, and dashed into the house. His bare feet squeaked on the hardwood floor as he sprinted to Papa’s study. He’d seen a few Bibles and religious books on the shelves. He’d just never felt inspired to read them before. Now they called to him.

  Any chance Papa had a book about St. Conrad?

  Heart pounding and excitement racing through his veins, he dropped on one knee by the bookshelf and read the titles of old books on a lower shelf. Imitation of Christ, Dark Night of the Soul, The Confessions, two volumes of Lives of the Saints, Little Flowers of St. Francis . . .

  He pulled the first volume of Lives of the Saints from the shelf and ran a finger along the worn edges and loose spine. He had meant to study the intricate gold picture on the cover. But his gaze snapped to something odd on the bookshelf.

  A book had gotten pushed back behind the others.

  Roland pulled a few books out of the way and grabbed the one in the back, a thick book with a simple brown cover. His heart skipped a beat. This was the book he wanted, he somehow knew even before he read the title: Stories of Lesser-known Franciscan Saints.

  He returned the other books to the shelf and got to his feet, but he hesitated before cracking the book open. His gut told him the book hadn’t gotten hidden behind the others by accident. Papa had done it on purpose, hiding a painful memory.

  Hands trembling, Roland eased open the hard cover. He sucked in a breath. There in dark cursive letters scrolled across the top was Mama’s name, Mariana West, and a date. The year of Roland’s birth.

  A bookmark peeked from the top of the book. Perhaps, Mama had marked a favorite saint.

  Roland turned to the page and glanced at the story title, “The Humble Porter of Altotting.”

  Feelings of awe overwhelmed him, making his knees wobble. This couldn’t be happening. He staggered to the king’s chair and collapsed in it. His attraction to Peter’s inheritance, now his desire to know Saint Conrad . . .

  Had Mama been praying for him from
Heaven? Guiding him? Had she meant all along for Saint Conrad to enter Roland’s life?

  Roland settled himself in the king’s chair and read.

  The Ave Maria played in Brother Konrad’s mind, a note or two escaping audibly as he hurried down the stairs for the eighth time in the past fifteen minutes. Having grown up on a farm, he was accustomed to physical activity, but with all the running he had done today, he could’ve run a marathon.

  As the new porter of the Capuchin friary at Altotting, he opened and closed the door many times a day. Some people came for blessings or wanting to go to confession, others came for a bowl of soup and bread. Still others came with alms or to request Masses. In each visitor, Brother Konrad saw Jesus, and he rejoiced to serve Him.

  Franz, the little boy who last came to the door, wanted to speak with Father Stephen. Brother Konrad regretted having to tell the child Father was not here.

  As he reached the bottom of the staircase, whispering voices came to his ears.

  “I find it insulting that a Brother just out of the novitiate merits such a responsible post as porter.”

  “He does not even know all of our names.”

  Brother Konrad caught a glimpse of the two whispering Brothers. They appeared as black silhouettes in long robes, standing in the sunny doorway to the courtyard.

  Soft footfalls and the rustle of coarse wool habits sounded behind Brother Konrad as he hurried down the hallway. One of the two Brothers whispered something. “Watch this,” was all that Brother Konrad caught, but then the two overtook him. They were Brother Richard and another Brother whose name did not come to Konrad’s mind.

  “Oh, Brother Konrad,” Brother Richard said, a smirk flickering on his face. “It is time for your break. I shall relieve you.” His expression softened, and he looked quite sincere.

  “Why, thank you, Brother Richard.” He did not like to leave in the middle of serving someone. “I have only to deliver a message, then I shall take my leave for the chapel.”

  They walked with him.

  “The chapel?” the other Brother said.

  “We are aware that you remained in the chapel all night,” Brother Richard said. “And I saw you nod in Mass this morning. You must be tired. Retire to your cell for some rest.”

  Brother Konrad stopped at the door. He was new to the friary. Perhaps the Brothers were unaware . . . “I have no cell.”

  The Brothers exchanged glances, smiles on their faces. The second Brother turned away and snickered.

  Brother Richard rested a hand on Konrad’s shoulder, grinning widely, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Oh, yes. I had forgotten that Father Guardian did not see fit to give you a cell. What was it he said?” He looked to the other Brother who had yet to regain composure. “Ah, yes . . . You are just a charity case for us and therefore not worthy to have a cell.”

  A twinge of grief pierced Konrad’s heart. He glanced at his feet then took a breath. A charity case? Was it true? He had left his beautiful farm, he had left everything to serve God alone.

  “As the good Lord wills,” he said, his heart turning at once to God.

  “Nevertheless,” the second Brother said, still smirking, “there is a bench in the garden that could accommodate you.”

  “Thank you, but I will not need it.” Brother Konrad turned to the door. “I have my prayers to say.” As he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, Brother Richard grabbed his wrist and leaned against the door.

  “How many times have the children come to the door this afternoon?”

  “What? Oh, several times, I suppose.”

  Brother Richard gave a crooked smile. “Are you not aware that the children are teasing you? Testing you? You have other duties to attend. You are wasting precious time.”

  Brother Konrad’s heart sank, but he would not release the doorknob. He delighted to see the children at the door. “I cannot ignore a knock at the door. I am the porter. Every guest at the door is Jesus.” He turned from Brother Richard’s blistering gaze to the thick wooden door. “I will see what Jesus wants of me.”

  The Brothers both laughed.

  “Has it been Jesus at the door for the past half hour? Does it please the Lord for you to play the fool for these children? They only wish to see how long it will take Brother Konrad to lose his patience. Why do you not shout at them, send them away, and be done with it?”

  “The Lord tests us in many ways.” Brother Konrad spoke softly then tugged the door open.

  Brother Richard stepped back, a smug grin stretching across his face as he peered outside.

  The afternoon sun lit up the bushes that lined one side of the walkway. A bird flew overhead. Laughter came from behind the bushes.

  The little boy had gone, as the other boys had done earlier.

  After closing the door, Brother Konrad shuffled down the hall, hands folded, head down, aware of the scrutinizing gaze of the Brothers and of their mocking whispers. “They could tease him all day,” one said.

  His throat tightened, but he tried not to show the sadness in his heart.

  As he passed the stairwell, he glanced at it. He liked to go to the little space under the stairwell where he could see the tabernacle in the church. For now, though, he needed to step out into the friary courtyard. His body ached with weariness, and he longed for rest, but he would not yield to it. He would walk to stay awake. He would walk through the garden under shade trees and pour out his heart to the Lord.

  “Bless these Brothers, my dear Jesus. I am sorry that I irritate them, but I thank you for the many little crosses you send me. You know what is best for me. I am always happy in You. Help me to love as You love. Help me always to forgive.”

  Forty-one years later . . . Brother Konrad had lost much hair but had grown a full white beard. He lay in bed preparing for eternity, a rosary and a crucifix in his hands. The whole community had assembled around him, in holy joy and in sorrow. They knew his time was near.

  Three days ago, he had been attending to his duties as usual when his legs could no longer hold out. He had dragged himself to his Father Guardian and stated, “I can do no more.” Father Guardian told him to retire to a cell.

  Several minutes ago, he had heard the doorbell ring and had tried to answer it. Candle in hand, using all his strength, he groped his way to the door of the cell. Inching the door open, he saw a young friar coming down the hall. The young friar called out, “Brother Konrad!” and ran to him. Brother Konrad collapsed.

  He woke to the voices of children reciting the Rosary outside his window, children he loved, children he had taught to pray the Rosary; to the sound of birds singing in the trees, and to the aroma of spring flowers, holy oil, and burning candles; to find the whole community with him in the little cell. He woke to a deep awareness of God’s presence within him. With joy in his heart and longing for God, he breathed his last.

  The words blurred as the story replayed itself in Roland’s mind. Serving to the end, putting up with the meanness of others, suffering without complaining, always joyful . . . this man possessed heroic virtue. God lived through him.

  A horse neighed, the sound traveling through an open window in Papa’s study.

  Roland jolted from his thoughts. He shouldn’t be in Papa’s study. He shouldn’t be reading this book without permission.

  He slammed the book shut and scurried to the bookshelf. Should he put it where he found it? Yeah, or he’d get caught. He hesitated then stuffed the old brown book behind the others and dashed back outside, to the front porch.

  The twins rode their horses at a slow trot through the front yard, heading for the stable.

  Roland took a deep breath, sucking oxygen into the recesses of his lungs then expelling the bad air. If he was going to make things right with Jarret, he had to do it now. He’d be a fool to put it off. Once the family meeting began, and Jarret started leveling false accusations at him in Papa’s tribunal, Roland might not feel so forgiving.

  He jumped off the porch and jogged throu
gh the grass, around to the side of the house.

  Jarret and Keefe, both dressed in jeans and riding boots, strolled from the stables to the veranda doors, the side entrance of the house.

  When about a stone’s-throw away, Roland shouted, “Hey, Jarret.”

  Jarret and Keefe cocked their faces toward him, but they kept on walking. Jarret said something to Keefe as they climbed the steps.

  Roland jogged, closing the distance between them. “Hey, I want to talk to you.”

  Jarret held the door open and Keefe went in. With one foot inside, he peered down at Roland. “What d’you want?”

  “Uh . . .” The darkness in Jarret’s eyes made Roland’s mind go blank. “I thought we could talk.”

  Jarret made a sideways glance, and his lip curled up. “Talk? You told Papa, didn’t you? That’s what the family meeting’s about, huh?”

  “No,” Roland said, his tone defensive.

  “Well, I’m ready for you.” He shot daggers with his eyes then stepped inside.

  Roland stared in disbelief. Why was Jarret so hard to talk to? How in the world could he make peace with someone who didn’t want it?

  Then it occurred to him. He should pray to Saint Conrad for Jarret. Any way he could get Jarret to touch the relics?

  Chapter 50

  Dressed in camouflage pants and an olive-green jacket, equipped with a backpack of towels and plastic bags, Peter stood concealed by a tall bush at the back corner of the house. He rapped his fingers against the siding, his gaze fixed on Mr. Reinhard.

  Did the man have nothing else to do? All afternoon he had hung around like a sentinel guarding the woods. He and Aunt Lotti ate a late lunch out at the picnic table, him facing the woods, of course. They sat there forever, calling each other Edward and Charlotte and laughing at each other’s jokes.

  Peter could’ve sworn he overheard Mr. Reinhard ask about a fountain pen. He’d probably dropped it snooping around. Could he have found the key?

  And now, Mr. Reinhard posted alone on the back deck, reclining in a patio chair, sipping a tall drink, and gazing across the backyard with a long face. His mood seemed heavier since Aunt Lotti went inside, as if something sad weighed him down.