Brownstone

by Dean Kutzler

  “Right, I get it.” Not trying to hide his impatience he said, “George Washington was known to be a truthful man, but can we get on with how you and Father Angeli were led to the key in my family’s vault?” Father Alazar seemed to be stalling, seemed unsure as if he was working out facts in his head as he was revealing the story.

  “I am, please stay with me Jack. There is a lot of ground to cover, it is a very involved story and it will become clear by the time we are finished.” He gave him a reassuring smile, understanding Jack’s impatience. He waited until Jack nodded for him to continue. “Throughout history, the book had been nothing but mere rumor. Nothing tangible had ever been found to point to its existence or validity to gain any real attention by the church. It was just rumors among dusty old clergymen. Until now.” The man’s face sparked with fascination like an archaeologist discovering a new tomb. “St. Paul’s Chapel is the oldest public building still operating today in Manhattan and George Washington had been a parishioner. During his inauguration day, George Washington and some members of the United States of Congress worshipped at St. Paul’s Chapel. I don’t know if you’ve ever visited, but his pew is cordoned off as a monument in his honor.” His lips broadened into a big grin, his left eyebrow arched. “But despite his worship, there is much controversy, even to this day as to the religious beliefs of our first president. It is clear that he was a believer, but the general consensus was that he was a deist.” He looked down at what was left of the messy club sandwich in disgust and pushed it aside.

  “A deist?” Jack’s brow rose in question. “Forgive my lack of religious knowledge, but I don’t know what that is.” His interest began to pique again.

  “That is understandable. This term had more relevance in Washington’s period of time than it does in today’s chaotic world of beliefs. A deist is one who believes in a creator, but not in the supernatural intervening kind.”

  “Okay, so in other words he believed that God created everything but didn’t do all those strange things in the Bible like Noah and the great flood, the plagues in Egypt, multiplying loaves of bread.” He fluffed the stacks of bread remaining on Father Alazar’s plate. “Stuff like that?”

  He smiled at his candid disbelief. “Strange things? Yes, something like that. So now you can begin to understand how views on his religious beliefs have been very controversial. All this is towards a purpose Jack, I promise.”

  “I’m with you Father, honest. I’m just making a little light of the situation. Please go on.” He offered him a sincere smile and fluffed the bread once more for effect.

  “The point I am making is that George Washington’s religious beliefs were somewhat of a mystery. It is even recorded that he publicly stated that he supported a government of ‘religious freedom…’ and he said ‘May the children of the stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the goodwill of the other inhabitants. Father Angeli and I believed this bold statement, for in the time it was made, was made known on purpose, working like an artist to paint a picture for history.” His hand motioned strokes of a brush.

  “Why would George Washington want to go down in history for being an ambiguous religious believer? As the president, that doesn’t sound like a good light to portray oneself in as the country’s leader. Like he couldn’t make up his mind?”

  “Exactly!” Father Alazar slammed his hand down on the table and a piece of stacked bread hopped onto the table. “This is what drew our attention to him, made us investigate into him further and eventually what led us to a factual discovery!”

  Jack started to see a light at the end of this tunnel. He didn’t prod the man any further, yet chose to let him play out the timetable in his own fashion, convinced he was stalling or at least being careful in what he chose to tell.

  “As I said earlier, the bishop made it a point to warn me of the dangerous organization, but the magnitude of his warning could not have been more realized. Because it is believed that this organization was formed since the great flood.”

  “So they’ve been around as long as Noah and the Ark?”

  “Yes, or shortly thereafter. So I only guess at what they have become today after all this time, with history as their stockade.”

  “Who are they?” He asked, hoping he wouldn’t say the Knights Templar.

  “A name for this organization has conveniently eluded the rumor. I fear a byproduct and extent of their power. Only their existence is mentioned in rumor and their quest for the book. Nothing else has been learned to my knowledge.”

  “How can there be nothing? You must know who they are if they’ve been around that long. A name, title? Something?” Jack shook his head in disbelief. Nip nip. “How do you know of them at all then?”

  “This was the knowledge that I was given, Jack, and it was passed down through rumors.” He said feigning frustration, grabbing again at the hidden symbol. “I did not question him. He is the bishop. I feel he may have believed that there is—“, his fingers searched about his arm, stopping on a small dark beauty mark. “How do you say this word?”

  “Mole?” Jack offered.

  “Yes.” Father Alazar’s voice quickened. “I feel the bishop may believe that there is a mole amongst the church. That is the only reason I can see for such secrecy. I, too, wondered how an organization, even one this powerful as is imagined, could keep its name from history. But one thing is certain, there is no telling what may happen if this organization learns of our knowledge, my quest, so I can understand the bishop’s decision.”

  His face softened as he said, “Surely you can see this from the fate of your family, Jack. I have to trust that the bishop is doing the right thing. I do not know if he educated Father Angeli any more than myself. It is unclear. If he did, he took it with him to the—“ His voice trailed off at the thought of Father Angeli’s demise.

  “Getting back to Washington,” he said, pushing through his sorrow. “Encompassing the time frame, the organization would have been in existence and all the more dangerous considering the era back then as opposed to the developed nation of today, Jack.”

  “But how does all of this relate to George Washington? How is he involved? I can’t see how this is leading to my family’s vault.” The nagging nip was beginning to hurt, so he pushed him along just a tad.

  “It isn’t…yet.” He said feeling for his cross, getting lost in his emotions.

  “Father, if we’re going to work together, you need to trust me.” His journalistic instincts were tingling like an insatiable itch in the middle of his back. No matter how far one stretched, it just couldn’t be reached. Something was missing. Was Father Alazar hiding something? Was Jack missing a connection? The whole ordeal had him off guard. This wasn’t just another routine interrogation for one of his articles. This was his family, his life, which made it more difficult to emotionally detach from the situation. It’s within that detachment that a journalist could see all the facts with unbiased clarity.

  “I do trust you, or I would not have told you as much so far. I have broken my vow of silence to the bishop and poor Father Angeli, just meeting here and discussing any of this with you today. We in the church do not take that lightly.” He desperately fingered his hidden cross, avoiding Jack’s eyes.

  The surface of his resolve on Jack’s involvement was beginning to crack, like opaque lines feathered on old bone china. So much had been lost and yet so much more was at stake. His guilt weighed heavy on his chest. He was only a seminarian, not yet ordained to priesthood, leading an innocent man into a religious whirlwind of danger he was not prepared for in the least.

  How could he protect this innocent pawn from his fate?

  He had to keep his faith. It was all he had left. Now more than ever, he sought guidance.

  Taking a deep breath, he mustered up the strength from his faith and its symbols and let go of the shape beneath his shirt, determined once again that his path had been set by God. His choices were merely God’s hand steering him in
the righteous path of His direction. Just like the path of Abraham, when God instructed him to kill his son, Isaac; Abraham was being tested on God’s faith, as Father Alazar felt he was now. He must be.

  “As I was saying, the ambiguity of Washington’s faith drew our attention to him. It was too emphatically stressed throughout every piece of doctrine we found once we started searching. And not just documents relating to the history of his faith,” he wiggled his fingers like a fairy spreading dust, “but sprinkled in all matters of subjects in documents generated during his presidency. Everywhere we looked, there seemed to be a hint at the ambiguity, just a line here or there. Again, as if it was on purpose.

  “He was even noted on many occasions for leaving the church right before it was his turn to take communion. Questions were raised by many about this bold act, drawing excessive attention, and not just from the church. Even the assistant rector of Christ Church in Philadelphia is on record for scolding Washington for this act. Through a little more digging we saw that no other president that followed him was fashioned in such a strange light. So, as you said, why go through all the trouble to depict Washington as an ambiguous believer? It was this very same vein of questions that led us to believe his family may have been one of the families that hid the book and passed it down through the generations.”

  “To what purpose? Help me understand,” Jack said scratching at his head, wondering if he missed something. “How does this odd fact bring you to that conclusion?”

  “You must remember the era in which George Washington lived, Jack. The nation was but in its infancy. At the time, its leaders were the only true ones to be trusted. A man of his status would have been the natural choice to hold such an important artifact that was not only hidden from the nation, but even hidden from the eyes of the church. The ambiguity in his faith was to mislead everyone, especially the dangerous organization. This odd fact alone, as you put it, did not determine our conclusion. It merely hinted for us to investigate further into Washington. And we had to look but no further than in our—how do Americans say?—your own back yard. It was no coincidence, that out of all the churches Washington attended, a monument was erected from his pew in our very own St. Paul’s.”

  “His pew was the clue?” Jack was growing more impatient.

  “No, not the pew, but what was hidden in it.” Smiling and shaking his head, Father Alazar said, “You would think that after all these years it would have been found sooner, if not by mistake through janitorial duties. But his pew is considered a national monument, protected by the Antiquities Act of 1906, so no one dared to mess around with it, just careful dusting. So with the help of Father Angeli, I searched underneath the pew and found a hidden compartment that was so elaborately designed into the wood grain, you would miss it if you weren’t specifically looking for something hidden. In religion, it is what’s called a reliquary, a place to hide or store relics for safe keeping. With respect to the pew’s monument status, I carefully pried it open and found a letter hidden inside.”

  “A handwritten letter by George Washington?” He sat up and leaned forward in the booth.

  “Yes. You can imagine our excitement. A letter written by George Washington himself, the first president of the United States, addressed to James Monroe.” His face beamed from the magnitude of their findings as he told the story. “In the letter, he tells Monroe that he is afraid ‘they discovered his family and have found out the location of the key’, and asks him to take it into his possession, hide it and keep it safe. Father Angeli and I believed that from this statement, Washington’s family at one time had been the holder of the key. I think both the key in your possession and the book it opens have been passed down through separate families to make sure in the event one is found they would not have the other, acting as a double safeguard. Our best guess was that each family, for safety purposes, was unknown to each other.”

  “It doesn’t add up. If they were trying to hide the fact that Washington gave the key to Monroe, why hide it in the pew? Why not just destroy the letter?”

  “We think that whoever hid the letter, possibly Monroe’s descendants, didn’t want to destroy the only piece of evidence existing for the book and felt it was safe through the Antiquities Act. The President of the United States is the only person allowed any discretion for the antiquities under the Act. We thought maybe their intentions were to inform the current president at some future time.”

  Jack’s face twisted with confusion. “So you think that Washington spread all that ambiguity around to confuse whoever was looking for the book and the key to throw them off his trail? And when that didn’t work, he gave it to Monroe?”

  “No. On the contrary. He was trying to get their attention on purpose. He spread the ambiguity so they would pay closer attention to him. It was like waving a religious flag around, saying ‘I stand for all religion, not just one true faith’. Such a bold act during that era, followed by the cusp of such great religious disputes, could only have been done for attention. Through this action, the organization would chase the wrong man for years. This letter was written during his first term of presidency, so it was at least twenty-four years before Monroe became president. Washington, as the president, being the most important man in the nation at the time, would have been much safer in terms of protection than a civilian, like Monroe was before his term. This way by the time they got to Washington, if they ever had, the trail for the key would have gone cold.” He sat back in the booth with a look of satisfaction beaming from his face at the tale of his discovery.

  “But that doesn’t explain the story about the cherry tree?” Jack challenged.

  “No.” Shaking his head in real agreement. “No, it doesn’t exactly and I argued this fact. But Father Angeli and I came to the conclusion that it was done to strengthen his character with truth, to make them believe that he really had the key and if caught, his word would be the truth as to its whereabouts. I know it does not exactly fit. But, Father Angeli held more pretension in this truth than me. It was either that or just a mere unrelated tale. But, through those facts we found the first tangible piece of evidence, strengthening the existence of the book.”

  “Okay Father, but it still doesn’t add up. You found the letter to support the existence of the book’s key, but that doesn’t tell me how it led Father Angeli to my family’s vault.”

  Or maybe you’re hiding that truth.

  Realizing the gap in the story, Father Alazar said, “Forgive me for getting caught up in the story. I told you it was an involved story and until now I have not been able to share this exciting finding with anyone. We discovered a national treasure, but as a seminarian I should know better than to let pride, one of the seven deadly sins, get in the way of what should have been a simple story.

  “After we found Washington’s letter and discovered that James Monroe had taken possession of the key, we then focused our investigation in his direction. Since Washington feared the organization was on his trail and that the safety of his family was in jeopardy, we would have to assume that Monroe and his family would have assessed the same situation. Especially since the only male descendant in his family died in infancy, leaving only the two girls. Then we found a strange fact that stood out, and that fact is what brought Father Angeli’s deceit to your uncle’s burial in search of the key. For when James Monroe died, his body spent over fifty years in the other Marble Cemetery around the block from your family’s cemetery.”

  “The other Marble Cemetery? Oh, that’s right. There are two Marble Cemeteries. I forgot that. So if he was buried there, how did it end up in my family’s cemetery?”

  “James Monroe’s son-in-law, Samuel Gouverneur, had purchased the very first vault in that other cemetery but the builders needed one more day to complete it when Monroe had died. So for lack of a better place, his body spent only one night, back in 1831, in the Marble Cemetery where your family’s vault is located. Just a one night stay-over. We knew it was a long shot, but we had fa
ith on our side. We had to search it out, had to be sure. We were guessing Monroe’s daughter took advantage of that one opportunity, glad to be rid of such a dangerous item, and went to pay her final respects to her father in the Marble Cemetery where your family’s vault is located. During that opportunity, she must have slipped the key, in passing, into your family’s vault. This way her family would be safe and so would the key. This one night stay was not public knowledge at the time and if the organization or anyone suspected Monroe’s family, they would only search the other Marble Cemetery, where he was laid to rest for over fifty years before being moved to Virginia.”

  Jack had to admit it was a long shot, but had turned out to be a correct venture. He’s not sure he would have drawn the same conclusion, but going on what they’d had, searching the vault was the only avenue to take. “But the key could have been lost forever.”

  “Our only guess was that his daughter must have felt that something that dangerous in magnitude was best buried and forgotten. After all, she was only his daughter, not the President. She probably didn’t hold the same high regard that her father as President would have had for such a situation. She didn’t see the logic in passing it down to another generation and endangering her future family. As much as we all would like to think that men and women are the same, they are not. A woman’s maternal instincts to protect her family can be much stronger than any national duty. But at some point, whoever hid the letter felt the need for the future to know. For all we know, they informed the President of its location. Father Angeli and I were doing the best we could with what little we had. But this is how we were led to your family’s vault.”

  Now that Jack finally had the answer, he wasn’t too sure in Father Alazar’s delivery of the story. It seemed that he was picking and choosing, carefully calculating what he wanted Jack to know. Something still felt like it was missing. That nagging nip would just not go away. There was more to the story than seminarian Stephen Alazar was alluding to. Jack just couldn’t be sure, but his journalist instinct was telling him that he was missing something—something important. He decided for now, with no other choice, really, that he would work together with him and see where it led. It was his best shot at finding out who had murdered his father and uncle. There was just one thing left.