“That’s not what she’s saying. She’s saying you tried for a home run, she called foul ball and game over, and then you dumped her.”
Jarret pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it. Why would she lie? Why would she want people to think something like that had happened?
His phone buzzed, receiving another text. Jarret ended his phone call without saying goodbye and checked the message.
Another one of his friends. Man, you are low. Can’t believe you did that.
He messaged back, It’s a lie. I didn’t do anything. As soon as he hit send, he wished he hadn’t. The message made him sound pathetic.
Wow, talk about ruining his image in one day. Why was she lying?
Wishing the day back to normal, Jarret wrapped his second sandwich in a paper towel and put it in the refrigerator. Then he stomped up to his bedroom. He sat down to check his emails and found three about her lie.
Frustrated, he shut off the laptop and paced around his bedroom. He walked into the bright beams of warm sunlight that streamed through the windows, and he felt a whisper in his soul.
“Why are You letting this happen to me?” he said aloud. “I’m trying. You know I’m trying.”
Still in the light from the window, he dropped to his knees and squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memory of the canyon to return to him. The dark night. The gentle breeze. The fire he’d made for Roland. No, that came after. He’d seen the Lord first.
“Jesus, where are You?” Anguish overwhelmed his soul. “Why can’t I remember anymore? Did I imagine the whole thing?”
Heart aching with the pain of abandonment, he shoved his fingers into his hair and doubled over. The faintest impression lingered, a figure drawing near, then gone. The terrible things he’d said, the repentance, waking face down on the canyon floor. It all seemed like a dream that he’d lose in a few hours. No vivid impressions remained. Nothing. Had it all been a figment of his distraught mind? Had it never really happened at all?
“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, drained of all strength. How could he do this on his own? He couldn’t.
Wanting to write down a prayer, needing to keep something of the memory, Jarret crawled to his bed and shoved his hand between the cool mattresses. He moved his hand left and right, finding nothing. Then he reached farther to each side. Nothing.
Jarret froze, suspicion dawning on him.
His journal was gone and only one person would’ve taken it. Not Roland. Never Keefe. Nanny and Papa rarely set foot in his room.
Peter’s pink face, tousled hair, and cocky grin appeared in Jarret’s mind. Peter Brandt. They’d nearly ran into each other as Peter had tried leaving his room. He must’ve taken it this morning before heading out. Did Peter have his journal with him at the campground?
Dread drained the blood from his face. Dragging his hand back out from the mattresses, Jarret rose to his feet. Peter had known about it because he’d seen him hide it last night.
Something harder and colder than anger swelled inside Jarret.
As he turned to his closet to get his boots, his phone buzzed. Mindlessly, he slid the phone out and checked the message.
I warned you. Now I’m coming for you. ~Tyrone
This came from the same number as all the anonymous messages. Had it been Tyrone all along?
Undaunted, Jarret grabbed his boots from the closet. He was going to the campground.
JARRET’S JOURNAL
Now I can barely remember the words,
Your words, my words.
You said something about my misery attracting your mercy.
But I don’t remember for sure.
And I don’t remember the sound of your voice
or how it struck me.
It seems like an old memory that I’ll lose in a few hours.
No vivid impression remains.
Had it really happened at all?
Or had it only been a dream?
CHAPTER 35
Keefe stood next to Brother Leopold, the one brother he felt least comfortable around—as if he needed another sign that he wasn’t called to this life—while Kieran and Alex merged into the group of friars going to visit a nursing home. Wolfgang and Phil had left immediately after lunch, with another group of friars for street evangelization. After pouring his heart out to Brother Giles, Keefe decided to stay for the rest of the retreat, and he was looking forward to participating in the work of the Apostolate. He’d had to hear his assignment twice before he believed it. Housekeeping.
The front door clicked shut and the muffled voices of Kieran, Alex, and the friars faded.
Brother Leopold pushed off the wall in the hallway. “So...”
“So?” Keefe took a breath, ready to throw himself into the job. He could learn the value of hard and boring work today. Maybe tomorrow he’d get to do something interesting.
“So you get to explore the friary,” Brother Leopold said, “with a broom and dust rag.”
Struggling to keep disappointment from showing, Keefe forced a smile. “Yeah. It’s gotta be done, right?”
“And we’ll keep an ear out for the doorbell, be Christ to any surprise visitors we should happen to get, like those saintly porters of the Franciscan order.” He motioned for Keefe to follow and turned down the hall. “Friday is a big cleaning day around here. I like to start with the laundry. Having to check it every half hour keeps me from daydreaming.”
“Oh.” Keefe blinked, wondering if Brother Leopold had a problem with concentration.
Brother Leopold led Keefe into a little sunlit room with a white washer and dryer, a deep sink, and an old wooden table. He lifted a basket of brown robes to the table and grabbed one of them. “Always check pockets. Wouldn’t want to wash anyone’s pack of cigarettes or lottery tickets.”
“Cigarettes? Lottery tickets?” Keefe hesitated and then reached into the basket.
“And you really have to balance the washer or you might as well put on some music.”
“Huh?” Keefe pulled a scrap of paper from a robe, set it on the table, and glanced around for the radio.
“That old thing can dance clear across the floor.”
Not understanding in the least, Keefe studied the washing machine. What did he mean by “dance”?
Brother Leopold caught him staring at it. “Let me guess, you’ve never done a load of laundry in your life.”
“Uh...” Keefe swallowed his Adam’s apple. “We have a live-in maid.”
Seconds ticked by as Brother Leopold stared at Keefe. Then his mouth curled up on one side. “Nice. Well, you’re gonna learn today.”
Once they got the washing machine chugging, Brother Leopold shoved a broom into Keefe’s hands. “You can take the living room, dining room, hallways, and kitchen. I’ll take... a break.”
“Huh?” Keefe tried to understand the fairness. Maybe he’d get a break after the sweeping, while Brother Leopold worked.
“It’s a joke.” Brother Leopold quirked a grin, the rest of his expression remaining serious.
“Oh.” Keefe exhaled.
“But you still have to sweep those rooms. I’ll take the upstairs and we’ll meet in the chapel.” He turned halfway around and glanced back. “When you return the broom to the closet, make sure it’s secure against the wall.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Brother Leopold turned to go. “Nothing worse than stumbling on a broom handle when you’re trying to hide.”
Keefe stared in disbelief. What did he mean by that? Did he think Keefe would try to get out of work? Or was he saying that he hides in the broom closet? Or...
Strolling down the hall, into and out of patches of sunlight that snuck in here and there, Brother Leopold lifted a hand in the air and waved.
Keefe continued to stare until the brother turned a corner. He was kidding, right?
AFTER SWEEPING THE floors, taking care of more laundry, scrubbing the kitchen, and dusting and rearranging furniture, Brother Leopold and Keefe squatted b
y a pew in the chapel. Brother Leopold stroked his long wiry beard. “When you clean, you need to focus on cracks and corners. I noticed dirt in some of the corners of the rooms you swept.”
“Oh. I thought I...” Overwhelmed and worried that he wouldn’t get done in time, Keefe had swept quickly, but he thought he’d swept well. “I’ll go back and fix that. The corners of every room?”
Brother Leopold’s gray eyes flickered. Then he smiled. “Just focus on this job. I’ll dust the statues and icons. And you can wipe down the pews with the wood cleaner and sweep under them, especially by the feet of the pews.” He pointed to dirt that gathered in the crack between the pew and the floor. “You can use the dustpan and brush for that.”
Keefe nodded and grabbed the dustpan and brush from a bucket of cleaning supplies.
Brother Leopold straightened and shuffled back a few steps, his gaze bouncing from Keefe to the floor and back to Keefe again. Whatever he had on his mind, he didn’t share it. He turned and grabbed a long-handled duster.
Determined to get it right, Keefe got on all fours and shoved the brush into the crack. After sweeping under the pew thoroughly, he grabbed the bottle of homemade furniture polish and poured the lemony-scented oil onto his cleaning rag. Pew by pew, he worked, wiping and wiping—careful to get the corners—and sweeping underneath, careful to get around the feet. The monotony of the chore sent his mind wandering. He recited a few prayers that he’d memorized without trying, St. Francis’ Peace Prayer and the Act of Contrition. Then his thoughts turned to a story he’d read from the Little Flowers of St. Francis, only his mind gave it a twist, throwing him into the story. Keefe smiled as his imagination took over...
KEEFE’S LEGS AND FEET ached. Nearing the end of the three-and-a-half-hour walk from Perugia to St. Mary of the Angels, otherwise known as the Portiuncula, he slowed to a zombie’s pace. He fixed his weary eyes on the rolling hills on the horizon as he trudged down a muddy road between a dormant vineyard and a field. A few snowflakes spiraled down from an icy gray sky, one landing directly on his nose. The cold burned for an instant. Keefe considered sliding a numb hand from his sleeve to brush his nose, debating whether or not the action would actually lessen his discomfort.
“Ah, it is good to be so close to home.” Brother Francis, who had been walking behind a few yards, traipsed up alongside him. He too walked with his hands stuffed up his sleeves. Despite the bitter cold, his face held a serene look of joy.
“Yeah, that’s good.” Keefe couldn’t wait to finally get there, to step inside to the warmth of the brothers’ little place and to take a bite of whatever meal they set before him. His stomach had long since stopped growling and had started eating itself. “Hey, did you hear? One of the friars, a Friar Minor, healed a blind man. He prayed over him and suddenly the man could see.”
“Is that so, Brother Keefe?” Brother Francis smiled at him with a childlike look, despite a week of stubble on his jaw and too many sleepless nights. “Would it make you happy to be able to heal the sick?”
“Sure. That’d be awesome.” Keefe matched Brother Francis’ pace, happy for the conversation. He almost didn’t care that a cold breeze had blown the cowl off his head. “Or even if I knew the Scriptures better. Then I could have the right verse at the right time and preach with power.”
“Or with the voice of an angel,” Brother Francis added.
Keefe smiled, encouraged, and continued to elaborate. “Right, and then I could touch hearts the way some of the other brothers do, the way you do.”
“Oh, yes. And it would be wonderful to speak many languages,” Brother Francis added. “Or to prophesy or have great knowledge of stars and herbs...” He leaped forward and flung his arms into the air, his voice rising. “...and to know all about the treasures in the earth.”
“Huh?” Keefe smiled, amused by Francis’ sudden jovial spirit. “What treasures?”
Brother Francis turned in a circle as he spoke, still moving forward down the muddy road. “And the qualities of birds and fishes, animals and humans, roots and trees and rocks and water!”
“Or better yet...” Happy thoughts renewing his strength and even taking the edge off the cold, Keefe jogged a few steps to keep up.
“Better yet?” Brother Francis faced him, walking backwards, his brown eyes beaming with joy. “What do you think is better than all that?”
“Well, what if we could preach so that everyone in the world converted to the faith of Christ? Don’t you agree? That would totally rock!”
“It certainly would!”
Another snowflake landed on Keefe’s face, melting instantly. A drop of freezing rain followed.
“Oh.” Brother Francis held up a palm and peered upward. “Maybe we should run.” He pulled his cowl over his head.
“Yeah, run!” Keefe took off, stomping down the muddy path with frozen feet, the straps of his sandals cutting him.
Brother Francis sprinted too, laughing and panting, his sandals slapping the ground even louder than Keefe’s.
The cross and steeple atop the Portiuncula soon came into view. The freezing rain fell harder, soaking through their rough tunics. A few more yards and they would reach the gate of the stone fence that surrounded the Portiuncula.
Sucking in ice cold breaths and making little clouds on every exhale, Keefe pushed himself the last few yards. But then his sandal bumped a rock, and he sailed to the ground.
Riddled with pain and frustration, he moaned.
Then Brother Francis’ smiling face appeared over him. “You’ve gotten yourself all muddy, dear Brother.” He wrapped icy fingers around Keefe’s arm and yanked him up.
As Keefe climbed to his feet, he glimpsed mud on Brother Francis’ tunic and realized he’d dropped onto his knees in the mud to help Keefe. A lump formed in his throat as he contemplated that act of kindness.
Lifting his cowl over his head, Brother Francis pulled the cord that hung before the gate. A loud bell clanged, reminding Keefe of a cow bell.
Keefe and Brother Francis huddled together, waiting.
A long moment later, the arched door of the Portiuncula opened and warm yellow light spilled out into the dreary evening. The brother who greets guest, the Brother Porter, stomped to the gate. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Who is it?”
Keefe shrunk back, startled at the gruffness of his voice.
“We are two of your brothers,” Brother Francis answered, cheerful as ever.
“You lie. I know who you are. You’re thieves who go around deceiving people and stealing what they give to the poor. Get out of here!” And he stomped back to the Portiuncula and closed the arched door, taking the last bit of warm yellow light from the cold evening.
“Uh, wow.” Keefe stared, dumbfounded. “He didn’t recognize us.” An icy breeze blew. He adjusted his cowl, trying to cover his frozen ears better, and then he stuffed his hands back into his sleeves.
Brother Francis turned toward Keefe with a blank stare. His eyes widened as if he had an idea. Then he pulled the cord at the gate again and stood smiling at the Portiuncula.
“But he said he doesn’t know us.” Keefe glanced at Brother Francis and then took in their surroundings, hoping to find anything that could serve as shelter from the freezing rain.
The arched door to the Portiuncula opened and the Brother Porter stomped to the gate, shouting and waving his arms.
Keefe stared in disbelief. Once the Brother Porter drew near enough for Keefe to make out his bad language, Keefe’s mouth fell open. He tugged on Brother Francis’ sleeve. “Did you hear what he called us? Do you hear what he’s saying about us?”
The Brother Porter unlatched the gate. “Get away from here, you dirty thieves. You won’t get anything from us. In fact, if I get my hands on you...” The gate creaked open.
Breath catching, Keefe latched onto Brother Francis’ arm and staggered back. “He, he must have no idea who we are.”
Brother Francis allowed Keefe to drag him back a few feet.
<
br /> The angry Brother Porter hollered one last insult before slamming and locking the gate. “Go to the hospital,” he shouted as he headed back to the little church.
Face radiant with joy, Brother Francis turned to Keefe and grabbed his shoulders. “Bear it patiently, my brother. Don’t you see? He knows exactly who we are. And God has allowed him to speak against us so that we may have something more wonderful than all the treasures of the world.”
“What are you talking about?” Cold and anxiety rattled him to the bone, causing Keefe to shiver out of control.
“Above all the graces and gifts of the Holy Spirit which Christ gives to His friends is that of conquering oneself and willingly enduring sufferings, insults, humiliations, and hardships for the love of Christ. So if we bear it patiently and take the insults with joy and love in our hearts, oh, Brother Keefe...” His eyes turned heavenward. “...we have found perfect joy!”
Keefe shook his head, not understanding.
Brother Francis released his hold of Keefe’s shoulders and ran back to the gate.
“Stop!” Panic making him shake all the harder, Keefe shouted after him. “What are you doing?”
Like a child playing a game, Brother Francis gripped the cord with two hands and rang the bell once, twice, three times. Then he turned to Keefe, a big smile on his face.
The door to the Portiuncula flung open and the Brother Porter came out with a club....
A HAND LANDED ON KEEFE’S back, yanking him back to reality. He sucked in a breath and jerked back, dropping the brush and dustpan. Sitting in an awkward position on the floor, Keefe lifted his gaze.
“Looks great, Keefe, really.” Brother Leopold backed up, hands in the air, concern in his eyes. “I think we’re done here.”
“Oh, okay.” He composed himself and picked up the dustpan and brush. “Time for the bathrooms?”
“No, I think we’ll skip those today. The Brothers will be coming for Vespers soon. Let’s get cleaned up.”
Standing Strong Page 25
