Keefe gathered the cleaning tools and followed Brother Leopold from the chapel, still contemplating the perfect joy of Saint Francis. It reminded him of the Gospel tenet that “the last shall be first, and the first shall last.” And now he got it! He didn’t need to become a Franciscan to find perfect joy. As long as he gave everything his best, he could accept whatever came his way as God’s will. If God allowed something to happen to him, it would be for his good.
“Jesus, I trust you!” he said in his heart.
CHAPTER 36
With a white-knuckled grip of the steering wheel, Jarret raced down Forest Road. The pungent aroma of Limburger cheese burned the back of his throat. In his haste to get to the campground—to get to Peter—he’d pulled out of the garage without first lowering the windows of his car.
He pressed the control to lower the windows. A humid breeze rushed in, whipping a loose lock of hair across his face.
Cuss words slammed through his mind, along with memories of everything that Peter had ever done against him, everything he hated about Peter. This was the worst though. Peter had taken his journal. All his personal thoughts laid bare.
His skin crawled and stomach twisted. He imagined himself half naked, hands tied to the overhead branch of the sole tree in a field, standing vulnerable, soul exposed, before Peter and—the way Peter and his friends gossiped—every kid from River Run High.
Jarret rubbed a hand across his chest and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.
Gray clouds raced through a blue sky, hiding and revealing the sun every few seconds, creating a turbulence above that matched the turbulence inside him.
Had Peter already read it? Had he shared it with Dominic the Gossip? Were they reading it right now?
Jarret clenched his jaw, a surreal feeling overtaking him as he sped past a farming supply store on his left and neared a gas station on his right. He would teach Peter a lesson. Should’ve done it sooner. He shouldn’t have let Keefe hold him back the day he’d found the Limburger cheese. No more struggling to forgive.
A police officer stood talking to a woman in a car parked near the front of the gas station. Officer O’Brien? He lifted his head as Jarret flew by. Then he shook a finger in warning.
Jarret tapped the brakes to slow down, but he wasn’t gonna stop. And I ain’t looking back.
A glance to the dash told him it neared 3:00 p.m. He was about to miss his appointment with Father Carston. Who cares? He was done with that. He’d been trying real hard to follow the rules and make the right choices, thinking he’d been scoring a victory here or there, but really he’d been failing. If he wanted to follow the straight and narrow, he shouldn’t have had Kyle and the gang over to his house. He’d let them drink in the house and did nothing to stop it. He’d even caved in and smoked a cigarette. And he’d done nothing to control his outrage over the prank that C.W. pulled on Roland. Nothing to control his temper. He could’ve hurt him worse than he did. He’d had nothing inside telling him to stop. And then Chantelle...
Jarret took in a sharp breath. Sure he’d broken it off but not before having his hands all over her. He was no different than before. Without the special grace of an awareness of the presence of the Lord, he couldn’t do this.
Within a few minute or seconds—time made no sense now—Jarret passed the weathered campground sign and cranked the steering wheel. Paying no mind to the speed limit signs, he wound his way back to the camping area.
His eyes narrowed and jaw tightened as he pulled into an overflowing parking lot. Shadow and light darted along chrome and paint as the clouds shifted with rage. Another car pulled in from the opposite direction, on the far side of the parking lot. A teenage boy got out.
Jacked up with anger, Jarret flung open the driver-side door and jumped out. He scanned the parking lot and the camping sites beyond them. He’d probably find Peter near the same sites they’d had last year.
A glimpse at the teenage boy across the parking lot made him pause. A flicker of sunlight illuminated his sandy blond hair. Then clouds brought shadows over him, not hiding his quarterback build and slumped shoulders. Was it... ? It was. Tyrone. After hearing Chantelle’s lie, he’d probably searched the park for Jarret, assuming Jarret had come camping with Roland and Papa.
Car keys dangling from a finger, Jarret strode toward the camping sites. He’d deal with Tyrone later.
As he strode nearer, he made out figures and faces, people setting up tents or standing in groups. Kyle and the gang, including Trent, Conner, and C.W., sat on picnic tables. Nate looked out, maybe saw Jarret approaching.
Jarret’s gaze raked over them and other kids from school until it landed on Roland. And Peter.
Fist clenching, he inhaled a deep breath and quickened his pace.
The length of a football field stood between them. Peter didn’t see him yet. But then he turned, and he and Roland spotted Jarret at the same time.
Jarret gave a hostile glare and jabbed a finger in the air, pointing at Peter to let him know that he was coming for him. Like a tide rushing to the shore, he was coming for him.
Peter exchanged a look with Roland, his expression saying he didn’t understand. As soon as Jarret reached him, he would understand.
A few steps later a brick wall rose up in his mind, high and strong, his conscience warning him louder than ever before. He’d heard the voice of conscience so faintly in the past that he almost hadn’t recognized it. It had spoken in whispers and made him feel as though he’d simply forgotten something. But it had grown, standing at times like a door that he had to intentionally pass through to do the thing he knew he shouldn’t. But today, it stood like a wall. He would have to break through this wall, tear it down brick by brick, to go after Peter. He shouldn’t seek revenge. Not even for this. But he didn’t care anymore. Peter had gone too far.
This wall was coming down.
With a wave of anger, Jarret pushed through the wall of his conscience. Wanting to free his hands, he shoved his keys into the front pocket of his jeans. His finger bumped something that snagged his thoughts and suspended his mood. He recognized the thick fabric from touch: the scapular that Keefe had told him to wear.
Jarret slowed his pace and pulled the scapular out. He dangled it in front of himself and gazed at the image on the brown square of cloth: Simon of Stock kneeling before Our Lady of Mount Carmel. The words “Behold the sign of salvation” curved over the figures.
A feminine voice spoke in his mind. If you had come to me, you would not have run into such spiritual danger.
The hair on his arms and neck stood up. A prickling sensation ran over his skin. If he had come to her...
He understood. This cloth was the Blessed Mother’s mantle of protection for her children. If he asked, if he trusted, if he believed like a little child, she would help him do what he couldn’t by himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tyrone drawing near, another tide rushing in with nothing to stop it, nothing to break the waves. If Jarret kept moving, he’d reach Peter first. But Tyrone would be on him in seconds.
Utterly aware that he was on autopilot and about to do something he might regret but powerless to stop himself, Jarret lifted the scapular over his head and stopped walking.
Peter stood about sixty feet away, staring at Jarret with his head cocked to one side and his eyebrows screwed up.
The blur of Tyrone’s moving body came into Jarret’s peripheral vision. He would reach Jarret in a few seconds.
The urge to thrash Peter rose up like a powerful current, wanting to pull Jarret along like sand in a rip tide. But he couldn’t give in. One hand on the brown cloth of the scapular, Jarret stood his ground. The promises of the scapular whispered in his mind. A protection in danger and a pledge of peace.
“There you are, you—” Tyrone drew near spewing curses and flailing his arms, his face red with rage.
Roland, followed by Peter, marched toward Jarret too.
Jarret held Peter’s gaze, the heat of revenge still f
lowing through him. He couldn’t do this on his own, couldn’t rely on his own strength. He needed to surrender. He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the Blessed Virgin. “So, uh, you gonna help me?”
It dawned on him. No one but the humble would believe in this little way. He'd been thinking that he had to be strong, do it all himself, get the help of God directly. But now... Jarret surrendered to the humble handmaiden. Then he opened his eyes.
“I’ve got a brother like you.” Tyrone shoved Jarret’s shoulder.
Stepping back to keep his balance, Jarret glanced but returned his attention to Peter. He wasn’t going to thrash him. He wasn’t going to seek revenge. He was going to forgive the way Roland had forgiven him, the way Jesus—
A rush of longing and emotion cut off his thought.
Then Tyrone’s fist smacked his cheek with a jolt of pain, and he staggered to the side. Jarret straightened, rejecting the urge to touch his throbbing cheek. He lifted his gaze to Peter again, who was now running with Roland toward him.
“My brother ain’t at home now, thank God,” Tyrone said with anger accentuating every word. “He’s off at college. I knew you were just like him before I ever met you, when Chantelle came home with your number on her arm...” He stepped closer and grabbed Jarret by the shirt.
Indignation wrestling with resignation, Jarret struggled to win on his own battlefront.
Tyrone grimaced. He locked hate-filled eyes onto Jarret’s and continued ranting. “He wrote on my arm all the time, in permanent ink, some dorky name he had for me. I’d rub my arm raw trying to wash it off. Just like you, thinking you’re the man, wanting everyone to respect you. You just bring trouble to everyone.”
As Tyrone drew back and let fly, Jarret resisted the impulse to block the fist headed for his gut. A burst of pain. Then the air left his lungs and he doubled over. But he didn’t fall. Another punch and a sharp pain on his jaw.
Jarret forced his mind back to the canyon and pictured the hand of Jesus open in invitation, and the wound. He did not deserve that. But Jarret did deserve this. Maybe it could make up for beating C.W.
Tyrone threw punch after punch, jerking Jarret in one direction and then the other. He deserved it for all the punches he’d thrown over the years. Jarret’s fists had been like the fists of the soldiers beating the Savior. And the Savior opened not his mouth.
“Are you crazy?” a boy shrieked. It kind of sounded like Peter. “Get off him, you freak.”
The pounding stopped. Jarret lay on the pavement, shielding his face. He lowered his arm, lifted his head, and glimpsed a crowd through his swollen eyes. Kyle, Sherman, and the cheerleaders stood in a circle around him, Nate and a few others with cellphones out. Recording it all. A policeman ran toward them. Officer O’Brien. And then Mr. Brandt and Papa without his hat.
“What in the Sam Hill? You little punk...” Papa had a few more choice words.
Roland and Peter wrestled Tyrone back and were saying something to him. He slipped free and lunged for Jarret. But Roland’s fist shot out and landed on his chin.
While Tyrone regained his balance, everyone stopped talking and time stood still, all eyes on Roland. Roland shook his fist out and tossed a shy glance at Papa.
Papa broke the silence. “Well, if he hadn’t done it... That boy was about to get a heap of trouble from me.” His gaze caught the approaching officer. “And I’d be on my way to the slammer for assaulting a minor.” He jerked a hand out at Tyrone. “Beat it on outta here.”
Tyrone lifted his arms and mumbled something under his breath. Then he spit out a bad name for Jarret and stomped away.
Roland dropped onto his knees by Jarret. “You okay?”
Aching all over, Jarret pushed himself up more.
Roland and Peter each grabbed an arm to help him. Papa had squatted before him but straightened, stumbling back, a beam of sunlight catching his piercing blue eyes.
“Man, did you lose your mind or what?” Peter said. “Why didn’t you fight back?”
Roland said nothing, only stared with a bewildered look.
“I shouldn’t have told you to turn the other cheek.” Papa brushed off Jarret’s shirt and touched his chin, a mix of concern and “fired-up” on his face. “Didn’t think you’d listen. Didn’t think you’d ever...” He turned his head in the direction of Tyrone, who now stood at a distance with Chantelle and a few other girls.
“Naw, you were right.” Mouth aching, Jarret forced the words out. Flooded with immense joy, despite his face throbbing with pain, Jarret met Papa’s gaze and laughed. His ribs screamed, cutting the laugh short but not diminishing the joy.
Papa’s brows drew together over his squinting eyes, his crow’s feet and forehead creases deepening with his confused look.
The hint of a smile passed Roland’s lips. The look in his cool gray eyes made Jarret think he understood.
“Help him to my truck,” Papa commanded. “I’ll take him home. And find my hat.”
Peter dragged Jarret’s arm over his shoulders and wrapped his own arm around his waist, making eye contact for a split second.
Jarret smiled inside, touched and amused by this act of kindness from the kid he’d intended to pound.
Roland did the same on the other side, his actions more gentle and secure.
“Won on my own battlefront,” Jarret mumbled to Roland.
“Won? You must be drunk. Or high?” Peter leaned forward and peered past Jarret to Roland. “Does Jarret do drugs?”
“No,” Roland snapped.
Papa and Mr. Brandt led the way. They’d only taken two steps when a figure in uniform crossed their path. “Well, Jarret, I hate to say... you probably had this coming.”
Fire flashed in Papa’s eyes. His body tensed as if he were about to make a move he might regret.
Roland flung himself between Papa and Officer O’Brien. And Mr. Brandt grabbed Papa from behind.
Seeing a bit of himself in Papa, Jarret wanted to laugh. But it woulda hurt. So he didn’t. Instead, he let his archenemy and his little brother help him to his father’s truck.
CHAPTER 37
Dinner over, three Brothers got up from the long table. They carried their dirty plates to Brother Leopold, who had just appeared in the doorway with a tray.
“For me?” Brother Leopold said to one, raising his bushy eyebrows, “Thanks,” to another, and “Stop, I have more than enough,” to the third.
Keefe scooted his chair back and carried his dirty plate to him too. “Need help with dishes?”
Brother Leopold tilted his head back, his scraggly black beard jutting out. “I haven’t scared you off yet, huh?”
Keefe laughed. “Not from all the work.”
Brother Leopold, who rarely smiled, smirked as if appreciating Keefe’s reply, maybe thinking his dry, sarcastic humor had rubbed off. In reality, it had taken Keefe over five minutes to get some of his jokes.
Keefe took the plate from another friar and stacked it on the others. Even though he would never live here, he had to admit that he had liked getting to see every inch of the friary. He’d especially enjoyed cleaning the chapel, though it had worn him out. He’d never done so much house cleaning in all his life. Nanny took care of everything, except sometimes their bedrooms and the recreation room.
“No, I’ve got it. Other brothers will clean up the dishes tonight. We get to relax.” Brother Leopold set the tray on the table and grabbed more dirty plates. “You should go to the courtyard.”
“What’s there?”
A strange look passed over his face, then a crooked grin. “You’ll see.”
Keefe followed one of the other retreatants from the dining room, trying to remember his name. Was it Alex? Rolling with the flow of the friary, they hadn’t spoken much. Alex barely spoke anyways and always seemed deep in contemplation. Keefe could picture him as a Trappist monk, taking a vow of silence. Keefe loved the balance of life in the Franciscan brotherhood, the humility it required, the support it offered, w
orking and praying together...
With a sigh, Keefe resigned himself to God’s will for his life. The retreat director, Brother Giles, had encouraged him to keep praying, even after Keefe had dumped out the mess of his life before him.
“Don’t go home, Keefe. Stay and pray. Continue to ask the Holy Spirit to guide you. Your reason for being here may be different from what you think.” Brother Giles referred to Keefe’s suggestion that God had only wanted him to help Piper. “Ask your parish priest to be your spiritual director. Frequent the sacraments, especially the Sacrament of Penance. That one is so powerful in helping us to examine our lives and come to know our strengths and weaknesses. Keep the door open, Keefe.”
Having voiced all of his doubts, failings, and insecurities—hearing the words aloud—Keefe knew he couldn’t possibly have a calling. So he decided to use his time at the friary to see what God did want of him.
Alex held open the door to the courtyard and looked back at Keefe.
“Thanks,” Keefe said as he stepped outside to the cool evening air.
If Alex replied, Keefe didn’t hear it. His gaze was riveted to the far corner of the grassy courtyard. A homemade archery target stood in the corner, about twenty yards away.
“Hey, Keefe, ever shot a bow?” Brother Damien, the youngest of the friars, stood by three other brothers around a portable table. One of the friars strung a bow, another neatened a stack of aluminum arrows. The third, Brother Paschal, talked about the scores various brothers had made over the week.
Keefe smiled to himself, happy for the opportunity to play a favorite sport.
Alex and Wolfgang drew near, Wolfgang with his hands stuffed in the front pockets of his chinos. The other retreatants and brothers must’ve gone off to do something else, but they would all know of his skill if he played today. He didn’t want to show off. For some reason, he liked the idea of being a nobody, someone they’d never see again. He came here hoping for a vocation, but he’d leave knowing nothing, more blind than ever, simply trusting in God’s will for his life. Whatever happened to him would be for the best. Keefe’s smile grew as he joined the brothers at the table.
Standing Strong Page 26
