Brothers Keepers

by Donald E. Westlake

  The stewardess returned at last to her other duties, and I returned to my examination of the card, saying, “Are you the father or one of the sons?”

  “A grandson,” he said gloomily. All facts seemed to embitter him. “My grandfather started the company with a small store-front in the Yorkville section of New York, booking Germans onto Lloyd Line steamships.”

  “I know Yorkville,” I said. “I live not far from there.”

  “You live in one place,” he said. He sounded envious, saddened, wistful.

  “In a glorious place,” I told him, forgetting for a moment that I might never live in that place again.

  He looked at me as a starving man might look at someone freshly returned from a banquet. “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “Well, it’s a monastery. It’s two hundred years old.”

  “Do you leave it often?”

  “Almost never. We don’t believe in Travel.”

  He clutched my forearm just as I was about to sip my drink. “You don’t believe in Travel! Can that be true?”

  “We’re a contemplative Order,” I explained, “and one of the wishes of our founder was that we meditate on Earthly Travel. We have found most of it unnecessary and wrongheaded.”

  “By God, sir!” Animation lit his eyes for the first time. I wouldn’t say he exactly smiled, but his intensity seemed all at once much more positive, much less despairing. “Tell me more about this place!” he cried. “Tell me everything!”

  So I did. Between sips of Jack Daniel’s—and a constant renewal of full little bottles from the full little stewardess—I told him everything. I told him of our founder, Israel Zapatero, and of his midocean visitation from Saints Crispin and Crispinian. I told him the history of those saints, and the history of Zapatero, and the history of our Order. I described our thinking on the subject of Travel, our conclusions, our postulates, our hypotheses. I described my fellow brothers, one by one, in the greatest detail.

  All of this took quite a long time, and much Jack Daniel’s. “It sounds like Heaven!” he cried at one point, and I answered, “It is Heaven!” and looking at him I saw he was in tears. Well, and so was I.

  He questioned me as I went along. More detail, and more, and more. And more Jack Daniel’s, and more, and more. I had souvenir empties for our entire Brotherhood, and then some. I described our traditional Christmas dinner, I described our attic, I described our courtyard and our grapes and our cemetery and our chapel and our undercroft.

  And finally, I described our present predicament. The bulldozers, the real estate developers, the coming Wanderings in the desert. “Oh, no!” he cried. “It must not happen!”

  “All hope is gone,” I told him. And then, being full of Jack Daniel’s, I frowned at him, wondering if perhaps God had not sent this man at the last moment—machina ex Deus?—with that one unsuspected salvation that would make the difference.

  No. I saw him shake his head, and knew that he too was mortal. “It’s a crime,” he said.

  “Absolutely,” I agreed, and took some time to struggle with the cap of the next Jack Daniel’s bottle. They were getting trickier for some reason.

  “But you’ll move somewhere else, won’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. We won’t disband.”

  “And you’re not priests, you say. A man could walk in off the streets and be accepted among you. Like that Brother Eli you told me about, the whittler.”

  “Absolutely,” I said again. I suddenly had discovered it to be a word I was fond of saying aloud. I did it again: “Absolutely.”

  Mr. Schumacher was silent for a while, and when I looked at him he was deep in thought, chewing on his lower lip. I let him do his thinking in peace, and at last he muttered (to himself, not to me), “I never see my family anyway. They’ll never notice the difference.”

  I considered saying “absolutely,” but refrained. I had not been addressed, after all, nor was I entirely certain “absolutely” was the right response to what had been said. Mr. Schumacher continued to ponder, though without verbalizing any more of his thoughts, and I finished my last little bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Looking up, hoping to catch the stewardess’ eye for a refill, I saw her making her way down the aisle in my direction, pausing to say something to each passenger along the way. When she reached us she said it again: “Please fasten your seatbelts, we’ll be landing in a moment.”

  “No more Jack Daniel’s?”

  She smiled at me and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said.

  “Brother,” I said, but she had gone on.

  * * *

  I clinked as I walked. Many little Jack Daniel’s were stowed about my person, and they tinkled together with my movements as though I were some sort of living wind chime.

  We had landed, sailing down the late afternoon sky to New York and coming at last to rest. The airplane door had opened, to reveal a corridor on the other side of it—could that corridor have flown all the way from Puerto Rico with us?—and Mr. Schumacher and I had joined the other deplaning passengers in deplaning. I was carrying my vinyl overnight bag, packed with my new razor and my new alarm clock and Brother Quillon’s socks, and Mr. Schumacher was carrying a battered canvas bag festooned with zippers.

  He had remained silent through our descent, and didn’t speak at all until we had passed through the mysterious corridor and found ourselves in the terminal building. Then he said, “You got luggage?”

  I held up the overnight bag. “This.”

  “No, more than that. To pick up.” He gestured toward a sign saying baggage, with an arrow.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “This is all I have.”

  “Smart,” he commented. “Travel light.” Then he lowered his brows and looked thunderous and said, “If you’re going to Travel at all.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “Never again.”

  “Good man,” he said. “Well, then, let’s go.”

  “Go?”

  He was impatient with my bewilderment. “What did you think? I’m coming with you. Travel, goodbye!”

  * * *

  We did Travel, though, by cab, from the airport to Manhattan. And while sitting together in that back seat I tried gently to suggest that this sudden urge of his was a mere passing fancy, a transitory whim brought on by Jack Daniel’s and Traveler’s fatigue.

  But he’d have none of it. “I know what I’m talking about,” he said. “You described to me a place I’ve been dreaming of all my life. Do you think I wanted to get into this business? A grandson of Otto Schumacher, what chance did I have? Travel Travel Travel, it was pounded into me from the day I first learned to walk. A day, by the way, that I’ve cursed ever since.”

  “But your family. Haven’t you a wife, children?”

  “The children are grown,” he told me. “My wife sees me about two days a month, when I bring her the laundry. She says, ‘How was the trip,’ and I say, ‘Fine.’ Then she says, ‘Have a nice trip,’ and I say, ‘I will.’ If she misses all of that, I can phone in my part.”

  “Your business?”

  “Let my brothers handle it. And my cousins and my uncles. Neither of my sons would follow in my footsteps—a dreadful phrase, that—so I leave the world with a clear conscience.”

  “But not with a clear head,” I told him. “I know I’m feeling the effects of all that alcohol.”

  “If I change my mind tomorrow,” he told me, “I can always leave, can’t I? You people won’t chain me to a ring in the wall, will you?”

  “Absolutely not!” I said, finding another use for my favorite word.

  “Well, then.” And he faced forward, smiling cheerfully and expectantly and—I thought—a bit madly.

  * * *

  The building was there, where I’d left it, but its future could now be counted in days, perhaps hours. At midnight, it would begin to fade, like Cinderella’s coach. Mr. Schumacher, his cheek against the cab’s side window, said, “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”<
br />
  “It’s beautiful.”

  He paid the fare and we clambered out to the sidewalk, freeing the cab to surge back into the melee. I was certainly no more drunk than when I’d left the plane, but for some reason I felt less steady on my feet, and apparently Mr. Schumacher was much the same. We leaned on one another for support, each of us grasping our luggage, and we paused for a moment on the sidewalk to gaze at the nearly featureless stone wall—the dull facade—that the monastery presented to the transient world. It was after five by now, evening was nearing, and in the fading light that stone wall seemed somehow more real, more substantial, than the glass and steel and chrome erections thrusting themselves skyward all around us. They in time would fall of themselves, but this stone wall would have to be murdered.

  “It’s beautiful,” Mr. Schumacher said again.

  “Beautiful,” I agreed. “And doomed.”

  “Oh, it must not be,” he said.

  Passersby were pausing to look at us, not sure whether to frown or laugh. I said, “Why don’t we go inside?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, having picked up my favorite word.

  The door to the courtyard was locked—there was a case of locking the barn after the horse has gone—so we staggered instead to the scriptorium door, which was also locked. Thundering on it, however, via my fist and Mr. Schumacher’s shoe, produced a startled-looking Brother Thaddeus, who gaped first at Mr. Schumacher and then at me. “Oh! Brother Benedict!”

  “Brother Thaddeus,” I said, stumbling on the step, “may I present Mr. Schumacher.”

  “Thaddeus,” said Mr. Schumacher. He gripped Brother Thaddeus’ hand and peered intently into his face. “The Merchant Mariner,” he said, “safe at port. The sailor, home from the sea.”

  “Well,” said Brother Thaddeus, blinking and looking bewildered. “Well, yes. That’s right.”

  I managed to enter the building and close the door behind me. “I met him in my Travels,” I explained.

  “I want to join you,” Mr. Schumacher told him.

  “Ah,” said Brother Thaddeus. “That’s very nice.” For some reason, I had the impression he was humoring the both of us.

  I said, “Where’s Brother Oliver, do you know?”

  “In the chapel,” he said. “They’re all there, a vigil, prayers for a last-minute reprieve.” Hope entered his eyes and he said, “Do you bring us good news, Brother Benedict?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and I knew I’d be seeing that crushed look another fourteen times before this day was over. “I failed,” I said.

  “Don’t say that. You did your best,” he assured me. “Of course you did your best.”

  “It must not happen,” Mr. Schumacher announced. He was now glaring around at the scriptorium’s woodwork, his expression an odd combination of defiance and pride of ownership.

  I said, “Come along, Mr. Schumacher. We’ll go see Brother Oliver.”

  “Precisely,” he said.

  We left our luggage with Brother Thaddeus and walked through the building to the chapel. Mr. Schumacher loved everything he saw along the way, from the doorframes to the Madonnae and Children. “Wonderful,” he said. “Precisely.”

  The chapel was silent when we entered it, but not for long. Faces turned, robes and sandals rustled as the brothers rose from their pews, and at first the question was asked in whispers: “What news?” “Did you have success, Brother?” “Are we saved?”

  “No,” I said. “No.” I shook my head, and the faces fell, and they clustered around Mr. Schumacher and me at the rear of the chapel to hear the worst.

  When Brother Oliver approached I introduced Mr. Schumacher. “He wants to join us,” I said, feeling very much like the small-boy-with-puppy (“He followed me home. Can I keep him?”), and added, “He’s a Travel agent.”

  “No longer,” said Mr. Schumacher. “I’ll Travel no longer. I’ve come home, Brothers, if you’ll have me. May I be one of you? May I?”

  Everyone seemed a bit taken aback by Mr. Schumacher’s intensity, and also, perhaps, by the fact that both Mr. Schumacher and I were staggering just slightly. I myself didn’t feel drunk anymore, but my footing and tongue were both still less than certain.

  However, Brother Oliver handled the situation, I thought, very well, saying to Mr. Schumacher, “Well, certainly you can stay as long as you like. After you’ve been here a day or so, we can talk about your future.”

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Schumacher. Apparently that was his favorite word.

  Brother Flavian suddenly burst out, “But what of our future? Are we going to lose?”

  “We’ve done our best,” Brother Oliver told him, and I noticed that no one was looking directly toward me. “If it’s God’s will that we leave this place, then there must—”

  “But it isn’t God’s will!” Flavian insisted. “It’s Dimp’s will!”

  Brother Clemence said, “Flavian, there comes a time when it’s pointless to rail against fate.”

  “Never!”

  Brother Leo said, “I agree with Flavian. We should have been more determined from the outset. We should have been more belligerent.”

  Several Brothers responded to that, pro or con, and it looked as though some rather heated discussions were about to take place when Brother Oliver loudly said, “In the chapel?” Looking around, he said, “There’s simply nothing else to be done, that’s all. It’s all over, and there’s nothing to be gained by arguing among ourselves. Particularly in the chapel.”

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Schumacher.

  There was a little silence after that, with everyone looking sad or bitter and with Mr. Schumacher shaking his head as though annoyed with himself for not somehow rescuing us. And then I took a deep breath and said, “Once more.”

  They all looked at me. Brother Oliver said, “Once more what, Brother Benedict?”

  “One last try,” I said. “We have till midnight, this day isn’t over yet. I’m going to go talk with Dan Flattery.”

  “Flattery?” Brother Oliver spread his hands. “What good can that do? We’ve already tried to reason with the man.”

  “I’ve had dealings with him,” I said, “of a sort, in the last few days. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do or not, but I have to try. I have to. I’m going out there now.”

  Brother Flavian said, “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, I—”

  “And me,” said Brother Mallory.

  “And me,” said Brother Leo.

  “And me,” said Brother Silas.

  Brother Clemence said, “I think it’s time I saw this Flattery demon for myself.”

  “We’ll all go,” said Brother Peregrine. “Every last one of us.”

  Brother Oliver looked around at us in dismay. “Travel? The entire community?”

  “Yes!” cried Brothers Dexter and Hilarius and Quillon. “But—but how?” Brother Oliver seemed to reel under the complexity of it. “All of us? On the train?”

  “Wait!” said Mr. Schumacher, and we turned to see him standing very upright, one finger pointing up in the air. “I am the hand of Fate,” he announced. “What has my life prepared me for, if not this moment? Sixteen—seventeen, with myself. Transportation for seventeen, New York to—Where?”

  “Sayville,” I said, in a hushed voice. “Long Island.”

  “Sayville,” he repeated. “Was that a phone I saw, where we came in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Precisely,” he said, and marched off, the rest of us in his wake.

  * * *

  In the hall, as we moved in a cluster toward the scriptorium, Brother Quillon moved to my side and said softly, “I saved you some pie.”

  “Thank you,” I said, touched and delighted. “Thank you, Brother.”

  “Your friend,” he said, nodding ahead toward Mr. Schumacher navigating the turns of the hall, “seems a bit unusual.”

  “I have to tell you,” I said, “he’s been drinking.”

  Brother H
ilarius, on my other side, said, “Brother Benedict, I have to tell you you’ve been drinking.”

  “On the airplane,” I said, as though that excused it. “It was something of a depressing return.”

  “No doubt,” he said.

  Behind me, Brother Valerian said, “Brother Benedict, excuse me, but aren’t you clinking?”

  Clinking. “Oh, yes,” I said, remembering my souvenirs. All at once, the notion of distributing empty whiskey bottles as mementos of my Journey seemed a less than felicitous idea. Apt, perhaps, but not quite fitting. “It’s just some bottles,” I said, and from then on walked with my arms against my sides, to muffle the music.

  Brother Thaddeus watched in astonishment as we all trooped into the scriptorium. While several Brothers explained to him what was going on, Mr. Schumacher went to the phone and dialed a number from memory. We stood and watched and listened, knowing we were participating in what was for us an alien rite.

  Mr. Schumacher whistled softly between his teeth. He tapped his fingernails on the surface of the desk. He seemed less drunk and more efficient, and all at once he said, “Hello. This is Irwin Schumacher of Schumacher and Sons. Is Harry there?” He listened, his mouth twisting in annoyance, and then he said, “I know it’s New Year’s Eve. Do you think I can be in the business I’m in and not know when it’s New Year’s Eve? Let me talk to Harry.” Another pause, with more tuneless whistling between his teeth, and then, “Harry? Irwin Schumacher. — Fine, and how are you? — Terrific. Listen, Harry, I need a bus. — Right now, round trip tonight, New York to Long Island. — No, sir, none of that at all, it’s a religious order. — Harry, have you ever known me to have a sense of humor? — Right. It’s a pickup at the monastery, Park Avenue and 51st. Going to Sayville, Long Island. — Tonight. — Precisely. Charge it to the firm, Harry. — Right. Oh, by the way, Harry, this is my last call. I’m retiring. — Yeah, I guess you could call it a New Year’s resolution. I’m through with Travel, Harry. — That’s right, pal.” Holding the phone to mouth and ear, he looked around at the rest of us and this room with a big beaming smile on his face. “I’ve found my home at last,” he said. “So long, Harry.”