In their situation it made sense to them. They were building equity in their own home. And they were beholden to no one in the parish.
David busied himself with the contents of a small black carrying case. When he turned he was holding two cocktail glasses filled to the brim with a clear liquid.
Martha smiled at his reflection in the mirror. “What have we there?”
“May I interest you in a martini, love?” He walked toward her with great care, intent on not spilling a drop. No mean feat with glasses so full.
Martha shook her head. “Aren’t hors d’oeuvres and drinks on the schedule before dinner tonight?” But even as she spoke, she accepted one of the glasses. She turned back to the mirror and placed the glass on the vanity. Neither spilled a drop. If either had an anxious nerve, it was not discernible.
He sipped from his glass, thus raising the odds against spillage. “Look at it this way, love: maybe yes, maybe no. The young lady who showed us to this room did not appear to have both oars in the water. There very well may not be any hors d’oeuvres, let alone drinks. And wouldn’t it be frightful to have to face this group cold sober?”
Martha frowned. “You’d think the one in charge of this conference would have been here to greet us. What’s her name-Sister Janet or something?”
“Indeed. Off somewhere, leaving a child to do the job!”
The Benbows had no way of knowing that Janet and Marie were at this moment extending their walk through the grounds, catching up with each other’s history, and either solving or shelving most of the Church’s problems.
“All I have to say,” Martha said, “is, This is not a good beginning. It augurs a long week.”
“Five days, actually, love. Sorry you came? Miss the business?”
“Not really. You and I were long overdue to spend some time together. We haven’t had a vacation in God knows how long.”
“We’re busy people.” He held his drink to the light as if examining its contents. “Just like Nick and Nora.”
“Who?”
“Charles-Nick and Nora Charles. The Thin Man series. Bill Powell and Myrna Loy. . you remember.”
“I remember, all right. I remember a time when you’d be quoting Scripture instead of alluding to murder mystery movies.”
“Can’t help it, love; Nick and Nora appreciated their martinis. We are following in prestigious footsteps.”
Martha dove into a light blue dress with lace at the high neck and sleeves. David smirked as he watched her wiggle into the dress. “How very modest of you. I believe the Romans refer to that as a ‘Marylike’ outfit.”
She giggled. “The least I could do. After all, if memory serves, I’ll be the only spouse here, won’t I?”
“Uh-huh. Of course the nun is single and presumably a virgin to boot. The Roman priests remain celibate.”
“Priests? I thought there was only one Roman-the monk. Father. . uh. . Augustine.”
“They brought in another one, at the last hour as it were. A Father Koesler.”
“Koesler? Never heard of him. What did he write?”
“Nothing that I know of. He’s somewhat of an amateur detective on the local scene, I take it.”
“Extraordinary.”
“Yes. Then there’s the rabbi. Although he’s married, his wife isn’t accompanying him. He’s here by himself.”
“Leaving Krieg.”
“Leaving Krieg.” An unmistakably bitter tone crept into David’s voice.
“Dear, dear. .” Martha finished applying lipstick. “What is there about Krieg that upsets you so?”
“He’s corrupt.”
“So are lots of people. No, there’s something specific about Klaus Krieg, isn’t there? I can tell; I can read you like a book.”
“Really!” He smiled sardonically. “Well, as a priest one comes to tolerate a vast array of personalities. Saints are nice. I don’t even mind sinners at all. But hypocrites are quite another thing. It’s just that Krieg gives hypocrisy a bad name. In Krieg’s pantheon, Jesus Christ is a nice guy, but the messiah is Klaus Krieg. And the pitiful part is that millions of trusting souls have bought him. And in buying him, they are paying for him.”
Martha smoothed her skirt and sat down across from her husband. She sipped her drink. “There’s something more. I sense it.”
“What more is necessary?” There was a tinge of anger in his voice.
“No matter. In any case, he’s not bringing his wife?”
“No. As I understand it, at no time did he have any intention of bringing her.” David grew thoughtful. “It is as if he came deliberately unencumbered. As if he wants to have something settled once and for all,” he added, almost as if to himself. His face hardened. “If so, I’m sure he’ll get his wish.”
What a strange thing for David to say, thought Martha.
She shrugged and finished her drink. David was distancing himself from her. It was by no means the first time he had kept his real feelings from her. They were not as close as they once had been.
Yet she was confident that, in time, she would understand.
In those early days when they were relatively poor, terribly dependent on each other, things had seemed better. Odd; she would have expected that things would improve as their lives became more comfortable and free of financial worry. She wondered if things went that way with all couples. Maybe it was youth, common problems, and shared concerns that drew married couples close. Maybe it was unrealistic to expect things to remain unchanged let alone get better.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
She hoped no drinks would be served before dinner. That martini had been quite enough.
5
Few people had ever heard of the Trappist Order. Even fewer would know who the Trappists are had it not been for Thomas Merton.
Merton joined the Trappists in 1941 and he wrote The Seven Storey Mountain, a book that sold over a million copies and is read even to this day.
As a Trappist, Merton wrote many books, articles, and poems extolling the importance of silence, solitude, and prayer. In 1968, he met a tragic, almost ludicrous, accidental death-electrocuted by a defective fan. He lies buried in characteristic simplicity at Our Lady of Gethsemani Abbey in central Kentucky. His grave is marked with a plain cross bearing his Trappist name, Father Louis.
Father Augustine May, O.C.S.O, was thinking about that as he sat in the modest room assigned him in the Madame Cadillac Building.
Tom Merton, he thought, as he slowly swirled a water glass one-quarter filled with Jack Daniel’s Tennessee whiskey, Tom Merton did an awful lot for us Trappists. He brought in a lot of dough and a lot of vocations.
In the 1950s, a bumper crop of young applicants came to the Trappists, many of them attracted by the writings of one monk, Father Louis. At the peak there were more than two hundred at Gethsemani Abbey alone. Father Augustine knew the statistics well. Entering in the early sixties, he had been among the last of that bumper crop. Now, hell, the Kentucky abbey would be lucky to have eighty monks. And his own monastery in Wellesley, Massachusetts, would feel successful if it had half that number.
Father Augustine-Gus, as he was known to his confreres-hoped he wasn’t being too vain in thinking he could make a difference. He was convinced the world was more than ready for another Thomas Merton. Was it just possible the next Merton could be himself?
He swished the whiskey around in his mouth. The familiar tart taste made him grimace. Somehow he found the pungency pleasant.
He had tried the Merton approach-writing for scholarly and, mostly, contemplative periodicals. But the articles brought in little money and, as far as anyone could tell, no appreciable vocations. Then came the mystery novel, A Rose by Any Other Name. The money was better, appreciably better. Of course, it all went to his abbey; that was taken for granted. What had caught his abbot off guard was the publisher’s insistence on an author tour to a few major cities, for TV, radio, and newspaper interviews. Only with the greatest reluctance did the abbot grant permission.