But, as Koesler stood at the outer wall looking in, he could easily picture the monks walking reflectively through its corridors while meditating. He could almost hear the swells and diminuendos of Gregorian Chant. The people who lived in this area centuries ago must have heard those chants and felt comforted that while they were toiling for their very existence, there were dedicated men interceding with God on everyone’s behalf.
Years before, Koesler had visited the Trappist Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, where silence enjoyed a sacredness that may never be recaptured. He remembered being deeply impressed, especially by the silence. All those men going about performing their chores and duties and no one saying a word. One could almost slice the silence with a knife.
It must have been like that here . . .
Now that he had recalled Gethsemani’s monastery, Koesler recalled also his first evening there. He had been ordained a priest only a few weeks earlier. One of the monks asked if he wished to say Mass. When Koesler answered in the affirmative, the monk asked what size alb he needed. Already aware that most albs were too small for him and further that there was no way of adjusting a vestment that was not large enough, Koesler had confidently said, “The biggest one you’ve got.”
Next morning, he would have sworn the monks had spent most of the night making that alb. It had been at least a foot too long for him and he had spent several minutes rolling up the sleeves. The monks must have decided to fix that wise guy. After all, there was such a thing as silent laughter.
All in all, this was becoming a most satisfying trip down Nostalgia Lane. Koesler decided he just might follow the advice of his nameless tour director and call on the local parish priest sometime before returning to Dublin.
But not now. He wanted to get settled in at Teach Murray and begin to start experiencing what it was like to live in an Irish pub.
6.
If Koesler thought Boyle was a small town—and he did—he was quite unprepared for Gurteen. The name, his friend had informed him, meant “small, tilled field.” And that pretty well described Gurteen.
First there was a cemetery—a rather imposing one if he could trust the glance he was able to steal as he drove by. Then a string of small homes and a few shops on either side of the only street in sight—a little less than a mile in length. Aside from that street with its modest houses, shops, and establishments, all else, as far as Koesler could see, consisted of little plowed fields. Whoever had named Gurteen had been proven inspired.
He drove as slowly as possible, looking attentively at each edifice on the north side of the street, for that was the side on which Chris Murray had told him the pub was located.
Approximately halfway through the village, he came upon Teach Murray. The large letters identifying the pub extended across the front of the building, which looked exactly as it had in the picture—neat and well-kept. There was something to be said for truth in advertising, even if one rarely encountered it.
Koesler stopped the car in front of the pub and looked about for a parking place. Only then did he notice the lot on the pub’s east side. He depressed the gearshift, enabling him to put the car in reverse, as he breathed a prayer of thanks that the young lady who had delivered this rental car had informed him of this operational necessity. Otherwise, he would have made innumerable U-turns.
He parked, took his suitcase from the trunk, and entered the pub through the front door. Once inside, he stood motionless, trying to give his eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior. The only light in the pub came through several side windows, but the day had turned overcast, and it was no longer all that bright outside—which meant it was even less bright inside.
“Father Koesler?”
“Yes?” He peered through the gloom. “Tom?”
“That’s right.”
Koesler had been informed by Chris Murray that his son Tom would be caring for the pub, taking time off from his spring term at Henry Ford Community College to do so.
“Right this way,” Tom invited.
“Right which way?” People whose eyes were accustomed to the dark seldom empathized with those who were going through the adjustment process. Koesler instantly recalled the occasion when he had gone into a darkened church to lock it for the night. He had lingered in the sanctuary, praying. Meanwhile, the pastor, not realizing his assistant was locking up, sent a young man over to do so. When the man entered the rear of the church, he could not see well in the dark, so he groped his way toward the front. As he reached the communion railing, Koesler, who could see quite well, reached out to grasp his hand in guidance—and scared him half out of his wits.
The recollection took only a split second to pass through Koesler’s mind. The next, related memory was that of an old joke. A priest, figuring he has finished hearing confessions of a Saturday evening, turns out most of the lights and returns to the confessional to complete his prayers. At which point, a teaching nun enters the near-dark church, kicks aside a misplaced priedieu, then stumbles over several kneelers, all of which makes quite a racket.
Finally making her way to the confessional, she begins by saying, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s two weeks since my last confession and I have been angry with my children several times—”
“How many children do you have?” the priest interrupts.
“Sixty-two,” she answers.
“Get the hell out of here,” says he, “I knew you were drunk the minute you came in!”
“Oh, all right; I can see you now,” said Koesler, as Tom materialized before him.
“Sorry, Father; I keep forgetting: My eyes are accustomed to this place and yours aren’t. I was just stocking the bar. Would you like something to drink, or would you like me to show you to your room?”
“Well, I would like to get settled in.”
Tom nodded, and gestured toward an open door behind the bar. “Follow me.” He led Koesler through the door and up a flight of stairs.
“This is the bathroom.” Tom indicated a room to the left of the landing at the top of the stairs.
Koesler looked in. A rather large room, painted blue, with a washstand, toilet, and tub. No shower, Koesler noted.
“And this is your room down at the other end of the hall, Father.”
Koesler stepped into an adequately furnished room. A chest of drawers and mirror, a large closet, and what appeared to be a queen-sized bed. He set down his suitcase, then pulled the light curtain aside from the room’s only window. “What’s that?”
Tom stepped to the window and followed Koesler’s finger.
“That’s the church . . . St. Patrick’s, what else?” Tom said, smiling. “Or, at least it’s the bell tower.”
“Kind of close, isn’t it?”
“Four or five buildings away . . . but they’re all jammed together.”
Koesler nodded. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll just get cleaned up and be down in a little while.”
Tom left, closing the door behind him. Koesler seated himself on the bed and began to wonder if this had been such a hot idea after all. This place seemed to be further out than the proverbial boondocks. And, from experience, he knew himself to be urban . . . very urban.
But, he reassured himself, he did have wheels. So, in case he started feeling too isolated from civilization, he could always move on.
Besides, this had been such an unexpectedly hectic trip, he thought he might be in actual need of some measure of tranquility. And this certainly looked like the place to get it.
After freshening up, Koesler returned to the bar, where Tom was still occupied in setting up shop for the expected late afternoon and evening business. Tom was looking at Koesler while arranging bottles of Guinness. He was smiling. “Sorry to be grinning at you, Father, but it does seem funny to have a priest in the pub.”