Pilgrim’s Gait. David Craig
how far we were away from anyone. Like a person couldn’t just break the glass or wouldn’t look in that spot first if he were bent on a more mannered version of B & E.
Oh well, I figured, roll with the Catholics.
It was only a matter of minutes before we were all in the kitchen. Guys began brushing their teeth in the sink, washing up out of wide white metal bowls, each taking his personals: a towel, shampoo, toothbrush from his slot behind a curtained partition, each with a combatant’s name taped below it. Some guys in another van came in soon after, all of them living down the hill in a more primitive cabin, St. Joachim’s, where there were only kerosene lamps and a wood burning stove.
It was very crowded in the kitchen, noisy. In the next room, the first floor bedroom, three guys were sitting at a table, discussing whether it was possible to attain perfection in this life. I was too tired from the travel to try and make anything out of the whole scene, wanted just to take a quick shower, get into my hair-shirt and go to bed.
Dave informed me, however, that showers weren’t allowed during the week. Well water conservation. He even went so far as to request that I not flush after urination, at least until the bowl was good and yellow. What if we all had low sugar content, I asked, and what about number two?
“The outhouse down the hill.”
My first venture into the unknown dark night of faith, I figured, as I put my out-to-sea coat back on. The green, upright wooden structure seemed sturdy enough, a little hook on the inside. But it was quite cold by then, and I was worried about sitting on the cold plastic seat. Would I stick, have to call for help, many popsicle sticks to pry me loose? But eventualities had been foreseen. There was a winter aid on the wall: a styrofoam doughnut cut-out.
When I finished I took my time returning, looked up at the stars. Never had I seen them so clearly. The milk in the way, the gauze in a clear sky, the whole thing sharp and precise enough for me to wonder if there was anything to this God business. Was there a place so far away that it had no stars, nothing? How could there be an end to the universe; how could there not be? If there was a God, none of these guys seemed to be getting rich off of Him, at least on the surface of things, that seemed clear enough.
Davie directed me upstairs, where I found my bunk among many. They had recently ripped out a partition; I could see the newly sanded and painted strips along the walls and ceiling. Familiar metal posts held the place up. On the far side, Mickey bunked next to me, to my right, away from the stairs. A guy named Ted next to him, by the window. On the other side of the aisle from Ted was a huge bearded guy, Tom, who occupied that first bed. Nick, from Akron, came next, then Daoud, a Palestinian Christian Arab, and Greg, a painter from Minneapolis. Richard from Regina was at the other window end on my side, just across from the stairwell, and Jean-Michele on my immediate left, from Mon-re-al, as he said in disdained English, his bikini red underwear.
Daoud commented that we could be an American basketball team because of our height: Ted, Adam, Nick and myself. Tom, though, seemed slightly offended by that, as he seemed to be by the nickname he had been given. (He did look like the first man.) I thought of Hubert downstairs. Hospital ward.
Nick, however, was a different story. Very expansive, he welcomed the world, me included, heartily. He said we could all be monks on Mt. Athos, at least judging by so many bearded appearances; he didn’t want to discriminate against the clean-shaven. Everyone laughed.
Daoud called out in a high voice, “May it be so. Christ is risen!
“Truly,” Tom added, perhaps, it seemed to me, because he had learned to do as much. He certainly didn’t seem moved by any noticeable enthusiasm when he said it. Struck me as odd. Cultish behavior? “We do want to be ready to greet Him when He comes,” he added.
“Speak it, brother,” said Jean-Michele.
“You and Rich can throw open your windows,” said Ted. “Just in case He comes tonight; stick your feet out to stay alert. Let us know.”
Rich smiled—a quiet one.
“I think I’ll just keep my candle lit,” said Nick with a grin, crawling cozily under his several covers.
“That’s okay by me,” said Jean-Michele as he pulled out his double eye-patch sleeping mask, put it on. (Everybody seemed to take delight in his wearing this.)
“What are you doing here? That’s what I want to know,” joked Tom. More laughter.
“Taking a vacation. Now if you don’t mind, l would like to get some sleep. Call for me at about 10ish, won’t you?”
“Yes, your highness,” said Mickey. “Crumpets then, the morning paper?”
“That will do.” Someone threw a book in his general direction. Jean-Michele lifted one wing of his eye-patch. “Rabble,” he sniffed, amid the last wave of laughter, groans.
Things got quiet quickly—a hard day of work it looked like. And then, some time later, I saw Daoud get up in semidarkness before a little icon of Christ that he had apparently placed on his dresser. He prayed there quietly out of some book for a good fifteen minutes, turning the pages, rocking back and forth slightly as he read. Nick saw me watching him from across the room, winked in my direction.
“You just never know about this place,” he whispered, smiling. Then he turned over, fell asleep.
I had said nothing during the whole course of conversation. Wondered how well I would get to know these guys, what they would mean to me. As it turned out, most of them just passed through my life like so many others had before. They each left an impression, favorable mostly, and then were gone. The story of my life, anybody’s really, but the story of this place too, in a special sort of way. People came through all the time. Some would stay for a week, some for a month some for a year or two. Those who really liked it found “vocation,” stayed for what promised to be the rest of their lives. But for most of us, it was a matter of learning to enjoy the place, the people, and then having to leave it all behind.
3.
Morning came earlier than I would have been comfortable with. Six o’clock. And then the rush again. Dave assigned me a towel rack, a space, and I washed off as best I could. A quick pit job, like the others, a floss in Jean-Michele’s case. Some shampooed, everyone combed, brushed. Girls at breakfast, had to be. I liked Jean-Michele right off, a French Canadian who mistrusted everyone that wasn’t. “Free Quebec,” I’d say when I passed him. He liked that.
I piled, freezing, into the van with him and Nick, waited for the others. I asked what was next as Nick read: cold, ungloved fingers on his Bible.
“You shall see, my crass American friend. Regimentation. It’s all designed to keep us from the girls,” smoke puffing in front of the fried Frenchman, both of us stamping our feet.
“You mean we don’t get to work with the women-folk? I’m againest it, I teail you,” I said, feigning spit. “We neaiver do that in Tennessee. Heck, my Aunt Jule, Uncle Bob, they met that way. Been married fer years. . . . Thaiy’re the same person, you know,” I said, tucking at him severally under the ribs.
He looked at me as if my head were on backwards, said “Watch out for this one,” to Tom, who was just entering the van.
“If Jean Michele doesn’t trust you, let me shake your hand,” he said with a huge grin.
“Tainted,” I said, extended my hand, and soon we were all shuffling over, making room for the late arriving, stamping our cold feet.
Once we were on the road I asked Nick what we would do first. “Not to worry. Just follow the crowd. Someone will always be around to direct you. A service of the place, I think,” he said flashing his big Ukrainian smile.
“A nice change from the outside world,” added Tom. “We’ll load up the van for the farm first, then lauds in the chapel. After that, my favorite, breakfast,” (he smiled), “then work. They’ll probably send you to the farm. New people usually go there first.” I nodded, got the picture, breathed a white sigh. Work.