Everyday Ghosts. James Morrison
he was praying. What he was really doing was scanning the ground around him for ants. He thought if he saw them coming he could squish them underfoot, without moving too much, before they started crawling up his leg. So far it was working. He had not detected any ants, but neither had he jumped up screaming during mass, not for days. This was a relief because the last time, Father Gabriel had become so furious that he had taken several names in vain and pounded on the altar so hard that a chalice fell off.
There was still the matter of Brother Walter’s hay fever. To keep from sneezing, he held his breath most of the time Father Gabriel spoke. By the end he felt very light in the head, but he found he could get through it. It must have added up, though. Day by day, the dizzy feeling got worse, until one morning, as soon as the sermon began, Brother Walter saw swarms of little stars flickering in front of his eyes. Before he could take a breath, he was out cold. He slumped from his pew. Everyone turned to look. At the front of the church, Father Gabriel stopped in his tracks, anger bursting in his face. They all waited for the fit to start, but Brother Walter just lay there in the entry where he had fallen, stretched out across the floor, still as any stone. Father Gabriel cleared his throat. “Brother Walter,” he said, “this is a definite improvement. However, it is still a disruption. Therefore, I find fault in you. Ten Hail Marys.”
3
They met to discuss what was happening and what they should do about it. Deciding on courses of action was not their strong suit as a group. They talked for months about what two kinds of juice to keep in the pantry and could not come to an agreement. One of them thought orange juice had too much acid and was bad for the stomach. Another pointed out the benefits of cranberry. Most could not be satisfied, and the debate went on until Brother Frederic spoke up. He took it as his job to remind them of where and who they were. “A little luxury is a dangerous thing,” he said. “Poverty is best for the soul.” A hush fell. If Pete had not known better, he might have supposed it was a humble silence, accepting of this scolding. But he did know better, and the next week there were thirteen kinds of juice to choose from.
Pete was only invited to meetings about matters of general interest. He was not allowed to vote. Sometimes he was allowed to speak. They argued about whether he should be allowed to speak this time. Someone suggested they put it to a vote. Someone else said that was beneath them. They voted on whether to vote. It was a tie.
“But he doesn’t know the history,” said Brother Matthew.
“What is the history?” asked Pete.
“Don’t be rude,” said Brother Matthew. He had a permanent squint that gave his expression a mean look, but he didn’t need the look. He was mean enough without it. “You will know what it is right for you to know.”
“I’ve seen it coming for a long time,” said Brother James, the baker, who smelled of yeast and the bourbon he used in his cakes. “I knew it couldn’t last forever. Father Gabriel is backsliding.”
“The question is,” said Brother John, “what do we do now? I’ve been here longer than any of you. You have no idea what it was like in those days.” Brother John’s hands were twisted with arthritis. He waved them in the air as he spoke. “We can’t go back to that. He used to carry a skull around with him everywhere, tucked under his arm. He said it was supposed to remind us we were mortal. If anyone looked at him cross-eyed he’d conk them on the head with it. He made us whip ourselves every night to keep us humble and he checked for the marks every day. If he didn’t find any, he’d take the strap to us himself.”
Brother Walter screamed and hopped on the table and began running in place.
“These last years have been paradise,” Brother John went on. “Such freedom!”
“Because he was drunk all the time,” said Pete. “That’s no solution.”
“Brother Peter, I don’t believe it has been decided whether your voice will be heard,” said Brother Matthew.
“Oh, let him talk,” said Brother Walter, a little out of breath. It had been a brief fit. He climbed off the table and took his seat.
“It was a fine idea while it lasted,” said Brother James with a sigh, “but now he has built up a tolerance. We should be thankful it took this long. The drink doesn’t keep him happy any more, that’s all there is to it. We’ll have to think of something else.”
“A fine idea?” said Pete. “Do you mean to say you gave him the liquor?”
“A little with his coffee at first, perhaps, until the seed was planted. There was twice as much every week as I needed for my cakes. He wasn’t one to turn it down. It was so good for his temper, we let it be known we would look the other way.”
Brother Dominic sat in a corner filing his fingernails. His eyes were as calm and blue as a dove. He did not look at Pete when they were among others. If he had anything to say, he kept it to himself.
It was agreed that this was a more complicated question than that of the juice. It could not be resolved in a single session. As the meeting came to a close, Pete spoke up again. “He needs help,” he said. “Father Gabriel needs help.”
This gave Brother Frederic his chance to chime in. “The Lord helps those who help themselves,” he said.
4
They took their meals in silence, side by side at tables for two, each one facing the crucifix at the front of the room. One day Pete felt Brother Dominic’s knee pressing against his under the table. He thought it had gone on too long to be an accident, but he couldn’t be sure until Brother Dominic came to his door after midnight. He kept coming every week or two. It did not feel like sin. Brother Dominic never sat at his table again. There was no way of knowing when he would appear at night, or when he would not. Once there was a commotion in the hall outside Pete’s cell and they thought they had been found out, but it was only Brother Walter streaking past.
Brother Dominic had a right to be vain, and he was. He had been a movie star as a teenager, playing a boy genius in a series of popular films two decades before. Years of drug abuse followed, but he looked no worse for the wear. He seemed vexed that Pete had never heard of him, but his disappointment was short-lived. Pete tried to make him feel better by telling him that anyone could see he was still handsome enough to be a movie star. In fact, the word Pete used was beautiful. Brother Dominic ignored him. The only compliments he accepted were the ones he paid himself.
They did not talk much, but when they did, no matter what the subject, Brother Dominic brought it back to his past career.
“I feel like I’ve been waiting for something my whole life,” Pete remarked one night, in a philosophical mood. “But I don’t know what it is.”
“Try working in Hollywood,” said Brother Dominic. “An hour a day in front of the camera and the rest of the time sitting around your dressing room waiting for your call. Now that’s waiting.”
This sort of thing made him difficult to talk to.
They were what Pete had been running from, these feelings, yet here they were again. He should have been more afraid of them here, for if they followed him here, even here, it must mean they would never go away. But somehow he was less afraid, not more. He even got up the courage, one night as Brother Dominic was leaving, to ask, “Do you love me?”
Brother Dominic finished pulling his robe over his head and stood staring into what would have been a great distance, if the walls of Pete’s little cell had not closed it off. Finally he answered. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
That was when Pete knew he would have to return to the world.
5
As a boy, Pete thought his faith had saved him, but if anyone had asked what it saved him from, he would not have known how to answer. Nobody ever asked. He grew up in a mansion on a hill overlooking the bay. His father was often away on business and his mother was cheerful and vague. She was never without