using the file on his nail clipper, he levered the top off, and there, in a plastic bag tied with a twisty, was what remained of Carlos. He looked at the white ash and bits of gray bone matter.
That people you loved died was unacceptable. Also that people you fucked wanted you to vanish was unacceptable. But really it was mostly that people you loved died—this was completely unacceptable.
He sat the canister on the nightstand and lit a cigarette, blew out a tendril of smoke. Carlos had been explicit about his ashes; he wanted them scattered down by Bargemusic. Walter had been putting it off, but as soon as it got light he decided to walk down to the bridge. He thought of the ashes floating down into the East River, the fine gray dust burnt clean and pure.
JOHN
ONE
JOHN SHAVED OFF his beard, then laid his surplice out on the bed along with the gold ring the order gave him when he’d taken his vow. He moved around his cell slowly. He was worried about rousing Brother Peter, with whom he shared a bathroom and who was a notoriously light sleeper.
He’d been winnowing his possessions for weeks and had just a stack of old letters secured with a rubber band, an envelope of money he’d saved from his weekly allowance and the crucifix that had hung over his bed. He wore khakis, a white button-down and his tennis shoes as he walked down the long hallway past the meditation garden with the dogwood tree and wood benches and through the common room, where the
New York Times
lay on theround table alongside the
Christian Science Monitor
. He saw the stone hand that sat on a side table and the photo of the order’s monastery in Zimbabwe.
The ratty velvet couch, the bronze lamp with the linen shade, the worn oriental, everything was soaked through with incense and loneliness, and he couldn’t wait to get out. The carpet runner ended and his tennis shoes squelched against the wood. He went up on tiptoe as he passed the kitchen door. He knew Mac was inside preparing the monks’ breakfast.
Mac looked more like a wizard than a monk with his long gray hair and beard. He’d worked most of his life in a leprosorium in Africa, and when John first came to Holy Cross, he’d sat next to him at meals listening to Mac’s stories: the legless girl who rolled around on a wheeled pedestal and the old man with a face so disfigured he wore a hood with eye slits. The central symbol of Mac’s life was the round communion wafer lying in the palm of a leper’s hand.
As quiet as he tried to be, the door swung open and he was blinded with fluorescent light.
“John?” Mac said. “You’re going?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” he said, smiling. “Let me accompany you up the hill.”
John had expected Mac to be angry or at least disappointed, but he wasn’t going to try and convince John to stay or mention the fantasy woman. Mac had said John’s fantasy girl was a robot, an idealized notion of romantic love, impossible to replicate. But now, Mac seemed to realize the woman had won. Mac walked beside him up the long asphalt drive. The trunks of the trees around them were black and creaked in the breeze. John wanted to say something, but the raw reality of what he was about to do rendered him speechless. He kept his hands deep in his empty pockets and his eyes on the white tips of his tennis shoes. At the end of the drive, the red taxi waited, “Brown Sugar” blasting out the windows. When the driver saw them he turned down the radio.
“I’ll write you.”
“No you won’t,” Mac said.
“I will,” John insisted, concentrating on the first line of gray light at the horizon. He had failed as a monk; he had not let himself become absorbed into the monastic life; out of insecurity, he had tried to protect his identity.
Mac opened the car door and John threw his bag inside.
“What should I tell the others?” he asked.
“That I’m sorry,” John said as he sank down into the backseat and pulled the
That people you loved died was unacceptable. Also that people you fucked wanted you to vanish was unacceptable. But really it was mostly that people you loved died—this was completely unacceptable.
He sat the canister on the nightstand and lit a cigarette, blew out a tendril of smoke. Carlos had been explicit about his ashes; he wanted them scattered down by Bargemusic. Walter had been putting it off, but as soon as it got light he decided to walk down to the bridge. He thought of the ashes floating down into the East River, the fine gray dust burnt clean and pure.
JOHN
ONE
JOHN SHAVED OFF his beard, then laid his surplice out on the bed along with the gold ring the order gave him when he’d taken his vow. He moved around his cell slowly. He was worried about rousing Brother Peter, with whom he shared a bathroom and who was a notoriously light sleeper.
He’d been winnowing his possessions for weeks and had just a stack of old letters secured with a rubber band, an envelope of money he’d saved from his weekly allowance and the crucifix that had hung over his bed. He wore khakis, a white button-down and his tennis shoes as he walked down the long hallway past the meditation garden with the dogwood tree and wood benches and through the common room, where the
New York Times
lay on theround table alongside the
Christian Science Monitor
. He saw the stone hand that sat on a side table and the photo of the order’s monastery in Zimbabwe.
The ratty velvet couch, the bronze lamp with the linen shade, the worn oriental, everything was soaked through with incense and loneliness, and he couldn’t wait to get out. The carpet runner ended and his tennis shoes squelched against the wood. He went up on tiptoe as he passed the kitchen door. He knew Mac was inside preparing the monks’ breakfast.
Mac looked more like a wizard than a monk with his long gray hair and beard. He’d worked most of his life in a leprosorium in Africa, and when John first came to Holy Cross, he’d sat next to him at meals listening to Mac’s stories: the legless girl who rolled around on a wheeled pedestal and the old man with a face so disfigured he wore a hood with eye slits. The central symbol of Mac’s life was the round communion wafer lying in the palm of a leper’s hand.
As quiet as he tried to be, the door swung open and he was blinded with fluorescent light.
“John?” Mac said. “You’re going?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” he said, smiling. “Let me accompany you up the hill.”
John had expected Mac to be angry or at least disappointed, but he wasn’t going to try and convince John to stay or mention the fantasy woman. Mac had said John’s fantasy girl was a robot, an idealized notion of romantic love, impossible to replicate. But now, Mac seemed to realize the woman had won. Mac walked beside him up the long asphalt drive. The trunks of the trees around them were black and creaked in the breeze. John wanted to say something, but the raw reality of what he was about to do rendered him speechless. He kept his hands deep in his empty pockets and his eyes on the white tips of his tennis shoes. At the end of the drive, the red taxi waited, “Brown Sugar” blasting out the windows. When the driver saw them he turned down the radio.
“I’ll write you.”
“No you won’t,” Mac said.
“I will,” John insisted, concentrating on the first line of gray light at the horizon. He had failed as a monk; he had not let himself become absorbed into the monastic life; out of insecurity, he had tried to protect his identity.
Mac opened the car door and John threw his bag inside.
“What should I tell the others?” he asked.
“That I’m sorry,” John said as he sank down into the backseat and pulled the
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