Рита Браун - Cat's Eyewitness

"More dreadful events might bring people back to monasteries," Ned thought out loud. "Not that I wish for them."

"I don't think so." Brother Thomas tasted the rich coffee. "Susan, this is quite something."

"My husband bought me a coffeemaker for my birthday that cost more than my monthly car payment. I love coffee and I love Ned." She smiled a touch nervously at her husband, who smiled back.

"Ah." Brother Thomas loved Susan as he had loved her mother and her grandmother before her. When he looked at Susan he could see three generations reflected in her face. "Well, Ned, you made all the right choices." He placed the bone-china cup on the side table, then folded his hands. "I've lived a long time. I don't know if I've done much good in this life, but I hope I haven't done harm. The war—" He stopped. "I did harm in the war, for which I ask God's forgiveness. I put the desires of my government before the tenets of God. 'Thou shalt not kill,' and I killed."

Susan interrupted, "If you hadn't gone to war, Uncle Thomas, we might not be here today."

"Perhaps." He smiled at her. "I won't be here next Thanksgiving. I feel fine, but I feel my time on earth is nearly over. I really do feel fine. Poor Brother Sidney, only sixty-two, has to get transfusions of blood to keep going. And here I am, no obvious problems. Yet, I feel I will soon be called to our Lord. I want you to know, Susan, that I have arranged for the Bland Wade land, those fifteen hundred acres that wrap behind Tally Urquhart's over to the edge of the Minor place"—he used Harry's maiden name—"to go to you. There's not much else that I have of value. I thought for years about what to do about the land. As our numbers dwindled I knew the monastery couldn't manage the Bland Wade tract, and I can't bear the thought of it begin broken up and sold. So few large tracts these days. A great pity. Land is the ultimate wealth, you know." He paused again, took a deep breath. "All the pastures are overgrown, second-growth timber on them pretty much. I can't tell you what to do, but if I were a young man, I'd restore the pastures, because the soil is good. And I wouldn't harvest the hardwoods, although I'd thin them. Whatever you do, Susan, and you, too, Brooks, don't sell the land. I assume some day the Bland Wade tract will pass to you and Danny. No matter how great the temptation, don't sell that land. It's one of the last land grants intact. Land is a breathing thing."

A silence followed this, then Susan, overcome, said, "Uncle, I never expected anything like this. I promise we will cherish the land, and I promise Ned will create easements so it can't be subdivided."

"Just leave me room to build a house, Dad," Brooks blurted out.

Ned, with gravity, stood up, walked over, and shook the old man's hand, inhaling as he did so the odor of lanolin from the virgin wool of Brother Thomas's robe. "This is a great blessing to our family. I don't think I can properly express my gratitude."

Brother Thomas smiled, squeezing Ned's hand. "Care for the land, Ned; she is under all of us." Then he laughed. "Since not one of you is a good Catholic, I can't exhort you there." He laughed again. "A Lutheran, Susan. I could have died from mortification when your mother became a Lutheran before her marriage." He paused a moment. "But then, the years have taught me perhaps that the denomination isn't as important as I once thought, so long as one fears and loves God."

Brooks didn't take to the fear part, but she kept that to herself. "Uncle Thomas, how do I know God loves me?"

He blinked, then replied with a depth of feeling that reached each of them. "Every time you behold the Blue Ridge Mountains, every time you feel a snowflake on your eyelashes, every time you see a frog on a lily pad, every time a friend gives you his hand, Brooks, God loves you. You're surrounded by His love. We look for it in all the wrong places as we pray for worldly success. We say that must be proof of God's love. Some people pray not for material success but for an easy life." He shook his head. "No, even our pains are a sign of His love, for they will lead you to the right path, if you'll only listen." He opened his eyes wide, touching his fingertips together. "Ah, well, I'm not much of a preacher. I didn't mean to go on. I spend so much time in prayer or fixing pipes or both," he laughed, "or with Brother Mark, my apprentice. This summer when we repaired the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mother he asked so many questions he made me dizzy. He's still a chatterbox around me." His eyes twinkled. "Sometimes I forget how to carry on a true conversation."

"We will never forget what you've said," Ned replied.

"Well, you're kind. I'm an old man with an audience. That's more intoxicating than wine." He laughed at himself. "Or cognac?" He lifted his white eyebrows.

Ned rose, returning with three brands of cognac—each expensive—and four snifters, all on a silver tray. He placed them before Brother Thomas, pointing to one brand. "I think this was first made by monks." Ned wasn't sure that the precious liquid had been created in a monastery, but the possibility shouldn't be overlooked.

"Yes. Well, I mustn't disappoint my brethren. I'll try just a taste of each of these to see if the spiritual life improved the product."

Ned poured Hennessy Paradis for Susan and a little drop of Remy Martin Louis XIII for Brooks after he poured Uncle Thomas's Hors d'Age No. 9. "Ladies." He then poured some of the amber liquid into his own snifter, holding it high. "To Brother Thomas, a man of love and a man of light."

They toasted Brother Thomas and he acknowledged the accolade, savored his cognac, then held up his glass for Ned to fill it with another brand. He tasted that. "Hmm, the distiller may not have been a monk, but I'm certain he was a Christian." He took another sip. "A very good Christian."

6

Driving slowly through the fast-falling snow, Fair kept his eyes on the road.

"Can't see the center line." Harry squinted.

"It's the side I'm worried about. Damn, it's easy to slide off. We'd be sitting in a snowbank until morning."

"Well, at least we'd be well fed. Miranda knocked herself out."

Fair smiled. "And who would have thought that a big, tough Korean vet like Tracy could bake? I still can't believe he made the pumpkin pie." His shoulders dropped a bit as he could just make out the sign to the farm. "Whew."

As he turned his truck off the road, the wheels sank deep into the snow. He geared down.

"Glad I put the snow blade on the tractor. It must be snowing two inches per hour. Jeez, I'll be out on the tractor all day," Harry exclaimed. "Any scheduled calls?"

"A full book, but it's exams and X rays; can be rescheduled if need be. It's the emergency calls that worry me."

"Maybe I'd better plow the drive tonight. Still be covered with snow tomorrow but not as deep." She turned to look at him as the bed of the truck slowly swung right.

He corrected the slide but didn't breathe normally until he pulled up by the back porch door. "Thank God."

They hurried inside, Harry carrying a take-out bag. "Aunt Miranda made Thanksgiving dinner for you all."

She picked up their bowls, putting in giblets, gravy, and some dressing.

"Hooray," the three cheered in unison as they pounced when the food was placed on the floor.

"Honey, don't plow. It's late. Let's trust to luck. If I get an emergency call we can worry about it."

"Sure?"

"Sure. Let's sit in front of the fire and remember Thanksgivings past." He walked into the living room, removed the fire screen, and began placing hardwood—oak, walnut, one precious pear log on top—in a square.

Harry picked up the bowls, instantly licked clean. She rinsed them in the sink.

"Is a saint bigger than the Blessed Virgin Mother?" Tucker thought for a second.