Рита Браун - Cat's Eyewitness

No one said anything as each man concentrated on keeping his footing. Their long sleeves and long robes furled outward, with the winds dragging them backward at times.

Finally they reached the Virgin Mary.

Brother Prescott shone the beam on her face, snow so thick he had to squint, shielding his eyes with his left hand.

The wind abated for a second.

"Holy Mary, Mother of Our Lord, Christ Jesus." Brother Mark fell to his knees, then prostrated himself in the snow.

Brother Frank, not given to gusts of emotion, took a step back.

Brother Prescott crossed himself. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women."

"She's bleeding for our sins. She's crying tears of blood to save mankind." When Brother Mark lifted his face from the snow, he, too, was crying, the tears cold on his rosy cheeks.

"UP." Brother Frank reached down grabbed the noun man's hand, and pulled him up.

"She's exhorting us to save mankind," Brother Mark sobbed, sides heaving.

"You save mankind one man, one woman, one child at a time," Brother Prescott evenly replied, but he, too, was moved deeply by the sight of frozen blood, which had coursed down Mary's cheeks and spilled onto the upper folds of her robe.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Brother Frank, face framed by the hood of his robe, admonished. "We don't know what's going on here. It looks like tears, it looks like blood, but we don't know and we won't know in the middle of this snowstorm. So I advise each of us to keep his mouth shut."

"She's speaking to us, Brother Frank, she's speaking to us through her tears. We can't keep quiet."

"For a day or two." The older man held to his opinion. "Brother Prescott, you say two women came to you? And you and Brother Thomas followed them up here?"

"Harry Haristeen and Susan Tucker." Brother Prescott knew them, not well, but in passing, as did Brother Frank.

"Won't stay a secret, then." Brother Frank pinched his lips together. "Women can't keep secrets."

"Men can't, either." Brother Prescott bridled at Brother Frank's sexism.

"We have to tell the other brothers. We have to tell Brother Handle," added Brother Mark. The young man's eyes widened.

"It can wait until morning. I need to think about this." Brother Frank took the icy cold flashlight from Brother Prescott's hand, stepped forward, and peered intently up at the beatific face, winds renewing their assault. "Forgive me, Blessed Mother, I am a skeptic and must investigate," he said matter-of-factly.

Brother Prescott shouted, for the wind was now a steady roar, "This could be the best thing to happen to us. You're the treasurer, you know that."

"It could also be the worst," came the measured reply, as Brother Frank wondered not only what was happening but what to do about it.

5

What a beautiful color, rich with depth." Susan commented on the cranberry sauce as she handed it to Brooks on her right.

"You look good in this color, Mom."

"Sweet thing." Susan beamed at her daughter. "I could hold the sauce up to my face."

"I remember when you were tiny, Susan, you spilled more food than made it to your mouth." Brother Thomas accepted the cranberry sauce when Brooks handed it to him. He glanced at the window. "Look at that."

Ned, at the head of the table, watched the snow whirl by the old-paned, handblown glass windows. "We've had an early winter and a hard one. I'm crossing my fingers for the January thaw."

"Might be the March thaw this year." The thin old fellow smiled. "When does Danny come home for Christmas vacation?"

"December eleventh. I miss him at Thanksgiving, but it's such a long way from Ithaca, New York, to here. He's spending Christmas with the Wadsworths, just outside Cazenovia. He's made so many friends up there. They all fight to have him," Susan bragged.

"Brooks, what are you thinking about college?" her great-great-uncle asked her.

She simply addressed him as "Uncle." "Uncle Thomas, I'd like to go to Stanford. It's real expensive, though."

Susan and Ned looked at each other but said nothing.

"Saw California when I was in the service." Brother Thomas gleefully cut into the juicy turkey slices on his plate. "Guess I wouldn't recognize it now, but, oh, it was beautiful. I couldn't get used to the days being hot and the nights being so cold." He laughed.

"I like Mary Baldwin, too, even though it's real different from Stanford," Brooks added as an afterthought.

The dinner continued with talk of the future, what Ned hoped to accomplish in Richmond, Susan's determination to finally make the A team in golf at the country club.

Outside, the snow piled up, making it cozier to be inside.

After their feast they retired to the small den, which Susan had smothered in chintz. She couldn't help herself.

Ned and Brother Thomas talked about whether Ned could continue his legal practice. Susan and Brooks cleaned up before joining them, bringing in yet another round of desserts and hot coffee.

The fire crackled as Brother Thomas reached for a small shortbread cookie dipped in bitter chocolate. "If only we ate like this at Afton."

"You'd all be fat as ticks." Susan laughed.

He replied with assurance, "The Bland Wades don't get fat."

"Well, I take after the other side of the family," Susan groaned.

"Now, Susan, your father's people weren't fat." He paused a minute. "Come to think of it, Minnie was big as a house. Remember Minnie?"

"Those polka-dot dresses!" Susan's eyes brightened, then she said to Brooks, "Honey, I'm sorry you didn't know my father's Aunt Minnie. She died long before you were born. She had a sweet tooth but she was funny."

"Your father put on a little weight in his fifties," Ned remarked, immediately wishing he hadn't brought that up.

"At least he didn't blow up like Aunt Minnie." Susan snuggled into the overstuffed chair, a needlepoint pillow behind her back.

"What a blessing that we could have a quiet Thanksgiving together." Brother Thomas leaned back into his own overstuffed chair, reveling in the comfort. "You know, the contemplative life is fading. Few young people are called these days. In fact, anyone desiring to dedicate themselves to work, prayer, abstinence, and good works, if possible, is considered mentally ill." He waved his hand. "It's all going. Two thousand years of spiritual life, going. Each year our prior struggles to make ends meet with less. It's aging him. Brother Frank, too. There really isn't anyone to whom they can pass the torch."

Brooks, having been raised properly as a Virginia lady, knew that since her great-great-uncle was their special guest, he must be the center of attention. "Don't you think it's possible some young people will turn to a contemplative life? I mean, don't you think some people will find success—what we call success—empty?"

He smiled at her, this lovely young girl, embarking on life as he was disembarking. "Ah, I hope so, but for contemplative life to be valued, to flourish, spiritual life must be paramount. If you think about it, the so-called Dark Ages and then the Middle Ages were a fertile ground for this kind of a life." The fire illuminated his face as he continued. "When Henry the Eighth dissolved the monasteries in England, that was the true beginning of the rise of secular life. Each century has witnessed a further erosion of spiritual values as the center of individual life and community life. Oh, there are revivals, spasms of religious energy, but truthfully, it's over. That time has passed, never to return in a way central to civilization. That's how I read history. And with each passing century, the concept of a whole community's relationship to God, the concept of one's relationship to God, has eroded. It's one's relationship to the dollar today." He shrugged his bony shoulders. "Which isn't to say people weren't interested in money in the Middle Ages; they were, but they put it in a different perspective."