Santa Clawed (8 page)

T
wo white five-foot tapers stood vigil next to the altar, the light from their flames making the huge brass stands glow. Two smaller white candles graced the altar, and the sconces on the wall flickered with candles. The monastery, built before electricity, had sconces throughout all the halls, as well.

Life may not have been easier before electricity, but people certainly looked better in candles’ glow.

The service for Brother Christopher, conducted with dignity, left all the brothers in tears, most especially Brother Sheldon. Brother Ed, standing next to Brother Howard during the service, noted that Brother Sheldon could weep buckets at a sentimental commercial. His whisper brought a stare from Brother Luther, who was in charge of the service.

Brother Morris sang “Ave Maria,” a cappella. The beauty of his voice filled the chapel as the flames leapt higher.

Brother Howard’s reception, also by candelight, allowed the men the chance to tell Brother Christopher stories, citing his peculiarities such as a fondness for Sour Balls. Such tiny things helped soothe the shock, the loss.

Brother Speed watched as the others drank wine donated by Kluge Estate Winery and Vineyard.

“Miss it?” Brother Luther bluntly asked.

“Sure.” Brother Speed nodded. “But drink and drugs gave me a ticket to hell. Can’t do it.”

“Takes a lot of discipline,” Brother Luther complimented him.

“Not if you know it’s going to kill you,” Brother Speed replied.

“I never thought of that.”

“You never had to.”

“You’re right. My journey was different. Bland. Boring even.” He looked Brother Speed in the eye. “All paths lead to God, even ones as different as ours.”

“Indeed, Brother Luther, indeed.”

Brother Sheldon, sitting in a straight-backed chair, tears flowing as freely as the wine, stiffened up as Brother Morris and Brother George came over.

“He is with God,” Brother George, a note of unctuousness in his voice, said.

Brother Sheldon may have been a candidate for the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, given his ability to change his emotions at breakneck pace, but he knew when he was being patronized. “Thank you, Brother.”

“We’ll all miss him. He was good with the patients, good with those who came to visit them.” Brother Morris sighed.

“But as Brother George said, he is with God, and no matter how terrible the end of his mortal life, he is now rejoicing.”

“I’ll remember that,” Brother Sheldon said dryly.

He believed it, but they hadn’t seen Brother Christopher’s body. He had. Awful though that was, he did have special status because of it.

“I’d like you to do something.” Brother George leaned over.

Brother Sheldon looked up. “Yes.”

“Take a beautiful Christmas tree to Harry Haristeen. It seems the least we can do.”

Brother Sheldon brightened. “I will. When would you like me to deliver it?”

“Tomorrow.” Brother Morris stepped in. “I know she’ll be pleased to see you up and about, so to speak.”

“I like Harry,” Brother Sheldon said.

“We all like Harry.” Brother Morris smiled. “She’s a straight shooter.”

“Anyone ever see her in a dress?” Brother George wondered.

“Where did that come from?” Brother Morris was amused.

“I don’t know. I’ve only seen her in jeans. I like to see women…you know.” His hands made a curving motion.

“I expect she’ll wear a dress to the St. Luke’s Christmas party.” Brother Morris smiled. “And you know, Alicia Palmer and BoomBoom Craycroft will be there, too. They’re more your type, I think, Brother George.”

Brother George laughed at himself. “Oh, those days are long gone, but I can dream. A man’s still a man.”

The two left Brother Sheldon, who now received Brother Ed and Brother Speed. The waterworks turned on again.

As the head of the order and his second in command walked toward the door, Brother George whispered in a low voice, “I really am going to miss Brother Christopher.”

“Yes, I am, too. He had good ideas.”

“I’m willing to bet this is all about financial ruin and revenge.” Brother George folded his hands behind his back.

“I don’t know. He was always hatching plans for our financial advancement. Far-fetched as some of them were, I’ll miss his bright mind and spirit.”

Brother George lowered his head and nodded. “I hope we don’t lose support because of—”

“I’m sure the people who have been so generous to us in the past will continue.”

Brother George smiled slightly. “You’re right. I need to push my fears back.”

“Trust in the Lord.” Brother Morris smiled broadly.

S
hining baby blue because of the snow, the Blue Ridge Mountains cast a benevolent presence over the rolling foothills of central Virginia. At this point the clear sky heightened the beauty of the scene. Occasional small squalls popped up, and the weatherman predicted a major storm within the week. One of the joys—or not, depending on one’s temperament—of living in this blessed part of the world was the variability of the weather.

Harry thought about that as she headed east from Crozet, arriving at Jean Keelo’s house in the attractive and expensive subdivision next to the Boar’s Head Inn. Originally, Harry, Susan, Racquel, and Jean had planned to gather at the South River Grill, off Route 340 in Waynesboro. They could have lunch without seeing too many people they knew and therefore could stick to business. However, going over Afton Mountain, even when the roads were passable, seemed imprudent. No matter how hard crews worked, the roads iced over, given the elevation. Invariably some fool would fly by at seventy miles an hour, lose control, and spin around—if they were lucky. If not, they crashed into other cars or sailed over the guardrail to the depths below.

Harry and Susan served on the vestry board of St. Luke’s. Racquel Deeds headed the refreshments committee, and Jean Keelo acted as her second banana. It had been that way since they met at Miami University. When Racquel became president of the sorority in her senior year, Jean, naturally, served as vice president.

Harry parked her truck behind Susan’s Audi station wagon and Racquel’s sparkling new Range Rover. She hastened to the front door, picked up the pineapple brass door knocker, and gave two sharp raps.

Jean opened the door. “Harry, come on in. Cold, isn’t it?”

“Does bring a tingle to the toes,” Harry agreed as she shed her coat, which Racquel hung in the small cloakroom.

Harry then handed her hostess a small, nicely wrapped Christmas present.

“Harry, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s a small thing, but you’ll use it.” Harry had found some Crane paper with a gold pineapple on it.

Jean loved pineapples as the symbol of hospitality, plus she liked eating them.

Harry had also found some special stationery for Racquel, from the firm Dempsey & Carroll. Whereas Jean’s paper was cream, Racquel’s was stark white with a green grasshopper at the top. Racquel liked drinking grasshoppers. Of late, Racquel liked drinking.

Harry would give Susan her gift on Christmas Eve.

Ushered into the dining room, which was Williamsburg in inspiration, Harry hugged and kissed everyone. Women have to make a fuss or everyone assumes something is wrong. She handed Racquel her gift as she sat down. Her place was marked by a card executed with perfect penmanship and held up by a tiny brass pineapple.

“Jean, thanks for doing this, and at Christmas no less. Your tree is gorgeous.”

Harry noticed that Jean had put her own card next to Harry’s. As they were four and on good terms, no need for Jean to head the table. She was quite sensitive and proper about these things.

“I’ll admit this to you. I hate stringing lights on a tree, and Bill makes such a fuss…well”—she didn’t need to mention how this could sour a holiday—“this year I hired two women to purchase a tree to my specifications and to decorate it. Victorian.”

“It’s stunning.” Susan sipped her white wine. “Given that I have slave labor”—she meant her children, who were adults now—“I put them to work. What a mean mother I am.”

They laughed because Susan, a devoted mother, had proved smart enough to know when to cut the apron strings.

Lunch started with a salad. Harry loved the tiny mandarin oranges. Next came a hot potato soup in homage to the season, and that, too, was delicious. Then Jean served the main dish, which was sliced capon with a light currant sauce, wild rice, and snow peas.

The four ate with enthusiasm. Harry, although not a gourmand—a hamburger girl, really—did appreciate that such a meal took time and thought, plus it tasted wonderful.

By the time dessert came, called “the Bomb” by Racquel, life was good. The Bomb proved to be a round ball of chocolate chip ice cream on a thin brownie with raspberry sauce drizzled over it.

“Do you call it the Bomb because it looks like a cannonball?” Susan inquired.

Racquel, on her second glass of crisp white wine, laughed. “No. The calories. It will just bomb your diet to bits.”

“Honey, you don’t have to worry about that,” Susan complimented Racquel, who was five foot eight and rigorous about her appearance.

“You’re too kind. Middle age…” She paused. “Let’s just say when your metabolism changes you have to be vigilant.”

“Oh, Racquel, you’ve been dieting since college,” Jean, who was five foot two and tiny-boned, teased her. “Then when you had Tom and Sean you were sure you’d turn to fat. And look at you.”

Racquel soaked up the praise but pretended she didn’t deserve it, which she did. “We all aspire to keep trim like Harry.”

“Easiest diet in the world: work on a farm,” Harry said.

“How’s the vineyard doing?” Jean politely asked.

“Well, you can’t harvest the first year, but I had a bumper crop. Of course, without Patricia Kluge’s guidance, I think I would be sending out engraved invitations to my first nervous breakdown,” Harry said.

Susan added, “When Mother Nature is your partner, who knows?”

“Bryson and I visited Patricia’s vineyards at harvest time. I can’t believe how much she and Bill have done.” Racquel mentioned Bill Moses, Patricia’s husband.

“He always says he’s the only Jewish acolyte in Virginia.” Harry laughed.

Patricia worshipped at a small Catholic church built on the estate. Bill always attended with her. Like many people not born to the Church of Rome, he found some solace in the ritual while sidestepping the dogma.

“This entire state is in Felicia Rogan’s debt.” Racquel lifted her glass to the woman who, as imposing as Juno herself, had revived the wine industry in Virginia, an occupation begun by Dr. Thomas Walker before the Revolution.

The Revolution, the War of 1812, and finally the War between the States, sixty percent of which was fought on Virginia soil, destroyed whatever progress had been made by vintners. One remarkable woman named Felicia Rogan changed all that in the 1970s, with vision, drive, and tenacity.

“I dream about a tiny vineyard but, you know, we can never leave town. Bryson needs to be close to the hospital,” Racquel lamented.

“Do you ever miss it?” Susan asked.

“The hospital? Being a nurse?” Racquel’s large domed gold ring caught the light.

“Yes,” Susan affirmed.

“Funny you ask that. In some ways, I do. I like the operating room. The adrenaline, the tension. It sounds crazy, but that appealed to me. You can’t think of anything but what needs to be done. When you’re finished, you’re exhausted, but you feel you’ve made a small difference in the world.”

Finally, they couldn’t stand it anymore.

Racquel said, “Isn’t it odd that we spoke of Christopher Hewitt when we made the wreaths and then…well, you know. What could we have done?”

Susan immediately said, “He cost some people millions with the fiasco in Phoenix.”

“We may never know. Best to let the sheriff do his job,” Jean replied thoughtfully.

“I suppose.” Racquel hooted. “But, you know, what has occurred to me is that families are so vulnerable when one of their own is dying. Yes, the order does provide care and comfort. Bryson tells me about it. There may be Christian love involved but I think that order is becoming rich. I thought they took vows of poverty.”

“Never thought of that.” Harry hadn’t, either.

“Like pocketing some donations?” Susan couldn’t think of anything else.

“What an awful thought.” Jean’s hand flew to her heart.

“Cure the disease and there go the profits.” Racquel’s eyes narrowed. “If a disease is manageable, then profits soar.”

“Do you really believe that?” Harry was aghast.

“I do. Susan, you asked if I miss nursing? What I didn’t say is I don’t miss the utter corruption of medicine by pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies. And let’s not forget our precious government, which believes it, too, can dictate to medicine. Bryson can hardly practice anymore. It’s utterly insane and so corrupt it turns my stomach. And, trust me, the vested interests protect themselves just like the oil companies. There isn’t one scrap of concern for the public welfare. It’s all profit-driven.” She paused, somewhat surprised at her own vehemence. “When Tom was born I could retire, so to speak. If I’d stayed in medicine, I think one day I would have shot off my mouth and hurt my husband’s career.”

“That’s dispiriting.” Harry half-smiled.

Jean quietly surprised them all. “What I find dispiriting is that this entire society is sexualized. Sex is used to sell everything. We’re bombarded with images, suggestions, outright taunting. Add to that the fact that we meet so many more people than our parents did or those who came before. Amidst all those people, some are bound to be, uh, delicious.”

“There is that.” Racquel sighed. “Which somehow makes monks strange. Then again, the Catholic Church covered up all those pedophile priests. That’s as shameful as the Inquisition. Lying bastards.”

“It’s difficult to be compassionate when the molested were children,” Harry concurred. “Sex is irrational. The impulse in one’s self is irrational; the response to other people’s behavior can be irrational.”

“That’s part of what makes monks strange,” Jean said. “I grasp the significance of sacrificing your sexuality for the community. It’s your gift, and if you aren’t in a family then you can more easily serve others. The truth is, each of us puts our families first, and we must.”

“True.” Susan found herself intrigued by this discussion.

“We have thousands of years of evidence from every civilization this world has produced that no form of restraint, no punishment, can really alter the fact that people are going to have sex, whether with a socially approved partner or not.” Harry believed this.

“Bryson’s fooling around again,” said Racquel. “I think it’s time for me to have a retaliatory affair to make up for the past.”

“Racquel, what does that solve?” Jean had heard this before.

“Makes me feel better. I’ve been married to the man for eighteen years, and, you know, it’s really true that you don’t know someone until you live with them. I remember on our honeymoon: we didn’t exactly escalate this into an argument, but it was a pointed discussion. We stayed on the island of St. John’s in the Caribbean, a wonderful place to have a honeymoon. The bathroom needed a new roll of toilet paper. Why call the maid? Especially on our honeymoon and when there were extra rolls in the bathroom. So I put the roll of paper on the holder, with the paper drawing down from the back.” She paused for dramatic effect. “He comes in, I leave. He emerges and says, ‘Toilet paper should always have the paper pull from the front.’ I said, ‘What’s the difference?’ It’s needless to add further detail. It went on. That’s when I fully realized I had married a control freak.”

“Bill suffers a touch of that, too,” Jean observed wryly.

“Bill’s a piker compared to Bryson. I try to ignore it, but sometimes I really could kill him. And what’s with Bill’s homophobia? I swear he’s getting worse. Even Bryson noticed.”

Jean shrugged. “Middle age. He’s getting cranky. Everything sets him off.”

On the way home, Harry thought about the tempestuous emotions that a spouse’s affair releases. She hadn’t wanted to kill Fair, she just never wanted to see him again. He had a lot to learn, but so did she. Some men are players. Many aren’t but succumb due to stress, a sagging sex life, or any number of reasons, all of them understandable, not that understanding means consent.

Then she thought about the toilet-paper discussion. If Fair had pulled something like that on their first honeymoon, she would have gotten up in the middle of the night and toilet-papered his car. Their honeymoon was spent in Crozet, since neither of them had money at the time.

A honeymoon is a honeymoon, and theirs, given the rupture and subsequent healing, was continuing on.