SHORT STORY MONDAYOur hero has just arrived at a Trappist monastery in Kentucky in search of the last living person to have read all of Richard Allen Garston's works. It was alleged by someone in a New Jersey writers group that Garston was the greatest writer of our time, yet remained unknown because of some obsession about not completing anything. Can someone be considered a great writer if their work never sees publication? Joe Urban is on a quest to find out more about this mysterious author of purportedly enormous talent.
The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston (part 5)
I did not attend vespers. Instead I re-read the literature I had been sent and contemplated my decision. In no time we were seated at tables in the refectory in the east quadrant of the house. The vegetarian fare, served buffet style, was consumed in silence.
Having heard that the Trappists here were quite famous for their cheese, I took a liberal portion. To my consternation the cheese smelled like dirty socks. Not wishing to offend, I placed a slice on a cracker and ate it. It was actually quite good. I devoured all I had taken and decided that maybe even Limburger might be a worthy conquest at some future day.
After supper I set about to make inquiries regarding Gary Spencer. This proved to be a greater difficulty than I had imagined. Even though I knew silence was the circumscribed expectation of the Order, I was determined to make my wishes known.
Rebuffed by two Brothers leaving the dining hall, I went back down to the waiting area where I had checked in. A certain Brother Michael or Micah suggested that I place a notice on the bulletin board in the hallway. Even before I walked away from the wall a Brother was reading it. I paused to see his reaction. There was none.
The next morning I woke during the third watch and, unable to find sleep, wrapped myself in a robe, walked outside. A twittering birdsong chorus hovered in the air anticipating dawn. I never sleep well the first night in a strange place and did not have a heart filled with song this morning.
I was staring off at the horizon when suddenly a hand grasped my elbow. Startled, I turned to see one of the Brothers, silently evaluating me. "I understand you are seeking me," he said.
My tongue failed me. "I also hear that you are a writer?"
The intonation was half statement, half question. "Yes. Who told you that?"
"You mentioned it in the application. I used to write some."
"You must be Gary Spencer."
"I used to be Gary Spencer. Now I am Father William."
"Why did you change your name?"
"That's the way it is here. Being one with Christ means being acquainted with the way of the Cross."
"How is it that you are here?" I asked.
"This is my fate. Yet even within the box that is my life there is a measure of freedom. Even a bird in a cage can appreciate the light of a bright morning sun and will sing at its rising. How is it that you are here?"
"Well, to be honest, I was looking for... well, I know it will seem strange to you, but I was looking for Richard Allen Garston. That is, I was looking for you because you once knew him, knew his work, could help me build a better image of him for myself."
"But why? What could you care about a dead man?"
"Listen," I said, "I understand that you can't give me all your time, but you do have evenings free. Can we meet later? I have a lot of burning questions and you are the last person on earth that can answer them for me."
He said yes, we could meet later, though he was not certain it would be all that useful for me. Enigmatically he added that he wasn't really certain that Lazarus wished to be raised again from his tomb now that he was finally buried. We agreed to find each other at seven that evening on the patio below the monk's graveyard.
While our agreement to meet exhilarated me, I failed at the time to perceive that a perceptible heaviness weighed on him. Strange how hindsight is twenty twenty.
I did not attend vespers. Instead I re-read the literature I had been sent and contemplated my decision. In no time we were seated at tables in the refectory in the east quadrant of the house. The vegetarian fare, served buffet style, was consumed in silence.
Having heard that the Trappists here were quite famous for their cheese, I took a liberal portion. To my consternation the cheese smelled like dirty socks. Not wishing to offend, I placed a slice on a cracker and ate it. It was actually quite good. I devoured all I had taken and decided that maybe even Limburger might be a worthy conquest at some future day.
After supper I set about to make inquiries regarding Gary Spencer. This proved to be a greater difficulty than I had imagined. Even though I knew silence was the circumscribed expectation of the Order, I was determined to make my wishes known.
Rebuffed by two Brothers leaving the dining hall, I went back down to the waiting area where I had checked in. A certain Brother Michael or Micah suggested that I place a notice on the bulletin board in the hallway. Even before I walked away from the wall a Brother was reading it. I paused to see his reaction. There was none.
The next morning I woke during the third watch and, unable to find sleep, wrapped myself in a robe, walked outside. A twittering birdsong chorus hovered in the air anticipating dawn. I never sleep well the first night in a strange place and did not have a heart filled with song this morning.
I was staring off at the horizon when suddenly a hand grasped my elbow. Startled, I turned to see one of the Brothers, silently evaluating me. "I understand you are seeking me," he said.
My tongue failed me. "I also hear that you are a writer?"
The intonation was half statement, half question. "Yes. Who told you that?"
"You mentioned it in the application. I used to write some."
"You must be Gary Spencer."
"I used to be Gary Spencer. Now I am Father William."
"Why did you change your name?"
"That's the way it is here. Being one with Christ means being acquainted with the way of the Cross."
"How is it that you are here?" I asked.
"This is my fate. Yet even within the box that is my life there is a measure of freedom. Even a bird in a cage can appreciate the light of a bright morning sun and will sing at its rising. How is it that you are here?"
"Well, to be honest, I was looking for... well, I know it will seem strange to you, but I was looking for Richard Allen Garston. That is, I was looking for you because you once knew him, knew his work, could help me build a better image of him for myself.""But why? What could you care about a dead man?"
"Listen," I said, "I understand that you can't give me all your time, but you do have evenings free. Can we meet later? I have a lot of burning questions and you are the last person on earth that can answer them for me."
He said yes, we could meet later, though he was not certain it would be all that useful for me. Enigmatically he added that he wasn't really certain that Lazarus wished to be raised again from his tomb now that he was finally buried. We agreed to find each other at seven that evening on the patio below the monk's graveyard.
While our agreement to meet exhilarated me, I failed at the time to perceive that a perceptible heaviness weighed on him. Strange how hindsight is twenty twenty.
CONTINUED
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