Page 23 of Saint
So near-silence it is, broken only by the sound of the fountain in the cloister and the staccato thunks of car doors closing in the parking lot—visitors leaving after a day on the trails or in the taproom.
When we get to our floor, I make sure Elijah has his key, and then step over to my door, relieved at the distance between us, but hating it too.
“I’m right here if you need anything,” I say, managing to sound normal.
A brow hikes up. “Your cell is next to mine?”
I can’t tell if this is unwelcome news or not. “I’m a quiet neighbor, if you’re worried about noise.”
“No—I. No. I’m not worried. It’s fine.”
It’s the first hesitation I’ve sensed from him today, and it makes me a little miserable. Why, I don’t know, since I’ve been nothing but hesitation all day today myself.
“Okay, then,” I say as he goes back to unlocking his door, and this is so awkward. Why do they never say how awkward it is to talk to someone you used to fuck? “Good night, Elijah.”
Elijah gives me a nod and then opens his door and steps inside.
I open my door—I don’t lock my cell because there’s nothing in here but old blankets and secondhand books—and stagger inside like I’ve just finished running a race. And not a spirit-race like Paul the Apostle talks about, but a terrible, pointless race where the only reward is a cold sports drink and a free T-shirt.
Except I don’t even get a T-shirt. My reward for surviving the day with my ex-boyfriend is waking up and doing it all over again.
I shower quickly, clean my cage and put it back on, and pull on the faded flannel pajama pants I sometimes wear to sleep. (No, we don’t wear our robes to bed.) After brushing my teeth and saying my prayers, I stretch out in bed and stare at the ceiling.
The wall between my cell and Elijah’s is so thin that I can hear the fainttap-tap-taptaptaptapof his laptop keys. I can hear when he pushes his chair back on the wooden floor; I can hear when he heaves a giant sigh and then slides his chair back in again.Tap-tap-tap.
It’s so wonderful to listen to that I don’t even close my eyes. I want to treasure every second of this, I want to remember everything about how it felt to have him tapping and sighing and thinking on the other side of the wall.
I want to remember how it felt having him close.
But somehow, sleep comes for me anyway, tugging me under as the muffled sighs and key taps come from the other side of the wall, and I don’t wake until just before sunrise and it’s time for vigils.
And once again, I wake up knowing that I’ve dreamed of Elijah. The memories of the dream cling and stick to me as much as my bedsheets do.
15
It’s Sunday,so Mass, lunch, and daytime prayer are earlier in the day, and aside from some of the farming and brewing must-dos, there is no work in the afternoon. We are allowed to pray, read, walk, meditate, visit—or take our ex-boyfriend up to the barley fields to show him where the barley for the beer is grown. I tell him about a grant from K-State to grow a more beer-friendly strain of barley while the hot wind whips my habit around my legs and he takes notes in his notebook, and then we go down to the barn, where I introduce him to Father Nathaniel and Brother Amos, our lead farmers.
And then on to the printing room, and the bottling room. And then the taproom, which is closed to the public today, and so we have the entire echoing space to ourselves. I pour him a little flight of our different ales—a dubbel, a tripel, a farmhouse ale, and an abbey blonde.
For the first time today, Elijah looks truly interested. He sits at the bar I’m standing behind, and with the afternoon sun blaring into the taproom, he starts to taste our different beers, holding each glass up to the light before he does.
I pour the farmhouse ale for myself and lift it. “Sláinte.”
“Sláinte,” he repeats, and we touch the glasses together before we drink. His Adam’s apple works up and then down as he swallows, and I quickly turn my attention to my own ale, gulping down a few desperate swigs before I set the glass on the bar.
He sets his down too—empty, since it was a very small pour—but doesn’t pick up the next glass yet. Instead, he turns the glass on the polished wood of the bar, his eyes on the suds sliding down the inside.
“Is this it?” he asks. “Is this really it?”
I think he means the beer at first.
“The idea is to focus on a few core products—”
I stop, because there’s now something in his face that tells me this isn’t about the beer.
He looks at me, and his brows are drawn, knitted together like he’s trying to work out a problem. “This is all that’s here? There’s a church for praying in, cells for sleeping in, and then places to work in? Those are the bounds of your life?”
“Ora et labora,” I say, not sure if I should feel defensive or apologetic or patient or what. “The point is for my life to be bounded, Elijah. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”
