Page 79 of Saint
“And when you joined the monk-hood, I thought it was a fluke, I really did. I thought it was just a bigger version of that time you said you were going to help me move a couch and then you went to Belize instead.”
“Well, Jessica sent me an invitation to a festival thing and it was happening that week—”
“But,” Sean goes on as if I haven’t spoken, “it wasn’t a fluke. You stayed. You stayed even when it was hard, and they made you wear a cheap robe and wake up before dawn. You worked hard and you prayed hard, and for the first time in your entire life, you shut up and let other people talk. For the first time, I saw you dedicate yourself to something, I saw you lose yourself in something that wasn’t about money or sex or fun. I saw you make God a promise and I saw you keep it.”
His expression is now something much, much worse than angry or smug.
It’s gentle.
“This life means something to you,” he says. “And if I’m learning anything by going to church, it’s that we have to keep our promises even when it’s hard to do. Especially when it’s hard to do.”
I don’t answer for a moment. I don’t know if I can through the ball of shame in my throat. Because I haven’t been keeping very many promises lately.
I say weakly, “You’re learning atchurch? Who are you and what have you done with Sean Bell?”
“Yeah, well,” Sean says. “Father Jordan has his work cut out for him. But he still tries, which is very sweet of him, in my opinion.”
I’ve only met Father Jordan once or twice in passing—he married Sean and Zenny and has performed all the baptisms for their babies—but his church is one of the youngest and most thriving in the city, and maybe if anyone can reform a sinner like Sean, it’s him.
“Aiden,” Sean says, his blue eyes still uncomfortably kind. “All I want is for you to have whatyouwant. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” I say heavily. “I know.”
I hear the sound of another call coming through, and then Sean makes a face. “It’s Ryan. Probably woke up in a pile of cheerleaders and apple bongs again. I should make sure he’s okay.”
“Yeah. You should,” I say. “And I’ll tell the best uncle you called.”
“You do that. Also tell him that I already promised to brick you into a hole if you fuck him over.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave at Josie—whofinallysmiles at me around his fist—and then we end the call, my stomach all heavy and unsettled as we do.
I put the phone back in the satchel and go sit next to Elijah, who’s now snoring handsomely, which I didn’t even know was possible before now, and I think about what Sean said. I’m glad, as silly as it sounds, that he’s so protective of Elijah, because I am too, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him again. And I’m glad Sean wants for me to have what I want.
But what I actually want is getting hazier and hazier these days. I want itall—kissesandprayers, sexandcontemplation—I want ElijahandGod. I want the right to hunger and to crave, but I also want to be a monk, to find those crisp, keen moments of joy that can only be cracked open through the fires of showing up, day after day after day. From denial and effort and rejecting all else that isn’t a holy life.
Why can’t I have both? All?
Why do I have to choose?
41
“Ahh,it is so good we are having a little celebration in the cloister for your last night with us,” Brother Luc says, “because our prodigal mystic has returned!”
I turn to face the French monk after drying my plate and setting it on the stack in the cupboard. “Really?” I’ve become pretty curious about the missing priest over the week, wondering if he really is some kind of John the Baptist type, living like a hermit and looking like Robin Williams inJumanjiafter he was stuck in the game-jungle for twenty years.
“Yes, now. How much beer should we bring out?” Then the monk grins at me. “Trick question, as you Americans say. We bring all of it!”
Fifteen minutes later, and we are wheeling the old wooden cart into the cloister and handing out bottles. The mood is high with the harvest going well and with it being a day of rest tomorrow. I’m laughing as the monks try to replicate Elijah’s trick of opening a beer bottle with another beer bottle and fail spectacularly, fizzing beer everywhere, and that’s when I hear it. A voice like a melody, a voice made for singing old, ancient words.
“May I have one?”
I turn to see the missing American priest standing in front of me, and he’s not John the Baptist or Robin Williams.
He’s someone I know. Someone I’ve spoken with.
Sean and Zenny’s parish priest, Father Jordan.
I blink at him.
