Brother Odd

Even Brother Timothy, on a dangerous sugar high and crazed by Kit Kat guilt, didn’t scare me.

The glowering Russian staying on the second floor of the guesthouse was a more deserving object of suspicion. He did not wear a porkpie hat, but he had a dour demeanor and secretive ways.

My months of peace and contemplation were at an end.

The demands of my gift, the silent but insistent pleas of the lingering dead, the terrible losses that I had not always been able to prevent: These things had driven me to the seclusion of St. Bartholomew’s Abbey. I needed to simplify my life.

I had not come to this high redoubt forever. I had only asked God for a time-out, which had been granted, but now the clock was ticking again.

When I backed out of the heating-and-cooling-system schema, the computer monitor went to black with a simple white menu. In that more reflective screen, I saw movement behind me.

For seven months, the abbey had been a still point in the river, where I turned in a lazy gyre, always in sight of the same familiar shore, but now the true rhythm of the river asserted itself. Sullen, untamed, and intractable, it washed away my sense of peace and washed me toward my destiny once more.

Expecting a hard blow or the thrust of something sharp, I spun the office chair around, toward the source of the reflection in the computer screen.

CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_8466a2d9-442c-5996-a8dc-fe2b9dd58305)

My spine had gone to ice and my mouth to dust in fear of a nun.

Batman would have sneered at me, and Odysseus would have cut me no slack, but I would have told them that I had never claimed to be a hero. At heart, I am only a fry cook, currently unemployed.

In my defense, I must note that the worthy who had entered the computer room was not just any nun, but Sister Angela, whom the others call Mother Superior. She has the sweet face of a beloved grandmother, yes, but the steely determination of the Terminator.

Of course I mean the good Terminator from the second movie in the series.

Although Benedictine sisters usually wear gray habits or black, these nuns wear white because they are a twice-reformed order of a previously reformed order of post-reform Benedictines, although they would not want to be thought of as being aligned with either Trappist or Cistercian principles.

You don’t need to know what that means. God Himself is still trying to figure it out.

The essence of all this reformation is that these sisters are more orthodox than those modern nuns who seem to consider themselves social workers who don’t date. They pray in Latin, never eat meat on Friday, and with a withering stare would silence the voice and guitar of any folksinger who dared to offer a socially relevant tune during Mass.

Sister Angela says she and her sisters hark back to a time in the first third of the previous century when the Church was confident of its timelessness and when “the bishops weren’t crazy.” Although she wasn’t born until 1945 and never knew the era she admires, she says that she would prefer to live in the ’30s than in the age of the Internet and shock jocks broadcasting via satellite.

I have some sympathy for her position. In those days, there were no nuclear weapons, either, no organized terrorists eager to blow up women and children, and you could buy Black Jack chewing gum anywhere, and for no more than a nickel a pack.

This bit of gum trivia comes from a novel. I have learned a great deal from novels. Some of it is even true.

Settling into the second chair, Sister Angela said, “Another restless night, Odd Thomas?”

From previous conversations, she knew that I don’t sleep as well these days as I once did. Sleep is a kind of peace, and I have not yet earned peace.

“I couldn’t go to bed until the snow began to fall,” I told her. “I wanted to see the world turn white.”

“The blizzard still hasn’t broken. But a basement room is a most peculiar place to stand watch for it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She has a certain lovely smile that she can sustain for a long time in patient expectancy. If she held a sword over your head, it would not be as effective an instrument of interrogation as that forbearing smile.

After a silence that was a test of wills, I said, “Ma’am, you look as though you think I’m hiding something.”

“Are you hiding something, Oddie?”

“No, ma’am.” I indicated the computer. “I was just checking on the school’s mechanical systems.”

“I see. Then you’re covering for Brother Timothy? Has he been committed to a clinic for Kit Kat addiction?”

“I just like to learn new things around here … to make myself useful,” I said.

“Your breakfast pancakes every weekend are a greater grace than any guest of the abbey has ever brought to us.”

“Nobody’s cakes are fluffier than mine.”

Her eyes are the same merry blue as the periwinkles on the Royal Doulton china that my mother owned, pieces of which Mom, from time to time, threw at the walls or at me. “You must have had quite a loyal following at the diner where you worked.”

“I was a star with a spatula.”

She smiled at me. Smiled and waited.

“I’ll make hash browns this Sunday. You’ve never tasted my hash browns.”

Smiling, she fingered the beaded chain on her pectoral cross.

I said, “The thing is, I had a bad dream about an exploding boiler.”

“An exploding-boiler dream?”

“That’s right.”

“A real nightmare, was it?”

“It left me very anxious.”

“Was it one of our boilers exploding?”

“It might have been. In the dream, the place wasn’t clear. You know how dreams are.”

A twinkle brightened her periwinkle eyes. “In this dream, did you see nuns on fire, screaming through a snowy night?”

“No, ma’am. Good heavens, no. Just the boiler exploding.”

“Did you see disabled children flinging themselves from windows full of flame?”

I tried silence and a smile of my own.

She said, “Are your nightmares always so thinly plotted, Oddie?”

“Not always, ma’am.”