Smiling Madonna - Chapter Nine

about the murder
being meant for me or somebody
else in our community?

Travis caught George as he was leaving the Community House.
“Hey, George, is it true?” he asked.
“About the murder possibly being meant for me, or someone in our community?” George returned. “Apparently it is one possibility.”
“Are you okay?”
George was surprised to find himself standing next to his pastoral colleague as someone like him, his peer. He had always thought of Travis as a pastor who didn’t quite ‘get it’ in some ways. George’s voice caught when he said, “Yup. I, uh, I ‘m okay,” but the sound of the words was like spilled crackers, tossed across a large floor, broken and empty.
“So where is this retreat place, you’re all going to?”
“It’s up Highway 2, you know, on the Stephen’s Pass Highway. It’s near a place called Grotto, around the intersection of the old Cascade Highway and the South Fork of the Skykomish River. There’s an exit there and then we’ll go right through Miller River for about a quarter mile. The Horse Ranch is right up there on the left.”
“You’ve never been there?” George asked.
“No, I didn’t even know Barbara had friends out that way,” replied Travis.
“Huh, well the Horse Ranch sounds like an amazing place.”
“I hope it is peaceful for you,” Travis offered.
“Yeah, for all of us.”
“So, Travis, you have the confirmation class and the adult forum on Sunday right?” asked George.
“Of course, George.” Normally Travis might have been taken George to mean that he couldn’t handle him going away, but right now Travis was easily able to chalk George’s questions up to George’s own unease and anxiety. “Of course, I’ve got them covered! No go so you can miss the traffic!”
The four had rented a large van to get to the retreat site. Stephen drove. George sat up front owing to a tendency towards motion sickness. Jack and Timothy sat in the middle bucket seats, while food and bags took up almost all the space behind them. Rear line of sight vision was not quite compromised.
“George, what do we have to do when we get there? Do you have the keys already, or is someone going to meet us?” asked Tim.
“Actually, I have the keys already. The letter that came with them said we’ll need to turn up the heat, but the outside lights and heating inside is automatic. We just need to remember to turn it down before we leave again on Sunday.”
“I’m glad we don’t have to come up any later than this,” Jack said as he nodded out the window to the darkening sky, darker still by the cloud cover, promising rain soon. You know how I get turned around,”he added.
Smiling Tim went on, “We said we’d get there, settle in our rooms, then meet for evening prayer and officially begin the retreat, right?”
“Right, Yes,” was the multiple response.
“And Stephen you got tonight’s meal all ready, right?”
Jack nodded, saying, “I helped.”
“And it’s meatloaf?”
Again the nod.
“So what would we like to listen to for the audio portion of our supper? I brought along ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,’ a little Earl Klugh, ‘Rattle and Hum,’ and the Joan Chitister audio book we wanted to finish.”
Jack did his best Alistair Cooke impression and said, “Right. Actually, I think I think the Nachtmusik selection would go best with the meatloaf. That Rattle and Hum thing might upset my digestion.”
George was about to offer that they might relax and allow themselves to talk over dinner, but Stephen jumped in; “I’d like to hear the end of the Joan Chitister book, but I think we ought to wait on that and just sit and talk this evening, especially with everything that’s been going on for each of us this fall – other than Henry’s murder. That is one of the reasons we all agreed this retreat was a good idea this past summer.”
There was positive agreement followed by a minute of silence as each man tried to put his concerns and anxieties, commitments and work, and relationships outside of the community in their most appropriate places for this ‘break’ in the usual program and routine.
The car drove on, took the highway 2 exit and moved into the foothills of Stephen’s Pass.

The Horse Ranch looked like what it probably was, foundations of an old mountain hotel, built into an enormous house with three floors, plus a loft. When the brothers entered the front door through the covered carport they were amazed to find the large main room empty except for three large chairs, two lounge chairs, three end tables and two matching torchiers. The stone floor looked like it could not have gotten much warmer ever, and it was cold now. There was quick agreement that the rooms were slightly better, perhaps best was the loft room, since all the heat would rise. The kitchen and appliances all looked unused, but shiny new.
“This is really weird,” said Tim.
“Yeah. It’s not quite what I’d pictured, when Sally was talking about it,” said Jack.
It was a strange place. Jack, prone to conspiracy theories, thought that the home’s purchase must have been used to launder some money, or been made with drug money. Whatever, the others agreed, it was hardly a home, or homey rental. Still, the price had been good for pretty short notice. Sally Ames, had pulled a string or two for them to get in earlier than planned. It helped that they’d sent in the whole fee already.
Mainly the evening was spent in good conversation. George saw Stephen telling Jack about the student groups he had sent to the shelter, and what their experience had been like. Timothy played a new piece of music he had been working on in the background and Stephen and George applauded, just having brought out the evening tea tray.
The rooms were better than the main room, so when the four retired to their separate rooms, it was a slight relief from the austerity. The wall to wall rugs were warm and a warm breeze blew from radiators on the floor. Each room had at least a full size bed, George and Jack, being the creakiest members of the group got the more firm queen size beds. In the morning everyone reported feeling like it could be a really good day, and it was. From morning prayer in the main (cold) room, to breakfast and the first presentation from Jack about St. John of the Cross, it was a good day.
Frustrations only began after a nice noon meal.