Smiling Madonna - Chapter Five

...were
watching the
pastor come
and gowith the dog

George was at home later that day and answered the phone.
“Hello, Community House, George speaking.”
“I want to talk with someone about what I saw the other morning at the Simpson House.”
George was caught off guard, a little confused. “Have you spoken to the police?”
“I want to speak to the pastor who usually walks the dog on Tuesdays, the day of the murder.”
George felt a chill on his neck.
“Why do you want to speak with him?” The little community was pretty good, not only at keeping pastoral confidences, but also with insulating one another from all kinds of marketing and other time occupying interruptions. Speaking in the third person was almost a habit.
“I… I saw the same car parked in the neighborhood each Tuesday for three weeks. It looked like they were watching the pastor come and go with the dog – then the other man came and that is the day that man was killed,” said the woman.
“Can I ask who you are?”
“I can’t tell you that. I can’t –“ Abruptly the line cut off.
George didn’t see a phone number listed in the caller ID. He couldn’t call back.

George hung his feet over the side of the bed until they pressed firmly to the carpeted floor. He squeezed his eyes and then his toes. What had woken him from such a heavy sleep? The alarm would go off in ten minutes anyway, so George dressed in his chapel clothes and made his way down to the basement area the brothers had set aside for prayers and worship.
This ‘morning’ chapel was one of the ways of living which the little community found gave them the greatest sense of having a monastic life. It wasn’t the fact that the time together in prayer was at 5:30 am. It was the actual waking up alone, to immediately join with several other people who also were dedicated to this joint opening their eyes to the Divine.

George took his seat in the cool dark room ringed with chairs. He felt rather than saw that Jack was already sitting quietly in his favorite place. Minutes passed, in silence and slow breathing of the Divine Name, until there came the rustle of clothing of the other two members of the household. One took up his favorite position.
It was Timothy’s turn to turn on the lights and prepare the space. Before entering the room, he pressed the dimmer, raised the level of light, and moved to the tall table in the center of the room, where he lit the big white candle standing at its center.
An amazing amount of light is thrown off by a little candle flame, especially if you’re used to the dark.
Then Tim went back to the doorway in the dancing shadows, and reached outside to flick the switch on the ring of halogen lights reflecting off the walls to warmly illumine the room.
George saw his fellows gather themselves and their prayer books up, resting the small 3 ring binders on their laps. Their eyes adjusting, Jack picked up the singing bowl and struck it three times, stretching out the last tone for a long moment. Then George began the day’s words with: “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God…”
They finished morning chapel, grabbed some coffee and were sitting down to the daily meeting. George needed to report on the meeting with the bishop and what happened with Sheila Simpson and the police. Jack was due to talk about some financial things and Stephen the possibility of allowing guests to come stay overnight at the house. Tim was the notetaker for the week’s meetings.
It was probably only a romantic notion which they had, that the community living a monastic life would actually still be around for someone to want in their archives.
George thought, “At least that’s how I’m feeling today.” ‘It could happen,’ a group of men living together in a monastic house could spark a new thing in a tradition which was in part made popular by releasing people from monastic vows which they had made when they were too young, too naïve, or just felt there was no other option. ‘It could happen,’ but George was doubtful today.
It was decided that; the community’s finances were fine, they would keep exploring what it would mean to allow guests to spend the night in the second floor rooms, and the bishop was being tentative and politically correct about recognizing the community. While the last item was disappointing and might result in the loss of official status for Timothy and Stephen, the brothers did not imagine that finally they would have to choose whether or not to be recognized as clergy.

George and Timothy shared a cup of tea, looking out over Green Lake, from Simpson House. The deck out back had been put in by the congregation a few years ago, but it stood the test of seasons very well. Timothy looked over to the side of the deck, where Stephen’s herbs looked a little droopy and got up to water them with a can still partly filled. George dipped a spoon and wrapped the tea bag around it, squeezing out the last tasty drops of peppermint.

As Tim sat down again, he said, “How is Travis doing?”
“What? I think he’s doing pretty well. What makes you ask?” said George.
“I dunno. I thought he looked a little down, or tired on Sunday,” offered Tim.
“Hmm. I guess I didn’t see that,” said George. “He has been working a lot on the Mexico Mission trip and trying to get fundraising for it. Pulling the strings all together for that bunch of balloons to go all in one direction is a pretty big deal.”
“Yes,” then after a brief pause, Tim asked, “How about you? How are you doing?”
“I’m alright. I feel a little in a haze after Henry’s death. A murder that close is a scary thing. How are you doing about it?
“You know, I have been pretty focused too, with the things going at the Udub, trying to pull the balloons together, as you said, for the annual ecumenical commission meetings in a month. The student groups have been working really hard, but they’re students, so I’ve been trying to tie down loose ends, speakers, accommodations, rooms, you know… I guess I haven’t really had time to process the thing with Henry,” said Tim.
“Maybe that’s something we ought to do as a community. It would be really helpful for me in my role as Senior Pastor at GLL. I don’t want it to be something that is looping around with energy we could be focusing elsewhere, more usefully,” said George.
“Right. How about this Tuesday, at the big chapter meeting?” suggested Tim.
“That’s a good idea. We’ll ask Jack if he would reschedule his presentation on John of the Cross. Would you ask him about that? Maybe even suggest that he might still lead the opening and closing meditations? I won’t be home until late tonight, after he will have gone to bed. There’s an education committee meeting and then a worship and music team session.”
“Okay. I can do that.”

A gust of wind blew into the kitchen where Tim was making dinner. He realized that the front door must be open and then heard it close. It would be Jack getting home. Tim ducked through the hall to the entry and found Jack taking off his trench coat, which was dribbling rain. The spattering of rain had picked up a little in the last few minutes, slashing the clear glass on either side of the door with droplets. Weather does change in a snap in Western Washington.

Jack said, “Sure, that’s not a problem, it will work out for me too. I have to get some things done by Friday for the Shelter Board and it will give me a little more leeway.”
“Thanks, Jack” said Tim. “How are you doing with the murder at Sheila’s place? I know you have been friends with her even longer than George, since you have been here longer.”
“Honestly, Tim, I am having a hard time. I knew Henry pretty well too. He was a good guy when, I mean he was always a good guy, but he helped me out when I was looking for support for the shelter. He had never been involved in that kind of ministry before, and for about five years he really beat the drum for me, getting money and just ‘awareness’ of homelessness out there. That was a long time ago, but we’ve always had a special friendship. I am really angry and sad. The meeting on Tuesday will be good for me.”
The two men hugged one another’s shoulders, standing next each other in the entry of the house.

The coroners report read something like, gruesome death by asphyxiation after the trachea was punctured, cut in half, by a fairly sharp object. By the aluminium shavings and dirt recovered from the neck wound, the object might have been a garden instrument. A big sharp object. The report described the blow as being quite powerful, and coming from an angle that suggested someone of stature, who was right handed. The police would wonder for some time what could be the instrument of this murder.
Weeks later they would find an old aluminum shovel, used to scrape up leaves and dirt on pavement. The leading edge had been sharpened by years of use on smooth sidewalks around the church’s physical plant. They found it in a storage shed in the back corner of the church lot. It was a shed that was locked almost all the time, but could not be proven to be locked most of the time. Anyone could have taken the shovel, used it horribly, and put it back. It was clean when the police found it. “Clean” of blood residue anyway.


next week: finish the message?