Smiling Madonna - Chapter Eleven

I read the gospels
to say that Jesus
was especially gifted @ showing how many
ways people’s actions
reveal who ought to point fingers at themselves

“How could you let this happen?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s a problem with the construction of the whole house – the plumbing is just a little off. I told you the downstairs bathroom was going to cause problems when the water table gets too high.”
Iliana Morrisons’s niece was not at all pleased about the real estate management role into which she had been pushed. Only the promise of a significant return on her investment kept her attentive to the details of her plan – that and her husbands near Anguish about he had been overlooked. He had been sideswiped after all.

Plumbing did not, in the end, dominate the evening. The basement toilet’s sewage extraction pump was fixed. Apparently it wasn’t actually broken, only needing an adjustment of a particular hose or cable, or that’s what the plumber related as he finally left.

After Stephen’s spotted the bakery just 10 minutes after wandering around a couple historic markers and the museum at Avenue A, the four were on their way back to the ranch.

Just before leaving Stephen said, “Hey, Tim, tell Jack to come over here.”
When Jack and George arrived to see the marker describing the origin of the name of the town, Stephen said, “That’s funny! Jack you could be from here, you’re always pointing a finger at someone.”
Jack answered, “What is amazing is how today, branding has made us think that the only names we can use are ones are memorable because they are new. Stephen, I would be slightly offended except that I read the gospels to say that Jesus was especially gifted at showing how many ways people’s actions reveal that they are the ones who ought to point “index” fingers at themselves.”
“Uh, you got me. Point taken. Touché, I give already,” said Stephen.
“Yes, I would think so, since I have Jesus in my corner.”
“Ouch!” said George.
“Yeah, wow! That was a ‘shut out’ on a triple play,” said Tim.
After that, the conversations got much lighter, rambling on to old stories of getting shut down; ranging from seminary to high school, with a similar variety of topics from dating to keen but aging parents. This all continued as the four returned to their vehicle and drove up the dark road.
Small white lights, in distant, seemingly random locations lit the shiny black pavement, the few businesses, and the receding houses. It seemed the houses had been built further and further from the street as they left town, entering a deeper cold night toward the ranch house.

Parking again under the carport, Stephen grabbed his find and carried it up the stairs to the royal blue tiled kitchen. On the way up the stairs, the four saw a note taped to the door of the downstairs bath. It read: “Fixed, adjusted a cable, ought to work fine now- and for the rest of the weekend! –James.”

Supper, like their other meals, was around a large redwood table, sanded smooth and finished only with what smelled like lemon oil wax. Soup was good and went very well with the local rough bread. After eating it would be slightly more difficult to focus on Jack’s presentation, but Jack was prepared to make it work, using a slide show.
Jack continued, “You see in this slide, a diagram of the ‘Ascent’ drawn in St. John’s own hand…” It was a good presentation, but after forty five minutes, Jack could tell it was becoming difficult to hold his brothers’ attention.
During a moment’s pause in the presentation, George recognized the process Jack was going through: assessing his audience’ ability, and gauging how long he could go on, or if he ought to quit.
“Jack, can I be the one to say I want to hear more, but I am losing you, because I am ready to crash right now,” said George.
“You know, I was just starting to feel my mind losing focus. Maybe stopping here, is a good idea,” answered Jack.
There weren’t quite palpable sighs, but the clearish eyes of the two other men soon seemed to fog over, so that they even bumped the railing as they made their way to their rooms. It wasn’t long before four men were asleep inside the Horse Ranch.
This made the job of the man waiting outside, much easier, diminished as it was from the plan in effect before the plumbing difficulty. Still, no one heard as he shut the door to the house and left an hour later.

After an excellent morning, beginning with a beautiful cold and quiet prayer walk, George was amazed how full it seemed he could fill his lungs. Every breath was filled with air slathered in smooth and spicy forever-green trees and full and heavy grass until recently marinating in fields all around him. Hundred foot tall evergreens, snowy mountains just over ‘there,’ frosty farms, and the silence of trees, broken only by the Skykomish River less than a mile away. He had a lovely walk, just out the driveway and down the country road, over some small rises until he reached the end at a big gravel road with a thick dark chain. It looked like it could stop all but the trucks it was intended to remind to take it down, those allowed to carry logs from the mountain.
George turned around and walked back, timing his return just right for avoiding a visit from James to, ‘see how they were doing,’ and to remind them of the time of check out.
“He seems anxious to get us out of here,” said Tim.
“Yeah, I can see how this place could be a really nice one, if you’re not really worried about not being interrupted. For our purposes though…” Stephen’s voice trailed off, concluding with a dismissive shrug.
“I guess I may be the one most disappointed, since I have wanted to share the information about St. John of the Cross with you for a couple weeks now.”
“I am sorry, Jack,” said George. “Maybe we should have just gone ahead with the scheduled presentation the other week, but I didn’t think it was a good idea at the time.”
“Thanks for saying that, George. It means a lot. I understand why we all agreed that it was a good choice. I am afraid it probably was. It’s just disappointing to me on this topic.”