Shelter from the Storm

Father Jerome began his Wednesday morning much like any Wednesday morning at St. Huron’s Abbey – he rose at approximately 15 to 6, dressed in a fresh pair of garments, washed his face, and left his quarters at approximately 5 to 6 in order to arrive at the chapel at 6 am sharp. He recited the same prayers he would any given morning, before heading to the cafeteria to eat the same breakfast of cornbread and grapefruit juice that he’d eaten every day that week. The Abbot took a great deal of comfort in routine with little variance, which strengthened his connection to God and centered faith in his life and mind.

But this Wednesday the 16th of September was not like other Wednesdays at the monastery. A vengeful storm was ravaging its way across the Oklahoman prairie, a category 4 tornado anticipated to slice through Kiowa County, destroying anything in its path.

In addition to the stockpile of daily chores required to run the monastery as it were on a normal day, a few handfuls of tasks needed to be delegated to all the monks in order to stormproof their home as much as possible, before gathering everyone to pray as much as possible thereafter.

Father Jerome summoned the newest monks, brothers Chase and Henry to his office, to give them their instructions for the day. It was decided that the boys would be in charge of filling the barn with hay and other instruments scattered around the grass that could be picked up by the storm.

~~~

While Henry attempted to wheel several bikes into the barn at once, Chase sat on a large pile of hay at the center of the barn in a state of deep concentration. Inevitably Henry dropped a few of the bikes whilst trying to open the barn door enough that he could fit through.

“Are you gonna help me out at all, or just stare into space?”

“Sorry,” Chase replied, “I’m hyperfixating.”

“I can see that.”

“Henry, I don’t think we’re safe here. It’s only a matter of time before one of Berman’s goons tracks us down. I think we need to leave the country entirely. There are passages on the Mexican border we may be able to cross with relative ease.”

Henry thought about his older brother’s suggestion for about 5 whole seconds.

“Leave the US entirely? And do what?”

“We’d figure something out. It’s better than getting caught by Berman. The bastard would make sure we both got the electric chair.”

“In the middle of this storm? We can’t, it’s too dangerous.”

Chase took his brother’s point into consideration. The calculus recalibrated through his squinting brow before he decided “we should leave first thing after the storm passes.”

~~~

Father Jerome had hardly assigned half the chores he needed to allocate when this unusual day was further obfuscated by an unexpected visitor. The man who entered his office without notice wore a dark suit unfit for the prairie, stained with dust and grime especially around his feet.

The mustached man in the dirty suit, a Mr. Earl Debicki, explained that his car had broken down about 3 miles away and he’d walked north on foot hoping to find some human beings with whom he could seek shelter before the storm. Father Jerome of course opened the doors of Huron’s Abbey to the distressed stranger.

Brother Costello showed Mr. Debicki the guest quarters where he was welcome to stay while the storm ran its course. It was a tiny, rustic room with a twin bed on an excessively squeaky wooden frame. With his suitcase open on the bed and halfway unpacked, his attention drifted to the small circular window overlooking the farm as if through a fish-eye lens. His gaze set on the barn, which two young monks exited in lively conversation. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the wrinkled photo of Ms. Berman’s suspected murderers. It was them.

~~~

August 16th, that same year.

The constant, aggravating beep of the heart monitor normally would’ve sent her into a craze. But lying on the hospital bed, looking like a ghost of her former self, Mia Berman’s mind was quiet as she acquiesced to the beeps.

Why struggle? The unrelenting chemo and radiation had tired her beyond compare. She had long given up in her battle with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. But Harold wouldn’t have it. He rescued Mia once from a life of odd jobs, shoestring budgets, single motherhood and missed deadlines. He had the means to throw everything he could at her illness, so why wouldn’t he save her again? Damn the unimaginative doctors putting this idea in his wife’s mind that this was a death sentence – through strong will and the right treatments, and some luck, he believed, she could be saved.

But to believe in his mythologies, it required that Harold Berman plainly ignore the pleas of his dying wife. Mia knew her own body, and she knew his well-meaning efforts were doomed to fail.When she begged him to let her go, she could never make a dent in his veneer of toxic positivity. Just “try to have a positive attitude” he’d insist, dragging her through more treatments, despite the plainly obvious reality that they were corrosive and exhausting.

Chase and Henry were far more sensitive to their mother’s agony. For most of the boys’ lives, it had just been the three of them – their father left when they were very young, and Mr. Berman had only come into the picture some 3 years prior. They sat at Mia’s bedside, and with each passing beep the light continued to leave her eyes. She had been a strong mother for her boys through many hard years and managed to raise smart, insightful young men all on her own – now the time had come that Mia needed her boys.

She didn’t need to say it out loud for Chase to understand what was needed of him.That night he and Henry were the last scheduled visitors before bedtime. Harold was away on an emergency business trip and would not be able to intervene until it was too late.

With a high dose of morphine flushed into her feeding tube, Mia died peacefully and painlessly in her sleep, and the boys escaped into the night without notice.

~~~

Henry opened the door of his room quickly, famished from the day’s chores and ready to feast before the evening’s praying marathon. To his surprise Mr. Debicki was standing in the doorway with a devilish grin.

“Did you really think you could outrun Harold Berman, young man?

Henry shut the door and locked it immediately. Chase was still in the shower and the bathroom door was locked.Henry pounded on the door.

“What?” Chase screamed through the gentle countryside shower. The water wasn’t so loud, but he felt compelled to scream due to the door’s thickness.

Henry kept pounding the door until a dripping wet Chase with a small towel covering his privates emerged.

“One of Berman’s men is here, he’s standing outside!”

As if God himself were listening in, a fiery bolt of lightning struck a tree right outside the window connected to an instant BOOM of thunder. The boys both looked out the window and there it was, not ten miles in the distance. The menacing, dark black tornado spun violently and towered over the humble monastery. Bricks and debris and patches of the ground swept up in the tempest crashed into each other violently, shooting spurts of lightning and fire in every direction.

Before either could say anything or react, Mr. Debicki kicked down the door with all his might. He had the two boys cornered.

“Chase, put some clothes on. We’ll wait here tonight until the storm has passed, and then you both are coming back to California with me.”

With that, Mr. Debicki left the boys to gather themselves and process their reality. They’d spend the night in the monastery until it was safe to leave. Several men reporting to Berman were already well aware of Earl Debicki and the boys’ exact location and would be there in the morning to help escort them back home to face the music.

Mr. Berman washed up and made his way to the cafeteria, where he joined Father Jerome and the other monks for dinner. Seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes piled up with no sight of the boys coming in for dinner. Finally Mr. Debicki opted to go back upstairs to the boys’ bedroom and let them know dinner was hot and ready, and prayers were about to begin.

But when Mr. Debicki reached their room, he was quite surprised to find that the boys were gone. He returned to the cafeteria in hopes of finding them there with the other monks, but to no avail. Gazing out the north-facing window, the storm was closer than ever – the rain seemed to flow sideways and encircle the building. Wherever the boys were, he figured, they’d turn up within the monastery grounds.

Across the compound, heading south, two young monks pedaled their bikes with godspeed, hoping to outrun the storm.