Chapter 15 19

19 A note slipped in from under the crack of the back door of the kitchen. The note was placed in a sealed white envelope with only one word written on the envelope: Jessie.I found it after I got back from Kate's store.I picked it up and looked at the lettering on it—it was a strong, slanted lettering, but strangely full of hesitation, as if the writer stopped writing and stopped writing several times.There are some things you just know.Just like Bane.I stuffed the envelope into the pocket of my khaki pants as my mother walked into the kitchen.What is it? "She said." Nothing, "I told her I dropped something." I didn't open the envelope right away.I let it rest in the dark pocket, pressing like a hand on my thigh.I said to myself, first of all, I want to give my daughter a call.Then, make a cup of tea.I'll get Mother settled, and then, sitting on the bed, drinking tea, I'll open the envelope.I'm a delayed gratification person, and I'm pretty good at it.Hugh once said that people who can delay gratification are quite mature.I was able to postpone happiness for days, months, or even years.That's how "mature" I am.I learned this when I was a kid eating jelly lollipops.Mike would always bite through the candy shell and eat the chocolate in the middle, while I would lick and lick and finish the candy in painfully slow motion.I dialed Dee in her Vanderbilt dorm and listened as she gushed about her latest prank.Her college sorority organized "the world's largest pillow fight," when 312 people gathered on a softball field and sent pillow feathers flying everywhere.An alleged monitor from the Guinness Book of World Records apparently witnessed the incident. "It was all my idea," she said proudly. "Of course," I said, "my daughter—a world record holder. I'm very proud." "How's grandma?" she asked. "She's fine," I said. "Do you know why she did that?" "She won't tell me, at least about it. She's keeping something from me. The whole thing is complicated." "Mom? I remember—I don't know Maybe it doesn't matter." "What? Tell me." "It was one time when we were visiting her, a long time ago, and we were walking past that place where slaves were buried, that cemetery, you know? Granny freaked out. I am." "What do you mean 'terrified'?" "She burst into tears and said some nonsense." "Do you remember what she said?" "Not really. Seems like she saw Dead hands or fingers or something. I thought she was talking about the dead bodies in the cemetery, but she was so upset I was kind of scared." "You never said anything about it." "But she always Doing crazy things like that. That’s how grandma is.” Dee pauses, and I hear her U2 tape playing in the background. "I should have told you sooner. Hey, Mom, do you think if I told you sooner this wouldn't have happened?" "Listen, it wouldn't make any difference. Trust me. Okay? Something's wrong with your grandma, Dee." "Okay," she said.After we hung up, I made some mint tea and took a cup to the living room.The mother, the TV, and the Rubik's Cube are all there.The Russians had just won a skating medal, and their national anthem deadened the room like a lament.I put the teacup on the table next to her and patted her on the shoulder.The episode that Dee was talking about confuses me even more. "Are you all right? How are your hands?" "Fine. But, I don't like peppermint tea," she said. "It tastes like toothpaste." I closed and locked the door to my room, and, Take the envelope out of your pocket.I put the envelope in the center of the bed and sat down beside it.I sipped my tea and looked at the envelope.Without a doubt, I will open the envelope.I didn't try to save the thrill of the last moment—the slow, brutal pleasure of licking the heart of a chocolate candy.No, I'm just freaking out.I have a Pandora's envelope in my hand.I tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of white lined paper, ragged on one side as if torn from a journal.Jessie: Forgive me for writing you this letter, but I don't know if you'd like to go on a boat trip with me.There are not many egrets now, but I saw a group of white pelicans, which is very rare.I'll be on the pier at the egret colony at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon, and I'd be very glad if you could come.Friar Thomas (Whitt)

whit.I ran a finger over the word and said it aloud, feeling his intimate intent to reveal his real name to me.It was as if he had given me a hidden part of himself that the monastery had never had.However, the note also has a polite side. "I would be very glad if you could come." I read the note several times.I didn't realize that the teacup had been knocked over on the bed until I felt a wet patch on my thigh.I wiped up the tea as much as possible with a towel, and then lay down next to the tea stain, breathing in the scent of mint, the fresh and sweet smell wafting from the sheets, like a new beginning.On the pier of the egret habitat, five or six seagulls squatted behind me. They were lined up neatly, like a small flying squadron preparing to take off.I got here very early, too early.Mostly out of caution, not eagerness.I figured if I'd come here earlier and felt I couldn't meet him, I could leave.Unknowingly.For nearly an hour, I sat cross-legged on the edge of the pier, gazing at the stream.The sky was clear and cloudless.The water was tawny--the color of mangoes and cantaloupe--and the tide was rising, with waves crashing against the pilings of the pier as if the tide had grown impatient.A faded red canoe, almost pink now, lay upside down at the end of the pier, its bottom covered with barnacles.I recognized Hepjibba's canoe.I rode it at least thirty years ago.At the other end of the pier, a flat-bottomed boat painted spruce green—basically new—was bobbing on the water, the sun casting ecstatic shadows on its sides.I heard the boards creak behind me and the seagulls took flight.I turned around and saw him standing on the pier staring at me.He was wearing blue jeans and a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.His shoulders were broader and stronger than I had imagined, and his arms had the suppleness of a man who works in the sun.A wooden cross hangs around his neck, which doesn't match his overall attire.He seemed to have been hiding in a dark corner of my heart, and now he came out suddenly.A real person, but not quite real. "You're coming," he said, and I don't know if you'll come or not. "I stood up. You promised we'd see white pelicans." He laughed. "I said, I saw white pelicans. I can't promise we'll see them." He climbed into the boat and took my hand to help me up.For a moment, his face was very close to mine.I could smell the soap on his skin, mixed with a faint musk that wafted through the air.I sat down on the bench in the bow—Max's seat, I think—and I sat facing back, watching Thomas start the boat's little outboard motor.He sat next to the motor that stirred the tawny water, and with the tiller in his hand, he led us slowly into the middle of the stream. "Should I call you Thomas or Whit?" I asked. "I haven't been called Whitt in years. It doesn't hurt to hear it again." "Your mother named you that, I suppose. Certainly not the Abbess." "She named me John Whitney O'Connor, she calls me Whit." "All right, Whitney." I tried his name.We made our way around the low-tide delta behind the island.We meandered in the creek, and some parts of the creek were so narrow and lush that I could almost reach out and touch the grass on both sides.Over the noise of the motor we did not speak again.I think we're both trying to get used to what's going on, we're disappearing in the same boat in the middle of nowhere in the swamp.He pointed to a school of mullets, tree storks flying from the grass, an osprey nest atop a dead pine.

We followed the meandering creek for a while when Whit made a sharp turn and turned the boat into a tributary that ended in a pool of clear water surrounded by grass six or seven feet high.He turned off the motor, and the silence and secrecy of the place came over him.It seemed to me that we slipped through a small needle's eye and fell into a place beyond time and space.He cast the anchor over the side of the ship. "That's where I saw the white pelicans. I believe they were feeding nearby and if we were lucky they might fly overhead." He looked up and I forced myself to look up. to look away from his face.His face was dappled with light, and there were some faint stubbles. "What's that?" I asked, pointing to a wooden house in the distance. Behind him, about twenty or thirty yards away, there was a very small island. A log cabin stands. "Oh, that's my unofficial sanctuary," he said, "actually it's just a lean-to. I read in there, or I meditate. Of course, I also take a nap there. To be honest, I'm in The time spent sleeping there is more than the time spent meditating." I smacked my tongue and teased him. "Sleep at work." I felt so light, ridiculously light. "My sleeping wouldn't surprise the Abbot, but the little lean-to I'm afraid would. He doesn't even know it exists." "Why?" "I'm pretty sure he won't let me keep it." I'm glad he There is a hidden corner that has nothing to do with the monastery, a little bit of rebellion.

"Did you know that white pelicans don't dive into the water for food like brown pelicans do?" he said. Hurry to the center of the circle. Very clever, really." "I think I must be a brown pelican," I said, realizing how ridiculous it sounded as soon as the words came out.Like those little quizzes in women's magazines.If you were a color, what color would you be?If you were an animal... "Why do you say that?" he asked. "I don't know either, I guess because I work alone." "I don't know what you do yet?" I'm embarrassed to say "I'm an artist."Those words always like to get stuck in my throat.I have an art room," I said, and I made random stuff in it." "So, you're an artist," he said, and I'm not sure if anyone has ever called me that before.Even Hugh. "In what form?" he asked. "I do—I used to do a watercolor-style thing. I don't know how to describe it." "No problem," he said, talking about it. "I was amazed at how desperately I wanted to tell him. I closed my eyes and explained it as clearly as I could." I started with a wooden box, sort of like a shadow box. "I stopped talking. I can't believe I said 'shadow box.' God. I hate when people use that word for it." Wait, not a shadow box; more like a Mexican modeling box.I paint the background inside.It could be a piece of nature, a person, anything.Then, I put things in front of the scene as if they were extending out of the scene - sort of a diorama effect.I opened my eyes, and I remember being mesmerized by the way he looked.He looked so handsome, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, listening to me intently.In the strong light his blue eyes were the exact color of the denim shirt he wore. "They sound fantastic," he said. "Trust me, they're not that wonderful. At first I thought they were good. They were really ironic and weird at first, but then they became conventional and..." I wanted to find one in my head Apt words, "can't be controversial," I heard myself say. "That's an interesting description." I stared blankly at him.Everything I said seemed wrong.I don't even know what I mean by "uncontroversial". "I think, what I'm trying to say is: art should cause a certain reaction in people's mind, not just give people a sense of beauty. Art should give people a little vibration." "Yes, but, you look around. He raised an arm, pointing to the grass in the marsh, the still water, and the sun shining like foam on the water. "Look at all this. What's wrong with pursuing beauty for beauty's sake? Sometimes, when I look at a forest full of egrets in the distance, or see something like Bernini's "Saint Teresa" I'm fascinated by works of art like Sha's Divine Delight. They sometimes completely shatter my worldview and code of conduct, far more than anything 'controversial'." When he spoke, his voice was full of passion and confidence, and he gestured vigorously. For a while, the boat shook violently, and I reached out and grabbed the side of the boat to stabilize myself.I almost felt like I was experiencing what he had explained to me—the state of selflessness.He said: "Of course, I understand what you mean - you want your art to touch people, to give people an epiphany."

"Yes." I said. "This is just my personal opinion. However, I think that the controversy or social criticism caused by art may not really touch people. However, the pure beauty of art can be intoxicating and shocking. It can make people feel To something eternal." I was speechless.In fact, I was worried that I would cry and not get off the stage. I didn't know why I was so impulsive.I haven't had a conversation like this in a long, long time.The boat floated on the shore on the cable, and the grass smelled yellow, parched, and dormant.He leaned back and put his elbows on the side of the boat, and the boat sank slightly.I said: This sounds quite mysterious. ""What is mysterious? ""The kind of eternal stuff you just talked about.You may think I'm stupid, but, what the hell is that? "He smiled." No, I don't think you're stupid.I myself don't know what that is. ""But, you are a monk. ""That's right, but I am a monk who is not firm and skeptical. ""However, I can see that you have had many of these...eternal experiences.And I have no idea what they are.I've spent most of my life being a mother and wife and looking after a house.When you say I'm an artist...that's an exaggeration.I'm just having fun with art. “He squinted his eyes and fixed his gaze on something over my shoulder. “When I first got here,” he said, “I had the impression that being out of this world was better than just living in it.I was always pushing myself to meditate, fast, detach, and stuff like that.One day, in the egret colony, I suddenly realized that coming here and doing my work is the thing that makes me the happiest.I finally understand that the most important thing is: you can do what you like wholeheartedly. "He turned towards me." You've already done that.I wouldn't overly mind having an Eternal experience.You can't create them anyway.They are just some timeless things that you can only taste once in a while, this moment, that moment, you are lucky enough to experience the joy of being out of your body.However, I suspect they will be more important than doing something you love. "He put his hand over the boat and fingered the stream. You're lucky to have grown up here." "Hey, I didn't think so in a long time. I didn't like this place when I was nine years old .Honestly, I only fell in love with it again when I came back this time." He leaned forward again. "What happened when you were nine years old? Do you mind if I ask you?" "My father died in a fishing boat fire. The oil tank exploded. People say sparks from his pipe caused the Explosion." I closed my eyes, and I wanted to tell him how much my father had loved me, and when he died, my whole childhood seemed to fall apart. "The island has changed for me since then. It has become an almost suffocating place," I added.Sitting on the boat, I unconsciously raised my hand and touched my forehead, where the pastor used the ashes to draw the cross.I feel like that place is a dead spot. "And, my mother," I continued, "she's changed. She used to be jovial and normal, but, after her father died, her religious devotion became an obsession. It's as if she, too, left Us." He didn't say, oh, sorry, that was horrible, or one of those perfunctory things that people usually say, but I could see the sadness in his eyes.It was as if a sad corner of his heart recognized an equally sad corner of mine.I remember wondering what the hell was going on in my life.A shadow passed overhead, and I looked up to see a heron with a small wriggling fish in its beak.The shadow of the heron moved directly above the boat, passing between the two of us. "The thing is, the pipe was a Father's Day gift from me. So, I've been feeling—" I'm at a loss for words. "Looks like you caused the accident." He finished for me.I nodded. "Funny thing is, I found that pipe in my mother's drawer the other day. She had it all the time." I laughed dryly, and there was a small, bitter sound in the air.I don't want to talk further about my father's death and its aftermath—the unfillable hole in me and my mother's deepening decadence for so long.I want us to go back a few minutes and continue talking about art, talking about eternity.On a sudden impulse, I wanted to ask him about Father Dominique and his impression of him, but I dismissed the idea.I shifted in the seat and put one leg under my body. "Tell me," I said, how long have you been here? "He didn't answer me right away. He was a little overwhelmed by my sudden change of subject." Four years and seven months," he finally said, I'll be taking my final oath in June." "You mean, you Haven't you taken your final oath yet?" "I'm now what they call a 'vested' monk. You are a novice for two years, a 'vested' monk for three years, and then you decide whether to stay permanently." Then, you will A decision has been made.These words caused a great commotion in my heart.I watched the wind blow his short hair.I realized with a shock how natural it all was, how peaceful I was, that we were surrounded in a little world that had nothing to do with that life in Atlanta, nothing to do with Hugh.In fact, I'm sitting here imagining my future life with this man. "What did you do before?" I asked. "I'm a lawyer," he said, and for a split second all the poise I detected in him was in his voice, in the blazing light in his eyes, in the forceful jerk he rose from his seat. In the act of straightening his back.I suddenly felt that his past life must be very important, but he only said that. "What made you give up that life and come here?" I asked. "I'm not sure if you really want to know. It's a long, sad story." "I've told you my long, sad story." Something unfortunate happened, but, I never imagined it would be so terrible.He told me that he once had a beautiful blonde wife named Linda, and their unborn child, and that he painted the nursery the color of a pumpkin because Linda was in it from morning till night. Craving pumpkin bread.A truck slams into her car, killing both of them.Whit was installing a crib at home at the time.When he was talking about them, his voice changed noticeably, and his voice became so deep that I had to lean over to hear him.His eyes also wandered away, staring at the cabin floor.Finally, he looked at me and said, "The other day, she called me before getting in the car and told me she was sure we were going to have a daughter. That was the last thing she said to me." "I'm so sorry," I said to him, I can understand why you are here. ""Because I fled my hometown, everyone thought I came here out of grief.I'm not sure that's the case.I don't think so.I feel like I'm running toward something most of the time. ""You mean God? "

"I think, I'd like to know if there is a God." "Is there?" He laughed, as if I had made a great joke. "If only I knew." "Even a monk who is not firm and skeptical should know a little bit about this." He was silent for a moment, watching a little egret on the shore. Catching fish on the shallow water beach. "Sometimes I feel that God is a 'wonderful void,'" he said, "and the whole meaning of life seems to be to dissolve oneself in this 'wonderful void.' To meditate on it, to love it, and finally, Disappear in it. The rest of the time, however, it's just the opposite. God is in everything. I've come to the swamp and the gods seem to be everywhere. The swamp, all life, is a dance of God and we should too Dance with it, that's all. Do you know what I mean?" I told him I did, but it wasn't quite the truth.And yet I continued to sit there, filled with longing for his "wonderful void," for his dance.But, mainly, longing for him.A dark cloud covered the sun, dimming the surrounding light.We sat in the changing light as the tide swelled under the boat and kept pushing it toward the reeds on the shore.The boat swayed like the straw basket that carried Moses on the Nile.I felt that he was staring at me intently.I can totally turn my head away.I could have let it be the eye contact I had experienced countless times in my life, but I made a conscious decision to let my eyes pass through time and space like a knife to meet his.We stared at each other for a long time, maybe a full minute.We keep our eyes together.The silence speaks.A searing heat.I felt my breath come and go, something exciting and dangerous was happening, and we were making it happen.He, like me, is making it happen.

The situation finally became unbearable.I had to look away.I think it's likely that we've been honest with each other in that moment, and we've confided in each other.I believe we almost did that.But that quarter of an hour is fleeting, transparency diminishes, and decorum takes over again. "I'm sorry, but the white pelican doesn't seem to be showing up," he said, glancing at his watch. "I have to send you back, and then I'm going to visit the egret roost." He began to pull on the cable.He steered the boat out of that little finger-thin tributary, and we were back in the creek, and he cranked up the motor all the way.My head was filled with the noise of a motor.I turned my head and saw the white spray spreading behind us like the contrails of a jet plane.Whit sat in his blue shirt, holding on to the tiller, with big white clouds floating over his head.Then, I saw them.White pelicans flew over from behind us, clinging to the water.I yelled, and pointed at them, and the instant Whit turned, they soared into the air, directly above our heads.They were bathed in the sun, their black wing-tips glistening.I counted them, and there were eighteen in total, and they flew in a neat and dazzling row.Then, they disappear.Whit tied the boat to the pier and reached out to help me ashore, and I took his hand.He squeezed my hand before letting go.I thanked him for the boat trip.He was still standing on the pier when I left.I walked down the crumbling and broken boardwalk and I could feel him watching me the whole time.When I got to the edge of the swamp, I looked back before I stepped into the silent woods.The most important thing is that you can put your heart and soul into doing what you love.Felt he was looking at me.When I got to the edge of the swamp, I looked back before I stepped into the silent woods.The most important thing is that you can put your heart and soul into doing what you love.