At seven the following Monday morning, Mackenzie was perched on the back steps of the abbey as Mark crossed the courtyard from the lodge. Terry sat next to her, drawing circles in the dirt with a long stick.
“I see you were busy this weekend,” she said to Mark in a stern voice.
“Well, good morning, Mark,” he said, as if having a lively conversation with himself. “And how was your weekend? Oh, fine, thank you, and yours? Oh, very good, thank you. Nice weather we’re having, but I hear rain is coming.”
Mac tried to keep a straight face watching Mark’s antics. “All right,” she finally conceded. “Good morning, Mark. How was your weekend? I see you were busy.”
“Good morning, Mackenzie. Good morning, Terry. I had a terrific weekend.”
“I noticed you framed up an interior wall on the second floor.”
“Yesterday. I thought I would help out a little.”
“Did you do that alone?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Me, myself and I,” Mark said proudly.
“How nice,” Mac said dryly. “Did it ever occur to you that there might be a slight problem because your wall ends in a framed-out window opening?”
Mark nodded his head, pointing his finger at the sky. “Strange you ask about that. I think you might have put the window too far over.”
Mackenzie shook her head in feigned frustration. “Did you consider looking at the blueprints?”
“No, I couldn’t find any, but I know that upstairs room is twelve by fifteen.”
“It is, but it’s fifteen by twelve. The wall you built should be over three feet to the right.”
Mark thought about it for a minute. “Ahhhh. Well, that makes sense. We can just slide it over.”
She turned to her son. “Terry, would you go up and start pulling nails from the bottom plate, please?” Then she gave Mark a further quizzical look. “And the door opening?”
“Exactly three by six foot eight—thirty-six inches wide, eighty inches high. I must have measured that thing four times.”
“Measured what?”
“The door opening.”
“So,” she confirmed, “you used the door dimensions for the opening?”
“Yeah, and I put a header on top. Is there a problem?” he asked.
“A small one. The door frame is larger than the door,” Mackenzie explained.
“Oh,” Mark said in a low voice, his satisfaction draining quickly.
Mark looked so dejected that Mackenzie actually felt sorry for him. She had to admit that his heart was certainly in the right place even though his nails weren’t.
“It was a good effort, though,” she said, standing up. “You plumbed the wall nicely.”
“Well, thank you,” he said, perking up immediately.
“I’m down one worker today. Why don’t you and I go adjust the opening and reset the wall,” she said, “together.”
Although good progress was being made, there had been other less-than-shining moments during the first few weeks of construction on the main building. Perhaps the reason was Mark’s inexperience as a general contractor, or perhaps merely the general disorder that was to be expected when so many people converge in one small area.
But if fingers were to be pointed, one could rightfully point them at the cement truck that backed into the northwest corner of the community house, buckling the new post that had just been set the prior day, which cracked the beam that was placed overhead to support the half-burned roof trusses, which, now having no support, dropped like the deadweight they were, twenty-five feet to the ground, throwing ashes reminiscent of Mount Saint Helens. Pam thanked God that no one was injured while Mark was delighted that the accident, if one really insisted on using that word, offered a two-day jump on his schedule—no need to send anyone up on that part of the roof, because it was no longer there.
Or, a finger could be pointed at little Clipper, who, in his playful puppyness, pulled on the frayed end of a rope that just happened to be attached to the handle of a work bucket that toppled off the scaffolding and swung through the open window, hitting a loose two-by-four that, defying logic, fell back out the window and landed on the roof of Lumby’s one and only police car, shattering the red and blue siren lights. Simon Dixon had stopped by for a cordial visit.
One final finger, of this three-finger hand of fate, could be pointed at Vinney’s chicken, which when taken out of its crate to be fed some grain went absolutely berserk at the roar of the reciprocal saw. Mark estimated that the poultry mishap cost several thousand dollars and set the project back at least two days. Those who knew Mark well knew that it was best not to discuss the details of that particular incident.
In the early evenings, after the last car pulled away, Mark and Pam, with Clipper always underfoot, walked around the compound and through the buildings, which were eerily quiet after the commotion of the day. This was their favorite time together, to share in the wonder of what had been accomplished. They talked about the future, their lives at the inn, their changed priorities, and their fortune of having one another.
“You’re quiet this evening. Is everything all right?” Mark asked, as they sat on the dirty floor in the main building, looking at the sky through the open roof.
“I’m relaxed,” Pam smiled.
“That’s nice to hear.”
Clipper bolted through the door at full speed, made an exaggerated leap and landed on Mark’s lap, and began crawling over his stretched-out legs.
“Clipper,” Mark said in a low, corrective voice, but the attention only made the puppy more excited. Clipper scrambled off Mark’s leg and pounced on his sneaker; it was a rare and cherished occasion that Clipper could play with them at his level.
Pam laughed as Clipper wrestled with the laces.
“Do you ever regret our decision not to adopt?” Pam asked.
“I occasionally think about it, but no, I’ve never regretted it. Why do you ask?”
“Maybe because the inn is so large and it feels empty right now.”
“Don’t worry, honey. Before you know it, it will be filled with friends and family, and their kids will be playing with our dogs, running through the orchard, picking more apples than they’ll know what to do with.”
“Dogs? We only have one.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about that,” Mark said, trying to shake Clipper off his foot. “Maybe we should get another dog.”
“Clipper would certainly enjoy that.”
Hearing his name, the puppy pounced on Pam’s lap, forcing her to roll backward in wonderful laughter, a laugh Mark never grew tired of.
In the evening as Pam prepared dinner, Mark frequently went up to the orchards to work on his trees for an hour or two, although no real progress could be seen given the magnitude of the task. He had come to realize that the orchard was far too large for him to manage alone, and he had hired a firm from Wheatley that was to begin the following week.
Every few days he would also tend to the bees to the best of his cautious abilities, but desperately missed Brother Matthew’s companionship and advice in this area. One of his greatest joys was when he brought a piece of raw honeycomb down to Pam for the first time, unstung.
One of his greatest curiosities was who was taking some of the plants from the marijuana field, tucked so far back and behind the bees that no one could possibly stray upon the field accidentally. Pam and Mark had talked about it, but had not decided what to do about the hemp, as they referred to it, as options were obviously limited. Perhaps as time went by, someone would take care of that problem for them.
At the end of June the Walkers had come to several conclusions: about two marijuana plants a day were being removed from the field; they very much missed Brooke; they wished the brothers would return; Clipper needed a four-legged, energetic companion; and Hank was looking forward to the Fourth of July celebrations. He had prepared himself by changing into—in the darkness of night—a full, well-tailored Uncle Sam’s costume, with tall hat, white beard, and all. Duct-taped to his right wing was an American flag, and to his left, long sparklers.
The Lumby Lines
4th of July Celebration
BY CARRIE KERRY June 28
Volunteers are needed to help prepare for the 4th of July celebration events that are scheduled to be held at the Lumby Fairgrounds on Fairgrounds Road, promised to be bigger and better than ever.
The Quint Carnival will be arriving in town on July 2nd with rides and fair booths open to the public Friday July 2nd through Tuesday July 6th, 10 a.m.–11 p.m. each night.
A petting zoo, clowns, pony rides, pig scramble, huckleberry pie-eating contest are scheduled to begin at 2 p.m. with fireworks starting around 9:30 p.m. and lasting for seven minutes.
The newly inducted Mayor Toby, who received 43% of the town’s vote last week, made no comment, but very much enjoyed the chewy bone given to him during the interview.
Lumby Police Department said that additional parking will be available on Maple Avenue and Tanager Street.
At Saint Cross Abbey, an hour’s drive from Lumby, Brother Matthew put down The Lumby Lines, remembering times when some of the younger novices from Montis asked if they could attend the town’s celebration. But that was years ago, and now he faced the same dire future that he had at his old monastery.
“You look troubled,” Brother Michael said, walking into the annex.
“I am, Michael.” Matthew gazed about the room that he had grown so fond of, which held so many memories for him. “Father Andrew has requested that I meet with the attorneys as well as the realtors so that we can make an informed decision regarding the sale of the abbey.” On the word “sale” his voice broke.
Brother Michael sat heavily in the chair across from Matthew. “I didn’t know it was that imminent.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps I did, but I assumed that it would somehow be resolved…that we would be able to continue on.”
“Walk with me?” Matthew offered, and they both went outside to a sparkling summer day. As they walked around the main chapel, Matthew looked at the glorious stained glass windows. Unlike the grandeur of Montis Abbey, Saint Cross resembled a quaint stone English church. Matthew thought the architectural lines at Saint Cross were more graceful than those at Montis, with round arched doorways and arched windows in all of the buildings.
To the right of the chapel wing, Matthew and Michael opened the wrought-iron gate and strolled through the common-grounds courtyard. The roses were in bloom and the garden’s extraordinary color and fragrance carried throughout the abbey.
“I fear I have not been thankful enough,” Matthew said contemplatively.
“For what?” Michael asked.
“For being given the opportunity to pray here,” he said, gently fingering a rose while he bent over to appreciate the perfume.
“We have all been guilty of that, I’m afraid,” Michael consoled.
At the west end of the garden, the monks walked through an arched breezeway that led to an internal courtyard surrounded on four sides by cloisters, open walkways with stone arched columns that supported the roof overhead. This is where Matthew came when he was deeply troubled. As with the other courtyard, these grounds were blooming with roses and ornamental trees that the abbot personally cultivated.
Matthew sat down on a stone bench and prayed. At times he was angry at God, but on this particular day he felt very much at His mercy. Matthew tilted his head upward and let the sunshine drench his face.
“A glorious day,” a familiar voice said.
“Yes, Father,” Matthew heard Michael respond, but he did not open his eyes. He felt so very tired.
“Brother Michael, would you mind assisting me for a few minutes?” the abbot asked.
Michael looked back at Matthew and saw that he was deep in thought, or prayer, so he said nothing and followed Father Andrew inside.
A while later, Matthew joined them in the writing room. Father Andrew was standing in front of a large scroll that had been placed on the scribing table. The scroll was thirty-six inches high, and approximately three feet of its length of nine feet were showing. On the pale parchment paper were intricate writings and very small, fine drawings of different pen widths; black and gold leaf with red ink highlights glittered under the lights.
Staring at the scroll that he and the other monks had just finished, words rushed back to Matthew: the pointed apex, the serif, ascender and descender, the arm and the stem. Calligraphy had a complete language unto itself, and its vocabulary would be forever lost as the artist’s pen was replaced by modern technology. Matthew was deeply saddened, for he knew that he was looking at one of the final calligraphic masterpieces that Saint Cross would ever create.
With the Fourth of July a week away, Pam and Mark asked Brooke to fly out and join in the festivities.
“You really need to come back. We’ve made great progress,” Mark said on the call to Brooke.
“So I heard…. The newspaper is calling it ‘The Chicken Fiasco,’” Brooke teased.
“Okay,” he conceded. “Not our finest foot forward, but it really is coming along. There’s so much debris to clean up that a Dumpster is being pulled from here every two or three days.”
“Is it framed yet?”
“Almost. All of the exterior walls are up, except the south-facing bump-out. There was some concern about a five-foot section of the original footer, and the inspector thought that we should reinforce it. That’s being done today, so the wall will go up tomorrow.”
“How about the interior?”
“All of the load-bearing walls are in place, but none of the partitioned walls are up yet. By the way, we needed to make the library wall adjacent to the great room a two-by-six and not two-by-four,” Mark said.
“Why so?” Brooke asked.
“The hand-hewn beam was mismeasured at the mill, and when it was craned into place, it extended two inches farther than your prints showed, so the county required it.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” she said. They proceeded to talk about the construction work for another twenty minutes, comparing notes and making minor changes to the plans. After Mark and Brooke finished, Pam picked up the phone.
“The real reason we called,” Pam explained, “was to see if you’d be interested in watching some fireworks over Lumby this weekend. The town is getting ready for a weekend-long celebration.”
“I’d love to, but I can’t,” Brooke declined the offer. “I have two final client reviews coming up next week that I need to prepare for. My thoughts will be with you guys, though.”
Pam heard in Brooke’s voice an unfamiliar passiveness. The lack of her usual enthusiasm and energy made Pam concerned.
“Are you all right?” Pam asked.
“Just a little downcast, I suppose,” Brooke answered. “I haven’t been advertising and decided not to pursue a few bids when I returned, so I really have no jobs after I wrap up these two homes, and that’s a bit depressing.”
Pam wished she could offer a solution, but knew full well that her friend had to make those decisions for herself. “Why not use it as an opportunity to take a break? You’re certainly invited to come and stay with us.”
“I don’t know if I could do that,” Brooke said.
“Why not?” Pam asked.
“I don’t know,” Brooke quietly said. “Seems I’m not sure about a lot of things these days.”
After talking with Brooke, Pam and Mark also called Brother Matthew at Saint Cross Abbey, only to get the abbey’s answering machine, so they left a message inviting the brother to Montis in July as well. Their final call made that night was to Joshua, in hopes that he would know of any littermates still available from Clipper’s breeder.
That week preceding the Fourth saw several significant improvements at Montis Inn. The company Mark hired to manage the orchard brought in a crew of no fewer than two dozen workers who, over the course of three days, transformed the overgrown acreage into a paradise of immaculately trimmed trees springing from beautiful mounds of dark, fresh mulch.
Prior to their work, Mark had never noticed the exacting straightness of the rows, or the equidistant placement of each tree to the next. “Easier at harvest,” one worker responded when Mark made mention. Also, he had never noticed the very extensive irrigation system that needed to be unearthed and repaired. The shed, across Farm to Market on the orchard side, had long been missing the control panel for the water management, but a new one was installed, allowing Mark to program the timing and the amount of water fed to his trees.
Although delighted with the progress, Mark had sadly realized over the course of the week that the orchard was no longer his private garden: it had become an enterprise unto itself, one that needed investment and would generate income if managed correctly. To retain a sense of belonging, he decided to assume complete responsibility for the sapling grove. He went out and bought his first dozen plum trees, as Brother Matthew had suggested he would want to do.
As the diseased and dead wood in the trees was pruned, so were the chapel’s scarred remains of the fire, which were hauled away, one truckload after another. With clean cuts replacing the jagged burnt edges of lumber, the building now looked as though a skilled surgeon had amputated the back and top portions of the structure and rebuilt the side skeleton with timbered straight bones at right angles.
For Mark and Pam, one of the most memorable days of that summer was the Wednesday before the long holiday weekend, when, shortly before seven in the morning, four double-long flatbeds drove up Farm to Market Road carrying the roof trusses that had been manufactured south of Wheatley. Mark watched in awe as a towering crane, skyscraper high, was positioned in the middle of the road, and within minutes, began hoisting the fifty-foot trusses off the trucks and onto the hill across from the inn, which was the only accessible area large enough to accommodate such lengths of lumber.
After the delivery was complete, a crew of ten climbed the exterior walls and positioned themselves along the crossbeams and “sticks,” as they referred to the ceiling frame. The crane lifted the first truss, secured by four thick straps, until the truss was upright, resting on the ground, allowing for the straps to be adjusted before being hoisted any higher. Then lifted another ten feet, the truss followed the swing of the crane toward the inn, gently listing and swaying as it moved over Farm to Market. As the crane arm swung over the driveway and moved closer to the inn, the truss was raised another thirty feet, and within seconds it hovered in midair, well above the framers.
The first truss was then slowly lowered toward the men, who caught it in gentle flight, positioned it, and secured it to the top plates. Releasing the straps, the crane arm was free to swing back toward the orchard to have another truss harnessed and dropped. And so it was repeated again and again, with the trusses erected every two feet.
By five that evening, Montis had a roof structure, a frame on which the plywood, tar paper and shingles would be applied over the coming days. Within those few hours the building was once again given the depth, breadth and height that had been lost with the fire, and Mark and Pam were amazed by the volume of space inside their new inn.
That same week Joshua came with a puppy in hand, a slightly larger yellow Lab littermate, which Mark and Pam named Cutter. So life was very good at Montis. The inn was framed, the orchard was producing fruit, and Clipper and Cutter were assisting by chewing on power cords, running off with tool belts almost too heavy for them to drag, and eating small scraps under the picnic table.
Pam especially appreciated these times, for she could separate herself, if only temporarily, from the worry that was always with her. She knew how fragile the balance was between happiness and tragedy, and how there are very few times in life when all of the levers were up: when the bills were paid, the dogs were fed, her husband and friends were healthy, and the tomatoes were ripe. But she also knew that in a split second one of those levers could trip, and adversity would rush in and flood their lives. That was one of the reasons she married Mark; he always unconditionally believed that the levers would stay up indefinitely, permanently. She so envied the freedom that that optimism gave him.
And it was the Fourth of July weekend, as fun and wondrous in Lumby as in any small town across the country.
The Lumby Lines
Sheriff’ s Complaints
SHERIFF SIMON DIXON July 3
6:14 a.m. A Lumby resident on Perimeter Road reported a canister of unknown contents, although smelling like day-old manure, was lying in the road.
9:42 a.m. A caller reported finding her mail scattered in a field across the street from her home, Canada Geese pecking at the letters. Also, her mailbox had been painted green without her say-so.
10:55 a.m. Lee Bowland, 19, was arrested at Lumby Sporting Goods for making sexually obscene gestures at the bathing suit mannequin. No bond listed.
1:13 p.m. Caller reported that he swerved to miss a moose on Priest Pass and wound up in the ditch.
3:33 p.m. Todd Coleman, 20, of Rocky Mount, was arrested for being an intoxicated pedestrian. No bond listed.
6:02 p.m. Car vs. mountain lion SR 541 west of Beaver Creek. Both survived.
7:17 p.m. Terry McGuire and Brian Beezer, both 18, arrested for shooting trout in Goose Creek. Second offense. Bond was $200.
11:52 p.m. Rick Deen reported the theft of his bike, which he thought he had used earlier, from in front of Wayside Bar.
July 4
12:51 a.m. Lumby resident, identity withheld, arrested for driving lawn mower through town while intoxicated.
8:41 a.m. Allen Miller, age six, called to complain about his mom’s oatmeal.
10:11 a.m. LFD responded to caller who had fallen in potato storage silo and couldn’t get out but cell phone was still working.
7:23 p.m. Man reported that 48 homing pigeons released for July 4th celebration are still missing.
9:01 p.m. LFD responded to call of sparks flying out of electrical control panel for firework show.
9:14 p.m. LFD responded to small roof fire at 126 Fairground Road started by misfired firework missile.
9:16 p.m. LFD responded to man whose arm was stuck in the Porta Potti toilet at Fairgrounds.
11:30 p.m. Police arrest Rocky Mount resident for sleeping in fountain. $140 bond.
July 5
12:41 a.m. Steve Aiken, visitor from Westfield Village, reported sighting Martian space craft at Lovers Landing.
7:03 a.m. Man reported feeling dizzy after smelling fungus on Canada geese dung in backyard.
10:21 a.m. Owner of Lumby Hair Salon reported break-in. No damage or stolen property but two mannequin heads were super glued together in lip-lock position.
6:06 p.m. Mrs. Hutchings reported small black bear going into neighbor’s garage.
What Mark and Pam would always remember most from that weekend had little to do with the holiday celebrations, and more to do with an illegal entry that Mark felt Sheriff Dixon would understand if they had been caught in the act.
On Monday, the fifth of July, well before dawn while the town still slept off the prior night’s festivities, Pam and Mark quietly drove up Farm to Market Road. Just before coming into Lumby, they turned off their car lights and pulled into the parking lot of the First Presbyterian Church.
Although they had always intended to become members as soon as their lives settled down, they had not yet talked to the minister. Nor had they even visited this church, which proved to be a significant disadvantage that morning. In the darkness before dawn, Mark and Pam walked around the chapel, first trying the primary doors, which were all locked, then the secondary doors.
“I thought churches were always open,” Pam whispered.
“They must be giving God a break at night,” Mark said.
Circling the chapel a second time, they began to check the windows. On the backside of the sanctuary, Mark fell into a window well that was hidden behind an enormous shrub.
“Jeez,” he cried out as his shoulder glanced off the metal rim.
“Shhh,” Pam quieted him. She looked around, waiting for a light to come on in the pastor’s residence, but it remained dark.
“Try the window before you crawl out,” Pam reminded him.
Although Mark would have never gone down into the well intentionally, it was good fortune that he stumbled into it because he found a large window unlocked. With gentle maneuvering, he made his way in, then took several minutes to locate the side entrance.
“This place is gorgeous,” Mark said, holding the door open for Pam, Clipper and Cutter.
“How do you know? It’s pitch-black inside.”
“No, it’s not. There are a couple of night-lights in the back of the chapel. Come see,” he said excitedly, and led the way with the puppies acting very unlike themselves—remaining quiet and staying close by.
They walked to the front of the chapel, which was dimly lit as Mark had said. Pam opened the satchel she was carrying and took out several large candles, placing them on the steps leading up to the altar. Mark followed immediately behind and lit one after another. And then they waited.
As the gentle light of dawn began to illuminate the stained glass windows that surrounded them, Mark and Pam finally faced each other, took each other’s hands, and in soft words repeated the vows that they had said to one another twenty years ago to the day and to the hour in a small Presbyterian church in Massachusetts.