Cat's Eyewitness by Rita Mae Brown Page A

disgust for the world.
    As Brother Frank walked from sickroom to sickroom, twenty-five flagstone steps in between, door to door, Brother Andrew entered the infirmary.
    Neither man felt compelled to remain silent in the other’s presence. Neither would censure the other. Both men respected Brother Handle, his iron rule, but neither especially liked him.
    “Can I help you?”
    “Brother Andrew. Has anyone been in sick bay?”
    “No, but these beds will fill up in the next three weeks as that new flu strain works its way through Virginia.”
    “Thought you gave us our flu shots?”
    “Works for some.” Brother Andrew half-smiled.
    “I see. Shall we consider the flu a scourge sent from God to punish our sins?” Brother Frank liked probing, finding out what the other person really felt. Despite his cold demeanor, he respected a confidence. He earned the trust the other monks felt for him.
    “I don’t,” Brother Andrew simply replied.
    Brother Frank shrugged. “Microbes? Bacteria? Viruses? Haven’t you asked what God wants with these tiny monsters?”
    “I don’t question God, I question man. But as a scientist, I hold that many of these seeming pests have a positive function on the whole.”
    “Just not positive for man?”
    “Precisely. God gave us powers of reason. As a physician, it is my task to use that reason for the good of others. You might say I’m at war with the latest virus, bacteria, even deer ticks.”
    “Lyme disease.”
    “It’s devastating. People don’t realize how dreadful Lyme disease can be.” Brother Andrew, relieved to actually be speaking with another intelligent person, sat down, drawing the folds of his robe around his legs. The infirmary wasn’t as warm as it might be, although it was warmer than the corridors of the main building.
    Brother Frank sat next to him, both men leaning back on the upright wooden school chairs, their sandaled feet stretched out before them.
    “What do you make of all this?” Brother Frank turned toward the lean monk.
    “The tears of blood?” Brother Andrew held his palms upward. “I didn’t see them. And now that we’re held here, I expect I won’t until tomorrow, Sunday. Surely we can walk the grounds on Sunday?”
    “I saw them.” Brother Frank crossed his arms, his hands inside the sleeves up to his elbows. “I kept it to myself; four of us saw them and promised to keep it among us for twenty-four hours. Someone didn’t.”
    “But I’d heard the tears were first seen by Harry Haristeen and Susan Tucker. They could have revealed this.”
    “I called Harry. I asked her to button her lip.” He shrugged. “She probably couldn’t do it. Too good a story.”
    Brother Andrew drew his feet in toward him. “Misogynist.”
    “My observations lead me to conclude that most women are superficial, emotional, and gossips.”
    “You’re foolish, Brother Frank. Just because one woman wronged you doesn’t mean they’re all the devil’s temptresses. Has it ever occurred to you that you asked for the wrong woman?”
    Brother Frank’s face darkened. “I gave her everything.”
    “That’s not the point. The point is we often attract our own doom in the form of another person. If it’s a woman, if it involves sex, so much the worse. The light by which we seek is the fire by which we shall be consumed.”
    “If you love women so much, why are you here?”
    “One woman.” Brother Andrew smiled a slow, sad smile. “Much as I understand a life of contemplation and prayer, I think we would all do ourselves much good by sharing our pasts. We learn from others. I’m a physician, and I couldn’t save my wife from cancer. In the end I couldn’t even stop the pain.” What Brother Andrew did not divulge was that he finally injected a lethal dose of morphine into his wife to end her hideous suffering. He wondered, was he truly a murderer, or did he send to God a soul he loved more than any other, a soul at last free from pain? The monastery was his