[Miss an installment of “Still Time?” Find it on the home page for SilverbackDigest.com . SB SM]
2019
A Movable Feast
Easter is celebrated on the first Sunday following the full moon that occurs after the spring equinox. Because it lacks a fixed calendar date, shifting with the moon and the seasons, it is known as a “movable feast.”
Ryan Keogh arrives at the Abbey of Regina Laudis in Bethlehem, Connecticut, at 8:00 a.m. on the first Saturday after the holiday. The morning air is cool but fair, and the hillsides are bright with forsythia and daffodils in full bloom—earthly manifestations of a returning sun. It’s not yet fully spring, but the back of winter has been broken.
He parks in one of the spots reserved for visitors and follows signs to the chapel. It’s not as lush as the photos on their website, which were all taken in the glory of summer, but it’s peaceful and attractive, and, at first glance to Ryan, hopeful.
This is the culmination of a journey that has been many, many hours of chasing rabbits down holes on the Internet. After his declaration to Jennie, Ryan faced a billboard saying NOW WHAT? He started by typing “help for a teenage girl?” into Google and spent the entire fall and winter exploring blind alleys, dark corners, false promises, miracle cures, and desperate measures before the best solution might be the most obvious and most simple. As much as he was encouraged that he might be heading in a promising direction, he also realized that he was young enough, dumb enough, and inexperienced enough to know this was just another phase of his research.
He wanders for a few minutes before taking a quiet seat in the back of the Abbey Church, Jesu Fili Mariae, letting himself be completely enveloped by the clear and ancient-sounding voices of women in harmonic chant. A program tells him they are singing the Procession, Asperges, Terce, and Mass.
He learns from a brochure that the concrete and timber building, completed in 1994, sits on a piece of land donated to the foundress of the Abbey, Mother Benedict Duss, by an industrialist named Robert Leather in 1947. The donor thought the land was sacred, and Ryan can’t help but absorb some of its intended aura.
After the service, Ryan meanders around the sprawling grounds. He walks past the Monastic Art Shop, the theater, and the famous Neapolitan Crèche, eventually drifting down toward the barns where the cheesemaking operation hums. Out in the distance, local volunteers work the fields in quiet concert with the resident nuns, readying the earth for spring planting.
When the noon bells ring, he attends the singing of the Sext in the Our Lady Queen of Praise Chapel, silently slipping a fifty-dollar bill into the wooden donation box. Afterwards, he shares a simple, silent lunch of soup and bread in the refectory. He spends the afternoon losing himself in the abbey’s literature, reading about Monastic Grilles and “Islands of Enclosure”—spaces deliberately cut off from the chaos of the outside world. To keep his hands busy and his mind quiet, he joins a few community volunteers stacking split firewood, working until he explores as much of the 450 acres as his boots allow. By dusk, the bells draw him back to the chapel for evening vespers.
“Would you like to meet with a guest mistress for a focused conversation in the parlor?”
The direct address startles him. He has not spoken a word all day. Ryan turns to find a middle-aged nun looking at him with a warm, welcoming expression. His only goal for the day was to experience the Abbey firsthand to see if it matched up to its online description, and to get a sense of whether it was a possible place for Jennie, who was constantly on his mind, although he still had nothing that could even remotely be described as a plan. Suddenly, he is under the direct gaze of a woman—a holy woman, a nun, and possibly an angel. He hesitates, the weight of the last few months pressing hard, then gives a slow nod.
She leads him to a small, unadorned room furnished only with a plain wooden table and two straight-backed ladder chairs. Once they are seated, she offers a gentle smile. “I’m Sister Concetta. You’ve been here all day. What brings you to us?”
And that’s all it takes for the dam to burst. The reservoir of accumulated emotions, fantasies, prayers, and oaths pours out in a chaotic verbal gush, a tsunami that now defines his life. He speaks of his profound disgust with the world he polices, his confusion, and his helplessness. By the time he runs out of words, he is depleted, but with the exhaustion comes a sliver of relief.
Sister Concetta sits in silence for a long moment, absorbing his weight. Finally, she folds her hands and says softly, “My, my, my, my… are you hungry?”
Night falls over Regina Laudis quickly, the sharp spring sunlight surrendering to the cold air of the season past. Ryan eats a simple dinner in the refectory, alone with his thoughts. When he finishes, Sister Concetta returns to his table. She informs him that she has made arrangements for him to spend the night in the Abbey’s guest house for men.
“I would like you to tell your story again for a few others tomorrow morning,” she says.
Too tired to argue, Ryan agrees. That night, away from the sirens and the static of the scanner, he sleeps soundly.
The next morning, he awakes before dawn. Wandering outside into the mist, the distant, ethereal sound of women chanting draws him back to the monastery chapel. That is where Sister Concetta finds him. She brings him back to the refectory for a silent breakfast of chewy, house-baked bread and sharp cheese aged in the Abbey’s own cellars.
Afterwards, they return to the same small parlor as the day before. The room is different now; there are six chairs arranged in a small circle, occupied by four other sisters in full traditional habits. They introduce themselves one by one. Their expressions are somber, but their eyes are entirely devoid of judgment. Ryan feels an immediate, grounding sense of welcome.
Sister Concetta nods to him. “Ryan, please, invite them into the story you told me yesterday.”
He begins again. This time, the words come more deliberately. The frantic edge is gone, replaced by a controlled, coherent narrative of a girl trapped behind a cracked door with a broken arm. When he finishes, the room falls silent. He is asked to step outside onto the grounds for a few moments so they can confer.
Ryan walks the gravel path, the morning air crisp in his lungs. Sister Concetta appears at the doorway and summons him back.
“We thank you for coming to us on behalf of Jennie,” the speaker is the oldest of the nuns, who had introduced herself earlier as Mother Samantha. Ryan catches himself wondering again about the distinction between “Mother” and “Sister.” Is it a function of age? She is slight, but she commands the room. “Jennie told you that she is nineteen, but you say you doubt that is the truth.”
Ryan nods once, confirming. “She told me nineteen, and that’s what the police report from the night her father broke her arm listed her as, but the scared girl that I saw through that cracked front door didn’t look nineteen to me. I really don’t know the truth.”
“If she is nineteen, she can apply directly for the Abbey’s intern program,” Mother Samantha explains, her tone practical but not unkind. “But by the strict rules of our charter, an applicant must be at least eighteen. To accept anyone into the enclosure who does not meet this requirement creates a legal liability that could very well jeopardize the existence of this entire order.”
“But someone’s got to do something!” Ryan interjects, his voice rising, the frustration bleeding back in. “We can’t just leave her where she is!”
Mother Samantha stops him with a single, gently raised hand.
“We understand the urgency of the situation, Ryan, and we appreciate what it takes for you to bring this burden to our gates. But the boundaries of God extend beyond the stone walls of this monastery. We need to explore what can be done within those boundaries. We are a spiritual organization, but we cannot break the law. Let us reach out into our community. We ask you now to return home, and to have faith until we respond to you.” She gives him a final, reassuring look. “Please trust us in this. May God bless you.”
And with that, the circle opens, and the meeting is over.
The Great Escape
A week after Ryan’s visit to Regina Laudis, he receives a call on his personal cell phone. It’s not a number he recognizes. A man’s voice cuts through the line.
“Is this Ryan Keogh?”
“Yes.”
“What is the name of the nun you first spoke with at the Abbey last week?”
“Sister Concetta.”
“We’re calling on behalf of Mother Samantha. You are to deliver Jennie to the Guilford, Vermont Welcome Center on Interstate 91 Northbound this coming Friday, between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m.” The caller is not unfriendly, but the tone does not leave room for questions. “Can you do this?”
“I—I think so. I mean, I’ll have to check, but I think so. She’s ready to do this.”
“Here are your instructions. Listen very carefully and follow them exactly. Between 8:30 and 9:00 on Friday, park your car in the Welcome Center lot, and walk Jennie and her possessions to the curb directly in front of the center. Once you reach the curb, turn back to the parking lot. A car in the lot will turn its headlights on and off, and then on and off twice. As soon as you see that, leave Jennie without any formal or visible goodbye and walk back to your car. Tell Jennie to wait right there. She won’t have to wait long. Get in your car and exit the lot back onto the highway. Be as efficient and unobtrusive as possible. The goal is to not attract attention. Is this clear? Do you have any questions?”
“What if I need to change the time?”
“There’s only one window of opportunity.”
“How will I know Jennie is safe?”
“You must not make any attempt to make contact with her directly. If you want to know anything, write a letter to Sister Concetta, and only Sister Concetta. I am now disconnecting, but what you are doing, Ryan, is both brave and good. God bless.”
Ryan keeps a close eye on all things Barcoa for the next week. When he is sure she is alone, he goes to the house and tells her the plan, looking for signs of cold feet or a change of heart. She is typically tight-lipped and deadpan, but her eyes show absolute conviction.
Ryan points her to a secluded spot behind an abandoned shed less than a hundred yards from the Barcoa residence where he can park his car without being seen. This will be their rendezvous point at 8:00 p.m. on Friday. He will be in his personal vehicle, a fifteen-year-old Subaru Outback that has seen better days, but is reliable.
Ryan spends the rest of the week obsessing over everything that can go wrong. He imagines confronting enraged Barcoa boys, a drunk father, or a nosy passerby. He imagines his fellow officers finding out that they might be losing their local target of mockery. He imagines Jennie breaking down, losing her nerve, or turning against him. He imagines himself becoming a paralyzed coward. It’s a long, stressful week, but then suddenly… it’s Friday, and it’s almost eight o’clock, and it’s chilly and dark. And it’s time.
Ryan gets out of his vehicle and stands at the corner of the shed, which gives him a line of sight to the Barcoa porch. At 8:00 p.m. on the dot, the door opens, and Jennie steps out. Ryan’s heart sinks. She is dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and is carrying no possessions. Where’s her coat? Where’s her stuff? Shit. She’s chickened out. She’s lost her nerve. His car is running, headlights off, and he’s about to bolt when she walks down the stairs and heads in his direction.
As she reaches the end of the porch, she ducks behind an evergreen shrub and emerges with what appears to be two stuffed pillowcases and a huge teddy bear. Now she’s running right toward him. It’s on. He opens the passenger side door and goes around the car to get in the driver’s side. She piles in and closes the door quietly, but quickly. Neither of them speaks.
Ryan shifts into gear, and they drive past the Barcoa house at an unremarkable speed, take a right where Birge Street hits the main road, and minutes later are on the on-ramp onto Interstate 91, heading south. They pass the Welcome Center on the opposite side of the highway. In his squad car, Ryan would have just put on the revolving light and taken the median strip crossover, but this time he drives all the way south to the Northfield exit, goes left at the end of the ramp, crosses over the overpass, and gets on the ramp heading north. He has timed the dry run of the route previously in the week.
The tension inside the cabin is thick enough to choke on. Jennie clutches the bear tightly to her chest, her knuckles white against the matted fur. Then, with a sudden tremor in her chin, she holds up the beleaguered, filthy toy to the driver.
“Mr. Roscoe, this is Ryan,” she says. She pauses, swallowing hard, before slipping into a pinched, small voice. “Hiya, Ryan. I’m Mr. Roscoe.”
Ryan looks over, dumbfounded. For months, he has heard nothing but mumbles and grunts from this girl. Her face has been a study in lifelessness and despair. Now, in an instant, her eyes are twinkling, and there is expression in her voice … now, as they are turning onto the ramp for the Welcome Center. Ryan forces a small smile. “Well … hello there … uh, Mr. Roscoe. I’m Ryan.” They are approaching the Welcome Center now. “Remember everything, Jennie?”
“Sure do,” says the pinched voice of Mr. Roscoe, then turns to Jennie and adds, “Mr. Roscoe likes Ryan!”
“Remember, you won’t be alone very long,” Ryan says.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” says Mr. Roscoe.
He parks in a sparse lot. Two months ago on a Friday night, this lot would be jammed with skiers heading north, but now it is late enough in the season that only the die-hards are still chasing the snow. Ryan cuts the engines. Jennie grabs her things and Mr. Roscoe, and they cross over to the curb in front of the Center. No sooner do they turn back to the lot than they see a car flash its lights twice.
“That’s it,” says Ryan. “I’ve gotta go. You take care, Jennie, and you take care of her, Mr. Roscoe.”
He’s afraid to look at her directly. He marches back to his car, starts it, and heads to the exit.
Jennie stands at the curb, watching as Ryan’s Subaru accelerates onto the highway. Mr. Roscoe calls after him, “Bye-bye, Ryan!”
Moments later, Jennie hears voices approaching from the direction of the Welcome Center building. She turns to see two young women walking toward her. One is about her age, the other a year or two younger.
“Hi, I’m Carly,” says the one Jennie’s age.
“And I’m Stacy,” says the other. “Ready to go home?”
The car in the parking lot that had blinked its lights twice starts up, rolling smoothly toward the three girls.
Ryan keeps his eyes and ears open for any word about Jennie or the Barcoas in the locker room. He hears nothing. He checks the police reports daily for any mention of her name. He hears nothing. He goes to the Sportsman’s and hears nothing more.
Finally, weeks later, he catches her name when he is sitting on the bench by the row of dented lockers, unlacing his boots.
“Old man says the little bitch ran away with some drug dealer and is living in Rutland.”
“Yeah… that’s what I heard from Tommy, too.”
The conversation moves on to another subject. Ryan looks down, hiding the small, quiet smile that spreads across his face. He slides his fingers under the edge of his badge, feeling the cold metal pin.
The next day, he hands in his badge and gun.
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