that I was too late for dinner, late tea, but that if I were hungry he could send some bread and jam up to the dorms with the van later. I thanked him, said I was fine, and followed him into a door that led down to a basement.
The first thing I ran into once inside a second door at the bottom of the inside steps were stuffed coat racks, piles and rows of boots underneath.
“Take off you jacket and boots. I’ll introduce you to Dave. He’s the R.A. at St. Ann’s, Joachim’s.” Feeling like a false lamb, I half bounded, half slunk after him past curtained book shelves, a ping-pong table (boxes stuffed underneath), past an upright piano, an old T.V. along the farthest wall. We proceded up a narrow little flight of stairs to a large, crowded dining area. The first thing I noticed besides all of the cliques of animated folk at most of the tables were the thin metal posts that held up the ceiling in this dining/library area. The kind people use to support sagging basements. Odd, but practical, I thought. A better sign.
The wood tables were simple, almost picnic-like, covered in grey plastic; there were benches under each, end chairs. I felt anxious, expected that, but there was something likable about the place too: a floor so old and worn that I could feel the rising knots in the wood under my stockinged feet. Books were neatly shelved everywhere, library style, complete with Library of Congress call numbers, each section titled: Catholic Saints, Mariology, Christology.
There was a big picture of Tolstoy on the wall at the other end, a librarian’s desk, a small card catalog. These guys didn’t mess around. And to my immediate left from the top of the basement stairs, a wider set which led to what I was to learn was an upstairs chapel. At the base of those stairs, to the left of them was a display of Ekaterina Fyodorovna Kolyschkine’s books.
I had never heard of the woman. Some kind of Catholic Swedenbourgian, Magery Kempe mystic I guessed, judging by the titles of the books: POUSTINIA, KINOSIS. Exotic language for the finer esoteric points of mysticism, no doubt. I leaned over, picked one up, trying not to be obvious in avoiding all the people.
Some of them were quite lively, sitting in groups, but some sat by themselves, too, with little shoe boxes in front of them. They looked to be writing letters. Other people carried trays, empty cups and pitchers out of the room. It was all noisy, controlled. Having just been to college, I just wasn’t used to seeing this many alert people in one room, so I didn’t know quite what to make of it.
Before I could continue my evasion, actually read any of the material, Patrick came over and introduced me to Ed, the man who ran the work crew. He was a good-sized guy, about my height, but broader, with short hair, lots of energy. He shook my hand, looked right into my eyes, slapped me playfully on the back, said I looked like a man who could use the rigors of farm life.
“Just call me hayseed,” I said, trying to get with the program, at least on a surface level.
“Not to worry, James. We’ll put some gas in that tank, Praise God.”
That stopped me in my tracks. Where on earth did that come from? What did this guy know about my tank anyway? He saw something in me and spoke the truth. That’s how I see it now. But back then it irritated me. I liked my privacy, didn’t like feeling exposed. I might have even said something smart in reply, given more time, blown the whole gig had it not been for the fact that everybody around me, as if by some unspoken command, rose.
“They’ve realized,” I joked to myself.
It was 10 o’clock, I was to learn. Time to sing “Salve Mater.” They all knew it by heart, and once again I was thrown in and left to swim. Should I know this? Was it required Catholic ritual? Finally I just closed my eyes, wondered how the heck I was going to get out of that place.
There was a bustle of activity after the song. Dave, my R.A. man, introduced himself, had a coat, hat, gloves for me to try on as he lead me through a maze of people, through the basement. Outside, dressed, duffel bag and jacket under arm, I was pointed to the brown van, followed some other young men who were obviously headed in the same direction.
All of us shivered in the cold, some jumping up and down, waiting for Dave, who had a few quick errands to run. My coat fit me nicely, an old sailor’s, heavy blue, a good, thick flip-up collar and blue knit hat, a tuque, as they called them. I pulled it down past my, by now, freezing ears.
There seemed to be what looked like an enfeebled orchard across from us in the middle of the compound. It was surrounded by an old log-rail fence. A sign post off to the right, like the kind you’d see in a MASH episode, shook slightly in the wind. So many miles to places like Gravelbourg, to Carricou, West Indies, to Flagstaff, Arizona, to Freetown, Liberia, to Paris. (These were, I was to learn, some of their soup kitchens and prayer houses.)
On the far side of the orchard there was another white house, what looked like a bridge, and some ancient gas pumps between that house and the green sheds attached to the main house, which was off to the far right. On each side of the gravel parking lot I was standing in there were other houses, both very small—what I was later to find out were the infirmary and an older men’s staff house. Women guests walked across the road I had come in on. I wondered why we had to go to our dorms in a van. Couldn’t they find a closer place, especially in this sparsely populated area? Maybe they just want to keep us away from the holy babes.
One guy shivering next to me, sporting a great square Amish or Orthodox beard, was struggling with cold hands to roll a cigarette.
“Welcome to Ice Station Zebra. Colder than a witch’s nose. Hi, my name’s Mickey.” I shook his one hand as he precariously tried to balance his half-rolled cigarette paper in the other, introduced myself, though I was cold and slightly put off by his feminine demeanor. Still, he seemed a likable fellow once I got past that. All for one, that kind of thing. What were we in together on was my question.
There were ten other guys counting Dave who piled into the van, all of whom labored to generate heat as it warmed up. You didn’t have enough space to genuinely shiver, so a few of the guys made do. They jostled into each other, shoulder to shoulder to create friction, stamping their feet at the same time just to remind their toes and feet who they belonged to. I got introduced to the five guys in my immediate far back vicinity, but the names came too fast, and I forgot them almost immediately.
“There’ll be a quiz in the morning,” Mickey said.
I got what I was soon to recognize as the usual volley of questions. Who was I, where was I from, how had I heard about the place? Other splinters of conversation had begun as well, so soon enough my comments were more or less swallowed up as people went back to their own concerns.
I did talk a little bit with a soccer player from New England. Hubert was his name. Told him I was sorry about that. He laughed a little, but seemed strangely silent to me, a taciturn New Hampshirer perhaps? He said he’d come out here to get his life on track. (There was an unwritten rule at The Madonna’s Farm. Don’t ask people too much about their pasts. But at this time no one had told me about it, so I pried for all I was worth.)
“Why here?” I asked. “Too many drugs, firearms?”
He gave me a pained smile, rubbed his face. “Drugs, yeah. I need a lot of healing. A priest told me about this place. Said it might be a good place to slow down, allow the Lord time to work things out.”
“I’m running from the Feds personally. Boot-legging, prostitution, selling illegal crucifixes.” I watched for his response. Part of him wanted to laugh, but another part of him felt like he was supposed to be put off. “Na,” I said. “Actually I’m converting from the Urdu religion. Goat sacrifice. For the snausages. We worshipped George Washington’s eye on the dollar bill.”
“Hasn’t everybody?” he said. “I just felt too much pressure out there myself, too many demands. People hounding me about which direction I should take with my life. Here I can put my feet out,” and he did so.
“A joke. Nice.” We both laughed.
We took a quick right after a couple of miles, and by the time we had finished a full circle turn from the main road, we were there. A smallish white house, a porch. The guy