144. Letters

Agnes and I sat in silence for a while and then I got up to leave.

“Jesse,” he said, “I have some papers that need to be in the mail tomorrow.  Could you mail them for me?

“Sure,” I said, “I’m going to the hardware store for Bouncer tomorrow.  I’ll drop them off at the Post Office.”

The next morning, Agnes looked anxiously at me as I hung my work robe on the hook next to the side door and put on my jacket.

“Can you take this to the Post Office?” he asked, pushing the envelopes toward me.

“Yes, of course,” I said with a little annoyance in my voice.

“They’re very  important letters,” he said.

“Does this have anything to do with Sparky’s money?” I asked.

Agnes’ head flicked back as if I’d just popped him on the jaw.  But he recovered quickly and looked down on the floor.

“I cannot answer you,” said Agnes.  “Just trust me this time.”

Of course I looked at the envelopes once I got in the SUV.  I justified my curiosity by telling myself I was his abbot.  There were four, two quite thick.   One was addressed to a solicitor in Fermoy, another to a local bank in Saugerties, the third to St. Anne in Fermoy and the fourth to what appeared to be a local attorney’s office.  I have since been accused of opening the letters, reading and resealing them.  But I did not do that.  I came close to doing so, but for reasons I’ll never understand, in fact I decided to trust Agnes one more time.

As the letters dropped from my fingers into the mail box outside the Post Office, I remember thinking: I can probably go inside and beg for them back, citing one reason or another, and then read them.  But I decided not to.  And I’ve since been told the Post Office workers would have never given them back to me.

I have not told my Brothers about Sparky’s money.  They would tear the monastery apart looking for it.  I somehow doubt it’s here.  I don’t even know if it really exists.  Besides, it would not be a fortune in this day and age and I need to think about how we would use it.  Maybe we should indeed give it all to the poor.  We are, after all, mendicant monks, sworn to a vow of poverty.  Of course we do need a roof over our heads.  But maybe there’s only a few hundred dollars left.