Standing Strong Read online

  “Sure, okay,” Keefe said, resigned. “What’ll I do with it then?”

  Papa lifted the flap of one of the boxes. He pulled out an action figure, The Doctor, and smiled. “Getting rid of everything, huh?”

  Keefe shifted, the heat of embarrassment warming his neck and cheeks. “Well, it’s not like I play with that stuff anymore.”

  “You told me they’d be collectibles one day.”

  Keefe shrugged. “Maybe they are.”

  Papa dropped it back in the box. “Put it all in the basement, behind my field gear.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe you can get Jarret to help you.” Papa glanced at Jarret’s closed bedroom door. “He home?”

  “Uh, no. He went out this morning.”

  “Where to?”

  “Uh...” Years of making excuses for Jarret had him struggling to think of an answer that Papa might like. Better to go with the truth. “He didn’t tell me. I saw him with his keys around nine or ten. He said he had things to do, that he’d be back before lunch.”

  Papa gave a single nod. “Hmm.”

  “We’ll probably take the horses out later. Roland’s too.”

  “That’s good. No reason that Roland can’t clean out the water troughs and feed buckets.” With a final nod, Papa moseyed down the hall and thumped down the steps.

  Keefe turned back to his room and the mess he’d created. Books sat stacked against the wall by his desk, a broom and dustpan by the window, a pile of dirty laundry between the closet and bedroom doors. He might need to move the pile to get the dresser past. He sighed. Simplifying was hard work.

  Unintentionally, his gaze turned to his laptop, his thoughts to the email that he should’ve responded to. Would his delay make the Franciscans doubt his sincerity? He wouldn’t be able to go there without permission. Maybe he should mention it to Papa first and see what he thought. Was Papa open to one of his boys becoming a Franciscan Brother?

  Lord, what should I do?

  Waiting for the answer, he made himself aware of the presence of the Lord. At the same time, he kicked the laundry pile aside, shoved the dresser the rest of the way to the wall, and eased it toward the desk in the corner.

  Still waiting for an answer, Keefe stripped the sheets off the bed, tossed them into the dirty laundry pile, and slid the mattress off the bed and onto its side. He wanted his bed against the wall with the door so he could have plenty of space for a prayer area by the window. Wrestling with the mattress, trying to walk it toward a wall, he stumbled on the sneakers he’d kicked off earlier. He lost his grip on the mattress and his balance, and he tumbled to the hardwood floor. The mattress fell over him at an angle, landing partially on the bed and partially on his legs.

  Lying on his back, Keefe caught his breath and stared at the satiny blue mattress balanced a few inches above him. He should’ve waited for Jarret to help him. Jarret wouldn’t have wanted him to rearrange his room in the first place, but he would’ve wanted to help if Keefe was determined to do it anyway. Keefe considered crawling out from under the mattress and leaving his room in its present state of chaos until Jarret returned home.

  Keefe chuckled, imagining how his twin brother would react. Then he thought of what Jarret would say, questions laced with curse words. Keefe laughed harder. Jarret would think he’d gone off the deep end. Then he’d get distracted by the boxes in the hall, his sentimental side not wanting Keefe to give away anything. His control-freak side wouldn’t like that Keefe had started this without consulting him first. But his new “struggling to do the right thing” side would try to let it go.

  Keefe’s laughter bordered on hysteria now. Tears dripped from the corners of his eyes and his chest hurt. He took a deep breath to force himself to calm down, and then he slid out from under the mattress.

  Not wanting to put Jarret to the test, he decided to move the bed and carry the boxes and unwanted furniture to the basement himself. Jarret had really been trying. He didn’t need the extra trial.

  As Keefe grabbed a corner of the mattress and prepared to heft it, his thoughts returned to the email. He needed to reply. And he should stop putting it off.

  He dropped the mattress and stepped to his desk. After wiping his hands on his sweatpants, he opened his inbox and reread the message from Brother Lawrence.

  Hey Keefe,

  Just sending a quick note. Our new monastery in Arizona is keeping us all busy and coming together slowly, but all in God’s time. Would love for you to come down one day and check it out.

  For now, thought you might be interested in a discernment retreat. You can learn a lot about our community and the Franciscan way of life. The retreat is in the middle of September and it’s in Minnesota, which is much closer for you than Arizona.

  If you can’t make it, don’t worry. Remember the steps of discernment I told you about in a previous email.

  Keep in touch.

  Pax et Bonum,

  Brother Lawrence

  Hesitancy overtaking him, Keefe rested his elbow on the desk and combed his fingers through his hair. He’d put off replying for so long; maybe he’d missed the registration date. Maybe they’d have another one in a few months and he could catch that one. It would give him time to talk to Papa.

  In the meantime...

  Keefe clicked through emails until he found the steps of discernment that Brother Lawrence had sent. The first step had inspired him to simplify his room and set up a prayer corner.

  Step one: be quiet

  Moved to rest in the presence of the Lord, Keefe closed the laptop and shuffled to the area that he planned to turn into a prayer corner.

  CHAPTER 3

  A siren blipped nearby. Jarret lifted his forehead from the hard ground and pushed himself up from clumps of weeds and dirt. He brushed gritty dirt from his hands and then wiped his hands on his jeans. His skin crawled at the sounds he heard, the hum of a car’s engine, tires rolling off the road and crunching onto the uneven ground, a car door slamming...then a voice announcing Jarret’s license plate numbers.

  Jarret stepped out from behind the granite outcropping, his gaze snapping to the police officer at the rear of his red Chrysler. The officer had parked his vehicle behind Jarret’s.

  The police officer’s gaze snapped to him at the same instant. He squinted. Then he gave Jarret a crooked smile that creased one side of his face. “What seems to be the problem here?”

  “Uh.” Jarret strode toward him, forcing himself to walk straight. Praying face-down on the ground had left him shaken. He stopped a few feet from the passenger side of his car. “No problem.”

  “Had a bit of alcohol?” the officer asked, stuffing a notebook into his chest pocket. “Kind of early in the day for that. How old are you?”

  Jarret felt his face scrunching up with his disbelief. “No, I haven’t been drinking.” He hadn’t meant to sound irritated, but he couldn’t keep it from his voice. “What is it, like 1:00 p.m.?”

  The officer stepped closer, peering at Jarret, hands moving to his hips. “Drugs?”

  Eyes narrowing and jaw set, Jarret shook his head. “No drugs. I wasn’t feeling well, so I pulled over. That’s all.”

  “Hmm.” Not looking convinced, he came even closer. A breeze ruffled his short dark hair, making a few tufts stand on end and emphasizing his widow’s peak. His pink complexion and the sprinkling of white whiskers in an otherwise dark, scruffy beard reminded Jarret of the officer who’d given him a speeding ticket a month or so ago.

  The officer glanced inside Jarret’s car and then turned to Jarret. “I’ll need to see your license, proof of insurance, and registration.”

  Jarret’s stomach flipped, certain now that he recognized him. Just his luck; it was the same officer. “Yeah, okay.” He shoved a hand in his back pocket, going for his wallet.

  “Are you sick or something?” His gaze remained fixed on Jarret as he took the license and insurance card.

  “No, I don’t know. I just needed to pull over.
I’m fine now.” Jarret opened the passenger side door and grabbed the registration from the glove compartment.

  “I’ve seen you in my neighborhood. Mostly at the Jenkins’ house.”

  “Oh.” Great. His friend Kyle Jenkins lived on the same street as the cop. Jarret tried to recall his visit last week. They’d sat out back with a few other kids. Jarret hadn’t stayed long. He sure hadn’t noticed the officer.

  The officer returned to his car, and Jarret leaned against his Chrysler. Was it against the law to park on the side of the road? He should’ve just gone home.

  A few minutes later, the officer sauntered back to him. “You feel good enough to get home?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Okay, then. Stay out of trouble. Drive safe.”

  A weight lifted. No ticket. Not even a warning. “Yeah, thanks.” You too, he almost said. But that could’ve come across as sarcastic.

  Jarret dropped into the driver seat, slammed the door, and shoved the key in the ignition. He pulled onto the road and made a U-turn under the police officer’s watchful eye. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the officer following him, probably wanting to make sure he wasn’t high or drunk.

  Gaze flicking between the speedometer, rearview mirror, and the road, Jarret headed back to town.

  Fifteen minutes never felt so long. Once he reached the outskirts, he stopped glancing back at the officer’s car and paid less attention to his speed. A few minutes later, he glimpsed a bookstore to the left. The bookstore! Remembering what Father Carston had told him to do, he slammed on the brakes and made a hard turn across an empty road, tires squealing as he pulled into the parking lot. As the car decelerated, his heart leaped into his throat. He glanced in the rearview mirror and over his shoulder. Seeing an empty road and no police car, he let out a breath.

  Jarret drove to the back of the little parking lot, not wanting to park too close to the other cars. He hated how careless other drivers were, how they’d open their car doors without paying attention and ruin the finish on someone else’s car.

  He gave his heart a moment to calm down and then strutted into the store. Yanking open the door, little bells chimed, and a nostalgic mood struck him. The smell of old and new books, the few slow-moving customers, the rows and rows of bookshelves... When was the last time he’d visited a bookstore? He couldn’t remember. He usually bought stuff online and rarely bought books.

  A table with a display of children’s books stood off to the left, angled to invite customers to a larger, carpeted area of kids’ books. A solar system mobile hung from the ceiling. Two small children sat with books on the floor, their mother nearby.

  Mama used to read to him, Keefe, and Roland several times a day and always before bed. He could hear Mama’s sweet voice telling the story of a pig making friends with a spider. Then she died... how he missed hearing her read. He’d never wanted Nanny or their tutors to read to him.

  Sucking in a breath to push back the memory, Jarret scanned the rest of the store. Bookshelves lined every wall and formed rows off to the right. A freestanding table with a display of some sort—journals and diaries?—stood in the middle of an open area. He wanted to check it out, if not for the customer browsing there: a blond girl about his age in a denim skirt that showed off her legs.

  He bristled at the thought of anyone he knew seeing him shop for a journal. Granted, guys bought journals too. And it wasn’t the same thing as a diary, was it? The word “diary” made him think of preteen girls giggling and painting their toe nails.

  Moving toward a row of books, Jarret scanned a few titles, momentarily wanting to pick up the reading habit. He pulled a Western from the shelf and smiled. Louis L’Amour. Papa must’ve owned every Louis L’Amour book available, and Jarret had read most of them out of boredom. Some of them twice. Okay, maybe it wasn’t out of boredom. Papa always had that cowboy image, so the books made Jarret curious. Maybe Jarret would get a set of Louis L’Amour books of his own someday.

  Strolling down one row and another, Jarret ended up in a nonfiction section with cooking and gardening books. Further down the row, he glimpsed a book with the word “Cyclist” on the spine. Hoping it referred to motorcycling, he pulled it from the shelf. The cover showed a lanky man hunched over a racing bicycle. He flipped through the book, glanced at the pictures, then returned it to the shelf. He strolled to the end of the row and found himself back at the journal display. The girl had gone.

  Jarret stepped out, scanning for the girl but not finding her. Maybe she’d left. A box of pens at the end of the table caught his eye. He picked up a silver one with a red stripe and clicked it. A notepad lay on the table, so he scribbled on it, liking the smooth feel of the pen.

  After another sweeping glance and not finding any customers nearby, Jarret stepped around the table to browse the journals. Several rugged, manly journals lay among the ones with flowers and butterflies. A leather one with a cord wrapped around it caught his eye. He picked it up, undid the cord, and flipped it open. As he lifted the open journal to his nose—to smell the off-white lined paper—the hair on the back of his neck twitched.

  Someone else had come to the table.

  A strong temptation to drop the journal, move on, and order one online struck him. But he resisted. He didn’t want to wait for it to come in the mail.

  Jarret set the brown one down and grabbed a black one. He glanced to the side as he picked it up. A hint of mortification stirred in his chest. It was her.

  She shifted her gaze from the table to him, a smile in her aqua blue eyes but not on her lips. Full lips. Long wavy blond hair falling around a shapely face. Pretty. She didn’t look familiar but, guessing her age, chances were she went to River Run High.

  Jarret tilted his chin and gave that look he couldn’t help but give to a pretty girl. Then he snapped his attention back to the journals. Maybe she’d think he was shopping for a girlfriend.

  “Do I know you?”

  He waited a second before looking up. “Do you go to River Run High?” He asked it in a cocky way, as if she should know him simply because they went to the same school. He’d put a lot of effort into making a name for himself. Every kid in school must know him.

  She scanned his face, then looked him up and down. “That’s my school.”

  Her answer stung. She went to his school and didn’t know him. On impulse, he grabbed her arm and clicked his pen. She didn’t pull away so he wrote his phone number on the underside of her forearm. “You’ll know me soon enough.”

  Giving her a sly smile, he dropped her arm, grabbed the leather journal, and headed for the checkout.

  CHAPTER 4

  Psyching himself up, Keefe curled and stretched his fingers, then he shook his arms as he strode toward the front hallway. He was going to do it. He was gonna talk to Papa. Mama had had strong faith—she’d taught them the Catechism, turned the walk-in closet off the veranda into a prayer room, and celebrated a gazillion saint days every year. Maybe her faith had drawn Papa from the start. Maybe that’s what he’d loved most about her. If so, he shouldn’t have a problem with Keefe joining a religious order.

  Keefe turned down the front hallway and slowed his pace. His socks silenced his steps. Besides, going on a discernment retreat didn’t mean he absolutely would become a Franciscan friar. It only meant he’d find out more about it. He’d have to emphasize that point.

  Light seeped from Papa’s study and onto the shiny hardwood floor in the hallway. Papa’s low voice traveled, his words unclear through the half open door.

  Palms sweating and pulse kicking up, Keefe crept to the doorway and flattened his back against the wall. He’d stood outside the door to Papa’s study in years past, waiting and listening, always at Jarret’s command. Jarret often sent him to spy out a situation. But he just needed to calm himself for a second now. He just wanted to appear relaxed, didn’t mean to eavesdro—

  “No, really I can’t. Sounds like a job I’d like though, so I’m mighty thankful you kep
t me in mind. You’ve always been a man I can tie to.” Papa paused but his chair squeaked and something tapped, maybe a pen against the desktop.

  Keefe pressed his lips together, curious. What job had Papa turned down and why? He didn’t seem to have any real commitments lately. That was odd for him. He always liked to keep busy.

  “Naw, you’re all down but nine.” Papa’s way of saying someone was clueless. “But it’s not something I care to discuss. Let’s just say I’m laying low for a year or two.”

  Keefe jerked back. Laying low for a year or two?

  “Yup. Okay, glad to hear it. Take it easy.” The old phone clattered as Papa hung it up. His chair squeaked again.

  Keefe took a breath. He could do this. It was time. He swung into the room. “Hey, Papa.”

  Papa stood staring out the tall window by his desk, sunlight turning him into the silhouette of a cowboy. One hand shooting to the brim of his Stetson, he turned and cleared his throat. “Howdy, Keefe. Get your room squared away?”

  “Yeah. Mr. Digby helped me move the furniture to the basement. We put it back where you told me.”

  Papa nodded, looking satisfied. “Jarret home yet?”

  “Uh... don’t think so.”

  Papa’s eyes narrowed. His lip twitched. “He needs to let me know before he runs off.”

  Keefe nodded. Papa had spent so much time away from home over the years, and Jarret had always resented having to report to Nanny in his absence. Taking off at will had become a habit for him.

  “What’s on your mind?” Papa shuffled to his desk, pushed a little globe on a brass stand aside, and sat on the corner of the desk.

  “I...” Keefe stepped further into the room and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. The question bounced around in his mind: “Hey, mind if I go to a retreat?” But he couldn’t get it past his lips. He could imagine Papa’s silent response, the squint of his eyes that Keefe could never interpret. Did it mean the question irritated him or that he needed a moment to think?