Standing Strong Page 3

  What would he think of Keefe’s request? After Mama’s death, Papa had stopped going to Mass. Now that Keefe, Jarret, and Roland had made a comeback, Papa had given it a try a time or two. But he never went up for Holy Communion. At home, he rarely mentioned faith and God. Maybe he blamed God for Mama’s death. How would he feel about one of his sons joining a religious order? Would he think of it as God taking another loved one?

  “Cat got your tongue?” Papa smiled and shifted on the corner of the desk, stretching a leg out.

  “No, I...” Keefe ran a hand over his hair. “I kind of wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “I figured that.” Papa gave a crooked grin. “So spit it out.”

  The question slipped from his mind. How had he planned to ask? Keefe lifted a hand, trying to bring the words together. “So... remember those Franciscan Friars that stayed at the Brandts’?” Heat seemed to radiate from his body, and his gaze slid to the half-open window.

  “Sure.”

  “Well, I’ve been emailing them.”

  Papa nodded, not looking fazed. “How’s their work coming along? They were forming a new community in Arizona, right?”

  Keefe took a breath and released it, wanting to relax. “Right. It’s a lot of work, I guess, but going good.”

  “Wish you’d gone out there this summer?”

  Keefe’s temperature spiked, overwhelming him with heat. “Uh...” Did Papa already know?

  “It’d be quite an experience. I thought about it myself. I never did catch the details. Were they moving into an existing building or were they gonna build from scratch?”

  A tingling sensation ran through him. Papa hadn’t guessed Keefe’s interest in the religious order. He only saw the construction side of it. “Both, I guess. They found a suitable building, an old school that they converted. They’ve got a temporary chapel. But they’ll be building a better one soon.”

  Papa folded his arms and nodded. “It’d be an honor to help them out. A lot of work, no pay, but an honor.”

  “Yeah.” Keefe dropped his gaze. Didn’t seem like Papa would mind him heading out there to volunteer his time. Any way that could happen? He’d end up missing the beginning of the school year, but Papa had never seemed concerned about that. He’d pulled them all out of school once last year—Keefe and Jarret twice—to accompany him on one trip or another.

  Keefe’s mood lifted with a glimmer of hope.

  “What kind of help are they looking for? What time frame?”

  “Oh, uh...” He couldn’t make something up, couldn’t lie about it. “They didn’t ask for my help. I was just wondering, I don’t know.” Knowing for certain that he could not have this talk now, he shook his head.

  “Well, find out. Let me know.” He glanced at his watch and at the antique pendulum clock on the opposite wall, then he straightened and reached into a pocket. “Hey, uh...” He drew his keys out and offered them to Keefe. “Mind picking up Roland?”

  He tossed them before Keefe could answer.

  Keefe caught them, but they started to slip through his fingers. “Yeah, sure.”

  “He’s at the Brandts’. Said he needed to be picked up at one or two.”

  Glancing at the array of keys on Papa’s 30-30 Winchester bullet keyring, he backed to the door.

  “Oh, hey, Keefe?” Papa put one hand on his hip and talked to the floor. “You know the arrangement I had with Jarret for getting his car, right?” He glanced.

  “Yes. He did some work for the Finns and you matched the money he had saved, right?”

  Papa nodded. “Well, that offer stands for you too. If the Franciscans will have you, that’ll be a right good way to do it. Otherwise, we can come up with something else. There’s no reason you shouldn’t have your own wheels.”

  A mix of emotions struck Keefe, none of them the ones a seventeen-year-old should feel at that offer. But Keefe gave the biggest smile he could muster. “Thanks, Papa. I appreciate it.”

  And he turned to go.

  GRIPPING THE STEERING wheel and glancing at the speedometer, Keefe drove down the long winding driveway toward Forest Road. He liked driving Papa’s silver Lexus, but he didn’t want a car of his own. He didn’t want anything. He wanted to get rid of things. He wanted to follow in the footsteps of Saint Francis and give it all up.

  He’d just read a story about Brother Bernard’s decision to join Saint Francis. Wealthy and successful, Bernard was so touched by the saint’s faith and sincerity that he longed to relinquish his worldly goods. To know for certain that God willed it, Bernard met with St. Francis and they opened the Bible randomly.

  Keefe’s mind paused on the thought. That was it! He would do the same! As soon as he got back from the Brandts’ house. Or maybe at the Brandts’ house. Bernard and Francis had prayed first. Maybe he should ask Peter and Roland to pray with him. Then he could open the Bible randomly and find God’s answer. If the verse convinced him that this was God’s will, he would make himself talk to Papa about his desire to join the Franciscans, and get permission to go on the retreat. If this was God’s will, he had no reason to worry.

  “Lord,” he shouted, excited with the idea, “please give me a sign and show me what You want.”

  As he snapped from his thoughts, he found himself barreling toward Forest Road. He slammed on the brakes. A car zoomed past. Keefe’s heart raced, whether from almost pulling into traffic or from the hope that he would find his answer, he didn’t know.

  A few seconds later, he reached the Forest Gateway Bed & Breakfast and pulled in the driveway on the Brandts’ side of the odd-shaped house. They’d converted a bungalow or something into a bed and breakfast by adding a long addition of guestrooms.

  Keefe shut off the engine and jumped out of the car. A campfire scent carried on a warm breeze. Women’s voices traveled from the kitchen through the screen door as he stomped up the porch steps. He knocked on the door frame.

  Laughter erupted. Then a feminine voice. “Oh, hi, Keefe, come on in.”

  Keefe swung open the screen door and stepped inside, the aroma of baked bread welcoming him.

  Mrs. Brandt approached, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her smile always made Keefe feel as if he were special to her, but he knew she gave everyone the same smile.

  “Good to see you, Keefe. Are you hungry?” She glanced behind him, probably wondering if Jarret had come too. But Jarret’s dislike of Peter had him avoiding their house.

  “No thanks. Just came to get Roland.”

  “Oh, okay.” She glanced at the living room.

  A stack of folded laundry sat on the arm of the couch. Peter’s ten-year-old brother, Toby, stood facing the TV. He rocked back and forth as he flipped through scenes of a cartoon. He hit play and the cartoon voices drowned out the pleasant white noise from the dryer down the hall.

  Keefe liked visiting the Brandts, maybe because he’d learned about the friars here. But he also liked the family. They were good people, generous, welcoming, and always willing to help anyone in need. He felt at home with them.

  Mrs. Brandt led him to the dining room where two strangers sat at a booth. “The boys are out back goofing off.” She peered through the glass doors that separated the family’s side of the house from the guest side. “How’s your summer been going? Glad to have Jarret back?”

  “Yeah, glad to have him back. Summer’s been slow. The way I like it.”

  “Not in a hurry for the new school year to begin, huh? You’ll be a senior this year, right?”

  “Yeah.” He knew what question came next, and he didn’t want to answer it, so he stepped toward the glass door and looked through the breezeway to the backyard.

  But as she slid open the door for him, she asked it anyways. “Any idea what you want to do after high school?”

  He sucked in a breath and met her questioning gaze. “Not sure. I’m praying about it.”

  She nodded and gave that motherly smile. “That’s the best way to figure it out.”


  Keefe’s attention snapped to two figures in the middle of the spacious backyard, one in sweatpants and a big leg cast, the other with a stocky, backwoodsman build. Wearing fencing face masks but no other safety gear, Roland and Peter crossed swords. Wait— What were they wielding? Not a metal foil or saber. They resembled walking sticks.

  Using both hands to wield his sword, Peter swung like an uncivilized Orc. Roland parried and made a counter attack, his movements smooth and precise despite his long-leg cast. He also used both hands but he stood in one place, his weight on his good leg and his crutches sprawled in the grass.

  The wooden tap tap tap carried.

  Keefe couldn’t help but smile as he neared. He loved fencing with his brothers.

  Roland, ever aware of his surroundings, swiveled his masked face to Keefe. He took one more swing and lifted a hand to Peter, signaling for a time out. Peter and Roland slid off their face masks. Peter dropped his to the grass and wiped his forearm over his dirty blond hair.

  Keefe raised a hand in greeting. “Hey.”

  “Finally!” Peter rolled his shoulders and struck a pose, raising his wooden sword and gripping it with both hands. “Some competition. Roland’s too feeble to offer any real fight.”

  Eyes narrowed but with the hint of a grin, Roland muttered something to Peter that Keefe didn’t catch.

  “I thought you had somewhere to go.” As Keefe drew near, Roland flipped his sword and offered Keefe the handle. Keefe grabbed the smooth handle, finding the sword sturdy and of a good weight and feel.

  “Eh. I’m supposed to go with my dad to clean up some fire damage. It’s near the campsites. But that can wait.” Peter spun the sword to the left, then the right. “Care to spar?”

  “What is this, bamboo?”

  “Yeah.” He beamed with pride as if he’d made them himself. “They’re shinai. That’s Japanese for sword. I’m trying to teach Roland kendo. When he gets that lousy cast off, maybe we can play for real.”

  “Here, you’ll need this.” Roland handed Keefe his face mask, a black steel net mesh. “Peter’s pretty rough around the edges.”

  As Keefe took the mask, he pushed thoughts about asking them to pray with him to the back of his mind. He hadn’t decided if he wanted to spar or not, but he found himself lifting the mask to his head. The thought of a good fight thrilled him.

  Roland limped over and retrieved one of his crutches.

  Gripping the handle with both hands, Keefe stepped back and sliced the air on either side. He liked the feel of the bamboo sword, though it didn’t compare to metal foils or sabers or the one-handed grip he’d always used. “What do you know about kendo?”

  “A lot. You can learn plenty on the Internet. You’ve got your cuts to the head.” Peter demonstrated, raising the stick overhead and coming down fast, then slowing as he neared Roland’s uncovered head.

  Leaning his weight on a single crutch, Roland rolled his eyes and sighed. A breeze blew wavy black locks out of place and over his forehead.

  “And your cut to the wrist...” Peter raised the shinai again. “Hold your hands out like we’re fighting,” he said to Roland, sounding impatient.

  “No.” Roland shifted his weight and adjusted the crutch under his arm.

  “Well, I’ll show you once we get started.” Peter stooped for his face mask. “You can strike your opponent in the gut or throat too. Plus, if Roland wasn’t so lame...” He grinned and waved his brows at Roland. “I’d be able to knock him down. So body slams are fair game.”

  “Body slams, huh?” Egged-on by Peter’s challenging tone, Keefe whipped the shinai through the air in a series of dramatic moves.

  Peter froze, his mouth hanging open. Then he grinned again, pulled the face mask on, and gave a nod. “Ready?” He sidestepped away from Roland, staying lined up with Keefe. Then he bowed and held his bamboo stick out, angling it toward Keefe.

  Keefe swung his weapon up and imitated Peter’s hold. He’d only ever fought one-handed and with a foil, but he could adjust.

  A split second later, Peter hopped forward, whipped the bamboo sword up and sliced downward. Keefe slipped to a one-handed hold and blocked the overhead attack.

  “Two hands, man, two hands.” Peter laughed. “Lemme show you. Hold your sword out.”

  Keefe did as told.

  Peter showed him the basic moves, tapping him on the head and wrist, then slicing toward his abdomen. “And don’t forget about body slams.” He sounded happy about that. Eager.

  “Got it,” Keefe said.

  “Okay, let’s roll.” Peter bowed again. Keefe imitated. Then they began.

  They clacked their bamboo weapons together with speed, Peter hopping like a boxer, Keefe moving like a fencer. The intensity of Peter’s blows reminded Keefe of Jarret. Granted, Jarret’s moves reflected a higher level of skill, but they shared the same over-confident energy.

  The bamboo swords cracked together. This time Peter moved in closer, sliding his shinai along Keefe’s. Before Keefe realized his strategy, Peter slammed his shoulder into Keefe’s.

  Keefe stumbled back.

  Peter swung the shinai out, Keefe’s abdomen his target.

  Fencing moves flipping through his mind, Keefe blocked, pivoted, and prepared a counterattack. He pictured his foot moving behind Peter’s, knowing he could catch him off guard. But he avoided the step and risked Peter’s next blow.

  As he beat off Peter’s attack, his weak choice convicted him. Why hadn’t he made the move? He’d have scored for sure. How often had he avoided similar opportunities with Jarret and sometimes with Roland? Didn’t he have that same drive to win? Or had he always worried about the other’s pride or seemingly urgent need for victory? Always stepped aside so someone else could win?

  In one swift move, Peter swung his bamboo sword upward and then—Bam! Keefe had prepared to block his head, but Peter had twisted the sword suddenly and caught him in the side. In the next second, he lunged into Keefe’s space, slammed his shoulder into Keefe’s chest, and they both went down.

  Blue sky showed through the net mesh of the face mask, then the tree line at the edge of the Brandts’ yard, and finally grass. Momentarily disoriented, shoulder aching, and heart pounding, Keefe lay still. Two seconds later, fearing an attack while he was down, he scrambled to sit up.

  “All right, Peter, you won.” Roland jabbed his crutch into the grass and swung his injured leg forward, taking a step toward Keefe. “I gotta go. Or actually...” He looked at Peter. “Don’t you have to go?”

  Peter peeled off his face mask and glanced over his shoulder at the house. He sighed as he got to his feet. “I guess so, but first...” He gave Keefe a strange look, the hint of a challenge in his quirky smile. “Fire Starters meet again in September. You gonna officially join us this year?”

  The Catholic youth group had taken the name Fire Starters last year, around the same time membership had soared. Though it typically began and ended with the school year, several members continued to meet over the summer, praying and playing together.

  “I went to a few meetings and events last year.” Keefe handed the bamboo sword back and ran a hand through his hair, fixing what the face mask had flattened. “Doesn’t that make me a member?”

  “Eh.” Peter’s eyes swiveled to Roland. Roland squinted back, showing he questioned whether he’d approve of whatever Peter would say next.

  Peter took the face mask from Keefe, a look of challenge in his eyes. “You always seem so divided, like you’re half in and half out. You gotta be all in.”

  Roland rolled his eyes and shook his head. Nope. He didn’t approve of Peter’s game, whatever it was.

  Keefe laughed, but he didn’t like the accusation. He wasn’t divided, was he?

  “There’s more to joining Fire Starters than just coming to a meeting or activity here or there. If you want to be a member of our radical prayer group, you’ve got to be all in and you’ve got to prove it.”

  “What are you talking about?”
Roland tilted his head with that annoyed look he got more often lately, ever since the cast.

  “Everyone in the prayer group—” Peter spared a glance for Roland but remained otherwise focused on Keefe. “We’re like the Green Berets or the Seals, the few who dare to go deeper. If you want that, you’ve got to be initiated.”

  “Father Carston’s not going to like that,” Roland said. “He’s responsible for the group.”

  “Father Carston doesn’t need to know.” Peter slapped Roland’s arm with the back of his hand.

  “So what does initiation consist of?” Keefe asked, still shifting inside from the accusation, fearing that Peter was right. He was divided. Maybe that was what kept him from asking for permission to go on the retreat.

  “Good. You’re open.” Peter gave Roland a “so there” look. “Everyone’s different. But for you, what I think you need to do is go alone into the woods and pray for a few days, like over the weekend.”

  “Oh yeah?” Keefe smiled, wanting to show he knew Peter was kidding. But the idea did appeal to him.

  “Yeah. And you take nothing with you. You’re like one of those desert monks.”

  “Or Saint Francis?” Keefe’s voice came out just above a whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  “He can’t go back there with nothing for a few days.” Roland, the voice of reason.

  “Okay, so how about forty hours? And he brings a water bottle, which he can refill in the river. And a loaf of bread or some granola bars or something. But that’s it.”

  “Yeah? And where does he sleep?” Roland said. “Don’t you always warn about wild animals?”

  “Okay, right.” Peter paced a few feet. “So he can build a fire to keep them away or...” He stopped and raised an index finger. “Better yet... he can go back in the cave behind the waterfall. It’s safe and dry back there.”

  “And sleep on the cold, hard floor of the cave?”

  “Well, it’s not supposed to be a pleasure trip. It’s initiation. Yeah, there’s a bit of discomfort involved.”