Size Zero

2

2Everything at St. Joseph’s Abbey had a purpose, which is precisely why Brother George hid inside of it.

Mountains surrounded the chapel, a natural cradle protecting it from evil. The closest house was five miles away, and nothing could be heard but quacking ducks and wind sizzling against the trees. The Benedictine monks were happy to pray, sing, and work together in their own tiny town they called an abbey.

A canopy of bright red autumn leaves hung over Brother George’s daily reading space. He preferred to overlook the pond, full of blooming lily pads and adorably obese stray cats. Nothing smelled like life more than wet grass and lavender.

Brother George brought his crossword close to his eyes to avoid seeing anything but his own words written in minuscule capital letters.

A pen was cradled in his hand, stroking letters across black and white squares. Unlike the other monks who practiced ceramics and stained glass, Brother George was an artist only with words.

Cigar smoke puffed from his lips. Ink violently smeared from his pen’s nib.

Demesne. Chatoyant. Bucolic.

His fingers tangled through his brown hair, coating the tips in ink.

The clue “Half of a dance” made the answer CHA (half of the cha-cha), and “Is it acquired by breaking the law?” made WEALTH.

Not enough things in life were black-and-white. The murky crevices, the obscurities of day-to-day living, were not in Brother George’s vocabulary. He preferred the world of crosswords, where for every block down, there was an across to be made.

The Bible and black habit might’ve helped him fake maturity, but his teal-blue eyes only highlighted the boyish pinkness that still clung to his dimples.

It was only in the darkness that one could see the depth behind his shallow, daytime eyes.

A black-and-white yo-yo fell from his hand in sync with his tapping pen. Scrawling crosswords allowed him to order his own chaos, to bring everything to a conclusion.

His word was SKIM. The clue: “It’s less rich than the one percent.”

The sound of footsteps came from behind him, and he turned toward the woods to find an adolescent, frizzy-haired boy staring at him with bulging eyes. He quickly hid the crossword puzzle inside his Bible, snuffed his cigar out on the porch deck, and pretended to be humming hymns.

The boy was spooked by the sight of a monk. The cape. The crucifix.

He froze at the edge of the walking trail, mouth agape as though he’d just seen a centuries-old relic come to life. When Brother George waved, the boy turned red-faced and ran down the muddy hill, sliding on his butt, and scampering to the edge of the abbey pond.

Ducks quacked and flew out of the water, running away from him. Even the abbey’s stray cats, the freeloaders who purred their way to chicken wings and obesity, kept their distance from the boy as he flailed downward. He looked back at Brother George who pretended to be reading. And then he dunked his head into the lily pads, holding his breath under the water. Brother George put down his book and walked toward the pond, completely confused.

By the time the boy came up for air, gasping, Brother George stood over him, black habit flowing like a cape.

“Jesus,” the boy yelped, falling back onto the grass. “Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.”

Brother George put his hands up. “I’m a monk, not a ninja.”

The boy folded his hands and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “But you look like a Jedi. The black hood, the belt, the cloak. And the cigar! I don’t believe you.”

“Let’s not mention the cigar to anyone, please.”

The boy picked a slimy piece of algae out of his hair. “I thought monks were old bald guys.”

“Some are. Most are, actually. The church isn’t exactly en vogue right now so I’m the youngest monk here.” Brother George’s Levi’s jeans peeked out beneath the slit in his habit, and the boy lifted it to find the white T-shirt to match. “See, a ninja or a Jedi wouldn’t wear such boring jeans, now would he? I come in peace.”

“That’s exactly what a ninja would say,” the boy whispered.

Brother George folded his arms. “What were you doing in the pond?”

The boy shrugged, taking off his wet shirt and fanning it in the air. “Mom said I needed holy water because I’m a sinner.”

Brother George chuckled, putting his hand out to help the boy to his feet. But he stomped and pouted. “Hey. Don’t laugh. Mom says I’m going to hell. Like real hell. With dragons and fire and Satan.” Tears welled in his eyes as the boy turned away. He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water, trying to preoccupy his thoughts.

Brother George’s smile quickly faded, and he knelt down. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” the boy said, pouting. His eyes slowly drifted up to Brother George’s.

“Well, as pathetic as it is, my only superpowers are listening and forgiveness.” When Brother George didn’t get a response to his poorly formed joke, he whipped off his belt cincture and cracked it like a whip. “Or we can have a duel, and I’ll go to hell in your place if you kill me.”

“Whoa.” A smile crept up despite the boy trying to hold his frown. “You are so not what I expected monks to be.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not a very good monk. I don’t think I’m a very good person, either.”

The boy folded his hands and looked up at the sky, praying. “The priest at my church wants to send me away from my parents for what I did. He wants me to go away for months.”

“To prison?”

“To Jesus camp. Do you know what they make you do there? I once spent three hours decorating a cross with sequins and colored cotton balls. I don’t understand what a rainbow crucifix has to do with Jesus bleeding all over a cross.”

“What did you do? Smoke m*******a? Steal your mom’s car for a joyride?” Brother George asked.

“So much worse.”

The small smile left Brother George’s face. He placed his palm on the boy’s shoulder. “Did you kill someone?”

“Worse!”

“Just tell me.”

The boy leaned forward, looking at himself in the water. His freckles reflected against the backs of turtle shells, making him look even more innocent.

“I kissed a boy,” he whispered. “My friend Brett. Just one time.” His lips twisted and trembled, shaking faster and faster as he tried to hold back the tears. “Mom says I’m gay. She hasn’t looked me in the eye in three weeks. When she told my dad… He, um. He hit me.”

A lump slid down Brother George’s throat like a snake writhing beneath the skin. He noticed a greenish welt peeking out from beneath the boy’s collar, right around his neck.

Suddenly a woman appeared from the wooded pathway behind the pond. “Good, Billy. You’ve found someone to help you.”

Brother George stood, meeting Billy’s mother with a solemn face.

“It’s a tragedy, isn’t it?” she said. “Please help us. What should I do with him?”

“I have a solution. Do not worry.” Brother George put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “But you have to follow my instructions very clearly. That’s the only way either of you will find salvation. Understand?”

She nodded enthusiastically, even pulling out her iPhone to take notes.

“You’re going to go home,” he said, “and talk to your son with a nice smile.”

The woman typed enthusiastically.

“You’re going to tell your husband never to lay a hand on Billy again.”

She typed slower, looking up at him with worried, wide eyes.

“You’re going to go home and show Billy the classics that are Flashdance and Grease. You will buy him sequined shorts if he wants them. You will love Billy no matter whom he loves when he’s older. And if your husband lays a hand on this boy again, I will personally shove those sequined shorts up his ass.”

“Brother George!” Abbot Joseph barked, standing atop the grassy hill with all of the abbey monks in tow.

He gave one look to his brothers, who stood staring down at him, both literally and figuratively, with scowls on their faces. The mother shook in place, hands quivering as her son’s had when he first saw Brother George. “God bless you,” he whispered.

As Brother George walked toward the monks, cape flinging around him like a royal train, Billy grabbed his hand. “You were wrong,” he said. “You are a ninja.”

In a few weeks, the monks would attend Brother George’s solemn profession. After a six-year formation period, studying Scripture, the Rule of St. Benedict, and life at the abbey, Brother George would give his solemn vows to commit the rest of his life to the monastic community at St. Joseph’s Abbey. He would live, eat, and pray all for God, never leaving the abbey walls. Once he spoke the vows, he could never go back to normal life.

Brother George was terrified.

The monks silently sat on long benches in the refectory as dinner was served. They received only two meals a day. Food moderation was key to Benedict’s Law. No meat of mammals was ever served, except to Brother George’s obese stray cats.

The tubby cats, Mochi and Muffintop, sprinted toward his feet, stumbling over their own stubby legs at each dinner. The cook made two chicken wings just for them. They sat at Brother George’s feet as he peeled the wings and fed them by hand.

He missed meat. But even more, he missed pepperoni pizza. Of all the sins that tempted him, it was pepperoni pizza that he was sure would lead to his demise. In his dreams, he’d imagine standing at Grimaldi’s Pizzeria beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, shoving two whole pizza pies into his mouth at once.

In reality, he’d do with just one slice. But in dream-form, those two whole pizzas were carnivals of cheesy-tomato goodness. Dreams didn’t punish gluttony.

Brother George was served a slice of bread, a kale salad, and ginger tea. He split the piece of toast into twelve tiny chunks, so it felt like he had a dozen bites instead of one, and dipped the pieces into the ginger tea.

The other monks stared at the twenty-four-year-old novice, hoping he’d somehow get lost on the way to the chapel before his solemn vows.

But Brother George reveled in the silence of the meals. As a teenager, he held French fries in one hand and his phone in the other, eyes scrolling through text messages, never looking up. He watched YouTube videos of cats skateboarding, instead of feeling the cats’ warm purrs against his legs.

The holy isolation of St. Joseph’s Abbey kept Brother George sane.

In the refectory, each sip of ginger tea felt meaningful. Each bite of bread was savored. And the shared energy of his brothers radiated through the wooden walls.

The monks even found a way to communicate around the silence. If Brother George needed a knife, he would slice or rub one finger over the other as if carving. If he wanted a napkin, he’d set two hands over his lap and spread them. To ask for apples at dessert, he’d bend his right thumb to the middle of his palm, seize it with his fingers, and raise up his fist.

It felt like theater, with each player actively reacting to another’s needs.

When the silence ended, the plates were cleared, and a projector screen rolled down from the ceiling. It was the only occasion monks used the internet.

Prayer requests.

It was a time for monks to interact with the outside world, to personally meet and help the people for whom they prayed over online video. It was Brother George’s idea. Some of his modern tech was helpful.

A church volunteer managed Skype, answering people’s calls and putting them on screen before the monks.

The first person to ask for prayers was a skinny young woman sitting in a rundown trailer, cradling a crying two-year-old tot in her arms.

“My boy… I have a two-year-old, and he has brain cancer. Two tumors.” The woman shuddered, hiding her face in her elbow. “I’m…I’m not askin’ for God to keep him alive. I know he’ll do what’s best for my son. I just…I pray I can get the money to get him some treatment.”

The woman put her baby down in a homemade cradle and wrapped him in a bundle of old T-shirts. “I work two jobs. Cashier. And I can’t pay for chemo. It’s either chemo or food at this point.”

The monks soothed her worries and conspired to set up a fundraiser for the woman. She’d have the money in two months. Ceramic pipes and beer made by monks sold well on the internet. The Lord’s Work, Fulfilled by sss.

The image of the crying woman and her messy trailer was replaced by the intimidating limestone structure of Lincoln Center in Manhattan. Red-and-blue lights flashed ominously onto the columns of the building. Sirens blared. Hundreds of New Yorkers crowded around the yellow police tape.

“I’m Margaux LeClaire,” said the woman on screen. “In case you didn’t know that.”

She stretched her yellowish-blond hair into a tight bun, making her look like the wolfish grandmother in Little Red Riding Hood. Her New Orleans roots prompted her to tan too often, tinting her skin forever Oompa-Loompa orange. Her jewelry was made of bright pink and yellow stones so heavy that they weighed her neck down.

Like a golden toilet, the look was attractive…in a remarkable way.

Margaux LeClaire looked rich with a side of w*********h poking through.

“I don’t need prayers,” she said. “How much do miracles cost?”

“Excuse me?” Abbot Joseph scoffed as the monks shuffled uncomfortably. “You can’t buy miracles.”

“Oh, bullshit,” Margaux said. “Jesus was Jewish after all.” Margaux slinked into a dark Lincoln Center. Rubble from a fashion show covered the floor, Visage purses carelessly tossed aside. Posters for the Visage luxury brand lined the walls. “You can’t buy miracles,” Margaux chided in a sarcastic tone. “Tell that to my church on Madison Avenue. I have to give them ten grand just to piss in their toilet. If that money’s really for Jesus, he’s one greedy little Jew.”

“Ma’am,” the abbot said. “We’re going to have to move forward if you keep speaking this way.”

Margaux opened the door to the fashion show where a coat made of human skin was being lifted off Ava Germaine’s naked body by a small crane. Crevier crystals were sewn into purplish skin. Elaborate embroidery tangled around gemstones and bedazzled buttons.

Margaux wobbled up to the bloody eyeball on the runway and put her phone next to it until a police officer swatted her away.

“That’s my model,” she said, pointing the camera toward the girl beneath the coat. “I’m a model agent. And somehow, my model wore a dead body onto the Visage runway show.”

“Is she okay?” Abbot Joseph asked.

“Not the point,” Margaux said. “I’d like to pay one of the monks to come down here and tell the police I’m Christian and would never murder anyone. Also, I’ll pay extra if he says it on TV to Anderson Cooper on CNN. But only to Anderson Cooper, not Wolf Blitzer. He’s an asshole, and he hates me because I always steal his parking spot on Madison.”

Forensics took down the skin coat carefully from the crane. Police swarmed the area, taking every piece of clothing from the Visage collection as evidence.

“Ma’am, we don’t do that here,” Abbot Joseph said. “Also, being Christian alone doesn’t preclude you from being a murderer.”

Margaux folded her hands in prayer.

Abbot Joseph spun toward the volunteer who manned the video chat. “Can we please move forward?”

The other monks sat slack-jawed, some averting their eyes from the sight of the skin coat.

“Just one question before you throw me back to hell,” Margaux said. “Why are priests called Father?”

Brother George leaned toward the camera with a furious red face. “Because it’s too suspicious to call them Daddy.” He leaned back. “There. Happy? You got your line in.”

The monks hid their faces, and Abbot Joseph grabbed Brother George’s arm. “You’re making your last weeks before solemn vows very difficult, aren’t you?”

Margaux turned the camera toward a woman in handcuffs. “Oh goddammit,” she said, fanning herself with a fashion show program. “They got Clara. That’s my niece, by the way. She’s my far, far removed niece. Clara Royds. So God can keep everyone straight in the prayers… If you’re gonna pray at all, or if you pray to send us to hell. Whichever, as long as there are frosted animal crackers wherever you send us.”

The police had dragged Clara Royds out in handcuffs. It must’ve been difficult for the officers. Not because she threw any punches, but because she hung from their arms like a limp ragdoll, refusing to walk.

Clara was highly altered with a face more sculpted than a pyramid. Her nose had been cut to a small strip of cartilage. Her forehead had received so much Botox that her skin glistened with a plastic glow. And her bright pink hair floofed like a powder puff. She was less than thirty, and plastic surgery had already ruined her face.

“What do you want, Margaux?” Brother George spat.

“I want my deadbeat child to come home and help his family in our time of need. Instead of hiding and playing dress-up in some fake paradise in the forest, he should keep his family out of jail.”

“Based on this, I’d say he was right to leave,” Brother George said.

One of the older monks practically fainted, putting his head down between his hands.

“Take off the costume and come home, Brother George. Who needs God when you’re Cecil LeClaire?” Margaux asked, hanging up on the monks.

Six short years ago, Brother George was the heir to a multi-million-dollar fashion empire he did not want: LeClaire Model Management.

As the monks gave Brother George bewildered stares, Muffintop flopped onto the table.

“Down, cat. Down,” one of the monks barked.

But an undeterred Muffintop pranced down the refectory runway, flabby belly swaying triumphantly like the fringe on a dancer’s dress. Her stubby legs barely peeked out from beneath the fat rolls.

“Get her off the table. Off. She’s got bloody paws!”

She tilted her head up with pride, showing off her trophy kill, which was a bit presumptuous as Muffintop never actually caught the mice herself. She stole them out of mousetraps and took all the credit.

“Muffintop!” Brother George yelled, climbing off the bench. “Please don’t drop the mouse’s head on the table.”

He stuck his hand out, and Muffintop plopped an object into his palm. But it wasn’t a mouse head. It was a piece of blood-soaked cardboard.

Muffintop rubbed her neck against Brother George’s wrist, giving off a contented purr.

The chapel bells chimed for vespers, but as the refectory emptied, Brother George noticed a set of bloody paw prints leading out of the refectory. It was a lot of blood for a mouse.

Brother George heaved Muffintop into his arms. The pads of her feet were printed in red. He followed her prints along the sidewalk.

“What did you get yourself into?” he whispered, cradling her to keep all four dirty paws upright and away from his habit.

The tracks led a few feet from the refectory to where his workshop stood. There was a cardboard package on the doorstep with a corner chewed away. There was no postage, but the nametag read: To Cecil LeClaire.

When he lifted it, he felt a soggy, wet bottom.

The package was bleeding.