Word has reached us that a great rally in support of the jailed Communists is to be held tomorrow in downtown Gastonia, a place that has had its fill of anarchy and bloodshed. Is more blood to be spilled? That is impossible to know, but if blood is to be spilled it must not be the blood of innocent, God-fearing Americans. If blood must be spilled, let it be the blood of those who seek to harm us, let it be the blood of those who murdered our beloved Chief Aderholt and wreaked havoc upon our peaceful city.
Tomorrow, we ask that every citizen—every husband, father, brother, officer, veteran—do everything in his power to confront these Communist agitators as they arrive in downtown Gastonia. We do not seek or desire violence, but we will not back down if violence is brought to our door. We will not allow more of our people to be murdered. We will not stand by quietly as our society is infiltrated once again.
PROUD AMERICANS, STAND WITH US TOMORROW AND HELP US PUT DOWN ANY INSURRECTION THAT SEEKS TO OVERTHROW OUR GOVERNMENT AND ALTER OUR WAY OF LIFE.
NOW IS THE TIME FOR ACTION.
NOW IS THE TIME FOR BRAVERY.
NOW IS THE TIME TO STOP THIS NIGHTMARE BY ANY MEANS POSSIBLE.
NOW IS THE TIME TO DO YOUR DUTY.
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Chapter Fourteen
Brother
Saturday, September 14, 1929
It had begun, which is to say that it had begun again, on the evening he’d seen Ella May Wiggins. At first he had been satisfied with the homebrew wine the monks made in secret and kept in the monastery’s kitchen pantry. The brothers grew the grapes in an extensive system of arbors that threaded through a sunny glade in the middle of the woods not far from campus. A small, gurgling creek snaked along beneath the vines, the green tendrils often trailing in the water. It was not a secret place, but it was secret enough to remain unmolested by the college men and uninvestigated by the local police.
Even after more than a decade of experimentation, the brothers had not yet mastered the art of fermenting grapes, and the wine that often resulted from their efforts bubbled with a yeasty carbonation. At night, Brother would lie burping in his cot in the monastery’s basement, the glaze of mild drunkenness having settled over him, the tiny chair he balanced on his chest rising and falling with each breath and belch. He’d stare into the darkness and ask himself what had first caused him to accept a drink after so many years, what caused him now to accept them still, what led him up the stairs from the basement and into the kitchen at night long after everyone had retired, what evil thing whispered in his ear and told him where to find the empty Mason jars to hide the wine.
His heart had been shrouded in a once-forgotten guilt since first laying eyes on Ella back in the early summer. Since that night his waking moments had been shadowed by dark memories of a wasted time that he had tried to put away. The rot and loss of his life, which Brother had kept behind him for so many years, now threatened to suffocate him. Many times he’d thought of cutting a length of rope from the workhouse and walking into the woods in search of a suitable tree with a limb that appeared strong enough to support his weight and long enough to keep his feet from the earth as his body thrashed above the ground. And then, one afternoon, he’d been cleaning Father Gregory’s cell when he peered beneath the old man’s bed and found it: an old, seemingly unused Winchester 270, a dusty box of ammunition resting beside it. Finding the rifle gave him a new thing to think about during the night as he lay awake: he saw himself kneeling in the middle of the maze of arbors, the grapevines stirring in the breeze above him, the mouth of the rifle’s barrel propped beneath his chin, his outstretched arms balancing the length of it, his thumb resting on the trigger.
And then, one day, the wine was no longer kept in the kitchen pantry. The monks no longer offered him discreet pours during meals. He wanted to ask about the missing wine, but he knew they suspected him of stealing what they had once so freely offered. Instead of taking the length of rope from the workhouse, he took a thin strip of wire and used it to pick the lock on the sacristy’s door inside the basilica. The wine there was used for communion and therefore authorized by law, shipped from Rome, and corked inside bottles.
Throughout the hot, violent summer the monks followed the events of the strike and discussed it often. Brother knew of Chief Aderholt’s murder, the apprehension of Fred Beal and others, the destruction of the tent colony, Ella May’s ascendance to strike leader after the Local moved to Bessemer City. He tried to keep her from his mind, but his awareness of her, especially her proximity to him, pushed him toward drink, and after months of drinking the bubbly homebrew the smooth, rich communion wine was a revelation. By September he had begun making near-daily trips to the basilica, which was often unlocked and unattended, especially in the early mornings before Mass.
Although it was mid-September and roughly three hundred students had returned to classes two weeks earlier, Brother did not encounter a soul that morning when he walked to the basilica. The empty Mason jar in his pocket bulged against his thigh like a tumor he was afraid of cutting free.
Inside the basilica his steps echoed along the floor and lifted to the arched ceiling thirty feet above. Over the main altar, a statue of Mary, Help of Christians, stared down upon him with loving, forgiving eyes, the Christ babe held aloft in her arms. He passed beneath her gaze and walked between the monks’ pews toward the sacristy that sat in a walled section behind the altar, which offered him ample cover while he picked the lock. But when he turned the corner he found a new latch and padlock securing the door.
He stepped back, stared at the new lock, imagined the monks speaking of the missing communion wine in quiet voices, their conversations ceasing upon his appearance. Of course they had noticed it. Of course they had considered him. Brother assumed that one of the younger monks, perhaps Father Elian, had come the evening before and used a hand crank to drill holes in the door for the latch as his spectacles slid down the bridge of his nose. The padlock key probably lay hidden somewhere in the monastery, and Brother’s mind cycled through all the probable hiding places, but there were too many for him to consider beginning a search, and there was simply no way a search could go unnoticed, especially since it was clear to Brother that they suspected him of being the thief.