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1-24-2008 Jim Austin Here's the shameful thing: half a century later, thinking about that rat prank still makes me laugh to tears. That shows a callous heart and bodes ill for my next incarnation. I'll probably reappear as a rodent with a long, bald tail and yellow fangs, or as a man set trembling by the very thought of rats. As poor Brother Lawrence was. My classmate, that tough, laconic Pittsburgher, feared nothing in life except rats. And the scheme that Bernie, his Philly nemesis, hatched with me exploited Larry's fear. Shame, shame on us both. Again, after basic training our class moved north to form part of a community of 120 young brothers studying at La Salle University. We lived off campus on the former estate of Eleanor Weidner Dixon, heir to a huge meatpacking fortune. As a wedding gift, her dad, who had one of his own estates just across the road, gave Eleanor 55 acres of lawns and formal gardens and had built on its highest point an eerily accurate replica of England's Compton Wynyates. That's an early 16th-century countryseat featuring turrets, broad Gothic windows with hundreds of small panels of leaded glass, and tall chimneys of ornate brickwork. Inside, Mrs. Dixon's mansion was a treasure trove of architectural detail ripped from British stately homes: carved oak doors eight feet tall, stone fireplaces large enough to stand in, folded-linen oak paneling through all the halls and public rooms, and sweeping right upstairs alongside the grand staircase. All us young monks had our tastes refined, just by living in that museum-like setting; this despite our focus on ascetics, not aesthetics. For, inside all that splendor, our lives echoed the Middle Ages. Up at 5:30 a.m., we spent 90 minutes in the chapel (Mrs. Dixon's former ballroom), chanting morning prayer, meditating, and attending Mass. We were read to as we ate breakfast under her ceiling of carved plaster and her broad-branching pewter chandelier. Then we hurried to board a fleet of minibuses for the commute to campus. At home in the evening, we studied in our common room (Mrs. Dixon's library), then headed for chanted night prayer and bed at 9:30. At that point the Great Silence began; no talk until after the next day's breakfast. As I've said, I was assigned one of seven steel cots in what had been the master bedroom. There the chandeliers and wall sconces were crystal. Bracketing the spot where an opulent bed had stood were two bookcases filled, it appeared, with classic leatherbound works: Greek philosophers, Roman orators, masterpieces of later European literature. Except that there were no books at all. Magnificent volumes, probably also pillaged from some British mansion, had been stripped of their leather spines and, one imagines, thrown out. The spines, side by side, were then cleverly attached to cabinetry to produce the illusion of high literacy. My bed and Larry's stood between those fake bookcases. The other five beds were spread around the walls and in front of the high windows. Now, to that shameful night in early spring. After night prayer, up the magnificent staircase we climbed and then peeled off into the myriad bedrooms. Bernie was first in ours. When the rest of us entered, he was on hands and knees by the fireplace, searching feverishly under the nearest cots. He looked up as we gathered just inside the door and whispered one word, "Rat!" Then he mimed one plopping from the chimney and scampering out onto the floor. I heard a faint gasp from Larry. He held back near the door as the rest of us fell to hands and knees and joined Bernie in his search. After 10 minutes it seemed the rat had found an escape route, and we got ready for bed. Larry was already in his, covers up to his chin. Oh, my. Now I must admit to a scene earlier that day. In the afternoon, Bernie and I knelt on either side of Larry's neatly made cot. I slid a thin nylon cord between the top sheet and the blanket, down where Larry's knees would later be. On the other side, Bernie tied the cord to two balled-up socks; he tucked the ball down in the covers' tight fold. Back on my side, I ran the cord across the floor and into my own cot. That night, with all of us finally in bed and mostly asleep, I took hold of my end of that cord and began to pull. The ball of socks rose on the far side of Larry's bed. I gave the cord a pull and dragged the socks right across Larry and into my bed. Larry leaped up with a choked scream. "It just ran across me!" he rasped, ran to one of the marble windowsills, and stopped just short of climbing on it. While Larry watched, the rest of us tore his bed apart, shook out all the linen, even turned over the thin mattress. But as we were remaking it for him, I reinstalled the cord and socks, this time under the bottom sheet about halfway down. Then our shaken confrere climbed back in to lie under the covers, rigid as a statue. Forty-five minutes later, with deep breathing and snores from around the room, I drew the cord again. The socks cleared the far side of Larry's bed and snuggled up to his side. Then I yanked the cord, and the socks burrowed right under the small of his back. The result was awesome. Larry threw his legs and himself into the air, his sheet and blanket taking flight like flapping birds. Somehow honoring the Great Silence even in his terror, Larry croaked, "In my bed! In my bed!" He was now standing on his pillow, plastered against the wall. Of course we tore the bed apart again, remade it; but there was no getting Larry back in it. He walked stiffly into the marble bathroom and closed the door behind him. I think he spent the night in Mrs. Dixon's bathtub. I'm so ashamed! I'm laughing again, right now. If there's reincarnation, I'm doomed. Read about Jim Atwell's book, "From Fly Creek — Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country" at JimAtwell. com. |
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