Deceiving Mr. Bevison
Chapter 4
After supper, thanks to Mom, I was expected to go to compulsory chapel. Compulsory meaning I didn’t have a choice and would be in trouble if I skipped it. So there I was, back in the assembly hall right after dinner, my stomach comfortably full. Rights had it that I would sleep peacefully through the boring parts of the “Welcome to St. Rupert’s Evening Prayer Service.” I was starting to hunch down in my seat and curl up in a comfortable ball when Father Dell, our headmaster, started the service.
I would be getting a good look at this headmaster I kept hearing about. Well, I guess I’d met him on the day my mom had dragged me to my interview, but not to remember. I had plenty of interest now, and opportunity. He came swishing out to read the evensong service with his monk’s robes billowing around him. His forehead was shining like a mirror under the spotlight above the lectern, his woolly yellow hair surrounding his bald spot like a halo, his watery blue eyes staring at us in surprise, as if he’d never seen a roomful of boys before. As if his appearance weren’t weird enough, he had a weird squeaky voice that was making me really peevish. It kept shaking me awake every two seconds.
“And God” . . . pause . . . wait . . . wait . . . “so loved the world, he” . . . pause . . . “gave his only Son . . .” It would be really quiet and peaceful and then, squeak squeak. He would pause and start back up. Each pause was so suspenseful it kept me awake, kind of like standing on the very edge of a cliff waiting for it to collapse under me. And then he’d change vocal register and be at it again, blasting us with a blaring baritone. He must have had lots of experience keeping kids awake when he was speaking, because it sure worked on me.
I looked around the auditorium. Some of the band members were there, some not. They seemed to be paying more or less attention, so instead of sleeping, I used the drowsy times to speculate on why the Head would refuse to let this Harley Bevison dude visit the St. Rupert’s Museum. From my seat in the balcony I looked down at him struggling away with the service. He didn’t seem like the type to keep somebody away from anything. How could he, when he looked like a harmless, slightly cross-eyed piece of dough? Watching him as he finished delivering the prayers, things just didn’t feel right. I shifted in my seat.
As things came to a close with an “amen,” they switched to the “Welcome” part of the evening. Some monks and others were walking up on the stage to sit down in a row of chairs behind the lectern.
“New boys, I . . . welcome . . . you to St. Rupert’s. I hope you will be very happy here,” Father Dell gasped in his weird intonation, ending in an embarrassed laugh. “I would like to introduce you to the . . . faculty,” he said turning and gesturing at the monks behind him. The kids gave a smattering of applause. Father Dell clapped with us and then motioned, asking the teachers to stand. They stood, and I inspected them. There were several lay teachers in ordinary civilian clothes, and the rest were monks, in gray, featureless robes, bell-pull belts, and sandals. The monks all tended to look alike because of their clothes, so it would be harder to remember which one belonged to what name. The teachers were familiar with Father Dell’s speech impediment, apparently, for they seemed anxious to introduce themselves, perhaps to save him some trouble and themselves some time and agony.
A tall, quiet-looking, dark-haired monk stepped forward to the podium, adjusted the microphone, and looked around at us, making sure he had everyone’s attention. Folding his hands under the front of his robes, he began.
“I am Brother Matthew. Father Dell, our headmaster, will be going on a brief sabbatical for a few days this year.” He got an instructional look on his face. “A sabbatical, boys, is a leave of absence from regular work in order to study and do research.”
Father Dell nodded benignly. “Feel free to go to Brother Matthew for anything you would come to me for during this time.”
“I am the assistant headmaster, as well as your history teacher.” Brother Matthew continued to introduce the rest of the teachers to us one by one. After having a good, hard look around at us when one student started making noise one aisle over from mine, he nodded briskly to the monk next to himself. A burlier version of Brother Matthew swaggered forward. His robe was a bit on the shorter side, and we could see his hairy, muscular legs above his sandals.
“This is our coach, Brother Roger,” said Brother Mathew. Even before he spoke, I knew we had a classic gym teacher here. Brother Roger’s gruff bark confirmed my suspicions. He snatched the microphone impatiently from Brother Matthew.
“St. Rupert’s Athletics is MY department and an important part of this community,” he growled, glaring at each of us. “Participation in at least one team is required by all you men, and attendance at athletic events is highly recommended, if you want a passing grade from me in PE. Do I make myself clear?” I almost expected him to say “I didn’t hear you” as we nodded. But he stepped back and nodded abruptly to the next teacher, confident that he had sent us his beginning-of-year challenge. “Defy me and die of about a million push-ups” came through as loud as a bugle.
As the rest of the faculty introduced themselves, my mind wandered back to my first visit to St. Rupert’s. Father Dell and my mom had hit it off right away, but I had mostly been staring at the book titles on his bookshelf and the design on the carpet. My mom was all excited about the atmosphere and culture of the place and went off for a tour of the school while I went back to our car to take a nap. Now I wished I’d taken the tour, to at least see the museum.
The thought of Father Dell’s books put me in mind that maybe the thing to do was find out about some things, about the school, art collecting, and other stuff. As soon as the service ended, I shook fully awake and jogged over to the building marked LIBRARY. I walked in and plopped my backpack down at a computer. The monk at the front desk looked up with raised eyebrows.
“Can I help you . . . ?”
“I’m Charlie MacDonough.”
“Brother Edward here. What can I do for you?”
“Yes, Brother. I’m interested in finding out about museum art,” I said awkwardly.
“Why don’t you try googling ‘arts and antiquities.’ That would cover the most territory. Let me know if you need any more help,” he said as he went back to his work.
“Thanks.”
So I googled “arts and antiquities,” and up popped lots of hits about art collecting. What I found, on a very cool site, was that the art-collecting world was a ruthless place. Not your grandma’s. Ancient, museum-quality artworks were hijacked, stolen, or forged and sold, in such huge numbers that it dwarfed your plain old criminal front selling hot TVs from the back of a van. These crooks did it with a whole lot more panache, and a whole lot more money was changing hands.
The criminals included tomb robbers and thieves, as well as museum curators and art experts. What a bunch! Criminy, they seemed to have no scruples about the fact that millions of dollars’ worth of works were passing in and out of their hands, between people who had no legal right to any of the stuff. True, Interpol and such organizations were chasing after them. They had special Arts and Antiquities Theft Squads in a lot of countries, but the thievery rate was so bad it was burying them in overwork. There was even a place that had gotten busted recently, which had a warehouse and a sort of catalog where you could order your stolen goods and go view your order in this facility—like Best Brands for really, really expensive artwork such as ancient Roman artifacts.
A voice behind me startled me. “Time to go,” said the librarian monk briskly. He was bustling around, tidying up the front desk before leaving for the night. I stretched my neck and looked to see how late it had gotten. Whew, I’d put in a lot of hours.
“You’ve just got time to get back to the dorm before curfew, if you leave now,” he said, giving me a quizzical look. No wonder—nobody else was in the building but the two of us.
“I’ll just save my research onto my thumb drive,” I said, nodding. I’d have to show this mother lode of information to
the guys. I flipped the thumb drive into my pocket and got up to leave. The brother smiled as I left, shutting and locking the door behind me, giving me a friendly wave.
As I left the library, I remembered how I had felt a little lost, late last night, when my folks had left me in the school office with my things before they departed to start their great adventure. Last night, the first one at school, all the newbies had stayed together in a dark, barracks-style dorm. I wasn’t told much besides not to unpack my gear and where and when to meet Ms. Kent the next morning for practice. All that uncertainty was gone now. It was so good to feel like I had a home and bed, with my fellow band members near me tonight.
I went back to my room and found that my good friends and bandmates had made sure I felt welcome on my first night with them. The lights were off except for the one next to Ian, who was reading with his bed lamp.
“You only just got back in time, man,” commented Ian, looking over from his bunk. He sounded concerned. I got undressed and headed for bed, where I found that all the sheets on my utilitarian bunk were tied in knots. I heard Brookie sniggering in the dark from the tiers of bunks on the other side of the room.
“Thanks, guys, I needed that,” I said, and I meant it. As I got into an unmade bed, I realized I was taking myself way too seriously if I spent the very first day of school at the library. The other thing I realized, with a warm feeling in my heart, was that knotting my sheets was Brookie’s way of welcoming me home.