Frankie pulls into the parking lot and kills the engine. Immediately, even through the rolled-up windows, I can hear the wree-wree of crickets in the surrounding woods. I open the door and get out, and when Frankie does the same, I point at the wrought-iron gate and we walk across the parking lot.
When we approach the gate, I can see that the gate has the word PAX wrought in the topmost part of it. The gate is closed, but I can see that it leads into an arched passageway that cuts through the building and opens onto a courtyard beyond. There’s a cardboard sign on the wall next to the gate. Handwritten in black marker, the sign reads FOOD BANK. The people in line stir like blades of grass in a breeze and form a rough line. A bell tolls, and before it stops, a monk walks out of the building on the far side of the courtyard. He crosses the courtyard and walks through the passage to the gate and opens it. He wears glasses and a white hooded robe cinched around the waist with a leather belt. A black scapular, a rectangular piece of cloth with an opening for the head, lies over his shoulders. His white hood is pushed back from his head, which is gray and grizzled. He’s wearing an old pair of grass-stained Reebok tennis shoes. The line of people shuffles forward, each person taking a number from a pad mounted on the wall by the left-hand door in the passageway before going through that same door.
Frankie and I get at the end of the line and slowly move toward the monk. When we finally reach him, I realize he’s old, at least seventy. The monk gives numbers from the pad to a family of five, including two small boys, one of whom looks up at the monk and grins, showing off his missing tooth. “Thanks, Brother!” the boy says loudly.
“There you go, buddy, God bless you,” the monk says, smiling, and the family goes through the door. When they open it, I can see it leads to a room with folding chairs. A sign inside the doorway reads, Only 28 people allowed at a time. I glance at the pad on the wall, which is on 29.
“I’m sorry,” the monk says to me. “You can go in with the next group in about half an hour.”
I smile in what I hope looks like embarrassment. “I’m very sorry to bother you, Brother,” I say, “but actually I’m looking for someone who might be here. An old family friend? His name is Sam Bridges?” I don’t know if it’s a specifically Southern thing or not, but posing statements as questions tends to be disarming. I hope it makes me seem innocuous and in need of help rather than like someone seeking answers.
The old monk blinks behind his glasses. “Sam Bridges? I don’t … ah, you mean Samuel. He’s working in the bonsai shop today. Have you made an appointment through the abbot?”
Now I’m the one disarmed. I hadn’t considered an abbot, let alone calling to make an appointment. “I—no, I haven’t,” I say.
The monk closes the door and extends his arm toward the door on the other side of the arched passage. “If you like, you can call his voice mail number from this phone over here and set up an appointment.”
“I’m sorry, this is an emergency. I really need to speak with him today.”
The monk’s expression grows slightly stiffer. “Are you a member of his immediate family?”
“No.”
“Then I’m sorry. You’ll need to call the abbot.” I don’t know if he did this on purpose, but now the monk stands between me and the courtyard at the end of the passage.
“Ethan.” Frankie puts hand on my shoulder. “How about I call and leave a message for the abbot. You go wait by the car.” As he says this, with his back to the monk, he cuts his eyes to the left, then back at me and to the left again. The car is not to the left, but directly behind us across the parking lot.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry, Brother.” The older monk shakes his head and smiles, as if denying that I owe him an apology, and then walks with Frankie over to the other door. I walk back out of the arch and look to the left, where Frankie indicated. Extending alongside the parking lot all the way to the gift shop is a fenced-off area with a closed gate. A sign reading BONSAI SHOP AND GARDEN hangs on the gate. Below it is a small sign: Please Do Not Enter Unless Gate is Open. Quickly I walk to the gate, push it open, and then shut it behind me.
Before me is another low building, but this one is wooden with a tin roof. One end is open so I can see inside the entire length of the building, which looks as if it was once a stable—on either side, what used to be pens are open to the center of the building. A few of the dividing walls between the pens have been removed. Sunlight streams in through glassless windows. In each area or pen, I can see a mound of soil and a stack of plastic plant trays. In some pens, I can see short rows of bonsai trees, each pruned and shaped into a unique twisted figure. The old monk said that Bridges is working in here today. I walk into the nursery, glancing into pens as I pass them.
At the far end of the nursery, two
