Read Brother Odd for Free Online Page B

minutes had passed.
    I doubted that Brother John had fetched the cookies himself. He had been genuinely lost in thought.
    We were alone in the room. I hadn’t heard retreating footsteps when I entered.
    “Delicious,” I said, after swallowing a bite of the cookie.
    “As a boy, I wanted to be a baker,” he said.
    “The world needs good bakers, sir.”
    “I couldn’t stop thinking long enough to become a baker.”
    “Stop thinking about what?”
    “The universe. The fabric of reality. Structure.”
    “I see,” I said, though I didn’t.
    “I understood subatomic structure when I was six.”
    “At six, I made a pretty cool fort out of Lego blocks. Towers and turrets and battlements and everything.”
    His face brightened. “When I was a kid, I used forty-seven sets of Legos to build a crude model of quantum foam.”
    “Sorry, sir. I have no idea what quantum foam is.”
    “To grasp it, you have to be able to envision a very small landscape, one ten-billionth of a millionth of a meter—and only as it exists within a speck of time that is one-millionth of a billionth of a billionth of a second.”
    “I’d need to get a better wristwatch.”
    “This landscape I’m talking about is twenty powers of ten below the level of the proton, where there is no left or right, no up or down, no before or after.”
    “Forty-seven sets of Legos would’ve cost a bunch.”
    “My parents were supportive.”
    “Mine weren’t,” I said. “I had to leave home at sixteen and get work as a fry cook to support myself.”
    “You make exceptional pancakes, Odd Thomas. Unlike quantum foam, everybody knows what pancakes are.”
    After creating a four-billion-dollar charitable trust to be owned and administered by the Church, John Heineman had disappeared. The media had hunted him assiduously for years, without success. They were told he had gone into seclusion with the intention of becoming a monk, which was true.
    Some monks become priests, but others do not. Although they are all brothers, some are called Father. The priests can say Mass and perform sacred rites that the unordained brothers cannot, though otherwise they regard one another as equals. Brother John is a monk but not a priest.
    Be patient. The organization of monastic life is harder to understand than pancakes, but it’s not a brain buster like quantum foam.
    These monks take vows of poverty, chastity, obedience, and stability. Some of them surrender humble assets, while others leave behind prosperous careers. I think it’s safe to say that only Brother John has turned his back on four billion dollars.
    As John Heineman wished, the Church used a portion of that money to remake the former abbey as a school and a home for those who were both physically and mentally disabled and who had been abandoned by their families. They were children who would otherwise rot in mostly loveless public institutions or would be quietly euthanized by self-appointed “death angels” in the medical system.
    On this December night, I was warmed by being in the company of a man like Brother John, whose compassion matched his genius. To be honest, the cookie contributed significantly to my improved mood.
    A new abbey had been built, as well. Included were a series of subterranean rooms constructed and equipped to meet Brother John’s specifications.
    No one called this underground complex a laboratory. As far as I could discern, it wasn’t in fact a lab, but something unique of which only his genius could have conceived, its full purpose a mystery.
    The brothers, few of whom ever came here, called these quarters John’s Mew.
Mew,
in this case, is a medieval word meaning a place of concealment. A hideout.
    Also, a mew is a cage in which hunting hawks are kept while they are molting.
Mew
also means “to molt.”
    I once heard a monk refer to Brother John “down there growing all new feathers in the mew.”
    Another had called these basement quarters a cocoon and wondered when the