Brother Odd

is a self-indulgent form of sorrow. By writing in an unrelievedly dark mode, he warns, the writer risks culturing darkness in his heart, becoming the very thing that he decries.
        Considering the gruesome death of Brother Timothy, the awful discoveries yet to be revealed in this account, and the grievous losses forthcoming, I doubt that the tone of this narrative would be half as light as it is if Rodion Romanovich had not been part of it. I do not mean that he turned out to be a swell guy. I mean only that he had wit.
        These days, all I ask of Fate is that the people she hurls into my life, whether they are evil or good, or morally bipolar, should be amusing to one degree or another. This is a big request to make of busy Fate, who has billions of lives to keep in constant turmoil. Most good people have a sense of humor. The problem is finding smile-inducing evil people, because the evil are mostly humorless, though in the movies they frequently get some of the best lines. With few exceptions, the morally bipolar are too preoccupied with justifying their contradictory behaviors to learn to laugh at themselves, and I've noticed they laugh at other people more than with them.
        Burly, fur-hatted, and looking as solemn as a man should who prepares people for death, Rodion Romanovich returned with the keys to the second SUV.
        "Mr. Thomas, any scientist will tell you that in nature many systems appear to be chaotic, but when you study them long enough and closely enough, strange order always underlies the appearance of chaos."
        I said, "How about that."
        "The winter storm into which we are going will seem chaotic-the shifting winds and the churning snow and the brightness that obscures more than it reveals-but if you could view it not at the level of a meteorological event, view it instead at the micro scale of fluid and particle and energy flux, you would see a warp and woof suggestive of a well-woven fabric."
        "I left my micro-scale eyeglasses in my room."
        "If you were to view it at the atomic level, the event might seem chaotic again, but proceeding into the subatomic, strange order appears once more, an even more intricate design than warp and woof. Always, beneath every apparent chaos, order waits to be revealed."
        "You haven't seen my sock drawer."
        "The two of us might seem to be in this place, at this time, only by coincidence, but both an honest scientist and a true man of faith will tell you there are no coincidences."
        I shook my head. "They sure did make you do some pretty deep thinking at that mortician's school."
        Neither a spot nor a wrinkle marred his clothes, and his rubber boots gleamed like patent leather.
        Stoic, seamed, and solid, his face was a mask of perfect order.
        He said, "Do not bother to ask for the name of the mortician's school, Mr. Thomas. I never attended one."
        "This is the first time I've known anyone," I said, "who embalmed without a license."
        His eyes revealed an order even more rigorous than that exemplified by his wardrobe and his face.
        He said, "I obtained a license without the need for schooling. I had a natural-born talent for the trade."
        "Some kids are born with perfect pitch, with a genius for math, and you were born knowing how to prepare people for death."
        "That is exactly correct, Mr. Thomas."
        "You must have come from interesting genetic stock."
        "I suspect," he said, "that your family and mine were equally unconventional."
        "I've never met my mother's sister, Aunt Cymry, but my father says she's a dangerous mutant they've locked away somewhere."
        The Russian shrugged. "I would nevertheless wager heavily on the equivalency of our families. Should I lead the way or follow you?"
        If he contained chaos on some level below wardrobe and face and eyes, it must be in his mind. I wondered what kind of strange order might underlie it.
        "Sir, I've never driven in snow before. I'm not sure how I'll be able to tell, under all the drifts, exactly where the driveway runs between here and the abbey. I'd have to plow by intuition- though I usually do all right that way."
        "With all due respect, Mr. Thomas, I believe that experience trumps intuition. Russia is a world of snow, and in fact I was born during a blizzard."
        "During a blizzard, in a mortuary?"
        "Actually,