Then Came Heaven (23 page)

On their way up the stairs Lucy whispered, “How come it’s so quiet, Annie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Haven’t they got no radio?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do you think they are?” In the upstairs hall all the doors were closed.

“Shh. It’s probably a sin to talk about them. Come on.”

They reached the bathroom and shut themselves inside.

Anne went first. While she did so, Lucy looked around the spotless white room with its starched white window curtain, pedestal sink and clawfoot tub.

“Gee, it looks just like other people’s bathrooms,” Lucy observed in a whisper.

“But there’s no perfume bottles like Mommy’s.”

“I don’t think they can wear perfume. Only incense. Hurry up, I gotta go too.”

Anne hurried and they changed places. During these minutes they were all eyes, examining the room for evidence that the nuns were mortal, for in their childish eyes the Sisters had dropped into their universe permanently dressed in habits that magically never needed changing; not from a world of parents and siblings and a childhood like their own, but from someplace that wasn’t exactly heaven yet very much like it, someplace where nuns were created and stored by God and dropped down by Him whenever they were needed.

“Hey, Annie, do you think they use toothbrushes like we have to?”

“Well, of course, silly, they have teeth and they get cavities if they don’t brush.”

“They do not. Jesus wouldn’t give them cavities. They’re too holy.”

“Well, Mommy used to take them to long Prairie to the dentist, so there, smarty!”

Lucy, however, remained skeptical. “But they don’t take baths, do they?”

“Oh, you’re so dumb, Lucy. Of course they take baths, otherwise what would they be doing with that bathtub?” Just then a handbell tinkled somewhere in the hall.

Both girls got big-eyed and scared.

“Oh-oh!” Lucy said. “Somebody musta heard what we were saying. I think we’re in trouble.”

“Hurry up.”

She hurried and finished, and flushed, and they faced another quandary. Every adult they’d ever known had cautioned them to wash their hands after they went to the toilet—everyone from grandmas to parents to the nuns themselves.

“I don’t think we should use their water,” Anne said. They were both still whispering. It seemed the proper thing to do in this house.

“How come? We’re supposed to wash our hands afterward.”

“ ’Cause it’s holy water, and you shouldn’t use that after the bathroom.”

“Oh,” Lucy said, always certain, as the younger of the pair, that her sister was right about these worldly matters.

When they got into the hall they could hear the murmur of the nuns’ voices saying grace below. The smell of their dinner lifted up the stairwell, so wonderful it made their young stomachs grumble as they went down, sliding their palms on the waxed handrail all the way. At the bottom of the stairs the nuns’ refectory was off to their right. They stopped, awestruck afresh by the sight of these holy creatures actually sitting at a table with food on it.

Mother Superior spoke first when she saw them. “Well, whom have we here?”

The girls said in unison, “Good afternoon, Sister.”

Sister Ignatius explained, “They had to use the bathroom. Their father is putting up the nativity scene in church.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Then Mother Superior asked, “Have you had your dinners yet?”

“No, Sister.”

“No, Sister.”

“Daddy says he’s taking us to the 
resturnt
 after he’s done.”

“Well, I imagine you’re hungry.”

Lucy blurted out, “I’m starved,” and got a nudge from Anne.

“Don’t we have some extra cookies, Sister Ignatius? I’m sure the girls would each like one.” As their eyes lit up, Mother Superior ordered, “Sister Regina, why don’t you give the girls each a cookie to tide them over until their father takes them out for dinner?”

It was a new month, and Sister Regina’s charge had changed. This month her assignment was to act as table server. She rose and smiled, as she left her place and led the two little girls away. As they went, Lucy smiled over her shoulder and waved goodbye, and got another bump from her older sibling. Behind her, every nun wore a smile.

Sister Regina got down a dun crock from a kitchen shelf, removed the cover and held it toward them. Inside were huge white sugar cookies with pink frosting. “Help yourselves,” she said.

The girls each took a cookie. They had heard a story about manna from heaven in their Bible history classes, and Lucy figured for sure this was it. It had to be, coming from the nun’s cupboard. She’d always figured manna for some tasteless bread, but—lo and behold!—it had frosting! She figured the food in heaven wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

“Thank you, Sister.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

“And now you’ll go straight back to church, won’t you?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“But, could you hold this first, Sister? I have to put my boots on.”

She held their cookies while they sat down on the rug and tugged on their boots, inadvertently displaying their white cotton underpants beneath their Sunday dresses. Boots on, they stood and buttoned their coats and she handed them their cookies and opened the door.

“Goodbye now, girls.”

They said goodbye and Anne led the way out. When Lucy was on the threshold, she obviously had an important thought, stopped and crooked a finger. Sister leaned down so Lucy could whisper in her ear.

“You don’t have to brush your teeth, 
do
 you, Sister?” the child said with a knowing note. “
Annie
 says you 
do!
”

Sister Regina covered her smile with one hand, then bent to the child and whispered back, “I certainly do. And so do you. Don’t forget now, when you get back home.”

As she watched them go she was smitten anew, especially by little Lucy. This must be what it was like to have children, to be constantly amused by them, to award them with small treats and watch them scamper off, happy and unfettered by any concerns but their own. Lucy—darling unrestrained Lucy—she wished she had one of her own like that, a mixture of precociousness and sweetness wrapped into one adorable bundle. Why was it that fate seemed to put that particular little girl in Sister Regina’s path so much more often than other children, as if to remind her of what she was missing?

When Sister Regina returned to the dining room the mood was unusually gay. The presence of any children in the convent, apart from piano lessons which went on all day long during school days, always elevated the mood of the entire religious community.

When Sister Regina resumed her chair, Mother Superior remarked, “Those are two very likable children, Mr. Olczak’s. He and his wife have done a fine job of raising them so far.”

Murmurs of assent rose in a soft chorus. Sister Mary Charles passed Sister Regina the meat platter, and while she took a piece of roast pork, Sister Regina told everyone, “Lucy wanted to know if we have to brush our teeth like everybody else does. I’m not sure she believed me when I said we did.”

They all understood the sense of mystery that surrounded them as far as the children were concerned, and laughed quietly.

Sister Gregory said, “One of my first-grade piano students asked me the other day if nuns have mothers.”

Again everyone laughed.

Sister Dora said, “I was asked one time how I could sleep in bed at night without bending my halo. He was talking about my coif, of course.”

Mother Superior recalled a humorous story from her past. “I remember once when I asked my class if anyone knew what lent was. One boy raised his hand and said ‘lint’ was what sticks to your pants and your mother tries to brush it off.”

It was Sunday, their one day a week with fewer obligations, and the afternoon to themselves, to do with what they wished, the one day a week that family was allowed to visit. The mood on Sunday was often more relaxed, and today was one of the best days Sister Regina had had in months.

This was what she’d always imagined communal life to be like among the religious. Camaraderie and a strong sense of belonging. Everyone agreeing and getting along with no underlying friction, and feeling a part of a bigger world family that would be there for each of them, whatever befell. Perhaps she was wrong to have had doubts about it. She was so safe and cared for here. And when the nuns were in such good moods she forgave them their foibles that had come to bother her at other times. Sister Cecelia wasn’t telling tales on anyone. Sister Samuel wasn’t sneezing. Sister Mary Charles wasn’t whipping any children and even Mother Agnes was particularly amiable, joining in the mirth in an uncharacteristic way.

If only each day had this radiance and peace.
 Sister Regina thought, 
I would never ever think of leaving.

Dessert and coffee were in progress and Sister Regina was still reflecting on her present satisfaction with communal life when a knock sounded on the kitchen door. In keeping with her charge as server, she interrupted her meal to go and answer.

To her surprise Mr. Olczak stood on the stoop, wearing his good winter dress coat and felt hat, which he removed the moment he saw her through the storm door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Olczak.”

“Good afternoon, Sister. I’m sorry to interrupt you on Sunday, but the girls must’ve left my keys in your house.”

“Oh, really?” She backed up a step. “Please come in and wait while I go upstairs and look.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

She found the keys lying on the bathroom floor and returned them to him. He thanked her again and apologized once more for both himself and for the girls’ having bothered them earlier.

“It was no trouble at all. Tell me, did you and the trustees get the nativity set all up and in place?”

“Sure did. Smells just like the piney woods in there, and it makes you feel good just to stand in the quiet and look at it again.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll go over to church and make a visit this afternoon.”

“You do that, Sister. Church is always open, as you know.”

She gave the small nod he recognized as a polite dismissal but neither of them reacted to it. She stood smiling like the saints on holy cards, her hands in her sleeves, her veil caught in perfect symmetry on both shoulders. She should have returned to the dining room, and he should have opened the door and left. Instead they remained alone and motionless in the kitchen, gripped by some thoughtless force that had little concern for propriety. From the dining room came the soft clink of spoons stirring cream into coffee and from outside the voices of his daughters as they slammed the truck doors.

“Well,” he said, breaking the spell, turning his hat around and round in his hands, his voice coming out quiet, deep and froggy in his throat, “better let you get back to your dinner. See you tomorrow, Sister.”

“Yes. Goodbye, Mr. Olczak.”

Returning to the dining room she wondered what had just gone on between them. Nothing. Something. It happened now each time they had the briefest private moment together. It was unspoken, but very much felt. Within their hearts. Within their souls, which seemed to reach out and yearn toward one another.

You stay away from him,
 she warned herself. 
You make sure the two of you are
 never 
alone together and you strive for the reassuring sense of oneness you were sharing with your fellow sisters before he stepped into this house. Can't you see he is muddling up your mind? Leaving your vocation because it has not fulfilled you is one thing, but leaving it for a man is another. And it is
 not 
acceptable!

________

The overall pacific temperament of that first Sunday in Advent was short-lived. A big snow came, followed by a period of intensely cold weather, so cold it was dangerous. The schoolchildren, shut in by the thermometer and relegated to playing in the gymnasium and the halls during recess and noon hours, became more and more rambunctious. Among the younger kids, running grew rampant. Among the older ones, bickering and fighting were common. Sometimes the younger ones got bumped into and knocked down by the bigger ones, and general mischief escalated the closer they got to the much-needed Christmas vacation. The older nuns especially began losing their patience and their tempers.

Sister Mary Charles took her strip of rubber flooring to a seventh-grader named Freddy Poplinski, and during the beating the sounds came quite clearly through the parallel doorways that connected the flower room to Sister Regina’s cloakroom, and the cloakroom to her classroom.

She pictured what was happening and hated it. Her anger flared and she questioned who was sinning, herself for blaming Sister Mary Charles, or Mary Charles for venting her wrath on that boy. Sister Regina had a theory that Mary Charles was a frustrated old maid who’d never had a proposal of marriage and had grown more and more bitter over it as the years advanced. She took her bitterness out on the poor children.

The other nuns didn’t hear the whippings as she did. The proximity of her cloakroom to the flower room made her more aware than even Reverend Mother of the brutal punishments being meted out to children who were, after all, only being children.

It was Monday of the last week before Christmas vacation that Anne Olczak got into a game of tag with some of her older cousins from the upper classes across the hall. Mary Jean was in the sixth grade, Lawrence and Joey were in seventh and eighth. They’d been racing around the parapets, zigzagging through a basketball game in the crowded gymnasium, and Sister Mary Charles had warned them a number of times to stop. They would slow down for a while, but soon the game would be going whole-hog again.

It was Anne who was unlucky enough to be hurtling around the stub end of the parapet toward the girls’ bathroom hall, when she knocked off the brass handbell. It struck the head of a first-grader on its way to the floor, where it bounced with a resounding 
clang,
 only about a few feet away from the black shoes of Sister Mary Charles.