Authors: Jane Haddam
True Believers (2 page)
3
Sister Mary Scholastica had never met a parish coordinator before she came to St. Anselm's Roman Catholic Church, but nowâtwo weeks into her tenureâshe was sure that the title was nothing but a polite term for bitch.
Well, not “bitch” exactly. Scholastica's order, the Sisters of Divine Grace, wore recognizable habits. They weren't elaborate habits, like the ones Mother Angelica and her sisters wore on EWTN, but they were impossible to miss. A black dress that went to just below the calf line, black stockings, a black veil with a white brim that showed only the smallest amount of hair at the very front of the head: there was no way to mistake the fact that Scholastica was a nun, even before you saw the large metal crucifix that hung around her neck. Habits were more than a witness to the world. They were also a constraint. Considering what it was they constrained, Scholastica was willing to admit that that might not be a bad thing. If she was ever going to call Sister Harriet Garrity a bitch, she was going to have to wait to do it in her bathrobeâand that wouldn't work either, because she would never be in her bathrobe in any place where anybody outside her order would have
a chance to see her. She went over and over the rules in her mind. It was barely past four in the morning. She was tired beyond belief, and she was not thinking well. All she came up with was a mishmash of emergency scenes: the convent was on fire and she was out in the parking lot in her bathrobe because of that; she was confined to a hospital bed for something like a broken leg or a bad case of sciatica; Sister Harriet burst in through the convent door in a mad attempt to free them all from patriarchal oppression. Patriarchal oppression made Sister Scholastica's head ache, but not nearly as much as Sister Harriet Garrity did. She should have taken a Tylenol when she'd still had a chance.
a chance to see her. She went over and over the rules in her mind. It was barely past four in the morning. She was tired beyond belief, and she was not thinking well. All she came up with was a mishmash of emergency scenes: the convent was on fire and she was out in the parking lot in her bathrobe because of that; she was confined to a hospital bed for something like a broken leg or a bad case of sciatica; Sister Harriet burst in through the convent door in a mad attempt to free them all from patriarchal oppression. Patriarchal oppression made Sister Scholastica's head ache, but not nearly as much as Sister Harriet Garrity did. She should have taken a Tylenol when she'd still had a chance.
What she did instead was to put the big mug she'd brought from the motherhouse on the table, and to put a tea bag into it. Sister Harriet's note was sitting right there at the edge of the place mat, written in thick black letters that must have been made with a felt-tip pen. She caught the kitchen crucifix out of the corner of her eye and nodded to it, automatically, the way she'd been taught to nod to churches when she was young. The memory surprised her. When she was in grade school and all nuns wore habits even more obvious than her own, Catholic men used to tip their hats when they passed a Catholic church. They used to do it on the bus and on the sidewalks, all the time, so that even non-Catholics never thought anything of it. The kettle began to screech, and she took it off to pour water over her Red Rose. What a very odd thing to rememberâand to pine for, which was really what she was doing. Men tipping their hats when they passed a church. Parishes with three priests in the rectory to see to all the parish business. Nuns who knew when to shut up. Sister Harriet Garrity. Scholastica put the kettle back on the stove.
Please inform the parents of the girls in the First Communion class
, Sister Harriet's note said,
that it is no longer considered religiously appropriate for girls to dress like brides for their First Communion.
, Sister Harriet's note said,
that it is no longer considered religiously appropriate for girls to dress like brides for their First Communion.
Scholastica picked up the note, folded it in half, then unfolded it again. She put it down. She picked it up again. She put it down again. The kitchen door snicked open, then shut. Scholastica looked up to see Sister Peter Rose coming across the floor to her, dressed in one of those infamous bathrobes and with nothing at all on her head. Some of the older nuns
wore their veils or their old white linen nightcaps just to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, but Peter Rose was barely twenty-six. She had a good head of hair, which now seemed to be held back by a rubber band.
wore their veils or their old white linen nightcaps just to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, but Peter Rose was barely twenty-six. She had a good head of hair, which now seemed to be held back by a rubber band.
Peter Rose stopped in front of Scholastica and bowed slightly, the way they'd all been taught to do in the novitiate.
Scholastica said, “Well, since I make the rules for this house, and I'm talking, I suppose we're not observing the grand silence this morning.”
Peter Rose pulled out a chair and sat down. “You've been pacing for hours. Are you all right?”
Scholastica passed the note across the table. Peter Rose picked it up and read it.
“Ah,” she said. “Harriet, up to her usual. I think she already suspects that you're not going to be as much of a pushover as Marie Bernadette.”
“Was she a pushover?”
“She was sick, that was the problem,” Peter Rose said. “Cancer makes you weak, and chemotherapy makes you weaker. She didn't have a lot of fight in her, at the end. She shouldn't have been kept on here so long.”
“She wanted to stay. It seemed like the best thing to do, as long as she was able.”
“I suppose. I'm glad you're here, though. Things have been insane around this place far too often lately. And the school needsâmore energy than it's been getting.”
Scholastica took the tea bag out of the mug and put it on a small square paper napkin. She dumped a heaping teaspoon of sugar into the mug and stirred. The clock on the wall seemed to be moving incredibly slowly, far more slowly than it ever had before. It was as if the world had decided to stay dark and asleep forever.
Scholastica put the teaspoon on the napkin. “Tell me something,” she said. “Does Father Healy know about this?”
“I don't think so.”
“Why not?
“Because he isn't having a fit about it.”
“Exactly,” Scholastica said. “He's going to have a fit about it. You know that, and I know it. It's just the kind of thing he can't stand. And after he's had a fit about it, the parents are going to have a fit about it, because they've probably already
bought those First Communion dresses. White dresses. Little veils. Crown things for the tops of the heads.”
bought those First Communion dresses. White dresses. Little veils. Crown things for the tops of the heads.”
“I had a really gorgeous one when I made my First Communion,” Peter Rose said. “The crown had pearls all around it, and the veil had pearls in it. I kept it for years, just to look at.”
“Well, I used to close the door of my room and put mine on and pretend I was getting married. My point, I think, is that this is going to be a very unpopular decision. It won't stand, because I don't think Father Healy will allow it to stand, but between the time it's made and the time it's countermanded, there's going to be a very big fuss. I resent this woman attempting to make that fuss center on me.”
“But it won't center on you,” Peter Rose said, startled. “You'll tell Father Healy it was Harriet's decision andâ”
“And it will center on me, because I'll still be delivering the news. Which means I won't be delivering the news. I refuse to.”
“You're just going to ignore the note?”
“I'm going to write her one back saying I can't possibly make such an announcement unless I've been told to make it by Father Healy, and that she should talk to Father Healy about it instead of me. And I'm not going to budge. Not at all. I think that's the only thing I can possibly do.”
Peter Rose got up. “I think I'm going to make myself some tea. Or some coffee. Do we have coffee I don't have to use the percolator for?”
“We have those coffee-bag things, in the pantry cupboard.”
“Oh, right. I wish you didn't sound soâI don't know. Angry, I suppose. But it's more than angry.”
Scholastica drummed her fingers on the table. Then she picked up Harriet's note again and turned it over in her hand. “I hate these things,” she said finally. “I hate the petty infighting, and the manipulations and the rhetoric that gets thrown around like garbage as soon as the situation heats up. Liberal Church. Conservative Church. Whatever happened to the Church speaking in one voice?”
“The birth-control encyclical.”
“Marvelous. I entered the convent at the age of eighteen, and I still have to think about birth control.”
Scholastica got up and wandered across the room, to the
big windows at the back that looked out over the courtyard toward the church. It was already lit up in there, but then it would be. Father Healy believed in keeping the church open twenty-four hours a day, in case somebody suddenly felt a need for conversion while walking down the street at two oâclock in the morning. What they really got, this time of year, was homeless people looking to get in out of the cold. Some of them genuflected when they first came in. Some of them just found an empty pew at the back and stretched out to sleep right away. Most of them were either so mentally ill or so alcoholic that they couldn't really follow a coherent line of thought. When seven o'clock Mass came around, some of them got up and tried to follow it, and some of them came to the front for Communion. When Mass was over, all of them came downstairs to the coffee hour that Father Healy adamantly refused to alter or cancel. There were six or seven different kinds of muffins, and coffee cake, and orange juice, and coffee and tea. None of the regular parishioners came, except for the three older women who set up the buffet. There were things Scholastica did not like about Father Robert Healy. He was young and stiff and far too rigid in his theology, and he tended to see things as issues that she thought ought to be decided on the basis of emotion. Still, in this one thing, she could not have imagined him any better than he was.
big windows at the back that looked out over the courtyard toward the church. It was already lit up in there, but then it would be. Father Healy believed in keeping the church open twenty-four hours a day, in case somebody suddenly felt a need for conversion while walking down the street at two oâclock in the morning. What they really got, this time of year, was homeless people looking to get in out of the cold. Some of them genuflected when they first came in. Some of them just found an empty pew at the back and stretched out to sleep right away. Most of them were either so mentally ill or so alcoholic that they couldn't really follow a coherent line of thought. When seven o'clock Mass came around, some of them got up and tried to follow it, and some of them came to the front for Communion. When Mass was over, all of them came downstairs to the coffee hour that Father Healy adamantly refused to alter or cancel. There were six or seven different kinds of muffins, and coffee cake, and orange juice, and coffee and tea. None of the regular parishioners came, except for the three older women who set up the buffet. There were things Scholastica did not like about Father Robert Healy. He was young and stiff and far too rigid in his theology, and he tended to see things as issues that she thought ought to be decided on the basis of emotion. Still, in this one thing, she could not have imagined him any better than he was.
Over in the church, somebody seemed to be moving back and forth in front of the Stations of the Crossânot praying them, just moving back and forth in front of them. Scholastica went back to the kitchen table and sat down.
“Well,” she said.
“It will be all right,” Peter Rose said. “It's just Harriet. Everybody knows Harriet. Even the archbishop is fed up with Harriet.”
“Maybe I just can't understand why a woman like that wants to be a nun. Oh, never mind. I think I'll go get some work done before we pray the Office. I still think of it as Matins, can you believe that? I still think of all the hours by their old names, but it doesn't work, because they got rid of one of them.”
“I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about,” Peter Rose said.
Scholastica drained the last of her teaâshe couldn't remember drinking it at all, but she must haveâand brought her mug to the sink to rinse it out. When she was in the novitiate, her postulant mistress had been relentless in stressing the importance of doing “small work” for oneself whenever it was possible: washing out a cup instead of leaving it in the sink; wiping off the base of a statue when you noticed it was dusty; putting away your cloak as soon as you came in from outside.
“If everybody all over the world did that kind of thing all the time,” Sister Carmelita had said, “the world would be a much better place, and hundreds of people who slave away at menial tasks would be free to get an education and better themselves.”
Had she ever really been young enough for that to have made perfect sense?
“Sister?” Peter Rose said.
“Don't mind me,” Scholastica said. “I'm just drifting off. Thinking of my postulant mistress. Who did you have for a postulant mistress?”
“Mary Alice.”
“Oh, all right then. The soul of common sense. Oh, you're on the house phone today, aren't you?”
“That's right.”
“Good. I'm expecting a phone call from a woman named Bennis Hannaford. If it comes in, could you hunt me down at school instead of just taking a message? I've been in Philadelphia for two weeks, and we haven't caught up with each other yet. I'm rather anxious to see her.”
“All right. As long as you're all right yourself, right now. You're sure you're not still, I don't know, ready to breathe fire?”
“I'm fine.”
She was, too. She put the mug and the spoon in the dish rack. She wiped her hands on the dish towel that was kept on a little rack next to the sink. Then she went back to the table and got Sister Harriet's note.
“Idiot,” she said, folding it up and putting it into her pocket. She was suddenly very glad that they had these ready-made habits now, instead of the old ones. In the old ones, there had been a slit in the robe where the pocket was supposed to be,
and then there had been a separate pocket that they'd had to pin on with straight pins. The pockets were always coming loose and falling down. The pins were always digging into the tops of everyone's legs.
and then there had been a separate pocket that they'd had to pin on with straight pins. The pockets were always coming loose and falling down. The pins were always digging into the tops of everyone's legs.
I'm too tired to be let loose without a leash, Scholastica thought, then gave a little nod to Peter Rose and went out of the kitchen into the back hall. She had a lot of work to do today, Sister Harriet or no Sister Harriet. She had a school to run, and a CCD program to coordinate, and on top of everything else, it was Lent. She rubbed the palm of her hand against the fifteen-decade rosary that hung from her belt.
When she got to the vestibule, she could see out the windows by the side of the door, across the street to St. Stephen's. It was lit up, which it wasn't very often at night, and for a moment Scholastica felt confused. Then she remembered: there was going to be a funeral there today. That young man, Scott Boardman, whom she had seen a hundred times hanging around the wrought-iron gates, zoned out of his mindâScott Boardman had finally taken a dose of cocaine strong enough to kill him. Scholastica made the sign of the cross and a quick prayer for the repose of a soul, then found herself hoping that those nuts from down the street wouldn't be here today with their signs.
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