Verlaine wanted to hug her, to tell her how happy it made him to have met her, to beg her to come back to New York with him and begin their work that very night. But seeing how anxious his attention made her, he decided against it.
“Come on,” Evangeline said, picking up a set of car keys from the table. “I’ll give you a ride to the train station.”
St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
Evangeline had missed the communal meal in the cafeteria, just as she had missed lunch, leaving her ravenous. She knew that she could find something to eat in the kitchen if she chose to look-the industrial-size refrigerators were always filled with trays of leftovers-but the thought of food made her feel ill. Ignoring her hunger, she walked past the stairway leading to the cafeteria and continued toward the library.
When she opened the library door and turned on the lights, she saw that the room had been cleaned in her absence: the leather registry (left open on the wooden table that afternoon) had been closed; the books piled on the couch had been returned; a meticulous hand had vacuumed the rugs plush. Obviously one of the sisters had covered for her. Feeling guilty, she vowed to do twice as much cleaning the next afternoon, perhaps volunteer for laundry duty, even though, with the abundance of veils to hand-wash, it was a much-hated chore. It had been wrong to leave her work to the others. When one is absent, the rest must carry the load.
Evangeline placed her bag on the couch and squatted before the hearth to kindle a fire. Soon a diffuse light folded over the floor. Evangeline sank into the soft cushions of the couch, crossed one leg over the other, and tried to arrange the cluttered pieces of her day. It was such an extraordinary tangle of information that she struggled to keep it orderly in her mind. The fire was so comforting and the day had been so trying that Evangeline stretched out on the couch and soon fell asleep.
A hand on her shoulder startled her awake. Sitting upright, she found Sister Philomena standing over her, looking at her with some severity. “Sister Evangeline,” Philomena said, still touching Evangeline’s shoulder. “Whatever are you doing?”
Evangeline blinked. She had been so soundly asleep that she could hardly gain her bearings. It seemed to her as though she were seeing the library-with its shelves of books and flickering fireplace-from deep underwater. Quickly, she shifted her feet to the floor and sat.
“As I’m sure you are aware,” Philomena said, sitting on the couch next to Evangeline, “Sister Celestine is one of our community’s oldest members.
I do not know what happened this afternoon but she is quite upset. I have spent the entire afternoon with her. It has not been easy to calm her.”
“I’m very sorry,” Evangeline said, feeling her senses click into focus at the mention of Celestine. “I went to see her to ask her about something I found in the archives.”
“She was in quite a state when I found her this evening,” Philomena said. “Exactly what did you say to her?”
“It was never my intention to distress her,” Evangeline said. The folly of attempting to speak to Celestine about the letters struck her. It had been naive to think that she could keep such a volatile conversation secret.
Sister Philomena gazed at Evangeline as if gauging her willingness to cooperate. “I am here to tell you that Celestine would like to speak with you again,” she said finally. “And to ask that you report back to me about all that transpires in Celestine’s cell.”
Evangeline found her manner odd and could not discern what Philomena’s motives might be, but she nodded in assent.
“We must not allow her to become so overwrought again. Please be cautious in what you say to her.”
“Very well,” Evangeline replied, standing and brushing lint from the couch off her turtleneck and skirt. “I’ll go immediately.”
“Give me your word,” Philomena said severely as she led Evangeline to the library door, “that you will inform me of everything Celestine tells you.”
“But why?” Evangeline asked, startled by Philomena’s brusque manner.
At this, Philomena paused, as if chastened. “Celestine is not as strong as she appears, my child. We do not want to put her in danger.”
In the hours since Evangeline’s last visit, Sister Celestine had been moved into her bed. Her dinner-chicken broth, crackers, and water-sat untouched on a tray by the bedside table. A humidifier spewed steam into the air, blanketing the room in a moist haze. The wheelchair had been rolled into the corner of the room, near the window, and abandoned. The drawn curtains gave the chamber the aspect of a sanitary, somber hospital room, an effect that heightened as Evangeline closed the door softly behind her, shutting out the sound of the sisters gathering in the hallways.
“Come in, come in,” Celestine said, gesturing for Evangeline to approach the bed.
Celestine folded her hands upon her chest. Evangeline felt a sudden urge to cover the old woman’s white, fragile fingers with her hand, to protect them-although from what, she could not say. Philomena had been right: Celestine was painfully frail.
“You asked to see me, Sister,” Evangeline said.
With great effort Celestine pushed herself up against a bank of pillows. “I must ask you to excuse my behavior earlier this afternoon,” she said, meeting Evangeline’s eye. “I do not know how to explain myself. It is only that I have not spoken of these things for many, many years. It was quite a surprise to find that, despite the time, the events of my youth are still so vivid and so upsetting to me. The body may age, but the soul remains young, as God made it”
“There is no need to apologize,” Evangeline said as she placed her hand upon Celestine’s arm, thin as a twig under the tissue of her nightgown. “I was at fault for upsetting you.”
“Truthfully,” Celestine said, her voice hardening, as if she were drawing upon a reserve of anger, “I was simply taken by surprise. I have not been confronted with these events for many, many years. I knew there would be a time when I would tell you. But I expected that it would be later.”
Once again Celestine had confounded her. She had a way of tipping Evangeline off balance, upsetting Evangeline’s delicate sense of equilibrium in a most disturbing fashion.
“Come,” Celestine said, looking about the room. “Pull that chair over here and sit with me. There is much to tell.”
Evangeline lifted a wooden chair from a corner and brought it to Celestine’s bedside where she sat listening carefully to Sister Celestine’s faint voice.
“I think you know,” Celestine began, “that I was born and educated in France and that I came to St. Rose Convent during the Second World War.”
“Yes,” Evangeline said lightly. “I was aware of this.”
“You might also know…” Celestine paused, meeting Evangeline’s eyes, as if to find judgment in them “… that I left everything-my work and my country-in the hands of the Nazis.”
“I imagine that the war forced many to seek refuge in the United States.”
“I did not seek refuge,” Celestine said, emphasizing each word. “The war’s deprivations were serious, but I believe I could have survived them had I stayed. You may not know this, but I was not a professed sister in France.” She coughed into a handkerchief. “I took my vows in Portugal, en route to the United States. Before this I was a member of another order, one with many of the same goals as ours. Only”-Celestine held her thought for a moment-“we had a different approach to attaining them. I ran away from this group in December of 1943.”
Evangeline watched as Celestine edged herself higher up in the bed and took a sip of water.