“Miss DiNunzio?” says the novitiate, back at the threshold. The singing intensifies with the open door. “Come with me. Mother is waiting to see you in her cabinet.”
“Cabinet?”
“Office. Cabinet is the French term, but we still use it.”
“Force of habit, huh?”
She smiles.
“I got a million of ’em.”
I follow her down the bare, narrow hallway. The hardwood floors shine even in the dim light. The novitiate pads ahead softly; I clatter obscenely in my pumps. I look around the pale walls, reading the writing stenciled in black letters at the top.I HAVE A SAVIOR AND I TRUST IN HIM. I KNOW NOTHING SWEETER THAN TO MORTIFY AND CONQUER SELF. WALK BEFORE ME AND BE PERFECT.
The hallway ends in a white door, and the singing stops suddenly. This is the door that encloses the cloistered area. I live on the outside of it; Angie lives on the inside. Over the jamb it says:GIVE GLORY TO THE LORD OF LORDS AND HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOREVER.
It should say:POINT OF NO RETURN.
We pass through the door in silence. I take in everything as we go by, trying to imagine what Angie’s daily life is like. We enter another hallway, also clean and spare, and come to a door on the left, over which is stenciled:
SUPERIORESS’S CABINET
DEDICATED TO OUR HOLY MOTHER
LONGANIMITY
“What does that mean?” I ask the novitiate. “Longan…”
“It’s a toughie, isn’t it? Longanimity. It means forbearance. This is your stop. Mother will be along in a minute. You can have a seat in her office.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure thing,” she says and pads off.
I sit down in a hard mission chair across from a desk so clean it could be for sale. The office is empty and bare, except for a two-tier set of bookshelves and an old black rotary phone. The tinny fixture in the ceiling casts a dim pool of light over the desktop. My chest tightens around the ball at its core. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m back in school, waiting in the principal’s office to answer for some sin. Like an abortion.
Suddenly, with awhoosh of her thick habit, the Mother Superior enters the office. She’s tall, bone-thin, and at least seventy-five years old. There are deep wrinkles etched into her face, which contrast with the starchy smoothness of her guimpe, the cloth covering her neck and shoulders. A heavy sterling crucifix swings from a pin in her habit. “Ah, yes, Miss DiNunzio,” she says. “You look more like Sister Angela Charles every day.”
I rise and smile. It occurs to me that this is a variant of pop-up-and-grin. “I’m sorry to barge in, but I need to see my sister. It’s a family emergency.”
“So I understand. I have sent for Sister Angela.” The tall nun sits down, very erect, in a wooden chair. “Please, sit.” She waves me into the chair with a bony hand.
There’s a soft rapping at the door. “Come in,” says the Mother Superior. The door opens, and it’s Angie.
“Angie!” I blurt out happily. At the sight of her, the hardness in my chest breaks up, like ice floes on the prow of a tanker.
Angie looks guarded. “Yes, Mother?”
“Sister Angela, I understand there is an emergency.”
Angie’s eyes widen with fear as she turns to me. “Pop? Is it Pop?”
“No, Angie. Not Pop. They’re both fine.”
Her shoulders relax visibly. She steps into the room and closes the door quietly behind her. “What’s the matter?”
I glance at the Mother Superior. “Is it possible for me to speak with my sister alone?”
The Mother Superior purses her lips, which are so thin that they’re merely a vertical wrinkle. I wonder fleetingly if my mother ever noticed them. “As you know, we frown upon interruptions of this sort.”
Suddenly Angie finds her voice, earnest and just a touch defiant. “I’m sure it’s important, Mother, or my sister wouldn’t have come.”
“It’s true.” The story tumbles out, vaguely crazed. “I think someone is stalking me, I’m not sure who. They killed my secretary.”
“Mary, no!” exclaims Angie.
The Mother Superior blinks in surprise; her crow’s feet deepen. “Have you called the police?”
“I think the police are involved somehow. I really need to talk to Angie-and stay the night. Just tonight-please?”
Angie looks nervously from me to the Mother Superior.
“Considering your circumstances, you’re welcome to do so, although I’m not sure it will alleviate your plight in the long run. I will return to Chapel and will expect you in due course, Sister Angela.”
“Thank you, Mother,” says Angie. She bows her head as the Mother Superior passes out through the door.
“Thank you,” I say. As soon as she closes the door, I rush over to Angie. She hugs me back and I cling to her, not wanting to let go. I feel whole again. “I missed you!” I say into a mouthful of lightweight wool.
“What’s going on, Mary?”
I tell her everything, in fits and starts. She listens. She touches my face. She’s worried for me. She loves me still. I feel happy, and so safe. When I’m finished, she leaves and tells me she’ll be right back.
But the next time the door opens, it’s the Mother Superior. “Come with me, please, Miss DiNunzio,” she says. She reaches into the desk for a flashlight. The oak drawer closes with a harsh sliding sound.
“Where’s my sister?”
“She’s completing her prayers. I’m sure you’ll be in them tonight. Please follow me quietly. We have a room for you in the retreatants’ area. The rest of the convent is fast asleep.” She flicks on the flashlight, pointing it toward the floor, and leaves the room.
I follow her into the corridor, feeling like a kid late to a scary movie. The lights seem even dimmer than they were before, but I realize it’s just gotten darker outside. We walk down one bare corridor after the next, past closed door after closed door. Over each is a stenciled description:
WORK ROOM
DEDICATED TO ST. JOSEPH
SILENCE
KITCHEN
DEDICATED TO ST. MARTIN
RECOLLECTION
REFECTORY
DEDICATED TO ST. BERNARD
MORTIFICATION
ASSISTANT’S OFFICE
DEDICATED TO OUR LADY
RETIREMENT
The Mother Superior moves quickly for a woman her age, sweeping from side to side like a whisk broom. I hustle to keep up with her as we climb a creaky staircase and walk past a series of doors that have no descriptions above them. They stretch down a long corridor as it veers off to the left. Beside each door hangs a clothes brush on a hook. “What are these rooms?” I ask.
“The sisters’ cells,” says the Mother Superior, without looking back.
I wonder which one is Angie’s but decide not to ask. At the top of the wall it says,YOU CANNOT BE A SPOUSE OF JESUS CHRIST BUT INASMUCH AS YOU CRUCIFY YOUR INCLINATIONS, YOUR JUDGMENT, AND YOUR WILL TO CONFORM YOURSELVES TO HIS TEACHINGS. I stumble, reading the long inscription.
“Watch your step,” says the Mother Superior.
I gasp.Watch your step, Mary.
She whirls around on her heel. “Are you all right? Did you trip?”
“No. Uh, I’m fine.”
“You’re safe here, dear. You have nothing to worry about tonight.” She strides past a library and an infirmary, both dedicated to saints I’ve never heard of, as well as virtues I have. She stops before a door and opens it. In the half-light I see a single bed and a spindly night table. “It’s not the Sheraton, but it’s not meant to be,” she says, with a slight smile.
“Thank you. I really am grateful.”
“Don’t be too grateful, we rise at five. Sleep well.” She leaves and shuts the door behind her.