"Let me look in on her first," whispered Sister Novella. Remo nodded. The sister opened the door just enough to slip in, and it closed after her with a hesitant click.
Remo waited, flexing his thick wrists. His heart seemed to be beating high and hard in his hot, tight throat.
After only a moment the door reopened. "You may come in now."
Remo stepped into a darkened room. The shades were drawn snug. There was only one item of furniture in the room. An oaken bed worn at each pineapple-style post. It was covered with a fringed bedspread that had once been white but was now very yellow.
On the bed, stretched out like a mummy, lay Sister Mary Margaret. Remo thought he was prepared. But the shock of recognition was a kick in his stomach that made his heart jump and pound.
Remo had never seen Sister Mary's uncovered head. Never even knew the color of her hair. But even without her wimple, her hair like iron strands on the dingy pillow, Remo could trace the sweet lines of the womanly face that could be so tender and stern by turns. It was Sister Mary Margaret. But Remo had carried for years a memory of a woman with strength in her face and wisdom in her pale gray eyes.
That face was as twisted as a tree root now. Her head started on the pillow, struggling to see and hear with organs that had long ago failed.
"I have a visitor for you, Sister Mary," Sister Novella called in a rising voice.
The reply was a frail croak. "Eh?"
"I said, you have a visitor."
Weak eyes strained to see in the dim light. "Yes?"
"His name is-"
Remo interrupted, "Why don't I handle it from here? Could we be alone?"
Sister Novella hesitated. "Oh, I don't think I-"
"She practically raised me. There are things I need to say to her. Privately."
Sister Novella nodded. "I understand. I will be in the sitting room when you are done. Please do not tire her."
"I promise," Remo said.
When the door closed, Remo stood in the semidarkness for a long time. Sister Mary seemed to forget she had been spoken to. A chink of light fell upon one searching eye, and it was a like a fat pearl dipped in egg white, cloudy and thick.
Remo knelt at her bedside and took a waxy-smooth hand in his. It was cool to the touch. Her veins pulsed threadily.
"Sister Mary?"
Her voice was whisper thin. "Yes? Who is it?"
"I don't know if you remember me."
"Your voice..."
Remo took a deep breath. "My name is Remo. Remo Williams."
And Sister Mary Margaret started. A low sigh escaped her lips. "Yes. Yes. I recognize your voice," she said breathily. She tried to make out his features and, failing, let her head fall back. "Oh, I knew you would make it."
"Sister?"
"I could not be so wrong about you," she said, gazing at the peeling ceiling.
"I came to ask you about myself."
"What could I tell you that Saint Peter cannot?" Remo frowned. Was she delirious?
"I was left on the doorstep of St. Theresa's. Do you remember?"
A wan smile quirked her contorted face. "Yes, I found you. You weren't even crying. Left in a basket and you never cried once. I knew you were special then."
"They say you saw the man who left me there."
"Oh, that was so long ago."
"I know. I know. But try to remember. You saw a man. What did he look like?"
"He was very tall and quite lean. Thin, the way you turned out to be. Rugged. Not in a bad way, but in a strong way. When you began to become a man, I thought I saw some of his features in yours."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't know his name. No one did. You were left for reasons no one knew, but they must have been very good reasons. Why cause you to fret and seek the face of your father in every man's face you passed in the street?"
"For a long time," Remo said thickly, "I did that anyway."
"We called you the Window Boy. Did you know that? Always waiting to be taken home. So brave and so sad. But it was not to be. You had to live your own life."
"You never found out who the man was?"
"No."
"Damn," Remo muttered under his breath.
"But I did see him again years later."
Remo paled. "Where?"
"I saw in him a movie theater," Sister Mary said breathily. "He had grown older but he was the same man. I was certain of it. He had your deep, serious eyes."
"What city was that?"
"I'm not sure I recall. Was it Oklahoma City? Yes, Oklahoma City."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No. How could I?"
Sister Mary Margaret lay in silence. Her breathing was steady, monotonous, fragile. Under the fringed blanket, her thin, flat chest rose and fell with each breath.
Remo squeezed Sister Mary's cool hand hopefully. "Do you-do you remember anything else? Anything that might help me?"
"Yes. I do."
Eagerly Remo leaned closer to catch every syllable. "Tell me."
"I remember the name of the movie," Sister Mary said in a dreamy voice.
"That's nice," Remo said, patting her hand,
"It was The Sea is an Only Child, It wasn't very good. It was in color. I much prefer films that are not in color. Don't you?"
"Sure, Sister Mary," said Remo, squeezing out the tears of disappointment starting from his eyes.
"I remember thinking as I watched the screen how sad it was the way it all turned out. I remember wondering if the man knew."
"Knew what?"
"Knew that you had died."
Remo felt an electric chill rip through his nervous system. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. "You knew?"
"I was very sad for a long time. For a very long time I could not get what had happened out of my mind. I simply could not believe that I had been so wrong about you."
"You weren't. I was framed."
Her cool hand squeezed his. "I knew that. I always felt it. But now that you're here, I know it for certain. If you had truly gone bad, how could you be here with me?" She struggled for breath. "Here in Heaven." And Remo swallowed hard. A lump rose in his throat.
"I knew you had died in Christ," whispered Sister Mary Margaret.
Remo swallowed again, but the lump wouldn't go away.
"Lately I had not been able to get you out of my mind," she said, her voice disconnected from the body that lay so helpless and fragile. "Isn't that strange?"
"I've been thinking of you lately, too," Remo said thickly. "The things you taught me helped me more than I can tell you."
"That's good, Remo. That's fine." Her free hand, tangled with rosary beads, reached out for his. "Now run along and play. Sister Mary is feeling very tired today. We'll talk more tomorrow."
"Goodbye, Sister Mary. I'll never forget you."
"Goodbye, Remo."
Remo stood up. He gazed down at the woman who had all but raised him, so shrunken in the dim light. Her breath was slow and measured. Her heartbeat tentative. She had not long.
After a long while Remo turned to the door. A delicate rattle followed him. At first he barely noticed it. It trailed off into a sigh that made Remo's blood run absolutely cold when it penetrated his grief.
In the bed behind him, Sister Mary Margaret, at last at peace, surrendered herself to death.
"SOMETIMES IT HAPPENS this way," Sister Novella was saying. "She had clung and clung to life for so long. Seeing you must have been the scissors that cut the silver cord."
Remo said nothing. He felt cold inside. His eyes were hot yet dry. They sat in the sitting room of the nursing home, looking at the fading rug.
"You mustn't reproach yourself, Mr. Williams. In a way your coming was a mercy. What had she to live for?"
Remo said nothing. Sister Novella took another sip of tea.
"Did you two have a nice talk?" she asked after a moment.
"I'll never forget her," Remo whispered.
"Will you be staying for the funeral?"