Shakespeare, Richard III
By the time I got back to St. T's that evening, I was ready to give Mother Winifred and Olivia a hand with the Chapter of Faults, if they needed it.
They didn't.
The sisters were already in the chapel when I arrived and I took a seat in the shadows at the back of the room. The chapel was lighted by flickering candles set into the wall sconces, and I could smell the sweet muskiness of incense. The chairs had been moved into a large circle, and for the first time I saw all of the sisters of both groups sitting together, heads bowed as Mother finished a simple prayer.
"Forgive us our transgressions," she said quietly, "and give us the grace to forgive those who have transgressed against us. In Christ's name, amen."
While Mother stood silently, I scanned the circle. Yes, Olivia was there, seated next to Gabriella. Across from her, on the far side of the circle, sat the women with whom I had spoken over the past few days: Ramona, who was longing to escape to San Francisco; Ruth, her hands folded quietly over her pillowy bosom; Regina, square-shouldered and firm; Rose, who said she'd never wanted to know who had driven her cousin Marie from the novitiate. I didn't see John Roberta, whom I presumed was still in St. Louis. But Anne was there, and Dominica, and Miriam, and Maggie, and all the others. The room was tense with waiting silence, taut with anticipation.
Mother stood for a moment more, her hands folded at her waist. Then she raised her head.
"We are here this evening as a community," she said, "to celebrate a Chapter of Faults, an ancient tradition of religious life. We will ask for mercy for our own sins and the sins of others, and we will pray for the redemption that brings us new life through the mystery of grace and compassion." She looked around. "These are not empty words, but healing words. It is God's grace that allows us to be touched with the consciousness of our shortcomings. It is His grace that leads us to repentance, and His compassion that redeems even the most unspeakable sin. These are the true mysteries of the divine life that lives in each one of us, the mysteries that will allow us to knit the unraveled ties of our community." She turned to Olivia. "Sister, you will lead us, please."
As Mother Winifred took her place in the circle, Olivia stood. "Our Chapter tonight has one purpose," she said. Her voice trembled, and I saw one or two St. Agatha sisters glance up sharply, questioning.
Olivia stopped, cleared her throat, and went on. As she spoke, she seemed to regain some of her former authority. "We are here to confront the sister who has caused our community so much pain and anguish in the last few months, whose groundless accusations have made our
hearts heavy, and whose heedless disrespect of life and property has robbed us of peace and calm." She paused. The room was so quiet I could almost hear the sound of our beating hearts. Then she spoke.
"Sister Ruth, I accuse you."
There was no outcry, no loud gasp, not even the rush of expelled breath. No one stirred. But there was an unmistakable heightening of the tension, a subtle, focused energy sweeping around the circle, gathering force. All eyes turned to Ruth, who sat with her head still bowed, her hands still folded over her breast, as if she had heard nothing.
Then Regina, next to her, bent over. She spoke softly, but we could all hear what she said. "It's time, Ruth. Your sisters are waiting to hear your confession."
Obediently, Ruth stood, her conscientious eyes hidden behind the flickering reflections of the candle flame on her thick glasses. She fumbled for the rosary at her plump waist and cast her eyes upward, as if to heaven. I remembered the picture on the wall of her cell, the painting of the bound saint about to be burned to death on a pile of branches. Was that how Ruth imagined herself?
"Sister," Olivia said again, more softly now, "you cannot be forgiven unless you confess your transgressions. Tell us, please, what you have done."
Ruth lowered her gaze and looked around the circle, wonderingly, as if she were not entirely sure why so many eyes rested on her. Then, in a flat, uninflected voice so low I had to strain to hear it, she spoke. As I listened, it seemed to me that her recitation of sins was just that-a recounting of what she had done, a summing-up. I heard no consciousness of guilt in it, no awareness that others felt she had done wrong.
Yes, she had written several accusing letters-five, she thought. She had written them, after much prayer, because it was her duty, because there was no Chapter of Faults at St. Theresa's. She had enclosed the leaves of rue in her letters to symbolize regret and repentance, and had sug-
gested a penance, such as had always been required at the Chapter of Faults. If the sinner failed to perform it, she had imposed a penance herself. And yes, she had set the fires at St. Theresa's-small fires, in the craft room, the kitchen, the chapel, on the porch. They symbolized purification, she added simply. They had not been meant to harm or to destroy.
It was a stunning confession, and her listeners sat as still as if they were carved of stone, scarcely even breathing. When she finished, she looked questioningly at Olivia, her round cheeks placid and calm, her eyes unblinking. ' Ts this all you require, Sister?"
If Ruth showed no sadness, no consciousness of her trespass, Olivia did. Her face was twisted with a jagged pain and she was holding her arms tightly against her side, as if she were clutching Ruth's guilt to herself.
"Mother Hilaria?" she whispered. "Did you cause her death?"
Ruth seemed to consider. "I suppose I caused it," she said thoughtfully, as if she were making an important distinction, "but I didn't intend it. I pulled the insulation off the wires to give her a shock. It was her penance for allowing such moral laxity among the sisters here. I didn't know it would make her heart stop."
The room, which had seemed warm to me when I came in, now seemed bitter cold, and I shivered. Regina and Ga-briella were weeping silently, the tears running down their faces.
Olivia seemed to have shrunk. "And Sister Perpetua?"
"I did nothing to harm Sister Perpetua," Ruth said firmly. "She was my novice mistress. You know that, Sister Olivia, since you and I were novices together. She corrected us sternly when we trespassed. She was a model of rectitude. I am sorry she is gone."
"Thank you, Sister." Olivia bowed her head, her face veiled in shadow, and sat down. Rose was now sobbing softly.
Mother Winifred stood, her shoulders bowed as if she bore a heavy weight. "We have heard your confession, my daughter," she said. "Now you must ask the forgiveness of those you have wronged or endangered."
"Wronged or endangered?" Ruth asked slowly, as if she were weighing the meanings of the words.
Mother lifted her chin. "Surely you see that it was wicked of you to write the letters, Sister." She might have been speaking to a very small child. "It was wrong to set the fires. Your actions endangered the life of every sister here."
Ruth's face didn't alter, but she gave the impression that she was agreeing only under duress. "Well, then," she said reluctantly. "Since that is the case, I suppose…" She resigned herself to the task with a sigh. "I ask your forgiveness for my sins and wrongdoings, Sisters. I am heartily sorry for having offended."
How many times had I heard a defendant plead, "Not guilty," and know in my heart that the words were a lie? Ruth's plea for forgiveness was a lie, too, or perhaps a kind of plea bargain. She didn't sound heartily sorry, or even sorry at all. She sounded as if she were doing what she'd been told to do, no more, no less. There could be no redemption in such a confession, I thought.
But although Ruth's words fell sadly short of what Mother Winifred might have wanted, the sisters' response did not. They stood, joined hands, and followed Mother in their reply, which was a little ragged, but rich with heartfelt love and healing compassion.