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.
"We forgive you, Sister, for we too have sinned. Go in the mercy and grace of God, and be blessed."
I stood, too, in my corner, and emotion rose in my throat. The love and compassion I felt in this room might be as close as I'd ever feel to God, but it was enough. It was certainly enough to heal the rift, however broad and jagged, in this small community, to bless its future. And to bless me, too.
Ruth stood for a moment, as if she wasn't sure it was all over. Finally, she turned to Mother Winifred. "My penance?" she asked. There was something almost like eagerness in the tilt of her head. "If I've sinned, I must do penance."
Mother's voice was sad. "Tomorrow I will ask our Reverend Mother General to consult with me on the matter of your penance. You will be informed, Sister."
"Thank you," Ruth said, and sat down.
And that's all there was to it. Another prayer, a moment of silence, and everyone filed out of the chapel.
No one said a word. There was nothing left to say.
' 'Who was the other sister you thought Olivia might accuse?" Mother Winifred asked. It was the next afternoon, warm, sunshiny, the temperature in the low seventies-the kind of crisp, cool day you remember when the Texas sun has charred the August grass and even the sage has wilted. Mother and I were sitting on the wooden bench in the corner of her garden. Tom was leaning against the stone wall beside us, his face held up to the sun.
"I thought it might be Regina," I said. "She had been in the novitiate at the time the first letters were written, and at St. Agatha's when the fire occurred there. And she confessed to taking Mother Hilaria's hot plate from the storeroom. But when I met her and Ruth in the parking lot and saw the rash on Ruth's hand and arm-"
Mother frowned. "The rash?"
Tom shook his head disbelievingly. "You could tell she was guilty from a rash?"
"I could guess," I said. "Mother had told me that Ga-briella had just received a letter containing a leaf of rue, and I know that some people are sensitive to the plant. The juice causes a rather unpleasant dermatitis that looks like a bad sunburn or a severe case of poison ivy. I thought it was entirely possible that Ruth was the one who had picked the rue to put in her poison-pen letter."
"Just out of curiosity," Tom said wryly, "would you have entered the rue-and Sister Ruth's rash-as evidence in court?"
"Maybe," I said. I laughed. "I suppose I'd also have had to call a couple of botanists as expert witnesses to describe the effects of the plant. Then again, we have Olivia's accusation and Ruth's confession. And Regina told me this morning that Ruth had experienced dermatitis before-apparently on the occasions when she picked the leaves to put into the letters."
"It's ironic," Mother said softly, "that the plant she employed as a symbol of regret and repentance was a witness to her guilt."