Back in the Habit (20 page)

“Saying that phrase gets the same reaction as someone in a
Harry Potter
movie saying ‘Voldemort.' ” When Bart smiled, Giulia continued, “I know how it gets in here. You start over-analyzing every thought, word, and action. If you don't mind a little advice from someone with more experience, don't worry about everything so much.”

Bart's hand moved toward her bandaged leg, then made a feint at her now-empty plate.

Giulia didn't miss the aborted gesture. “Not tomorrow—it'll be too crazy—but the day after, you and I are going to have a talk with Sister Gretchen.”

“No—no, I can't. It's too—”

“Stop the melodrama. You can and you will. I've worked with high school students who cut. It can be stopped, but you have to be ruthless.” She gestured with the last slice of orange. “I don't care if you think I'm shoving my nose in where it doesn't belong, and I don't care if you never speak to me again. I'm ruthless enough for both of us.”

Bart stared at her like Bambi-Bart confronted with a five-lane highway full of headlights.

Giulia scooped up her orange peels and tossed them in the trash. “How much longer do you think these'll take?” Giulia stared into the circular glass dryer opening.

“It's been twelve minutes. They might be nearly done.” Bart slid off the table.

Giulia held out a square laundry basket while Bart squeezed the collar and hem of the first habit.

“A little damp, but the stains are gone, I think.” She held one dress up to the light, then the next two in order, while Giulia inspected the veils and slips. “You did a great job, Sister Regina. These are practically dry. We could hang these in our rooms to finish.”

Together they checked the wall clock.

“Tell me that doesn't say one-thirty.” Bart covered a yawn with a sleeve of the third habit.

“I would, but lying is a venial sin.” Giulia covered her own mouth. “Don't yawn. It's catchy.” She waited for Bart to drape hers and Vivian's clothes over her arm, then took her own. “I've got the dishes if you'll get the lights.”

Up in the kitchen, Giulia stacked their few dishes with the ones left by Sister Arnulf's friends. She and Bart moved like ghosts up the stairs. When they separated at the third floor, Bart's candy-cane nightgown vanishing up the dark stairwell reinforced Giulia's nightmares of wandering in a haunted Motherhouse.

Twenty-eight

Four hours later, Giulia
slapped her alarm like it was Sister Mary Stephen's face. After taking one of the briefest showers in the history of mankind, she shoved her desk chair under the door handle and texted Frank.

Progress on drug dealers?

Her phone vibrated while she was hooking her bra.

2 long 2 txt. Can u talk?

Giulia frowned, stared at the walls, the window, the door … the bed. She crawled under the covers, making a tent of sheet, blanket, and bedspread, and dialed Frank.

“Giulia? Where are you?”

“I'm under the covers on my bed. Can you hear me?”

“Barely. Let me turn up the volume … say something now.”

“Good morning.” She tucked the sides of the blanket around her feet.

“Better. Okay. Jimmy and I've been up half the night with the Pittsburgh Task Force. Remember that employee I was checking out for Blake's company? The one who was a small-time dealer? The Pittsburgh guys recognized his name and we gave them what I had. This network's a lot bigger than either of us thought. It's got tentacles from the northeast side of Pittsburgh over to Allentown and up to Scranton. Not to mention Cottonwood, but I think that's only because our small-timer moved there when he got married.”

Giulia stepped on his last word. “Darn it. I forgot to tell you this at the Shot. Captain Teddy Bear may want to check out Sister Fabian and Father Raymond as possible links in his drug chain.”

“Already doing it. Made the connection from Sister Bartholomew's story last night.”

“Good.” Giulia pinched her temples. This frustrating phone-and-text communication merely highlighted how much she missed working directly with Frank. “Will you find something out for me? Bart said she carried white pills, but Vivian dropped an orange one yesterday. I want to know if the orange ones are stronger than the white.”

“Why?” Frank made slurping noises. “Sorry. Coffee's hot.”

“Because I think those two had increased Bridget's dose, and the higher levels put the idea of suicide into her head.”

“Just a sec.” The sound of pen on paper came through the phone. “You sure?”

“No, but something caused her to jump from addicted and depressed to addicted and suicidal. I don't know enough about this particular drug's side effects to be sure.”

“If that's true, these things are like the Skittles from Hell. If I wasn't an honest, upright citizen, I could make a boatload dealing 'em.”

Giulia didn't quite growl at him. “Bart and Vivian and Bridget are honest. It's Sister Fabian making the money, forcing them to be couriers. Did the police catch the alley scum we told you about?”

“Working on that. The Pittsburgh guys've been chipping away at this network for two years. They get small-timers—like Blake's man—but no luck finding the Moriarty.”

“Father Raymond could be the answer to their Moriarty problem. If so, arresting him would free the Novices. That's the only thing I'm interested in.”

“You are way too focused. Don't argue—it's a compliment.” He yawned. “Excuse me. Crashed on a hard-as-rock couch at three. Not conducive to sleep.”

“Tell me about it. I was up till two getting puked on and threatening Sister Bart.”

His voice sharpened. “What?”

She sighed. “One of the Novices is dealing with it by drinking too much altar wine. Sister Bart is dealing with it …” She slapped her forehead with her free hand.

“Giulia? You still there?”

“That's what they meant. Although how I could've made the leap from crying jags and obscure hints to drug dealing, I don't know.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“What are you talking about? What does it have to do with the dead Novice—sorry, Sister Bridget?”

“Everything. The police absolutely have to connect Father Raymond and Sister Fabian to this.”

“Yeah, well, that's the problem. Jimmy and I had a helluva time last night—this morning—trying to convince the task force that a priest is at the top of this pyramid. I mean, come on. Just because the papers still have pedophile priest scandal stories—”

“That should make it easier for them to believe you. They're policemen. They're used to seeing the worst in people.”

“That's just it. They see so much of the worst that they need someone and something to look up to.” He paused. “We have another problem with that.”

“Yes?”

“I told them how Sister Bartholomew described the way they transported the pills in the front part of their veils. There's two Cradle Catholics on the team, and you'd have thought I was telling them I raped their baby sisters.”

“Frank.”

“Sorry, but the room got cold enough for the furnace to kick in by the time I was done. You know how it is. There's some scummy priests in the world, but nuns are still nuns.”

“Yes, but at least you're not treating me like one now. I can't see my watch under here. What time is it?”

He chuckled. “Are you having visions of yourself at age ten reading under the covers with a flashlight long after you were supposed to be in bed?”

“Time, please?”

“It's six twenty-two. Lighten up. That was supposed to make you think fondly of your childhood.”

“I've had too many flashbacks this week to think fondly of the past, thank you. Are you telling me they don't believe the Novices were forced to courier drugs?”

“Once they got over how I shattered their pedestals, they started to.” He slurped more coffee. “But that's what I was trying to tell you: they had the same reaction I did in the coffee shop. None of us understand why three reasonable adults would knuckle under like that.”

Giulia started a slow burn. “I hope you're not telling me that they're blaming the victims.”

“Well …”

The burn ramped up. “This is not the 1950s. Are you going to tell me that when these particular policemen respond to a sexual assault report, the first thing they ask is if the victim was wearing a miniskirt?”

“Don't go there, thanks.” Frank's voice took on a slow-burn quality as well. “We're talking about free will and illegal activity. If you want to discuss the history of patriarchal chauvinism in the justice system, I'll take you out to dinner and an evening of kickboxing—you and me, that is.”

Giulia's burn dissipated. “Deal. Frank, you said that you and your brother discuss the concept of the vocation. Plus, you went through Catholic school, so you also got the annual vocation speeches.”

“Yes, yes, yes. I know the drill: pray that you'll be open to God's call. God whispers to the hearts of the ones He chooses, and nothing is more precious than the vocation to the priesthood. Or Sisterhood.”

“Exactly, and please don't brush it off like the latest infomercial. Every word of those speeches is true, and that is why Bart and Vivian and Bridget agreed to Fabian's blackmail.”

“Right, she said Sister Fabian threatened to kick them out of the convent. Christ, the place sounds like something out of my mother's favorite soap opera.” He huffed. “That's not a compliment. Sorry I cursed.”

“Take my word for it. A threat to living out their vocations would make them agree to almost anything.”

“You've survived just fine without it.” The phone clicked. “Wait a minute, I've got another call.” Silence.

Giulia gripped her temper in both hands.

Click.
“I've gotta go. Keep your phone on you. I'll text you as soon as I know something more.”

When the connection severed, Giulia held the phone away from her and spoke at it. “Goodbye, Frank. Nice talking to you.”

She flipped the covers off and got a full-on view of her alarm clock.

“Good Lord, it's six thirty-eight and I'm still in my underwear.”

She snatched pantyhose out of the dresser drawer and pulled them on, threw on her habit without bothering to find her slip, and shoved her hair any which way under the veil.

The clock, which obviously had it in for her, now read six forty.

“I hope a power surge shorts you out.” She slid into her flats—and got a perfect view of the twelve-inch run on the shin of her brand-new pantyhose. “Lord, is there a purpose to these annoying little trials?” She grabbed her phone from the unmade bed. “Don't be stupid, Falcone. Of course there is. You just haven't figured it out yet.”

She ran down the stairs the way she used to get in trouble for when she was a Postulant. The first floor was just as empty; the smell of bacon wafted through the hall from the refectory. The noise of nearly a hundred and fifty voices crashed into that mouth-watering aroma, and Giulia ran into the hall leading to the chapel, braking by the Saint Anthony window.

Except the back rows were packed.
She hovered in the doorway, craning her neck left and right. There—three rows up on the left. She hugged the back wall as long as she could, then headed straight up the side. It worked perfectly until she squeezed into the end of the pew and bumped Sister Epiphania.

“That's Edwen's seat.”

Perhaps the elderly Sister thought she was whispering, but her voice was pitched high enough to cut through the sedate response to Psalm 119. Every head in the twenty pews in front and to the right turned toward Giulia. Farther away, the Psalm continued, but the sharp decrease in volume caused more heads to turn.

“Sorry,” Giulia whispered, and walked past four more rows plus the Confessional. A Sister she didn't recognize slid aside to make room in the aisle across from the tall wooden booth, saw Giulia's empty hands, and held her prayer book between them. Giulia smiled and both their voices blended into the current verse.

The rest of the Office passed without incident. Giulia allowed the well-known prayers to soothe away most of the morning's chaos. When the last prayer finished and the rest of the Community filed out for breakfast, she leaned back against the pew, eyes closed, to organize the relevant information from this morning's phone call. Something tickled her neck. She slapped at more loose hair and tucked it into the bottom edge of her veil.

“Do you enjoy drawing attention to yourself in such a spectacular manner?” Sister Mary Stephen whispered into Giulia's ear.

Giulia opened her eyes onto the shining statue of the Blessed Virgin. None of the replies that came to her mind could be allowed to pass her lips.

“You may think you have special dispensation, but you're about to be disillusioned.” The whisper added a note of glee to its resentment. “I have an appointment with Sister Fabian tomorrow.”

Giulia murmured, “I wish you joy of each other.”

“What?”

Giulia turned in the pew and glared into Mary Stephen's malicious face. “I said, you deserve each other.”

Sister Mary Stephen imitated a beached fish.

Giulia coughed to cover a laugh. “Close your mouth, Stephen. I can count your fillings.” She winced at the resulting
snap
. “How about a truce? It's a feast day, everyone's worked hard to make the Sisters from other states feel welcome and have a good time. I'm more than willing to get the best of you in another word-battle, but not today.”

“Arrogance is going to be your downfall, and I plan to be there to see it.”

“Only you think I'm arrogant. And underhanded, a kiss-up, disobedient, and undeserving of special favors.” Giulia made a show of thinking about the list she just invented. “I take it back. I do have an issue with obedience. Feel free to discuss that in detail with Sister Fabian. Right now all I want to discuss is whether or not we'll get real eggs in honor of Saint Francis Day.”

She stood and left the pew, walking fast enough to thwart any reply from Mary Stephen.

The hubbub from the refectory filled the main hall, erasing Giulia's two a.m. impression of a decaying Motherhouse haunted by her and Bart. She eased into the line at the food station near the door, smiling at Sister Arnulf as they passed each other. Sister Arnulf gave Giulia the same brief nod as she had in the hall after the kitchen raid. She didn't see Sister Winifred, but she was quite prepared to wake her up if she had to.

Rows of croissants headed the choices, followed by bacon, yogurt, grapefruit sections—and imitation eggs.

Giulia set down her plate next to Sister Cynthia's. “Can I get anyone refills? I'm headed for the coffee.”

“Tea, please, one sugar,” Sister Eleanor said, intent on a square of beige paper.

She returned with two cups. “I suppose I shouldn't expect to get everything I hope for.”

“The eggs, right?” Sister Cynthia said. “The croissants almost make up for them.”

“You look like death warmed over.” Sister Susan returned to the table with two glasses of grape juice. “You've got a curl falling out of the left side of your veil.”

“Blast.” Giulia tucked it in. “I got dressed too fast this morning. Don't look at my stockings, please.”

“I have clear nail polish in my room,” Sister Elizabeth said.

“She made me go into the gift shop at the airport to buy it, too.” Susan buttered a piece of croissant.

“You were going in there to buy T-shirts for your nieces.”

“You just didn't want the appearance of frivolous adornment to tarnish your ‘perfect Sister' image.” She looked at her traveling companion. “Hah. Made you blush.”

“I've got it.” Sister Eleanor unfolded her piece of paper. “Watch, everyone.” She turned the papier-mâché Saint Francis to face the rest of the table and passed out papers to everyone. “Start by folding the paper in quarters.”

Giulia sliced her croissant in half and turned it into a bacon sandwich. In between bites of that and sips of coffee, she folded the paper into an origami Saint Francis along with the rest of her table-mates. When everyone made the last fold, Sister Eleanor gestured for them to hold up the results.