Back in the Habit (5 page)

Seven

Sister Bartholomew stood in
the doorway. “Sister Fabian would like to see you in her office.”

Giulia grinned at her. “Don't look like that. I'm not in trouble.”

The Novice's face regained some of its color. “I couldn't imagine what you did between the front door and here to have her gunning for you already.” Her mouth snapped shut. “I mean … I beg your … Christ on a crutch.”

Giulia yanked her inside and only then burst out laughing—quietly. “If anyone else hears that, you'll be saying fifteen-decade rosaries on your knees for a month.”

“You're not angry?” Sister Bartholomew looked just as frightened at Giulia's laughter.

“Why should I be? I'm not perfect either.”

Sister Bartholomew landed on the bed so hard it bounced. “You're the first Sister who hasn't lectured me. I mean, I've only slipped a few times since I entered, but man, you'd think some of them came out of a twelfth-century time warp.”

“They're trying to mold you to fit the image—”

“Mold! I hate that word. They mold you and mold you and one day they look at you—”

“And say, ‘How moldy she is.'” Giulia finished. “That one has whiskers. How many times have you scrubbed the back stairs?”

She groaned. “Don't ask. I see those plastic treads in my nightmares.” She frowned at Giulia. “How come you're different? You remind me of my older brother's wife, except she chain smokes and has a Pagan altar in their living room.”

Giulia laughed again. “Thank you, I think.”

“I love her. She's a riot. One day their corgi—oh, no.” She jumped up again. “I'm supposed to bring you to Sister Fabian. She'll have a coronary.”

Giulia stood and smoothed her habit. “Let's get it over with.”

They went down the opposite stairs that led to the chapel's back corridor and the Superior General's private quarters. The subdued party-chaos of the other side of the building barely penetrated here. At the first-floor landing, the decrepit plastic runners Giulia remembered cleaning during her own Novitiate had been replaced with stick-on carpeting.

Sister Bartholomew whispered, “If we were in the world, I'd take you out for a beer afterward.”

“Face-time with Sister Fabian has that effect.”

Sister Bartholomew coughed. “Are you sure you're not in trouble?”

They turned left at the bottom of the stairs, away from the chapel. Formal portraits of past Superior Generals still decorated this end of the hallway.

“Ever wonder if their eyes are following you?”

Sister Bartholomew nodded. “I hear it's the worst for your annual spiritual review.”

“I'll tell you the story of the grilling I got the first year after temporary vows.” She glanced at the Novice. “Maybe not.”

A shrug. “Doesn't matter. I've heard plenty from the fourth-years.” A gleaming mahogany door stopped their conversation. “Want me to wait?”

Giulia turned her gaze on the dark circles under the Novice's eyes. “Yes, because it'll prevent three more people from sending you on errands.” She raised her hand to knock. The flowery print proclaiming “All things come to those who wait” still hung in its frame next to the door.

Giulia murmured, “Welcome to the Puppet Master's realm.”

Behind her, Sister Bartholomew made a strangled noise and her footsteps retreated. Giulia forced her face into neutral and knocked.

“Come in.”

The room on the other side of the door was not the one Giulia remembered.
Fabian must've won a home makeover contest.

The vinyl chairs with worn brown slipcovers and the faded tan walls were no more. Off-white textured wallpaper covered three walls of the sitting room. An earth-tone striped couch and two matching chairs surrounded a green glass-topped coffee table. The fourth wall, opposite the windows, had been painted to match the glass tabletop. The hardwood floor—Giulia had to look—still had that “hand-waxed and buffed by minions” glow, but a discreetly flowered area rug reached from the door to the couch.

“Good afternoon … Sister Regina Coelis.”

Fabian, you oughta stop sucking lemons before meeting with me. It'll prevent wrinkles.

Giulia sat in one of the new chairs. “I've begun telling the Sisters that I left, and my petition to re-enter was granted. Because of the merger and the many of us who've left, no one's batted an eye.”

The Superior General's frown deepened. “That's not the way I'd planned to explain it, but if the Sisters accept it, then I won't argue.” She opened one of the manila folders on the coffee table. “I've typed out everything relevant to Sister Bridget's suicide. How will you conduct your investigation?”

“Who knows the real reason I'm here?”

Sister Fabian's lips thinned. “Only myself and Father Raymond. You must blend in with the Community. I presume you are still a Catholic in good standing and will be able to receive Communion at Mass.”

I'd forgotten how easy it is to hate you.
Giulia cloaked herself in every atom of “reasonable adult” she could muster. “Driscoll Investigations is always professional. Everything I do will reflect that.”

Sister Fabian's earlobes—all that the veil allowed the world to see—reddened like those eyeglasses that get darker when the sun hits them.

“You will come to my rooms every day at four with a detailed progress report.”

“Sister, people will certainly take notice if you and I have regular appointments. For an undercover investigation to be successful, it must be invisible. I'm sure you appreciate that.”

Sister Fabian's earlobes turned tomato-red.

“Sister. Mary. Regina. Coelis. The Community is paying for this investigation—”

“I'm aware of that. I will conduct it in a way that will bring about a satisfactory conclusion for everyone involved.” She stood. “Which Sisters were close to Sister Bridget?”

The Superior General's collar jogged up and down as she swallowed. “Sister Mary Bartholomew, her fellow Novice; and Sister Arnulf. She is on an extended visit from her convent in
Göteborg.
Sister Bridget spoke Swedish, so she often interpreted for Sister Arnulf.”

“Thank you. If you'll excuse me, I'll take these folders to my room to study.”

She closed the door, walked straight across the hall, and pressed her forehead below the portrait of the Community's sixth Superior General.

“Sister Regina Coelis? Are you all right?” Sister Bartholomew's whisper sounded in Giulia's ear and a hand touched her shoulder.

“I will be.” She straightened and gave Sister Bartholomew a crooked smile. In the same whisper, she said, “When they autopsy that woman's body one day, they'll need a magnifying glass to find her heart.”

Sister Bartholomew covered her mouth with both hands this time.

Giulia led them back upstairs. “Talking to her is like playing chess while rollerblading on a freeway.”

Sister Bartholomew sucked in a deep breath and took her hands away. “Where do you get the guts to say out loud what everyone's thinking?”

“Not much to lose, I'm afraid. I should let you know that I'm not exactly the best example for young Sisters to follow. What's the schedule for the rest of today?”

She checked her watch. “History of the four Communities at seven-thirty. Tonight's the one from New Jersey.”

“Is it mandatory?”

She shook her head. “They're not too bad, though. The one from Indiana showed us all these pictures of when their Motherhouse got overrun by mice back when everyone wore the old habit. One had three climbing her skirt and another was whacking them with a yardstick.”

When they opened the door off the third-floor landing, the buzz of multiple discreet conversations enveloped them.

“No, thanks. Before I forget, what time is Mass tomorrow?”

“Office at six-forty, Mass at seven.”

“Let me rephrase that. What's your schedule tomorrow?”

“Um, why?”

“Because you're overworked and underfed and not getting enough sleep. What can I do to help?”

Sister Bartholomew stopped walking. “Um, well, um, we have to be available to show new arrivals to their rooms, plus there's choir rehearsal at eleven, and before that we have to buff the chapel floor.”

“I used to run a mean buffer. Let me take that one for you.”

“Bridget used to—” Sister Bartholomew cut herself off and smiled brightly at Giulia. “That would be great, if you're allowed to.”

“You get a little freedom post-vows.”

The Novice's expression said,
Tell me another one
.

Giulia smiled. “Not a lot. A little.”

“I'll check with Sister Gretchen—she's our Novice Mistress—and see if it's allowed, but, well, don't you want to reconnect with Sisters you haven't seen in a year?”

“I prefer to keep busy.”

Two Sisters at once tried to catch Sister Bartholomew's attention as she and Giulia entered the crowded hall.

“Me, too.” Her mouth quirked. “Sometimes you should be careful what you pray for.” She turned to the waiting nuns with that bright smile.

Eight

“Fabian, did you really
think I'd fall for this pile of alpaca crap?”

Giulia flung another page of the “report” behind her. The scattered white printer pages made a random pattern on the faded linoleum. “I'd get better information if I read the floor like tea leaves in the bottom of a cup. She actually expects me to believe that Sister Bridget had been depressed and reclusive since the day she entered—as much as the life of a crazy-busy Postulant and Novice allowed.”

She slammed the last page on the polished desk.

“Did Fabian think I'd forgotten the three-day gauntlet of psychological tests? Did she think I'd be suckered into believing that a Community exists that doesn't do testing for prospective entrants?”

She heard her voice getting louder and clenched her teeth.

Communities want outgoing leaders. Even a contemplative Order might've balked at the person described in this “report.”

Giulia stared at the puzzle she'd created on the floor.

“Only the strong grapple Formation and win the veil. Something changed Sister Bridget. Before the merger or after?”

She opened her phone and chose the text-message option for Frank's number.

Info not complete. Get all you can from the family.

A moment later, the phone vibrated and the envelope icon appeared.

Got it. Any other news?

She rolled her eyes.
Plenty. I've already committed the sin of wanting to murder Fabian.
Instead, she texted,
Not yet. I'll work on the 2 friends next.

The phone went back into her pocket with her driver's license and debit card rubber-banded together. Neither of them were useful in here, but they were another small reminder that she was still Giulia Falcone under this veil. She knelt to pick up the scattered papers.

“Five-thirty. Time's up. Get downstairs and immerse yourself in it all. Make them accept you as one of them. Deal with the repercussions when you're safe in your own apartment again.”

_____

The refectory at least sounded like a restaurant in the real world. The necessity of making oneself heard over the clatter of dishes and flatware gave Giulia an unexpected sense of relief.

She found one empty seat at a table smack in the middle of the long, crowded dining room. Four other nuns were already seated there: one bouncing lesson-plan ideas off of one reading
The
Imitation of Christ
, one writing a letter, and one leaning against the chairback, looking green around the gills.

“Sister Mary Regina Coelis,” Giulia said to the table in general. “Is anyone sitting here?”

The letter-writer shook her head without looking up.

“Sister Eleanor.” The greenish one's voice matched her skin tone.

“Are you all right, Sister?”

She opened her eyes. “Our plane landed an hour ago. We hit the worst turbulence in the history of mankind.” She winced and closed them again. “Now I know how chicken legs in a Shake and Bake bag feel.”

“Eleanor, I told you to drink ginger tea before we left.” The letter-writer capped her pen. “A pleasure to meet you, Sister Regina Coelis. I'm Sister Cynthia.”

“Your ginger tea was the first thing I vomited on the plane, Cynthia.” Sister Eleanor squinted at everyone. “My apologies. I'm only here to collect saltines and ginger ale. Then I'm hiding in my room all evening.”

Giulia gave in to her curiosity. “I didn't think there was a Saint Cynthia.”

“There isn't. My given name is Cindy. They allowed me to compromise at my Investiture, and I became Sister Mary Cynthia. I could hear my mother's teeth grinding all the way from the back of the church.”

The wizened doorkeeper stood, and the room fell silent.

“Good evening, Sisters, and welcome again to today's arrivals. Please bow your heads as we thank Our Father for this meal.”

Giulia bowed her head with the rest, but kept her eyes open. The book-reader maintained her spiritual demeanor. The lesson planner at first appeared annoyed by the interruption. Sister Eleanor sank into her chair, the green tinge holding steady.

When the prayer finished, the lesson planner resumed the third week of Advent. Giulia turned to Cynthia. “I'd never have believed they could squeeze thirty-five tables plus two of those restaurant-size steam carts in here.”

Cynthia touched the back of her hand to Eleanor's forehead. “This is the first I've seen it. Eleanor and I are from New Jersey.”

Sister Fabian's table proceeded to the serving table at their end of the room.

“Do you know the Sisters at Sister Fabian's table?” Giulia said to Sister Cynthia.

“One's our former Superior General, so I'm guessing the others are formers as well.”

“I should've guessed from the shared CEO look.”

The lesson planner said, “Rank has its privileges.”

The
Imitation of Christ
reader primmed her lips. “If it doesn't affect you spiritually, morally, or materially, Susan, then put it aside.”

Sister Susan wrinkled her nose at the reader, who closed her book.

“‘First keep the peace within yourself, then you can also bring peace to others.' Good evening, Sister Regina Coelis. I'm Sister Mary Elizabeth. Susan and I are from the Indiana branch.”

“Did you give the history presentation?” Giulia stood with the rest of the table to get in line for dinner.

Sister Cynthia said. “Eleanor, sit there. I'll get your crackers and soda.”

“No, that was our Community's former Postulant Mistress. She was an actress before she entered. The skits she wrote for the Postulants to perform on Saint Francis Day were always clever. She was appointed Postulant Mistress of this Motherhouse after the merger.”

Giulia helped herself to baked chicken, potatoes, a roll, and salad. While she added milk to her coffee, Sister Bartholomew and a shorter, plump Novice carried plates to a table filled with retired Sisters. Two Postulants did the same for another full table. A third table with five more obvious retirees watched their servers with avidity.

Right, they're serving. We did the same. But at least there were three of us and only seven retired Sisters. Those girls need a week's vacation.

Eleanor left with her motion-sickness supper. Giulia said to Cynthia, “Are both of you stationed at your old Motherhouse?”

“No, in Tallahassee. No more New Jersey winters, hooray. Eleanor is high school Spanish and I'm Chemistry and Physics.” She took a bite of her buttered roll. “What about you?”

“I've been away for a year. This is my re-assimilation.”

Susan snorted. “Like the Borg.”

Elizabeth set down her fork. “Susan, one day you will say that to the wrong person. Don't forget your review is only a month away.”

Susan stabbed her chicken. “Don't worry. I'll behave for the committee. You know I'm always a good example for impressionable young minds. That covers a multitude of sins.”

Giulia added sugar to her coffee. “The first one post-vows was the worst. I always rubbed Sister F. the wrong way, and there she sat in judgment on me.”

“Our Superior General was easygoing,” Susan said. “I knew she'd never win the battle for Combined Overlord.”

Elizabeth rapped Susan's hand with the back of her fork.

“Ow. All right, all right. Blame it on menopause.” She caught everyone's eyes. “I shall now practice decorum and eat the rest of the meal in silence.”

Elizabeth briefly raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Is the rest of your group here, Sister Regina Coelis?”

Giulia surveyed the room. “I haven't seen them, but I just arrived. It was a long trip. My last post was in Pierre.”

“South Dakota?” Susan's coffee cup hovered halfway between the table and her mouth. “I guess you really did tick certain people off.”

“I didn't realize the Community had convents so far west.” Elizabeth shot a pointed look at Susan.

Giulia shrugged. “We do, and I've seen them all. I have a reputation as the nun who won't push girls into Entering.”

Susan said, “Ouch. Just as the numbers are dropping like rocks?”

“What's the point of talking up the joys of convent life to girls who anyone could see wouldn't make it past the first round of psychological tests?” Giulia appealed to the table in general.

“You get no argument from me,” Susan said. “Four out of the five in my group cut and ran before Investiture, something unusual back in the day. And Eleanor wonders why I'm such a cynical old besom. My solo Novitiate was a never-ending party.” She jerked one shoulder. “As I'm sure you've gathered, sarcasm is my major fault.”

Elizabeth said to Giulia, “I agree with you in principle, Sister Regina Coelis, but God needs workers, however flawed. Who's to say that with attentive Formation those girls wouldn't have made admirable Sisters?”

There's no polite response to that. Sometimes I wonder how I lasted as long as I did.

Giulia finished dinner and set her dishes in the gray plastic bins on the rolling carts at the back of the room. The institutional dishwasher lurked just down the short hall beyond the carts. Giulia caught a whiff of the powerful soap it required, then gave herself a mental slap. Wrenching her brain out of reminisce mode, she sized up the Superior Generals still drinking coffee at their table. Next, the two Novices and two Postulants. She didn't see the Novice Mistress's bright red hair and quirky smile anywhere. It had been years since they'd met, but she was remembering more and more the longer she breathed Motherhouse air.

She wandered into the nearest of the six rooms that took up most of the first floor, reacquainting herself with the layout of the building.

The first parlor opened into another, then into a telephone room that connected to the main library. No dust marred the books on the built-in shelves, not even the volumes of Canon Law at the very top. If Sister Bartholomew and the others were saddled with the dusting, too, Sister Bridget would've had to work to find the time to get depressed.

Soft muttering from behind her made her jump. In the sagging flowered armchair under the crucifix, a white-haired nun wearing the European version of the modified habit was writing in a spiral notebook.

That habit could kindly be described as “quaint.” The gathered ankle-length skirt, cuffed sleeves, and three-inch white plastic crown atop the waist-length veil made Giulia happy to wear a plain, A-line dress.

After what appeared to be each sentence, the little Sister read it aloud. The muttering wasn't in English. Giulia stepped forward, unsure if she could help or if she should try to find someone who understood her language. While she wavered, the elderly nun leveraged herself out of the chair and over to the computer desk. Her arthritic fingers pounded the keys like she was punishing someone.

Giulia sidled through the opposite doorway into the Community Room.

Sister Bartholomew caught her on the main stairs. “Sister Regina Coelis, can you really help with the buffer?”

“Of course I can. What time do you want me there?”

“Right after we finish the breakfast dishes. Sister Gretchen's okay with it. She's being pulled in eight different directions too.”

“Are there only two Canonical Novices this year?”

“We had six Postulants enter the four different Motherhouses back in February, but only three of us made it to the new, merged Community.”

Giulia kept her voice casual. “Three isn't bad.”

“No, there's only two of us now.” She shook something off. “I wish they'd emphasized more that ‘Canonical' means ‘cloistered.' Cabin fever is a bad thing.”

“Been there.”

Bart gave Giulia that bright smile.“If you can be in the chapel about eight-fifteen tomorrow morning, I'll show you where we keep the supplies.”

“I hate to take advantage of you like everyone else, but I don't have a towel in my room.” Giulia forced herself not to wince. It wasn't a lie, since her room did lack a towel, but she knew she only asked Sister Bartholomew so she could weasel information out of her.

“No, no, you're not. They're in the linen closet on the second floor. I'll show you.”

She led the way to the large bathroom next to the front stairs.

“They're on this shelf … except when they aren't.” She closed the door on the empty middle shelf with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. The clean ones must still be in the cellars.” She hesitated. “I can get one for you.”

“I'll come with you. I need to work off that starchy dinner.”

“You will? Thanks.” They walked the length of the hall and through the double doors that opened onto the back stairs. Sister Bartholomew appeared oddly relieved to have Giulia accompany her.

“How's the spider situation down there?” Giulia said.

Sister Bartholomew waved a dismissive hand. “They're all over the place, but that's what shoes are for.” Her voice smirked. “One got into Sister Beatrice's sheets last month. She tried to take it out on us, but Sister Gretchen told her that since Saint Francis himself isn't going to appear in the cellars to chastise the spiders, Sister Beatrice should practice decorum and leave us Novices to her.”

“I remember Sister Gretchen. She became Novice Mistress after I took vows. Does she still do impressions of old movie stars?”

“Oh, yeah. She's added some new ones, too. Her Adam Sandler is great.” Sister Bartholomew walked with fast, firm steps.

Giulia's gym routine enabled her to keep up. “Do you still have to hand-starch the veils for the traditional habits?”

“Do we ever.” Her voice seemed relaxed but her pace didn't slacken. “At least only five of them still wear it.”