Back in the Habit (6 page)

“Cooking starch at five-thirty in the morning.” Giulia huffed. “No one should touch the antique gas stove at that hour. Unless it's been updated?”

“I wish. Nope. Vivian and I alternate weeks: one collects the laundry, the other cooks the starch. Someday a sleep-deprived Novice will blow up this place.”

They passed the gigantic institutional washing machines that looked like UFOs turned on their sides. Formica-topped tables lined one wall. A similar table in the center of the room reserved for the three-foot strips of white linen looked exactly as it did nine years ago. The only change was the addition of two apartment-sized stacked washer-dryer combinations.

“This brings back memories. Once we started singing St. Louis Jesuits songs while we worked, just like we were the Franciscan Seven Dwarfs. Sister Isidora showed up just then to check our ironing job on the veils and lectured us on the virtues of silence.”

A floorboard creaked. Sister Bartholomew jumped. “Oh, man, the last batch of towels never got folded.” Her voice came fast and jerky. “Do you mind waiting while I tackle these?” She glanced into the dark room beyond the laundry, then dragged her attention back to the pile of clean towels.

“You expect me to stand here and watch you work? Don't be ridiculous.” Giulia shook out a towel and folded it, then reached for another. “Do they really expect you to keep up with all your usual responsibilities on top of the extra reunion chores?” She snapped a particularly wrinkled bath towel. “Don't answer that. I already know what you're going to say.”

Sister Bartholomew's shoulders slumped. “It's only for this week. Sister Gretchen told us to do everything we could, and she'd run interference for us if someone got on our case.”

Water sloshed through one of the washer pipes. Sister Bartholomew gripped her hands together beneath the remaining towels, but not far enough under to hide the gesture from Giulia.

“Last one.” Giulia kept her voice brisk. “Where do you want them?”

She pointed and Giulia pushed the two stacks to the end of the table, keeping the top towel for herself. “Did they ever fix that gurgle in the hopper pipes?”

Sister Bartholomew's eyes slewed to the corner where the deep utility sink lurked. “Um, yes, well, they said they fixed it back in June, but last week—”

The pipe hiccupped. She squeaked. Another pipe emitted a low, bubbling moan.

“I'm sorry, Sister, but I have to get back upstairs now. Thanks for helping with the towels.”

Giulia stared after Sister Bartholomew as the slaps of her running feet faded upstairs. Then she followed the gurgles to the weepy pipe under the hopper sink—the same source from her time there. Odd that they frightened a Novice who ought to be used to them, what with all the time Novices spent in the cellars.

Nine

At 6:50 Monday morning,
Giu
lia sat in the back of the Motherhouse chapel with a borrowed prayer book, and couldn't concentrate on the long prayers to save her soul. Last night's endless, looping nightmare dovetailed too neatly into t
hat morning's reality.

So I dreamed my stress dream: back in the convent, in the habit, wandering the Motherhouse halls saying, “Why am I doing this again?” over and over and over.
Her voice joined in the Psalm response.
So what if I'm living it? It's only a job. I didn't retake vows.
She gave the Psalm response again.
I solve this by Wednesday and I'm back in my cozy, plant-filled apartment Wednesday night. Trimming dead tomato leaves never seemed so attractive.

The Sister leading this morning's prayers finished the last one, and everyone closed their books.

I can receive Communion, too. I pre-Confessed to Father Carlos on Saturday, and he gave me dispensation. This week, I can lie to serve the greater good.

The organist played the opening bars to “Jesus, My Lord, My God, My All.” Everyone stood as the priest entered the sanctuary from the vestry on Giulia's left.

He was quite an improvement over the old man who mumbled through Mass in Giulia's years there, even if he looked like Roger Moore gone to seed. He kept his sermon to five minutes flat. Because of that and the two Sisters acting as Extraordinary Ministers for Communion, Mass finished at twenty to eight. Giulia caught herself wondering who strong-armed the Bishop to make him assign this priest here.

_____

After breakfast—during which a recovered Eleanor taught everyone at Giulia's table napkin origami—Giulia walked the chapel aisles waiting for Sister Bartholomew.

She'd forgotten, or deliberately blocked—Frank had no concept of the stinking landfill of memories this “undercover in the convent” job had breached—the immensity of the chapel.

The midnight-blue flooring set off the eighty rows of ashwood pews, lit by the morning sun shining through twenty tall, thin, clear glass windows on each side of the building. Four taller, wider stained-glass windows threw faceted prisms of light on the ash-paneled sanctuary. She remembered watching the slow movement of their colors on long days polishing pews. During the summer, that multicolored light painted the bleached-birch, life-size crucifix with colors too lovely for an execution.

The Stations of the Cross have been re-gruesomed, too. Happy reunion, Sisters! Enjoy the realistic torture on all sides! I bet Sister Francesco got that job. She always was obsessed with the goriness of the Passion. No denying her talent, though. That blood looks real.

The statues flanking the altar hadn't been overlooked. Fresh silver edging framed the Virgin Mary's blue cloak. Opposite her, Saint Joseph's spray of lilies shone like mother of pearl.

A massive C-chord shattered the silence. Giulia spun around. In the choir loft above the last pews, a trumpeter, a flautist, and a violinist—Sister Gretchen—raised their instruments and tuned to the C.

Sister Bartholomew skidded to a stop at the holy water font. She dipped her fingers and crossed herself before walking up to Giulia.

“The buffer's in the closet off the back hall,” she said directly into Giulia's ear.

Giulia nodded. The tuning cacophony made normal speech impossible. They passed through the center opening of the Communion rail—so old it was “historical” rather than “outdated”—up three shallow steps, genuflected before the tabernacle, and went through the left-hand door into the vestry.

Another left turn brought them into the hallway that circled behind the sanctuary and on to the Superior General's rooms. Sister Bartholomew opened the door of a large closet that stored the buffer, an upright vacuum, furniture polish paraphernalia, and floral supplies. Giulia wrestled out the buffer while Sister Bartholomew took the vacuum.

“O Sanctissima” saturated the chapel's air when they returned. Sister Bartholomew's vacuum dented the sound by a quarter-decibel. Giulia plugged in the buffer, hit
On
, and promptly crashed it into the wainscoting.

“Oops.”

Her muscle memory returned after a few square feet, and shiny overlapping circles covered the left-hand aisle in her wake. When she turned off the buffer to switch the plug to a closer outlet, the other Novice was there, holding the plug out to her.

“Thanks, Sister…”

“Vivian.” Her high, soft voice was difficult to hear even over a quieter violin solo.

The vacuum stopped. Giulia and Sister Vivian looked up to the sanctuary. The priest who'd said Mass had enveloped Sister Bartholomew in a bear hug. Just as Giulia thought,
That's a little too touchy-feely between a priest and a Sister
, the priest released her and came toward them.

Sister Vivian's smile maintained an insincere “pose for the camera” look as he chucked her under the chin.

“You're doing a beautiful job, Sisters. The chapel glows.” He held out his hand to Giulia. “I don't think you're a new Novice.”

She returned his infectious smile. “Not for a long time. I'm Sister Regina Coelis, just helping out.”

He shook her hand. “Father Raymond Price, but everyone calls me Father Ray. You're an angel for assisting these hardworking Novices.”

“You're quite the charmer, Father Ray.”

He winked. “There are too many gloomy faces in the world, Sister. One happy Catholic could start a trend.”

Giulia laughed. “That's the best idea I've heard all week.”

Sister Fabian strode up the center aisle, several manila folders in her hands.

“Father Ray, if I might borrow you for a few minutes?”

Giulia recognized Sister Fabian's upper-level smile, used when she anticipated agreement from an equal.

“Of course, Sister. Let's go into the vestry.” Father Ray's charm shone on all within range before he led Sister Fabian up the sanctuary steps.

Sister Bartholomew's vacuuming had taken her to the opposite side of the altar. Sister Vivian turned her back on everyone and continued to polish the backs of the pews.

Giulia plugged in the buffer.
Charm isn't everything, I suppose. Unless Vivian can't deal with that blemish on his forehead.
She started the buffer to cover a grin.
Or unless she prefers Daniel Craig as Bond.

Ten

“Sister Regina Coelis, would
you mind putting the buffer away?” Sister Bartholomew didn't exactly beg, but she'd nailed “plaintive waif.” “We have choir practice in about thirty seconds.”

“Of course. Go ahead.” Giulia restarted the machine and finished the last few squares in front of the Saint Joseph niche. The choir began warm-up exercises. As she wound up the bright orange heavy-duty cord, her cell phone vibrated. She checked her automatic reach for it. Instead, she lugged the buffer up the steps and wheeled it through the empty vestry into its closet. This hall and cutting up the back stairs were the most direct way to her room. Not even Fabian should be in her rooms at this hour. Too much to micro-manage before the big day.

But Fabian was in her room, the door closed. No—open just a crack. Talking to … Father Raymond. Giulia inched nearer to listen, not at all guilty about eavesdropping in the name of duty.

Holy Mother of God.

Giulia might be more naïve than Sidney, but she knew what the panting and grunting coming through the crack meant.

Fabian, you deserve to be kicked out of here.
Giulia's conscience tried to make a case for humans giving way under loneliness or pressure or overwork.
Shut up. It's the same as cheating on your spouse. If you want to sleep around, get a divorce. Can you hear your own conscience, Fabian? You're cheating on Christ. Time to petition Rome.

She realized she was still standing too near Fabian's room, the sounds rushing to their inevitable conclusion. A huge effort of will and sticking her fingers in her ears freed her to run upstairs.

Safe in her room, the enormity of what Fabian and Ray were doing slammed into her. She stood in the center of her cell, her head filled with the sounds of Fabian's and Ray's skin slapping together behind that betraying door. Her breakfast threatened to come back up before she managed to push the knowledge to the back of her head. Only when she could control herself did she check her phone and read the text from Sidney.

Mr D has info. Lunch tmw?

Good,
Giulia typed.
Noon?

A minute later:
Mr D says ok. Whats it like???

Giulia laughed—quietly. That last question was definitely from Sidney, not Frank. She couldn't do justice to all of it in textspeak: the sheer number of Sisters, the minuscule rooms, the cavernous cellars, the personalities. And the forbidden sex. Mustn't forget that.
Guess what i just overheard?
No. She was definitely not texting those words. Instead, she texted,
Lots of stories for you soon.

Giulia could almost hear Sidney's disappointed groan. Even a few sentences from her was an antidote for these cell walls.

“I need a dose of the real world. Why didn't I listen to my inner imp and bring that
Cosmo
? I could swear these narrow walls are trying to suffocate me.”

She pulled at the veil around her head.

“Stop it. The walls aren't moving. The veil's not tightening around you like a vise. Quit thinking you're the heroine in an Asian horror movie. This isn't
Ringu
, it's Community Theater Convent, complete with stock characters and a mad-scientist organ soundtrack. ” She shook her head hard, rattling the image of Ray and Fabian to a dark corner again.

She paced the short, narrow space.

“This black lace underwear isn't doing its job. Black was the wrong color—it's nun-wear. Should've put on the jade green set.”

The window rattled as she opened it. “Brr. Not going for a walk in this. All right, Falcone, make yourself useful and see what you can do for the Novices while you're winning their confidence.”

Her conscience murmured the word
hypocrite
.

“No. I like Sister Bartholomew. I want to ease her workload so she can get five minutes' rest. And if I learn something at the same time, the good deed cancels out the sin.”

She yanked open the door to escape herself and collided with two Sisters.

“I'm so sorry! Are you all right?”

One of them seemed familiar—yes, the little old nun from the library last night. She only looked startled now, rather than angry.

“Snackar du svenska?”

Giulia looked at her, then at the dark-haired Sister behind her.

“Good morning, I'm Sister Theresa. Sister Arnulf is asking if you speak Swedish.”

“I'm sorry, no.” Giulia shook her head at the small Sister.

She nodded. “Du är ny här. Vi ses sen när barnflickan inte är här.”

Sister Theresa gave Giulia an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. I don't understand her either. The Novice who translated for her passed away last week, and I was recruited because I know some sign language.”

Sister Arnulf patted Giulia's arm and smiled.

“Her friends arrive tomorrow, so she'll have someone to talk to in time for her birthday. She turns eighty on Friday.” She touched Sister Arnulf on the shoulder and gestured toward the stairs. The little nun shrugged and followed.

Now that she knew the identity of Sister Bridget's other friend, Giulia was tempted to think Sister Fabian was purposefully thwarting her investigation. But she couldn't invent a friendship that didn't exist—it was too easy to disprove.

Giulia followed them to the stairs, but headed up to the fifth floor rather than down. It was Sister Bartholomew or failure, then, and Giulia was not going to fail.
I'm going to shove my conclusions in your condescending face, and if they're identical to what you're trying to force on me, I'll eat this veil.

Halfway up the last flight, her head reached floor level. The two rows of wooden lockers still faced each other across the landing, and from what she could see through their screened fronts, still empty. She didn't smell a decomposing mouse, though. The walls had vibrated with all their shrieks the morning they found that surprise in one of them.

Smiling, Giulia climbed to the landing and turned left to the Novices' side.

“So this is where Fabian's old furniture ended up. When did it become a Community rule that the Postulants and Novices get everyone's leftovers?” Then again, these recycled pieces of furniture were in better shape than the sprung couch and tottery chairs from her time.

Voices sounded from down the hall and around the corner.
Sheesh, Falcone, rein in the talking to yourself before you miss a clue. You're a detective now, not a stressed-out nun.
She followed the sound and stopped at the wall outside the chapel door. The two months it took them to transform two unused bedrooms into this chapel were one of her happiest Novitiate memories. They had all been relieved to discover that the donated pale-blue paint actually complemented the donated ivory carpeting. She couldn't remember who'd given them the stark yet beautiful hand-carved crucifix from Assisi. The best part of it all was it belonged to them alone. No one was allowed in it except Novices and Postulants. Some days it had been the only sane real estate in the Motherhouse.

The noises became intelligible. Giulia peeked around the door frame.

Plump, pale Sister Vivian was blubbering into a tissue. A pile of wadded-up used ones covered the floor next to her. Sister Gretchen sat on her heels kitty-corner from the tissue mountain.

“Vivian, if you won't be specific about what's troubling you, how do you expect me to help?”

“I caaaan't. It's too, it's too …” She buried her face in a fresh tissue.

“Vivian.” Sister Gretchen pinched the bridge of her nose.

Giulia backed down the hall and into the safety of the living room.
In my day, someone as up-and-down as that wouldn't have been allowed to enter.

She stopped at the couch.
Did I just use the words “in my day”? Good Lord. I was a Canonical only eleven years ago. Next thing you know, I'll be yelling, “Get off my lawn” out my apartment window.
She knocked on her skull to rattle everything back into place. Her knuckles jarred an idea loose. What if Vivian's old Motherhouse had been so desperate for Postulants that they skirted the usual screening procedures? Perhaps Vivian was one of those hopeful, sincere girls whose
Sister Act
dreams got pulverized by the real thing.

Sister Bartholomew, coming upstairs, met Giulia on the landing between the last two flights.

Giulia put a finger to her lips. “This may not be the best time to go up there.”

Sister Bartholomew tilted her head as sounds of sobbing mingled with Sister Gretchen's firm voice reached them.

“Sweet cartwheeling Jesus, is Vivian drowning our chapel again?”

Giulia choked. “Sister Bartholomew—”

She held up a hand. “Please call me Bart.”

“Okay. Sister Bart, you may want to shelve that expression.”

Her eyebrows met. “What expression … Oh, no. I'm going to kill my brother. He always says that.”

Giulia grinned. “At least you said it to me and not Sister Gretchen.”

“Sister Gretchen's great. She knows I'm still learning polite speech patterns.”

“Did you learn the other ones at a job?”

“Yeah, my family owns a car repair shop. I grew up covered in grease and ignoring
Playboy
centerfolds on the pit walls.”

“Pit?”

“The bay where cars get repaired. Sorry. The jargon is second nature. So are derogatory terms for male and female anatomy in three languages.” She opened her hands. “Transforming this grease monkey into Sister Mary Bartholomew is a work in progress.”

“Sister Bartholomew? Is that you?” Sister Gretchen appeared at the top landing. “I could use your help, please.”

“Of course. Excuse me, Sister Regina Coelis.”

Giulia continued downstairs, gnashing her teeth. Another opportunity lost as Saint Francis Day crept closer.

Through the landing window, she saw Sister Arnulf and her handler walking through the gardens bundled in plain black wool coats.

She reached her room after nodding and smiling to several Sisters in the hall.

“Never thought I'd encounter an endangered species: the rare Swedish Catholic nun. Only a handful left in captivity, folks. Tour starts in the Motherhouse and runs through the weekend. Take only pictures, leave only footprints.” She yanked open the desk drawer. “If only Sister Arnulf was from Calabria, the language barrier between us wouldn't exist. God, a little help, please?”

Her Day-Timer lay open in the drawer, the still-sketchy outline she'd written based on her meditations during Mass accusing her like a criminal record.

“How is it my own conscience is worse than every relative of mine who says I'm going to Hell because I jumped the wall?” She yanked her black raincoat out of the wardrobe.

Three minutes later she was walking the long sidewalk outside the walls. She wanted a five-mile run but settled for three complete circuits of the wall, hampered by what Sisters attached to the Motherhouse would and wouldn't actually do.

“Was it autonomy I missed, those last miserable years? I was a model Sister, obeying the rules, fulfilling the needs, doing everything that was expected. Except for refusing to play up the nonexistent glamour of the religious life to naïve teenage girls.”

Pre-lunch sidewalk and street traffic picked up, and she reminded herself not to mutter out loud.

That had been the cosmic clue-stick hitting her upside the head. If the life was so perfect, she should've been selling it like ice cream on a hot summer day. The girls should've heard a tinkly version of “Soul of My Savior” every time she walked into a classroom.

A mother with three small children nodded to her. She smiled back. After they'd passed her, the littlest girl said, “Mommy, why do nuns dress funny?” The mother shushed her. Giulia stifled a giggle. She used to think the same thing, till she wore the habit herself. Then it became a badge of honor. A symbol of Who she'd dedicated her life to. A reminder that she was the walking advertisement for the religious life.

She snagged her toe on a square of broken sidewalk and flailed, but caught herself. “Decorum, Falcone. Ugh. That word. It governed my old, Regina the model Sister, life.”

She began the second circuit.

Model Sisters didn't wake up one morning with a big fat nothing where certainty used to be. That clue-stick had been whacking her in the head for quite a while. She'd chosen to ignore it until the emptiness consumed her.

The sidewalk by the west wall was blessedly free of civilians. She turned the corner, walking faster.

What if Sister Bridget woke up empty one morning? What if the shift from Maryland to Pittsburgh aggravated it? Canonical year might be cloistered, but knowing your family was at least in the same city as you mitigated the loneliness a bit.

Giulia itched to jog out this stress and feed her ideas with endorphins.

Since Sister Vivian was a hot mess, Giulia needed to find out if she was from Maryland or Indiana too. There was a chance Sister Bridget had been messed up as well, from distance or false abandonment or … but that would mean Fabian's analysis had been correct.

Sister Bartholomew wasn't a mess, but her family lived in Bethel Park. Ten miles from Pittsburgh. Her situation might be the opposite—never far enough away from the Motherhouse.

Giulia turned the last corner and began the long walk up the Motherhouse driveway. Lunch. Then … telling Sister Bartholomew the truth?

“How do I say it? ‘Sister Bart. I'm really a private investigator hired by Sister Fabian to find out why Sister Bridget killed herself. Does it have anything to do with Vivian's crying jags and why you're afraid of the cellars?' Heh. That'd make her vanish down a rabbit hole. Maybe a partial truth. And a quick co-opt of the Driscoll charm.”