Bad Faith (2 page)

Sister Agatha smiled. “You should have seen the reaction of my old friends when I told them I was entering Our Lady of Hope. Even the Catholics among them were convinced that a monastery was a place where monks live, not nuns. They thought I was making a joke about going to corrupt monks.”

Mary Lazarus smiled, eyebrows raised. “I have a feeling your life on the outside was a little different from mine.”

“It had its moments,” Sister Agatha said, deliberately not elaborating. The fact was, in her younger days, she’d sown enough wild oats to qualify for a crop subsidy.

“It’s amazing how few Catholics realize that the word monastery simply means a place where religious men or women dwell in seclusion, and live a contemplative, cloistered life.” Sister Agatha looked toward the entrance. “Where
is
Postulant Celia?” Patience was not a virtue she possessed this morning in any significant quantity, not after spending a fruitless hour working on the Antichrysler and being pulled over by a deputy sheriff half her age.

Celia was a trial to her. The girl meant well, but she had no conception of time. Admittedly, dealing with Celia, her own goddaughter, was difficult for her. Celia was a constant reminder of what she’d been like before she’d found her calling—and of the many duties she’d taken lightly. She’d agreed to be godmother to Ruth’s child, but soon afterward had lost all contact with them despite living less than twenty minutes away all that time. When Celia had come to them asking to be admitted into the monastery, it had come as a total surprise to Sister Agatha. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable around the postulant.

“I better go find her,” Sister Agatha said. “I have a feeling she’s still in chapel. That girl can pray with total concentration.”

Leaving Mary Lazarus to her work, she walked to the chapel. The only sound that could be heard was the hum of the giant, automatic baker the sisters used to make altar breads. These would be shipped all over the States and, along with the scriptorium’s work, had become a major source of the monastery’s livelihood, allowing them to become self-sustaining.

Silence was the normal condition of life at their monastery, and twelve years of practice had taught her to move with scarcely a sound. Walking into the chapel, she was surprised to see Celia was not there. She started back down the hall, then heard a sound in the sacristy. Turning, she entered the small room off the chapel and, to her surprise, saw Celia busy sewing one of the priest’s Mass vestments, the alb. The long, white garment with the tailored collar fit under the chasuble, the outer cape.

“What on earth are you doing?” Sister Agatha demanded, surprised.

Celia dropped the needle and looked up, startled. “I… I was just trying to help. I noticed a split seam in the alb when I was helping Sister Clothilde with the laundry. I know that you’ve been having problems with your hands, so I thought I’d sew it for you.”

It was bad enough that arthritis could make her joints all but useless at times, but to have a postulant treat her like an invalid was too much. “We have rules. You don’t choose your own work assignments. Is that clear?”

Celia stood quickly, her head down. “I’m sorry, Mother Mistress. I was only trying to help.”

Hearing the monastery’s bell chime out unexpectedly, Sister Agatha put the garment away, despite protests from her swollen joints.

“We have to go. The bell is ringing off schedule. That probably means that the food donations I’ve been expecting have arrived early. We’d better hustle over to St. Francis’ Pantry.”

Standing in the hall, Sister Agatha summoned Sister Mary Lazarus using the wooden clapper, then led her two charges outside and across the inner grounds of the monastery.

As they walked, she noticed Celia rubbing her hands against her black postulant’s dress. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“My hands really itch. Maybe I’m allergic to the starch Sister uses to press the alb.”

“Hurry on ahead and wash your hands. Maybe that’ll help.”

“Yes, Mother Mistress.”

When they arrived, Sister Mary Lazarus hurried inside the pantry to join Celia while Sister Agatha searched for Father Anselm. The parish pickup was there, parked by the side of the building, its bed filled with containers of canned goods. But where was the priest?

Hearing a noise, she looked beneath the truck and saw him crouched on the other side, checking underneath the engine.

“What happened, Father? Is something wrong with the truck?” She’d take this late-model pickup in a second over the monastery’s old station wagon. The thought made her pause. Was vehicle envy a sin?

He stood up and, as she did the same, answered her from across the bed of the vehicle. “I thought I’d poked a hole in the oil pan when I high-centered coming off the highway. But it’s okay.”

Father Anselm was a pleasant, round-faced man with thinning hair and a sparkle in his eye. He brushed the dust and dirt off his black pants, then adjusted his clerical collar as he walked back around to her side of the truck. “Well, what do you think, Sister? Am I still presentable?”

“You look very nice, Father,” Sister Agatha said, then with a tiny smile added, “for the most part.” Father was thirty-seven, still young for the post of chaplain of Our Lady of Hope Monastery. He was also headmaster at St. Charles, the small K-12 school in Bernalillo many local Catholic children attended. Though too modern in his thinking by most of the nuns’ standards, he clearly doted on them, and always made himself available to support them.

“What do you mean, ‘for the most part,’ Sister?” He frowned. “I’ve really got to look sharp today for a meeting with the archbishop. That’s why I’m wearing a Roman collar instead of my usual street clothes.”

Sister smiled. “Well, I’m sure His Excellency will appreciate your color coordination. After all, the white Roman collar
does
match your sneakers. But, just in case His Excellency isn’t in the mood to shoot a few baskets with you after Mass, you might want to bring out your dress shoes.”

He looked down and groaned. “You’re right. I better go back to the rectory. I changed while I was talking to a parishioner on the phone, and never even stopped to think about my shoes.” He looked up at her, a twinkle in his eyes. “But who looks at their feet besides women, anyway? And extremely humble nuns, I should add.” He paused, then grinned. “And, by the way, you fit in with the former, not the latter.”

He loved to tease her, but it was impossible not to like Father Anselm. “When’s your meeting?”

He glanced at his watch. “In thirty minutes.”

“In that case, let me help you carry the cases of food inside while my helpers do inventory and stock the shelves.”

“Sister, I don’t think you should do any heavy lifting with your arthritis. Let your helpers take care of that,” Father Anselm said, calling out to them. “Sisters?”

Both women came out. Understanding what was needed, Celia quickly picked up the closest box from the bed of the truck and hurried toward the pantry. As she passed by the priest, Father Anselm touched her on the arm. “Annie?”

Startled, Celia gasped and lost control of the grocery box. It slipped to the ground, and cans rolled in every direction. The young postulant dropped to her knees, scrambling to pick up everything.

Father Anselm crouched in front of Celia. “Annie, it
is
you, isn’t it?”

“No, Father. My name is Celia. Perhaps I remind you of someone else.” She turned away, hurrying to refill the box, her face red as a beet.

“I’m sure we’ve met before,” Father Anselm said gently, then grabbed the last two errant cans and placed them in the box.

“I just have one of those faces,” Celia mumbled, bringing the box up to her waist.

Father Anselm turned away and, avoiding Sister Agatha’s gaze, carried a box inside.

Sister Agatha stood where she was for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Something important had just happened but she couldn’t quite get a handle on it. The postulant’s full name was Celia Anne. She’d been at her christening, and as her godmother, she knew that for a fact. Had this denial been Celia’s way of separating herself from her former life, or was she trying to hide something?

Sister Agatha saw the priest looking at the postulant as she came back to retrieve the last box. “Father, is something wrong?”

“No, not at all.” Turning and seeing the skepticism on Sister Agatha’s face, he smiled, and promptly switched the subject “Thanks for noticing my shoes and saving my… day, Sister. I owe you one.”

He stepped back outside and, seeing the back of the pickup empty and the tailgate closed, reached into his pocket for the truck keys. “Well, that takes care of the food. I’ll leave you and the sisters to finish stowing everything away.”

“Do you have time for a small glass of iced tea before you leave? It’ll help you relax before your meeting.” And, with luck, she’d get a hint about what had just happened.

He looked at his watch. “The nuns special blend?” Seeing her nod, he smiled. “I’ll make time. The monastery’s blend is wonderful.”

As they walked back inside the pantry, Sister Agatha touched Celia on the arm, getting her attention. “Could you get some of our herbal tea for Father?”

After the postulant left, Sister Agatha turned to Father An-selm. “Make sure you don’t wear white socks with your dress shoes. And that’s my last fashion tip for the day,” she added with a wry smile.

He chuckled. “I’ll take it, even if it comes from someone who knows what she’ll be wearing the rest of her life.”

Celia joined them just then with the iced tea, which she presented nervously to the priest.

As Father took the opportunity to study Celia’s face again, Sister Agatha studied him. There was definitely something going on. She’d started to ask him a question, when he stood up, glancing at his watch. “I better get going,” he said taking several quick swallows of the tea. “I’ve got to hurry to the rectory and change these shoes, or I’ll be late for sure.”

She suppressed a disappointed sigh. She’d have to get to the bottom of things later.

After Father left, Sister Agatha and her helpers got to work putting things away and taking inventory. As she began arranging the shelves, Sister Agatha noticed her own hands had begun to itch. Walking over to the sink, she washed them with plenty of soap. They felt better after that, but she couldn’t help but wonder if Celia was right and the culprit
was
the new starch she’d purchased for the monastery.

Time slipped by quickly as they worked. When the job was near completion, she checked her watch and gasped. The morning was nearly gone. Remembering that the priest’s vestments still needed to be mended before Mass, she reluctantly sent Celia back to the sacristy to finish the repairs. There was no time for her to do it herself now.

When the bells rang twenty minutes later, Sister Agatha directed the novice to join the nuns, and then hurried to the sacristy for one final look around to make sure everything was ready for Father Anselm.

Noting that Celia had already joined the sisters in chapel, she gave the vestments a quick once-over. She had to admit, Celia had done a good job. Sister Agatha placed the alb in the two-way drawer, which could be opened from the priest’s side of the room or the cloistered side, and positioned it so the garments were in full view. She was ready to leave when Father Anselm rushed into the room, wearing tennis shorts and a T-shirt.

“Hello, Sister!” He beamed her a wide smile from the other side of the partition. “I have a tennis match right after mass with one of our parish’s biggest benefactors,” he explained. “Do me a favor? Don’t tell Reverend Mother I’m wearing tennis clothes beneath my vestments. Last time, she told His Excellency, and I came within an inch of having my mail forwarded to Kingdom Come.” He placed his tennis racket against the wall.

“How did the meeting with the archbishop go?”

“I postponed it because I had to make an unscheduled visit to a parishioner.” He grimaced. “That won’t impress the archbishop much, particularly since he hasn’t been feeling well. But I’ll try to fix things later and, with luck, save the day with a Hail Mary pass.”

She forced herself not to laugh. “I’d like to talk to you about Celia after Mass, if possible.”

“Can’t do it today. Maybe tomorrow. Okay?”

Hearing the nuns in the chapel chanting the Divine Office, she hurried to the door. “Until later then, Father,” she whispered.

Sister Agatha took a seat in the first pew near the side door to the chapel and before long Father Anselm came out ready to celebrate Mass. She noted with a smile that he’d remembered not to wear sneakers.

The chapel, like most of the other rooms in the former farmhouse, had been converted to fit the needs of their cloistered order. The nuns who’d taken a vow of enclosure were separated from the priest and the faithful who came from the community by a grille that took up one side of the church.During communion, the nuns walked single file to an opening in the grille and, there, received the host.

As extern nuns, Sister Bernarda and Sister Agatha came to Mass but remained outside the enclosure. Afterward, they’d stay and visit with the parishioners, though usually only a few came to daily Mass, like today.

After several minutes had gone by, she realized that Father Anselm seemed to be having a problem. His face was pale and he was swallowing repeatedly, as if sick to his stomach and fighting to keep from vomiting. Sister Agatha glanced over at Sister Bernarda, who also seemed worried.

Mass continued, but as Father began to consecrate the bread and wine, he staggered back. He swayed slowly for a moment and fell to his knees, retching violently. Then, clutching his chest, he began to gasp for air.

Sister Agatha rose and hurried to the end of the pew to go help him. Father Anselm was trying to stand up by leaning against the altar, but the effort was too much for him. He collapsed, dragging the cloth and the vessels on it down to the floor with a crash.

When Sister Agatha reached him a second later, her heart sank. Father lay on the red brick floor, his body racked by convulsions. His face was contorted in pain, and his hands grabbed at his chest. He was shivering in the eighty-degree room as if freezing to death, yet his brow was wet with perspiration.