In This Small Spot (25 page)

She stood at the island, eating out of the
cardboard food containers as she sorted through the mail, tossing
most of it into a pile to be recycled. She almost threw out a
personally addressed envelope. Looking closely at the return
address, she smiled when she saw that it was from Jennifer. Mickey
hadn’t seen her since Christmas at the Worthingtons’, but Jennifer
and her parents had written every couple of weeks, just cards and
brief notes. It helped to come home to them.

She pried open the envelope and read the
note inside as she pushed the play button on her answering machine.
Multiple messages played: one from Christopher, “Mickey, we miss
seeing you at Mass. Everyone asks about you. Please, come back
soon.” Three were from other friends and two from Jamie, asking her
to call.

Mickey wandered back to the master bedroom
where the bed lay undisturbed, the spread neatly pulled up, pillow
shams in place the way Alice liked them. She pulled clean underwear
and pj’s from the dresser drawer and went to shower. The phone rang
as she got dressed. She looked at the caller ID before
answering.

“Mickey?” Jamie’s voice came over the line.
“I can’t believe I got you. If I hadn’t reached you tonight, I was
ready to come down there in person.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been getting in
late.”

“Liar. I’ve called late. And I’ve left five
messages on your cell phone. Remember who you’re talking to,” he
scolded gently. “You haven’t been coming home at all, have you?
You’ve probably been sleeping at the office.” He took her silence
as acknowledgement that he was right. “Anyway, I was calling to see
if you can take some time off and come up for a visit?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she hemmed, “I’m really
busy right now.”

“I know you are,” he agreed. “I’m sure
you’ve taken on extra cases to keep yourself busy, but spring break
is coming up in March, isn’t it? So there’ll be a week with no
teaching. How about then? Please?”

She smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’d better. Talk to you soon.”

“Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

She placed the phone back on the charger and
went down the hall to the guest room where the bedclothes were
crumpled, the bed unmade. She crawled in, pulling the covers over
her and turned out the light.

Chapter 31

Mickey yawned as she walked to the barn. She
and Claire Decault, one of the new Novices, had been working with
Sister Regina on the farm for the past few weeks. Though Mickey had
made peace with being assigned to the infirmary, things had quieted
there and when Sister Regina asked for volunteers to help with the
extra work load that came with spring, Mickey jumped at the
opportunity. She breathed deeply, enjoying this beautiful April
morning, the sun not yet up, misty patches of fog lying in the low
areas of the fields as they walked through the dewy grass. She
could hear deep moos coming from the cows, and the higher pitched
bawling of the calves in a farther pasture. All spring, as calves
were born at a rate of two or three a day, milking had been
suspended so they could nurse. Most of the nuns had found excuses
to come out and laugh as the calves ran and played, cavorting
clumsily on their wobbly legs. Now, most of the calves were old
enough to be weaned and nobody was happy about it. They had to coax
the cows into the barn and into the milking stanchions. Talking in
low voices, they gave the cows some feed to calm them. Pulling
stools up beside the cows, they washed the udders and began
milking. Claire had grown up on a farm in Québec province, but
Mickey had never stood next to a cow before. “They’re huge!” she
exclaimed in surprise her first day. “They are,” Sister Regina
admitted fondly, patting a Guernsey on her broad face, “but you’ll
learn,” and she had learned how to handle them and was getting the
hang of milking. Claire liked to talk to them in French as she
milked, and was almost as fast as Sister Regina. Mickey had been a
little tentative at first –
you’d think handling an udder would
come more naturally
, she thought with a wry smile at what Alice
would say to the comparison. She finished milking her first cow,
and moved on to a young cow named Fuzzy who had had her first calf
that season. She was agitated, kicking at her uncomfortably full
udder as Mickey washed her and sat down on her stool.

“Quiet down,” Mickey crooned, trying to
soothe her as she began pulling on the teats. Fuzzy seemed to be
settling down as the milking eased her discomfort, and she ate a
bit.

“SHIT!”

Sister Regina and Claire looked up just in
time to see Fuzzy swinging her hindquarters into Mickey, knocking
her off the stool and kicking over the milk bucket. Mickey stood up
with one side of her face plastered with wet manure from Fuzzy’s
tail and her habit drenched with milk.

“Yes,” said Sister Regina calmly, looking at
Mickey’s red face. “It’s shit.”

Claire started giggling. “In French, it is
merde
,” she laughed.

Mickey stood with her arms out, looking down
at the mess. “Oh well,” she shrugged, using her sleeve to wipe the
worst of the manure off her face. She cleaned her bucket and moved
on to the next cow.

When they were done milking and had mucked
the stalls, Mickey went in to wash up before breakfast. She
attracted several curious, amused stares as she walked through the
cloister to the stairs. As she could have predicted, she passed
Mother Theodora and Sister Anselma who were conferring in the
hallway. They stopped talking and turned in her direction.

“Don’t even ask,” Mickey muttered as she
hurried past. She could hear stifled laughter behind her. She
hurriedly cleaned up and changed into her spare habit and went down
to breakfast. Nervously, she got through the morning, keeping an
eye out for Sister Lucille.

“You haven’t kept an eye on the housing
market in Baltimore, have you?” her realtor, Carol, had asked over
the telephone when she called a few days ago to confirm an offer on
Mickey’s house. She had predicted it would sell quickly, but “how
much did you say?” Mickey asked weakly.

All the paperwork requiring her signature
was being brought to New York by Susan Harris – “are you sure Susan
volunteered to come up here?” Mickey asked incredulously when Carol
told her.

“Yes, why?”

“Nothing,” said Mickey. “Nothing except the
last time I saw her, she screamed at me and walked out and I
haven’t heard from her in three years,” but she didn’t say
that.

When Sister Lucille came for her, Mickey
almost ran to the parlour, pausing to brace herself before going
in. Susan’s mouth hung open as she looked Mickey up and down.

“Hi,” Mickey said a little uncertainly.

“Oh my God,” Susan said weakly, collapsing
onto the sofa. “I knew this would be a shock, but… I just can’t
believe this is you.”

“It’s me,” Mickey grinned. She sat next to
Susan. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

“No,” Susan replied brusquely, seeming to
regain her composure. “Here are the contracts,” she said, pulling
papers out of a legal-sized folder.

“We can do this later. Tell me how you’ve
been,” Mickey asked anxiously.

Susan frowned down at the papers. “No, we’d
better take care of this first, before I forget all the places
Carol said you have to sign.”

Puzzled, Mickey gave in and signed
everywhere Susan indicated. When they were done, and Susan had put
everything back in the folder, Mickey laid her hand on Susan’s arm.
“I’ve known you for a very long time,” she said quietly. “Please
tell me what’s going on.”

Susan looked at Mickey, her eyes hard. “It’s
no big deal. Christie left.”

The words hung in the air. “What do you mean
she left?” Mickey asked incredulously. “You two have been together
for ten years!”

Susan smiled bitterly. “You’d think that
would count for something, wouldn’t you?”

Mickey searched Susan’s face. “Why did she
leave? Is there someone else?”

Susan looked away.

“Susan?”

“I have breast cancer.”

Mickey closed her eyes. “Christie’s
mother.”

Susan swallowed. “She said she can’t go
through that again.” Susan’s bravado suddenly crumbled and she
burst into tears. “I’m so scared.”

Mickey held her tightly. “I know… I know.”
She held Susan until she calmed down, and then wanted to know the
facts.

“I’m having a mastectomy in two weeks,”
Susan said. “They don’t know yet if the lymph nodes are
involved.”

Mickey advised her on what questions to ask
her doctors. “Where is Christie now?”

Susan blew her nose. “She’s staying with
Julie and Sharon until she figures out what she’s going to do.”

“Would you mind if I write to her?”

“I was hoping you would.” Susan’s chin began
to quiver again. “You were so good with her when her mother was
dying.”

“What about you?” Mickey watched her
closely. “Do you have anyone to talk to?” Susan shook her head.
Mickey scribbled a name and phone number on the outside of the
folder. “I want you to call this counselor. You need help in
getting through this – all of this. She’ll get you in touch with a
support group.” Susan made a face and started to protest. “I know
you think you’re John Wayne, but you can’t deal with this
alone.”

Susan laughed for a moment and then looked
at Mickey, embarrassed. “I feel like such a hypocrite – I mean, I
was so angry and felt so betrayed when you told me about this… I
wasn’t there for you during what must have been a tough decision…
would you… could you… pray for me?” she asked as her eyes filled
with tears again.

“Of course I will pray for you,” Mickey said
earnestly. She took Susan’s hand and held it tightly. “Everyone
here will pray for you. It is so much more powerful than anything I
could have done before.”

“You really believe that?” Susan’s eyes
probed Mickey’s, demanding the truth.

Mickey squeezed Susan’s hand. “I really
believe it.”

╬ ╬ ╬

Mickey stood at the top of the steps into the
vestment room, the first time she had been there since the day
Mother Theodora fell. Sister Catherine saw her and beckoned her in
welcome. Sister Anselma was working at her loom and didn’t look
up.

“A little calmer than the last time you were
here, isn’t it?” Sister Catherine smiled. She gave Mickey a tour,
showing her around the various work stations, some for weaving,
some for embroidery, some for cutting and finish work.

Mickey hadn’t known how to react when, in
June, Mother Theodora had given Jessica and her their new, more or
less permanent assignments, Jessica to the library – Mickey had
enviously watched the rapturous expression on Jessica’s face –
while Mickey was assigned to the vestment room. This was Sister
Anselma’s realm, the place where she excelled according to
Jennifer, and, “I don’t want to be in your way,” she would say to
Sister Anselma later.

Sister Catherine asked Mickey to begin by
working with Sister Madeline who was transferring designs from
paper to fabric for later embroidery. Sister Madeline was the next
most junior nun here in the vestment room. She showed Mickey how to
use different symbols to indicate specific details and colors for
the embroiderers later. Mickey looked up once to see Sister Anselma
watching them.

Over the next few days, Mickey was
introduced to the different work stations and shown what each
involved. Most of the nuns let her try her hand at the work, but
she soon realized how quickly she could ruin hours of their labor
in her beginner’s clumsiness, and she would turn the task back
over, preferring to observe. Finally, she was observing with Sister
Anselma at her loom and had an opportunity to speak with her
alone.

“Are you all right with this?” she asked
anxiously. “I had no idea Mother would assign me to work here.”

Sister Anselma smiled at Mickey. “It’s all
right. I admit I was startled when she suggested it…” she paused to
change to a shuttle with a different color thread, “but I saw no
reason not to give it a try.”

Mickey could think of plenty of reasons as
her heart thumped at being so near Sister Anselma, but she told
herself if Sister Anselma could accept this invasion of her
territory, then “I’d better find a way to deal with it.”

The following few weeks passed quickly for
Mickey with the stimulation of the training she was receiving. In
addition to the actual weaving and embroidery, the nuns often dyed
their own thread when a specific color was needed that couldn’t
quite be matched commercially. Age-old dye recipes reproduced true,
accurate colors just as monasteries would have produced centuries
ago, “well, almost,” Sister Catherine explained. “We now know some
of the old ingredients were toxic, so we’ve had to make some modern
substitutions.”

Mickey quickly reached a level of competence
where she was responsible for transferring designs by herself. She
was carrying a piece of pale yellow silk on which she had just
finished marking a design over to Sisters Catherine and Paula who
were both working on embroidering a very large, intricate scene
adapted from an illuminated text. Sister Paula was having trouble
getting some of the detail in the face of the monk in the design.
Watching her, Mickey had an idea. She went to her cell and brought
a pair of hemostats back to the vestment room. Using pliers and a
hammer to bend a needle, she asked Sister Paula if she could try
her idea. She sat down and used the hemostats to guide the needle
in and out of the cloth. It was like surgery. She got lost in the
work, looking from design to cloth and, with tiny stitches,
produced a face almost more detailed than the drawing. She sat back
to get a better look, and was startled to realize all the others
had gathered round to watch. She had been so absorbed in what she
was doing that she hadn’t noticed. Her face burned as she looked up
at Sister Anselma who was looking back with an expression of such
intensity that it felt to Mickey like a caress.