Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “You what? Why?”

  Grams sits down on the edge of the bed and sighs. “It belonged to your mother.”

  It was my turn to stare. “Lady Lana played softball?” I mean, my mother thinks it’s strenuous to vacuum, and I couldn’t exactly see her in the middle of a dust bowl with face gear on, squatting to catch balls.

  Grams takes a deep breath. “Not exactly.”

  “Well, then, what was she doing with a catcher’s mitt?”

  Silence.

  “Grams!”

  She sighs. “It was your father’s.”

  That made me a little wobbly around the knees, and the next thing you know I’m sliding down the closet door, saying, “My father?” because my father is someone Grams will not talk about. Doesn’t think it’s her place.

  Lady Lana doesn’t like to talk about him either, except to say that he was a mistake she wished she’d never made. I asked her once if he knew about me. All she said was, “No.” I asked if she had a picture of him. All she said was, “No.” Then, when I asked if she knew where he was, she said, “No, and we’re not going to discuss this anymore until you’re older.” I tried telling her I was plenty old enough, but she got up and walked out of the room.

  I sat there feeling like a kid who’d tried all year to be good and then found a chunk of cement in her Christmas stocking. And a few months later, when Lady Lana dumped me at Grams’, well, I couldn’t help feeling that my father wasn’t the biggest mistake my mother had ever made—I was.

  So when Grams told me that the catcher’s mitt belonged to my father, I just sat there on the floor staring at it. I turned it over and over. I pulled on the knots. I put my hand inside it and then buried my face in it until all I could smell was leather and dust. And when I finally came up for air, I knew that the next time I played softball I’d play catcher—and I’d do it with my dad’s mitt.

  And you may think this is kind of stupid, but I carry it with me all the time. Mostly it’s in my backpack smashed between my books, but I like knowing it’s there. Some kids carry pictures of their family in their wallets. You should see Dot’s! She’s got two brothers and two sisters and a billion cousins. She’s got a whole album of snapshots in her wallet. Me, I’ve got my mitt. And even though it’s not a photograph or a letter or even a present from him, it’s a little piece of my dad. A piece that’s all mine.

  Turns out I’m a good catcher. Of course, Marissa had something to do with that—last summer she spent a lot of time coaching me. But I am pretty good, and with Marissa pitching, I look great.

  I’m also fast. Not quite as fast as Dot, but no one is. You should see her run the bases or chase down balls—that girl flies. She can be on third, dive for a ball down the line, get up and throw to first, and be back in position before the umpire’s made the call. Even Ms. Rothhammer says she’s never seen anyone as fast as Dot, and that’s quite a compliment coming from ol’ Speedy Scalpel.

  Anyway, the eighth graders may not want us to be on their team, but we’ve come this far in the tournament and there’s no getting rid of us now. And even with their attitude and Heather’s little threat of dust consumption, it seemed like nothing could shake our good mood.

  On the walk home from school, Dot’s making jokes and busting us up with commentary like, “And now it’s Heather Acosta’s turn at bat. The pitch is good and it’s a … line drive past third. The left fielder bobbles the ball … but wait! What’s this? Acosta is dragging the bat along with her … they’ve called her out! Was that sheer excitement on her part or … wait! It seems that … yes … it appears that her fingernails have embedded themselves into the bat. What’s that, Don? You think they’re through the bat? Is that possible? Ladies and gentlemen, this is sensational! Acosta is pulling the bat with all her might but cannot seem to release herself! Her coach is now helping her, and he doesn’t seem to be able to get those claws out of that bat. They’re taking her off the field now, and they’re calling for shears. Looks like they’ll need pruning shears on those babies!”

  By now I’m laughing so hard that when we get to the mall there’s no way I want to just say “Bye” and head for St. Mary’s. So when Marissa asks, “Do you have time for a Juicers?” I say, “You bet!” and follow her and Dot into the mall.

  So the three of us are stepping out of the elevator at the mall, still laughing, when who do I see? The Sisters of Mercy.

  Now, they’re not out praying or converting. They’re shopping, and I mean shopping. Bernice has about ten bags hanging from her arms, and Abigail and Clarice are saddled up pretty good, too.

  I say, “Hey, you guys, look! Over at the Braddock’s window. Those are the nuns I was telling you about!”

  Dot says, “Those are the Sisters of Mercy?”

  I laugh. “Yeah! They’re a riot. Want to meet them?”

  So off we go, only before we get to Braddock’s, the Sisters pop inside. So we stand outside, watching and waiting. Sister Bernice drops all her packages in a corner and runs around the store flicking through dress racks, feeling scarves, holding things up for the other two to see. Sister Abigail looks around, but she doesn’t touch much and spends more time checking out what Sister Clarice is holding up than anything else. And even though they’re in there for quite a while, we don’t mind. I mean, watching nuns shop is funny—kind of like it’d be to see Father Mayhew get up and karaoke.

  When they get done combing through the store, Bernice shoves a new bag on her arm and practically knocks me over as she comes out the door.

  At first she doesn’t recognize me, but when I say, “Hi, Sister Bernice!” she flashes her gap and says, “Mercy me! If it isn’t our new friend Sammy.” Then she says, “Look, Sisters! Sammy’s caught us doing our Christmas shopping.”

  Clarice and Abigail say hello, and I say, “These are my friends, Marissa and Dot.”

  Bernice throws her head back and laughs, then shakes Dot’s hand and says, “Dot. What a wonderful way to thank God for making you special. That’s a name I shan’t forget.”

  When most people first meet Dot, they try real hard not to stare. She’s got a beauty mark on one of her cheeks and at first, well, that’s all you really notice. It’s not gross—it’s just a perfect circle that looks like a small splat of paint. But after you’ve known Dot awhile, you don’t even really see the dot anymore. You just see Dot.

  Bernice breaks her eyes away from Dot’s dot and says, “Well, we’d better move along. I still have nieces and nephews to buy for, and oh, yes! Aunt Isabelle. Don’t let me forget Aunt Isabelle!”

  As they walk away, Dot laughs and says, “Wow.”

  We get drinks at Juicers, and when we’re about done, Marissa asks, “What are you guys doing tomorrow? Do you want to get together and practice for Monday?”

  I say, “Sure,” and so does Dot because it’s easy to see that Marissa’s worried about getting slaughtered on Monday.

  I ask, “At the park?”

  “Cool. How about ten?”

  Dot says, “Oh, I can’t at ten! I’ve got to take Nibbles over to the Pup Parlor for a dip at ten.”

  Marissa and I look at each other and then at Dot. “A dip?”

  Dot blushes a little and whispers, “He’s got fleas.”

  I say, “Well, why don’t we all just meet over at the Pup Parlor at ten, then walk over to the park and practice until Nibbles is ready?”

  Everyone thinks that’s a good idea, so I say, “I’ve got to get over to St. Mary’s. See you tomorrow!”

  Now, I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about it all day, telling myself that for once I just need to keep out of it, but as I’m heading over to the soup kitchen, I know that before I spend the rest of the afternoon dodging Sister Josephine’s cane, there’s somewhere else I’ve got to go.

  Gregory saw me first. He wiggled out from under the desk and laid what was left of his carrot at my feet. I laughed and scratched his chest and whispered, “No thanks, boy.”

  Father Mayhew was stan
ding over by the window with his hands behind his back, looking outside. At first I thought he might be having a word with God so I tried to be quiet, whispering, “No, boy, no!” when Gregory nosed his carrot stump in my direction.

  But after a little while I could tell that he was just thinking. And since I was getting tired of being chased around by a carrot, I cleared my throat and said, “Excuse me … Father Mayhew?”

  He jumped a bit and then wiped his eyes, and when he realized it was me, he put on a stern face and walked to his desk. “What is it, Samantha”

  Well, all of a sudden I can’t find any words. I mean, here he is, sitting behind his big desk, pretending to be in complete control, but his complicated eyes are red around the edges and it’s easy to see that he’s been crying. I whisper, “I was hoping you’d found your cross …?”

  “Noooo.” He blows his nose and sighs. “It wasn’t misplaced, lass, it was taken.”

  He was still looking pretty stony, but he had said lass, so I inched into his office and sat in a chair against the wall. “Father Mayhew, I swear, I didn’t take your cross. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me. Was it in this office the day I painted? Is that why you think I took it?”

  He studies me a minute. “It was in the sacristy.” Then he points to a door at the back of his office and says, “Right through there. I left it open because I thought it would help with the ventilation while you were painting.”

  Now the whole time Father Mayhew’s talking, his dog’s inching over to me with that carrot stump in his mouth. Finally, he just makes a break for it. He comes over, dumps his slobbery carrot in my lap and then sits next to me, grinning from ear to ear. He’s acting like he wants me to play carrot catch, but I don’t feel like tossing a slimy orange stump around. I put it on the floor next to me and ask Father Mayhew, “Is that the only door to the sacristy?”

  He says, “No, there’s a door in the hallway,” but what he’s concentrating on is Gregory picking the carrot up and putting it back in my lap.

  I say, “Was it locked? I mean, did someone have to come through your office to take the cross?” and really, I’m trying hard to ignore how Gregory’s nudging that carrot around my lap, but it’s getting a little out of hand.

  He says, “What? Oh. No. It wasn’t locked, but it was closed.”

  “But anybody could’ve walked in if they’d wanted to?”

  By now little Gregory has decided my lap is also a good place for his front paws, and before I can stop him, he’s on my lap and in my face, panting away, huffing carrot breath all over me.

  Father Mayhew’s complicated eyes are looking very confused, let me tell you. He says, “Off, lad! Off!” so Gregory jumps down, but he doesn’t go far. He rests his nose on my knee and keeps one eye on me, and one on that carrot, which is still in my lap.

  Father Mayhew mumbles, “I suppose so. But that’s the only thing missing. Why would someone walk in, steal my cross, and leave? There are things far more valuable in the sacristy.”

  “Was it where you always keep it when you’re not wearing it?”

  “I had it ready with my vestments for a service last night. Right around the hanger.”

  “So anyone who knows you would know that if you’re not wearing it, your cross is probably hanging with your robe in that room?”

  He sits up a little. “You’re implying that one of the religious took it?”

  I sneak the carrot stump onto the floor again and say, “I don’t know—maybe a janitor? A cleaning lady? Who goes in there?”

  While he’s thinking about this, Gregory picks up the carrot, puts it back in my lap, then lets out a growl. A long, low growl.

  I jump back a little, and then Sister Josephine walks in. And Gregory keeps right on growling as he backs himself completely under Father Mayhew’s desk.

  Father Mayhew coos, “Easy, lad, easy,” then asks, “Yes, Sister? What is it?”

  Now, I don’t think Josephine noticed I was there, because the door was sort of blocking her view. She thumps the floor with her cane and says, “That is the rudest bunch of ingrates I have ever met. In all my years in the church I have never had to tolerate such brazen, intrusive, unappreciative creatures!” Then she mutters, “They may as well be Baptists.”

  Father Mayhew conjures up a cough. “Now, now, Sister. Calm down. You may not approve of their personalities, but they come highly recommended and I have full confidence they’ll bring out community goodwill.” He leans back in his chair and makes a little fingertip tent with his hands. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

  Josephine crosses her arms so the crook of her cane is hooked on her shoulder like a giant bird claw. “You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. We went through with your suggestion to have them over for lunch. Sister and I worked all morning preparing lamb stroganoff. They arrived forty minutes late with not so much as an I’m sorry. They just whisked in empty-handed and expected to be served. And then, then … they didn’t like the stroganoff! Abigail is allergic to mushrooms, Clarice doesn’t eat lamb, and Bernice—Bernice picked out the lamb and left the noodles.” She thumps her cane back on the floor. “Would you kindly tell me how such a large woman can be a picky eater?”

  Just then, Gregory turns up the volume. Way up. And he’s growling so loud that Josephine slams her cane right by his nose and hisses, “Stop that, you oversized rodent!”

  Father Mayhew says, “Quiet, lad!” And he’s about to scold Josephine, too, when he notices Sister Bernice standing in the doorway.

  Sister Josephine sees her picky eater standing there and freezes. But Bernie comes in with a bright smile and says, “Sister! Father! Sammy! Lordy-be, it’s Grand Central in here! Father, you need to ask the Mighty One for a bigger office!” Then she hears Gregory growling away under the desk. She bends down and says, “Now, now, pup. Sister Bernie’s not gonna hurt ya. Come on out and give her a kiss!”

  Gregory stays put, but he does quiet down a bit, and when Father Mayhew says to Josephine, “Perhaps we can finish our discussion later?” Josephine just scowls and hobbles out the door.

  Bernie looks over her shoulder. “Is something troubling Sister?”

  Father Mayhew shakes his head and says, “Not to worry. Now, what is it I can help you with?”

  “A few things, Father. First, last night someone tried to break into our motor home—”

  Father Mayhew’s eyebrows go popping up. “My word! Was anything taken?”

  Bernice shakes her head and says, “No, we scared him off, praise God, but next time—who knows? And since I’ve seen quite a number of lost lambs roaming the neighborhood, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind storing a valuable of mine in your safe.” She motions to the missionaries and cows hanging on the wall. “I noticed it when Sammy here was toiling away.”

  Father Mayhew says, “Certainly. What is it you’d like me to keep for you?”

  She pulls out a locket and dangles it by the chain as she hands it over to him. “My sister Sandra has entrusted me to deliver this to my niece Olivia. It’s been passed down from mother to daughter for five generations, and if I failed in my mission I could never forgive myself.”

  Father Mayhew takes the locket, then lifts the cows and missionaries off their nail, and gets busy twirling the dial. I can’t see exactly what he’s doing because he’s got his back to us, but I see his wall safe open, I see him put the locket inside, and I see him spin the dial when he shuts the safe. Then he replaces the painting and says, “You let me know when you need it back. If I’m not here … well, I will be. You just let me know.”

  Bernice’s eyebrow arches up. “But if you’re not, one of the Sisters can return it to me, can’t they?”

  Father Mayhew scratches behind his ear. “They have their own lockbox. If you’re concerned, you can ask them to keep it for you.”

  Sister Bernice says, “I’m being silly. Of course you’ll be here! We’ll be continuing our mission after our final performance next Satu
rday—I know you won’t be missing that!”

  “Not for the world. I’ve a feeling it’s going to be quite a show.” He sits back behind his desk and eyes a manila envelope in her hand. “What else can I do for you, Sister?”

  Bernice hands over the envelope and chuckles. “Continue to be even-tempered and patient.” As Father Mayhew pulls out a pile of forms, she sighs and says, “It’s quite a stack, I know, but in our work we have to be very careful to account for every penny. The government wants to know everything from A to Z about the people we’ve raised funds for, so you’ll find some very tiresome questions in there. But we’re in quite a stew by the end of the year if we don’t have our paperwork in order.” He flips through the forms as she says, “We’re also in need of some names. Connections. We usually do a newspaper, radio, and television blitz and it’s better to go in with an editor or station manager’s name than it is to go in cold. I’ll need a list of those, and any personal contacts you may have.”

  Now, this is not the Bernice I’m used to seeing. She’s not laughing and talking in rhymes, or being buddy-buddy. She’s business, all business. This woman knows how to put a fundraiser together, and heaven help anyone who moves too slow or tries to get in her way.

  I think Father Mayhew was picking up on the same thing because he nods and says, “I’ll have you a list by noon tomorrow. And I’ll get these forms done tonight.”

  “I’ll also need a mailing list and someone to help stuff envelopes.” Bernice crinkles up one side of her face. “Sister Josephine and Sister Mary Margaret don’t seem like the envelope-stuffing kind. Any suggestions?”

  Well, anything’s better than being Gregory’s carrot caddie, so I say, “I could help … if that’s all right with you, Father Mayhew?”

  He studies me, then says, “Starting Monday. An hour with them, then an hour in the soup kitchen. How’s that?”

  “Sounds great!”

  Sister Bernice flashes her gap at me and says, “Amen!” Then she notices the wall clock. “Lordy-be, it’s getting late! And I’ve a million things to do yet.” She waves and says, “Thank you, Father. We’ll see you Monday, Sammy!” and then disappears.