Six John Jordan Mysteries

by Michael Lister

  “We can’t afford it,” I said. “At least I can’t. You and Chris probably can.”

  We were having such a nice time. Why’d I have to mention her husband?

  “If what they’re dealing with is not a miracle, whatta you think’s going on?” Anna asked.

  I shrugged. “If she’s not lying, it could be because she doesn’t remember,” I said.

  “Date rape?”

  “Technically,” I said, “nuns don’t date, but, yeah, something like that. I would’ve also thought about the possibility of a hysterical pregnancy or a tumor or some other medical condition, but Sister said she had medical evidence to confirm that she is pregnant and a virgin.”

  “What about artificial insemination?” Anna asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s something we’ll have to consider, but I’m not sure she could do it and still appear to be a virgin—and it’s probably not something she could do herself, so there’d be evidence. Besides, Sister would have checked all these things out before calling me and saying she had a pregnant virgin confirmed by medical evidence.”

  Located near the coastal town of Bridgeport, on a tract of land that reveals just how beautiful North Florida can be, St. Ann’s is situated on the site where a Spanish mission once stood.

  Surrounding the small but ornate chapel at its center, St. Ann’s consisted of two dormitories—one on either side—a handful of cabins down by the lake, a cafeteria, a gym, an education building, and a conference center with offices.

  The natural beauty of St. Ann’s was nurturing, and I found myself breathing more deeply as I tried to take it all in. The small lake was rimmed with cypress trees, Spanish moss draped from their jagged branches. Enormous, spreading oaks and tall, thick pines grew on the gently rising slope coming up from the lake, on the abbey grounds, and for acres and acres around it.

  Dedicated to art, religion, and psychology, St. Ann’s was operated by Sister Abigail, a wise and witty middle-aged nun who supervised the counseling center; Father Thomas Scott, an earnest, devout middle-aged priest, in charge of religious studies and spiritual growth; and the young Kathryn Kennedy, an acclaimed novelist responsible for artistic studies and conferences.

  Sister Abigail, Father Thomas, and a diminutive, slightly feminine man in a Roman collar walked out to greet us when we arrived.

  In her midfifties, Sister Abigail’s pale skin, extra weight, and reddish-blond hair made her look older, but her wicked wit and the glimmer she often got in her eye made her seem much younger.

  “John, you remember Father Thomas,” Sister Abigail said. “This is Father Jerome. He’s Sister Mary Elizabeth’s pastor.”

  I assumed Mary Elizabeth was the pregnant nun, but wasn’t sure and didn’t ask.

  I hugged Sister Abigail and shook hands with the two priests.

  Father Thomas Scott was a trim man with receding gray hair, a neatly trimmed gray beard, and kind, brown eyes that shone with intelligence. His body, like his voice, was soft without being effeminate, and his black suit and Roman collar hung loosely on his narrow frame.

  Father Jerome was small and pale with light blue eyes, and though his boyish face contradicted it, my guess was that he was as old as the other priest. He looked frail and sickly, and I could see enough of what was under his black felt fedora to know that it was covering hair loss—the result of chemotherapy, I suspected.

  “This is Anna Rodden,” I said.

  Sister Abigail arched an eyebrow where only I could see it. She had heard all about Anna in our sessions.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Anna,” she said.

  “I hope you don’t mind me coming,” Anna said. “We were leaving work when you called and a ride along the coast to this beautiful place sounded too good to pass up.”

  “I’m so glad you came,” Sister said.

  “I can walk around the lake or drive into Bridgeport while you all—”

  “From what John’s told me about you, we could use your help.”

  Anna looked at me, her eyebrows raised, an expression not unlike the one Sister had given me a few minutes before. “You’ve been talking about me in therapy?”

  “In therapy, in my sleep, in AA, in chat rooms, to strangers,” I said. “Women like you are the reason therapy was invented.”

  It was spring break and the abbey was largely empty, its dorm rooms and cottages temporarily vacant. Not only were the various attendees, counselees, artists in residence, and troubled teens away, but part of the staff was, too, which meant I wouldn’t get the opportunity to meet Kathryn Kennedy, who happened to be one of my favorite contemporary novelists.

  St. Ann’s was so empty, in fact, that it was jarring to see a late teens/early twenties surfer-looking guy with wavy bleached-blond hair step out of the chapel and head toward the dining hall.

  “I was just checking on Sister Mary,” he said to Sister Abigail.

  It was obvious by the way he moved and spoke that he had both physical and mental impairments.

  “Thank you, Tommy,” Sister said. Then lowering her voice, “I believe our young Tommy Boy has a bit of a crush on the lovely Sister Mary Elizabeth.”

  “We need to make sure he doesn’t bother her too much,” Father Thomas said.

  “Come on,” Sister Abigail said to us. “Let’s talk in Thomas’s office. It’s big enough for us all to be comfortable.”

  Father Thomas’s study was filled with scholarly texts and reference books, many on the more mystical side of his religion—miracles, exorcism, speaking in tongues. Beneath the musty smell of the dusty books and the mildew odor caused by Florida humidity, the sweet ripe-raisin aroma of pipe tobacco lingered in the still air.

  Father Thomas was seated behind his desk, the rest of us on chairs scattered around him.

  “I asked you here, John, to see if you can help us make sense of this before it gets official and the church gets involved,” Sister Abigail said. “Father Thomas is satisfied that we’re dealing with a miracle and believes we need to involve the church immediately.”

  “We’ve done everything else we can,” he said.

  “Father Jerome, Sister Mary Elizabeth’s pastor, is not so sure,” she said. “As you can imagine, I believe there must be an explanation other than a miraculous conception.”

  I nodded my understanding of everyone’s position.

  “Before coming here about six months ago, Father Jerome and Sister Mary Elizabeth worked in a parish in Pensacola,” Father Thomas said. “Father Jerome took medical retirement and moved here. Sister Mary Elizabeth joined our staff shortly after.”

  “She doesn’t want me dying alone,” Father Jerome said. “I mean, without someone I’m close to. At least that’s part of it. I think she genuinely likes it here, as well.”

  I looked at Sister Abigail. She knew what I wanted without me saying it.

  “Here’s what we know for sure,” she said. “All based on medical examinations. Sister Mary Elizabeth is pregnant—about four months. She’s also a virgin. The same doctor who verified she was pregnant said her hymen was intact and that she had never had intercourse. The only place she’s been beside the abbey is the soup kitchen, so couldn’t have had any medical procedures or anything like that. Not that I believe she would. Mary says she’s never had sex, never even done anything sexual with a man, and that she has no idea how she got pregnant.”

  “And I believe her,” Father Jerome said. “I’ve known her for many years now, as her pastor and co-worker. She’s the purest, most precious person I’ve ever met. She’s not capable of lying. She’s a true innocent. And there’s a sense of the divine about her, a presence of the spirit. I’ve never said this about anyone I’ve ever known, but I think it’s possible that she is a saint.”

  “But you’re not convinced there’s a miraculous explanation for her pregnancy?”

  He shrugged. “I’m open to any explanation—or none. I just don’t want to see her become an object of scorn or devotion or media fren
zy.”

  I nodded.

  “If we didn’t have medical evidence, we wouldn’t be sitting here,” Father Thomas said. “But we do. And we can’t ignore it. I’m not saying this is a miracle, a sign from God at a time when humanity needs it most, but it might be, and we have a duty to report it to our superiors.”

  There are people in this world who seem not to belong to it. Sister Mary Elizabeth was one of them. Her simple beauty was radiant, with a palpable presence of otherness. Surprisingly, she wasn’t wearing a habit, but a plain blue dress that matched her eyes. Her long, thick blond hair was in a ponytail, and her pale, porcelain-like complexion was without makeup or blemish.

  Though Sister Abigail already had, I explained to her who I was and why I was here.

  “So you’re sort of like Father Brown?” she asked. “A spiritual Sherlock Holmes.”

  I smiled.

  I had expected her to speak in one of those high, airy voices that so many pseudo-spiritual people and eccentrics use, but, like her words themselves, her voice was genuine and came from a woman whose soulfulness was obviously rooted in an earthy humility.

  I liked her immediately.

  “Unfortunately, not nearly as clever or successful as either of them,” I said, “but yes, a bit of a detective.”

  “Sister says you’re very good.”

  “To keep from calling an esteemed nun a liar, I’ll say she was being generous.”

  “Well, I hope you can find out what’s going on with me,” she said.

  “You have no idea?”

  “None,” she said.

  “Do you believe it’s a miracle?”

  She shrugged. “I find that very hard to believe,” she said, “but I know there’s no way I could be pregnant.”

  A touch of red appeared on her white cheeks as if being brushed on with fine bristles by a delicate hand.

  “No possible way?” I asked. “Even if highly improbable?”

  The red on her cheeks darkened and was joined by crimson splotches on her neck.

  “I’ve never been with a man. I’ve never even shared a bathroom with one, so as improbable as an accident would be, I’ve never even been in a situation that would make it remotely possible.”

  We were silent for a moment.

  The back doors opened loudly and we turned to see who it was.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were all right, Sister Mary,” Tommy said.

  “I’m fine, Tommy, thank you,” she said.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Some tea or a snack?”

  “I’m okay right now, but thank you very much,” she said.

  He studied me without expression for a moment, then stepped back out and closed the door.

  “He’s so sweet to me,” she said.

  I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “So do you believe me?” she asked.

  “That Tommy Boy is sweet?”

  “No,” she said with a smile. “About all the other.”

  “I have no reason not to.”

  “But you’re skeptical?”

  “About everything,” I said. “Don’t take it personally.”

  “I don’t,” she said.

  I thought about everything she’d said for a few moments.

  “You work with a lot of law enforcement types, don’t you?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “A few.”

  “Do you know anyone who could give me a lie detector test?”

  I nodded.

  “Would you be willing to set one up for me?” she asked. “It would mean a lot to me if everyone involved could know for certain that I was telling the truth.”

  When I stepped out of the chapel, the others were waiting for me. The lengthening days of spring meant that there was still light, and they were gathered, pacing like expectant parents, beneath an enormous oak tree.

  Father Jerome was seated on a bench, the others standing around him. He looked to be in pain, but he rose the moment he saw me, and walked over. The others following, Father Thomas tapping out a pipe on the bottom of his shoe.

  “Well?” Father Jerome asked.

  “You were right,” I said. “She is a very special person.”

  “I told you, didn’t I?” he said. “She’s an angel, a holy handmaiden of the Lord.”

  “Any ideas on what’s going on?” Sister Abigail asked.

  “Need some more information first,” I said.

  I looked at Anna. “You okay?”

  “I’m great,” she said. “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know Sister Abigail.”

  “This is going to take a while,” I said. “Do you want me to take you home?”

  She shook her head. “I’m good, and if I need to go, I’ll get a ride. Don’t worry about me. Just do what you need to.”

  “I’ll tell you what we need to do—and I mean all of us,” Father Jerome said. “We need to protect that godly young woman in there.” He nodded toward the chapel. “Regardless of how she got pregnant—a miracle, an accident, an indiscretion, or a violation—the last thing she needs is a media frenzy or some clueless cardinal deciding her fate. Let her stay here, have her baby in privacy, with dignity.”

  “We have an obligation to the church,” Father Thomas said. “This could be the sign so many of us have been waiting for.”

  “And if it is,” Jerome said, “you trust a bunch of old gay men and pedophiles to know what to do with it, with her? No. As her pastor, I won’t allow it. I’m not going to let you make a spectacle out of her because you think we need a sign.”

  “It’s not up to you,” Father Thomas said. “We—”

  “She’s asked for a lie detector test,” I said.

  They all whipped their heads around toward me.

  “What?” Father Jerome asked. “Why?”

  “Just to further corroborate that she’s telling us the truth.”

  “But we know she is,” he said. “The doctor has already confirmed that.”

  “She requested it,” I said. “And I don’t think it’s a bad idea. I’m going to set it up. I think I can get a buddy of mine to do it tonight.”

  “So what do you really think?” Anna asked.

  “Pretty much what I told them,” I said. “There really is something remarkable about her—an effortless grace. She’s quite extraordinary.”

  While waiting for Keith Coleman, a friend of mine from FDLE, to arrive to administer the lie detector test, Anna and I had decided to drive back into Bridgeport to talk to the doctor who had examined Sister Mary Elizabeth.

  “You thinking her pregnancy might be miraculous?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not there yet,” I said. “But I’m even more open now to all possibilities after having talked to her.”

  “Do you believe in saints?” she asked. “I mean people who have a closer connection with God?”

  I nodded. “I think they’re very rare. Lot of posers and pretenders, but some genuinely touched people, too—like Sister Mary Elizabeth.”

  “You know that already?”

  I nodded.

  We found Dr. Dee Norton throwing a Frisbee to her Australian Shepherd on the beach, backlit by the evening sun. She had agreed to talk with us as a personal favor for Sister Abigail.

  Short, stocky, and slightly masculine, Dr. Norton had coarse, curly salt-and-pepper hair worn close to her head, glasses, and a plain, smooth face without a hint of makeup on it.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, following the introductions.

  “I’m trying to help Sister Abigail figure out how Sister Mary Elizabeth got pregnant.”

  “So she says.”

  “You’re the doctor who determined she was both pregnant and still a virgin?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Let me just say for the record that the only reason I’m talking to you about this is that Sister Mary asked me to. Ordinarily, I’d never discuss a patient’s private information with anybody but the patient.”

  “I underst
and,” I said.

  The empty beach around us was peaceful, the deepening green waters of the Gulf calm and serene with a glass-like quality. The warm glow of the setting sun seemed to permeate everything with beauty and tranquility, and a hush rested over sea and sand, muting all sounds as if in reverence.

  “I did a very thorough exam,” she said, “and I drew two conclusions to a medical certainty. Sister Mary is pregnant, and she is a virgin.”

  “When you say virgin . . .” I said.

  “She still has an intact hymen,” she said.

  “Is it possible to have intercourse without breaking the hymen?”

  “The hymen is simply a ring of tissue near the vaginal opening,” she said. “It’s not a barrier.”

  “So it’s possible?”

  “Theoretically,” she said. “But it’s very rare. Some hymens are ruptured without intercourse at all.”

  Down by the water, Norton’s Australian Shepherd was barking at the incoming tide, chasing it as it went out and backing up to avoid getting wet as it came in, all the while jumping and yelping playfully like a puppy, though he seemed too big to be one.

  “It’s highly improbable,” Norton continued. “Any stretching of the hymen will usually tear it. Sometimes they heal in such a way that it is very difficult to determine if it has been broken or not, but that’s not the case here.”

  I nodded and thought about it.

  “I’ve heard of a procedure that recreates the hymenal ring,” Anna said. “It was very popular for a while. Could she have had that done?”

  “That’s the trouble with jumping from the general to the specific, isn’t it?”

  She paused to make a point, and we waited.

  “You asked if it were possible for a woman to have intercourse and still have a hymen,” she said. “Yes, it’s possible. And you asked if she could have had surgery to recreate the hymen. She could have, in theory, but reality is a different matter entirely.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “After my examination, we’re no longer in need of theory,” she said. “We have fact. And that fact is, Sister Mary isn’t just a virgin because she has an intact hymen—as we’ve said, you can have one of those and still have had sex—improbable, but not impossible. But Sister Mary isn’t just a virgin because she has an intact hymen. She’s a virgin because she’s never had intercourse.”