The Divine Economy of Salvation

by Priscila Uppal

  I gave up and stopped listening to their reasons for sending us to private Catholic boarding schools. I stared through the window at the flowerpots filled with the week’s rain, a hummingbird ornament dipping its wings in and out of the water in monotonous thirst. Christine would be enrolled at an elementary school closer to the house, and I would be enrolled in one downtown for junior girls. We had never been to separate schools before, and I heard Christine slam the back door, my father running after her, trying to calm her down. After a time, my mother took off her rose-coloured glasses, rubbed at her reddened eyes, and slept, her breath so barely noticeable she could have been mistaken for dead. My face turned to our new backyard, to that nailed-down hummingbird, I almost wished she were, and I could go back to our old home, my old bed, back to the life we had been living. But then I realized if my mother were dead, I’d never be beside her again, and my shame at the thought of her unburdening us of this place made me bite back tears. I tucked her blankets underneath her chin and went to ask Father when Christine and I would be leaving and what we would need to bring with us. Luckily, we had not unpacked.

  The following evening we joined together for a parting dinner, a scarce affair since we had made only a quick trip to the grocery store, but we ate a cooked ham and corn and savoured small, bell-shaped dark baking chocolates, my mother’s favourite treat, for dessert. Christine and I sat with Mother by the fireplace and listened to the radio after packing up a few of our clothes and bathroom supplies. Father would drive Christine in the morning and, to save time, I’d be taking the bus downtown, the route map passed into my hands, underlined in blue ink, about an hour’s trip with stops from Ashbrook Crescent. I was to ask the bus driver to announce my stop and enter the grey stone building, part convent and part school, and ask for the Mother Superior. “She’s the head nun, the one in charge,” my mother instructed me. “They have a lot on their minds, organizing everything, so don’t be upset if she doesn’t spend much time with you. You’ll meet the girls your own age soon enough.” As the night crept up on us, the autumn air filled with the scent of pine, my mother asked us to pray, her head bent, her rose-coloured glasses reflecting the flames.

  “Let us thank God for all His blessings. Watch over these children, and bring them into Your grace. Amen.” When she lifted her head, she was smiling with a vividness unseen in the past few months, her eyes turned towards Christine and me with hope. I was about to return her humble amen with one of mine until I noticed the shadow of my father in the doorway, large and fumbling, backing away from us to grapple with our luggage in the semi-darkness. He bowed his head in a gesture that I can now, after years of observation, recognize as despair.

  When I left my sleeping bag that night to get a glass of water from the bathroom, I heard his voice through the white walls.

  “You’re not going to die on me,” he said.

  I was shocked by his words. I realized my mother was ill, but death had never crossed my mind as a real possibility, only a childish fantasy. The sounds of crying seeped through the wall, but it was my mother who was crying, whimpering like an injured animal, and not my father.

  “What am I being punished for?” she asked him. “What did I do?”

  These were the only words of doubt I had ever heard from her; she was to me a pillar of faith, reading the Bible, reciting her rosary, and humbly thankful for every morning when she woke. She had given me a faux-gold locket with her picture inside, a photograph taken just after she was married, her face strong and clear of lines, her eyes confidently turned to the camera. I am in her belly at this time, although the picture doesn’t show it, and her face, even in a black-and-white photograph, seems to glow with a secret serenity. There is freshness to both her appearance and the angle of the shot, as if she had been caught off guard enjoying herself in the summer season. I couldn’t believe the woman on the other side of the wall was the same person who had played with me outside—running through the fields with her skirt in her hands, stepping through mud—cooked elaborate dinners, and kept house. My ear against the wall, I briefly sensed movement underneath the plaster. The new house seemed to sigh, letting go of us all. I took my glass of water back to the living room and wrapped myself tightly in my sleeping bag. I remembered how we had discovered a nest of robins in our maple tree back home and gone to visit them each day, offering seeds, monitoring their growth. Christine once even brought out an umbrella to cover them in the rain. Then one weekend, the mother disappeared. Father told us our attentions might have disrupted the natural order of things. The tiny scared bodies, lifting their blind eyes up to an absent beak, huddled together for warmth. Brothers and sisters fought, pecking each other and drawing blood to get near the one most equipped to survive. The weakest, not able to make his way to the warmth and food, died, and we buried him beside the tree under the soil. The following morning, a hole was left in its place, another animal probably having dug it up for food. I decided that at St. X. School for Girls, I would need to find a new family to survive the season, curl up next to the one who seemed the strongest.

  My strategy would prove more necessary than I knew. Though my parents hadn’t exactly lied to us, I was unaware at the time that Father’s new work did not involve any employer. Renting the bungalow on Ashbrook Crescent was an act of hope on their part. He would admit her to the hospital the day after we left and spend all his time and energy trying to get her well. Christine and I were to be kept away until the money ran out.

  THIS MORNING, FATHER B. speaks to us Sisters about a young pregnant Korean girl shut out of her house by her parents. He found her weeping against the confessionals at the end of Mass last night, holding her stomach. She did not have a coat, a loose blue cardigan was draped around her waist, and her jeans were worn and tattered. There are services that could take care of her, but she refuses their help, and Father B., not afraid for her as much as for the baby’s health, asks that she stay with us while plans are settled for her future.

  We have come to R. Catholic Church to discuss the upcoming rummage sale. I am in charge of organizing rummage sales, and on the day of the sale I work specifically at the clothing booth: marking the clothing, printing a fair price on tiny white stickers, and jotting in a little notebook what has sold and what is left over. I specialize in things, not in people, so I’m anxious about having a new ward to take care of at the convent. So are some of the other Sisters. Sister Maria, in particular, complains that the girl ought to find a halfway house or women’s shelter. Sister Ursula, our resident doctor, counters with the virtues of a challenge, reasoning that God might be putting her in our path for a specific purpose and we ought to rise to the occasion. The discussion grows fairly heated at points, but Father B. manages to convince the majority. I was supposed to speak today, and feel both cheated and relieved. Although I realize the rummage sale is not the greatest of accomplishments, it is mine, and I want to make sure it runs as smoothly as possible. At the same time, however, I am nervous speaking in public, even to a group of Sisters that I converse with each day at the convent. When I know every eye is watching me, I can’t help but feel exposed.

  As Father B. talks about the girl, I review the accounts I’ve kept of what there will be for sale. Collecting items months ahead of time, I am astounded at what gets thrown away—or “donated,” as we are supposed to say—but it is rare that someone donates something they actually want to keep. Only children do that, offering up an old favourite toy or a pair of well-worn shoes, a proud parent standing behind, beaming at the proof that their strong moral values have transferred to their children. But really their children have demonstrated an act of giving beyond their own. Adults lose that generosity somewhere along the way, determined to keep anything they deem useful for themselves. Instead, they offer boxes filled with scratched pots and pans, broken blenders and vacuums, outdated fondue sets and radios, old trinkets with cracks in the clay or paint. Even what might at first appear to be overtly generous, in terms of value—silks and c
ashmere, angora sweaters that have never been worn, underwear still in its packaging, blouses and shorts with the price tags from the store still on them—are usually gifts that didn’t fit or impulse buys that have stayed in the closet for so many years that they can’t be given as gifts to friends or family. There are also boxes and boxes of books, though most parishioners donate mysteries and Harlequin romances, not really appropriate, I think, their gory or sleazy covers out of place in a church basement. But when I mentioned my reservations to Father B., he made it clear that he doesn’t mind. “They probably never even read them,” he said, although the sad condition of the spines tells otherwise. Besides, they only sell for a quarter or a dime, and they take up a lot of space. The bake sale is the most popular, especially for the women who don’t have time to make Rice Krispie squares or chocolate cake for their children, who are too busy running around building up careers and working out at the gym to keep their husbands happy. We make the largest profits on the food—the items of the least material value, requiring only time.

  After Father B.’s announcement about our new charge, Sister Bernadette passes around an animal-testing petition to be mailed to a pharmaceutical company, and the rummage-sale meeting is reset for the following morning, after ten o’clock Mass. Apparently the girl in question (fifteen years old, I find out later, although without breasts and as skinny as a rake, she looks closer to twelve or thirteen) is waiting outside the church in the coffee shop. A few of us sometimes stop by there for lattes and cappuccinos. A couple of Sisters object to the smoke, and a strict few feel it might reflect badly on the Church to see Sisters engaged in leisure activity, but more of us think it’s harmless and enjoyable, and the caffeine keeps us moving. We have no espresso machine at the convent. The girl has told Father B. her name is Kim, but he’s unsure whether or not she is telling the truth. “The father of the child is dead, she claims. This, of course, is probably untrue as well,” he continues, “and I doubt very much that she is Catholic, but probably picked our parish to be away from her own community.” He seems proud of his insights, stroking his collar pensively, his eyes scanning our attentive faces for reassurance. But he also seems tired. I often wonder if he gets any sleep.

  Father B. performs Mass almost every single day, conducts meetings, and makes himself available to the community for private consultations and guidance. He hardly ever recycles his sermons, and delivers Mass in Italian once a week on Saturday afternoons. Older women in the audience sometimes approach him afterwards to correct his grammar, but they are pleased he tries to communicate with them in their native language, since many don’t have an adequate grasp of English. He is always helping out with the functions our parish sponsors, and his hair has grown the whiter for it. When I first came here, he was the second priest, but after ten years he took over for Father K., who, old and exhausted by the pressures of his vocation, finally retired to another city. Father B. had thick black hair then, and many of the Sisters commented on his fine and rugged appearance. Now it has thinned somewhat, and his visage has taken on a contradictory state of hopeful dejection. He tries so hard to keep in touch with all walks of life and age groups. He’s even started to conduct informal meetings with his altar boys after Mass to find out about their schools and what they think of current events. When the boys are ignorant of a news report or can’t name the political leaders in the area, Father B. can’t comprehend it. He wonders how they spend their time and whether they understand what the Church is meant to accomplish. I think his determination to take on Kim is partly due to his failure to connect with those boys. At least she needs help and has asked for it. “A group of caring women can do a lot for her health, for her soul,” he says.

  The day is warmer than when I received my package. Although attired in my winter coat, I could be comfortable in a lighter jacket. Winter has stalled this year. I had mentioned the lateness of the season to a woman who sells newspapers to aid the homeless on the street corner outside. “Winter comes when it comes,” she replied. “I’ve been in this country long enough to know that.” She has an Eastern European face, with stark features and a thick neck, a sunburn in November, red scraped skin across her nose and cheeks. Her hands are covered by black knitted mittens, the kind children wear, without fingers. When money is inserted into her palm, it disappears down her jacket right into her pocket. She may be sure of the weather, yet it seems understandable to me that I could be fooled by the clouds and the temperature and the weathermen on television. Nothing in my life is in order, so why should nature be any different? But I don’t want to be fooled by the person who sent me that gift, the person who must be looking for me. After Sister Bernadette finally left my room that afternoon, I handled the candle holder for the next two hours, trying to determine whether it was a copy or the original. The exercise proved futile. I know little about the authenticity of objects or how to weigh real silver or judge when the candle holder was engraved, where it was made. Everything on the surface indicates it is the original, but this is little comfort. In fact it is worse. I thought it had been buried. I thought no one was going to dig this up again. My instinct is twofold: to run or to hide. To run would mean an investigation, probably involving the police, as the Sisters would worry about my absence and fill out a Missing Person Report. They’ve done it before. Eight years ago, Sister Olivia went “over the wall,” as we say. She was found in Edmonton, working in a restaurant as a cook. She simply told the police she’d had enough of working for free. However, for me, if my crime becomes known, running would be seen as akin to guilt. And to be found guilty in front of the world is a decidedly different judgement than the private guilt I’ve carried for years. To hide is the best solution to me at the moment. To hide as I have been hiding among these women for years. To do the work I have been doing for our community. Go about my ordinary routines while keeping my eyes open for another sign of who might be tracking me down. I have certain suspects, but I can’t quite resign myself to the notion that they would want to expose me and thereby expose themselves. The people I suspect were also involved. They’d be implicated. Who wants to drag all this back into the light? Years have passed in silence. The dead shall remain dead no matter what we might do.

  Although I do enjoy a latte now and then, I had no plans to retire to the coffee shop after the meeting. However, curious and weakened by my own worries, I feel the distraction might be good for me. On noticing our entrance, the pregnant girl tries to regain her composure. Her small face is scoured and red from the napkins used as Kleenex; her tiny hips support a small bulge the size of a cantaloupe. We decide to send only Sister Bernadette over first, as a group of six of us congregate at a table with our drinks. Most of us are in our habits for Mass, and we think the uniform might intimidate her if she feels shame over her delicate condition. Sister Bernadette, although also sporting a habit, has a better chance of welcoming her because of her youth. Kim does respond to her, accepting a decaffeinated coffee and letting her sit in the seat across from her. Gradually, one or two of us follow suit. Her face is oily, and she smells as if she’s slept in her clothes the night before. We tell her she can take a shower and eat and watch television in the recreation room if she likes. She must have stayed in Father B.’s rectory, I conjecture, and a night in a church after getting kicked out of one’s home could not have been a good night of sleep. We tell her about the orchard in the front of our convent and how it still has flowers in bloom at this late date, and about Father B.’s kind words in her favour, that he thinks she is a good young woman and that we will all get along well together in the interim of finding her a place to live. She nods, gratefully, but is clearly overwhelmed and flustered by the information. She barely speaks back, only to ask if she can come with us right away or if she has to wait for Father B. to finish his parish duties and escort her later in the day. Her eyes reveal despair and suffering, her body an acute ache. She did not come to us to build strength, but to lose the little she has left. I think about the silver candle h
older sitting on my dresser, waiting for me, its single burnt wick like a singed eye.

  ST. X. SCHOOL FOR GIRLS looked like a jail. In fact, the public school for boys down the street had been a military establishment; an old mess hall was their cafeteria and the detainment building one of their classroom structures, a relic from the War of 1812. There was even a spent and preserved cannon in front of the school, in which many of the boys would hide their drugs and packages of cigarettes. Our buildings were less obtrusive, but historic as well. The convent for the nuns and teachers had been a hospital during the nineteenth century, an institution completely run by women. Our residence had housed sick children. It was believed that many of those children’s bodies, orphaned or unclaimed, had been incinerated in the boiler room or buried under the floors. Any unaccountable noises in the night, cries heard through the walls or knocking sounds, were attributed to the ghosts of these children. It was further believed that if you crossed yourself and asked forgiveness, the children would then be able to sleep peacefully for the night.

  The building housing the classrooms and dormitory was erected in the early 1920s for a convent school. A courtyard on the south corner, which contained a miniature garden of lilies and daffodils, tufts of sunburnt grass amidst the green, and a few wooden benches built by altar boys, was as bare as the willow trees as I approached that autumn morning. Those trees were said to have been planted by women in order to appease the children they heard screaming down below. Rachel told me once the tree roots were red, made of blood, and if the trees were ever cut down, the children would rise up from their graves to replace them. The walls were grey stone, imposing and sterile, and there was a brass plaque over the front entrance with the school’s name in plain block letters. The few windows on the main building were its only gesture of friendliness to the outside world. A black iron fence, five feet high, enclosed the entire plot of land, there to protect the young women in the night. But when I entered, and the black iron gate whined shut, I feared I would never be let out.