The Middle Ages of Sister Mary Baruch (Sister Mary Baruch, O.P. Book 2)

by Jacob Restrick

  I laughed and shed tears at the same time. “We’re quite a pair, Au Pair.”

  And that’s how I became novice mistress in the new year of 2003. It was officially announced at our new year’s chapter that evening. The night before, on New Year’s night, recreation is without “business.” But we all draw several items from a big velvet bag: our patron saint for the year; our individual prayer intention; and a Scripture passage to meditate on. I drew St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, Edith Stein. I was so moved by it, I couldn’t say anything. In all my years, I never drew her, and always hoped I would. My prayer intention was for the Poor Souls, which I had drawn before; I think many of us get that intention, and I was happy to have it again. I think last year, which was the New Year’s after 9/11 we all got it, which was a propos, as Sr. Anna Maria would say.

  The next day, the first thing I did was visit Sr. Agnes Mary in the infirmary. She was all smiles and congratulations, which always amazes me – we congratulate others on getting a job wrought with many crosses.

  Sr. Gertrude knocked on the door during our visit. “I hope I’m not intruding; is this a private conference?” She was already wheeling herself into the room.

  “No, no, come in, Sister. I’m just congratulating Sr. Mary Baruch on her new position.”

  “I figured that’s what it is—and I just want to add my own Mazel Tov.”

  “I hope you two know how much I’m depending on your prayers. If my mother were here we’d have a bottle of Mogen David to toast in the New Year.” And they both laughed.

  “Well, it won’t be Mogen David, unless he’s got sparkling apple juice, but I hope you’ll be here this afternoon. We ‘re having a little ‘Seton Séance.’”

  “Sister Gertrude! You’re not having a séance, please tell me you’re not!” I exclaimed with sincere shock.

  “Of course not. We pray for the dead, not invite them to our parties.” And we all laughed. “In honor of St. Elizabeth Ann Seton, we have a dainty little tea party, like she may have had before she became a nun, and lived in Lower Manhattan. And we talk about the Sisters who have gone before us. We tell stories about them; we don’t conjure them up.”

  “Well, that sounds like a delightful thing to do. What can I bring? Cookies?”

  “Cookies? No we’re sick to death of all the cookies; bring the novices!”

  And so we did. It was a marvelous way of marking the transition to the new year. Our two postulants persevered, which was a real time of grace as they both were affected deeply by 9/11. Although there were several months between their entrance dates, we decided to let them enter into the novitiate at the same time. It was one double joy that we had inside that first year after 9/11.

  Brenda Hubbard, our African American registered nurse received the name Sr. Elijah Rose. I was happy that Mother included me in deciding what name each new novice would receive. Mother herself chooses the final name, but in most instances the prioress goes by the suggestion of the novice mistress who has lived with the sister for a year. This name had special significance for both Sr. Brenda and me.

  In the months that followed 9/11 I met individually with both Sr. Brenda and

  Sr. Grace mainly to let them talk it all out. Sr. Brenda actually had two friends and her grandfather die on 9/11. The two friends were police officers who were twin brothers and had been neighbors with the Hubbards all through elementary school. They went off to Catholic high school, and Brenda to the public school; but, being neighbors, they stayed friends. She told me their families were way ahead of the game when it came to Civil Rights; the twins were Irish Catholics and her family black Methodists, as she put it. Their families would often have the other family over for dinner and to play cards. They each had a grandfather living at home with them; Brenda’s grandfather was named Elijah, which he said came from his parents who were Southern Baptists. He had many interesting jobs growing up in New York, including being a volunteer fireman. After Brenda and the McConway boys, Sean and Patrick, graduated from their different high schools the Hubbards and the McConways had their own party to celebrate graduation. Brenda was going off to nursing school, and the twins to the Police Academy. A big hit at their parties were their grandfathers. Grandpa McConway played the Irish flute and the family sang.

  “But my grandfather,” Sr. Brenda boasted, “used to play the spoons. He could make those spoons rattle and roll like nobody’s business. He’d be sitting down when he played them, hitting his knees and shoulders, and chest, and elbows, and ending with hitting himself on the forehead. We’d all laugh ourselves silly.”

  Sr. Brenda was very close to her grandfather, I learned over the year. He would take on extra jobs to help pay the rent and buy special food for special occasions. “But it was my grandfather who put me through nursing school. At graduation, it was a custom of the school to allow a parent to put your nursing pin on your uniform. I was the only one who had a grandfather pin mine on for me. He was so proud of me. He was a good man, Sister, let me tell you. He worked for a few years as a shoe salesman, then as a short-order cook in a greasy spoon in Hell’s Kitchen, and for about twenty years as a doorman on the Upper West Side. He liked that job the best because he got fresh air and lots of gifts at Christmas and Chanukah.”

  And she put her head back and laughed; her dreadlocks shimmying in every which direction. “He was much too old to help at 9/11, but there he went. He died in the first tower.”

  I had heard this countless times in the past four months, and I guessed I would for months to come. She talked more about her grandfather than her parents. They were “Bible-believing Christians” and would go to a Methodist church on occasion. They sent Brenda to Sunday school and didn’t go to the movies or eat out on Sundays. They didn’t understand why she wanted to become a Catholic. They thought maybe she was dating a Catholic boy, and that’s why she wanted to convert; but she wasn’t. They went to the Easter Vigil at St. Paul’s when she was confirmed and celebrated with her.

  “Daddy said if I was in trouble, like with drugs and stuff, they would do everything to help me; but here I was wantin to do something good with my life, so they was happy for me in the end. I think it was Grandpa that helped them see it that way. He thought it was a ‘precious gift from Our Lord and Savior.’ And you know what he give me?” And Sr. Brenda pulled out a beautiful silver rosary, the beads shaped like roses. “This was from Grandpa.” She handed me her lovely rosary which was heavier than our usual wooden pocket rosaries, but so much more beautiful. “I’m just sad he won’t be here now to see me as a Bride of Christ.” Sr. Brenda had no idea all the bells she was setting off in my memory!

  It took a few minutes, till it dawned on me. No, it couldn’t be; but I asked: “You said his name was Elijah? And he was a doorman on the Upper West Side?”

  “Un hun” (meaning “yes”)

  “Where on the Upper West Side, did you know?”

  “Oh, I don’t remember exactly; somewhere in the seventies, I think.”

  Could it possibly be? “Tell me, did people call him Elijah.”

  “Oh no, everybody just called him ‘Eli.’”

  “Was Elijah, or Eli, a common name among…among your…your…”

  “You mean among black people?” sr. Brenda put on her southern black accent: “Yes’m Ma’am, we done name the chillin from the Good Book.”

  I laughed. I knew she was being her “funny self” which we all enjoyed. It made me remember my early years too when I would put on an exaggerated New York Yiddish accent. It broke any unspoken prejudices others may have been harboring under their veils.

  Sr. Brenda enjoyed a good laugh too, even at her own expense, or her own “puttin’on” for us.

  “The present generation, so to speak, are giving their babies African names I can’t even spell. My generation was given plain old American white-girl names like Brenda, Peggy Sue, Linda, Charlene…but in grandpa’s day it was Hiram, Elijah, and Jeremiah. I have an Uncle Ebenezer, whom we just called Uncle Eb
en. When we were kids we would call him Uncle Ebenezer the Sneezer.” We both laughed. It was good therapy, as Sr. Brenda schlepped through her own post 9/11 depression when her grandfather Eli lost his life trying to save others. And the Irish twins who were both New York cops were among the first responders. They both had wives and children.

  I couldn’t imagine that our Eli and her grandfather were the same person. “Do you have any pictures of your grandfather? I would like to see one.”

  “Oh, I don’t have any here with me, but my sister might still have one. She keeps scrap books with lots of family pictures. Grandpa was a handsome man, even when he got old. He had lots of hair, and bushy eyebrows. They would bounce up and down when he was playing the spoons. We have pictures of him somewhere in a big old Afro from back in the seventies, but he had the best smile; his big white teeth and one front tooth was like all gold.”

  That did it! I clapped my hands and got up from my chair, twirled three times around, and sat back down. “Sister Brenda, you aren’t going to believe this, but I knew your grandfather. He was our doorman on W. 79th Street. I loved him…Mr. Eli, I called him, till I was about sixteen and he told me to call him Eli. And I said I would if he would call me just ‘Rebecca’, not Miss Rebecca. Everybody loved Eli. Would you believe, he still comes up in my dreams!”

  Sr. Brenda was amazed. “What a small world we live in. I was just a kid when he retired. I think he did a few odd jobs after that, but it was his doorman job that put me through nursing school. And here we are!”

  Sr. Brenda submitted her three names: first, Paul, because it was at St. Paul’s where her conversion began; Rose, after Rose Hawthorne to whom she had a devotion, and it was at the Hawthorne home where she learned about us; and Conway, after the McConway boys.

  I told her Conway was not a good choice. I didn’t think Mother would ever approve it, if she wanted to change it. Or she could leave it up to Mother and me to choose a name for her.

  “Better than Paul or Rose?”

  “Yes, maybe better than Paul or Rose; we’ll see.” I already had in my head what name Sr. Brenda should have. I told Mother Rosaria the conversation we had, and that I think her grandfather was our doorman when I was growing up, and everyone loved old Eli. Mother was moved by that, but more by the real Biblical prophet Elijah. “I rather like that name,” Mother said, “it was Elijah who appeared with Moses and the Lord on Mount Tabor; a very monastic feast and so a monastic name. Rose is a beautiful name too…close to Rosaria.” And that’s how Brenda Hubbard became Sr. Elijah Rose of the Transfiguration. Sr. Elijah Rose was thrilled with her name, and her feast day!

  Grace White, former fashion designer – well, she never really worked as a designer, but identified herself as one – was also distraught over 9/11. She fell into a mild depression for several weeks. I was afraid we would have to ask her to leave and get some help outside. Mother was even willing for her to go see a grief counsellor whom other sisters had been to when loved ones died. Sr. Grace could also appear rather flighty at times, which came across as shallow or immature, but I knew underneath all that was a sensitive deep young woman wanting to come out. If I’m completely honest, I’m sure I also had a special place in my heart for her. She was introduced to us by Leah Levinson, her high school best friend. My high school friend was Grace Price and the Lord used her to eventually bring me into the Church and into the monastery.

  Sr. Grace and I were walking in our garden shortly after All Saints, November 1st. There was definitely a winter air making its way down from Canada, enough that we had to wear these over-sized parkas, which I knew Sr. Grace hated, but accepted without comment. I think she once said they had a “grunge” look, whatever that was. The garden had begun to look bare and settled down for its winter hibernation. There were still roses in bloom on the rose trestle near the garden swing where two could comfortably fit, and so we sat down there. It was a real “swing.”

  “The cold air feels good,” Sr. Grace said breathing in a deep breath of it. “I hope it snows early this year; wouldn’t that be nice for Thanksgiving?”

  I also loved Sr. Grace because I love anyone who loves snow! “Oh, I do too. I was praying it would snow for All Saints.” I really wasn’t, but I knew it would get a laugh from Sr. Grace and she hadn’t laughed very much recently.

  We both were short, and needed to push off with one foot and then fall back into the seat. I let Sr. Grace do that; she was short, but also very thin, and more graceful.

  “Have you heard from Leah?” I knew she had because I sorted the mail the day it came. We don’t open the postulants’ or novices’ mail like years ago, but I saw the letter, especially the Israeli stamp with Hebrew letters.

  “Oh, yes, I got a letter just a few days ago. She said after the terrible happenings on 9/11 it was not a joyous new year for them, that is Rosh Hashanah…”

  “Yes, I know,” I interjected.

  “…But that after 9/11 the new year could only get better, so she wished me a happy new year, and said she would be praying for me and our friend Nick whom she somehow knew died on 9/11. He was a classmate of ours from high school who went to the International Culinary Center in Soho. This was really a big deal for him, and when he got out he worked in about three restaurants in New York, but landed the big one at Windows on the World. He was just a sous chef, but Windows on the World for him was the top. Leah and I went there for supper before she went to Israel. Nick came out to our table in his white chef’s coat and a tall chef hat. We felt like celebrities. He whispered to us: ‘I didn’t actually cook your dinner; I’m in French cuisine, and neither of you ordered escargot.’ I think I made a squealy sound and said: ‘yuk’, and Leah jokingly said: ‘escargot? I don’t think that’s kosher.’ And we all laughed, and went back to our pasta.”

  “And Nick was working on the morning of 9/11?”

  “Yeah. He was filling in for someone. They could do that to accumulate days off. It was just a routine breakfast menu, nothing really French…well, maybe French toast.” And we both chuckled. “He normally wouldn’t be there at that time.”

  “How did you find out he was there?” This was first time Sr. Grace opened up since 9/11.

  “Nick had three roommates; two other guys and a girl. The girl, Bettina, was at the Fashion Institute with me. I think she was Nick’s girlfriend, but I’m not sure. She had heard that I was a nun in Brooklyn, probably from Nick, whom I think Leah kept in touch with. It was Bettina who called here and asked for me. We weren’t really friends at the Institute, but I remembered her; she wanted to design for full-figured women; she herself was one. I think she was a Catholic too, and so she called here and asked for me, and asked me to pray for Nick, and for them, the roommates; they were all pretty shook up. And to ask all the Sisters to pray.”

  “And you put a prayer note on the prayer-board; I remember reading it, but I don’t think you signed your name.”

  “I didn’t cause I didn’t know if we were allowed to put prayer requests up there, like only the professed could do that, or something.”

  “It was okay for you to put a prayer request up there; especially after 9/11. You and Nick were good friends, huh?”

  “He was my boyfriend for probably seven and a half months. I really had a bad crush on him, that’s what Leah used to say.”

  “How come you broke up?” Here I was sounding like a lovelorn advice columnist, sitting on the swing with a broken hearted debutant.

  “I think he preferred full figured girls, and I was a skinny-mini, like Twiggy.”

  I didn’t know Twiggy had carried over into the next generation, but I was feeling more distracted by the full figured image. Where were the Nicholases when I was in high school? I had to pray quickly to the Holy Spirit, to bring me back to reality and this swing. Poor Sr. Grace. I figured she must’ve liked clothes more than food, and ole Nick, well, he was into French cuisine…lots of butter and escargot! And croissants with raspberry confiture.

  “I couldn�
��t watch the TV coverage showing the building collapsing, and all those people in it. Nick wasn’t even supposed to be there…why did he have to fill in for someone that day? I couldn’t pray. I think I was so angry with God. He blanked out of my mind; I couldn’t even believe in Him. I’m sorry, Sister, I shouldn’t be telling you this; you probably want me to leave now.”

  “Oh Sr. Grace, we don’t want you to leave. Don’t you know there were, still are, lots of people who ‘blank out’ on God, as you put it. How can God let this happen? I know what you are going through.”

  “You do?”

  “Sr. Grace, I haven’t shared with you and the younger Sisters because I wanted you to get through your own grief, but my mother and brother were having breakfast at Windows of the World that morning. It was my mother’s birthday.”

  Sister Grace went ashen white for a moment, her face all crinkled as the tears welled up behind her eyes. “Oh, Sister, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “I didn’t know till I listened to the answering machine and there was a message from my mother telling me that she and my brother were having breakfast there the next morning. That was the night before 9/11. I put my head on the desk, and I think I blanked God out for a while, too.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe they didn’t get there on time, or changed their mind. How can you be sure?”

  “I know. I thought of that too. I called my brother’s office; his secretary was all shook up from it too, and told me he had it on his calendar, and if they didn’t go, she hasn’t heard from him. My sister came in a few days later; no one ever showed up. If they had gone elsewhere, they would have called us, but nothing.”