Rueful Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  "Sadie didn't."

  There was a silence. After a minute, I said, "Did you mnk your dad might still be there when we drove over to sbe ranch this morning?"

  He shook his head. "I left home before seven. I thought I'd talked him out of going to see her. But when she didn't show up, I knew the old man had out-foxed me." He pushed himself away from the wall. "I guess I'd better go ■Ear to the sheriff's office. This isn't the kind of thing I can tell Stu Walters over the phone."

  "'Why tell him anything?"

  He looked at me. "Because Sadie's dead. My father killed her. And then he committed suicide, with my help. Or I killed him, if that's how the county attorney wants to look at it."

  I shook my head. "Sadie was kicked in the head by a horse. Her death certificate says so."

  His eyes were large and staring. "You're kidding."

  "It's Doctor Townsend's expert opinion," I said, "ratified by the local JP." I shook my head. The old man was right. Dumb as a box of rocks.

  "You knew that, and you let Dad commit-"

  "People have the right to choose how they want to die," I said again. ' 'What would you have chosen for him? That he drag out his dying for another month? Maybe even two or three?"

  "Oh, Jesus, China," he whispered, agonized, and reached for me. He pulled me against him, burying his face blindly in my shoulder, weeping for his father. I wept, too, but my tears were for Sadie.

  After a moment I pushed Tom away and stepped back. "What do you know about your father's will?" I asked.

  ' 'His will?'' He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm his sole heir, I suppose. Why?"

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cross, the only evidence that Tom Rowan, Senior, had been with Sadie Marsh that morning. "This belongs to you now," I said,

  and put it in his hand. Sadie's death would be mourned, but not avenged.

  But perhaps it had been. Her killer lay dead beyond the door. I figured she'd call it even.

  Chapter Seventeen

  At one time the holy water was sprinkled from brushes made of Rue…, for which reason it is supposed it was named the Herb of Repentance and the Herb of Grace.

  Mrs. M. Grieve A Modern Herbal

  Here in this place

  I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace; Rue, even for ruth, shall shortly here be seen…

  Shakespeare, Richard III

  By the time I got back to St. T's that evening, I was ready to give Mother Winifred and Olivia a hand with the Chapter of Faults, if they needed it.

  They didn't.

  The sisters were already in the chapel when I arrived and I took a seat in the shadows at the back of the room. The chapel was lighted by flickering candles set into the wall sconces, and I could smell the sweet muskiness of incense. The chairs had been moved into a large circle, and for the first time I saw all of the sisters of both groups sitting together, heads bowed as Mother finished a simple prayer.

  "Forgive us our transgressions," she said quietly, "and give us the grace to forgive those who have transgressed against us. In Christ's name, amen."

  While Mother stood silently, I scanned the circle. Yes, Olivia was there, seated next to Gabriella. Across from her, on the far side of the circle, sat the women with whom I had spoken over the past few days: Ramona, who was longing to escape to San Francisco; Ruth, her hands folded quietly over her pillowy bosom; Regina, square-shouldered and firm; Rose, who said she'd never wanted to know who had driven her cousin Marie from the novitiate. I didn't see John Roberta, whom I presumed was still in St. Louis. But Anne was there, and Dominica, and Miriam, and Maggie, and all the others. The room was tense with waiting silence, taut with anticipation.

  Mother stood for a moment more, her hands folded at her waist. Then she raised her head.

  "We are here this evening as a community," she said, "to celebrate a Chapter of Faults, an ancient tradition of religious life. We will ask for mercy for our own sins and the sins of others, and we will pray for the redemption that brings us new life through the mystery of grace and compassion." She looked around. "These are not empty words, but healing words. It is God's grace that allows us to be touched with the consciousness of our shortcomings. It is His grace that leads us to repentance, and His compassion that redeems even the most unspeakable sin. These are the true mysteries of the divine life that lives in each one of us, the mysteries that will allow us to knit the unraveled ties of our community." She turned to Olivia. "Sister, you will lead us, please."

  As Mother Winifred took her place in the circle, Olivia stood. "Our Chapter tonight has one purpose," she said. Her voice trembled, and I saw one or two St. Agatha sisters glance up sharply, questioning.

  Olivia stopped, cleared her throat, and went on. As she spoke, she seemed to regain some of her former authority. "We are here to confront the sister who has caused our community so much pain and anguish in the last few months, whose groundless accusations have made our

  hearts heavy, and whose heedless disrespect of life and property has robbed us of peace and calm." She paused. The room was so quiet I could almost hear the sound of our beating hearts. Then she spoke.

  "Sister Ruth, I accuse you."

  There was no outcry, no loud gasp, not even the rush of expelled breath. No one stirred. But there was an unmistakable heightening of the tension, a subtle, focused energy sweeping around the circle, gathering force. All eyes turned to Ruth, who sat with her head still bowed, her hands still folded over her breast, as if she had heard nothing.

  Then Regina, next to her, bent over. She spoke softly, but we could all hear what she said. "It's time, Ruth. Your sisters are waiting to hear your confession."

  Obediently, Ruth stood, her conscientious eyes hidden behind the flickering reflections of the candle flame on her thick glasses. She fumbled for the rosary at her plump waist and cast her eyes upward, as if to heaven. I remembered the picture on the wall of her cell, the painting of the bound saint about to be burned to death on a pile of branches. Was that how Ruth imagined herself?

  "Sister," Olivia said again, more softly now, "you cannot be forgiven unless you confess your transgressions. Tell us, please, what you have done."

  Ruth lowered her gaze and looked around the circle, wonderingly, as if she were not entirely sure why so many eyes rested on her. Then, in a flat, uninflected voice so low I had to strain to hear it, she spoke. As I listened, it seemed to me that her recitation of sins was just that-a recounting of what she had done, a summing-up. I heard no consciousness of guilt in it, no awareness that others felt she had done wrong.

  Yes, she had written several accusing letters-five, she thought. She had written them, after much prayer, because it was her duty, because there was no Chapter of Faults at St. Theresa's. She had enclosed the leaves of rue in her letters to symbolize regret and repentance, and had sug-

  gested a penance, such as had always been required at the Chapter of Faults. If the sinner failed to perform it, she had imposed a penance herself. And yes, she had set the fires at St. Theresa's-small fires, in the craft room, the kitchen, the chapel, on the porch. They symbolized purification, she added simply. They had not been meant to harm or to destroy.

  It was a stunning confession, and her listeners sat as still as if they were carved of stone, scarcely even breathing. When she finished, she looked questioningly at Olivia, her round cheeks placid and calm, her eyes unblinking. ' Ts this all you require, Sister?"

  If Ruth showed no sadness, no consciousness of her trespass, Olivia did. Her face was twisted with a jagged pain and she was holding her arms tightly against her side, as if she were clutching Ruth's guilt to herself.

  "Mother Hilaria?" she whispered. "Did you cause her death?"

  Ruth seemed to consider. "I suppose I caused it," she said thoughtfully, as if she were making an important distinction, "but I didn't intend it. I pulled the insulation off the wires to give her a shock. It was her penance for allowing such moral laxity among the sisters here. I didn't
know it would make her heart stop."

  The room, which had seemed warm to me when I came in, now seemed bitter cold, and I shivered. Regina and Ga-briella were weeping silently, the tears running down their faces.

  Olivia seemed to have shrunk. "And Sister Perpetua?"

  "I did nothing to harm Sister Perpetua," Ruth said firmly. "She was my novice mistress. You know that, Sister Olivia, since you and I were novices together. She corrected us sternly when we trespassed. She was a model of rectitude. I am sorry she is gone."

  "Thank you, Sister." Olivia bowed her head, her face veiled in shadow, and sat down. Rose was now sobbing softly.

  Mother Winifred stood, her shoulders bowed as if she bore a heavy weight. "We have heard your confession, my daughter," she said. "Now you must ask the forgiveness of those you have wronged or endangered."

  "Wronged or endangered?" Ruth asked slowly, as if she were weighing the meanings of the words.

  Mother lifted her chin. "Surely you see that it was wicked of you to write the letters, Sister." She might have been speaking to a very small child. "It was wrong to set the fires. Your actions endangered the life of every sister here."

  Ruth's face didn't alter, but she gave the impression that she was agreeing only under duress. "Well, then," she said reluctantly. "Since that is the case, I suppose…" She resigned herself to the task with a sigh. "I ask your forgiveness for my sins and wrongdoings, Sisters. I am heartily sorry for having offended."

  How many times had I heard a defendant plead, "Not guilty," and know in my heart that the words were a lie? Ruth's plea for forgiveness was a lie, too, or perhaps a kind of plea bargain. She didn't sound heartily sorry, or even sorry at all. She sounded as if she were doing what she'd been told to do, no more, no less. There could be no redemption in such a confession, I thought.

  But although Ruth's words fell sadly short of what Mother Winifred might have wanted, the sisters' response did not. They stood, joined hands, and followed Mother in their reply, which was a little ragged, but rich with heartfelt love and healing compassion.

  "We forgive you, Sister, for we too have sinned. Go in the mercy and grace of God, and be blessed."

  I stood, too, in my corner, and emotion rose in my throat. The love and compassion I felt in this room might be as close as I'd ever feel to God, but it was enough. It was certainly enough to heal the rift, however broad and jagged, in this small community, to bless its future. And to bless me, too.

  Ruth stood for a moment, as if she wasn't sure it was all over. Finally, she turned to Mother Winifred. "My penance?" she asked. There was something almost like eagerness in the tilt of her head. "If I've sinned, I must do penance."

  Mother's voice was sad. "Tomorrow I will ask our Reverend Mother General to consult with me on the matter of your penance. You will be informed, Sister."

  "Thank you," Ruth said, and sat down.

  And that's all there was to it. Another prayer, a moment of silence, and everyone filed out of the chapel.

  No one said a word. There was nothing left to say.

  ' 'Who was the other sister you thought Olivia might accuse?" Mother Winifred asked. It was the next afternoon, warm, sunshiny, the temperature in the low seventies-the kind of crisp, cool day you remember when the Texas sun has charred the August grass and even the sage has wilted. Mother and I were sitting on the wooden bench in the corner of her garden. Tom was leaning against the stone wall beside us, his face held up to the sun.

  "I thought it might be Regina," I said. "She had been in the novitiate at the time the first letters were written, and at St. Agatha's when the fire occurred there. And she confessed to taking Mother Hilaria's hot plate from the storeroom. But when I met her and Ruth in the parking lot and saw the rash on Ruth's hand and arm-"

  Mother frowned. "The rash?"

  Tom shook his head disbelievingly. "You could tell she was guilty from a rash?"

  "I could guess," I said. "Mother had told me that Ga-briella had just received a letter containing a leaf of rue, and I know that some people are sensitive to the plant. The juice causes a rather unpleasant dermatitis that looks like a bad sunburn or a severe case of poison ivy. I thought it was entirely possible that Ruth was the one who had picked the rue to put in her poison-pen letter."

  "Just out of curiosity," Tom said wryly, "would you have entered the rue-and Sister Ruth's rash-as evidence in court?"

  "Maybe," I said. I laughed. "I suppose I'd also have had to call a couple of botanists as expert witnesses to describe the effects of the plant. Then again, we have Olivia's accusation and Ruth's confession. And Regina told me this morning that Ruth had experienced dermatitis before-apparently on the occasions when she picked the leaves to put into the letters."

  "It's ironic," Mother said softly, "that the plant she employed as a symbol of regret and repentance was a witness to her guilt."

  I nodded. ' 'By the way, Regina also told me that the fire that scarred Father Steven was entirely accidental. He fell asleep with a cigarette and caught the mattress on fire- which clears up that mystery."

  Mother turned to Tom. "Let me say again how sorry I am about your father, Tom." Her voice was filled with sympathy. "He made some foolish mistakes where the foundation's investments are concerned, but he was not motivated by personal greed. He was a fine man in spite of his failings. We will all remember him fondly."

  Mercy and compassion, I thought. Would Mother Winifred be so forgiving if she knew that the old man had killed her friend Sadie? But perhaps she would.

  Tom glanced at me. In the twenty-four hours since his father and Sadie Marsh had died, the Carr Bulletin had carried the stories of the two deaths, Sadie's in the left-hand column, Tom Senior's in the right, each column headed by a black-bordered photograph. The banner headline over the stories read "Prominent Local Citizens Die." The newspaper had not made any link between the deaths. More to the point, a call from the sheriff's office (from the dispatcher, actually-Stu Walters didn't take the time to call me himself) had informed me that a thorough investi-

  gation of Sadie Marsh's death had revealed that it was accidental.

  It was over. Mostly, anyway. There were a few loose ends to be tied up-a last confession and a pledge.

  "I want you to know, Mother," Tom said, "that I will do my level best to restore the foundation's assets. It's going to take a while, but you have my personal assurance that-"

  Mother Winifred shook her head gently. "I understand what you're saying, Tom, and I'm pleased that you want to assume the responsibility." She smiled. "But we take our vow of poverty and simplicity quite seriously, even joyfully. It doesn't confine us or keep us from doing what we want. On the contrary, it frees us to pay attention to our spiritual life. The three hundred thousand dollars in the account now will yield enough each year-in addition to what we earn from our garlic-to make the necessary repairs to our buildings. That's all we care about. We're better off without the rest."

  Tom raised his eyebrows. "That may be. But I doubt that the Reverend Mother General is going to be quite so philosophical. Have you notified her yet?''

  Mother's smile became slightly strained. "I talked with her by telephone this morning. She was perturbed by the news, of course-both Sadie's death and the loss of the funds. But she agrees that there is nothing to be gained from making any of it public. The lawyers will be consulted, but Reverend Mother General was quite definite about not wanting any negative publicity."

  Tom could read between those lines, just as I could. "Perturbed" probably didn't do justice to Reverend Mother General's reaction. But she wouldn't have been anxious to reveal that a major embezzlement had occurred on her watch. She would hush up the whole thing, leaving Tom to quietly recoup his father's losses as he could. And allowing St. Theresa's the freedom-the precious freedom- of going about its ordinary work.

  And that was the essential paradox in this whole business, it seemed to me. Mrs. Laney's gift, which she had hoped would free the monastery to pursue its contempl
ative ends, had almost destroyed it. In the Church as in the rest of the world, the prospect of money fosters greed and cov-etousness. Like a capital-rich corporation ripe for takeover or a bride with an enticing dowry, a wealthy St. Theresa's was a prime target. Poor, it was safe, a prize nobody wanted. With neither money nor land at stake, the sisters who wished to live quietly and contemplatively could go on growing garlic. The others would be free to go to one of the order's sister houses, where they might find a different way to serve. Olivia and Regina, I was sure, would be the first to leave. And with their going, the terrible chasm that had divided the community could be bridged, and it could become whole once more.

  Dominica stepped through the gate. ' 'Mother, this phone message just came for you." She handed Mother a folded piece of paper. "If you have any questions, I'm supposed to phone the office and tell the secretary-"

  Mother Winifred scanned the note. "No," she said, "no questions. Thank you, Sister."

  When Dominica had gone, Tom extended his hand to Mother Winifred. "I'll be in touch in a couple of days to set up the agenda for the next board meeting." He turned to me. "Will I be seeing you again before you leave, China?"

  The question hung in the air between us, real, challenging. The moments we'd shared in the hospital and our secret knowledge about what had happened between Tom's father and Sadie Marsh had created a new and special kind of intimacy, had forged a bond that was even stronger than the very real physical attraction I still felt for him. It would be easy to say yes and discover what deeper intimacies might grow between us.

  But if I had learned anything in the last few days, it was

  the importance of being true to the one true thing that centers my life.

  So I said, "No thanks, Tom. I want to spend the rest of my time here getting some rest. And doing some thinking." I'd already done a little bit of both, enough to realize that the only thing wrong with my life was an overabundance of good things. All I needed to do was search out the center-the thing I wanted most to be, wanted most to have and do-and use it as a compass.