by Judith Field
Then the nun fled to the convent, her left foot lagging worse than before.
¤
Back in her room, Sr. Mary Dismas removed the shoe and sock from her balky foot and gasped. It was entirely black from the ankle down. She fell to her knees and prayed.
Dear Lord, I’m so afraid. I don’t know what’s happening to me but thankfully, I feel no pain. Please help me get well and continue my work. But if my time here is at an end, I’ve had a wonderful life. Please let me die with dignity and grace.
I pray Bobby’s safe in Your loving arms and I’m sorry for every time I was short with him. You know I loved him, just as I’ve loved all my students. If it be Your will, please make me an instrument of justice, let me find Bobby’s killer.
All glory is Yours, Amen.
Much calmer now, the nun put her shoe back on and pulled a suitcase out of her closet. Never much of a traveler, she used the suitcase to store odds and ends, such as the cheap perfume she now dabbed liberally on her cheeks and habit. The perfume was called “Lilies of the Valley,” a gift she’d no use for but couldn’t discard since it came from a student. Unable to smell a thing, the old nun used up the entire bottle and left the suitcase to be put away later. She was anxious to meet with Principal Withers and the policeman and see what she could learn about the murder.
Sr. Mary Dismas opened her door and nearly walked into a hatchet-faced man in a brown polyester suit.
“Going somewhere, Sister?” said Detective Steele, according to the name-tag above his badge. He was looking past her to where the suitcase lay on the bed.
“No—I mean, yes, I was just going to Principal Wither’s office.”
“Well that’s funny, because I was just there and Withers told me you were the last person to see Bobby Dolton alive, at detention I believe. He said you and Bobby didn’t get along.”
“Bobby did have behavioral issues, that’s true,” said Sr. Mary Dismas, “and I did have to discipline him. But he seemed fine when he left detention yesterday and I assumed he’d get home safely.”
Detective Steele stared coolly at the nun. There was powdered sugar on his tie and his fly was at half-mast.
“Sister, did you know that some of the boy’s brains were missing?” He paused, apparently trying for dramatic effect, then continued. “The media’s gonna say there’s a zombie on the loose. Happen to know any walking dead, Sister?” Steele smiled, showing crowded, tobacco-stained teeth.
Sr. Mary Dismas stared implacably at the cop and kept her palms together in an attitude of prayer. She did not answer.
“No? Well don’t go on any trips, Sister,” he said, glancing in the direction of her suitcase. “I’ll be back after school.” He stepped aside to let her pass.
“Nice perfume,” he said, as the dead nun walked by.
¤
Under a bruised, louring sky, Sr. Mary Dismas shuffled slowly towards the school. The temperature was falling rapidly, the wind had picked up, and it looked like snow was on the way.
Why had Principal Withers implicated her in the murder, the nun wondered. Since his arrival at Virgin Birth, he’d gone out of his way to marginalize the nuns. Did he want her out of her position? Withers also viewed a problem child like Bobby Dolton as a stain on his reputation, rather than a human being in need. Was he attempting to kill two birds with one stone? Hmm.
“It’s about time,” said Principal Withers as Sr. Mary Dismas entered his office. “Take a seat.”
The principal had dark beady eyes, a wispy mustache and a deep overbite. The students called him “Ratso.”
“I presume you’ve spoken with Detective Steele,” he said.
“Yes, I have,” said the nun. “And he was most curious as to why you lost your previous position.”
With his mouth agape, Mr. Withers looked even more like a member of the rodent family.
“He also asked if you’d threatened to expel Bobby,” added Sr. Mary Dismas.
“Why, why that boy was a cancer in this institution! I should have…”
“Should have what?”
Withers opened his mouth and then closed it. He got up and walked around his desk to face the nun.
“You are the one under suspicion, Sister, not me,” he said. “Under the circumstances, I must relieve you of all duties as of Dismissal today. In the event you are cleared as a suspect, I will certainly consider your reinstatement. Now please leave, I’m completely inundated with work thanks to this unfortunate incident.”
Sr. Mary Dismas rose up and towered over the principal.
“The murder of a child is a terrible tragedy, Mr. Withers,” she said, pointing a long, bony finger in his face, “not an unfortunate incident!” Having said her piece, Sr. Mary Dismas intended to leave the principal’s office in a dignified manner. But major circuits in her cerebellum had now gone offline, and she stumbled out of the principal’s office like a drunk at closing time.
¤
Back in Room 12, the students were filing in after lunch, and there was no mistaking it now, they were purposely avoiding having to look at Sr. Mary Dismas—all except for Clarisse, who placed an apple on the nun’s desk.
“In case you get hungry, Sister,” she said.
What a kind, sweet girl, thought the nun, touched. There should be more like her.
“Class,” said Sr. Mary Dismas, “you all read Chapter Three in your Health text last night. Who can tell us what herpes is?”
“Some kinda fish?” said Tommy.
While the class roared with laughter, the nun simply shook her head and waited for the room to calm down.
“It’s a virus that causes skin sores,” said Clarisse.
“Correct,” said Sr. Mary Dismas. “And how is it transmitted?”
“By sex,” Tammy said knowingly. Everyone held their breath, except for the nun who’d stopped breathing some twelve hours or so ago.
“Chapter Three dealt with oral herpes, Tammy,” said the nun, “but do share with the class your knowledge of genital herpes.”
The McAvoy boy suddenly perked up, but Tammy merely looked down at her desk. Normally Sr. Mary Dismas would have forged ahead with the lesson—but not today. Her body seemed to be falling apart, her career was probably over, and thanks to the incriminating circumstances and her open suitcase, Detective Steele might well arrest her when he returned. If she was wrongly blamed for Bobby’s murder, the real culprit might go unpunished. She needed time to think.
“Class, let’s do something a little different,” said Sr. Mary Dismas. “Please take out your composition books and write three hundred words or so, on… something you love.”
Tommy raised his hand. “Can it be food, like tacos, Sister?”
“Yes, Tommy.”
“Can it be Tammy’s ti—” started the McAvoy boy, but he froze at the look on the nun’s face which was truly ghastly by this point.
“Begin,” said Sr. Mary Dismas, “and write neatly and completely.”
There was a low buzz in the room as the children scratched their heads, chewed on their pens and scribbled in their composition books. Sr. Mary Dismas had fully intended to concentrate on the crime, but moments ago, her center for self-control had suddenly ceased to operate. Instead of pondering possible murder suspects, the nun took out some loose-leaf paper, picked up a pen, and thought about something she loved: the exploits of Sherlock Holmes. As the last of her inhibition circuits died, the nun wrote the first fiction of her life:
The Continuing Adventures of Sister Mary Sherlock
“The Case of the Wayward Boy”
“Now Watson, what precisely do we know about our suspects?” said Sr. Mary Sherlock in a clipped British accent. Although Sr. Sherlock was a woman of the cloth, she was as beautiful and shapely as she was intelligent.
“Well, Ms. Van Dyke has both motive and the requisite strength to rend a noggin,” said ruddy, rotund Watson. “And we both know she leads a secret life.”
“True, good fellow, but unless one is
the Prime Minister, one’s bedroom activities are no one else’s concern. The fact is, Ms. Van Dyke’s a dedicated schoolmarm who tried like the Dickens to reach the lad. By all accounts, she is a good and decent chap… er, lady.”
“Perhaps the culprit is Pasquale, the janitor,” said Watson. “He has more than ample motive and bum to have committed the crime. He could bloody well crush a skull just by sitting on it.”
“The murder weapon was an arse, eh? That’s novel,” said Sr. Sherlock, chuckling. She packed her pipe with tobacco, lit it, and waved the match till it went out. “Nonetheless, our man Pasquale’s a gentle soul, never cross nor snippy, much less homicidal. That bloke’s no killer, he’s utterly content to clean, eat, and repeat.”
“Then how ‘bout Principal Withers?” said Watson, taking a sip of his brandy. “He’s a mean, grasping bureaucrat who despised Bobby. He also had great leeway to do the deed since he was the last to leave. I always say, if it looks like a rat…”
“Whoa, boy, it’s not a crime to be in dire need of Orthodontia, especially here in the Mother England!” said the nun, taking a puff on her pipe.
Sr. Sherlock waited for Watson to stop laughing, then continued. “Withers is certainly mean and narcissistic enough to be our killer. However, young Bobby was street-wise and a good deal stouter than Withers. It would’ve been quite the sticky wicket for him to catch the boy unawares, much less dispatch him.”
“We’ve no evidence and no witnesses,” said Watson, pouring himself another generous brandy. “How’ll we ever find the fiend?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” said Sr. Sherlock, pointedly putting the stopper in the bottle of brandy. “Think, man. What do murderers always do?”
Watson scrunched his face in concentration, then brightened and said, “Why, they always return to the scene of the crime, yes, that’s what the blighters do!”
“Right, old boy,” said Sr. Mary Sherlock, blowing a perfect smoke ring and watching it slowly ascend to the ceiling, “quite right.”
¤
Sr. Mary Dismas flinched when the dismissal bell rang and then watched her students scurry for their coats and hats. She wished she could give them a proper goodbye but perhaps it was better this way. The nun led the children single-file to the front door of the school and silently blessed each one as they walked or ran out into the lightly falling snow.
When the last child had departed, Sr. Mary Dismas set out for the playground in back of the school. She could barely move now and as the storm intensified, her robes flapped behind her like big black wings. She’d forgotten her coat but there was no time to go back for it; Detective Steele was probably en route with an arrest warrant and besides, the nun’s sensory nerves for cold had long ceased functioning.
Upon reaching the playground, Sr. Mary Dismas surveyed the stream which ran alongside it, some fifty yards away. She saw the place where poor Bobby must have died; it had been cordoned off in crime-scene tape, just like on “Law & Order.” Shielding her eyes against the swirling snow, she spied a small figure standing by the water’s edge.
I knew it, she thought. Ratso!
The wee figure, all bundled up in winter gear, kept its back to the nun as she approached, then turned around to face her.
It was Clarisse.
“It was… you?” said Sr. Mary Dismas.
“Yes, Sister,” Clarisse said proudly. “I told Bobby if he met me here after detention, I’d let him look under my skirt.” She shyly toed the gathering snow. “I waited until he knelt down and then I bashed his head in. With this.”
Clarisse reached into her backpack and brought forth a hammer with bloody clumps of hair on it.
“Then I ate some of his brains,” said the girl. “I’ve wanted to try that ever since I read Hannibal last summer. But raw brains don’t taste like much. I can see why Dr. Lecter sauteed them first.”
Beyond appalled, Sr. Mary Dismas could scarcely think. “But why?” she croaked.
“For us, Sister, I did it for us. You’re my favorite teacher and I know you love teaching me. And now that Bobby’s gone, there’ll be no more distractions in class.”
Clarisse grinned, her braces glistening in the fading light.
“Dear God, child, you have no conscience!” said Sr. Mary Dismas. The nun felt so weak, and worse than weak, defeated. “I just don’t know, Clarisse,” she said. “I don’t know what the police will do or if anyone can help you.”
“The police don’t have to find out, Sister,” the girl said evenly. “You could just forget about all this and simply concentrate on my education.”
“No, Clarisse, I can’t. I have a moral duty to tell the authorities what I know.”
The girl pursed her lips and stared. Her eyes were two cold stones.
“Well, Sister, if that’s the way you feel,” said Clarisse, and standing on her tip-toes, she drove the hammer’s claw deep into the old nun’s neck. As the girl pulled back on the hammer, Sr. Mary Dismas fell onto her and they toppled into the stream with a loud splash. Clarisse struggled frantically to free herself but the nun’s habit, now heavy with water, wrapped around her like a black cocoon and as they slowly sank, the girl’s thrashing gradually diminished, and then ceased.
Sr. Mary Dismas lay on the muddy stream bottom, sad Clarisse in her embrace. In the deepening gloom, the nun’s last living brain cells began to freeze and blink out.
Soon, I’ll meet my Lord, she thought, and smiled. And His mother Mary, too. And soon this stream will ice over and stay frozen till spring. By then, the fish will have eaten our flesh and our bones will be buried in the mud.
Sr. Mary Dismas was just fine with this, for if there was one thing she hated, it was a mess.
In his real life, Pete McArdle is a devoted husband, father to three wonderful young adults, and your friendly neighborhood dentist for the last thirty-four years or so. In his fantasy life, he’s a former college football player, rock musician, rock gardener, artist, and triathlete. As the ravages of age gradually took his beloved hobbies away, he decided to write short stories. Now that he’s been published in twenty-odd magazines, he likes to imagine future McArdles one day reading his stuff. And just shaking their heads.
THEY FOLLOWED ME
By Carol Holland March
THE ANGEL CAME OUT OF THE SEA at two hours past midnight, three nights after the moon was full. Not what I would have expected.
I had driven all the way to a small town in Oregon in winter to get away from the ones who followed me, but when I walked out of the Heron Motel on Sand Dunes Road on the second day, there they were, huddled in a tight group, backed up against the towering sand dunes, all facing the same direction, silent and still like a bunch of robots waiting for someone to switch on their power. I didn’t look at them directly, just a quick glance, figuring the less attention they received, the better, and then I walked around them to the beach. During the trip across the country they had picked up some recruits; there must have been a hundred of them.
In the beginning, they had hummed. In harmony. I was living in the southwest then, and one day when I was walking in the desert, they appeared over a rise studded with fat juniper trees and spiny cactus plants. They stood there staring at me as I sat on a lava rock studying a petroglyph of a labyrinth that had been chipped out of the rock a thousand years ago. There were only six or seven of them, then. I thought they were a hiking group and made the mistake of waving. That’s when the humming started.
After that, I saw them every time I walked in the desert. They would appear out of nowhere, my strange entourage that looked too real to be a hallucination, but what else could they be? I had never been prey to hallucinations, but, then, how do you ever know? I pride myself on being rational, and my humming group was hard to fit into my world view. For a while I theorized that they were desert survivalists who had taken a liking to me, but then I happened upon some real survivalists one Sunday afternoon, complete with fatigues, rifles and complicated hand signals. They made my
group look like a Sunday school choir. I got out of there as fast as I could and decided if I was going to be haunted, singing was better than shooting.
The group kept growing, and the humming got more complicated, but never any tune I recognized. Part of me knew this was not as much of a mystery as it seemed, but that part scared the hell out of the rest of me, so I quit my job and moved back to the Maine coast, based on the theory that the ones who followed me were attached to sand and creosote bushes.
For about a week I was free of them, while I found a place to rent and looked for work, but after I settled into a tiny house on a hill overlooking the coast near where I had grown up and was feeling pretty good about things, they appeared on the beach one morning, a raggedy chorus in winter coats and mufflers. I knew I was in trouble.
I decided to ignore them. I had taken a job writing code for an educational publisher in Portland, commuting into the city two days a week and working at home the rest of the time. The work kept me busy, and I stayed off the beach. Didn’t even glance out the window. Didn’t see them for a month. I was pretty proud of myself. I had licked it, whatever it was.
Then they migrated into the front yard of my house and grouped themselves under the big maple tree that looked like it belonged on a brochure for a leaf tour of New England, except it was spring by then, so everything was green. The first time I saw them there, my body went hot and cold at the same time. I stood at that window like some kind of frozen statue, wondering if I was already dead and just hadn’t noticed.
For the first time, I understood the attraction of guns. For an awful moment, I imagined myself walking into the yard and mowing them all down in a hail of bullets. But I don’t believe in violence, especially with hallucinations, so all I did was go out and tell them to stop the damn humming. The group had grown to about thirty individuals, and, to my amazement, they listened. The humming stopped. They went completely silent and never made another peep. After that, I calmed down and went through a phase of trying to reason with them. Have a chat. Convince them they would be better off under someone else’s tree. I tried to figure out who was the leader, but they didn’t seem to have one. Every day, different people stood at the front of the group. They seemed to listen when I spoke, but they never nodded or smiled or did any of the things living people do when they’re addressed directly. From this, I decided they were ghosts. The part of me that knew smiled a little at that and started to tell me something else about them, but I shut it down and went for a run. I was an educational programmer. I built games so kids could learn to read. Ghosts, I didn’t want to know about.