Killer in the Cloister

by Camille Minichino

  By the time I walked into my Modern Philosophy class, only two things were clear to me. One, I was the only person in the city of New York who didn’t think Mother Ignatius died the peaceful death of a seventy-five year old nun. And two, I’d started my new mission with a bad attitude.

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  My less than optimistic mood was not helped by Father Walters’ opening lecture on the process philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead. Together, Walters and Whitehead set the stage for a new theological definition—a Creator who was evolving right along with the human species. What happened to St. Thomas Aquinas’ Unmoved Mover and Uncaused Cause? I tried to picture myself praying to a God who was no more permanent than the trends of each new era, blowing in the wind like Sister Teresa’s dark, uncovered curls.

  “What do you think of Whitehead?” Aidan asked me as we stood to leave the classroom.

  “Interesting.”

  “Interesting as in, you’ll consider his ideas? Or interesting as in, it’s a heresy and you wouldn’t give it a moment’s thought if it weren’t on the final exam?”

  I laughed at the choices Aidan came up with. “Just interesting,” I said, not wanting to prolong our discussion.

  I’d rationalized enough conversations already—telling myself chats with Aidan and the residents of St. Lucy’s Hall were a necessary part of my new academic life.

  An unpleasant scene flashed before me— a reprimand by Mother Julia a year or so earlier. She’d met me as I entered the front door of the Motherhouse. I’d just been dropped off by the parent of a Sunday School student.

  “Sister Francesca, did I see you talking to that young woman—walking up the driveway as if you were particular friends?”

  “Yes, Mother Julia. She’s John Shaunessey’s mother. We were talking about his First Communion, next Sunday.”

  “It did not look to me like strictly business.”

  “No, Mother.”

  “You were laughing.”

  “Yes, Mother. She told me John’s worried about hurting the Baby Jesus when he takes the Host in his mouth. He thinks his teeth . . .”

  “That’s not really funny, Sister, is it?”

  I bit my lip, as if to punish it for attempting a smile. “No, Mother Julia.”

  A voice cut into the memory.

  “Sister Francesca? Is everything all right? Who’s Mother Julie?”

  I drew in my breath at Aidan’s question, realizing I must have muttered at least part of my memory aloud. I turned to see a troubled expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry. I was distracted for a moment. I’m fine,” I told him with an embarrassed smile.

  We’d reached the front door of Aquinas Hall, at the top of a large stone staircase leading to the grounds one floor below.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry, Sister,” he said, touching my arm. “I didn’t mean to pressure you into a position on Whitehead, or anyone else. It’s none of my business.”

  I drew my arm away with a quick movement that almost caused me to lose my balance. “Excuse me. I have to go.”

  I swept up my habit and hurried down the wide steps. What’s wrong with him? I asked myself—a Catholic boy who says the rosary with beads from his First Communion and he doesn’t know enough not to touch a nun?

  Walking back to St. Lucy’s, I rubbed the spot on my sleeve where Aidan’s hand had been.

  CHAPTER 14

  I was happy to see Sister Magdalene had not yet arrived at St. Lucy’s. I went to the chapel and opened my prayer book, adding my own concerns to the formula for renewal of vows. I prayed in silence, my fingers gripping the pages as if the text would otherwise flee from an unworthy subject.

  Lord, keep me faithful to my promises to you as a Bride of Christ. Strengthen my resolve to remain poor in spirit in spite of my comfortable life, obedient to all my superiors whether I agree with them or not, and chaste in the face of new temptations.

  I sat back on the dark wooden bench, my eyes wandering across the altar, from the statue of St. Lucy on the left, to the Blessed Virgin on the right. I had disappointed them and all the saints in heaven. And Mother Julia. Clearly I’d proven myself unable to handle the charges of a professed nun away from her community. I had about decided to respectfully petition that I be returned to the Motherhouse, when I heard my bell signal.

  Time to face Sister Magdalene.

  I genuflected and went to the small parlor.

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  “Praised be Jesus Christ,” Sister Magdalene said.

  “Praised forever. Amen.”

  I got another taste of my breakfast jam as Sister Magdalene’s customary SMI salutation caused a slight turmoil in my stomach. I realized I’d almost forgotten how we greet each other. At St. Lucy’s, the Sisters used secular salutations—they said “Good morning” or “hi” as we did when we were part of the world. I had little doubt I’d see a “Merry Xmas” sign on the bulletin board, come December.

  “Sister Francesca, as you know, Mother Julia asked me to help her evaluate your suitability for this assignment.”

  Sister Magdalene sat in the only straight-backed chair, forcing me to take one of the easy chairs. I blamed myself for the tired look in her eyes. My irresponsibility had prompted a four-hour bus ride for a nun almost as old as the late Mother Ignatius. As I struggled to keep my back straight, the soft velour padding on the seat increased my feeling of inferiority as the servant of a suffering Master.

  “Yes, Sister Magdalene.”

  “Mother Julia had a call from Sister Felix. She says you’re having a difficult time adjusting to St. Lucy’s strict regulations.”

  I took a large gulp of air and swallowed my surprise. Sister Magdalene’s words seemed to be in a foreign language, like the Latin of the old missals, her shaky old voice exaggerating my feeling of disconnectedness. I’d expected Sister Felix to have reported on my impertinent behavior—questioning her regarding Mother Ignatius’ last hours, prying into legal matters about St. Lucy’s contract with the University, exhibiting borderline rudeness to her and Jake Driscoll at dinner.

  Why had Sister Felix omitted those transgressions? Why had she insinuated instead that St. Lucy’s environment was more austere than my Motherhouse?

  “Sister Magdalene, I—”

  Sister Magdalene held up her hand. “Sister, no explanation, please. Permit me to return to Mother Julia the news that you’ve kept your vow of obedience and haven’t offered a defense.” Her frown sent a shiver through my body.

  “Yes, Sister Magdalene.”

  “I spoke to Sister Felix while you were in chapel, and we agreed you should be allowed to stay in school, your willfulness notwithstanding. It will be good for you to practice the discipline of St. Lucy’s, however strict it seems to you. Your request for extra bedding, for example, showed a great weakness.”

  I breathed deeply, and invoked my patron saint, but not even recollections of Saint Francis of Assisi could quiet my mind. The pillows that had been my excuse to query Sister Felix about Mother Ignatius had provided the perfect basis for a reproach.

  The small parlor had windows on both Marian Avenue and 198th Street. I looked out first one, then the other, seeking a place of refuge beyond the walls of St. Lucy’s.

  I tried to fathom the motive behind Sister Felix’s report to Sister Magdalene. I came up with one scenario that fit my suspicions: she wanted to stifle my curiosity regarding Mother Ignatius’ death—but instead of opening up that topic, Sister Felix had convinced my superiors I was lax in religious practices. To protect herself? To protect someone else? It also crossed my mind that she simply wanted to intimidate me into behaving myself.

  “Are you ready to take this on, Sister Francesca?” Sister Magdalene asked me. “We are moved to give you another opportunity to grow in religious fe
rvor.”

  I imagined how stunned Sister Magdalene would be if she knew what went on at St. Lucy’s. My head felt dizzy with explanations I wanted to provide Sister Magdalene. I couldn’t believe there was nothing in the outward appearance of St. Lucy’s that would alert her to the true situation—nuns and priests socializing, Sisters coming and going as they pleased, eating and talking at any hour of the day. A most unorthodox interpretation of the Liturgy.

  To me the laxity was palpable.

  From all my studies, I knew in theory it was all the more noble to suffer for transgressions I hadn’t committed. It was hard to deal with in practice, however, and I found it nearly impossible to hold my tongue.

  I prayed for guidance as I considered my options. Tell the truth and be disobedient to one rule, or withhold the truth and violate many more.

  My final decision was driven by a separate consideration—with enormous guilt, I admitted to myself I wanted to stay at St. Lucy’s. I wanted to study theology and also to learn what had happened to Mother Ignatius.

  Sister Magdalene sat straight, her hands in her sleeves, the essence of patient waiting. I knew what to say to ensure I wouldn’t be returned to the Motherhouse.

  “Thank you, Sister Magdalene. I’m grateful for another chance to strengthen my spirit of obedience.”

  Sister Magdalene smiled, the wrinkles on her face rearranging themselves into a pleasant pattern. She stood and walked to the Marian Avenue window, as if to signal a shift in the conversation. As she faced me, her starched white bib reflected light from the garden.

  “There’s another matter, Sister.” She paused and her face returned to its somber expression. “It’s your father.”

  My heart jumped, my insides turning queasy. “Yes, Sister Magdalene?”

  “He’s had a heart attack. He’s in the hospital in Fishkill.”

  How is he? When did this happen? Who’s with him? I caught my questions in time to avoid another breach of SMI rule. Sister Magdalene would tell me all God wanted me to know, in her own time. I gulped and waited for her to continue.

  “Your sister Patricia called us this morning. Since I was coming here anyway, Mother Julia thought it best if I told you in person. I’m sure you’d like more details, Sister.”

  “Yes, Sister Magdalene. If I may, please.”

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  I went back to chapel as soon as Sister Felix came to take Sister Magdalene to lunch.

  “I’ve had a long journey, Sisters. And I have another one ahead of me,” Sister Magdalene had said. “So, if you don’t mind, I’ll take my meal alone.”

  Gladly, I’d thought, wondering how long it would be before I’d be able to eat again.

  I’d sat quietly in the parlor while Sister Magdalene told me what she knew. My father and Patty were about to leave for five-thirty mass at St. Leonard’s, as they did every weekday morning. Timothy and Gabriella were asleep. In my mind, I could hear my father cry out in pain as he fell over in the driveway. After things had settled down in the hospital, Patty called the Motherhouse. My father was stable as of the time Sister Magdalene left for the seven-fifteen bus. Mother Julia would call me if there was any change.

  I knew Patty would have prevented anyone from contacting me directly at St. Lucy’s. She’d respect Mother Julia’s position as intermediary between me and my family. Timothy’s right, I thought, Patty might as well be the nun. She follows the rules more closely than I do.

  I’d always felt Patty—two years younger than me—would have entered a convent if I hadn’t. But I chose first, leaving Dad and my younger sisters and brother four years after my mother died. My father was thrilled, although it meant my earning power was lost to the family. Timothy was thirteen at the time, Gabriella fourteen, Kathleen sixteen, and Patty twenty.

  A trained welder, Dad worked for the railroads. He maintained and repaired all the cars passing through the Potterstown station. It was a steady income, but not one that provided frills for a household of seven. Patty left college soon after I entered, and took a job as a receptionist for a Potterstown optometrist. If her motive was economic necessity, as I suspected, the family kept it from me.

  Not everyone in my entering class was as lucky as I was. I thought of Elena Russo, a young woman who’d entered with me—an Italian-American whose parents disowned her when she chose religious life. Following old school Italian beliefs, Mr. and Mrs. Russo considered convent life an embarrassment, to be embraced only by women too ugly to attract a husband and too stupid to have a career.

  It occurred to me that if God Himself weren’t enough inspiration, my family’s sacrifices should motivate me to keep my vows with great diligence. All the more reason to use great caution before accepting a modern way of life that might just be the Devil, exercising a temporary hold on the leaders of the Church.

  Sister Magdalene brought permission from Mother Julia for me to send a note to my father, and reminded me I’d be permitted to attend his funeral if he died. SMIs could choose to be present at the services of one family member only, but I was in the world when my mother died, so I was free to return to Potterstown if . . .

  I had difficulty completing the sentence in my mind. Although it had been ten years, it seemed too short a time since we’d lost my mother to leukemia.

  I prayed to Saint Francis. Consoler of the sick who ask thy prayers, turn thy compassionate eyes upon my father, Brendan Patrick Wickes. Grant him the grace to accept God’s will. Help him to turn his pain into a spiritual bouquet to secure his place beside thee in heaven.

  The call bell interrupted my prayers. Two, pause, five. My signal. This time it was a phone call.

  “Sister Francesca? Tim called and told me about your father,” Aidan Connors said. “I’m so sorry.”

  I tightened my grip on the phone. Had something else happened? Had my father . . .? “How recently did you speak to him?” I asked in a shaky voice.

  “Just got off the phone. Evidently he’s doing as well as you could expect. Tim’s going to stay a few more days though. I guess Patty’s pretty upset and wants him to hang around Potterstown.”

  “I’m glad he’s with them,” I said, wondering how it happened that a near stranger knew more about my family than I did. One of the peculiar consequences of the Holy Rule, I realized.

  “I can drive you up there if you like, Sister. It’s only about three hours by car, and we don’t have class till two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  I drew in my breath. “Thank you, but I can’t do that, Aidan. I can’t just drop in on my family.” Let alone arrive in Potterstown with my veil blowing out the window of a man’s car, I added to myself. I pictured Mother Julia, one hand on her hip, the other holding out my dismissal papers.

  “I could have you back in plenty of time for class.”

  I clenched my jaw. “That’s not the point. It’s against the rules.”

  “Well, I thought I’d offer. My aunt’s a Sister of St. Joseph, and she’s able to visit when someone’s sick.”

  “I’m not a Sister of St. Joseph. We all have different rules. You’re starting to sound like my brother, Aidan. He’s never understood the religious life.”

  He laughed. “Tim did go on a bit about that. You can take phone calls at St. Lucy’s but it’s strictly forbidden at your Motherhouse. You can . . .”

  I grew impatient. “It’s God’s will, Aidan. It’s not to be questioned.”

  “I understand.”

  I hung up, annoyed that he’d persisted, and—even worse, that I’d understood his logic also.

  CHAPTER 15

  A tray of food in front of my door told me Sister Ann William had come to my rescue again. So far she was one of only two people of recent acquaintance who hadn’t annoyed me—and the other was dead.

  I arranged the neatly wrapped sandwich,
small carton of milk, and package of chocolate cookies on one half of my desktop, leaving the other free for writing a note to my father.

  My plans for a stress-free lunch were thwarted, however, when I found a reminder of my recalcitrant behavior—lying on the box of note paper in my desk drawer were the cuff link and packet of letters I’d found in Mother Ignatius’ office. I put the jewelry aside and examined the correspondence. The envelopes were white, all the same size, and pressed into a bundle about a quarter-inch thick. I ran my fingers along the edge and counted six letters.

  Only a thin rubber band stood between me and a venial sin. My own lessons to my Sunday School students came to my mind. A violation of the standard prescribed by the moral law in a matter less serious than mortal sin, I’d told class after class. Certainly not as grave as breaking a commandment, but not to be taken lightly. I thought of Saint Augustine’s words on venial sins:

  Tremble when you count them . . . a number of light objects makes a great mass; a number of drops fills a river; a number of grains makes a heap.

  I walked around the room, waving the small bundle, talking to myself, as if I were a canon lawyer arguing a point of theology before a Roman synod. These letters don’t belong to me, I told the imaginary jury of Cardinals. They nodded. But at the moment they belong to no one else, either. They nodded again. The late Mother Ignatius had no family. Since I found them, might they not be considered mine? Hmm, they said.

  I knew nothing of civil law, so I was free to use Thomistic reasoning without regard for the fine points of the secular legal system. The concepts of breaking and entering, theft of property, and obstructing justice were vague in my mind, and I didn’t think they applied to my circumstances.