"I'm Sister Hyacinthe, This is Sister John, and we'd like to know who you are."
"It's none of your business."
"If you hadn't been our business yesterday," Sister Hyacinthe said tartly, "we would have left you in the closet to bleed to death, so you can at least be civil. Sit up and drink this eggnog."
He dug his elbows into the mattress, tried to lift himself and sank back. "Christ, I'm weak as a kitten," he gasped.
"And if you take the name of the Lord in vain He won't bother to come around when you really need Him. I'll prop up your shoulders-so-and tilt the glass. Now sip."
When an inch of the eggnog had disappeared she lowered him, loosened his bandage, sniffed the wound and nodded. "There's no infection or gangrene, Sister John, I think he's beginning to heal. I'll make a fresh poultice for him tonight."
Sister John, adjusting the curtain at the window, said over her shoulder, "Is there someone you'd like us to notifyy? A wife, your family, children?"
He shook his head. "Nobody to notify. I'm dead."
Sister Hyacinthe said hopefully. "Then is there anybody we can notify of your death?"
"Very f-f-funny."
"Not really," said Sister Hyacinthe, moving across the room to face him. "Of course you're not yourself today-whoever that is-but I'd like to remind you that you asked sanctuary of us last night. If you want us to keep hiding you then a few questions seem reasonable. It's a matter of conscience."
"Oh God," he groaned.
Her glance was stern. "Are you a mugger?"
"A what?"
"Mugger."
Looking dazed, he shook his head.
"Have you killed someone?"
This appeared to galvanize him. "Certainly not," he said in an aggrieved voice. "Look, for God's sake hide me for a few days, don't turn me out."
"We're already hiding you."
"But if anyone comes asking, you won't tell them I'm here?"
"Oh, we can't lie," Sister John told him reproachfully.
"Absolutely not," said Sister Hyacinthe behind her.
"We can, however, tell anyone who asks that Sister Ursula is upstairs," she continued. "That wouldn't be a lie-that is, if you don't mind being Sister Ursula."
"Who?" he said, puzzled.
"You."
"I don't think he understands," Sister Hyacinthe told her. "It's a little tricky for him to catch right now. It's a little tricky for me, too."
Sister John nodded. "Then I'll just measure him. I'm going to take your measurements," she told the man in a loud voice. "Just lie quietly and don't be alarmed."
"Measurements?" he said blankly. "For what, a shroud?"
"Lie still. After I've measured him, Sister Hyacinthe, I think we'll have to make a very quick trip into Gatesville in the van."
"But why?"
"To mail our letter to St. Tabitha's and buy a little meat for our patient, among other things."
"What other things?" asked Sister Hyacinthe suspiciously. "We can't keep leaving Sister Ursula alone. Look at him, he's fallen asleep again, the man's completely defenseless."
Sister John sighed. "I suppose you're right. It's a nuisance but we'll have to open the door to Alfie's secret passage and slip him inside. I think there's room on the landing for the mattress-there may not be much air but there's space. We'll make it a very quick trip to Gatesville."
"You know I'm tired of driving," burst out Sister Hyacinthe, "and we were going to do such nice things this morning."
"We'll do them this afternoon," Sister John told her ruthlessly. "You and I have some detective work to do."
"I don't like this," complained Sister Hyacinthe as they headed toward Gatesville. "That was a very damp place to leave Sister Ursula, and it's not like you to be so unfeeling."
"I promised you a very quick trip," said Sister John. "We'll go first to the Town Hall, I think. I saw it on the main street yesterday when we drove past."
"Why there?"
"I want to find out how long Mr. Moretti owned this property, I want to know when he bought it and how long the house has been empty. Trust me, Sister Hyacinthe."
They pulled up at the court house behind a car whose rear bumper carried a sticker saying SISTERHOOD IS BEAUTIFUL. Sister Hyacinthe nudged her companion and pointed. "Nuns."
"No-no, I don't think so," said Sister John in astonishment as two young girls in bikinis climbed out of the car and strolled toward the main street.
Sister Hyacinthe, blushing for them, said, "What can it mean?"
"We'll ask Alfie," Sister John told her in a puzzled voice. "Obviously there are a great many things we don't understand yet but we can learn, Sister Hyacinthe." She lifted her skirts and climbed out of the van, and a few minutes later they were confronting a pleasant, freckle-faced young clerk at the tax desk. Sister John explained their mission.
"Fallen Stump Road?" echoed the girl, and moving to a filing cabinet, she brought back a drawer, placed it on the counter and removed a card. "We've had notice the property has been left to a St. Tabitha's Abbey-" Her glance lifted to Sister John's habit and she grinned. "Is that you?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Sister John. "Can you tell us something about Mr. Moretti?"
"About him?" The girl looked puzzled. "Well, I can only look up the old records. I've never met him, I don't think anybody ever met him. I know his tax payments came on time because I handled them myself. Just a minute, I'll look in the back."
She returned wearing glasses that slid down her nose as she frowned over a long sheet of foolscap. "Here we are," she said. "The property was purchased in late 1953 from the Hathaway estate by Joseph Alfred Moretti of Morningside Drive, New York City. Let's see, assessments, easements . . . He must have been living in the house, or planning to live there, because a building permit was issued in early 1954 for a new wing containing kitchen, bathrooms, nursery and a recreation room."
"I hope not in Gothic Revival," murmured Sister John.
"But it was never built," continued the girl, "or so a note explains that's attached here, so of course we never taxed him for it. After that-" She put down the paper and peered in the file drawer. "After 1955 he abandoned the place, apparently, and his billing address changed from Morningside Drive to an address in the East Eighties in Manhattan, and then in 1959 he moved to Miami Beach, Florida, and then in 1963, he moved again for a last time."
"Could we have that last address?" asked Sister John.
"Yes, it's in care of Cherpin, Holtz, Smith, and Barney, Attorneys-at-law, Park Avenue, New York."
Sister John sighed. "Which brings us full circle back to Mr. Samuel Cherpin, who refuses to tell us anything at all." She nodded absently to the girl. "You've been very informative. Thank you."
She grinned. "Yes I have, considering the property will be non-taxable if you people move in. Is that all?"
"That's all," said Sister John.
"Well, I don't know what you learned," grumbled Sister Hyacinthe as they walked out of the office, "but it took ten minutes, Sister John."
"But isn't it fun?" asked Sister John, looking pleased. "And it's not at all true that we learned nothing. One," she said, holding up a finger, "Mr. Moretti was restless-think of all those moves, Sister Hyacinthe! Two, he was a very sentimental man to keep the house all those years. Three, he was very secretive. And," she went on eagerly, "there could be a link with St. Tabitha's because did you notice that he changed his mind about living in the house the very same year that St. Tabitha's Abbey was established?"
Sister Hyacinthe looked at her radiant face and felt a stab of foreboding. "Sister John, we're not detectives, we're nuns."
Sister John brushed this aside impatiently. "If we can grow vegetables and print a newspaper and raise goats and live in the presence of God, and bake bread and butcher a cow I don't see why we can't solve a few finite mysteries as well, Sister Hyacinthe. Now do let's stop talking; think of Sister Ursula in the closet."
"Oh dear yes," gasped Sister Hyacint
he.
"To save time I think we can divide the remaining errands. You take the grocery store and I'll just step into the fabric shop. I want to buy five yards of blue cotton."
"Is that why you-You can't be serious, Sister John! You wouldn't dare."
"I'm thinking of chameleons," said Sister John. "They take on the color of their surroundings, they vanish into the scenery. We have a conspicuous man to hide, Sister Hyacinthe-any man staying in a house with nuns is conspicuous-and our patient can't vanish into the scenery. We can't turn him into a tree and it's not healthy for him to hide very long in that secret passage, but I see no reason why we can't turn him into a nun."
"It's sacrilegious, Sister John!"
"Nonsense, I'm sure it isn't. Besides," she concluded, "It isn't going to be a real habit, it only needs to look like one from a distance. Pope John would have understood, I'm sure of it, God rest his soul."
Sister Hyacinthe sighed. "You have such perfect faith, Sister John."
5
Sister Ursula was retrieved from the secret passage, given a shot of dandelion wine to revive him and a cup of valerian tea to tranquilize him. Into the soup kettle went stew beef to simmer and to send out ambrosial fumes once thyme and sage, onion, basil and tarragon had been joined to it. Following this they began their serious work, Sister Hyacinthe standing on a ladder outside the living room cutting ivy from the windows, Sister John inside the living room removing dust cloths and making a list of the furniture that appeared. Once a single window had been cleared of vines it became possible to open the window and call back and forth, and it was in this manner that Sister Hyacinthe learned a piano was being unwrapped that was nothing less than a Boysendorfer, that there was an old-fashioned wind-up Victrola in a cabinet, a number of slip-seat mahogany chairs, a Victorian cherrywood sofa, a charming prie-dieu, and some rather bad paintings in gilt frames.
None of this meant anything to Sister Hyacinthe, who in turn called to Sister John that the wisteria was dying from lack of pruning, that if she could only sickle the huge front lawn it would yield enough mustard for a dozen years of mustard plasters, and there was a robin's nest under the porch eaves. She was still on the stepladder when a crunch of gravel met her ears and, knowing that Sister John was in the living room, she turned and saw a young man walking around the side of the barn from the service entrance driveway. He was a vision of sartorial splendor, cool and fresh in a striped summer suit, hair soothingly short and pomaded, his wine-colored shirt and tie exquisitely matched. Under one arm he carried a clipboard. When he saw Sister Hyacinthe his steps slackened and a peculiar expression of dismay crossed his face. His glance took in the skirt of her habit and jumped to her veil; he narrowed his eyes as if he were nearsighted and couldn't trust his vision. "A nun?" he said in a shocked voice.
From the window Sister John said, "We're both nuns."
"Two nuns," he said, and squinted into the vines in search of the second voice. "I had no idea. Nobody told me. That is, that we had new sisters in Gatesville." Having survived the shock his voice rallied and grew heartier. "Welcome, welcome. You've met Father Daniel in town?"
Sister Hyacinthe shook her head, awed by his immaculateness; even the crease of his pants looked sharp enough to slice a hair. "Are you looking for someone?"
"For you," he said, flashing a dazzling smile composed of bright square teeth and muscular cheeks. "I'm taking the town census, Sister, the Gatesville census. I hope you can spare a moment for a few questions?" He lifted his clipboard, brought out a pen, and placed one black boot on the bottom rung of the stepladder. "May I ask how many rooms in this house?"
"Nine," said Sister Hyacinthe.
"Ten," said Sister John from the window.
"Ten," he murmured, bending over his clipboard. "Running water?"
"Today, yes."
"Number of bathrooms?"
"Two."
"Thank you, And now," he added carefully, "how many people are living in this house?"
"Three," replied Sister John. "May we ask what your name is?"
"Name? Oh, Giovianni," he said, and put his pen back in his pocket and flashed a smile at them. "I don't have to ask your occupations, Sister, since I know it's putting in a good word for us sinners when you speak to God, but frankly I'm surprised to find nuns here. Could I ask what-uh-brings you to this house?"
"Are you Catholic, Mr. Giovianni?" asked Sister John from the window.
Startled, Mr. Giovianni said, "Baptized one, Sister, but may I ask what you're doing-"
"And have you been to Confession lately?"
Mr. Giovianni's smile caught in his teeth and turned garish, like a neon sign that had blown a fuse. "Confession? Well I can't say . . . that is-"
"Communion?"
Mr. Giovianni began to look alarmed. "Actually, Sister, I-that is I'm not-" He stopped and pulled himself together. "Actually," he said with dignity, "I think I have all the information I need now, Sister-ten rooms, two baths and three nuns in the house-and I don't think I should take up any more of your time, seeing how busy you are." He gave Sister Hyacinthe a brilliant smile. "Have a good day, both of you." He turned and walked rather quickly down the driveway.
"Nice young man," said Sister John, watching him go.
"Tidy," said Sister Hyacinthe.
"Very tidy," said Sister John, "but I'm afraid a fallen Catholic, Sister Hyacinthe. I think it's obvious that he's strayed from God, I only hope I succeeded in touching his conscience."
"You certainly touched something because he left in a great hurry," said Sister Hyacinthe. "I had the impression he needed glasses?"
Sister John nodded, adding generously, "but his teeth were certainly magnificent."
They experienced still another caller in the afternoon, this one a Mr. Smith from the local Cowbell Dairy, resplendent in white coveralls, who insisted on leaving a free bottle of milk with them. When he heard they would not be occupying the house long enough for regular deliveries he responded warmly by pressing another quart of milk on them, and a pint of cottage cheese.
"A very Christian man," said Sister Hyacinthe when he had gone. "People seem very neighborly here, don't they?"
"Yes, don't they?" agreed Sister John cheerfully.
They dined early on beef stew, homemade bread and cottage cheese, and were drinking comfrey tea on the back steps when Alfie emerged from the woods lugging armfuls of boards, a long saw and a duffel bag. "Hey, I'm back," he called, dumping his burden by the privet hedge. "I came as soon as I could, I had to visit the town dump to find glass for your window. Any suspicious visitors?" He looked hopeful.
"Only a census taker and a milkman," said Sister John. "It's certainly kind of you to find glass for the window."
"Actually I couldn't find glass," he said. "There weren't any old windows at the dump today so until somebody brings one in I hope you don't mind a few boards. How's Sister Ursula?"
"He's had eggnog and beef broth and Sister John is making him a nun's habit. It's already cut to size."
"By George, that's really inspired," said Alfie, looking pleased. "I wish I'd thought of that myself."
"Come in and have some tea," Sister John suggested, rising.
"I'll come in but let's wait for Naomi, she started out with me except I lost her in the woods. She stopped to pick borage," he explained, dropping into a kitchen chair. "By the way, I brought you a book." He proudly placed it on the table. "It's Brill's book. He'd never tell you about it himself, he's too modest. I thought where you've been behind walls for years you might find it interesting."
"Brill's book?"
"Yeah, he wrote it. It was published last year."
"An author?" gasped Sister Hyacinthe, impressed.
Sister John looked at the book's brilliant red jacket slashed with stripes of black. "Underground America by Will Stevenson. What a strange title . . ."
"You haven't heard the phrase before? Brill used to write for the underground press. He's a social psychologist."
&n
bsp; "In those clothes?" faltered Sister John.
"Just goes to show," Alfie said cheerfully. "Show what it's all about, I mean. The supreme irony is hiding your light under a bushel, you see. It's what the revolution is all about."
"Revolution?"
"In values," Naomi said, walking in the door with an armful of borage. She gazed around her openmouthed at the tin sink, the cupboards and the oilcloth-covered table. "Wow, this is real camp. Wild!"
"What does she mean?" Sister Hyacinthe asked Alfie.
"She means she likes your house, it's too corny to be true. This book," he went on, pointing a long finger at it, "brought in ten shocked reviews, six rave reviews and the New York Times said every American should read it as a warning. He made eight thousand bucks from it and bought two hundred acres of land in Maine, to which we will repair in September. About twenty of us. A bit of a celebrity, Brill-in some circles, anyway. You've heard of communes?" When Sister John shook her head he said, "Hippies? Yippies? Women's Lib?"
"Male chauvinist pigs?" put in Naomi. "Watergate? Kent State? Third World? Club of Rome?"
When both sisters stared at them blankly Alfie said, "Good God, you're like Martians visiting us for the first time! Is that what being in cloister means?"
"We did see that nice Mr. Glenn circle the earth," volunteered Sister John. "Mr. Armisbruck brought in a television set for us."
"But that was in 1962," he pointed out. "You'd really better read Brill's book. Oh, and he says you can both come to the meeting tonight if you'd like."
"Meeting?"
"Of the workers. They want roofs that don't leak." He looked at them challengingly. "If you want to see what's been happening and not happening in this world I think you ought to go."
Sister John thought for a moment. "We must, of course. Except-oh dear, there's Sister Ursula."
"I'll look after him," volunteered Sister Hyacinthe.
Sister John shook her head. "I couldn't possibly leave you here alone, knowing how you feel about the house."
"I'll stay with her," Alfie said eagerly. "I could maybe find another secret passage. I could talk to Sister Ursula, too, and try to find out more about him. Nobody'll miss me at the meeting."
Gilman, Dorothy - A Nun in the Closet Page 5