by John Bladek
Gryffin sat next to him, shifting his eyes back and forth between Duncan and me.
“He doesn’t bite. Friendly as a lamb,” he said. “Drools buckets, though.”
Gryffin flopped down next to a rocking chair that had a fiddle resting on its upholstered seat.
I glanced around. The red tone of the cherry woodwork complemented the cottage’s surprisingly warm atmosphere. Every nook was tidy, including the kitchen. A small brass teapot, copper pans on S-hooks above the wood stove, and a collection of antique copper soup ladles on the wall were the only appliances in sight.
There were no modern electronics. A bookshelf of leather-bound volumes and worn paperbacks sat in the corner next to a small upholstered couch. A painting hanging over the mantle in the living room caught my eye. It was a watercolor of a rustic fishing village clustered with brilliant red, blue, and navy 18th-century-looking houses. As I stared at the artwork, the slow tick-tock of two ornately carved cuckoo clocks echoed off the walls in the kitchen and living room.
If this was a witch’s house, it was a nice one.
“Sit. I’ll bring the food over,” he said with a wave toward a small table with two chairs. “Need to eat. Don’t want my blood sugar to get too low.”
I hadn’t planned on eating but wasn’t one to turn down a meal.
Gryffin sat at my feet and put a paw on my thigh. I reached down and patted him. He came closer, nuzzling against my leg like a cat. Gentle as a lamb, all right.
Duncan put down two wooden bowls full of a thick soup. A sprinkling of bacon covered what looked like a hearty mixture of leeks, turnips, parsnips, and maybe lamb.
Duncan sat himself. “Cawl,” he said as he pushed a bowl in front of me. “Mam’s recipe.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking a bite. The stew wasn’t at all bad, and I was glad for some warmth from the cold. “So, did you know Pamela?” I asked straight out.
He set down his spoon and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Yes. It all started with her.”
“I figured as much,” I said. “So there really is a ghost that haunts the abbey.” I couldn’t believe I was saying this out loud.
He nodded. “Then you do believe.”
“Like I said, I’ve seen things.”
He nodded and got up, bringing out butter, tea, and bread with dried fruit chunks baked inside the loaf.
Gryffin sat patiently, licking his slobbery lips.
“I used to live out at the lighthouse,” Duncan said. “That was more than fifty years ago. It’s automated now. Can’t believe it. I had just turned 25 then. The lighthouse was quiet work, and I liked it. Never really much of a people person. I like being on my own. When I wasn’t out on the rock, I’d help out around Winterbay Abbey, mowing the grass, keeping up the grounds. You know, odd jobs. The nuns were quiet too, and I liked that. On Sunday evenings they’d invite me in for a meal. They were strict. Mother Superior Angelica, especially. She seemed to take a liking to me, though. At least in the beginning. Not sure why.”
“She was the nun who died falling down the stairs, right? I saw it in the paper.”
“Yes,” Duncan said. “I guess you’ve been doing some research. There were more nuns’ deaths as well. The Church shut down Winterbay a few years later. All the sisters were elderly, and it was too expensive to keep the old place running.”
“It was more than just expense and aging nuns that shut it down,” I said. “All those deaths—nuns, those young girls. And all of it looks like it had been kept secret. I can’t help but think that they were covering something up.”
He cleared his throat. “Let me finish.”
I nodded.
“Anyway, it was mid-summer when Pamela came to the nunnery, only a month or so after I’d first arrived. She was young, and I noticed her right off, quiet as a scared kitten, not looking at anyone for more than a quick glance. She was beautiful though. Her soft features and bright eyes kept me transfixed.”
Duncan described a different look than I’d seen on the beach, or even in the newspaper photo.
He drank a gulp of his tea. “The novitiates, that’s the new nuns, weren’t allowed to speak with any employees, especially men. The older sisters did all the talking.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Just nuns? Weren’t there any others there? Other girls?”
Duncan glared at me. “Yes, there was always at least one girl there who wasn’t a nun. Guests they called them.”
“Pregnant?”
He nodded. “That’s how it was in those days. Unwed girls, sent off to nunneries, kept out of sight to avoid embarrassing their families. Went on all the time. We just accepted it. It was never talked about. The Church always kept it quiet too. Let the families avoid the shame, and because of their fear of speaking openly about sin, lest it cause more.”
I took a sip of my tea. It burned with a hint of whiskey. The adoption files I’d found were beginning to make sense. “Do you remember any names of the ‘guests’?”
“If you want to know about Pamela, you’ll have to let me tell it my way,” he said, his eyes narrowing.
I tipped my cup toward him.
“So,” he went on with a sigh, “every now and then I’d sneak a peek down the table at Pamela silently staring at her plate. Once or twice I caught her looking and winked at her to say hello, as we couldn’t speak. She turned red and looked away, I’m sure frightened of being caught by the Mother Superior. Her punishments were severe. There were rumors about what that woman subjected the nuns to. Beatings, confinement. Hours, days on end without food, kneeling on a cold stone floor in penance, praying for forgiveness—and worse. That woman thought she could literally put the fear of God in people, that and she seemed to think that through torture she could cleanse women of their sins.”
I took another swig of my tea. Those punishments seemed fitting, coming from a woman whose tombstone bragged that she’d “fought the good fight.” Had she been the one who kept so many deaths and adoptions a secret? But she’d died less than a year after Pamela and before some of the other girls.
Duncan went on. “From those few glances, I could tell Pamela felt as out of place as I did, and that I had a friend. Every Sunday we’d sit at the same table with some of the other nuns, and employees, and sometimes guests.
“I loved seeing Pamela smile. Two weeks after we first met, I baked some Welsh cakes with currants and brought them to her to serve at our table. I’ll never forget how delighted she looked when I handed her the basket, and she lifted the cloth. After dinner when everyone was eating dessert, some of the powdered sugar from the cakes dusted Pamela’s nose. I kept signaling her to wipe it off. She didn’t quite know what I meant until finally, I whispered it to her. She immediately blushed and took out her handkerchief. Finally, she did laugh, still red in the face. Laughing was forbidden, and she tried to keep as quiet as she could, but it made me chuckle too. It was hard to control ourselves. Pamela kept coughing to cover up her giddiness. Looking back, that was the first time I’d laughed and felt joy since moving to Maine. I never wanted the moment to end.
“After that night, Pamela and I would volunteer to clean up after dinner just to spend more time together. We were never alone, and always on opposite sides of the room, but I still relished that time.
“Pamela took her vows seriously and followed the abbey’s rules to the letter, or so I thought. After about a month or so of our cleaning after meals, she began to sing a little bit to herself. Soft, far away, not-of-this-world humming. I focused on every song, trying to recognize the melodies. Then, to my utter shock, she said ‘hello’ to me when no one else was looking. It was in a hushed whisper. I would have missed it if I’d not been straining to hear her every sound. When I first heard her voice, I was nearly hypnotized by her quiet lilt. I longed to learn everything about her.
“Finally one night in the kitchen during a warm summer rainstorm, Pamela started talking in a quickened, hushed tone. I remember glancing around, hoping no one had
heard. As much as I wanted to converse with her, I always worried she would get into trouble. She told me all about her childhood, living as an orphan after her parents had both died in a car accident, and her love for knitting and singing. I was enthralled. Before we parted, she sang a song for me, of angels and her faith. I told her I played the fiddle. She said she hoped to hear me one day.
“After that, Pamela and I talked whenever the other sisters weren’t looking, which wasn’t always easy. Sometimes after meals, or over a shrub in the garden. I spent the rest of my week out on the rock, tending the light and thinking about that lovely voice, those emerald eyes of hers, and songs I could accompany her with on my fiddle.”
I glanced at his well-used instrument sitting on the corner chair.
“I loved Pamela since that first night. But she was a nun…who was I to interfere with God’s plan for her life? And even if she did have feelings for me, which seemed clear from her glances, the way we spoke, and how she lingered during clean-ups, I was just getting my start in America. I barely made enough money to support myself, let alone a wife.
“I tried to forget my desires, forget her longing looks. It wasn’t easy to put those green eyes out of my head, not when they’re the first thing I thought of in the morning and the last thing at night.”
I thought of Pamela’s eyes as well, again, just not in the same way as Duncan.
“After hemming and hawing for months,” he went on, “I finally wrote her a letter, telling her how I felt. I snuck it past Mother Superior Angelica’s ever-watchful eye.” He stopped and looked away, his voice thickening. “It was a selfish thing to do.” He stood up and his legs wobbled. Duncan put a hand on the wall to balance himself.
Gryffin whined.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he said with a wave of his hand. He cleared his throat. “I was nervous to see her the next Sunday night. I came into the dining hall, sweating. When I glanced at our special table, she wasn’t there. I asked one of the other nuns where she was. She told me that Pamela was fasting and would not be coming down to dinner. I feared we’d been found out, but the Mother Superior paid me no mind.”
I put my cup down.
Duncan remained standing and swallowed the rest of his tea. “I feared the worst, that she was hiding from me, and I’d never see her again.”
Gryffin came over and put his head in my lap. I scratched his neck, not breaking my gaze from Duncan.
Duncan walked to the stove. He looked agitated, his hands flitting over the teapot. After pouring himself a shot of whiskey, he returned to the table. He drew in a long breath. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve never told anyone all this before.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. The worst of this story was yet to come, and I still had no idea what the hell this all had to do with my life being in danger.
“About a week after that Sunday dinner, I was here. This is where I stayed when not on duty at the lighthouse. My boss, who owned the house at the time, was out tending the lighthouse. I heard a knock and thinking it was my employer, I quickly opened the door. Instead, Pamela stood in front of me, her eyes bloodshot from crying.
“‘I love you, too,’ she’d said, putting her arms around me. ‘I do, but I can’t. I’ve made a commitment to God. I have prayed for guidance, and I’m convinced that getting married is not something I can do. The Church and the Lord truly are my calling. Yet I thought I’d never feel for a man in this way.’”
Duncan focused out the window, a thousand-yard stare.
“I saw how distraught and conflicted she was and guilt tore at me for having interfered in her life and causing her pain. Pamela deserved happiness. I told her I’d take her back to the abbey. She refused, saying she was too upset and didn’t want to return until she was more put together. As a fog rolled in, it was too easy to agree with her. I started a fire, picked up my fiddle, and started playing ‘Amazing Grace.’ Pamela immediately began to sing.”
Duncan’s voice grew quiet, almost a whisper.
“The song had calmed her, and she began to smile. When it was over, she hugged me, and that embrace turned into a kiss. Before I knew it…” Duncan put his hand over his eyes.
I looked down at Gryffin to avoid staring at Duncan’s pained face.
“I, I…” Duncan trailed off. He got up and walked into the kitchen. As he poured more liquor, his hands shook. He sat down and drank without offering me any.
“It’s okay,” I said lamely.
“No. No it’s not!” he said, slamming his cup on the table. “We lost control of ourselves.”
Gryffin hid behind the couch.
I scratched my neck, wondering if I should hide Duncan’s bottle of whiskey, or get a drink for myself.
“It was more than a month until I heard from her again. I thought she was avoiding me in shame. She wrote me a letter. Said she knew her body was changing straightaway, but asked me not to try to see her. I feared what Mother Angelica might do to her. I never knew how much Pamela suffered until it was too late. All I knew was I wanted to run there and take her away to a place where we could be together. Instead, I did as she asked, even though I began to fear that Pamela would stay at the abbey and quietly give up the child for adoption.”
“Like the other girls,” I said. “Were they subjected to those same punishments from Mother Angelica?”
Duncan’s face fell. “Of course they were. Times were different back then. Like I said, nunneries were always places for shamed families to send their pregnant daughters, hidden from the judgment of others. You should hear the awful convent tales out of Ireland—where Mother Angelica was from. The girls were sent to those places to be disciplined for their sins.”
My stomach dropped at the thought. So little compassion for those women and their circumstances. I’d seen news from Ireland about abuses in the Church before but had never given it much thought.
This entire story was beginning to crystalize now. Except, who was the real villain here? Mother Superior Angelica, the ever-so-certain Irish nun? Perhaps Emily was right about Pamela having unfinished business. Had she returned to haunt Mother Angelica? If that were true, Pamela’s purpose had been fulfilled, hadn’t it? Angelica was dead. So why was Pamela still here? Why hadn’t she passed on?
Duncan walked to a small locked cabinet. From under his shirt, he pulled out a key hanging around his neck. Gently, he unlocked the case, reached in, and took out a small silver box. Lifting the lid, he retrieved a gold necklace with a cross pendant, and two folded pieces of paper. He pressed the pages to his lips and came back to the table.
“This is the only thing I have she wrote for me,” he said. He stared at the necklace, which I could only guess had belonged to Pamela. Finally, after what seemed a full minute, he unfolded the papers and handed them to me:
Dearest Duncan,
Please forgive the delay in this note. It was not easy to write. I’m sorry I did not speak to you since I first told you of my condition. I had to be alone to think everything over.
Although I care for you very much—no, I love you—I have pledged my life and my soul to God and to do His service here on earth, to be guided by His Angels. I have prayed night and day that the Lord forgive me my sins and accept my service. But service to the Lord requires sacrifices. And I’m afraid my sacrifice is that I must never see you again. If I do, I fear I would waver in my decision and be too tempted to accept you.
Good-bye and God-Bless. May you walk with the Angels.
Pamela
Underneath Pamela’s letter was an adoption document like the ones I’d seen at the abbey. The paper read: born January 14, 1961, male, adopted January 27, 1961. The mother’s name: Pamela Mayo. Deceased.
It had only taken two weeks from having her child until the boy had been adopted. Three days later she was dead, drowned. I’d witnessed the scene all over again on the beach.
I glanced again at the letter. If Emily had sent me something like this, I can’t imagine w
hat I would do.
“I wanted to strangle myself when I read her words,” Duncan said. “I looked every Sunday for her. She never came down. All was kept quiet.”
A low, sinking heaviness developed in my chest. “I saw that tower cell. It was so small, barely enough room to pace. Did they lock her in there as penance?”
Duncan let out a low moan, pain-filled and woeful. “I…if I had known…” he choked off a sob.
I folded the papers and handed them back to him. “Was that room where they sent all those pregnant girls?”
“I suppose, although I don’t really know,” he said, his voice nearly a wail. “Mother Angelica locked Pamela in there. Alone. I didn’t know about the room until much later when I investigated the abbey after it was shut down.”
An image of the small handprint on the tower room’s hidden window sprang into my mind.
“There’s something about all this that doesn’t make sense. Why would Mother Angelica allow Pamela to stay and become a nun after knowing she was pregnant out of wedlock? Wouldn’t that be an unforgivable sin?” I asked.
“That’s just it. Mother Angelica thought she could save Pamela from her sins and her condition by way of harsh disciplinary means. She took it upon herself to be Pamela’s savior.” Duncan held his temples. “I…I can’t believe how much I failed her,” he said.
“What could you have done?” I asked, looking for some way to console him. But deep down, I knew he was right. “She’d taken her vows and promised to obey this Mother Angelica. You couldn’t have known she was being imprisoned.”
He slammed the table again. “I should have known! Should have had the guts to go in there and be a man. Demanded to see her. It was up to me to protect her.”
I stared at the knots and patterns in the wooden tabletop. My stomach felt hollow, guilt burning inside me. I thought of my reaction to Emily when she first announced that she was pregnant. I’d freaked out and been an insensitive ass, wishing what Emily was saying wasn’t true, and then mostly only caring about the logistics of the situation. Would I have done more than Duncan in a similar situation to save the woman I love?