Sandcastles

by Luanne Rice

  Right now, with dust covering her habit and dirt under her fingernails, she stood on the highest hill in the vineyard, gazing down at her brother working on the beach below, and knew that he was rowing in the wrong direction. Just then she heard creaking, and turned to see Tom wheeling his wheelbarrow up the path. She tried to duck behind a leafed-out stretch of vines, but he’d already seen her.

  “Morning, Sister,” Tom called.

  “Hi, Tom,” she said.

  “What are you up to?” he asked, letting his wheelbarrow clatter as he left the path to climb the rise.

  “Just cutting back the vines,” she said. “I think we’re going to have a good yield this year.”

  “Yep,” he said. “Looks that way. Is the irrigation system working better?”

  “Seems to be. I wish we’d get some rain, though. I’m worried about the well running dry.”

  “I’ve got my eye on it,” Tom said.

  “When your great-grandfather had it dug, I don’t think he envisioned supplying water for a whole community of nuns running a school and a vineyard.”

  “He would have thought it was far-out. Two of his favorite things: nuns and booze.”

  “It’s not ‘booze,’ you philistine,” she said, smiling sharply. “It’s ‘fine wine.’”

  “Who are you calling a philistine?” Tom asked, stepping closer.

  Bernie stepped back, turned away. The sea wind swept up the hill, blew her veil into her face. She felt Tom standing beside her, following her gaze down the hill. She brushed the veil out of her eyes.

  “Look at my brother,” she said. He stood on the beach by the broken rock. He had wrapped the biggest pieces in chains, hauled them above the tide line. Bernie had watched him go at it all day. Now he lifted one onto his shoulder, stumbling slightly as he heaved it onto the pile.

  “He claims he’s building a new sculpture, but come on,” Tom said. “Isn’t there something you could tell him, get him to ‘lay his burden down’?”

  “I wish I could. I wish I could talk sense into both him and Honor.”

  “Really? What would you tell them?”

  “I’d tell them to stop fighting what they know to be true. They love each other. They have three children…”

  “You saying children should hold people together?” Tom asked.

  She glared at him. “I’m not saying that,” she said.

  “Sounds like you just did,” Tom said.

  “Why are you suddenly making things so difficult?” she asked. “We’ve been working together for all these years. Day in and day out. I see you all over the grounds—you keep the place running for me. Never a problem. Until now. What’s going on?”

  He shook his head, staring down at John. “It’s seeing them throw it all away,” he said. “John and Honor.”

  “What does that have to do with us?” Bernie asked. Tom gave her a dark sidelong glance that made the blood rise into her face. She refused to back down though, and stared right back. “Answer me, Thomas Kelly.”

  “Look,” he said, grabbing her shoulders. “You might get a lot of mileage out of being mother superior here. But that gets nowhere with me. You might be Sister Bernadette Ignatius to everyone else, but to me you’re Bernie. My Bernie…”

  She was frozen, unable to speak.

  “Isn’t love supposed to be holy?” he asked. “Even as religious as you are, is there anything more sacred?”

  “No,” she said softly.

  “Then what more do I need to say?”

  “Love is different for everyone,” she said. “I love God. That’s the choice I made, and it’s the life I’ve chosen.”

  “I know that,” he said, still holding her shoulders, staring into her eyes. She felt him trying to shake her loose from something…. Suddenly he let her go. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  “It’s just, having John back home. It makes me want us all to be the way we used to be…remember that, Bernie? When we were all young, and we’d play on these hills? Remember we sneaked wine out of my grandfather’s wine cellar and drank it behind the wall?”

  “I remember,” she said.

  “Back then, you broke the rules as much as anyone.”

  “You’re right,” Bernie said, and looked away.

  “I thought we’d all raise our children together.”

  “You should have gotten married,” Bernie whispered. “You still should…you can still have a family.”

  “Really?” he asked. “You wouldn’t mind seeing me with my wife, pushing our kid in a stroller?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” she said. “I want that for you.”

  He looked down at her, and she tried to ease the stress from her face. She felt it in her whole body, but all that mattered was that Tom didn’t see it.

  “Ah, Bernie. This is my family,” Tom said, looking around, taking in the Academy grounds, the vineyard, the beach, and Bernie standing beside him. She felt tears slip from her eyes.

  Tom reached over. He used his thumb to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

  “You have dirt all over your face,” he said. “Doesn’t the mother superior have better things to do than clipping back grapevines?”

  “What’s more important than tending the earth?” she asked.

  “We’ve got to do something about those two,” he said, gesturing down at John.

  “They’re in God’s hands,” Bernie said.

  Tom squinted, shaking his head. “That’s not good enough,” he said. “Look at the mess he made with us. We’ve got to help them, Bern.”

  Together, they looked down at John, standing on one of the pieces of rock, smashing it over and over again with the sledgehammer. Every strike seemed to hit Bernie in the abdomen. She folded her hands, as if in prayer. The truth was, she was folding them in self-protection. Protection from the feelings she had had so long, that she felt just might kill her.

  “John’s work has always saved him,” she said. “He loves doing it so much, it keeps him going.”

  “He’s going to wreck his body,” Tom said.

  Bernie stared down at her brother. He had revolutionized the art world with his freewheeling spirit, the way he built temporary sculptures, incorporated elements of nature and light, photographing them with his handheld camera, then letting the wind and sea take them away. It all sounded so peaceful, but watching her brother now, she felt the violence.

  “He hates himself,” she whispered. “For what he let happen in Ireland.”

  “Are you talking about your brother?” Tom asked. “Or yourself?”

  “We Sullivans have made a mess of things,” she said.

  “Well, you didn’t do it alone,” Tom said.

  She knew Tom was right, and she knew what she had to do. Touching his cheek, she felt her hand trembling. He grabbed her wrist and held it. He had always tried to hold on, when she had always prayed to let go. She closed her eyes, backed away. When she turned to run down the hill toward the convent, she thought she heard someone call her.

  It wasn’t Tom, and it wasn’t God. It was the voice Bernie heard in her sleep, and she wondered again—as she had so often over the years—whether the time had come for her to answer the call.

  It was Tuesday, and Agnes was being silent, sitting with the cat on her lap. Honor found it frustrating on even the most ordinary Tuesdays, but how was she supposed to monitor how Agnes was feeling if she wouldn’t say anything? Regis’s words, about Agnes seeking a vision to save their family, still stung.

  She took her daughter’s temperature, peeked under the dressing to make sure the wound looked okay, made sure she ate lunch and drank plenty of water. They had a doctor’s appointment in two days, and Honor was glad to know they had an MRI scheduled.

  “Does it hurt?” Honor asked.

  Agnes shook her head.

  “Have you been feeling dizzy today?”

  Again, Agnes shook her head, petting Sisela.

  “What about that vi
brating feeling you had yesterday—when you thought you were about to have another seizure? Has that come back?”

  Agnes shrugged.

  Honor exhaled. “Agnes, I know you feel that silence is a sort of prayer, and I try to respect it. The problem is, because you’ve had a head injury, I really need to know what’s going on. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me—alleviate my stress. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

  “I’m fine,” Agnes mouthed, but not a sound came from her lips.

  Honor placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. She was seated at the window, holding Sisela and gazing out across the field that led to the wall where the whole thing had started. Just then the phone rang, and Honor answered.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sullivan. It’s Brendan—may I please speak with Agnes?”

  Honor threw her a look. “Funny you should ask, Brendan…” At the sound of his name, Agnes looked up eagerly. “She’s sitting right here.”

  Honor hoped that Brendan’s calling would make Agnes decide to talk, but instead, she just motioned at the telephone and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Brendan,” Honor said. “She is here, it’s true, but she doesn’t talk on Tuesdays. And it’s a Tuesday.”

  He laughed. “Okay,” he said. “Well, if she doesn’t talk, does she listen?”

  “Yes,” Honor said, watching Agnes, her daughter’s shining eyes.

  “Would you mind handing her the phone?” Brendan asked.

  “Not at all,” Honor said. She gave the receiver to Agnes and grabbed her painting smock. When she left the room to go into her studio, Agnes was just sitting there, phone to her ear, saying nothing, petting Sisela with her free hand.

  Heading into her studio, Honor went straight to her easel. She uncovered her palette, stared at the painting. She had to work on John’s eyes. They were too calm, when her memory of that night had them wild, fiery. As she started working she felt her heart pounding.

  The tap-tap-tap that came from beyond the hill’s crest was John, working down on the beach. The sound of metal striking rock rang in her bones. He had already destroyed the boulder, but now he was turning it into art. She could only wonder what soaring composition would come of it, what topsy-turvy masterpiece would result.

  She worked on her own painting, touching the brush to John’s eyes. There. A sweep of blue, sharpening his gaze. But it wasn’t enough. Maybe the blue was too soft—she added a dot of black, mixed it with her palette knife. Now the clarity was gone—she’s pushed it too far. No painting could ever do justice to her husband’s spirit. She had tried, over and over.

  If only she could capture his passion on canvas. The secret had always seemed to be in his eyes. The clear color, the direct gaze, the way they reflected the sky. He saw so much in the world, but it was never enough. He always wanted to see more—and he wanted to go everywhere, and touch everything, and bring it home for Honor.

  What had Regis said? That he filled the world with color…It was so true. That was John. He made her feel so alive. Listening to him work on the rock, she felt a sort of companionship. He was right out there, bringing his artistic dynamism to their own beach, to that rock he’d reduced to a pile of rubble.

  Now, staring at her painting, at the eyes, she shivered. That’s where it got so tricky. Her husband was a brilliant sculptor and photographer; he had discovered his own way to experience and represent the world. But it included smashing a rock to smithereens during the course of one night. That was John as well….

  Hearing footsteps on the flagstone walk, Honor looked up from her painting and saw Bernie standing in the doorway, staring at her. Her black habit was streaked with dust; she was obviously just down from the fields. But she held an envelope in her hand, so she must have been to her office….

  “Bernie, are you all right?” Honor asked, alarmed.

  “I’m fine,” she said, advancing into the big, bright room, blinking. Honor found herself blocking her view of the easel, steering her over toward the chairs by the window.

  “What brings you here?” Honor asked. “Would you like some iced tea?”

  “Sure,” Bernie said. “I’ve just been up in the vineyard, and I’m pretty thirsty.”

  Honor went over to the little refrigerator, pulled out the plastic container she had filled that morning. She filled two tall glasses, handed one to her sister-in-law. “Red Rose tea, half a lemon, a splash of orange juice, fresh mint from the herb garden, and one small bottle of ginger ale,” she said.

  “My mother’s iced tea recipe,” Bernie said, sipping. “Nothing tastes better on a summer day.”

  “Or takes us back to when we were kids.”

  Bernie held up her hand. “Please,” she said. “I’ve had enough trips down memory lane for one day.”

  “Were you talking to John?”

  “Tom,” Bernie said.

  “Oh,” Honor said, watching Bernie bow her head. She might have been praying, but when she raised her eyes, Honor could see she was blushing instead.

  “Our old friend Tom sometimes forgets himself,” Bernie said. “He forgets that times, and people, change. He forgets that I took vows, and that he’s my employee.”

  “I guess he counts on friends staying the same,” Honor said.

  “But they don’t necessarily,” Bernie said. “Do they?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If friends stayed the same, you and John would be together now. You were the best friends ever.”

  “We all were,” Honor said. “You and I were best friends before I fell in love with your brother. And John and Tom were, before Tom fell in love with you.”

  “You and I are still right there in the best friend department. At least I hope we are,” Bernie said. She gave Honor a gentle smile, and Honor felt grateful for it.

  “I’m so glad, Bernie. Thank you.”

  “So, friend to friend, what’s the deal with you and John?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Bernie, in that instant, became Sister Bernadette Ignatius, the nun that all the students feared: the one who knew all, saw all, and expected everyone to meet the highest standards. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes, and she wouldn’t look away until Honor gave in.

  “Listen to him out there,” Bernie said.

  “I know.”

  “It wasn’t enough that he destroyed the rock. He’s making his presence known. He doesn’t want you to forget he’s home.”

  “How could I forget that?” Honor asked. “What do you want me to say? It’s hard.”

  “Yes,” Bernie said. “I’ll grant you that. How can it not be, considering what you’ve all gone through?”

  Honor’s chest felt tight. “You know what Regis said to me the other day?”

  “Tell me.”

  “That Agnes is searching for a vision. Where do you think she got that idea?”

  “Good question,” Bernie said. She drained her glass. She stood up from her seat, smoothing her sleeves and long black skirt. She straightened her veil. Then she walked around the easel so she could look at Honor’s painting.

  Honor saw the work with Bernie’s eyes: a man wearing jeans and a rough jacket, his hands strong, his eyes tormented, bending over with the weight of a child. Honor had deliberately blurred her features—it might be Agnes, and it might be Regis. The landscape was of ocean, rocks, and hills. There were stone walls in the distance, and the green suggested Ireland—or the Connecticut shoreline. And there was Sisela, the white cat, crouched on the wall, her green eyes seeing all.

  “It’s John,” Bernie said.

  “Yes.”

  Bernie stared a few minutes longer. “And Sisela, and one of the girls…”

  Honor nodded. Bernie met her eyes; Honor saw deep hurt and pain, and somehow she knew it didn’t have to do with her and John. Bernie handed Honor the envelope. On the front was a spidery drawing of a sandcastle at the water’s edge…and, rising
from the waves, in the distance, a sea monster.

  “Don’t throw everything away,” Bernie said.

  “Bernie…”

  “Choices matter,” Bernie said. “I know that better than anyone. Read what’s in the envelope, what you wrote to me, and see if you know what I mean. I have the feeling you’ll remember. At least, I can’t imagine you forgetting.”

  “Do you ever think you got the vision wrong, Bernie? That she was trying to tell you something else?” Honor’s skin felt electric, remembering the day Bernie had told her. Honor’s hair had stood on end, especially when she realized what it was going to mean for Tom, for all of them.

  “I’m nothing if not fallible,” Bernie said. “We all are. Read the letter. You were pretty wise back then.”

  Honor held the envelope in one hand and put her arms around her sister-in-law. Of course she remembered; she knew without reading a word. Holding Bernie, she thought of the choices they each had made. There was no greater risk than love, she thought, hearing John strike the rock.

  No greater risk in the world.

  Fifteen

  Dark silver, the tidal flats shimmered under starlight. Long past sunset, John took advantage of the ebb tide, gathering the last fragments of the boulder, hauling them out of the shallow water, onto the beach. He left the largest rocks just below the high-tide line, carried the smaller pieces up toward the tall grass at the top of the beach. Working from pure emotion, not intellect, creating a physical manifestation of what he felt inside, a circle took shape.

  His muscles burned from exertion, and he knew that his reward would be a long swim and a good sleep. Dreams and work were his sanctuary. Even in his deepest dreams, he worked on the sculpture. Fitting the pieces together, arranging every broken piece into a new and completely different whole.

  In some of the dreams, Honor was right there with him. She had such a sense of form and composition; he had always wished she would come with him to his work sites. Over the years, he had seen such spectacular places, mainly in the northern hemisphere: Greenland, Labrador, Hudson Bay, Denali, the Magdalen Islands. He had always wanted her to be with him, but there was always a reason why she couldn’t be.