Dies Irae
Page 18
She didn’t kick off her shoes this time. “We need to talk.” He smiled and took her coat, but there was a crafty glint in his eyes. He weighed the woman, the set of her shoulders, the stance.
“Coffee?”
“Yes.” She followed him into the kitchen.
“How was the ride down?”
“Comfortable. The roads were slick, but we had no trouble.”
“That car’s a beaut!” he said with pride.
She blurted it. She was never good at holding back. Her voice, soft and powerful with an undercurrent of steel, drove the words into his turned back. “I see a callous indifference to human life. The man I thought I saw does not exist. Manipulation, abuse of power … I’m at a loss. Do you want more?”
“No.” He turned and gave her a level look. “That’s the way it is, huh?” Mir tried to read his eyes, but a bland indifference had been dropped. “I thought we were alike, you and I.” He turned back to lift the finished coffee and pour it into the heavy glasses, “Guess I was wrong.”
Mir was dumbfounded. “You thought I would go along with the activities of the past twenty-thirty years?” She could not believe her ears. She took a mouthful of the hot coffee. “I’m going to report on every one of them.”
“Too bad!” The malevolence was real now, the powerful features had shed every aspect of amiability, the mouth was cruel and sneering. “I wouldn’t.” He walked over and stood above her. “Since that’s the way the wind blows, I’ll help myself to what I want tonight.”
A bruised and battered Mirari Buttrick Janah was delivered by black Lincoln to the back door of her home just before dawn. She called in sick at the office. Then she called the monastery and left a message for Sister Damian; she would need a couple of days, she had come down with the flu. She slept.
Christmas Eve Mass in the Cathedral that year was extremely beautiful. Three officiating bishops clad in the green vestments of hope called for hope in the coming of the Spirit. Hundreds of candles sent their flickering lights out into the hearts of the accumulated faithful.
The scent of fresh flowers filled the church. Sculptured red pointsetta daggers punctuated the white arrangements on either side of the high altar.
Newspaper articles later hinted that Bishop Danley had contracted some obscure viral infection on his recent trip to Asia. One young seminarian, helping him to robe up before the ceremonies, thought he began acting strange as soon as he slipped the exquisite new chasuble over his head.
Everybody was perspiring. With all the candles that were burning, the sanctuary was like a mini inferno.
No one could quite believe that he was dead. With an anguished cry, he keeled over at the joint consecration. The seminarians acting as altar boys ran first for the host he dropped. With great care, they held the circle of bread until it was decided that they should consume it. Figuring he had fainted, they did not rush as quickly to Danley’s side.
Mirari Buttrick Janah finished a very well documented article. It won her prizes.
She asked Eliaphus Daniel Janah to move back into the house two years afterwards. Merely a formality. He had been living there most of the time.
Sister Damian of Mary was elected to a six-year term as Mother Superior when Mother Michaels’ term expired. She made some interesting changes in the order’s function, changes that attracted many women to their life.
Father Elias served a two-year prison term. Upon release, shorn of his priestly duties, he found a job as a carpenter.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1990 by Ruby Spinell
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2848-6
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