Storm Warning

by Dinah McCall

  Mother Superior smiled. “It’s the antiquity of it all that gets to you, isn’t that right?”

  Sister Mary clapped her hands. “Yes! That’s it! It’s the antiquity. You stand on those streets and think of the centuries that the city has endured and the countless millions of people who’ve stood on the very places where you are walking, and you feel so small and humbled.”

  “Exactly how one should feel.”

  Sister Mary smiled. “Yes, I know. I’m still too full of myself. It’s a burden I bear. But I do it with a glad heart.”

  Mother Superior gave the young nun another rare grin. “And that heart is appreciated by us all,” she said softly. “But on to other matters. You have mail. It’s on Father Joseph’s desk in the other room. Why don’t you retrieve it before he comes back? That way he won’t be interrupted later.”

  “Yes, Mother. Thank you, Mother,” Sister Mary said, and bolted toward the door to the connecting office.

  “Walk, Sister, walk,” the Mother cautioned.

  Sister Mary skipped once and giggled, then slowed her run to long strides as she went inside to get her mail.

  “I’ve taken my bags to my room,” she called back over her shoulder. “As soon as I unpack, I’ll get to my duties.”

  Mother Superior smiled and then shook her head. “It’s almost three. There’s really no need to worry about duties until tomorrow. Go unpack your things. Enjoy your mail and get yourself acclimatized to the time change by going to bed early. We’ll start off fresh in the morning.”

  Sister Mary giggled again. “Yes, Mother, and thank you, thank you. Oh…it’s just so good to be back.”

  She flew out of the room as fast as she’d come in, her veil and her habit flying out behind her like a sail at full mast.

  Mother Superior shook her head and then went back to her work. The child was spirited, that was all, and there was nothing wrong with good spirit. They could use more women like her in God’s service.

  Sister Mary plopped onto her bed, oblivious to the spartan atmosphere of her room as she dug through her mail.

  “Oh, marvelous! A letter from Mother as well as one from Tommy.”

  Tommy was the brother closest to herself in age. She’d followed his every footstep as a child, forcing herself on him and his friends until they’d had to accept her as the royal pain that she was, and yet part of the lot. Excited about news from home, she ripped into his letter first, expecting to read stories of her newest nephew’s escapades. Her hopes were soon dashed as she started to read.

  Sis…I seem to remember you were in school for a short time with Josephine Henley, right? The reason I know is I hung out with her older brother Sammy until they moved. Anyway, I got some bad news from him the other day. It seems Jo-Jo, who had been living in Amarillo, committed suicide. Just walked out into the path of an oncoming truck. It’s all so sad. The family can’t believe it. Says she was happy and doing well, but who knows, right? Anyway, I’ve enclosed a clipping of the newspaper article that Sammy sent me. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought you’d want to know.

  She scanned the clipping in disbelief, then dropped the letter onto her lap. Her heart was aching for the family and for the little girl she remembered so well. Making a mental note to say prayers for both Jo-Jo and her family, she picked up her mother’s letter, confident it would contain better news.

  She was wrong.

  Georgia, darling…oh, sorry, I suppose you don’t go by that name anymore. I’m happy for your life, but I can’t bring myself to call you Sister Mary, so forgive me, sweetheart, if I digress.

  Anyway, I’ve been busy. Volunteering a couple of days a week at the hospital. You should see those “pink lady” outfits they expect us to wear. They’re too tight across the hips and too big in the bust for me. Or maybe it’s me that’s out of whack. Who knows? Oh, Aaron Spaulding said the next time I saw you to tell you hello. You know, he’s vice-president of the bank where he works now. He would have made a good husband. It’s too bad you broke up with him while he was still a teller. Oh…did I mention he’s still a bachelor? Although I suppose that’s of no interest to you anymore.

  Sister Mary grinned. Her mother, ever the Protestant, was still in shock that her only daughter had not only become Catholic, but had taken on the veil. She went back to the letter with interest.

  Another bit of news that I thought you might not know. Remember little Emily Patterson? She married that Jackson boy and they moved to Seattle? Well…her mother still lives down the block, so that’s how I know. Anyway, it was the saddest thing. Emily is dead. I’m so sorry to give you this news, because I remember you used to play together out on the sidewalk in front of our house after school.

  Anyway, you wouldn’t believe! Maybe you should say a prayer for her soul, considering what she’s done and all. But they say she committed suicide. Yes! Jumped off some bridge right into the water without a thought for her baby or husband. Frankly, it’s hard to believe, but you never know what children are going to grow up to be. After all, I would never have imagined I’d raise a child…my only daughter…who would turn herself into a nun. Not that it’s bad. But it wasn’t expected. I’m enclosing a clipping from the Seattle paper about the incident. You can read for yourself. Call me sometime if they’ll let you. I always think of you behind those stone walls as if you were in prison, although I’m sure it’s not so. Is it? You do get to call when you want to, don’t you?

  Sister Mary’s hands had started to shake. This was more than she could handle. Without finishing the rest of the letter, she dropped to her knees by the side of her bed and began to pray in earnest, sick at heart for the loss of her friends and the families they’d left behind.

  Night had finally come to Sacred Heart. Vespers were over and Sister Mary Teresa had retired to her room with the rest of her mail as yet unopened.

  She sat down on her bed and then opened the drawer to the small, bedside table, silently dropping the letters from her mother and brother inside. As she closed the drawer, she couldn’t help but feel as if she’d symbolically buried two old friends. Glancing down at the stack of letters yet to be opened, she felt an odd sense of dread. Impulsively, she started to slip her thumb beneath the flap of the top envelope and then changed her mind and set all the mail aside. Her heart was heavy, her spirit exceedingly low. There was no room for anything else inside her tonight. But as her spirits dropped, she knew right where to go for revival. She reached for her Bible and, with a heartfelt sigh, whispered a quick prayer and then opened it, seeking comfort between the lines of the ancient text.

  Time passed—time in which an acceptance of the news had settled within her—and then a knock sounded on the door.

  “Come in,” she said softly.

  The door swung inward. Mother Superior stood silhouetted against the shadows of the hall beyond.

  “I saw your light,” she said. “Are you ill?”

  Sister Mary sighed. “At heart,” she said, quietly closing the Bible she’d been reading and laying it next to her bed.

  “Can I help?”

  “Pray for the lost,” Sister Mary answered, thinking of the souls of two friends who would forever be lost to the Lord.

  “Go to bed, child. Tomorrow is another day.”

  Sister Mary nodded.

  The door closed behind the old nun. Sister Mary stared at the doorknob until her eyes began to burn; then she stood and began to get ready for bed. Mother Superior was right. Tomorrow was another day.

  The same night, St. Louis, Missouri

  Virginia Shapiro turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, reaching for a bath towel as she turned toward the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Steam from her bath had fogged the surface and was beginning to run in small rivulets down the glass. She thought about cleaning it off but was in too big a hurry. Wrapping her wet hair in the towel, she quickly reached for another with which to dry. A few quick swipes of the towel against her body and she
was out of the bathroom and heading toward her closet, ignoring the lingering dampness of her long, lanky limbs. The DNA she’d been allotted in life had not allowed for excess in any form, and while many women would willingly have traded her for her tall, svelte figure, it was a great source of disgust to Ginny that she could easily go without a bra and no one would notice. The only bounce to Ginny Shapiro was in her step. Jiggling was a part of femininity that had passed her by, and she had yet to forgive her mother for marrying a man whose inseam was almost double his waist size.

  A small clock in the hallway suddenly chimed. She spun, a dress in one hand and a pair of shoes in the other, as she glanced at the time.

  Oh no! Quarter to five. Joe would be there any minute.

  With jerky movements, she flung the clothes on her bed and began digging underwear from the dresser. Within the space of five minutes, she was back in the bathroom, peering through the drying streaks she’d made on the mirror as she hastily applied her makeup.

  Flinging a lipstick down on the counter, she grabbed a hair dryer, turning it on full blast. Her straight, shoulder-length hair was a mass of still-damp tangles when she heard the doorbell chime. With one last look at herself in the mirror, she finger-combed her hair into a semblance of order, blew herself a kiss in the mirror and made a run for the door.

  Just before she turned the doorknob, she took a deep breath, rolled her eyes at the absurdity of making such a fuss over a dinner date with someone who would never be more than a friend, and then flung the door wide.

  “I hope you’re hungry. I’m starved, and I would hate to eat more than you,” she said.

  Joe Mallory grinned. “You always eat more than me.”

  Ginny arched an eyebrow as she shouldered her purse.

  “That will cost you dessert,” she claimed, and slammed the door shut behind her.

  Moments later they were in the elevator and on their way down to the street where Joe had parked. Sounds of their laughter echoed up the elevator shaft as they emerged arm in arm. They were too far away to hear the sudden strident ringing of Ginny’s phone and then the message on her answering machine as the call was picked up.

  This is Virginia Shapiro. Leave a message after the beep.

  The beep sounded, but no message was forthcoming. Long moments of silence passed before the connection was broken. It didn’t matter. The call would be made again. There was still time.

  The next morning, Sister Mary Teresa’s hands were shaking as she reached for the receiver to make her call. The letters in her lap and the one e-mail she’d received from a distant cousin were a truth she couldn’t ignore. Five women from her first-grade class had committed suicide, all within the space of a couple of months.

  And there was an odd twist to the incidents that she hadn’t realized until she’d made her condolence calls to the five women’s families. To the last one, they’d supposedly been fine until receiving a simple telephone call. But what horrible news could they possibly have received that would drive them to such destruction? It didn’t make sense. Added to that was the fact that those names all rang another bell in her memory, and she knew who to call for answers.

  She took a deep breath and then punched in the numbers. When she heard her mother’s voice on the other end of the line, she felt an overwhelming urge to be a child again—to lay her head in her mother’s lap and wait for her to make everything right. Then she stifled the weakness and put a lilt in her voice when, in truth, she wanted to cry.

  “Mother! It’s me.”

  Edna Dudley grinned. “Darling! You’re back! How was Rome?”

  “Wonderful, and so spiritually rejuvenating. Say, Mother, I would love to visit longer, but I’m late now. We’re going to Children’s Hospital this morning, and I don’t want the van to leave without me, but I need a favor.”

  “Anything,” Edna said.

  “Do you remember where my old yearbook is from Montgomery Academy?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think it’s still on a shelf in your room. Do you want me to look?”

  Sister Mary hesitated.

  “It won’t take a minute,” Edna said. “I’m already upstairs.”

  “Then yes, would you please? It’s important.”

  Edna laid down the phone.

  Sister Mary could hear her mother’s receding footsteps and then, a minute later, the loud, positive clip of shoes against the floor. She could just picture her mother’s stride on the shining hardwood in the old upstairs hall.

  “Yes, it’s here,” Edna said.

  Sister Mary sighed with relief. “Okay, great! Now open it up and look for our class picture. There will be a smaller picture right below it.”

  “Just a minute,” Edna muttered. “I need to lay down the phone.”

  Sister Mary glanced at the clock over the office door and then said a quick prayer.

  “Yes! Here it is,” Edna said. “Oh…I’d forgotten how tiny you girls were at six. You and that little Shapiro girl were inseparable. I seem to remember she’s working for a newspaper now, is that right?”

  Sister Mary took a deep breath, trying to make herself stay calm when all she wanted to do was scream at her mother to stop chatting. People were dying, and she didn’t know why.

  “Yes, she’s a reporter for a paper in St. Louis,” she said. “I got a Christmas card from her last year. Now, could you read off the names of the girls who were in that special class with me?”

  “Is that the little picture right below the one of the entire class?” Edna asked.

  “Yes. Please, Mother, I’m in a hurry.”

  “Okay, here goes. Do you have a pen?”

  “Mother…please…just read.”

  “Let’s see, there’s Emily Patterson, Josephine Henley, Lynn Bernstein, Frances Bahn, Allison Turner, Virginia Shapiro and you. Seven in all.”

  Sister Mary had to swallow to keep from screaming. For some, names had changed due to marriages, but her memory hadn’t failed her. Every one of the women who’d died had been a part of that class.

  “Is there anything else you need, dear?” Edna asked.

  “Yes. If you don’t mind, would you please overnight the yearbook to me?”

  “Overnight? Those charges are so high. Why don’t I just—”

  “Mother, please. I need it.”

  “All right. I’ll go straight down to FedEx as soon as we hang up.”

  Sister Mary sighed. “Thank you, Mother. Thank you a thousand times.”

  Edna laughed. “You’re welcome, dear. We miss you, you know.”

  Sister Mary’s voice began to shake. “I miss you, too, Mother. Oh…Mother?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I love you, you know. I love you very much.”

  Edna smiled. “I know you do, sweetheart. God bless.”

  Sister Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes…God bless,” she echoed, and quietly hung up the phone.

  She stared first at the letters, then at the list of names her mother had given her. The truth was there, but it didn’t make sense. Unless the laws of coincidence had been violated more harshly than she could believe possible, someone was behind those deaths, and she and Ginny Shapiro were the only two left alive. Within the past two months, five young and vital women with everything to live for had taken their own lives. She couldn’t help thinking that she and Ginny would be next.

  Then her rational mind shifted into action, and she began to think back over what she’d just learned. There were two common threads that she was aware of: the special class they’d been in, and the fact that each death had happened after a phone call.

  But who could have called? Even more puzzling, what in God’s sweet name could they have said to trigger something as horrendous as this? Something was wrong—horribly wrong—and she didn’t think prayers were enough to stop what was happening. She needed to get help before she and Ginny also succumbed.

  After a quick search through her address book, she dialed Ginny’s number at home. Wh
en the answering machine came on, she slapped her head in disgust. What was the matter with her? Ginny would be at work. She made the second call, this time to the St. Louis Daily, where Ginny worked, only to find out that Ginny was out of the office for the day. She left a message for Ginny to call her and then hung up. Now she was really scared.

  Immediately her thoughts shifted to Sullivan Dean, her brother’s best friend. As a child, Sully had been her white knight. She’d given up her dreams of marrying him on the day she’d given her heart to the Lord. But Sullivan Dean was still a white knight. The only difference now was that his metaphorical sword came in the form of a badge, compliments of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Yes, Sullivan Dean was a Fed. A hard-nosed, implacable cop for Uncle Sam. He would know what to make of all this, but to do so, he would need all the information she had.

  She quickly made copies of everything she’d received, along with a brief note telling him of her fears, and then sent a duplicate set of the information to Ginny, as well. Ginny had to be warned immediately. She would drop the packages off at FedEx right now, on the way to the hospital to visit the children.

  Later she went to the evening meal with a lighter heart. The burden of what she suspected had been shared, and if she knew Sullivan, he would be calling as soon as he got her package. When Mother Superior gave the blessing, Sister Mary Teresa added a small prayer of her own.

  Please, God, help us in our hour of need.

  “Sister Mary Teresa, would you please pass the bread?”

  Sister Mary raised her head and grinned at the woman on her right. Sister Frances Xavier was very fond of bread, as her round little body attested.

  “Certainly,” she said, and passed the bowl of rolls just as the sound of a jackhammer abruptly broke the peace within the room. She jumped, almost dropping the bowl.

  “It’s only the workmen,” Sister Frances said.

  “What workmen?”

  “The ones down in the basement. There’s something wrong with the plumbing, I think. You know how old the pipes must be in this place.” Then she leaned close and dropped her voice to a whisper as she lifted a roll from the bowl Sister Mary was holding. “Mother Superior was all in a fuss about it. Said they’re disturbing the sanctity and peace of Sacred Heart.” Then she giggled and added, “But Father Joseph said that one hundred and twenty-three nuns and no bathrooms or running water would be what constituted a real disturbance, not this little bit of noise.”