by Maura Weiler
“I’m the Judas here.”
I recalled the painting and realized that it was Jesus, not Judas, who had borne the curled right hand before the images of both men burned away a moment before. I shivered despite the blazing fire.
“I betrayed you when I promised Dad I’d look you up and never did,” she said, sitting beside me on the couch and staring straight ahead. “I was afraid meeting you would change everything.”
“And it has.”
Catherine nodded. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t ask for his talent. I didn’t choose painting—it chose me. I don’t want it, I don’t like it, but I can’t avoid it. I’d ignore it, but I can’t live without it.”
“It’s the same with me and writing,” I said. “Though I’m guilty of ambition as well.”
“Then be careful,” she said, turning to look at me. “Dad was ambitious too and enjoyed his fame. When he changed his style and the acclaim went away, he replaced it with alcohol and lost everything, including my respect. I don’t want any part of fame or ambition, but I can’t avoid painting. So I offered myself up to God as His instrument and the paintings as my prayers. I’ve given away everything so I could paint in peace, which is why I got upset when you threatened that.”
I paused, stunned by all my sister had sacrificed to escape fame. It was still true that Catherine painted for God, but now I saw that as the byproduct of her desire to avoid acclaim, not vice versa.
“I’m so sorry, Catherine.”
Behind us, the huge door opened with a shudder. My twin and I rose to our feet the moment we saw Mother Benedicta enter the common room. Several other sisters gathered and watched the commotion from the threshold.
“Sister Catherine! I am appalled by this outburst.” Mother peered at Catherine from beneath angry eyebrows and pointed to the smoldering canvas. “You will do double chores this month and ask the forgiveness of your fellow sisters for destroying community property.”
Catherine bowed meekly.
“Did you give Ms. McKenna a chance to apologize before this unholy display of temper?”
“We were just...” I stepped in, suddenly protective.
Catherine shook her head.
“I cannot command you to forgive her for compromising your privacy.” Mother Benedicta softened her tone. “Whether you do or not is between you and God. But you should know that despite whatever intentions Dorie may have had, the story and photos were published against her wishes. Indeed, if she is to blame, then so am I.”
Catherine and I both looked at the prioress, who straightened the folds of her habit and touched the cross around her neck.
“I allowed her to enter the aspirancy program knowing full well that she had a professional interest in your work and a personal interest in you. I believed I saw what might be a true vocation in her, and in my zeal I admitted her without proper forethought as to how her presence might affect your artistic avocation. I’m sorry for whatever pain my decision caused you. I hope you can forgive me.”
“And me,” I added, choosing to ignore Mother’s comment about seeing a true vocation in me because I simply couldn’t handle it.
Catherine nodded in acknowledgment of both of us. We watched the embers sputter and die in silence. I rolled back and forth on the balls of my feet before speaking again.
“Unfortunately, there’s something else I need to tell you.”
Catherine braced her shoulders and waved for me to continue.
“That story was only one excerpt from my notes,” I said. “My editor intends to publish the rest in a series of articles.”
Mother and Catherine shared a look.
“I spent an hour of the drive up here on the phone with a lawyer trying to figure out how to stop publication, but it doesn’t look good. I signed a contract when I got hired granting The Comet the right of first refusal on every article I write while on the payroll. Even if I get a court order to stop my boss, it would take weeks, and by that time he’ll have published the series anyway. I will do everything I can, but the bottom line is, you’re going to get a lot more coverage.”
Catherine went pale.
“Courage, Sister.” Mother Benedicta put a hand on the artist’s shoulder. “If there’s nothing she can do, there’s nothing we can do save accept this as God’s will.”
My twin closed her eyes and lowered her head.
“After all, we did give up everything when we became Brides of Christ, if not specifically our privacy.” Mother turned to me. “As long as she can keep her dignity.”
“Absolutely.” I bobbed my chin up and down. “I can tell you that it’s all very flattering, if that’s any consolation.”
“Flattery isn’t exactly something we seek out, but it beats blasphemy.” The prioress sighed.
The first bell rang for the Divine Office of None. Catherine looked to Mother, grateful for the possibility of escape.
“You may go, Sister. I’ll see our guest out.”
Catherine bowed to Mother and mustered a making-the-best-of-it smile for me before hurrying off to chapel in the wake of the spying doorway nuns who had turned to leave.
“I am so sorry for all of this.” I truly was.
“Don’t be.” Mother inspected the contents of the smoking hearth and reached for a fireplace tong. “I don’t regret admitting you to the cloister. For all we know, you’re the catalyst God has been looking for.”
“I am?” My eyes widened.
“Since you kept your promise not to publish and the story came out anyway, I’m inclined to think God had a hand in this. Perhaps the Lord decided it was high time to share your sister’s talent with the public. Just maybe not this picture.” The prioress poked at the heap of shriveled canvas before us.
“I guess anything’s possible. But she stated her position so convincingly just now that—”
“She spoke to you?” Mother asked.
“I forgot to tell you in the confusion, but yes, she did.”
“We are talking about Sister Catherine?”
I nodded. “She was pretty furious.”
“Whatever it takes.” Mother kissed the cross around her neck. “I sometimes suspect that Sister’s vow of silence has more to do with avoiding her personal issues than devotion to Our Lord. You moved her to speak her first words outside of prayer in five years. That in itself makes up for your article.”
As I watched the last tendrils of smoke rise from the painting my own words had helped destroy, I couldn’t help but disagree.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“You suck.” Arms akimbo, I squared off with my editor in his office that evening.
“Happily, you don’t. Those journals are dynamite.”
“They’re also private.”
“Nobody with famous relatives gets to have privacy,” he said, reaching into the drawer where he kept his best cigars.
“Regardless, you had no right to—”
“To what? Let you sell it to another paper when you contractually owed it to me?” He unwrapped a Cohiba, lit a match, and took a puff. “Because you’re way too driven to let a piece like that go unpublished.”
“Typically, yes.” I waved the fetid smoke away from my face. “But I gave the nuns my word that I wouldn’t print the story.”
“All while promising me that you would. You should thank me. Just saved your job and made your career.”
“You made me a liar.”
“No, you did when you promised them something you couldn’t deliver.”
“I know, I know.” I dropped into a chair, deflated. “I need someone to be mad at because I’m tired of yelling at myself.” I got up again. “I’m going home.”
“Do that. And smile, McKenna. You’re a star.”
• • •
Back in my apartment, I sat on my couch and considered the blank notebook on the wicker coffee table. After the briefest hesitation, I picked it up and wrote. I wrote of the joy of this unbidden, but very real professional success, a shinin
g moment eclipsed by my guilt over hurting my sister in the process. I wrote of my confusion about Matt, about my place in the world, or away from it. I wrote of my wish that I’d never felt compelled to write at all, ever, aware of the irony in finding relief in the very act that brought on the trouble in the first place.
I preferred not to commit words to paper or computer screen, would rather have skipped telling tales of life, choosing instead to live it. But I couldn’t help myself. Terrifying as it was, this recording of the world going by and my speculation about it was often the time I felt most alive. Was it possible to live life in an act of creation based on the mere observation of life? Did I exist most fully in the moments when I stopped my own progress to pause and record the past, if only the past of a split-second before, or was it my way of stopping the world and getting off?
Mother Benedicta once spoke of dying to the outside world and its temptations in order to be born into a higher life of contemplation for Christ. Catherine’s entrance into the cloister gave her the kind of solitary life that can sometimes make great art possible. It looked to me like the narrow surroundings of my twin’s physical orbit opened up a broader canvas for her brush and expanded the prayer life of her fellow sisters. But was that logical, or ironic?
Before I could decide, the doorbell rang.
“Hey, Dorie.” Matt chucked me on the shoulder and walked into my living room. His friendly gesture failed to relieve the awkwardness between us, but I appreciated the effort.
“Hey,” I managed.
“We wrapped early. I stopped by your office, but they said you’d taken off.” He picked up my tennis racket from where it rested near the door and bounced his palm against it as if to check the strings. “I saw your article.”
I shut the door and prepared for a lecture. “I never intended for that to—”
“Yeah, I know. Graciela told me what happened. But it looks like old Phil knew better than the rest of us this time. It’s a great piece, Dorie. One of your best.”
“Thank you.” I dropped onto the couch and stared at the floor.
“Are you all right?” Matt reunited the racket with my tennis bag across the room and sat beside me.
I nodded “yes,” then shook my head “no” and started to cry.
“Shhhh, it’s okay.” He put his arms around me and squeezed.
“She burned it,” I said, burying my face in Matt’s UCLA sweatshirt. “She actually set it on fire.”
“Hold on now, slow down.” He pushed the hair out of my eyes. “Who set what on fire?”
“The painting. My sister burned a painting in front of me to prove that it doesn’t matter if anyone sees it. But it did matter, and now it’s gone.”
“That’s not your fault.” He seemed to want to convince himself as much as me. “She’s a grown woman who made her own choice.”
“It is my fault,” I said. “Catherine’s painted over things before, but at least they were still there underneath. This one is gone forever as a direct result of my article.”
“You don’t know that. Most artists would’ve been thrilled by your coverage. You couldn’t have known your sister would react that way.”
“Oh, I had a pretty good idea.” I wiped my runny nose on my shirtsleeve. “Don’t you want to say I told you so?”
“No reason to.” He pulled a clean bandanna out of his pocket and held it to my nose. “Blow.”
I complied.
“You had already decided not to write the story,” Matt continued. “It’s not your fault that your boss got industrious.”
“It still feels like it is.”
I took the impromptu tissue from him and blew my nose again. I started to hand it back when I’d finished, then decided I’d better wash it first.
“I can’t stop you from feeling guilty, but I for one absolve you of any wrongdoing.” Matt pulled off his sweatshirt and set it on the wobbly arm of the couch. “Granted I’ve been skeptical of, not to mention a little threatened by, this whole thing, but now that it’s over, I don’t think it turned out all that badly.”
“I do. And I’m not so sure it is over.” I folded and refolded the bandanna. “I’ve opened a huge can of worms here, and I have a feeling I’m gonna have to go fishing.”
“Maybe so. But your writing is getting the attention it deserves, and that’s cool.”
“Yeah, I’m grateful for that.” I wiped my eyes with a clean corner of the bandanna. “Sorry about my blubbering. I’m the last person you need crying on your shoulder these days.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. But my shoulder won’t be available after tonight. Not for a couple of months, anyway.” He stood up. “Evan got me a gig on his next film and it shoots in North Carolina.”
“That’s great, Matt. Let me know how often I need to water your plants and—”
“Actually, um, the kid in that front apartment is gonna do it.” He scratched his nose and turned his eyes away.
“Oh, okay.” I tried to cover up my disappointment that my customary job had been reassigned.
“Yeah, he’s saving up for some Cub Scout trip or something, so I figured I’d give him the chance to earn a few bucks.”
“I understand.” And I did, all too well.
“So if you’d give him your key next time you see him…”
“Got it.” I blinked back fresh tears before Matt saw them. “Hey listen, about last night, I—”
“Don’t worry about it. You take care.” He retreated out the door and closed it gently behind him.
I watched him go, already missing him. Why was our romantic timing always off? I picked up the notebook again and wrote. The man I’d talked myself out of wanting to marry because I never thought he’d ask had proposed. And I’d said no. Was it him I didn’t want anymore, or marriage itself? Matt was the same loving, if absentee, friend he’d always been—not always there when you wanted him, but right there when you needed him. I was the one who had changed. But into whom?
I wrote for hours, until my hand ached and the paper ran out. I flipped through the ink-filled pages and examined the scrawl that grew more illegible when my tired hand couldn’t keep up with my thoughts.
All at once the notebook felt like an alien thing with a life of its own. I remembered what happened the last time someone read my private thoughts and vowed that it wouldn’t happen again.
I spied Matt’s forgotten sweatshirt on the couch, pulled it on, and then grabbed the notebook and walked out into the moonlight. The sand had cooled with the fading sun and tickled my feet. I took care to avoid splinters as I stepped onto the nearest pier and inhaled a lungful of salty air.
I considered the notebook I held for a long time. Then I ripped out the pages and dropped them into the water one by one. As the blue ink bled and the water scrubbed the pages white again, I realized how different my twin and I were. Catherine ruined her work to avoid acclaim, while I did so only to avoid repercussions. I would have embraced the praise if I could have gotten away clean.
Yet I found appeal in my sister’s artistic vandalism. I saw it reflected in the paper scraps in the water and the circle of totems on the beach nearby. Detached from the results enough to drown them or let the wind topple them over, finding fulfillment in the process of creation alone, I felt no need for an audience. I didn’t know what Catherine’s reasoning was, but for me, no audience meant there was no one and nothing to fear.
• • •
The next day, I wrote a letter to Matt explaining my feelings as much as I understood them myself. I didn’t want the declined proposal to be the end of our friendship but accepted that it probably was and collected his things from around my apartment. I filled a shopping bag with borrowed tools, books, and a spare cell phone charger but found I couldn’t part with his sweatshirt. I held it up to my cheek. It still smelled of Matt’s woodsy soap. Keeping the fleece, I locked the rest of the items into his apartment along with the letter, and then dropped his house key off with the neighbor kid.
Arriving at the newsroom, I muddled through the flood of compliments from my coworkers.
“Way to go, chica!” Graciela gushed.
“Great piece,” acknowledged the Features Editor, a former Chicago Tribune reporter who’d taken the Comet job for fun after retiring to California. “We need to talk.”
“Dude, you rule,” Rod the intern concluded.
It was the kind of praise I’d dreamt about my whole career, but now it produced a knot in my stomach. I sat down to do a follow-up piece on Carmie, the two-headed goat, newsworthy again for delivering seven kids, but found my fingers typing a formal request for a leave of absence instead. I couldn’t afford to take unpaid leave, but I needed time to think. If that meant going into more debt, then I would go into more debt.
Letter in hand, I knocked on Phil’s open door. He waved me in and continued talking on the phone.
“She’s a gem, all right.” He winked at me. “Glad you’re enjoying the series. Give a call on those ads.”
Phil hung up and rubbed his hands together. “How’s my star reporter this morning? Seen your latest installment?”
“Not yet.”
“Rest of L.A. has. More highbrow than we’re used to but damn good. Attracted a whole new readership. People who wouldn’t normally be caught dead reading The Comet have subscribed. Wouldn’t be surprised if some Hollywood type calls about the film rights.”
“I’d like to take a leave of absence,” I said in my best assertive voice.
“And I’m headlining on Broadway.”
“I’m serious.”
“You hit your stride and you want to quit?” he asked. For a split second, he looked genuinely concerned about my sanity.