by Alena Dillon
* * *
Time had not been generous; Bishop Robert Hawkins looked like a mole man. He was stooped in stature, with puffy cheeks and whiskers that traveled farther up his face than one would expect. His eyes were squinted, but not from smiling—it was more like he was constantly trying to make his way around in the dark. His lips were purplish and fleshy. He wore a black cassock, a white collar, and a gold amethyst ring, and an intricately designed cross rested on his potbelly. The sight of him in the entryway of Mercy House—in her entryway—made Evelyn’s ears fill with a deafening hiss.
“Did we interrupt your nap, Sister?” the bishop asked as Evelyn descended the stairs.
She wondered how many others he’d abused since he’d forced himself on her. How many lives he’d shattered. “Nice to see you, Bishop Hawkins. I hope you are well.”
The bishop nodded his appreciation. “I see my reputation precedes me. I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”
She wanted to dropkick the lying bastard and watch him gasp for breath. She stuck out her hand. “Helen Hywater,” she said.
His lips puckered as if he tasted something bitter.
Josephine forced a laugh, laced an arm around Evelyn’s shoulder, and pinched her bicep. “Sister Evelyn is kidding, of course. She serves the Lord with joy and gladness of heart, and we are all blessed for it.”
“We are blessed, we are blessed!” Maria said with the varied cadence of a black preacher. Josephine shot her a look and Maria shrugged, as if that lilt had been just as surprising to her.
“Yes, well, thank you for joining us, Sister Evelyn,” Bishop Hawkins said.
Mercy House was theirs. They obtained grants to run the facility. They rescued and rehabilitated the girls. They committed all their days to this one single cause. Thank you for joining us? He was the guest. “My pleasure,” she muttered.
“Well, I see this house is holding itself together,” he said, surveying the cracked plaster ceiling. “Barely.”
“It’s not much, but it’s home,” Maria said with a content smile, not detecting his patronization.
The bishop clasped his hands at his crotch and rocked back onto his heels. “I’ll be staying upstairs, I presume. Hopefully it’s cleaner up there. My bags are in the car.”
The nuns exchanged meaningful stares and Josephine said, “Bishop, we are so happy to have you here. It truly is an honor, and we welcome you. But I’m sure you can appreciate how uncomfortable our residents might feel with a strange male presence in the house.”
“I want to fully immerse myself in the workings of this center. You can assure them I am not a threat.”
Screw you, screw you, screw you! Evelyn thought. Her hands grabbed the loose fabric of the legs of her jeans and clutched it at her sides. “That’ll put their minds at ease.” The flippancy in her voice earned her a second pinch from Josephine. Little did Josephine know how much Evelyn was already filtering.
“What Evelyn means is recovery is a lot more complicated than simple reassurances. It takes time for victims to trust again, to feel safe. Since the purpose of this house is to serve as a sanctuary, and these residents are our top priority, we wouldn’t want to jeopardize their feelings of security. I’m sure, as someone who is dedicated to helping the poor, abused, and marginalized, that you understand.”
The bishop ran his index finger across the chair rail, inspected the dusty results, flicked the filth away, and frowned. “Perhaps I’d be better rested if I stayed in a hotel, anyway. Sister Evelyn,” he said, his gaze flickering up to hers, “you appreciate the importance of rest.”
Evelyn wanted to lunge at the man, but didn’t want to unravel Josephine’s artful persuasion. He wouldn’t be staying with them—that was what was important. She spread her lips into a smile so artificial it insulted her cheeks. “Even God rested on the seventh day. I, for one, am humble enough to admit I am not as mighty as God.”
“Yes, well, I had hoped to tour the house today and dine with you and your guests this evening, but now I have to concern myself with finding a place to lay my head. So, if you’ll excuse me.” He unhooked his wool coat from the rack. “I’ll return in the morning, Sisters,” he said and left without waiting for their goodbyes.
Evelyn leaned out the door he had left ajar and called down the sidewalk, “There’s a very accommodating motel two blocks down. They rent by the hour.”
When she closed Mercy House’s front door behind her rapist, the entryway blurred around her. Her fingers grazed the wall, anchoring her as she floated down the hall to the nearest bathroom. She turned on the faucet and then, so the other women wouldn’t hear, quietly vomited into the toilet.
Father John didn’t work in the grandest space in St. Joseph of Mercy Church. He had donated his office, with its oversized windows and wood paneling, to be used as a center for the youth group, support meetings, and various other church ministries, and had appropriated for himself a windowless corner of the building, which he decorated with secondhand furniture, statues of saints, and a black-and-white photo of his mother.
Father John, or little Johnny MacLeese, as the kids had called him, grew up down the block from the Fanning family. Ten years his senior, Evelyn spent many afternoons and evenings babysitting the little sweetheart. Since she always knew she would become a nun, and therefore would never have a family, she treasured those times, and often persuaded Johnny to play house so that she could pretend she was his mother.
Evelyn was thrilled when Father John took over St. Joseph of Mercy Church in the late 1990s. So many priests strutted around church premises like proud cockatiels, as if they were in charge of so much more than an order of nuns and the restoration of a decaying sanctuary. They mistook imparting absolution on God’s behalf as being God Himself. And although she hadn’t spoken to Johnny MacLeese in many years at the time, she remembered him as a gentle boy, and hoped he hadn’t outgrown that quality, as it was a characteristic to treasure in a priest. She wasn’t disappointed. Since his arrival, he had led them with grace and humility.
Although it was almost eight o’clock at night, Evelyn knew she’d find him in his office in the almost-dark, pouring over budgets or drafting a sermon by lamplight, his fingers laced through a heap of silvered hair that could use a wash and a cut.
She switched on the overhead fluorescents and he startled at the sudden brightness. But when his eyes adjusted and he found Evelyn in the doorway, his squinting eyes remained narrowed in a smile.
“Sister Evelyn! What a lovely surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from one of my favorite nuns?”
She stepped in front of the chair that faced his desk but didn’t sit. “We need to talk about Bishop Hawkins.”
The priest’s eyebrows rose on his forehead. “Already?”
“He’s a dangerous man,” Evelyn said and clasped her hands at her waist to emphasize her solemnity.
Father John flicked his hand as if to brush away her worry. “He’s a little rough around the edges, sure, but ‘dangerous’ seems a bit dramatic, doesn’t it?”
“That may be the go-to adjective for men to call women with whom they disagree, but have you ever known me to be dramatic, Father?”
“I have not. I apologize,” he said, placing his hand over his heart to demonstrate his sincerity. “Forgive me for letting my maleness show so obtrusively. All I meant is that I find it hard to believe Bishop Hawkins is dangerous. He’s a man of God, after all.”
Evelyn scoffed. “That doesn’t mean much these days.”
Father John reclined in his chair. “Now who is generalizing?” he asked with a wink. But when Evelyn didn’t soften at his tease, he pushed himself to his feet, walked around his desk to be closer to her, and leaned his backside against the front edge. “I know he seems a bit . . . churlish. But you of all people should know outer appearances can be deceiving. And a gruff exterior isn’t the only thing you two have in common. When he isn’t touring the country checking up on our beloved nuns or running h
is diocese, he heads a summer camp for low-income kids. You should see the photos on his website, children hanging off him every which way. They love him. How bad a guy could he be?” Evelyn opened her mouth, first to eradicate any correlation between the Hawk’s character and her own, and second to remind Father John that just because a person is evil doesn’t mean they are evil in all things, but Father John pressed on. “We’re on the same team,” he said, gesturing between them, but she knew he meant more than just the two people in that room; he was referring to all holy men and women. “We just want what is best for the church, for one another, and for all of God’s children.”
Evelyn almost envied his relentless optimism. She sighed deeply. “I know that’s true for you.”
Father John folded his arms over his chest and looked down at Evelyn from above the frame of his glasses. “Do you have general concerns, or did something happen with Bishop Hawkins?”
Even if she told him about her history with the bishop, what could he do? Defrock him? Toss the man in jail? Father John was a subordinate too, with more influence and protection than Evelyn, but still subject to the church hierarchy. The truth would only burden him and purposelessly tarnish his idealism. Besides, she wasn’t there to talk about what had happened with the bishop. She was there to get assurances for Mercy House. She shook her head. “No, nothing happened.”
His expression lifted in relief. “Will you give the guy a chance? For me?”
It was then that Evelyn remembered how oblivious people with a sense of security could be. Father John had no idea what was at stake for the women at 284 Chauncey Street. He didn’t know what it was to be at someone else’s mercy. He couldn’t help her. She nodded brusquely, turned, and walked out of his office, not even pausing when he called after her, “Sister?”
That night, after the girls had gone to sleep, Evelyn handed the four boxes marked by lipstick down the attic hatch to Josephine and Maria. She felt like a parent sneaking presents past the closed bedroom doors of their children on Christmas Eve, but without any of the magic.
They hauled the files downstairs to the living room and sat together on the rug before the blazing hearth. Evelyn exhaled a long breath, and then peeled off the lid of the box nearest her.
“I can’t think of any other way,” she said to the others as much as to herself.
“Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean they didn’t happen,” Maria said, clinging to a box of records as if it were a life raft.
Evelyn pulled out the first file in the row. Anna Walsh. An addict of Irish heritage. When working with her, Evelyn felt she was working with a version of her past self, which made it all the more satisfying when Anna—clean for three years—earned her associate degree. Evelyn rubbed the manila folder between her fingers. She whispered, “Hail, holy Queen, Mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears. Turn then, most gracious Advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us, and after this, our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary. Amen.” Then she tossed the folder onto the flames.
Inside these files were the stories of rape victims who now worked in crisis centers. Abused women who now enjoyed healthy marriages. Women who were once self-loathing but had learned to love themselves. Broken women, rebuilt. This was the nuns’ life work, and they mourned each and every lost document. They gripped each record in their hands for a moment, with Maria sometimes pressing it to her chest, before ultimately feeding the file to the flames. Not a word was exchanged between them as the papers blackened and curled. Now the only proof of their accomplishments would lie in memories, in the same place that held their regrets.
But at least Bishop Hawkins could never find them there.
On her way out for a neighborhood walk the next morning, Evelyn slipped a sandwich bag of quarters into her pocket; she would distribute change to anyone who looked like they could use some generosity of spirit and fill parking meters on the verge of expiring. But just as she reached for the front doorknob, it turned all on its own, and opened to reveal Bishop Hawkins’s face, flushed from the cold.
She should have pushed the door closed. She should have demanded he ask permission to be let inside. Instead, as was her way with him, she stepped back. “How’d you unlock the door?” she asked, and entered the security code before the alarm woke the entire house.
The bishop removed his leather gloves, handed them to Evelyn, and then walked past her to the kitchen. “Father John was kind enough to supply me with a spare key, as you overlooked such a courtesy.”
Evelyn’s toes curled in her shoes. Father John wouldn’t recognize a wolf in sheep’s clothing if one howled in his face.
He opened cabinets and clanged around the kitchen while she stood in the foyer, still shocked by his sudden appearance. By the time she got ahold of herself, she realized she was gripping gloves that were still warm from his filthy touch, like she was his damned butler. She dropped the gloves on the floor and crushed them beneath her work boot.
Bishop Hawkins was seated at the kitchen table, drinking coffee out of Evelyn’s favorite mug, his coat draped neatly over the back of his chair. He looked comfortable. Although, in his clergy vestments, he’d never assimilate with civilians, not like Evelyn did, in her faded New York Jets sweatshirt and decade-old Levi’s.
Evelyn cleared her throat. “I hope the bedbugs didn’t bite.”
“The Brooklyn Bridge Marriott suited me just fine,” the bishop said. His long fingers stretched and curled around the base of the mug, fondling it almost lewdly.
She remembered those fingers around her waist, and then the next day around the Communion chalice, serving her the blood of Christ. She remembered his guttural moan. You wanted this, you whore. You made me do this. This is your sin, not mine. Her nostrils flared.
“I’m glad you’re here, Elizabeth. I hoped to speak to you,” he said and gestured to the seat beside him. Evelyn was sure his error was intentional, and a surge of animosity rushed from her heart to her fingertips. He continued, “Please, explain to me what it is you believe Mercy House accomplishes.”
Evelyn squeezed her arms to her sides. “Surely you don’t mean to imply the insight I will provide is merely my own perception, rather than a reality.”
Bishop Hawkins chuckled and waved his hand. “You’re reading too deeply into my words. Don’t think so hard so early in the morning.”
Evelyn gnawed on her bottom lip while she studied the rodent man, the criminal. Oh, how she longed to indict him then and there, to humiliate him. “I’m cranky before caffeine.”
His expression cracked with false pretense. “No, I’m the rude one. I should have offered you some coffee.”
Evelyn’s eyelids closed and remained that way for a moment, perhaps reluctant to let herself reenter the room with this pompous prick, who was colonizing everything down to their Folgers. She forced herself toward the coffeepot and then sat beside the Hawk. “What would you like to know?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you do here?”
Evelyn let herself find comfort in the spiel she so often pitched to grant committees. “More than anything, Mercy House provides a safe place. Many women in abusive situations remain there for lack of a better option. We’re here as an option. They can arrive any time of day and stay as long as they need. We take in victims of violence, emotional abuse, and rape—” At that word, her stare averted and she pushed forward quickly, although he deserved for her to linger, to let it fester between them, to meet her stare. “And we provide shelter, food, medical assistance, counseling, and rehabilitation support services like helping them study for their GEDs, and providing career training, legal advice, and housing relocation.”
“Thank you, Sister. But what I meant was, what do you do here?”
Evelyn spoke slowly. “I just told you.”
“And you’re
qualified for this type of work? Didn’t your convent have you trained as a nurse?”
She imagined splashing her hot coffee in his face. She wondered if his cry would be throaty or high pitched. “They did, and I worked as one for twenty years.”
“Don’t you think you are squandering your nursing education while you play at being a social worker who serves, at the most, what, six individuals at a time? Don’t you find that to be a waste of the church’s resources and, in that sense, a form of stealing from the church?” Evelyn opened her mouth to respond but the bishop leaned back in his chair and continued, “I find it curious that your list of aids did not include prayer. And what better way to help these women than to save their souls?”
A lump hardened in Evelyn’s throat. The bishop wasn’t looking for confirmation that the nuns prayed with the women—which they did, when they thought it would be received as restorative rather than irritating, or worse, distancing. He was looking for confirmation that they didn’t, or wouldn’t. And no matter the truth, he would find what he was looking for. Evelyn gripped her thighs.
“Sister, sister!” Desiree sang the title theme song to the 1990s ABC sitcom as she bounded down the stairs. And, not for the first time, Evelyn thought, Thank you, Lord, for Desiree.
“To be continued,” the bishop muttered and lifted the coffee cup to his prune-like lips.
