Mercy House

by Alena Dillon

  “That’s quite all right,” he said. Her biting remark had made him uncomfortable—he wasn’t used to being on that end of confrontation—and his hand retreated farther back on the armrest. Evelyn worked to keep her mouth neutral.

  By the time Lucia took the hot seat, Evelyn had relaxed. If they could survive Desiree’s loose lips, they could survive anything. After all, Lucia had just arrived. What sort of threat could she be after only two nights?

  “I hear you are new here, so, welcome. What do you think of Mercy House so far?” the bishop asked.

  “It’s fine, I guess.”

  “The sisters are treating you well?”

  “They’re okay. A little creepy and controlling, but fine, I guess.”

  “And the other girls? Are you all getting on?”

  Lucia’s brow furrowed in disgust—too much disgust for the context of the question. A chill ran up Evelyn’s spine. “Fuck no,” she said, and her gaze swiveled from the bishop to Evelyn and back. “What kind of sick house is this? And what kind of pervert are you?”

  “Excuse me?” the bishop demanded. He wouldn’t tolerate reverse questioning.

  The conversation was unraveling quickly. Evelyn’s mind fumbled to take hold of it but she wasn’t nimble enough and it slipped through.

  “I mean, I know the fat chick is a dyke and a hooker and shit, but that don’t mean I’m down to eat pussy or nothing like that. Jesus.”

  The bishop closed his eyes and flapped his hand in front of his body, perhaps trying to dissipate the potent image in the air. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “You asked if we’re getting it on. You said it in plain English.”

  The bishop shook his head emphatically. “No, no. Not getting it on. Getting on. Do you get along with one another? Platonically.”

  Lucia sat back against the couch. “Oh.”

  “But what you said is important. A resident here is a homosexual and a . . . and a prostitute? Surely this is news to Sister Evelyn, who has made it clear time and time again that she is only concerned with the welfare of those who stay here. Certainly she wouldn’t put an innocent resident in peril by placing her in the same room as a sex fiend and a homosexual.”

  Lucia’s stare flashed to Evelyn. “She knows,” she said, simply. “They all do. They talk about it all the time.”

  “Then she has made it abundantly clear that the Sisters of St. Joseph of Mercy do not condone such sinful behavior, and are actively working to save Desiree through the grace of God?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Yes, I’m not so sure myself,” the bishop said, the words oozing off his tongue. Evelyn could feel his stare; it forced down her head like hands on the back of her skull. She focused on the floor between her feet, at the wine stain and strands of hair stuck in the rug fibers, because she knew this was it. The situation had spun wildly out of her control, and she couldn’t bear to look into his face as he ended everything good in her life. “That’ll be all, Lucy,” he said.

  “Lucia,” she corrected.

  “Hmm?”

  “My name is Lucia.”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  When Lucia left the room, Evelyn finally lifted her gaze. Her voice trembled, like violin strings vibrating on their neck. “We do not discriminate based on race, creed, or sexual orientation. All victims are God’s children, deserving of protection.”

  “I continue to be troubled by the principles of Mercy House. Because of what I’ve just heard, I will now be taking a look around the residents’ bedrooms.”

  Evelyn’s heart raced. “But Bishop—”

  He clapped his hands and Evelyn flinched. “I do not want to hear your tired tale of protecting these victims of abuse. By neglecting to teach them the word of God, and by allowing them to share a home with a sexual predator”—Evelyn’s cheeks burned with fury at his wildly hypocritical choice of words—“you have proven you have no concern for their fates in this life or the next. For these reasons, you have lost the privilege of restricting my movements here. I’ve given you far more provisos than you’ve deserved. You may call the girls down to this floor if you wish or let them stay where they are upstairs. Either way, I will be inspecting their rooms presently.”

  Before she could protest further, the bishop was on his feet and heading toward the stairs.

  Evelyn shot up and rattled off the names of her residents. “Mei-Li, Katrina, Esther, Desiree, Lucia,” she yelled toward the ceiling. “Lock your doors.”

  The bishop halted in the doorway but didn’t bother to turn around. “Sister,” he said, as a threat.

  Evelyn stepped backward toward the kitchen, where the other nuns waited. With the bishop near, she no longer recognized herself. Where was the woman who fought back against an armed mugger? Who approached drug dealers on the street to negotiate their business practices? Who’d faced down thugs loitering on the sidewalk? Though the bishop wasn’t an especially tall man, his presence towered over her; she had to resist the urge to shrink. Her hands shook, and she gripped them into fists at her sides. “I may not have much proviso power, or much power at all, but I have enough to insist you not barge into their rooms without consent, when they might be in any state of undress. You may inspect their rooms, Bishop, but only once they’ve invited you to do so.”

  The bishop breathed heavily. “You may request they vacate their rooms from here. I will not have you going upstairs to whisper warnings in their ears, or to try and sweep your wrongdoings under the rug. It’s too late to clean up your mess. Don’t fight what is inevitable.”

  “And what is it that’s so inevitable?” she asked.

  The bishop shot her a look over his shoulder. “Oh, Sister. It’s not really a question if we all know the answer.”

  Chapter 13

  Silent tears dripped off Maria’s chin as they listened to the thuds and scrapes of the bishop rummaging around the girls’ rooms upstairs. The five residents and three nuns huddled in the kitchen, some sipping tea and some clinging to their steaming mugs without drinking.

  Evelyn recounted all of the events in the last twenty-four hours, trying to identify an injustice perpetrated by the bishop that the church might sympathize with; one not so vile they’d have to suppress it (like sexual assault), but serious enough to make them doubt any of his recommendations. But she knew clergymen were like prized children of wealthy parents—there would have to be an indisputable and public offense to ever get the church authorities to admit misconduct.

  She reflected on the sexual abuse scandal in the Catholic Church. Over three thousand priests in the United States alone had been accused of sexual misconduct, for abusing girls and boys from as old as fifteen years of age to as young as three. Thousands of young victims trusted and admired their priests, never suspecting, never understanding that there was evil inside those men.

  The idea that Evelyn was associated with these individuals, that she often served under them and was forced to acquiesce to them, sickened her. It was a disgrace to Catholicism, and an expensive one: the church paid literally billions of dollars in civil lawsuit settlements to protect clergymen who belonged in jail. The guilty parties were sent to treatment facilities, but more often than not they returned to circulation as priests, their new congregation oblivious to the dangerous perpetrator in their midst. And when the priests committed new crimes, ruined more lives, they were again relocated—not excommunicated.

  So Evelyn knew even when delinquency was public, indisputable, and despicable—some of the worst acts a religious figure could commit—even then, or perhaps especially then, the church found a way to mute the truth.

  She and the other nuns were up the proverbial shit creek.

  “I don’t get it. This is your house. Don’t he need a warrant?” Desiree asked. When the nuns just looked at one another without answering, she continued, “How can you just let him go through our shit? It’s our shit. What is he looking for, anyway? And what if he finds it? What happ
ens then? You tell us to be strong, to protect ourselves, to speak up like fucking Scout Finch when somebody wrongs us. So, what about you? Why aren’t you saying nothing?”

  Josephine answered evenly, “Whatever he finds, and whatever happens after he finds it, none of it will be your fault.” She laid her hand on Desiree’s shoulder.

  Desiree scowled and shrugged her off. “I know that. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

  “Did you do something wrong?” Katrina asked the nuns. She sat hunched over at the table. She’d spread glitter over a part in her hair, and it sparkled under the kitchen lights. Her voice was a light squeak through the bewildered fog. She tucked one of the earbuds into her ear and added, “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “No,” Evelyn said, uttering her first words in the kitchen. She stood a little taller—whether sincerely or for effect, she didn’t know. “I don’t believe we did.”

  A door slammed upstairs, and many in the kitchen jumped at the sound. They concentrated on the Hawk’s footsteps as he pounded down the upstairs hallway, and then beat each stair on his descent. The women responded to his approach in their own ways. Evelyn pressed further into the wall, Maria and Josephine straightened, Desiree rolled her shoulders back, Esther’s gaze drifted toward the doorway, Lucia tucked her hair behind her ear, Mei-Li mouthed curses to herself almost imperceptibly, and Katrina stared at her feet.

  When he emerged in the kitchen doorway, his figure appeared much grander than his humble height should express. In his arms, he cradled a pile of contraband. Based on the swell in his posture and the rise of his features, he was pleased—proud, even—about his discoveries: a box of Durex extra-sensitive condoms, a bottle of CVS-brand lubricant, a magenta rubber dildo, a lilac compact of birth control pills, and a small black spiral notebook.

  “Your radical feminist mission is even more extreme than we feared. Contraception? Sex toys?” the bishop asked in disgust. Although, for all his contempt, he embraced the wickedness—including a presumably used vibrator—against himself rather tightly.

  Esther stiffened at the table and thrust her arm toward the bishop’s loot. “That is my journal. You have no right to that.”

  Evelyn’s stomach contracted and her gaze darted to Josephine, who looked equally panicked. They both knew what could be in the journal. The bishop could have all he needed to shut down their operation—to close the Mercy House doors forever. Perhaps even to excommunicate them. The room wavered around Evelyn.

  The bishop tightened his grip. “That’s where you’re mistaken. I, in fact, do have every right to this journal. It may be your diary, but it’s also a log of the happenings in this house over the last several months, and since the sisters’ files were destroyed, it’s the only record we have.”

  Esther shot to her feet and her chair clattered to the tile floor. She was normally much more reserved, levelheaded. It was as if she knew what was at stake. “It is my personal property. You cannot take it.”

  “This house belongs to the Catholic Church, and this book was found inside this house. Therefore, this book belongs to the Catholic Church.”

  “I am inside this house. Do I also belong to the Catholic Church?” Esther asked and pounded a fist against her chest.

  “It will be returned to you. I can’t say the same for these accessories of fornication. They will be destroyed. You all should be ashamed. ‘Repent, then, and turn to God, so that your sins may be wiped out.’” Since his arms were full of scandalous items, he then addressed the nuns with a nod of his head. “As for you, I advise you to consider these words: ‘For this people’s heart has become calloused; they hardly hear with their ears, and they have closed their eyes.’ I have a meeting with Vatican leaders in three days. You can be sure I will report my findings to Cardinal Rode during that meeting.” He uttered the name like a curse, and perhaps it was: Cardinal Rode was the Vatican instigator of the nun investigation. For his aggression, he was nicknamed the “Enforcer of Truth” and “God’s Rottweiler.” He was also rumored to have absolved a reverend who had molested his seminarians.

  “Bishop, please—” Maria begged, reaching her hand out in supplication.

  He rolled his shoulders back. “You are defiant daughters in desperate need of discipline. You have created an unsafe environment. I am shutting Mercy House down.”

  Fury rose to the surface of Evelyn’s skin. She lunged forward. The bishop’s eyes widened as she flung herself on him; that flash of fear, that quiver of uncertainty in his mouth, ignited a dark satisfaction in Evelyn’s core for, in that moment, he wasn’t in control—he saw what it was to be defenseless. She beat his biceps with the sides of her wrists until he dropped the contents in his arms. Then she dove to the floor, grabbed the journal, and tossed it across the room to Maria, who caught it, dropped it into the sink, and turned the faucet on full force.

  “Animals,” the bishop cried. He shoved Evelyn and Josephine aside. As he moved for the sink, Mei-Li stuck out her foot; his shoe caught on hers and he crashed to his knees. He cried out in pain, and then in anger.

  “Woops,” Mei-Li said with a shrug and a smile.

  He pushed himself back to his feet, slammed the water off, and lifted the soggy journal by the corner, letting excess water drip off. Then he wrapped it in a dishtowel. Evelyn feared the damage wasn’t enough.

  “This is why the Bible tells us, ‘Women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission, as the law says.’ You think we should let you become priests? Hell, we never should have released you from your habits.”

  The bishop clutched the journal to his side and bent over to retrieve his lost items. When he arrived at the front door, he had to lean backward and balance the dildo and condoms on his chest in order to grab the doorknob.

  The women didn’t speak until the door smacked closed behind him. Then Desiree slapped her hand against the table. “None of this would have happened if the new cunt didn’t blab my business to Bishop Needle Dick.”

  “What did you say?” Lucia demanded, taking a step closer to Desiree.

  Desiree pressed her hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet. “What, you don’t habla inglés? I said none of this would have happened if you didn’t blab my business.”

  “Ladies, please,” Josephine said and moved between them.

  Lucia rose onto her tiptoes to peer over Josephine’s shoulder. “Maybe none of this would have happened if you weren’t such a dirty ho. Ever think of that, puta?”

  Maria grasped Desiree’s meaty bicep just as Desiree sprang forward and reached around Josephine toward Lucia, her fingers flexing as if grasping the air. “Get this bitch out of my face. I’m gonna kill you, skank. I’d rather be a ho than a snitch. Look what you did, skank rat. Look what you did!”

  Lucia stumbled backward. Her eyes watered and she scraped her teeth against her scabbed, full bottom lip. “You know what? Fuck this place. I was safer before coming here. I’m getting the hell out of this house. You all are crazy bitches.” She turned on the ball of her foot and stormed down the hall.

  “Lucia, wait,” Evelyn said. They might not have Mercy House for much longer, but she was determined to protect these women while they did. And Lucia wasn’t ready to return to the world yet. She was bound to go back to Angel Perez and would most likely be punished for having left him in the first place. Evelyn followed Lucia out the front door. But Lucia was young and agile and Evelyn was old and plodding; Lucia was already down on the sidewalk, lacing her arms through the sleeves of her coat, when Evelyn’s bare feet hit the chilled cement of the stoop. The cold sunk its teeth into her toes and wrapped itself around her ankles like a vine. “Lucia, we can help you!” Evelyn yelled. She started down, but as her foot landed on the third step, the cold had eaten its way through her skin to her bones and her ankle joint froze. She buckled. Her knee drove into the next step. Her hands shot out in front of her, and her palms skidded and scraped the rough surface. She turned her head to the
side, bracing for the impact on her face, but her chest absorbed the brunt of the fall as it collided with the concrete.

  As she lay in a pile, drooped between the sidewalk and her stoop, bleeding, aching, and moaning, Evelyn lifted her head and found Lucia bent at the knees, reaching down toward her, her mouth agape.

  Then the front door of Mercy House creaked open from above. “Heavens, Evelyn,” Maria said, and then shouted, “Josephine, come quick!”

  Evelyn hadn’t broken eye contact with Lucia, but as Maria descended the stairs behind Evelyn, Lucia’s gaze lifted up to her. Then she straightened, looked back down to Evelyn, whispered, “I’m sorry,” and hurried down the sidewalk, into the heart of Brooklyn.

  The other sisters pleaded with Evelyn to let them take her to a hospital, but Evelyn refused. She was certain she’d been spared any broken bones, and for that she thanked the Lord. She wouldn’t take up space in a busy emergency room; she wouldn’t waste the precious time of doctors and nurses when there were plenty of patients more in need of care. The seriously ill, victims of violence—as Desiree said, this was Do or Die Bed-Stuy, after all.

  What she wanted was a heavy pour of whiskey, but since those days were behind her, she’d have to settle for a handful of Tylenol and a hot bath.

  For perhaps the first time, she appreciated the shower grab bar a parishioner had insisted on installing for the nuns. At the time, she’d scoffed at the addition. They may have been old, but they weren’t elderly. And they weren’t disabled, for God’s sake. But now she gripped it with a prayer of thanks as she eased into the steaming water.

  Normally she preferred showers; baths forced her to look down at herself and witness the degradation of her body. But she didn’t trust she could stand after such a brutal fall, so she prepared herself for a full viewing of her aged form. Her physical self that had done so much, and yet, comparatively, so little. It would never realize some of its most basic purposes—making love to another person, growing a child in her womb, birthing that child and feeding it at her breast. Some said that was what God intended for women, why He created Eve in the first place. If that was true, what did it mean, then, that she, a woman of God, failed to fulfill that destiny?