by Alena Dillon
Chapter 15
When her eyes parted two hours later, she cringed at the memory of her interaction with her sister, but was relieved to be distracted by a new presence in her room: Father John.
“Evelyn,” Father John murmured as her eyes opened. He rested his large hand on top of hers. His touch was warm. His dark hair was flecked with flint around his ears and a permanent crease circled his neck, an indent from so much time spent bending his head in prayer. “You amaze me. I’m so proud of you.”
Perhaps because her tear ducts had already been unsealed that morning, her eyes began to water once again. “I may have won that battle but what does it matter? I lost the war,” she said.
His eyebrows lifted at the inside corners and angled down in a straight line toward his temples. “What’s this, now?”
Her vision blurred and she pinched mucus from her nose. “Bishop Hawkins. He’s going to shut down Mercy House.”
Father John squeezed Evelyn’s hands. “That can’t be true.”
She shook her head. “It is. He barged in looking for reasons, and he found them. He’s going to recommend dissolving it when he meets with Cardinal Rode.”
“But the cardinal will see the value in what you do.”
“He won’t believe the ends of Mercy House justify our means.”
Every feature on Father’s John’s face was alive with fretfulness. “But you can modify your means.”
Evelyn shifted her gaze back to the ceiling. “I don’t think I can.”
“I see . . . ,” he said, trailing off. They sat for a moment, thinking and listening to the sounds of the hospital: heels clicking down the hall, a baby crying, a single laugh, nurses chatting, a patient coughing, a telephone ringing.
“And I doubt Bishop Hawkins will stop at Mercy House,” Evelyn said, breaking their silence. “He won’t stop until we’re excommunicated.”
Father John chuckled and patted her arm. “Now that isn’t true. Even if that was his plan, I think you botched it.”
She sniffed and looked over at him. Fine lines radiated from his eyes, which were the quiet cobalt of a blue morpho butterfly stilled on a leaf. “What do you mean?”
“He can’t excommunicate a nun who shot a flamethrower at an infamous gang leader. You made headlines, Sister. You’re a rock star. It’d be bad for business, and the Vatican is too smart for that. They know how to operate; heck, they’re one of the oldest establishments around.”
This news was some consolation.
If she could trust the Catholic Church, if she could trust what Father John said to be true, then the sisters’ retirement was safe; they would remain in the order and would be taken care of when the time came. But without Mercy House, what would they do for work? St. Joseph of Mercy ran a foster house for children whose mothers were sent to prison. Perhaps they could join that team.
Another flood of exhaustion rolled over her body, submerging Evelyn from her toes to the crown of her head. She closed her eyes and nestled further into the pillow. “Thank you, Father. Thank you for coming. Now, go in peace.”
The light in the room glowed amber the next time Evelyn was stirred from sleep, as if the setting sun was a fire smoldering on the horizon, casting a soft luminescence onto Brooklyn.
As she reached for a sip of water, she heard, “She’s awake. Gotta go,” from the doorway, and turned to find Mother Superior leaning against the frame, her Blackberry phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder.
Mother Superior had a curly gray bob shorn around her ears and was almost elfin in size: barely five feet and weighing perhaps ninety pounds soaking wet. But what she lacked in stature she made up for in spirit. She was consistently doing multiple tasks at once: typing up a lesson plan while chatting on the phone, driving to a meeting while chatting on the phone, writing checks while—no surprise—chatting on the phone. In addition to managing just under two hundred nuns, she assisted in the operation of the church, and worked as an associate professor of religion at a local college.
“Sister Evelyn,” she said, clipping the phone into her belt holster and advancing toward the hospital bed. “Sorry about that. Sister Jean Louise is on her last legs, I’m afraid. I was letting her family know it’s time to come say goodbye.”
“That’s too bad,” Evelyn said.
Mother Superior’s head jutted a quick nod. “Yes, well, she’s old.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Yes, but Jean Louise is very old. You, on the other hand, are still sprightly. From what I hear, you’re a regular Al Pacino; all you need is a machine gun.”
“Yes. Say hello to my little friend: Lysol.”
This might have been the first time Evelyn was actually looking up into Mother Superior’s face. She smiled, and her eyes, which were already a bit sunken, were almost swallowed by her cheeks. “How did you even think to do that?”
Evelyn shrugged. “I saw it in a Facebook video.”
“Thank the Blessed Mother for social media,” Mother Superior said, and then her expression set. Enough with the pleasantries. It was time for business. “Evelyn, you were wonderful, and you should be applauded for your actions, but I’m afraid that’s not the only reason I came to see you.”
“The Hawk.”
“Yes. The Hawk.” Mother Superior’s fingers laced in front of her, and she spoke primly. “You need to get used to the idea of closing this chapter of your life and beginning a new one.”
“You mean, closing Mercy House?”
“Yes. I’m so grateful for your contributions at Mercy House, and I wish you didn’t have to move on, but unfortunately, that is the case.”
Evelyn gripped the railings of the hospital bed, grit her teeth against the pain in her side, and shimmied herself up to face her boss. “Mother Superior, please, do something. Don’t let this happen. We do such good work there. You have to fight for us.”
Mother Superior’s eyebrows tightened. She was a tough cookie who approached her duties with a no-nonsense attitude; she wanted to get things done. But she also knew when to pick her battles and, sadly, in the case of the Catholic Church, there were many battles she realized she could never win. “You know I have. I did all I could. He isn’t a reasonable man. His mind is made up. He’s got you over a barrel,” Mother Superior said, and Evelyn winced at the image. “Perhaps God is calling you elsewhere.”
“This isn’t an act of God. It’s that serpent.”
“That may be the case, but it doesn’t make the facts any less true. I recommend you spend the next week getting your things in order: breaking the news to your residents, placing them in temporary housing if necessary, packing your things, et cetera.”
Tears stung the back of Evelyn’s throat. She swallowed them away. “Then what?”
“Sister Maria, Sister Josephine, and you are needed in the motherhouse. As you know, the sisters of our community are only getting older. They require more care and supervision than ever before.”
Evelyn’s heart sank. The motherhouse was essentially a nursing home for nuns, a holy hospice, stocked full of the type of cranky, conservative old women who were cold or even cruel to Evelyn when she first joined the convent. There would be Vatican I nuns who wished sisters still wore habits, kept their religious names, maintained silence, and stayed cloistered in convents. The place smelled of antiseptic and mothballs, and the hallways were peppered with elderly ladies, some bent over canes, others gripping walkers, their orthopedic shoes periodically squeaking against the linoleum floor. Working at the motherhouse meant wiping the asses of the cantankerous old-fashioned and then watching them croak. “What about at a hospital?”
“Your nursing license has long since expired.”
“But there must be other social work I could do? A homeless shelter? A foster home? A rehab facility? I can still make a difference out there.” Her eyes searched Mother Superior’s, begging.
“This is social work, and you will be making a difference. We have one hundred twenty women
over the age of eighty-five who need you. The remaining seventy or so of us must work for a living to support the ones who can no longer earn an income. At sixty-nine, you have perhaps ten more working years in you. In our eyes, at least. But in the eyes of the world, you should have retired by now. No one will hire you at this age, Evelyn. Maybe an organization would take you on as a volunteer, but no one will pay you, and the sad fact is our order needs the wages. We have medical bills to pay, mouths to feed. Since you can’t get a job, you must fill a position at one of our own organizations. The motherhouse has our only openings. We need women to administer drugs, clean bedpans, run errands, take the older sisters on walks, be on call in case of an emergency. That’s where you three come in. I’m sorry, Evelyn. It isn’t glamorous, but it is necessary.”
“But Mother—” Evelyn grabbed her by the wrist.
Mother Superior looked down at their contact and then back up at Evelyn. Her tone was soft but intentional. “The Lenten season is approaching. Consider this something to reflect on.”
Evelyn dropped her hand back onto the bed. “I was already planning to give up sex for Lent.”
“You shouldn’t think of this placement as a negative thing, Evelyn. We are a family. Perhaps taking care of your elders will be a blessing. I know you and I will be grateful when a younger nun steps in to take care of us.”
What younger nuns? Evelyn thought.
“I stopped by Mercy House on my way over here. The girls are doing fine. They wanted me to say hello. They are in awe of you. We all are,” Mother Superior said. Then her phone rang the “Hallelujah” chorus. She angled the screen up so she could read the caller ID. “Sorry, Sister. I have to take this. May God speed your recovery,” she said, and answered the phone as she left the room.
They are in awe of you. It was a nice idea, but Evelyn didn’t know what wonder she really deserved. Yes, in the heat of the moment she took action, made a spectacle of herself, and with luck granted by God, it had worked. But people wouldn’t be quite so amazed if her actions had an uglier, but equally likely, outcome. What if Angel’s initial shots had killed Josephine or Maria? What if his bullet had busted the lock, and he forced himself in and onto the girls? What if her flamethrower had lit the place on fire? There was a fine line between a hero and hurting someone.
And she had hurt someone. Angel had died.
Plus, she’d been brave in the moment, fueled by adrenaline. But she’d failed to be brave with the bishop.
The room telephone blared at her bedside, startling her from her thoughts. “Hello?” she said, picking up the handset.
“Is this Sister Evelyn Fanning?” a male voice asked from the other end.
“Didn’t your mother teach you to introduce yourself before asking questions?”
The man laughed. “She did, and I apologize. This is Derek Harding, a reporter from the New York Times. I’ve been covering the Vatican’s apostolic visitation over the last couple months.”
“I’ve read your work,” Evelyn said. And she had. Any media coverage about the Vatican’s investigation had been because of this reporter’s initial interest and probing pieces. “I’ve enjoyed your articles.”
“That’s kind of you to say. I heard about you on the news this morning. I am a fan of your work as well. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions, maybe bring my photographer along.”
Evelyn’s lips opened to reject the offer. She didn’t want the attention, didn’t want to worry about how grungy she’d look in a photo or how stupid she’d sound in a quote. But then, mouth agape, she stopped herself.
“I think we can arrange something. Can you stop by the hospital tomorrow at ten in the morning?”
Once Evelyn tracked down the bishop’s cell phone number, she couldn’t decide if it was surprise or displeasure that she detected in his tone.
“I was sorry to hear about your accident, Sister. Perhaps this is God’s way of advising you to play by the rules,” he said.
Judgment danced triumphantly behind his transparent veil of sympathy. She wanted to scream, to lambaste him. God didn’t shoot me, you arrogant piece of no-good, holier-than-thou, evil snake devil shit! Instead, she said, “The New York Times would like a photo of the both of us. Can you stop by tomorrow morning?”
The bishop paused. She strained to hear a hint of his train of thought. “I’m not sure any good would come from our meeting with a reporter.”
Damn right. She tugged on her bedsheet. “I wasn’t too thrilled about it myself, but the Church has gotten some bad press lately, especially regarding mistreatment of the sisters, and I thought we all might benefit from the media capturing a nun and a bishop smiling together. I might not be your biggest fan, but I still love the Church.”
“Alleged mistreatment of nuns,” he said. “And this reporter . . . he asked for me?”
Evelyn rolled her eyes. Typical, aroused by the lightest ego stroke. “He must have heard you are in town, and wants a quote from the bishop sent to New York by the cardinal.”
“Perhaps it’d be best if you didn’t talk to the media without my presence, anyway. What time, then?”
The hospital room had darkened after the setting sun, and the muted television affixed to the wall flickered on a rerun of I Love Lucy. She could almost hear the audience laugh track. Evelyn smiled. “Nine thirty.”
The bishop arrived the next morning with his hair combed and slicked back. He carried a Starbucks cup in each hand. Did he think a measly cup of coffee would be enough? A java-shaped olive branch? It was barely a whisper of goodness against the air horn of his wickedness.
Even so, she forced herself to say, “Thank you for the coffee, Bishop.”
He instinctively pulled the cups into his chest. “The extra one is for the reporter.” His eyes scanned the room until landing on the wall clock. “Ten minutes to spare until our appointment. I arrived a bit early to ensure you were not left unchaperoned.”
An ember of rage burned in her stomach. “Then we have plenty of time for our discussion.”
His attention had drifted up to the television, where an animated weatherman bounced before a map of the United States. A beat after she spoke, the bishop’s gaze floated back to Evelyn and he blinked himself into the conversation. “Pardon me?”
She focused on the uneaten bowl of cereal on her bedside table, the cornflakes fat and limp with milk. “The reason I asked you here this morning was to strike a bargain.”
His eyes narrowed. “Tread lightly, Sister. You’re already on thin ice.”
Nerves trembled in her belly and she took a deep breath to still them. “If you close Mercy House, I will tell this Times reporter what you did to me.”
His mouth jerked, and with that movement something passed over his features—something like shame. He managed to steady himself, but not before Evelyn caught that fleeting regret, and the recognition of it twisted yarns of relief and revulsion together inside her. When he spoke, his tone was calculating. “And what, pray tell, did I do to you?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Sister, I can assure you I have no idea—”
Her eyes flashed up to his and her voice was full, despite a tremble. “This has been pressure-cooking inside me for years. If you make me say it, I swear to you, I will shout it.”
He took a step closer. She didn’t want to smell him, his sour breath and musty privilege. He leaned forward and she shrank away involuntarily. The cardiac monitor bleeped Evelyn’s heart rate, and she feared it might quicken. His forehead wrinkled into four little rolls. The skin at the center was dry and flaked, perhaps from exposure to the winter air. His eyebrows were bushy with the odd long hair branching in the wrong direction.
“It wasn’t just me in that room,” he said, his voice quavering, his eyes wild like those of a cornered animal about to fight. “We both committed a sin.”
Evelyn searched his owlish features. Her voice was barely above a whisper when she said, “You can’t really believe that.”
He cleared his throat, flattened his shirt against his chest with one palm, and stepped back. “You think you are so clever. You think you’ve stored away this ace in the hole. Sister, your ace is nothing. I have an entire deck.”
She licked her chapped lips and felt the soreness of a few thin slices where they’d split. She remembered Lucia’s injured mouth, and the mouths of the many other women who’d arrived at Mercy House after men had tried to slap their words back down their throats. “I know what my secret is worth, and I am prepared to reveal it if you don’t walk away from Mercy House.”
He stepped closer. “I think you won’t say a word.”
“And why is that?”
A faint smile tickled the corners of his mouth. “Oh, Sister, you should know by now. I’m untouchable. But I promise you this. If you blab your big fat mouth, if you say one negative utterance about me, you’ll destroy the life of Father John, a man with a history of, let’s say, getting friendly with other priests.”
“You are such a liar,” Evelyn said, but her skin began to tingle, and her saliva tasted metallic.
“Am I? So he hasn’t been seen in Astoria leaving the clergy house of Father Sal in the middle of the night? He wasn’t caught at not one, but two retreats, literally with his pants around his ankles? He doesn’t have pornography on the church’s computer? He’s a homosexual, Sister. A fairy. The Catholic Church has kept it quiet because he’s also a valued priest. But if you say so much as one word against my good name, I promise you this: the Vatican will silence your claims. I am a bishop. Nothing will be done to me. But I will make Father John fall on the sword to divert attention. Testimony will be surfaced. Stories will be exaggerated. He’ll be made to look depraved. A sex fiend. It doesn’t take much these days for the media to latch onto a priest headline and run with it. He’ll be humiliated first, and ultimately excommunicated. Is that what you want for your friend, Sister? Is that what you want to do to a decent man of God?”
Evelyn had noticed a bond between John and Sal. When they spoke, they bent toward each other, practically touching foreheads. And once, when John made a comment, Sal threw his head back with laughter, and John looked so pleased with himself, so proud for having amused his friend. Heat prickled her chest and her throat tightened. “You wouldn’t do this.”
