by Alena Dillon
“Lucia,” Evelyn said, lifting her eyes to the ceiling and shaking her head. “You’ve inherited at least one quality from your uncle. You’re kind of a genius too.” She dragged a chair around to share a view of the screen. “Move over.”
They spent hours researching squatters’ rights in New York City. At around five o’clock, Esther descended the stairs, put a kettle on for tea, and set out sliced bananas for snacking while Lucia rested her head in her arms and took a brief nap.
Evelyn explained her understanding of the laws to Esther, to get her perspective as well as to hear the thoughts out loud, to test them against her own ears. By the time the rest of the residents made their way downstairs, later than usual, their motivation having been extinguished by the bishop’s announcement, Evelyn was rounding the bend on confidence. Its edges were becoming more and more defined.
Katrina stirred Lucky Charms around her bowl. The artificial coloring created a faint rainbow swirl in the milk. “I don’t mean to bring up a sore subject, but have they told us yet when we have to leave the house?” she asked.
“They haven’t,” Evelyn said and took a sip of her hot coffee. After she swallowed she said, “But I wouldn’t pack your bags just yet.”
This time Evelyn waited for the bishop outside.
She knew he’d come for his victory lap, to preen that his publicity was more outrageous and would capture a wider audience. That he’d outsmarted her yet again. Evelyn didn’t know what drew him to the priesthood, if he had had a happy childhood, or who was dearest to him in this world, but she knew him well enough to expect his arrival. So she took her coffee onto the front stoop and sat—ears pricked, alert—like a guard dog. This time, she wouldn’t let him inside her walls.
Sure enough, half an hour later, a shiny black sedan, one of the pristine cars from a private taxi fleet used by businessmen, pulled to the curb in front of Mercy House and, though she couldn’t see the passenger through the tinted window, she recognized the tassels on the bishop’s loafers when they lowered onto the sidewalk. He closed the door behind him, but the car remained, idling. He must have told the driver to wait, that this—showboating, intimidation, a pronouncement of Mercy House’s life expectancy—whatever this was, wouldn’t take long.
The sky was fat with clouds. The weather forecast predicted snow and, from the looks of it, it would be the type of storm that drops a silencing blanket. But the refrigerator was stocked and the sisters still had plenty of sidewalk salt. They were prepared.
As the bishop approached, he smiled falsely and pulled leather gloves over his hands; the fabric caught on his obtrusive amethyst ring. “Good morning, Sister. You look tired. Did you have a difficult evening?”
She gripped her mug around its waist and grazed her thumb over the rough edge of a chip. “I was kept awake by some interesting reading.”
“The Constitution of Dominican Sisters, I hope,” he said, referring to the mission and rulebook of a conservative order of nuns, the kind he and Pope Benedict admired. “Those are women who understand how to serve God.”
“No, actually. New York state’s adverse possession laws.” The long hairs of his eyebrows climbed his forehead. He thought he had her pinned, but she wasn’t done fighting yet. She wrestled her excitement; she had to deliver this next blow calmly, strategically. “It turns out, if someone publicly moves into a property they don’t own, inhabits that property for at least ten years, and pays its property taxes, they are legally eligible for the title. The law was made so a property would not sit idle. And while the Catholic Church has owned this house, we have been the ones putting it to good use all this time. Paying property taxes, making improvements. The law says this house is now ours to own.”
He sniffed, unperturbed. But something had hardened beneath his cool expression. “You are the Catholic Church. You have done everything on its behalf. The law does not apply.”
“That will be for the courts to decide, which could take a year to sort out. Until then, you can’t evict us. We aren’t going anywhere.”
“Stop this before it starts. If you don’t, you will regret it.” His smile was waxy and his tone was instilled with false, almost creepy, cheer.
“My life’s regrets tend to be what I didn’t say or do. Not what I’ve done. So I’ll be honest, Your Excellency, I don’t expect to add this to the list.”
The screen door rasped open at the row house to Evelyn’s left, and Dr. Saha stepped onto his front porch. He nodded to her, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked beyond her and the bishop, as if he were surveying the block, as if this was part of his morning routine. It wasn’t. Evelyn knew, with a rush of affection, that he was there for her.
The bishop’s eyes darted to her neighbor briefly, measuring the man’s interference, and then he jutted his chin to the side, like a snake dislocating its jaw. He stepped closer to Evelyn and seethed harsh words beneath his breath. “You have forced my hand, Evelyn. Once again. What happens next you’ve brought on yourself.” Then he reeled around and disappeared into the car without looking back.
“Everything okay, Sister?” Dr. Saha called.
The car pulled away. What did the bishop mean? What would happen next? She watched the car until it turned and was out of sight. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”
Chapter 20
The Hawk didn’t strike right away. He waited long enough for Evelyn to think maybe he’d given up; maybe he was bluffing and didn’t really have another move to play. He waited for her to get comfortable.
It was the middle of March, and everyone was settling back into their preinvestigation routine. Evelyn was ministering to the streets, Maria was performing Reiki and other counseling services, Josephine was writing a new grant, and the residents were imagining, and even preparing for, life beyond their temporary home. Especially Mei-Li, who, boosted by her fundraising role, had accepted the receptionist position as an entry point into the business world. Once she saved enough money, she intended to rent an apartment and convince her mother to move in with her.
The women were conducting a GIA meeting in the living room when Mother Superior knocked on the door. The sisters recognized her spindly shape through the front window, and all three rose to greet her.
In the entryway, Mother Superior massaged the cold from her hands. “Father John would like to speak to us,” she said.
“I’ve got homemade granola bars in the oven. Let me just ask one of the ladies to listen for the beep,” Sister Maria said.
“No, just Evelyn and myself,” Mother Superior responded. She eyed Evelyn and her lips thinned into a line. “You should steel yourself, Sister. As you know, there’s no mask to his emotions. He’s the kind of man you want at your poker table, not in your foxhole. It isn’t good news.” Mother Superior’s phone buzzed in the belt holster beneath her coat. Her mouth pulled to the left reluctantly, but she didn’t answer the call. She didn’t even check the caller ID before she pinched the device’s sides to silence it.
Evelyn had never seen her miss a call. “Where is he?”
“The motherhouse.”
They rode in silence in the back of a yellow cab. The motherhouse was a stunning building in the Clinton Hill district of Brooklyn. It benefited from architectural details including dentil moulding and round arches adorning every window. From the street, it looked like a landmark, a structure of historical importance. But inside, it more nearly resembled a convalescent home.
When Evelyn reached for the door handle, Mother Superior leaned over and laid her palm flat on Evelyn’s knee. Her eyes were magnified behind her glasses. “Not for nothing, Sister, but I have to say I do not approve of how you’ve handled the news of Mercy House closing. I understand your disappointment. It’s always difficult when important chapters in our lives end, especially when we view it as premature. You’ve been brave and strong in your reactions, yes, but you’ve also been childish. I told you we were moving you to the motherhouse back when you were in the hospital, an
d since then you have metaphorically stomped your feet and thrown a tantrum. You agreed to be part of something larger when you took your vows. That requires sacrifice, and it requires acquiescing to your superiors, like any employee to her boss. It means not always getting what you want in order to serve the larger community. You’ve made your residents a priority, which is admirable. But you’ve neglected your fellow sisters in the process. This is a vulnerable time for women religious, and your insolent actions are not helping our cause. I wouldn’t be surprised if Father John brought us here to demand you relocate to the motherhouse, as I ordered you to do months ago. This makes me look bad, Evelyn. It makes me look as if I have no control over my order. It makes it seem like a man must get involved for the responsibilities of my job to be properly executed. I love you, but I don’t appreciate how you’ve made me—us all—look. I know Mercy House is important to you and to the neighborhood. I know you have issues with the bishop. He isn’t my favorite person either. But the Catholic Church is struggling financially, and I don’t think it’s outrageous to believe they need the money for other, more wide-serving, missions. It’s time to say goodbye and move on. I hope you’ll listen to Father John more than you’ve listened to me.”
While Mother Superior passed her credit card through the cab’s payment machine and typed in a tip, Evelyn stared at the place on her jeans where Mother Superior’s bony hand had been. Mother Superior’s perspective demanded Evelyn reinterpret everything about the last few months. Was she just being a brat, making a fuss because things weren’t going her way? Was it possible selling Mercy House wasn’t simply a ploy made by the Hawk to punish her and force the sisters and residents out? Was he following orders from those above him? She’d been so focused on the bishop as her enemy, she hadn’t considered how her defiant actions might be affecting her friends outside Mercy House, like Mother Superior, and perhaps even Father John. It was possible that, inside the motherhouse, she might encounter another ally who had experienced the consequences of her behavior and was disappointed.
“Come on, Sister Lysol. Let’s get this over with.” Mother Superior winked and pushed her door open.
Evelyn felt like a giant hurrying down the hallway next to Mother Superior. It was impossible to avoid feeling oafish beside her boss’s shrunken form, especially as she lumbered along with her cane.
The motherhouse chapel was situated on the far end of the first floor and resembled a hospital meditation room. The lights were dim and the walls were painted eggshell, offering a warm and peaceful alcove in which to pray. A collection of cushioned chairs faced a maple lectern and a simple altar draped with white linen. The room was windowless, but both side walls featured stained glass light boxes to simulate the reverent atmosphere of a sanctuary.
It was in this space that they found Father John, hunched over in a chair at the front of the room, his fingers kneading his thighs. Evelyn’s stomach tightened at the sight of him.
Mother Superior closed the chapel door behind them, and its echo startled Father John into alertness. He pushed himself to his feet, began to approach the women, and then stopped, thinking better of it. He gestured to the empty chairs beside him and then ran both hands through his thicket of salt-and-pepper hair, which splayed out from the sides of his head.
“Please, take a seat.” The women followed his directions, and Father John smiled weakly. Then he shook his head, and gazed over their heads at the stained glass cross. “I can’t believe I have to say what I have to say,” he said, his words strained and followed by a false laugh. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Whether you can believe it or not, if you have to say it, you may as well go ahead and say it,” Mother Superior said evenly.
This was it. Despite all Evelyn’s hard work, all her strategies, she was about to hear a decree to abandon Mercy House and live out her days in this purgatory. And what could she say to Father John about it? What could she do? It was easier to imagine battling the bishop, but how would she fight her friends?
Father John’s stare dropped down to Mother Superior. “I suppose you’re right.” When his attention floated to Evelyn, his expression broke from disbelief into sorrow. His eyes watered and he swallowed. “Sister Evelyn Fanning. It has come to our attention that you advised and assisted a woman under the care of Mercy House to obtain an abortion.” In his next blink, tears slid down his cheeks. “Because of this crime against the Catholic Church, you have sustained a latae sententiae, an automatic excommunication.” He couldn’t bear to look at her anymore, and his stare dropped to his feet. “They say you must leave immediately.”
Evelyn’s eyelids fell shut and her ears began to ring. Ever since the Hawk had arrived, she’d felt like a nail being hammered over and over again. He wouldn’t stop until he’d flattened her completely. Now he had.
She felt the brush of Mother Superior’s leg as her boss jumped to her feet, and then she heard Mother Superior’s screeches at Father John as well as his equally stressed replies. But Evelyn couldn’t concentrate on what was being said. Her thoughts swirled and sizzled. She’d given her entire life to the Catholic Church. She was sixty-nine years old. Seventy, soon. Where was she to go? How was she to survive, homeless and destitute? She had nowhere to live, no job, and no money. She was no more secure than Miss Linda, with her plastic bags and peeling sneakers.
Evelyn worried she’d be sick right there in the chapel.
“It is beyond my control. You must know that!” Father John yelled. He was openly weeping now, and despite this show of emotion, or perhaps because of it, Evelyn’s blood ran with acrimony. This was her moment for despair. It was because of his sins she wasn’t able to blackmail Bishop Hawkins in the first place. And perhaps that was why the bishop was having Father John deliver the news: the irony. The painful, painful irony.
“Never, in sixty years, have I ever known a nun in this order to be excommunicated. Surely there must be another way,” Mother Superior said with deflating passion.
“How could you have done this, Evelyn?” Father John implored, his voice cracking. “You knew it was wrong. You knew the risks. You knew.” He was getting off scot-free and had no right to cry.
Evelyn gripped the crook of her cane, pressed its foot into the floor, and heaved herself up. She rested her hand on Mother Superior’s frail shoulder and glowered at Father John. His eyes widened, surprised and affronted at being the object of her ire. “I know I am not the only religious person to commit a crime against the Church. In fact, I’m not even the only one in this room,” she said from the back of her throat. “But what’s done is done. There’s no sense fighting it. Mother Superior, you have to accept the reality. We are outmatched, and we always will be.”
Evelyn craved spirits, the perfect medicine for when your own spirits were low. Good spirits: fill yourself up. Or better: holy spirits. Let the holy spirits wash over you. The ad campaigns wrote themselves.
As she traveled the streets of Brooklyn back to Mercy House, the memory of alcohol’s sharp, almost punishing, taste made her mouth water. She longed for the magic with which it dulled pain, the way it blurred the edges of her world. And at that moment, there was so much she’d like to blur. The craving taunted her, seduced her as she imagined the serpent seduced Eve.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.
She eyed Harry’s Discount Liquor Store as the cab passed it, and took note of each additional store on the route. How easy it would be to enter any number of those shops, triggering the chime that announced a customer’s arrival. She would walk the aisles like anybody else restocking their home supply or preparing for a party. The owner wouldn’t know she was a nun. Or, rather, an ex-nun. An alcoholic ex-nun at that. She’d be just like anybody else. And without Mercy House, without the title “Sister” preceding her name, that’s exactly what she was now. Whiskey had been a constant in a time when there was little else to rely upon. She may not have much now—a vocation, income, savings, home, commu
nity—but she still had more than she did then: the friendships of Maria and Josephine, the responsibility for the residents. She didn’t want to disappoint them.
Still, despair radiated from her heart through her limbs. She felt heavy, sodden, like a waterlogged willow tree, bent over, weeping into the ground, its branches stressed to the point of breaking.
She hadn’t experienced such a shift in identity since Vatican II took away their habits in the late 1960s. The long black wool had reminded Evelyn of her commitment, and it created community. But the Vatican stripped them of that, first into a modified habit, and then no required uniform at all. Most nuns—especially the younger ones—found it liberating. They could assimilate with their congregation. But many found it confusing—without the clothing of nuns, other boundaries blurred as well.
Evelyn had disliked the freedom. She felt naked without her full-length robes, without being able to wrap herself in the symbol of what she was supposed to be.
But like an animal tossed into the wild, she’d survived. She found a new pack with the women of Mercy House.
Until a predator zeroed in on her herd, forcing them all to scatter.
Now she was alone. Singled out. She heard the thundering hooves of the hunter behind her. She smelled the acid of adrenaline in his sweat. And although she’d keep running as fast as her old body would take her, she had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before he caught her in his teeth.
