by Alena Dillon
Of course the bastard would choose Luke. It was the only version of the Easter story that belittled the women’s discovery of the empty tomb, calling their testimony “nonsense,” and allocated more airtime to the male experience.
Evelyn couldn’t listen to the story. Not from his filthy mouth. She sat back against the pew and closed her ears to it, thinking, Your time is coming.
Once the Hawk finished reading, he said, “The Gospel of the Lord,” and raised the book to his wormy lips. The congregation recited, “Glory to you, Lord Christ,” but Evelyn just joined in for the final word.
The nave rustled and murmured as hundreds of people settled back into their seats. Bishop Hawkins returned to his place on the right side of the chancel and, on the left side, Father John pushed himself to his feet.
This is it. The climbers in Evelyn’s gut lost their hold on her stomach wall and plummeted in a simultaneous free fall. This is it.
Father John gripped the edges of the pulpit and surveyed the crowd. “Happy Easter,” he said with a congenial smile.
“Happy Easter,” they responded as one.
“This morning is going to be a bit unorthodox. Instead of preaching a homily with the same Easter message you’ve probably heard too many times, I’ve invited a dear friend of mine, and one of the most upright Catholics I’ve ever known, to offer testimony. I hope you will receive it as the disciples received the resurrection—as a new beginning, a new age. A better age. Brothers and sisters, I invite you to open your hearts to Evelyn Fanning.”
A wildfire of murmurs reignited in the crowd and hundreds of people rotated in their seats to face Evelyn. Up in the chancel, the Hawk looked bewildered, a mole disturbed from slumber. His head darted from Father John to Evelyn and back. Finally he scurried to his feet. “No, no. I forbid it.”
Father John held up his hand to stop the bishop, and spoke directly into the microphone. “What is it, Bishop, that you fear she’ll say?”
“I fear nothing. Absolutely nothing. But these people should not be exposed to the drivel of a lunatic.”
“Perhaps we should let them decide for themselves. Evelyn,” Father John said, and gestured to the back of the nave. “Please.”
Her legs wobbled as they balanced the weight of her body. She held the pew in front of her with one hand and pulled the paper from her pocket with the other. A sea of mystified faces gawked up at her; she’d never had the attention of so many. She shook the paper open and let her words fill her gaze.
“Ephesians 5:8–9 tells us, ‘You used to be like people living in the dark, but now you are people of the light. So act like people of the light. Be good and honest and truthful.’ God knows I haven’t always been good. Or honest. I’m a work in progress, and even in my old age I’m still trying to be better.
“In that spirit, here is my truth: over forty years ago, when I first entered the order of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Mercy, Bishop Hawkins, who was then a priest, sexually assaulted and raped me on multiple occasions.”
The crowd buzzed to life on the other side of her paper and, in her peripheral vision, Lucia grabbed the hands of Desiree and Esther. For fear of the bishop interjecting, extinguishing her speech before it really ignited, Evelyn forged ahead.
“When this sort of thing happens, and it still happens to one in five women, people ask, ‘Why didn’t she say something?’ There are so many reasons. Here are mine: I was ashamed; I worried my vow of chastity had been stolen away, and if people knew, I’d be considered a lesser nun, a lesser woman, and wouldn’t be allowed to take my vows. I didn’t tell because I feared he wouldn’t be removed and would hurt me or others as retribution. I didn’t tell because it would make what happened real, and I wanted to pretend it away. I didn’t tell because I was worried I wouldn’t be believed, because he was a priest, and I was just a novice. I didn’t tell because I was petrified people would presume I’d seduced him, that I’d invited it by being kind to him. I didn’t tell because I knew that instead of asking the real question, ‘Why did he do that terrible thing?’ they’d ask irrelevant questions still asked of women today, ‘If she didn’t want it, why did she continue going into that room?’
“So, for over four decades, I have lived with the memory of what he did to me over and over again, and I haven’t told a soul. It might surprise most people to learn you can live with such a history of violence. But it’s no secret to the women I have met at Mercy House.”
At that, Mei-Li shot to her feet. Then Desiree slapped her hands against the back of the pew in front of her and pulled herself up. Then Esther rose like a fist. Then Lucia. And Katrina. Now Evelyn was no longer facing this crowd and her greatest adversary alone. She was joined by a line of soldiers who had seen the belly of combat and had survived—a small but fierce army.
Evelyn continued, her voice fortified, “Women whom I can no longer help because Bishop Hawkins, in all his infinite malevolence, lobbied for my excommunication, and is fighting to shut Mercy House down.
“For all these years, I’ve kept silent. I still fear the consequences of speaking out. But for the sake of all the women Robert Hawkins has hurt, and all the women hurt by men like him, I can’t be silent anymore. This man, standing up there in the sanctuary, wearing holy robes, reading sacred words, raped me. And everybody should know what God has known all along.”
When Evelyn finished, she let the paper drop, revealing rows and rows of stunned expressions, and beyond them, Bishop Hawkins, leaning against the arm of the celebrant chair, glowering at her. She hoped he was trembling with rage, and maybe a bit of terror. Because now he stood in front of a mob of people who had heard the truth, and knew what kind of man was beneath those shrouds of expensive cloth.
It was as if a giant vacuum had sucked the sound out of the room. Evelyn might have worried she’d been deafened by the shock of the event if it weren’t for a light scratching to her left, as if something, someone, was trying to dig his way out—or in.
Three rows from the back of the nave, Derek Harding, the New York Times journalist, scribbled madly against his notebook. When Evelyn had called him after her meeting with Father John, he’d sworn he would show up. “I wouldn’t miss it, and that’s the Gospel truth,” he’d said. It seemed there was another man she could count on.
Triumphant, she discovered the bishop had followed her gaze. He was gaping at the reporter, aghast. He gripped excess chasuble fabric in his fists. Now Evelyn presumed it was his sympathetic nervous system that was in overdrive, pumping survival hormones, preparing for fight or flight. Finally, he spun toward the exterior wall and flew out the side door of the sanctuary, into the sacristy and beyond.
Evelyn felt as if the heavens might crack open. As if a team of trumpeters might tout from the rafters. As if a Baptist choir might appear from the narthex mid-hymn. This was her moment of reckoning; and she’d waited so long.
Desiree bellowed loud enough for her words to echo, “Sister can preach!” Evelyn suspected Desiree was not referring to her as a nun; still, it felt good to be called “Sister” again.
Father John leaned forward to speak into the microphone. “Thank you, Evelyn,” he said, with the utmost solemnity. Then he addressed the entire congregation, “Now, let us stand for the Profession of Faith.” The crowd, still a little shell-shocked, but beholden to obedience inside the church’s walls, shuffled to their feet.
Evelyn didn’t know what would happen to the Hawk now that she’d broken her silence. She didn’t know if news of this incident would flood the media, if reporters would bang on Maureen’s door and beg her for interviews, if more women like her would step forward, or if the story would fizzle out without fanfare. She couldn’t predict whether this would be, like Father John hoped, the start of a new era in the Catholic Church, or whether Robert Hawkins would be transferred out of the spotlight and protected, like countless holy men before him.
The word “catholic” meant “broad-minded, universal, liberal.” Evelyn hoped the religion woul
d become more faithful to its name. Because there was so much beauty in Catholicism—its rituals, its creed. She believed in divine mystery, charity, and mercy. She believed in salvation and in resurrection. And if the Church would just open its eyes, if it would listen to the cries of the people it served, she could believe in the future of the Catholic Church.
Desiree tapped Evelyn’s shoulder, and she turned to see Mei-Li stooped across the other girls. Evelyn bent forward to meet her. Behind the hedge of hundreds of parishioners chanting the Apostles’ Creed, Mei-Li said, just loud enough for Evelyn to hear, “Sister, you’re one badass bitch.”
Chapter 26
Father John dismissed Mass, and the congregation filed out of the pews and milled past Evelyn, some avoiding eye contact, but most offering her a smile of condolence, an acknowledging nod, or a hand squeeze.
An older nun Evelyn had never spoken to paused to shake her head and say, “I always knew he was an impostor. You could tell,” before continuing out into the sunshine. Derek Harding communicated to Evelyn like he was a baseball coach, tapping his watch and then flashing a thumbs-up. When Joylette approached, her mouth firmed. She stroked Evelyn’s cheek and then leaned in to whisper, “Honey, I get it. I wish I didn’t but, like so many, I do.”
Then just the core remained, those who had stood by Evelyn during her personal stations of the cross: the sisters, the residents, and Father John.
Maria nearly shoved Josephine out of the way to reach Evelyn. “Johnny told us you were coming, but he didn’t say why.” She seized Evelyn so tightly, it was difficult to breathe.
“Careful there, Lenny,” Evelyn struggled to say. Maria released her boa-constrictor hold and smiled apologetically.
Josephine still kept her distance. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let that bastard near you,” she said.
Evelyn nodded. “I know.”
Maria dabbed her sleeve against her eyes. “You were so strong.”
“Was I?” Evelyn asked, her voice breaking.
Josephine’s chin dipped in response to Evelyn’s doubt. Then she gathered her friend’s soft body in her lean arms. “Of course you were.”
Evelyn let herself be held. She closed her eyes and concentrated on Josephine patting her back and Maria rubbing her arm. They smelled like laundry detergent and baby powder, like home.
When the sisters stepped aside, Father John was waiting, his hands clasped before him. Despite the events of that morning, his expression appeared entirely at peace. Evelyn opened her mouth, although she wasn’t quite sure what to say. How do you thank a man who was willing to become a living martyr on your behalf? There was a chance no consequence would befall him, that the Catholic Church would prefer to avoid more bad press, but he accepted the risk of all possibilities. She’d never known such a pure gesture of friendship. It was a gift from God. She began, “Johnny, I—”
He shook his head. “Please don’t. I couldn’t bear it. Not when your excommunication could have been avoided if not for me. So, for my sake, let’s just . . .” He extended his hand to her, and she grasped it at once.
“This is sweet and all, but we were promised we’d get pizza if we came to church. So . . . ,” Desiree said.
Maria smiled at Evelyn. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
The girls streamed around the side of Mercy House to the back patio, where chairs were arranged around a folding table. The day had warmed and burned off the gray clouds of that morning, and everyone chatted and laughed loudly. They hooked Katrina’s CD player up to speakers and swayed to Janis Joplin’s “Call on Me” and Fleetwood Mac’s “You Make Loving Fun.” Katrina spewed the lyrics before they played so everybody could sing along. Sister Josephine’s voice fell flat, but she sang with eyes squeezed shut and a palm pressed against her heart, as if the songs were her anthems.
After the second track, Desiree yanked out the CD player’s cord. “That’s two for the white people,” she said. “Now who’s got real music?”
Lucia plugged in her iPhone and Desiree scrolled through Lucia’s music. She squinted and brought the phone closer to her eyes. “I can’t even read most of this shit.”
“That’s because it’s Spanish, pendeja.”
Finally Desiree found something she liked. “GS Boyz in the house!” she said and cranked the volume up. Electronic bleeps scattered over cymbals. Then the bass kicked in.
Side by side, Desiree and Lucia lunged and dipped their bent knees to the floor. “Come on, Esther,” Lucia yelled. “Don’t act like you don’t know the stanky leg.”
Esther crossed her arms over her chest. “I know no such thing.”
Mei-Li tugged Katrina’s arm to go join them, but Katrina planted herself more firmly in her chair. Sister Maria whacked her other arm. “If Josephine and I do it, no one will even notice you. They’ll be too busy watching the old fools.”
Evelyn wasn’t sure she’d ever seen the sisters dance before. She would have guessed, of the two, Maria would demonstrate more rhythm. But, at least in this song, Josephine’s lanky frame lent itself to the choreography. Her long limbs plunged and swiveled like the legs of an intoxicated flamingo, while Maria jerked awkwardly. Mei-Li joined the group, maybe in solidarity with poor Maria, and Lucia welcomed her with a whoop. Finally Katrina relented and offered them a subdued version of the dance, which they happily accepted. Esther nodded along from her seat.
Evelyn decided she’d spent too much time on the sidelines. “Brace yourselves,” she said and began what felt like a lurching Charleston. She knew they were just being generous when they circled her, clapped, and chanted, “Go, Evie. Go, Evie.”
The song faded, but before the other dancers could drift away, Lucia turned to the table. “Hey, DJ Esther. What’s the hold up? Drop the fucking beat.”
Esther raised a cautioning eyebrow, but obliged.
After “Crank That (Soulja Boy),” “Walk It Out,” and “Lean Back,” Esther thumbed past something that made her sit tall. “Watch out now,” she said, “we’re about to get funky.” She placed the iPhone on the table and hurried over to the dancers. The music kicked in and her grin spread like a horizon. “I love ‘Cha-Cha Slide.’”
When the residents finally settled back into their chairs, Maria collected several Easter baskets from where they were propped at the side of the house. “This may be corny, but I don’t give a hoot.”
Katrina, Esther, Lucia, and Mei-Li played along with the egg hunt, maybe out of nostalgia, or maybe just to humor Maria. They patrolled the small lot, peeking under bushes, listening to Maria’s unimaginative clues of “Mei-Li, you’re as cold as an ice cube,” and “Esther, you’re practically on fire,” while Desiree gestured Evelyn aside.
“What you did today was pretty baller. I knew you had the willfulness of Scarlett O’Hara, but back there at the church? That was like Joan of Arc crusading.”
Evelyn smiled. “I wonder where I learned to be so bold.”
Embarrassed by the compliment, Desiree dropped her gaze to her sneakers, but by the time it flicked back up, she’d already cast her modesty aside. “I said Joan of Arc. I didn’t say Desiree Martin. That level of audacity can’t be taught.”
“And I wouldn’t dare try it.”
She grinned, and one cheek dimpled; Desiree looked so young, so playful, despite all she’d been through. But she held wisdom in her eyes. “The last thing an old white lady needs is more flattery. I didn’t come over here to tickle your ego. I came to say this: in case nobody ever told you what you repeated to us so many times it got annoying, you should hear it yourself: you deserve to love and to be loved. We all do. So don’t settle for anything less.” Before Evelyn could respond, Desiree stamped back to where the other girls were still hunting around the hedges. “Ya’ll better have left some chocolate for me,” she yelled. When she reached them, Mei-Li hooked an arm around her neck.
Maria approached Evelyn with a pink plastic egg propped between her thumb and index finger. “This one is special for you.”
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“Aren’t I a little old for Easter eggs?”
“Too old? No. Too cranky? Maybe. Just open it.”
Evelyn accepted the egg and shook it by her ear. Silence. “Sounds light in calories,” she said. Then she cracked apart the plastic shell. Inside was a crumpled piece of paper. She unfolded it. “The Trenton Clubhouse,” she read and waved the scrap like a tiny white flag. “What’s this?”
“It’s where Eloise works. You know that quote ‘Coincidences are God’s way of remaining anonymous’? She’s just over an hour from your sister’s house,” Maria said. Evelyn shook her head, but Maria was insistent. “It’s about time you revisit that part of your life, while you still can. Don’t you think?”
* * *
July 17, 1967
Evelyn’s feet ached as she and Eloise walked to the bus station from Newark Hospital in New Jersey. They’d spent the last four days caring for victims of the riots. Hospital beds were filled with people suffering broken bones, gunshot wounds, blunt force trauma, trampling, and stabbings. Evelyn and Eloise took temperatures, dressed and sewed lacerations, and administered medication, but they also held hands, called loved ones, recited scripture, and prayed.
Under the harsh summer sun, Evelyn was, for the first time, grateful for the revised habit. Her skirt hem now fell at her shins, allowing for a breeze to lap at her legs, and her shortened veil began at the crown of her head and ended at her shoulders. She often missed her old uniform like one misses an amputated limb, but for the past couple days at least, darting around hospital rooms without air conditioning, she was glad to be free from the burden of excess wool. And rumor had it, in another year’s time, they would ditch the habit altogether.
Evelyn spotted the bus stop down the block. Every step toward it was a throbbing effort. How she longed to collapse on her humble cot in her humble oasis, free from the relentless cries of a burning city. But at least there was Eloise, a comfort she could take with her.
