by Regina Doman
The lawyer shook his head. “I hate to say this, but a jury might think otherwise if the case comes to trial.” He tapped the photograph. “You may think she’s innocent, but you could have a tough time convincing others. That’s not the face of a girl who has nothing to hide.”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” Bear said quietly, and knitted his fingers together in prayer. I’m not going to turn against her. But God, if you can get me out of jail somehow, I would appreciate it. I need to find her.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday night the heat broke, and the rain fell. The girl heard it, late at night, and something inside her relaxed.
She wasn’t sure why the rain should make her feel relieved. But it did. For a while she stared up at the window of her room, watching the rain falling, dashes of silver through the cloud of dim darkness.
For some reason, she was feeling too furtive to turn on the light, and let someone know that she was awake. So she got out of bed in the dimness and dressed herself. There were no work dresses or skirts here for her to wear, only t-shirts and jeans. While feeling around for her sweater in the crate where she kept her clothes, she felt something hard among the folds of her yellow dress, and drew it out. The bottle she had taken from Mr. Fairston’s house. She studied it again, worried. Another mystery.
After pulling on the black cardigan with unraveling cuffs, she ran her hand through her hair. It was too short. Once again, she felt sick inside.
Stepping outside into the torrent rain, she ran to the church’s back door, tried her key in the lock, and pulled it open. It creaked shut behind her, and she stood inside, panting and dripping.
Like a shadow, she softly stepped into the sacristy, listening to the comforting thunder of the rain on the solid church roof. She looked around, the white bottle in her hand, seeking further solitude, hoping to avoid memories.
In the dusty sacristy that afternoon she had discovered a closet that opened upon a little room with a window, which was filled with old plaster statues, clearly stored there because they were in need of repair. The Blessed Mother had a chipped nose. St. Agnes had a broken hand and her lamb had only three feet.
Now she looked at the still and shabby dust-covered statues, and they seemed to invite her to join them. Some of them were as tall as she was, but others were more diminutive. Tentatively, she walked among them until she reached the largest one, who stood secluded in a corner, her glass eyes wise, her plaster harp chipped, her hand out, as though beckoning to her with three outstretched fingers. Who was she? An angel? But she was unwinged.
“Can you help me?” she whispered at the plaster woman, putting the medicine bottle in her open hand. It seemed to belong there. “I don’t know where to turn—”
After a moment, she looked away, still torn inside. She put a finger on little St. Maria Goretti’s shawl-covered shoulders and wiped off the dust. “Perhaps I should just go back, find out what happened, and risk being arrested,” she murmured. “The police might find out the truth—”
But look what had happened to Bear, when he was in high school. Innocent people got convicted: what was to stop it from happening to her?
Looking around at the statues, she noticed there were quite a few women martyrs among them. Somehow, they had all found the courage to die for the faith, and she wondered about them. Had they always been strong, or were they ordinary girls in extraordinary situations? Was it genetics or grace? She hoped it was grace.
Otherwise, there’s no hope for me…
II
Around midnight, a car alarm went off on their street, starting Brother Leon awake. He was so used to the obnoxious sound that usually he fell back to sleep within minutes. But tonight, for some reason, he couldn’t. Maybe it was the heat.
For a few minutes he drifted in and out of consciousness, annoyed at the stupid alarm for stealing his rest. Better than being woken by a rat bite, but not much better. With a sigh, he began a litany of prayer again, naming the saints and intercessors in rhythm, asking for prayers for his family, the people who he had met that day, Nora …
Usually, this line of defense brought him back into slumber fairly quickly. But now it failed, and he found himself becoming increasingly awake.
Irate, he sat up. Okay, Lord. You behind this?
Apparently someone out there needed prayer, big time. Stifling a yawn, he sat up on his sleeping bag on the floor, fumbled for his sandals and habit in the dark, and dressed. Trying to avoid the creaking parts of the floor for the sake of his brothers, he walked downstairs. Just as he reached the corridor to the church, it started raining hard, and he was pleased.
Once inside the church, he knelt down in the darkness gazing at the little light before the tabernacle. He crossed himself, yawned, (of course, now he was tired) and started in on the rosary.
He closed his eyes, but his spirit swept outwards, over the inhabitants of the friary, out on the streets, to the traffic passing by, to the people on the corners making drug deals, or in their apartments watching TV; huddled in the darkness of the night or the darkness of sin, their eyes reflecting the suffering, the barrenness, the world-weariness. His spirit, in thought, brushed over all of them, seeking Christ, looking for the tortured features of the Man of Sorrows in the empty eyes of the people of the night.
The mystery of the night was pierced through until it surrendered to the darker mystic night, the night of the soul in search for its God. In that night, Leon went wandering, and slowly his fingers moved over the beads, with longer and longer pauses, as his body inevitably succumbed to fatigue.
Then another sound, far quieter than the car alarm, but stranger, alerted him: metal hinges. Someone was opening the back door to the church. He saw through the open sacristy door a flash of dim nightfall and a girlish figure stepping inside, brushing the rain off her hair, then the door closed and the figure was enveloped in darkness. He recognized her.
Closing his eyes, he continued praying. After some time, the shape slipped out of the sacristy and started down the side aisle, straight towards the shadows where he was kneeling.
“Nora.”
She jumped back with a cry, then clapped a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said softly.
She forced a laugh. “I was just going back to the vestibule.”
“To sleep?”
Now she laughed in earnest. “No. To finish sorting clothes. I couldn’t sleep.”
He could make out tears on her face in the faint glow of streetlights coming through the stained glass windows. “You upset about something?”
She was silent.
“You want to talk about it?”
She breathed, wiped her eyes, and looked at him again. Then she sat down in a nearby pew. Picking the pew behind her, he sat down and leaned back.
“You’ll think I’m crazy,” she said at last.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
She looked at him over her shoulder levelly. “I tried to tell my mother and my sister once, and they thought I was crazy,” she said.
“Try me.”
She glanced at him, and then looked away again. “I keep feeling,” she said in a low voice, “a sense of death. A premonition. As though I’m in danger.”
“From who?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that paranoia?”
“Hard to tell,” Brother Leon said. “But I can see it’s upsetting you.”
She looked up. “All my life, I’ve had these strange feelings about things, about things in the future. My dad, who’s dead, used to say it was a gift. But lately, my intuition has been that I’m in danger. Of dying. And I don’t know why.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“That’s part of it,” she said in a low voice. “I keep thinking that someone’s following me.”
“Following you?”
She put her hands on her knee. “For a while, it seemed like every time I left my house, every time I went to work, ever
y time I did an errand, I would see this man behind me in my peripheral vision. This big, tall man with a big head and broad shoulders, following me.”
“This isn’t the man who mugged you?”
She shook her head. “No. The guys who mugged me were young. This man has got to be about forty. And despite the fact that no one else has seen him, I’m sure I’m not imagining him. Although—I could be imagining that he’s after me.”
Leon scratched his chin. “Well, that does sound like something to be concerned about. Did you call the police?”
“I thought of that, but what could I tell them except that he was always in my vicinity? It’s not as though he’s ever tried to come up and talk to me. He’s barely even looked at me.”
“And you don’t know who he is?”
“I have no idea.”
“Just so I’m clear here—you’re not telling me that you think this man is a spiritual manifestation of Death?”
She shook her head. “No. That’s something separate. It’s like this: all summer, I’ve been having this sense of being vulnerable. And then, a few weeks ago, I start noticing this man. Of course, this only makes me feel more and more paranoid. After a while, I had the sense that any random destructive force in my area was going to careen in my direction. Not that anything actually happened—well, not until the night I came here—but I’ve been feeling all along that something was about to happen. And frankly, it hasn’t been—good for my sanity.” She smiled wryly.
“You said you talked to your mom and sister about this?”
She hesitated. “Yes. Maybe it was just how I put it to them, but they didn’t react at all well. I think my mom is starting to wonder if I’ve got some kind of emotional problem—just before she left on vacation, I overheard her asking a nurse friend of hers for the name of a reliable psychiatrist.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
She shook her head. “No. They’re on a camping trip in California. I won’t be able to reach them until next week. But at least they won’t be worried about me.”
Brother Leon thought. “Have you seen this man hanging around the friary?”
“No. It’s kind of funny, but I’m relieved. Since the night of the mugging, it almost seems like I’ve escaped him by coming here. If he was really ever following me in the first place. Do I sound paranoid?”
“No, not at all,” Leon said. “In fact, keep on looking over your shoulder for this guy. If you see him, tell us. Maybe we can find out what he’s up to. Does that help?”
“Somewhat,” she managed a smile. “I just wish I could understand what this means. It’s as though my life has turned into a chess game, and I’m a pawn who has no idea what’s going on. I just keep trying to go straight ahead and mind my own business.”
“Well, you realize that if you’re a pawn in a chess game and you keep walking the straight and narrow, you’re going to invade enemy territory the further you go on,” Brother Leon pointed out.
“That’s what I feel like. Like I’ve crossed some sort of line, and now every piece I see is after me suddenly. But I don’t know where the line was or when I crossed it.”
“Nora, you crossed it by growing up,” Leon said. “You know we’re in a battle here, right?”
“You mean, a spiritual war between good and evil.”
“Yeah. And you’re on the good side, right?”
“Well, I hope so.”
“When you grow up trying to do good, you tend to get better at it. And pretty soon, you might start being a threat. To the devil. See, God has a plan for you, and the devil knows it. Don’t underestimate what God wants from you either. You might think you’re just a pawn, but a pawn who reaches the other side of the board becomes a queen.”
“I don’t want to be a queen,” Nora murmured, running her hands through her hair. “I just want to be left alone.”
Leon chuckled. “Your only chance for peace is to put yourself in God’s hands and trust Him.”
She smiled ironically. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be sure ‘the suffering had a loving side,’ like Emily Dickinson said. Sometimes it’s hard for me to think God finds me very lovable.”
“Don’t think that!” Leon said with vehemence, and she looked at him, startled. “I’m serious, Nora. You’re not allowed to doubt God loves you. You can doubt everything else. Doubt the sacraments, doubt your sanity, doubt the existence of Saskatchewan or Siamese cats. But there’s one thing you can’t doubt, and that is God’s love for you. No matter what happens to you, never doubt that He loves you. That has to be your foundation: He loves you. The universe might disintegrate around you, but that won’t change.”
She looked at him as though she had begun to understand something.
“‘For the plans I have for you are good and not evil, life, and not death, to give you a future, and a hope.’ Nora, c’mon, trust Him a little.”
“Okay. I guess that’s what Catholics are supposed to do.” She sighed.
He rubbed his beard stubble again. “Look, you need to take your mind off some of this stuff. How about you give the vestibule a rest for now, and get out, for a change? Matt and I have got to drive someone to the airport today. Why don’t you come along? Sound good?”
“Yes,” she said, with a faint smile.
“Then do me a favor and go back to your room and try to get some sleep.” He touched her shoulder lightly. “All right?”
“All right.”
With a quiet smile she rose, left the pew and walked back out of the church as the rain hammered down on the roof. He closed his eyes and knelt.
Okay, Lord, so that’s what you were up to. Now let me let her go, beautiful as she is, and give her to you. You take care of her. You’ll do it better than I would, anyhow.
III
Wednesday. Still trapped in prison. At least it was raining. Bear rolled over in his jail bunk and blinked in the early morning light diffused through his plastic-screened window. He hadn’t changed clothes since he had left Rome, and he was feeling increasingly grungy. Realizing he was awake, he buried his head in his hands and prayed. God, please let me get out today. Or at least let me get some news about Blanche. Just to know that she’s okay…
There was a clang as the prison guards started to open the cell doors for the morning. Bear scrambled to his feet and ran his hands through his hair. He wanted to get to the phones and find out if there was any news. Fish sat up, yawning.
“Good Lord,” he said. “Still here, are we? I keep hoping this is some sort of bad dream, and I’ll wake up to find myself back in Italy.”
Bear, his hands on the bars of their cell, cracked a smile. “I’d find that frustrating myself. At this point, I’m sorry that I ever went. If I hadn’t gone, maybe none of this would have happened.” He watched the guard anxiously as the man slowly came down the corridor towards them, opening doors as he went, taking his time.
“Then why did you go?” Fish asked wearily, as he lay back down. “It’s obvious that you’re in love with Blanche. I’ve always wondered why you didn’t—propose marriage or something.”
His brother’s pointed question hurt. Bear swallowed, and said, “Because of how Dad treated Mom.”
Fish rubbed his eyes. “Well, I know that they weren’t happy together, but—what does that have to do with anything?”
“With them as my role models, how can I expect to have a good marriage myself?” Bear asked bluntly. “How can I be sure that Blanche and I won’t end up just like Mom and Dad—cold and distant and talking around each other instead of to each other? It scares the heck out of me.”
Fish stared at the ceiling. “You’re not like Dad, Bear. You’ve got a lot more strength than he does. Definitely more than I do.”
“Speak for yourself. You’re the one who’s got it all together.”
Fish threw him a warning glance. “Only on the outside. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know,” Bear rubbed his head. “But Dad still influenced me. A lot.�
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“Dad’s problem was that he never understood what marriage was all about in the first place. Mom said even she didn’t know too much about marriage, until she started studying Catholicism. She said Dad just couldn’t get it.”
“It was more than just ignorance, though,” Bear said, despite himself. “He—” He restrained himself. “Sorry, I shouldn’t go into that.”
Fish glanced at him. “I think I know what you’re referring to,” he said quietly. “You mean how Dad wasn’t faithful to Mom.”
“So you know about that?”
“By the time Mom died I had figured things out. When did you know?”
“By high school. Father Raymond knew too. Longer than I knew.”
“Well, he was Mom’s confessor as well as her friend. I suppose he must have known.”
“I’ve always suspected that’s why Dad wouldn’t believe we were framed,” Bear said, and rubbed his face with his shoulder. “Because—” he hesitated, remembering the scene too well. “Because of what happened when I found out.”
“What, did you walk in on him kissing some woman or something?”
Bear nodded. “More than kissing. When I was fourteen.”
“Yikes. What did you do?”
“Well, I was furious. I tried to leave without saying anything, but Dad wanted to act as though it wasn’t a big deal, and called me back. I don’t think he realized how mad I was. He told me I was old enough to know and said it was totally normal for men, then asked me what I thought. So, uh, I told him.”
Fish was half-amused. “Seriously? What did you say?”
Bear blew out his breath. “I tried to give him the Father Raymond treatment. You know, I just told him the stuff Father Raymond used to tell us: about faithfulness, and manhood, and honoring vows. But I don’t think I was particularly persuasive. I think I was mostly loud.” He rubbed his face again. “I must have sounded like—He didn’t take it well. Neither did she. It was embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing all around, I’m sure,” Fish said mildly.
There was silence between them, and the noise of the jail filled in the space for them. Bear felt the dull, aching sense of sickness in his mouth. He wiped his lips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
