“But it’s been so long, Angie! The prime of your life! Can’t you find out on the outside?”
“I tried to, but I couldn’t”. She shakes her head sadly. “I couldn’t as long as you were around, and Mom and Pop. And I love you all. I want you all to be happy.” She shudders with the force of a hoarse sob.
I feel an anguish so deep it hurts. Now that I understand what she’s asking, I know the convent is no answer. And I know because I’ve asked the same question. I have to get her out, to convince her. I prepare to make the most important oral argument of my life. For the life of my sister.
“Angie, I didn’t know who I was either, until I lived. Graduated. Met Mike, lost Mike. I got knocked around and twisted every which way. Things happened to me I’ve never told you about. Bad things, good things, too. Those things helped me find out who I am. They made me who I am. It’s life, Angie. You don’t figure it out before you live it. It takes living it to figure it out.”
She’s crying softly, but she’s listening.
“Angie, you don’t have to hide yourself to find yourself!”
Suddenly the door bursts open. It’s the Mother Superior, whose slash of a mouth sets grimly when she discovers Angie. “Sister Angela. To Lauds.”
Angie springs from my embrace and backs away.
“Angie!” I shout, my arms empty.
But Angie runs from me, and the sound of her footfalls disappears into silence.
25
I dress before dawn in the quiet little cell. The shadows are a purple-gray, but now at least I can see around me. Not that there’s much to see. There’s no stenciling on the wall, and the night table is bare on top. The bed looks like a child’s bunk bed, maybe donated from one of the families, and the white coverlet that felt so scratchy last night has fuzzy tufts of cotton scattered over it. Behind the table is a rectangular window. I slip into my shoes and look outside.
I think it’s the back yard of the convent, but I can’t orient myself. I know I’ve never seen it before. Huge oak trees climb to my window and even higher; some of them look a century old. Their thick branches block the view of what’s beneath them, but if I tilt my head I can see down below: a grouping of white crosses, set in rows. There are about fifty of them, white as bleached bones. It takes me a minute to realize what I’m seeing.
A cemetery.
I never thought about that. I never knew. Of course, it makes sense. The nuns who live here are buried here, in rows of crosses, like at Verdun, or Arlington.
Will Angie be buried here? I can’t quite believe it. Even in death, would she stay here? I draw away from the window.
There’s a soft knock at the door. “Mary, are you awake?” whispers a voice. Angie’s.
I cross to the door and open it.
Angie’s face looks pale, almost pasty against the raven-colored habit. There are dark circles under her eyes; I know they match mine. “You didn’t sleep either, huh?” I ask.
She puts a finger to her lips. “Mother says we may take a short walk together before you go,” she whispers. “Follow me.”
So I do. She leads me down hallway after hallway, like the Mother Superior did last night. I have to admit that the convent looks better in the daylight. The hardwood floors that seemed dark last night are in fact a golden honey tone, a high-quality pine, and they reflect the morning light. The walls are pure white, without a scuff mark on them. The sayings seem less bizarre too, once you get over the shock of phrases like MORTIFICATION OF THE FLESH in ten-inch letters. But I keep thinking of the cemetery in the back. Tucked away, like a secret.
We head down a flight of spiral stairs that appears to be at a corner of the convent. I don’t remember going up them last night. They’re narrow and there’s no rail, so I run my hand along the wall as we wind down them like a nautilus shell. Angie holds a tiny door for me at the bottom. I have to stoop to pass through it.
And then we’re in paradise. The door opens onto a lush garden, with a skinny brick path outlining it in the shape of a heart. The path’s border is marked by low-lying plants with rich olive-colored leaves, thriving even in the shade of the pin oaks. A row of flowers grows behind the row of plants, dotting the perimeter with blossoms of pink, yellow, and white. Behind them are rosebushes, one after another, just beginning to bud. The effect is something like an old-fashioned floral valentine.
“Wow!” I say.
Angie pushes the door closed in a businesslike way and moves aside a stack of clay pots. “Thank you.”
“You did this?”
She blushes. “I shouldn’t take all the credit.” She steps into the garden and stands at the point of the heart. “I designed it.”
I follow her. “When? How? What do we know about gardens? We’re city kids.”
She smiles, and her face relaxes. “Which question do you want me to answer first?”
“Pick one.”
“Well, I designed it about five years ago. Mother felt we needed a garden, a place for quiet contemplation. The shape, obviously, is the Sacred Heart.”
“Obviously.”
Angie glances back at me. “You haven’t forgotten everything, have you?”
“I’ve tried, Lord knows I’ve tried.”
She suppresses a smile. “Let’s take a walk. There’s a bench at the top where we can sit down.” She leads me up the path, slipping both hands into the sleeves of her habit, like the nuns did at school.
“So tell me how you did this. It’s wonderful.”
“It wasn’t hard. We have a library here. I read about the types of flowers. Perennials. Annuals. What grows in shade, what doesn’t.” Angie looks up at the sky. “I think we’ll get some sun today. Good.”
“You can get out the sun reflector like you used to.”
She stops on the path and shakes her head. “I can’t believe we actually did that. A sun reflector, of all things. With only baby oil for protection. What were we thinking?”
“We were thinking we wanted to look good. What all teenage girls think. Burn off those zits.”
“Stop.” She bumps me with her shoulder. “Look here. These are my favorites.” She nods in the direction of a group of white flowers. The stems stand about two feet high and are covered with what appears to be soft white bells. They nod gracefully in the slight breeze.
“They’re beautiful. What are they?”
She bends over and cups a dimpled bell in her fingertips. “Campanula. Bellflower. Aren’t they lovely? They need some sun, but they don’t like too much. Most of the varieties bloom in the summer. I have those on the north side of the heart. But this little baby, this is an early version. Aren’t you, sweetie?” she coos comically into the upturned face of the flower.
“The vow of silence doesn’t extend to flowers, huh?”
“Why do you think they grow so well?” Angie says, and we both laugh.
“That’s the first time you ever made a joke about this place, you know.”
She straightens up. “Don’t start, Mary.”
“All right, all right.”
“Come on, let’s go. We don’t have much time.” She walks briskly toward a weathered wooden bench. She seems more energetic than when she first met me this morning.
“You love this garden, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She sits down on the bench. “Step into my office,” she says.
I sit down obediently.
“Look over there.” She points to the right of the bench, where mounds of trailing green vines make a glossy carpet. “You know what that is?”
“Free parking?”
“No, wise guy. I planted it in our honor. It’s Italian bellflower.”
“I love it. Goombah foliage.”
She looks over at the vines. “They’re hard to grow. They’re like you, stubborn. I couldn’t get them to come up last year. But they’re lovely when they do. I saw them in a picture.” Her gaze is suddenly far away.
“What do they look like?”
“Lit
tle stars. Little bell-shaped stars. They call them Star-of-Bethlehem.” She keeps looking far away. I wonder what she’s looking at, what she’s thinking about. I follow her gaze over the garden, past the statue of some saint. I can’t see anything after that, except the wrought-iron crucifix on top of the gate.
“Remember when we used to read each other’s minds?” I ask her.
She doesn’t answer.
“What are you looking at, Ange?”
“The other side.”
“The other side of what?”
“The other side of the rose garden. On the other side is our new gazebo. Have you seen it?” She squints, as if she were trying to see through the roses.
“No.”
“It’s lovely. It’s made from the lightest wood, a blond color. Inside are statues of the Sacred Heart and the Immaculate Heart, both hand carved in Italy. Hand painted, too. The statues gave me the idea for the garden.” She pauses a minute. “The statues are in the middle of the floor, and there’s a skylight over the top. When the sun shines in, the whole room glows. The light inside is remarkable. It’s full.” Angie looks at me. Her eyes are bright. “Do you understand what I mean, that light can be full? Can you see that?”
I swallow hard. “You’re never going to leave this place, are you?”
Angie smiles. “You’re not a very good listener, you know that?”
“I’m a lawyer. We don’t get paid to listen. We get paid to talk.”
“But no one’s paying you now.”
“No, no, you’re right. No one’s paying me now.” It’s my turn to look past the roses.
“So. I was up last night, thinking about what you said and other things.” She folds her hands neatly in her lap. She seems tense again.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, hurt you. It’s just that I don’t want you here, Angie. I saw the cemetery out back. I don’t want you here then and I don’t want you here now.”
“I understand that.”
“I really think—”
“I know what you think. You want me to go out there.” She nods over the garden to the gate beyond.
“Right.”
“Because you think it’s better than here. Than this lovely place.” Her brown eyes move over the bright flowers of the garden.
“Not that it’s better. Just that it’s real. It’s the real world, and you have to deal with it. You can’t just ignore it. Run away from it.”
“No? Why not?”
“What do you mean why not?”
“Why not?”
“Because you have to live in it. Because you learn by dealing with it, by coping with it. We’re strong, Angie. Mom and Pop raised us that way. They taught us that we can deal with whatever comes our way. I know you can resolve what you have to on the outside. I just know it.”
“Do you think it’s important for me to do that?”
“More than important. Vital.”
She pauses. “Is it important for you to do that?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“I see. Well, then, may I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why are you here?”
I look at her. She looks back. My eyes narrow, then hers. Identically.
“What?” I ask.
“Why are you here?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? If what you’re saying is true, then why are you here? Why did you run to the convent, from the vast and wonderful outside world?”
I have no answer for this. It doesn’t seem like a fair question.
“You tell me there are dangerous people out there, stalking you. They send you notes. They enter your apartment when you’re not there. They might have killed your secretary. Your husband.” Her pained look flickers across her face. “You believe these things to be true.”
“I do.”
“So leaving aside the question of why anybody in her right mind would ever choose such a place as that over such a place as this, why was your first impulse to come here? Not even to call somebody else in the police department, somebody other than this Lombardo. But to come to a convent.”
“I didn’t come to a convent, Angie, I came to you. If you were in Camden, I would have gone to Camden.”
“But what can I do? I’m a nun. I have no money, no power, no resources. I don’t own a single thing, not even this garden. How can I help you?”
“By seeing me. By listening to me.” I rub my forehead. “I don’t get it. Why are you saying this?”
“I saw you. I listened to you. Now it’s the next morning and you have to leave. You have to go beyond the walls, into the world of wonderful and terrifying things. Into your world, where two people close to you have been killed. And what are you going to do? What are you going to do?”
I look at her, suddenly crushed, and not understanding why.
“You see, Mary, this is very hard for me.” She folds her hands again in her lap. “Because I have to let you go out there, into the world you love so much, into the world you ran from. I have to let you go. But I don’t see you reaching within yourself to deal with this situation, one that threatens your very life.”
I look at her wide-eyed.
“How am I supposed to let you go out there, when all I can do is pray to God to protect you and I don’t see you doing anything at all to protect yourself?” Her lips look parched, her expression pained. “You said we could handle anything, and I’ve always thought that of you, though not of myself. Can you handle this?”
“I… don’t know.”
She looks away, quiet for a minute. “You’re right about one thing. You know that light I was telling you about? That I said was full?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I never will leave it. I can’t. It’s inside me. In here.” She touches her chest with a slim hand. “Do you understand?”
I nod, yes, but she isn’t watching.
“It has a kind of substance to it, it’s tangible to me. It guides me, and I follow it like a river. It’s what I dip into when I need to know the answer. For me, it’s my faith in God.” Angie turns to me. “What is inside of you, Mary?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“Ever since Mike—”
She holds up a finger. “No. No. No man can give it to you. Not Mike, and not this other man. No one else can give it to you. It’s inside you. It’s there already.”
“You think?”
“I know. Isn’t that what you told me last night?”
“I guess so.”
“See? I listen,” she says, with a smile.
Suddenly, the chapel bells peal loudly, bong, bong, bong, in some indeterminant hymn. Angie turns toward the sound. “I have to go.” She looks worriedly back at me. “Do you see what I’m trying to tell you?”
“Yes.”
She begins to rise. “I have to let you go now, and I have to know you’ll be all right if I do. I was never worried about you before, Mary, but now I am. I prayed all night for you, prayed to God to keep you safe.” Her eyes are brimming with tears.
I stand up and hug her tight. “Read my mind,” I whisper into her habit.
“I know. You love me,” she says, her voice choked.
“Right. Want me to read your mind?”
“No.” She hugs me tighter.
“You love me too.”
The chapel bells fall silent as suddenly as they commenced.
She braces me by the shoulders. Her wet eyes search my face.
“I’ll be okay, Ange.”
“You swear?”
“On a stack of Bibles.”
She laughs and wipes a cheek on her sleeve. “Swear on something else. Something you believe in.”
I give her a quick hug. “Have faith. Now go.”
“Do you know how to get out of here?”
“Do you?”
Angie rolls her eyes. “I have to go. The gate’s
over that way. Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
She kisses my cheek, then runs off toward the convent. Midway down the garden path, she gathers her skirt into her hands so she can run faster.
“Way to go!” I call after her.
She looks back with a sly smile. Then off she runs, with her veil flying and her black wool leggings churning away.
26
Clouds of steam billow around me. The water superheats my skin. My blood pumps faster; my thoughts flow like quicksilver. I’m taking a steaming hot shower in Stalling’s locker room on the second floor, Anger.
How perfect.
I’m angry at myself, for rolling over like a puppy for whatever devil is out there, trying to hurt me. But no longer.
Angie was right. I preached to her to face life, but when I got scared, I ran too. But like Brent says, that was then and this is now. I had an epiphany as I drove back to the city, hurtling into a cloudless dawn on a Route I empty of travelers. I found my river, but its source sure as hell isn’t my faith in God. And it doesn’t flow with holy water, but with something closer to bile, at least right now. Whatever it is that drives me, it’s why I became a lawyer in the first place. Every day on my job I fuck back professionally for Stalling’s clients, and I like it. Well, I’ve decided it’s time to start fucking back for myself. I’m not going to run for my life anymore, I’m going to fight for it.
I twist off the water and step dripping out of the shower. I towel off and slip into a white linen dress that I keep in my locker. I dry my hair quickly, ignoring the blotches aflame on my chest. I unlock the locker room door and head for my office.
The big clock stares at me. 7:56. I stare right back. Lying abandoned on my desk is Ned’s bouquet of roses. They’re wilted, but still holding their perfume. I take a deep breath and toss them into the wastebasket. I try not to look back as I pick up the telephone receiver and punch in the numbers from the Rolodex. It turns out that Detective Lombardo answers his own phone.
“How’s your nose this morning, Lombardo?”
“Who is this?”
“Mary DiNunzio, remember me? The crazy widow? The one you tried to convince it’s all in her head? I saw Berkowitz clean your clock, Lombardo, and I want to know why.”
Everywhere That Mary Went Page 19
