What a sight the three of us must make! Mary Helen thought, struggling against gravity to push open the heavy door. Lucy in her jogging outfit, me in my navy-blue nun’s suit, and Caroline, crisp in jade linen, complete with gloves and a turbanlike hat that looks as if she had borrowed it from Queen Elizabeth.
Caroline led the trio across the street. If she hadn’t known better, Mary Helen would have thought Caroline was on her way to an exclusive garden party in Hillsborough rather than to Erma’s apartment over the bistro on 18th and Sanchez. She literally leaned on Al Finn’s doorbell.
Considering what the sound must have done to his nerves, Mary Helen thought the man was surprisingly courteous when he cracked open the door. Courteous, but not quite awake.
“I’m dreadfully sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Finn,” Caroline began, ignoring the fact that he was standing bleary-eyed and barefoot in his undershirt and boxer shorts.
Feeling a little like one of the villagers in “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” Mary Helen looked directly at the man’s sleep-creased face. She wondered for a moment where Lucy was looking.
“But we are terribly worried about our friend Erma,” Caroline continued, with a flourish of her gloved hand. “May we trouble you for the key to her apartment?”
Finn grunted, shut the door, and left them standing on the stoop. Mary Helen wasn’t sure whether he didn’t recognize her or was just too sleepy to acknowledge that they had met.
“Did you notice that gentleman’s hair?” Caroline whispered.
Lucy couldn’t resist. “Did you say hair or bare?”
Finn reappeared, looking, in Mary Helen’s opinion, a lot like an unmade bed. Uneven suspenders held his crumpled pants up over a crumpled shirt. His toe protruded from a gaping hole in one of the socks he had managed to slip over his bare feet.
Without a word, he opened Erma’s door and led them up the narrow carpeted staircase. The top step opened into a high-ceilinged, sparsely furnished living room. The wooden banister and stairs formed one wall. French doors on the opposite wall separated it from the combination dining room-kitchen.
Stifling a yawn, Finn shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the banister. He shifted uneasily. “I don’t know about letting you ladies in here.” Apparently, the more awake he became, the more aware he was of what he was doing.
“Nonsense!” Caroline said, leading the other two women down the narrow hallway toward the back room where the apartment abruptly ended. The floor plan looked as if someone had taken a spacious Victorian flat and cut it in half. And Erma had gotten the worse half.
Mary Helen could hear Finn’s bare feet padding down the hall behind them. “I ain’t so sure this is right,” he muttered.
The bedroom door was closed. Caroline grasped the old-fashioned brass knob. Closing her eyes, Mary Helen tried to quell the feeling of dread that shot through her like a sharp pain. She knew it was foolish. Erma’s daughter had already been in the apartment. Logically she knew the feeling came from her experience of finding Suzanne.
Despite logic, Erma’s face flashed before her—those trusting brown eyes, that ready smile. She held her breath as Caroline turned the handle. Behind that door would they find that familiar round face permanently frozen in terror?
The bedroom door swung back easily. Reluctantly Mary Helen opened her eyes. Empty and undisturbed! She relaxed her shoulders, but it took several moments before her heart slowed down.
Years ago, she remembered, a retreat master had said that a person’s bedroom told a great deal about that person. In Erma’s case, the remark really rang true.
The room was bright and cheerful. The bedspread, the draperies, a slipper chair were all in flowered print. The sturdy mahogany bed, the matching chest of drawers and nightstand were sturdy and well cared for. Erma had undoubtedly brought them from her parents’ home and lovingly polished them for years.
Next to a door, which probably led to the bathroom, stood an old-fashioned dresser with a silver comb-and-brush set carefully arranged on its crocheted runner. Family photographs covered most of the dresser top. Recent snapshots of smiling family and friends were stuck everywhere in the carved mirror frame. Three children’s handprints in plaster hung on the wall beside the mirror.
From a corner shelf the shadowless icon of Our Lady of Perpetual Help shed its radiance on those around. The Madonna smiled sadly and her compassionate eyes embraced the room. A baroque vigil light had been placed before the gilded painting. The votive candle inside was nearly burned out.
Looking around, Mary Helen could feel a lump form in her throat. Please, Lord, she prayed, don’t let anything have happened to good old Erma Duran.
“Look in here.” Caroline swung the closet door open. Mary Helen felt a little guilty about looking, as though she were invading Erma’s privacy.
“Just look,” Caroline repeated. A few dresses, a coat, two suits, a couple of blouses, and a worn wool jacket hung in the immaculate closet. Several shoe boxes and a couple of purses occupied the top shelf. Two cardboard boxes were stacked on the bare floor next to a suitcase.
Erma’s suitcase . . . That’s strange, Mary Helen thought, turning toward Mr. Finn.
Before she had a chance to say anything, Caroline bent over and picked up the paper tag still attached to the handle. “Look at this! She didn’t even remove the luggage tag. And none of her clothing seems to be missing. Although, Lucy, you’d know that better than I.”
Lucy! Mary Helen realized with a start that the woman had not uttered one word since they’d entered the room. Caroline and Mary Helen turned toward her.
Lucy’s small, peaked face was white. Behind her horn-rimmed glasses, her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, God,” she said, “I was hoping—”
“Hey, ladies!” By now, Finn was fully awake and frowning. “I ain’t so sure about you coming in here. People got rights, you know.” He stopped, nervously pulled at his loose suspenders. “What if Erma don’t want people knowing her business?”
Mary Helen tried to look hurt “We are not trying to pry into anyone’s business, Mr. Finn. We are just concerned about why she went away without notifying anyone.”
Finn began to blink nervously. With every blink, the yellow specks in his hazel eyes seemed to jump back and forth. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that much—”
“But the suitcase,” Caroline interrupted. “It seems inconceivable to me that one would—or could—travel without luggage.”
“I wish she’d left a forwarding address or a phone number,” Mary Helen said. “Then we could call Erma, find out what was wrong, and settle this matter—whatever it is—once and for all.”
“I told you yesterday—she said she’d call.” Finn looked at Mary Helen uncomfortably. So he had recognized her!
“I shouldn’t have said that much. And I never should have mentioned St. Louis to that other one who called. She don’t want her kids to know.”
“Know what?” Mary Helen asked, hoping it didn’t sound like prying.
“Where she went, Sister. She was trying to get away from them as fast as she could. They were bugging her. She said she’d call when she got settled.” Finn swallowed. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I guess the reason I let the cat out of the bag is because I’m getting kinda worried myself.”
Lucy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s worse than I thought.” She tried to keep her voice from quivering. “Erma was very upset in New York,” she said. “I don’t know whether or not you noticed.”
Mary Helen nodded. She didn’t want Lucy to realize just how much she had noticed.
“Someone had been taking money from her apartment She was afraid that whoever it was might even have taken her social-security check from her mailbox.” Lucy sniffled, feeling her jogging pants for a pocket but found none. “The check was over a week late. She had asked her daughter to pick up the mail for her, bank the check, and give her a ring in New York. But the check never arrived. Or
at least, Ree—that’s her daughter—never called.”
No wonder Erma had been so upset. Mary Helen dug in her pocket for a Kleenex and handed it to Lucy. “Did she suspect it was one of her children?”
Lucy shook her head. “She just couldn’t imagine that one of them would do such a thing.” Mary Helen looked over at the three tiny handprints on the wall. It did seem unnatural that any one of those sweet, tiny hands would grow up to steal from his or her own mother. “In fact, she couldn’t imagine who would. Do such a thing, I mean.
“I told her I’d help her out. It was only money. But it really upset her. You know Erma. She’s a stickler for paying her bills on time. I couldn’t convince her that the PG and E wouldn’t shut off her gas.” Lucy dabbed at her eyes. “I had this funny feeling that something else was bothering her too. I asked, but you know Erma. Never complains, never really lets you in. I just had the feeling that something more than money was wrong. It was almost as if she was afraid of something or somebody.” Lucy raised the Kleenex to her eyes and wept.
Putting her arm around the other woman, Caroline patted her shoulder with a gloved hand. “Do you suppose we should call her children? One of them might have an idea where we can begin to look.”
“I know Ree’s number.” Lucy hiccuped. “She’s already worried. She may be the best place to start.” Wiping her eyes, she wrote the number on a pad of paper Caroline had extracted from her purse.
“And I think I’ll give Noelle a buzz first,” Caroline said, picking up the pad. “I want to bring her up-to-date.”
Finn closed the closet door as if to preserve Erma’s privacy. In the background they could hear Caroline dial the phone. From her crisp, businesslike tone and the long pauses, Mary Helen guessed she was talking to Noelle and that the two of them were “organizing, not agonizing.”
Caroline reappeared at the bedroom door. “Noelle suggests we set up a meeting with Erma’s daughter as soon as possible. Is that all right?”
Lucy and Mary Helen nodded. Only Finn shook his head. “I don’t know what you’ll be able to get out of Ree. Or out of those two knuckle-headed brothers of hers, either. Nope”—he agreed with himself—“I don’t know what you’ll be able to get out of any of them. Sure as hell not an honest day’s work.”
“We’ll see, Mr. Finn. We’ll see.” Mary Helen smiled at the man. “At least it’s worth a try.” What she really wanted to add was, Never, never, Mr. Finn, not on your longest day, underestimate the “get-out-of-them” power of this group of OWLs! But she thought better of it. Mr. Finn, she was confident, would find that out soon enough.
May 10
Thursday of the Fourth Week of Easter
Right after breakfast on Thursday morning, Sister Mary Helen nabbed Eileen. “We’ve got to talk,” she said.
Sister Eileen turned and perked up, ready to listen.
“Not here.” Mary Helen glanced down the long tiled hallway linking the Sisters’ dining room with the kitchen and the students’ cafeteria. In the background she heard water running and the clang of metal pots. “Someplace private, where we won’t be overheard.”
“Glory be to God, Mary Helen.” Eileen’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “What have you been reading? We are on the ground floor of the college building. At this hour, there is no one around but kitchen help.”
Despite her objections, Mary Helen motioned Eileen into a storage room across from the kitchen and closed the door. Quickly she brought her friend up-to-date on Erma, her hasty departure, and the fact that the OWLs were going to set up a meeting with the woman’s daughter.
Eileen’s wrinkled face puckered with empathy. Perfect! Mary Helen thought as she put a little extra drama into the fact that the New York baggage tag was still attached to the woman’s suitcase. If the truth were known, her luggage was still tagged too.
“What do you think we should do?” Eileen frowned.
Mary Helen paused, adjusting her bifocals slowly as though she hadn’t really thought about it. “Well, if you’re not afraid to get involved again . . .”
Eileen pulled herself up to her full five feet, two inches. “An Irish coward is an uncommon character!” she said.
“Is that an old saying from back home?” Mary Helen was suspicious.
“No, Emperor Francis Joseph I of Austria,” her friend admitted, rather reluctantly, Mary Helen thought.
Before the two nuns parted, they agreed to attend the meeting with Erma’s daughter whenever and wherever the OWLs could arrange it.
The moment she got back to the convent, Mary Helen called the alumnae office. “I’ll be in a little later this morning,” she told Lynda, her new secretary.
“I hope you aren’t ill, Sister.”
“No, not at all.” Mary Helen was touched by the young woman’s concern. “I have an important meeting, that’s all. But I am expecting a call,” she added, “from one of the OWLs, probably Mrs. Coughlin. Please just take the message.” Carefully, she wanted to add, but didn’t She knew Lynda was always careful.
The old nun put on her wool coat and pulled a knitted scarf from her bottom drawer. It seemed silly to dress so warmly during the second week of May, but the moment she stepped outside she was glad she had.
A strong gust of wind blew her coat open and twisted the ends of her scarf. Quickly, she began to walk down the hill toward the college entrance.
I wonder what Lynda would think if she knew whom I was meeting, Mary Helen mused, turning her face to avoid the small specks of dust that whirled up from the road.
Head down, she turned left on Parker Avenue. All along the street the west wind howled and bent the young, spindly eucalyptus trees planted near the curb. Even the older, sturdier evergreens bordering the University of San Francisco’s ball field swayed with its force.
Fortunately, the wind was also pushing the heavy clouds aside. Vivid patches of blue began to peek among the gray.
Mary Helen squinted. Up ahead on the corner, directly across the street from the massive St. Ignatius Church, was her destination, the adobe-pink Carmelite monastery.
Eyes watering, Sister Mary Helen ducked into the side entrance of the imposing building. Pulling against the wind’s force, she opened the chapel door and stepped quickly into the silence. The heavy wooden door closed, leaving her in semidarkness.
Genuflecting, she slipped into a back pew and closed her eyes. The delicate aroma of incense hung on the air. From somewhere behind the grille to the right of the main altar, she heard the soft, nearly imperceptible, chanting of the cloistered nuns at Divine Office. The peace and otherworldliness of the place was almost palpable.
This was where she was having her meeting—the one she’d mentioned to Lynda. Her meeting was with God. It was one of her secrets. One she had never told anybody, not even Eileen. But for some time now, whenever Mary Helen wanted a serious meeting with God, she’d been coming here. She knew from years of experience that God heard and listened to her anytime and anywhere, but, of late, the Carmelite monastery had become like sacred ground.
The reason might seem foolish to some people, but it made perfect sense to Mary Helen. It had all happened at breakfast one morning. Father Adams, the Jesuit from St. Ignatius who frequently said the early-morning Mass for the Sisters, had stayed for coffee. Someone had asked him if he knew how the poor cloistered Carmelites across the street from the church had managed to build a monastery that was two stories high and nearly half a city block long.
Laughing, Father Adams related the story. An old, shabbily dressed woman who attended St. Ignatius regularly had stopped one of the Jesuit fathers after Mass. She had a little money, she told him, and when she died she wanted to leave it to charity. To whom did he think she should will it?
The priest thought for a moment He also said Mass for the nuns across the street He knew the group had come from Spain and were dirt-poor. Their monastery was a shambles. He had heard them praying each day that God would send them a benefactor. The priest figured the woman co
uldn’t have much, but he knew the nuns would be grateful for whatever she left them, no matter how small the amount.
“Why don’t you leave it to the Carmelites?” He pointed to the rundown monastery on the corner.
“Will they pray for me when I die?” she asked.
“Praying’s their business,” the priest answered with a wink.
When the old woman died, she left the Carmelite nuns more than a million dollars.
Since the morning she’d heard that story, whenever she needed serious help Mary Helen had walked down from the college, slipped into the back pew, and offered her intentions with theirs. Praying, after all, was their business, and from the appearance of the monastery, God was into answering them.
Before she left the darkened chapel, Mary Helen looked for the icon of Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Unable to find one, she lit a votive candle before an ornate statue of the Blessed Virgin. Any port in a storm, she thought, letting herself out onto the windswept street.
* * *
As Mary Helen neared the back door of the convent, a red Ferrari rounded the corner and came to a quick stop beside her. She recognized Allan Boscacci.
Rolling down the window, he waved. “Hi, Sister.” A shy smile lit up his handsome face. “It’s all fixed.”
All fixed? Mary Helen thought for a minute. What? Of course, the broken refrigerator. “What was it?” she asked.
“The screwdriver. Iceboxes work better,” he said with a wink, “when they are set flat on the ground.”
“Thanks, Allan.” Mary Helen waved as the sports car rounded the bend. Iceboxes and humans, she thought.
The convent’s back door slammed. Amused, Mary Helen watched an irate Sister Therese, waving both hands and a screwdriver, talking nonstop to Luis. Hands in pockets, the handyman simply shrugged and shook his head.
If the poor devil had been smart, Mary Helen thought, deciding to skirt the scene and go directly to her office, he would never have let on that he understood English.
The Missing Madonna Page 6
