The Missing Madonna

by Carol Anne O'Marie

  “ ‘It’s St. Gerard oil,’ she says to me. ‘St. Gerard is the patron saint of expectant mothers and safe births.’

  “ ‘But I’m not expecting—that’s my problem,’ I says to her, trying hard not to bust out crying again.

  “ ‘No matter,’ my neighbor says. ‘Let the man stretch himself,’ she says. ‘What kind of a saint is it that can’t go a little out of his way?’

  “So, every night after that I rubbed myself with the oil.”

  “Where?” Kate was fascinated.

  “In the middle of my stomach, of course, where the babies come.” Mrs. Bassetti frowned, obviously annoyed at a foolish question. “Ten months later Jackie came along. I named him John Gerard for that reason.”

  Kate had often wondered where Jack’s middle name had originated. When she had asked him, he didn’t seem to know.

  “Twelve months later, Angela, my angel, was born—and fifteen months after that, Gina, my baby. Bight after Gina, I put the oil away.” Mrs. Bassetti moved toward the bureau drawers.

  She pulled out a quilted box hidden deep in the middle drawer and opened it lovingly. “All my special treasures are in here.” She lifted the pale green satin lid. “I never let anyone touch them—not the kids, not even my husband. Only Angela tried, said Jackie and Gina put her up to it. I had to use my wooden spoon on all three of them.”

  Kate nodded, remembering Jack saying that, when it came to discipline, his mother had the fastest wooden spoon in the West.

  “After that, nobody touched it—not even Angie.” Mama removed a small bottle. On the front the picture of a friar looking piously heavenward had been badly stained. The liquid in the bottle had turned a deep honey color.

  “I saved this for a special reason.” Mrs. Bassetti handed Kate the container. “This is it. Use it and you’ll have a bambino in no time.”

  Kate stared at the bottle in disbelief. The whole notion was preposterous. She knew that the understanding-looking doctor on the cover of her pamphlet would say that it was nothing but pure superstition. Yet she didn’t have the heart to tell that to her mother-in-law. Besides, Mama Bassetti would never believe it. Feeling a little foolish, Kate took the bottle and shoved it into her purse.

  Mama patted her shoulder. “Babies are such a nice way to start people,” she said, her whole face lifting into a smile.

  “Where are you, Ma?” Angela’s sharp voice cut into the bedroom. “Oh, there you are with that old box. Remember how mad you got when we were kids and I tried to see what was in it? It was Jackie’s idea, but I got blamed.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, when are you going to stop that?” Gina stood behind her sister, clearly exasperated. “We were wondering what happened to you, Ma.” Gina took her mother’s hand. “The ice in your old-fashioned is melting, and Zio brought you a present. He’s dying to have you open it.”

  “I’ll bet it won’t be as nice as Jackie’s.” Angela couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  Mrs. Bassetti closed her eyes for a moment and sighed just slightly. Opening them, she took Kate’s chin in her chubby hand. “Yes, Kate. Babies are a nice way to start people.”

  Kate just knew that her mother-in-law wanted to add, Even if some of them grow up to be like my Angela.

  * * *

  Sunday afternoon at Mount St. Francis College was quiet. Many of the nuns who had families in the area had gone home for Mother’s Day. Only a skeleton crew remained.

  Sister Therese was planning a surprise supper for those at home. Sometime after lunch she had taped a notice on the community room doorjamb: “Something we rarely have,” she had written, then underlined “Promptly at six” in red.

  “What do you think she has in mind?” Mary Helen asked Sister Eileen who was standing next to her, reading the same note.

  “If I were the gambling kind, I’d wager it will be the same surprise she always fixes.” Eileen whispered in case Therese was within earshot.

  “I’m with you.” Young Sister Anne came up behind them. She must have overheard. “I’ll bet my new Reeboks”—she wiggled her toes in her pink tennis shoes—“that it’s eggplant lasagna.”

  “Yuck!” Mary Helen couldn’t help wrinkling her nose. Somehow, Therese’s lasagna always tasted like a cross between rubber and hot lava. She couldn’t imagine what Therese did to the noodles—or to the eggplant, for that matter.

  “If we are having something we rarely get, why not steak?” she grumbled, then felt guilty. People were starving and she was complaining about a wholesome meal.

  “You do have to admit we rarely have the concoction.” Eileen grinned. “Only when Therese gets the urge to surprise us, which,” she added, rolling her eyes, “is mercifully rare.”

  “Thank God!” Anne had taken the words right out of Mary Helen’s mouth.

  * * *

  With the business of Erma’s apparent disappearance weighing on her mind and Therese’s eggplant lasagna in ther immediate future, Mary Helen decided the best thing to do with the afternoon was to escape for a couple of hours. What better place than her “thinking spot,” the secluded stone bench in a clearing nestled on the college’s hillside. And to aid in her escape, she’d take along her new detective story. In whodunits, unlike real-life mysteries, things happen for a reason; violence is never senseless; and you can count on justice and right being triumphant. Mary Helen needed to step into that orderly world, if only for an hour or so.

  She stopped by her bedroom to pick up the latest Susan Dunlap paperback. It was on her desk, neatly tucked into her plastic prayerbook cover. Beside it was her pocketbook.

  She couldn’t help noticing the slight bulge of its zippered compartment. The pages she had snatched to preserve Erma’s privacy, of course, were still there. There were so few of them; yet they might hold some answers or at least give a clue to the answers they so desperately wanted. Under the circumstances—she fiddled with the zipper—it just might be . . .

  Unthinkable! Her conscience jumped right in before she finished the idea. No matter what the circumstances, it is absolutely unthinkable to pry, uninvited, into another’s intimate thoughts.

  Why, wild horses couldn’t make me do such a thing! Mary Helen was incensed. Without waiting for her conscience to reply, she grabbed up the paperback.

  Lead us not into temptation, she reflected piously, shutting her bedroom door. There was no sense standing there staring at the bulge. How did the old saying go? “I can resist anything but temptation.”

  Quickly she crossed the deserted campus and took the narrow dirt path jutting off from the main driveway. Yesterday’s rain had thoroughly washed the hillside. Mary Helen took a deep breath. The air smelled fresh with the tang of eucalyptus and Scotch pine. The shaded underbrush still had a damp rustle. In its dimness wild flowers and even weeds were blooming in a—a coinage by Hopkins jumped into her mind—in a “May-mess.”

  She avoided stepping on the rosebud-shaped pine cones that had been blown onto the path, marveling, yet again, that within a few steps of the busy college drive, she felt as if she were in the woods. Several more yards up the hill and she would be as secluded as if she were miles away.

  When Mary Helen reached the clearing she was glad to see it flooded with afternoon sun. She touched the bench. It was cold but dry enough to sit on.

  Relaxing, she drank in the warmth. Above her was sky. What were those lines from Robert Louis Stevenson? “Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie.”

  Such a morbid thought! She shivered. Didn’t Eileen have a saying about a shiver meaning someone was walking on your grave? Pull yourself together, old girl! You came up here to escape. Relieved, she noted that although the sky was wide, it was anything but starry. Billowy white clouds stretched across a canopy of spring-blue.

  Wiggling her toes, Mary Helen could feel the dampness in her Sunday shoes. She should have changed them before she walked up the path. The shoes were brand-new and still a little snug. Hoping they weren’t ruined, she took
them off and put them on the bench beside her.

  Lethargically, she circled her toes in the warm sun, yawned, and closed her eyes. She was tired. Who wouldn’t be? These last two weeks had been hectic. So much had happened: the wonderful but wearing trip to the convention in New York, and now all this business about Erma.

  Time kaleidoscoped and in her mind’s eye she saw a young, laughing Erma, with the head of wild, rich brown curls, eagerly researching their long-ago history project. Then, like changing bits of glass, her memory shifted to the same generous Erma who insisted, just weeks ago, that she and Eileen take the trip to New York.

  Please, God, don’t let anything have happened to her, she prayed silently. Pulling in another deep breath, Mary Helen sighed.

  Gradually, the sun warmed her shoulders and she could feel the tension start to ease. She shifted slightly.

  What had really been bothering Erma lately? Surely those journal pages, the ones she was determined not to read, held some answers.

  Because something was amiss—of that much she was sure—she wished Kate Murphy were on the case. Not that she wanted it to be a homicide—heaven forbid! Maybe she should give Kate a call. Just to see how she and Jack were doing, of course.

  “Glory be to God! Get those things off the bench.” Eileen’s voice startled her. Mary Helen’s eyes shot open and darted from side to side, not knowing what horror—spider, slug, lizard—had crept onto the bench with her.

  “The shoes, Mary Helen, the new shoes. It is a terrible omen, new shoes on a bench.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Eileen, is that all?”

  “Is that all? Do you know that can mean a death? New shoes, ready for the journey to the netherworld.”

  Obediently, Mary Helen moved the shoes—not that she was superstitious, but she had enough problems without courting bad luck. The shoes, dry and warm from the sun, felt good when she put them back on.

  “Do you feel like taking a quick walk?” Eileen asked. Mary Helen realized her friend must be worrying too. One of Eileen’s panaceas for worry was walking. The other was cleaning. On Sundays Eileen always chose walking.

  “That’s a good idea,” Mary Helen said. “Since we are both stewing about Erma we may as well walk and talk. Maybe between us we can come up with some reasonable answers. Then let’s stop by the Carmelite monastery for the five-o’clock Benediction.”

  “You really are disturbed, aren’t you?” Eileen’s large gray eyes studied Mary Helen. “The Carmelite monastery is always—what should I call it?—your heavy artillery. You do think something has happened to poor Erina, don’t you?”

  Mary Helen hesitated, surprised that Eileen had discovered her secret. Although she shouldn’t have been. Nothing much slipped by her friend. She didn’t know what to answer. There was no sense alarming Eileen further about a feeling, however strongly she felt it. Yet in all honesty, she would have to admit that she was afraid for Erma.

  Fortunately, before she had to answer Eileen’s question, Sister Anne rounded the bend in the path. Her shorts and her “Here today, gone to Maui” T-shirt were soaked. Panting, she bent over. Perspiration dripped from her face.

  “What are you up to?” Mary Helen frowned, wondering why anyone would want to get that hot and sweaty on purpose.

  “Practicing. Bay-to-Breakers. Next Sunday.” Anne was so short of breath she couldn’t even answer in whole sentences. “You?”

  “We are going to get a little exercise, too, before Therese’s shocking supper. Oops! I mean surprise supper,” Eileen said, reaching into her pocket for a tissue, which she handed to Anne.

  Mary Helen couldn’t tell from the look on her friend’s face whether she had purposely slipped or not. She did, however, have her suspicions.

  Wiping her eyes, Anne began to run in place. “Muscles get cold,” she puffed.

  “You run along.” Eileen patted the back of the young nun’s damp shirt. “If we are a little late, it will be because we stopped by the Carmelites for Benediction.”

  For a moment, Anne stared blankly. Mary Helen was afraid that she was going to have to explain to the younger generation that the Benediction is an ancient devotion in which Christ in the Eucharist is exposed and worshipped.

  It must have registered. “Say prayer I win race,” Anne puffed before she pumped away up the hill.

  “We really ought to say a prayer that the poor thing lasts that long.” Shading her eyes, Eileen watched the slender young nun disappear around the hill.

  “Or maybe we should pray that she survives Therese’s eggplant lasagna,” Mary Helen added.

  The two friends laughed and started down toward the main driveway. Although neither of them said anything, they both knew that what they really would be begging for at the Carmelite monastery this afternoon was their friend Erma’s swift and safe return home to San Francisco.

  During the evening Sister Mary Helen could not seem to get her mind off Erma’s journal. Even all the bad news on 60 Minutes didn’t help, and Angela Lansbury’s sleuthing in Murder, She Wrote only fed the flame.

  Don’t even think about it, old girl, her conscience had chided her. Reading it is definitely out of the question.

  Desperate situations warrant desperate solutions, she had argued.

  It is the characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things. Her conscience had quoted Thoreau.

  Whoever accused me of being all that wise? she had asked herself.

  By the ten o’clock news, she could no longer resist.

  Firmly closing the door of her bedroom, she settled in the reclining chair in the corner and unzipped the side pocket of her purse.

  Before her conscience could give her any more trouble, she smoothed out the sheets of binder paper and glanced through them. She was disappointed to see how little was written on each page.

  “I feel foolish doing this,” the entry began in large, legible handwriting, which Mary Helen recognized as Erma’s Palmer.

  Not as foolish as I feel reading it, my friend. Mary Helen shifted uneasily.

  “But today our instructor told us we should write imaginary letters to people who are important in our lives. We should write what we wish we could tell them in person,” Erma continued. “Lucy says she feels silly, too, but that it will probably be good for us, so here goes.

  “Dear Junior,” the first entry began. “I write to you first because I feel the worst about what I’ve done to you. You were such a darling, sensitive little boy with blond curly hair.”

  Mary Helen stared at her bedroom wall, trying to imagine Junior as an adorable toddler, but it was difficult.

  “Your father wanted to make a man out of you and you wanted so to please him. He meant well, really he did, but he just did not realize how sensitive you were. Poor man did not know that even your fits of temper were really your way of covering up hurt feelings, but I did. Maybe I should have stepped in more as I did for your brother and sister. But it seemed so important to your father that you turn out to be ‘a man.’ So I let him handle it. Or maybe, if I was honest I’d have to admit that when I got home after work some nights, I was too tired to fight him. I want you to know how much I loved you then and how much I still love you now.”

  The letter broke off abruptly, and Mary Helen could feel a lump in her throat.

  The entry on the next page was even shorter.

  “Dear Marie,” it began. “My sweet little girl, my firstborn! How happy your daddy and I were the day we brought you home from the hospital, and how you cried. I should have known then. You were just like your daddy, really. He was high-strung too. How I wish I could have sheltered you from all that happened.” Nothing more.

  On a third page was written only “My dear little Buddy, You worry me.”

  Frustrated by the lack of anything concrete that might help and embarrassed about intruding on Erma’s private thoughts, for what was proving to be fruitless, Mary Helen began to read the final page.

  “Dreams—May 5” was written across the t
op of the page in Erma’s steady hand.

  “He was there again. Large, much larger than he really is, with hairy hands and an angry face. For a moment he looked just like Tommy. I was frightened, although I kept telling myself I shouldn’t be. He wouldn’t harm me. He loves me. He told me again how much he loved me.

  “ ‘Stop!’ I begged him. ‘Don’t hit me!’

  “But he just kept coming and crawled into bed next to me like he was a little boy. ‘I do love you!’ he kept repeating over and over.

  “The dream was so real and I was so frightened that when I woke up my heart was pounding, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I know he’s been on my mind. He’s really worrying me. Nothing I can actually put my finger on except the drinking. And he has been acting strangely these past few days. I can’t help wondering if it has anything to do with my money disappearing. But whenever I ask him, he becomes angry. Maybe I should tell Lucy about what I’m feeling. I know I can’t tell anyone else. The next time we go to our class, I think I’ll ask our instructor what it all means.”

  Mary Helen checked the date. May 5. Saturday morning! The day Erma disappeared. She must have written this entry when she woke up. Sister Mary Helen felt a sick lurch in the pit of her stomach. Poor old Erma Duran never had had the opportunity to ask what her dream meant. Nor to reveal the identity of the mysterious “he.”

  Disheartened, she put the crumpled pages back into the side pocket of her purse and zipped it up.

  Monday, May 14

  Feast of St. Matthias, Apostle

  The moment Sister Mary Helen stepped into Erma Duran’s living room, she felt the tension. It was more than anxiety over Erma’s disappearance or Monday morning letdown. Someone, as the old expression goes had obviously spilled the beans. She didn’t have to wait long to find out who.

  “Ree tells us that you have already been to see Inspector Honore in Missing Persons.” Noelle’s voice was as icy as her blue eyes. Caroline, looking offended, say next to her.

  Taken aback, Mary Helen was fumbling around for an excuse, when she remembered one of her favorite maxims: “The best defense is always a good offense.”