by Tom Murphy
She looked on it in wonderment because it was from Fergy, and also because it was the first letter she had ever received. It had once been ivory in color, but now there was a family of smudges and stains on the paper, so varied and intense that the front of the envelope looked very much like the head-cheese marble on the altar at St. Paddy’s. There was a big spot of rusty purple that might be dried wine…or blood. There were several brown and tan stains, and one of pale blue. A streak of plain dirt, a huge thumbprint in black grease. But the ink was clear and black, and through all the stains and smudges Lily could see at once the unmistakably crude block letters of her erstwhile Fergy.
TO MISS LILLIAN MALONE
THE ORPHANAGE OF ST. PATRICK’S CATHEDRAL
PRINCE STREET, NEW YORK CITY, AMERICA.
The envelope was magical, all by itself, and Lily was almost afraid to open the thing, for fear that opening it might somehow break the spell. Fergy was alive. Fergy was alive!
One of the smudges on the envelope was probably a postmark, but Lily couldn’t make out what it was, or where the letter might have come from. Slowly, carefully as any sturgeon, she opened it.
And for the second time Lily found Fergus’ unformed letters swimming before her, seen through a filter of tears. She blinked and paused, and slowly began to be able to make out his words.
LILY DEAR,
I CAN TELL YOU NOW, THE SHIP IS THE INDIAN BELLE, BOUND FOR SAN FRANSISCO. WE’RE NOW IN RIO. I AM WELL, LIL, AND HOPE YOU FORGIV, AND WILL FIND GOLD IN PLENTY IN CALIFORNIA. PLEASE TELL EVERYONE I’M FINE LIL, THE SAILOR LIFE IS NOT AN EASY ONE NOR IS FOOD GOOD BUT IT’S FRISCO FOR ME, DESTINY CALLS, MY DERE SIS, WILL WRIT SOON.
YR. LOVING BROTHER,
FERGY
Lily read this twice, and slipped it into her sewing bag and went back to her class. Every head turned. Sister Hilda, who was something of a bully, paused in mid-sentence and said: “Well, Lillian, is something wrong?”
“No, Sister.”
“Well, then. Please sit down, girl. I do hope these disturbances won’t continue.”
“No, Sister.”
Lily sat down and pretended to pay attention to the arithmetic lesson. Fergy’s alive. Fergy’s alive. Fergy’s alive! Not only alive, but in Rio. Probably frolicking with naked maidens under coconut trees, just as Frances said. On his way to California. On his way to find gold! The very spirit of Young America, for sure!
She couldn’t wait to tell Sister Claudia.
Lily whispered the good news to Frances as they marched to the noon meal, and Fran was delighted, as Lily knew she must be. But there was no sign of Sister Claudia, at lunch or in the dormitory afterward when Lily and Fran went up for their afternoon’s sewing assignment. They sewed busily for an hour, chattering about Fergy, mending the blue serge winter uniforms they’d soon all be wearing. Lily finished the last of her uniforms and asked Fran if she needed help.
“No, thank ye,” said Fran, “but there’s a pile of sheets in the linen closet that’ll need patching.”
Lily walked out of the dorm and down the hall to the big cedar-lined linen closet. It was dark in the closet. The only light came from one small window at the far end, and none of the orphans were allowed to light the whale-oil lamps that were the only source of illumination after dark. The sheets, Lily knew, were kept in the near corner, by the blankets. She turned to look for them.
At first Lily thought someone had left one of the nuns’ habits to be mended. The sheer black woolen robe hung limp in the gloom.
Then she saw the shoes hanging under it.
Lily took one step back and felt the wall. Instinctively she reached back to touch the wall, glad of its solidness, glad to have something to lean on. She forced her eyes to move upward from the shoes. There was the robe she knew so well, hanging in its graceful folds, belted, with the big wooden-beaded rosary looped at the belt, the wide-cut black sleeve with a pale hand extending from it, a hand Lily knew well, a hand that had touched her often, and gently.
Sister Claudia wasn’t beautiful anymore. The starched white collar was the same, but the headdress was all askew. Sister Claudia’s head was twisted at an impossible angle, almost resting on her graceful shoulders. And her face. The fair pink and white of it was blotched with purple, and all swollen, and the calm blue eyes that knew how to twinkle were protruding like a fish’s eyes, and they would never twinkle anymore.
A wave of dizziness came rushing through Lily’s brain. She had never seen a dead person before, except for Dad, for Ma, and the Lord knew they hadn’t wanted to die. To have what Sister Claudia had and end it: why, for the love of God, why?
Lily sank to the floor.
She never remembered screaming.
7
Lily woke up in bed. It was still daylight. She blinked her eyes and tried to convince herself that what she’d seen in the linen closet was a dream.
But it hadn’t been a dream.
“There,” said a familiar voice that Lily could not quite place, “there. She’s coming out of it.”
Sister Cathleen’s face loomed into view. A cool hand touched Lily’s forehead.
“How are you feeling, my dear?”
Yes. It was definitely the matron. Then it hadn’t been a dream. Lily’s eyes were open now. She looked up at Matron and groped for an answer. She was alive, she could wiggle her toes. Then why couldn’t she think of words to answer? At last Lily spoke.
“Is she truly dead?”
“Yes, child, and may God have mercy on her poor soul.”
“Sister Claudia hung herself, then?”
“I’m afraid so, Lily. You must try to think of happier things, my child. I know it must have been a terrible shock for you.”
“She’ll go to hell, then?”
“What she did, Lily, is against all the laws of God and man. Yes. And even be denied the right of burial in holy ground.”
“And the angels will weep for her?”
“The angels weep for all sinners, Lily. But, come, child! Can we get you some tea, Lily? Or a little something to eat? When you’ve had a fright, a nice cup of tea works wonders, I always say.”
“No, thank you. Sister Cathleen.”
“Well, then, Lily, do try to rest. I’ll ask Frances here to look after you. She can bring you a tray for supper if you don’t feel like coming down. And, Lily, do try not to think about this dreadful thing too much—can you promise me that?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Thank you, dear. Now, get a nice rest, and we’ll talk later.”
Lily closed her eyes to see if the vision of Sister Claudia hanging had gone away. It had not. She could hear the tiny bird’s-steps of the matron receding, and the door of the dormitory closing softly. The next voice Lily heard was Fran’s.
“God in heaven, Lil: just think of it! There you were, flat on the floor, and after that terrible scream you gave out with, sure and I thought there was a murderer loose, and then I saw—”
“I know what you saw.”
“Glory be to God, if I live to be five hundred years old, may I never see anything that bad again. And her so young, and so pretty.”
“She did it,” said Lily with absolute conviction, “for love.”
Fran wanted to talk about Sister Claudia’s suicide. Lily looked at her friend and for the first time saw a stranger. She truly doesn’t understand, she thinks ’tis still a game, like making up stories for fun, she doesn’t understand that Sister Claudia is dead and gone, that she’s left me too, like Fergy, and without a good-bye.
Lily didn’t want to talk to anyone, about anything. She asked for tea, just to get Fran out of the room. Then she closed her eyes and tried not to think of what had just happened, for suicide was truly beyond Lily’s comprehension. She had watched her mother’s hopeless fight for life too closely to do anything but value her own life above all else.
The idea of sending death an invitation, of taking God’s will into your own hands, was beyond anything in Lily’s ex
perience, worse than her darkest fears. And Sister Claudia, she of anyone!
It was warm in the big room under the eaves of St. Patrick’s orphanage, but Lily lay there shivering. If Sister Claudia could be what she was, lovely and rich and smiling and still kill herself, then what hope might there be for a miserable creature like Lily Malone?
Sister Claudia!
Lily searched her brain for an answer, for even the hint of where an answer might lie. It was like counting all the stars in heaven, for there was surely no end to it, only a dark infinity, a cold and empty space. There had always been something safe and comforting about Sister Claudia. Goodness flowed out of her with the directness and generosity of warmth flowing from the sun itself, and in her company Lily had felt the same pleasure she remembered dimly from the old days when both her parents were alive and the world was a happier place.
But this proves there’s no sure way to happiness, not even God’s way. For hadn’t Sister Claudia given up all the pleasures of a rich and happy home for the greater glory of becoming a nun, a Bride of Christ, and still not been happy?
Lily’s head swam with the contradiction of it. Just when she had found a pattern for her future, it had been snatched away from her with no reason. It had all seemed so simple. God had rules, and if you obeyed them, you were happy. If you disobeyed, you were a sinner and the angels wept for you and you’d go to hell. Until this afternoon in that linen closet.
Maybe Sister Claudia hadn’t obeyed the rules! Maybe she had sinned with Gerald St. Clair! It was a tempting idea, but Lily knew Sister Claudia better than that If Sister Claudia had been sinning, Gerald St. Clair would never have looked the way he did that last time they said good-bye.
Maybe none of it matters. Maybe you’re on your own for good or bad, whether you keep the rules or break them.
The door opened. It was Fran with hot tea.
Lily sat up in bed. She felt guilty for sending her friend on a false errand, yet suddenly the tea looked good. She smiled and took the cup and drank thirstily.
“Thanks, Fran.”
“You should see downstairs, Lil! Pure commotion it is! The police themselves came, think of that! And lawyers, and the bishop himself. You’d think the world was ending.”
Again Lily looked at her friend. She knew Fran to be a decent girl, incapable of doing a mean thing. But why, Lily wondered, why in the world can’t she see beneath the surface of the thing? A world did end, for the love of God!
And as she thought these thoughts, Lily suddenly knew that she must leave St. Paddy’s just as fast as she could. For months now, they had played with the idea of joining the novitiate, and Lily felt sure that both she and Fran would be encouraged to do so. But now that seemed empty, just a game, the way making up stories about Sister Claudia had been a game.
And the time had come to stop her games, to get on with the business of growing up and earning a place for herself in this unpredictable world.
Lily looked up from her teacup. Fran sat on her own bed, close by, filled with excitement, waiting for Lily’s reply. But Lily said nothing. There was really nothing more to say.
She finished her tea and then got up and walked to the window. The sun shone brilliantly through a clear October sky. Bright leaves danced and twirled as they fell to earth. Lily could see down the familiar backyards between Mott and Mulberry streets, with their animals and fences and a few people, here and there, a late chrysanthemum blooming, someone’s wash flapping like the sails of a ragged navy beached half a mile from the sea. In the distance and vividly clear were the church steeples she knew of old, gulls soaring, and far away one small plump white cloud such as might make a fine cushion for one tired little angel. It’s exactly as though Sister Claudia never lived or died.
Lily somehow got through the next day, and the day after that. The routine helped, and so did Fran’s mindless good cheer.
On the third day she went to Matron and asked if she might be considered for a job in service, and leave St. Patrick’s orphanage forever.
Sister Cathleen looked at Lily for a long time before she spoke.
“Have you thought about this, Lily?”
“Yes, Sister, indeed I have. I’m fourteen now, you see, and it just seems I’m restless, wanting to be on to the next thing, to make a place for myself.”
Sister Cathleen sighed a small and scarcely heard sigh. Why was it that so many of the best ones were the first to want to leave? Lily hardly looked fourteen, so thin and pale she was, even with the startling red hair and the deep green eyes. Sister Cathleen liked Lily, and saw a promise of beauty in her, which from the matron’s point of view meant the possibility of danger, for didn’t she know what temptations might lie in the way of a pretty servant girl in these wicked times?
“Well, my dear, there’s no rush, is there? I’ll keep my eyes sharp for the right sort of position, and then we’ll see, and talk about it some more.”
“Yes, Sister. Thank you, Sister.”
The first snow came, and Lily wondered when she’d next hear from Fergy, if God had spared him. His letter from Rio hadn’t been dated, but she knew it was more than a month’s sea voyage to Brazil, with the best luck and fair winds. The sea trip around the Horn to California took three or four months under the best of circumstances. Which could mean Fergy was there already! Maybe he was rich already. Maybe—and for Lily this was the dream of dreams, so cherished that she would ration the number of times she’d let herself think of it—maybe he was even now on his way back to her, rich or not rich, to rescue her, to take her out of St. Paddy’s and into a new life forever.
The nuns always tried their hardest to make Christmas a special time in the orphanage, and there were gifts for all the children donated by well-to-do families in the parish, and by some of the big stores. The food was special, and they had Christmas turkey, and singing of carols, and the older children were allowed to stay up for the glorious candlelit midnight Mass at the cathedral.
Christmas was a sad time for Lily, although she tried to hide it. It didn’t seem like Christmas without Fergy. And she was forced to remember, every time she looked at her sewing bag, that only last Christmas Sister Claudia had given her a special thimble, made of white china and painted with copper-colored lilies that were nearly the same color as her own hair. Or so Sister Claudia said when she handed Lily the small box wrapped in red paper. Lily never used the thimble: it was far too precious to her for that. The thimble lay still in its box in her wicker trunk under her bed. The thimble she used every day was old and battered and made of tin. It belonged to St. Patrick’s, as did almost everything Lily wore or used or read or wrote with.
Lily had made a present for Fran—a small square of linen beautifully embroidered with her friend’s monogram, surrounded by ribbons and flowers and even a bumblebee about to land on one of the flowers.
“Oh, Lil, so fine it is, the fairies must have made it.”
Frances held up the embroidery to see it more clearly in the pale light of Christmas Eve afternoon.
“The divil they did, ’tis all me own work, Fran, and in the darkest secrecy.”
“Well, I thank you, Lily. It’s a lovely thing.”
“When you’re rich and have a grand house, you can frame it on the wall.”
“That I will. But you shame me, Lil, for the thing I have for you is nowhere near so fine.”
She handed Lily a little roll of white sheeting tied with a bit of red wool.
Lily undid the tie and unrolled the scrap of white fabric. There, inside, was a length of white linen cut into a ribbon perhaps eighteen inches long, embroidered all along its length with fanciful flowers and green leaves.
“It’s to tie your hair with, Lil. You have such nice hair.”
Lily sat on her bed and held the ribbon and thought that maybe Christmas wasn’t going to be so bad after all. But as she sat there, Lily made herself a promise. She promised herself that, come what might, this would be her last Christmas in the orphanage.
Then she jumped up and kissed Frances O’Farrelley a great smack on the cheek.
“I may never wear it, that’s how beautiful it is, Fran. I may just save it to use as a bell pull to call my butlers and footmen and parlormaids.”
“And we’ll drink champagne from morning till night.”
“And have hundreds of lovers panting for us!”
“Diamonds!”
“Famous millionaires cutting their very throats for the love of us.”
And the cold afternoon dissolved in giggles. Before they knew it, the bell rang to summon them to supper.
It was on the way out of the dining hall that Father Gregory called Lily from the line of girls.
“Merry Christmas to you, Father.”
“And to you, Lily.”
But something in his face was not merry. He put his big hand on her shoulder. Lily felt the warmth of it, and wondered what was up.
“Tell me, Lily,” he began softly, casually, “what was the name of the ship Fergus went out on?”
“The Indian Belle, Father. Is there news of it?”
“There is, child, and it isn’t good news.”
Lily had hardly noticed where they were walking. Father Gregory stopped and knocked on a door. It was the door of Matron’s office.
“Come in.”
He opened the door.
Sister Cathleen sat on her perch, just as Lily had seen her so many times before. There was no smile on her face, but a look of resignation.
“It is,” said Father Gregory in a voice so low Lily could barely hear him, “as I feared, Sister.”
“The Indian Belle?”
“Alas.”
Lily looked from one to the other, and her eyes grew wider with apprehension. What were they trying to tell her?
Then Lily noticed an unusual object on Sister Cathleen’s desk. It was a newspaper. Lily could not remember having seen the matron reading a newspaper before.
