I smiled and extended my hand. “Thanks for everything, Mr. Driscoll.”
CHAPTER 34
Before leaving the Bronx for the Christmas season in Potterstown, I’d begun to attend Father Glanz’s daily mass in Xavier Hall. I came to appreciate his scholarship, taking us back to the roots of the early Church to find an expression of spirituality for modern times.
“The custom of receiving the Host on your tongue dates to when priests were the only educated sector of society,” Father Glanz told us. “Everyone else had dirty hands.” He paused and looked at his fingers. “I don’t think we have to worry about that now.”
Though I never talked to him personally, Father Glanz became my model—someone who’d embraced the changes in the Church while maintaining a deep respect for tradition.
Sister Ann William and Sister Veronique, Aidan Connors, and Colleen Shane, were all part of the new community that was forming around Father Glanz’s experimental liturgies.
I tried to tease my brother into attending the new liturgy. He’d begun to turn his life around, rooming with Aidan and doing well at Driscoll & Sons. His new boss had seen an aptitude for mathematics and finance in Timothy and sent him to a class in accounting. My brother, the CFO, I mused. Another big gap in talent between us.
“You might like the new liturgy,” I told Timothy. “There’s contemporary music, and no Latin mumbo-jumbo, as you call it.” I paused before I brought out another compelling reason. “And Aidan comes.”
Timothy grinned, signaling he saw through my ploy. “Yeah. Well, I’ll think about it.”
“Good. I’ll wait to hear.”
I didn’t tell him I’d also pray for him.
<><><>
The Christmas altar at the Motherhouse was magnificent. White marble overflowing with row upon row of red and green candles, dozens of brilliant poinsettia plants, and a rash of holly berries—whose poisonous quality I pushed to the back of my mind.
All week long, from December 25, we’d enjoyed extra recreation. I realized how much less exciting it was to talk at breakfast on Christmas morning, when I’d been talking non-stop at St. Lucy’s Hall.
Holiday programs went on through the days following Christmas. Sister Rosemary, tiny as she was, played Christmas songs on the accordion. Sister Geraldine read poetry she’d written herself in honor of Mother Julia’s silver jubilee. The youngest members of the community performed a play based on the life of the late Pope Pius XII.
Since most of the Sisters were of Irish descent, Sister Mary Patrick’s step-dancing routines were appropriate at any season, and she treated us to a new round of dances.
Although I was glad to be home, I’d felt less a part of the festivities than other years. I’d been away most of the Advent season when preparations and rehearsals were daily routines. At the last minute, however, Sister Maryanne, the music director, gave me a private practice session so at least I could join the choir for midnight mass on Christmas Eve.
<><><>
On the day after Christmas, the Feast of Saint Stephen, Mother Julia called a special assembly.
We walked in silence to the main study hall. There’d been no rumors, and I heard no buzzing sounds indicating an exchange of ideas or expectations. Quite different from what I’d come to expect at St. Lucy’s Hall.
Mother Julia took her seat at the front of the room and signaled us to be seated. “Sisters, I have news for you from our Archbishop.”
A slight shuffle as we shifted on our wooden chairs. For my part, I thought the information might be a new chaplain at the Motherhouse for the coming year. Nothing that would affect me. Or a new appointment in the Chancery office in Albany. Or a large donation to the order’s building fund.
I wasn’t even close.
“Beginning tomorrow morning, our Liturgy will be in English, Sisters. And we will have the opportunity of receiving the Sacred Host in our hands.” Mother Julia cupped her hands and held them in front of her bib.
A wave of tiny gasps rippled through the hall. Mother Julia waited for the sound to subside, without admonishing us, and presented her lesson. Holy Mother Church was moving to a new way of doing things. We’d be seeing many changes, in due time. We were not to worry, however—the reforms were approved by our leaders, a consequence of the Second Vatican Council. Aggiornamento, it was called. An updating.
Through most of Mother Julia’s discourse, my mind was on the Bronx and the large dose of aggiornamento I’d already been through.
“Are there any questions, Sisters?”
“What if a piece of the Host clings to our hands?” Sister Rosemary asked.
Mother Julia made a clucking sound, as if her mind was hard at work. “I’ll address that problem in a future lesson, Sister,” she finally said.
Wait till you’re faced with brownies and milk, I thought.
<><><>
As I prepared to leave Potterstown at the end of my vacation, Mother Julia called me into her office.
“Sister Francesca, I hope you’re not too disturbed by these changes.”
I swallowed hard. How much did my Superior know about my life in the Bronx? “No, Mother, I’m not disturbed.”
“The bishops are mandated to enforce the new guidelines in every diocese eventually. I’m sure you’ll be meeting the same challenges at St. Alban’s.”
I pressed my lips together, lest I reveal more than Mother Julia was prepared to hear. “Yes, Mother.”
“Are you up to these challenges?”
“Yes, Mother.”
It was time for me to leave her office. An awkward moment. Traditionally, I’d kneel and ask for Mother Julia’s blessing, then kiss the floor. Caught as I was between two worlds, I stood still and looked to my Superior for guidance.
Mother Julia’s eyes sparkled, a tiny grin starting at the corners of her mouth. I had the feeling she understood my predicament. In an unprecedented gesture, she reached out and put her hand on my shoulder.
“Take care of yourself, Sister Francesca,” she said, smiling.
I took a breath and smiled back. “Thank you, Mother Julia.”
It seemed a lifetime since I’d worried about having a mirror in my room.
<><><>
About the Author
Camille Minichino, a retired physicist turned writer, is the author of 21 mysteries in four series: The Periodic Table Mysteries, The Miniature Mysteries, The Professor Sophie Knowles Mysteries, and The Sister Francesca Mysteries. A new series, The Post Office Mysteries will debut in August 2015. Camille teaches science at Golden Gate U., San Francisco. She also teaches writing at various venues in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Visit her website, http://www.minichino.com,
and blog http://www.minichino.com/wordpress
The Periodic Table Mysteries (as Camille Minichino)
The Hydrogen Murder
The Helium Murder
The Lithium Murder
The Beryllium Murder
The Boric Acid Murder
The Carbon Murder
The Nitrogen Murder
The Oxygen Murder
The Fluorine Murder (short story)
The Miniature Mysteries (as Margaret Grace)
Murder in Miniature
Mayhem in Miniature
Malice in Miniature
Mourning in Miniature
Monster in Miniature
Mix-up in Miniature
Madness in Miniature
Manhattan in Miniature (2015)
The Professor Sophie Knowles Mysteries (As Ada Madison)
The Square Root of Murder
The Probability of Murder
A Function of Murder
The Quotient of Murder
&nb
sp; The Sister Francesca Mysteries (as Camille Minichino)
Killer in the Cloister
The Post Office Mysteries (as Jean Flowers)
Death Takes Priority (2015)
NONFICTION
Nuclear Waste Management Abstracts
How to Live with an Engineer
Copyright © 2014 by Camille Minichino
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Cover Design: Richard Rufer and Jan Hagan
Design and Layout: Richard Rufer
First edition: March 2014
If you like books by Camille Minichino and all her pen names, you might also like books by Diana Orgain. Here’s a quick link to one of her latest,
“Nursing a Grudge:” http://amzn.to/H8SPQu
Killer in the Cloister Page 24
