Black Apple

by Joan Crate

  She pressed fingertips to her temple. Was this the beginning of a blasted headache? To this day, Sister Lucy refused to enter the girls’ dormitory. At first Mother Grace had tried to reason with Lucy, then to shame her. Finally she had admitted defeat and given her only duties that could be performed in the laundry room, the sewing room, the kitchen, or classrooms.

  “Maybe Sister Mary of Bethany was supposed to meet Father Damien in the dormitory,” Rose Marie continued. “I don’t know, but she was there and, oh, Mother Grace, he snuck up on her. He attacked her! She slashed his face with a paper-cutting knife. She had a baby growing in the wrong place.”

  “What a tale!” What nonsense, she thought. Wincing, she opened her mouth to say more, to dismiss Rose Marie’s story as “silly superstition,” to admonish her. While very bright, Rose Marie was also highly strung. Oui, and at one time she most certainly would have been convinced that Rose Marie was delusional. But a full year after the deaths, on a late-summer evening when she was checking supplies in the dormitory, a sister had slipped behind her, quick, moving only as the young do, and she had turned and—Mon Dieu!

  Later that night, as she sipped brandy in her office, she had wondered what exactly she had witnessed. The white apron, drawn-up skirt, and familiar face made wretched by despair were still sharp to this day, far too sharp in her mind. At the time, she had wondered if her vision was merely the manifestation of her own disillusionment, her spiritual fatigue. Eventually that’s what she had convinced herself. Now she examined Rose Marie’s expression, and the girl looked her straight in the eye.

  “It’s true,” Rose Marie said evenly. “She pushed him from the barn.”

  Right then, Mother Grace realized that her spiritual fatigue had lasted until this very moment. As her heart skipped a beat, she was overtaken by another thought, a surprising one, thick, heavy, and intractable as stone: What a revelation! She could feel herself smiling.

  But she had a question. Looking at Rose Marie, perched in the same chair she occupied twice a week as she learned of God’s word and the Church’s ways, she asked, “If indeed you saw ghosts so many times before, why then did you never mention them to me, dear girl?”

  But she knew the answer before she had finished the question. She wouldn’t have listened. While she was always talking about “the mystery of Godliness,” she hadn’t believed her own words. She had thought everything had a reason, and, bien sûr, that she knew most of them. A phrase from Daniel jumped into her mind: Children in whom there was no blemish, well favoured, and acute in knowledge. Was God offering His wisdom through this girl? A little child shall lead them.

  All doubt fell from her. Like scales, she reflected after supper as she made her way to chapel. Heavy metallic scales that had held her together in pride and in fear. Cold scales, impenetrable, an armour. All the times she had prayed to God for a sign, she had not believed it would come. Now she was experiencing the same kind of marvel of faith God had worked on St. Joseph in convincing him of his betrothed’s purity. On her uncle Gabriel as well. God’s hand was in this Visitation, most certainly.

  Her eyes found Jesus on the huge cross at the altar. Lift up your eyes on high and see who hath created these things. Kneeling, she felt weightless, gloriously incandescent, and completely free of pain. Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

  * * *

  Later, as Mother Grace sat in her office feeling nothing less than merveilleuse, incroyable, joyeuse, bénie, there was a knock at the door. Before she could say anything, Father William stuck his head inside.

  “Did the girl come see you?”

  “If you mean Rose Marie Whitewater, Father, yes, she did.”

  Father William slipped inside. As he scratched his beard, his eyes flickered from bookshelf to desktop, avoiding hers. “I instructed her to tell you, if she chose to . . .” His fingers dug under his collar. “Of course, I can’t reveal a confession, but—”

  “Something amazing has happened, Father William.”

  “Yes!” He looked at her, jubilation on his face. “I agree, Mother Grace. There are simply too many things the girl couldn’t know. Father Damien and Sister Mary of Bethany: she described them to me in detail. Even their . . . what happened . . . the terrible—”

  “Behaviour,” she put in. “And consequences.”

  “Absolutely. She knew . . . everything. Her confession is no joke. I know these girls and their little games. Rose Marie was sincere. The school has been acknowledged by the Lord, our God. He has given us a sign—”

  Mother Grace wasn’t sure where this was going. “One we must reflect on,” she interjected.

  “Yes, of course.” Father William was animated now, his bobbing head and flying hands against his black cassock making him look like a puppet.

  But Mother Grace didn’t smile. She was entranced.

  “Given that this Visitation is a sign to the religious of St. Mark’s,” he continued, “we must ask ourselves, of what? I offer to you that it may very well be one of renewal. Our Lord has chosen to show us, explain to us, if you will, what took place so as to cleanse us of doubt and guilt.”

  “Guilt, Father?”

  “Um, yes. For their deaths, I mean. But, Mother Grace, this vision, this Visitation, signals so much more. I suggest that the Lord is giving us a sign of forgiveness for that which has . . . um, transpired at our school, any . . . um, missteps. Most importantly”—his words began to gallop again—“not just for Sister Mary of Bethany and Father Damien, but divine forgiveness for all of us. The incredible love and mercy of our Lord has been revealed through this innocent’s vision!”

  Vieilli, the evening was taking on an air of unreality. Was he right? she wondered. Is God pardoning William for his misuse of Tom Two Horse? For all the mortal sins he may have committed with other boys? Does this Visitation absolve the transgressions of each of us? Including her own in denying Rose Marie her father? And a hundred other things, from small omissions and inappropriate desires to major acts of cruelty?

  “Don’t you agree, Mother Grace?”

  She was tempted. It would be so easy to believe, so beautifully freeing. “Perhaps you are right, Father William,” she said finally, a grin warming her face. “Great is the mystery of Godliness.”

  31

  Destiny

  THE NEXT MORNING, cane gripped in her hand, feet slightly apart, Mother Grace stood before the tables in the dining hall, Father William beside her. Feeling nervous flutters in her breast, she took a deep breath and waited for the sisters to finish shuffling into the room.

  In the darkest part of the night, she and William had decided to call a morning meeting before Mass. Since it was Sunday, they wouldn’t call it a meeting but a “spiritual obligation.” The plan had seemed sound then, but now, four hours and the briefest of sleeps later, she wondered if Father William still found it so. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin had a greenish tinge. Clearly the man was hungover, and no wonder. Together they had consumed her bottle of brandy and had started on the mickey of rye William retrieved from the priests’ suite. She was feeling a little the worse for wear—tired, and her arthritis was, again, bothersome. Fortunately the three aspirins she had chewed as soon as she awoke were starting to do their work.

  They had been in fine spirits last night, overwhelmed by what they now conclusively termed the Visitation. As always, William had liked the way his voice sounded as he spoke and gesticulated in her shadowy office.

  “God answered our prayers,” he had said, sliding his chair back from her desk and draining his cup. “I can’t say I understand it. All I know, Mother Grace, is a miracle has taken place.”

  “Something monumental, at the very least,” she agreed. She had stopped drinking by then, encouraging William to pour himself another rye. Though she felt exhilarated, she was also anxious. There was more she had needed to know, and something she had to ensure. “What else, William, aside from divine forgiveness, might we glean fro
m this vision?”

  “Recognition,” he retorted promptly, and she cleared her throat.

  “Well, no, Mother Grace. I didn’t mean just me. Recognition for yourself . . . um, and the sisters too, of course. For all you’ve done. Your—”

  “Our part in raising Rose Marie? After all, William, the revelation came to a child brought up by the Sisters of Brotherly Love. Under my supervision.”

  “Yes, certainly, but let’s not forget that I was . . . I am the girl’s priest and confessor. Not that I alone can take credit—”

  “Of course you can’t. Nor would you try. The Visitation comes ten years after the terrible deaths that blackened the reputation of St. Mark’s. Once word gets around, it may very well release us from the stain of those deplorable tragedies. If handled properly. The religious community of St. Mark’s, who have devoted their lives to the doctrine of miraculous events and graces, needs it. We all—every one of us—need it.”

  I especially need it, she had thought.

  This morning, scanning her audience, she noticed Brother Abe was not in attendance. Probably in the barn with his damn chickens. The faces of the nuns puffed from their wimples like grey pussy willows, and she wondered if she had misjudged. Would they look first incredulous, then askance, at the strange news? Would Sister Joan laugh outright?

  She cleared her throat, and the sisters’ cups clattered to their saucers. That’s when she knew that “God’s hand was in it,” as she was to write to Father Patrick later. Indeed, she read a flicker of anticipation in the eyes of every one, save Sister Joan.

  “Colleagues,” she began, “we have been through much together. Our path is often difficult, but we did not choose the service of God because it is easy. We chose this life”—she paused, suddenly overcome, then began again, her voice trembling—“because, though difficult, though trying, tiring, and just plain hard work, it was right. It was what each of us was called to do.”

  Wimples bobbed, and the sisters smiled wearily.

  “Sometimes it seems that we try and try but have little compensation,” she continued, the words pouring forth with little thought and no effort, Dieu soit loué. “Often our best attempts are met with anything from ingratitude to defiance. Though we do not work for material gain but for God’s glory, we sometimes become discouraged, even bitter. We are only human, after all.”

  The sisters gazed at her. Hungrily, she realized.

  “But every now and then we receive a smile, a thank-you that warms the heart, and we are reminded that our work is worthwhile. A smile, a thank-you—that’s all we ask, more than we expect. And usually it’s enough to keep us going for another day, another week, another month.” She lifted her arms, and her voice rose. “We do not expect miracles. Non. We do not even hope for them.” One by one, she gazed at her audience. “Yet miracles come unbidden. A miracle has come to St. Mark’s, dear sisters!”

  She noticed that even sour Sister Margaret was listening intently. Only Sister Joan was indifferent, peering out the window.

  Mother Grace announced, “A sign from our Lord and God has been received at this humble school on the barren prairie!” She heard herself quote the Psalms: “Bless the Lord, all ye Thy angels. He makest Thy angels spirits.” She spoke of the difficulties they had all endured teaching the precious word of God to little ones “ripped from the bosoms of their families,” much to her own surprise. “Rose Marie Whitewater was one of those children. Rose Marie is the one through whom the Lord God has summoned us.”

  Grace à Dieu, you could have heard a pin drop!

  “Jesus told us, Learn what this meaneth: I will have mercy and not sacrifice. Too often, Sisters, we focus on our sacrifice and not on mercy. Too often, we fail to demonstrate our love. But the Lord has offered a truth previously hidden from us. Through His revelation, He has absolved us of blame for the deaths of Father Damien and Sister Mary of Bethany.”

  She went quickly through the important information about the demise of the two religious. She wasn’t about to get caught up in the sordid details, so she emphasized a sentence from the Act of Faith: You have revealed them, who can neither deceive nor be deceived.

  “The Lord our God has verified His love and forgiveness to all at St. Mark’s through Rose Marie’s Visitation,” she assured the sisters. “Forgive if you have ought against any man, that your Father also who is in Heaven may forgive you your sins.” All her bodily pain fled; her voice soared and her eyes fixed on the crucifix over the door as she reminded the sisters of Jesus’ words: Unless you see signs and wonders, you believe not! When she looked down at the sisters, she saw they were spellbound. All but one.

  Sister Joan cleared her throat noisily. “Mother Grace, I can’t help but wonder why the Lord God in all His wisdom chose Rose Marie Whitewater, one little Indian girl among so many, and every other one of them asleep, so there were no witnesses to His glory.” Her tone was ironic. She looked over to Sister Margaret for support, but Margaret wouldn’t meet her eyes. She tried again: “I only wish the Good Lord had seen fit to guide me in the same way Rose Marie supposedly was.”

  “Not surprisingly,” Mother Grace answered severely, “God has seen fit to give us a sign through the student we rescued from the depths of heathenism, schooled and raised ourselves in the Word of the Lord.”

  “Thanks be to God,” all the sisters uttered, all but Sister Joan.

  Sister Bernadette turned to Sister Joan. “Think of my namesake, not to mention your own,” she scolded. “Joan of Arc was visited and counselled by saints and Bernadette by the Blessed Virgin herself! As were so many others. I’ve been reading about Petruccia de Geneo, the widow of Genazzano in Italy. There are hundreds of instances of divine intervention.”

  The other sisters nodded wisely. Clearly, Sister Joan was alone in her doubt.

  Then into the silence came a question. “Since the, uh, the Visitation happened to Rose Marie,” Sister Cilla asked, flushing, “does that mean she has been chosen by God for a reason?”

  Mother Grace paused. The question, an obvious one, hadn’t occurred to her. Glancing at Father William, she could tell he had not anticipated it either. They had both been too caught up in what the event meant to each of them, how it defined their own lives. But she recovered quickly. “Why yes, Sister. Rose Marie is destined to join the Sisters of Brotherly Love, to serve the Lord and help her people. She has been chosen!”

  “I knew as much,” Margaret loudly declared. “That’s why I’ve been a little hard on the girl at times. Something told me more would be expected of her. Why, I had a hunch the first time I laid eyes on her. I told Sister Joan as much.”

  Beside her, Sister Joan nodded sagely. “Yes, of course. Both Sister Margaret and I had a premonition, but we also had concerns. I was simply trying to establish the facts of the situation just now.”

  Was Sister Joan truly won over? Mother Grace wondered. Or was she aware that hers was an argument she could not win? In the end, it probably wasn’t important.

  “Why else would I give Rose Marie the necessary discipline right from the start?” Sister Joan continued, her voice growing more authoritative. “Of course, not everyone agreed with me.”

  Father William raised his arms over his small congregation. “Let us bow our heads in prayer. Let us praise the Lord, our Redeemer, the Light of the World, who died for us sinners.”

  “Our Father . . .”

  “Who art in heaven . . .” the sisters joined in.

  “Hallowed be Thy name . . .”

  “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . .”

  “On earth, as it is in Heaven.”

  Soon, Mother Grace knew, she must inform Rose Marie of all this.

  * * *

  The next morning, Father William walked into Mother Grace’s office, his face shining with oil and enthusiasm. Did the man never wash?

  “Mother Grace, we must take steps to gain official acknowledgement for the miracle at St. Mark’s!”

  “Although we’ve b
een terming the Visitation a miracle, William, that must be decided by the Church and overseen by the Congregation for the Causes of Saints.”

  “It’s miraculous for us. And it must be given the attention it deserves.”

  “Oui,” she admitted.

  “I’m thinking of a speaking tour,” he continued. “Father Alphonses has agreed to come in Sunday afternoons to say Mass while I’m gone.”

  “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself, Father?”

  “Of course I’d like your input, Mother Grace. Perhaps you could notify the various parishes.”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed. “Now let’s plan this properly. Sit down, Father. As I see it, you should travel as far as Fernie in one direction and Lethbridge in the other. It’s impractical to go farther at this point. I have a feeling that at this particular time, with criticism of the residential school system in the news, the Church will seize upon the Visitation as a consolation if not a victory,” she said, her cynicism shaming her. But only slightly.

  “Yes, Mother Grace. Brilliant!” Father William pumped his fist in the air. “Could you also write a letter to the parish bulletins? You have such a talent with the written word.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she responded, knowing it already had.

  Far-reaching implications, she decided, would be a phrase to use that afternoon during her talk with Rose Marie. Faith also. God’s glory, and especially destiny. Rose Marie would welcome the news, she anticipated. The girl needed encouragement as much as the rest of them.

  * * *

  Not quite a month later, Mother Grace had to admit that Father William, bless his small soul, had been right. The reputation of Rose Marie, humble, pious, Indian Rose Marie, grew like winter wheat over the prairies, thanks in large part to William’s speaking engagements, and perhaps, a small share to her letters.

  She was finishing an order for four new beds at the school when she looked up to see Father William standing at her door.

  “Show me, Lord, I prayed when I was most uncertain,” he cried as he plunged into the office, a letter in his hand. “And the Lord affirmed the miracle!”