13
It was after six when Sister Agatha set out with Pax in the sidecar. She hadn’t seen Ruth since high school. Back then, the world had seemed filled with infinite possibilities for both of them.
As Sister Agatha rounded a bend in the highway, heading south toward town, she caught a glimpse of a large black pickup approaching at high speed from behind her. An uneasy feeling began to creep up her spine. She slowed slightly, and the big Ford truck roared around, cutting close in front of her. Dropping her speed to avoid a collision, she tried to get a look to the driver of the truck, but all she saw was the headrest. The license plate was missing.
Thinking it was most likely a youngster who’d been drinking, she kept a careful watch as she continued into town.
About two miles farther along, she noticed a black truck, probably the same one as before, coming in her direction. Fear touched the edges of her mind, and she automatically slowed down, looking for a possible turnoff and wondering what would happen next.
A few seconds later, the truck moved to the center of the road, taking half of her lane. It was coming right at her. “Hang on, Pax!” Sister Agatha braked hard, pulling over as far as she dared onto the shoulder and scanning the terrain in case she had to leave the road completely.
The truck roared toward her. At the last second, the driver leaned on the horn and swerved back into the proper lane. There was no chance this time for her to even try to get a look at the driver.
“We’re getting out of here,” she yelled to Pax, and eased the Harley back onto the highway. The bike and sidecar seemed all right, despite the jolts of their ride on the unpaved shoulder, so she twisted the throttle and brought the speed up to sixty, sneaking glance after glance in the rearview mirror. Soon the truck was just a black dot in the distance.
Had she just faced a drunk kid out to harass a motorcyclist, the unnamed man who had hoped to get the Harley in payment of a debt, or Father’s killer? If it had been an attempt to unnerve her by the person who’d been promised the motorcycle, it had worked.
“Pax, you’re sticking with me like glue from now on whenever I leave the monastery. I don’t like what’s happening out here.” Her hands were shaking and her body felt cold, though it was still very hot outside.
Switching directions at the last minute, she headed into the center of town, deciding to stop by the sheriff’s office next. He needed to know what had just happened. With luck, she’d be able to convince him not to tell Reverend Mother and worry her. As she pulled into the parking lot, she saw him and his wife standing near the giant Dumpsters at the back. From their expressions it was easy to see they were having a fight.
She hesitated, wondering if she should make her report now, or wait. As she watched, Gloria raised her fist, but he intercepted her hand quickly and forced it back down. The side door opened then, and as a deputy came out, Gloria stalked off through the hedge that separated the station from the neighboring residential area.
Tom glanced around, a scowl on his face, and suddenly saw her.
She had no choice now. As he approached, she set out to meet him halfway. “We have to talk. Do you have a moment?” she asked.
As he led her to his office, he remained silent. Stealing furtive glances at him, she weighed the implications of what she’d seen, and began to suspect that the bruise on his face had been one Gloria had given him. The purplish mark was still there, though fainter now.
“Is everything all right between you?” she asked softly.
He shrugged. “Gloria’s got a temper, that’s all.”
“Did she hit you?”
He glanced at her coldly. “You mean this?” he asked, pointing to the bruised area below his eye. “Nah. We were horsing around that day, that’s all. But let’s not get into that. I’ve taken enough ribbing from the men here.”
He never looked her in the eye, and she suspected he was lying. The bruise hadn’t been the result of an accident. But she had to respect his privacy.
He waved her to the chair across from his desk. “What’s up?”
She told him about the black truck and saw his expression grow hard and guarded. “Did you see the driver, or the license plate?”
“No, but I thought I’d better tell you about it. I wondered if it could be the man that Bobby Gonzales owed money to,” she said, then filled him in. “I wish I had a name to give you. I sure don’t like the idea of someone preying on kids around here.”
“You did the right thing telling me. I’ll look into it.”
“Be careful how you go about it. Timothy is a good kid. He doesn’t need the backlash.”
He smiled. “Looking out for the underdog? That was always your style.”
“He needs it. He’s a good kid.”
She stood and he walked her to the door. “I suppose Joan Sanchez is in the clear?”
“Not in the clear, no, but my chief suspect is Celia.”
She nodded once. “Well, I better get going.”
“Be careful. And if you see that black pickup again, call me as soon as possible. And try to see if it’s got any distinguishing marks.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.” Leaving him to his business, she went back to the Harley with Pax.
As she set out, she took a deep breath and forced herself to focus on her meeting with Ruth. She remembered her as a girl whose main career goal had been to marry the high school football star and have a bunch of kids. But from what she’d heard from the town gossips over the years, that dream had gone awry.
As she drew near to the house, Sister Agatha realized that the neighborhood was even rougher than she’d remembered. A car full of young men was parked beside the curb, and two of them, in identical color headbands, were leaning out the street-side car windows, drinking beer and yelling back and forth at two girls on a porch. She hadn’t heard language that rough in years.
Graffiti covered the neighborhood walls, and an abandoned brick building on the corner, cordoned off by yellow crime-scene tape, had all its windows broken out or covered by pieces of warped plywood. In the alley, just beyond the police tape, an old man in a heavy coat was pushing a grocery cart that apparently contained all his worldly possessions. This section of town now held the unmistakable stamp of poverty and despair.
Sister Agatha drove slowly up a narrow residential street, maneuvering carefully to avoid running over pieces of broken beer bottles on the pavement. There, at the end of the cul-de-sac, was a shabby one-story, flat-roofed adobe house. Several individual adobe bricks visible on one wall told her the building needed work, but in that respect it was no different from any other house on that block.
Ruth’s home bore little resemblance to the same house she’d remembered visiting at the time of Celia’s birth. The dwelling had been well maintained and landscaped back then, with flower boxes filled with geraniums, and wildflowers bordering the brick walkway from the gate to the door.
Now the archway that held the gate was gone, as well as most of the low adobe wall around the property. What was left was crumbling and blanketed with graffiti. Near the side of the house she could see a vegetable garden, and that was the only section of the grounds that appeared well tended.
“Come on, Pax. Stick with me.” The truth was, she needed courage. It had been a shock to see how much things here had deteriorated, and she had a feeling that she’d have more unpleasant surprises before this visit was over.
Sister Agatha knocked on the door, and soon a woman came to answer. She was wearing a loose blue cotton knit top, a long, baggy, shapeless red skirt, and worn house slippers. It was a colorful outfit, but even less flattering than a nun’s habit.
“Mary … Sister Agatha, is that you?”
Sister Agatha took a closer look at the woman’s face then. It took her a few seconds before she realized that this was her old friend. Age had hardened Ruth’s features beyond her true years, and her eyes were haunted as if she’d seen too much. She wore no makeup. Her face was pale, and t
he dark hair that framed it had been dyed a ghastly red-brown. She looked as lifeless as a store mannequin, but not as well dressed.
“Hello, Ruth,” she greeted her, trying to sound upbeat.
“What brings you here? Don’t tell me my kid is giving you a problem now!” she said, gesturing for Sister to come inside. There had once been a screen door, apparently, but all that remained was the bare wood and scars where the hinges had been removed. Noticing Pax for the first time, Ruth suddenly froze. “Whoa. That’s a big dog.”
“He’s a teddy bear, really. His name is Pax, and he’s the monastery’s new unofficial guardian.”
Ruth smiled, stepping aside to let Sister and Pax enter, then closing the door behind them. “Well, if you vouch for him, he’s welcome inside and out of this heat, too.” She led the way into the living room. A large fan stood on an end table, moving back and forth to stir the hot, stale air.
Sister Agatha followed Ruth into the kitchen. The interior of the house was encased in a gray gloom, but the house was neat and orderly. The only light besides that filtering around the edges of the dark, faded curtains came from dozens of votive candles that flickered atop a metal TV tray behind a two-foot-tall statue of the Blessed Virgin that dominated one corner of the living room. Ruth had never been particularly religious, so seeing that statue and the candles took Sister Agatha by surprise.
“Do you have a special intention you’re praying for?” she asked, then instantly chided herself. Smooth, Sister.
“It’s for protection. A woman and her daughter living alone in this neighborhood need all the help they can get.”
“Whatever happened to Jerry? Does he ever come around anymore?” she asked, referring to Celia Clines’s dad. Celia seldom, if ever, spoke about her parents. Now she was starting to realize why.
“He left me when Celia turned eight. He just went out for cigarettes one day and never came back. That wasn’t an easy time for any of us.”
She remembered Jerry Clines, the high school star quarterback. He and Ruth had been madly in love. She remembered their wedding and the high hopes they’d shared for their future. But, from what she’d heard, they’d never left town to follow their dreams.
“So how’s Celia doing? That girl was such a wild one when she was at home. But maybe now that she’s changed her ways and joined the monastery, the Lord will save her from eternal damnation.”
“Celia is very devout,” Sister Agatha said cautiously.
Hearing a rock station playing softly from another room, Ruth bolted to her feet. “Wait a sec.” She hurried down the hall, then threw open one of the doors on her right. “You turn that noise off right now, Betsy. I don’t allow the devil’s music in this house and you know it. If you want to keep that radio, you’ll listen to the stations I select. Is that clear?”
“Mom, I was just changing—”
“I’m not interested in excuses. And why haven’t you cleaned this room yet? Laziness is the first symptom of wickedness, young lady. Now get to work.”
“Mom, I already cleaned my room!”
‘There’s dust on the windowsill. I can see it from here. After you’re finished, I want you to memorize Psalm Fifty. The psalm of contrition will do you a world of good. When you’re ready, come out of your room and recite it for me.”
“Mom, I can’t! Not now. I have to meet Michelle at the library.”
“You’re not going anywhere. I know what you’re up to. You’ll tell me you’re going to the library and end up in the backseat of some boy’s car. You might as well forget it. It’s not going to happen, Betsy.”
Ruth returned to the kitchen a moment later. “Sorry about that. Betsy is at an age where I’ve got to watch her every second. She’s fourteen and already boys are calling her here at home. I put a stop to it, of course, but I can tell she’s going to be a slut, just like …” Her voice trailed off and she looked away.
“It’s normal for her to have friends, Ruth. We did.” She’d heard Ruth’s conversation with her daughter, and the entire exchange had left her stunned. The Ruth she’d known once had never been like that. “You and I were famous schoolwide for not letting rules get in the way of fun, remember?” she added with a tiny smile.
For a moment she saw a flicker of life in Ruth’s eyes and the woman nearly smiled. But then, in a heartbeat, her somber expression returned.
“Life can be very hard, Sister. You work, you dream, then you get your heart broken. Neither one of my daughters is going to go down the same path I did. I want them both to be God-fearing, moral children. God only protects those who turn to Him wholeheartedly.”
“I agree, Ruth,” she said softly. “But the key is balance. Kids need time to be kids, too.”
“You’re in that monastery now. You have no idea what temptations kids face these days. I won’t have Betsy become an abomination unto the Lord.”
Sister Agatha stared at Ruth, trying hard to understand what had happened to the young carefree girl she’d known once. “It must have been very hard on you to raise your girls alone.”
“The hardest time of my life came when Jerry left me. He was the one great love of my life,” she said softly, then continued. “At first I didn’t know what had happened, if he was hurt or dead. But no one fitting his description showed up in crime reports or at the hospitals, and I found out when the bills came in that he’d cashed a check for exactly half the money we had in the bank.”
“I’m so sorry. That must have been a shock.”
“It was. Eventually, I figured out why he’d left me. When there’s never enough money to make the bills month after month, it wears a soul down. And, truth be told, no matter how hard we worked, we never had enough money to make ends meet. Things fell apart a little at a time, but we didn’t even realize it until it was too late.” She paused, her voice strained. “A year later, I was contacted by the police. He’d been in a convenience store when it got robbed. He got shot. He died before he could even say good-bye to his kid.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But you did a wonderful job raising Celia. She’s going to be a real asset to the order.”
Ruth smiled wearily. “It was sure an uphill battle, believe me. Did you know that when she was just twelve—two years younger than Betsy—she tried to commit suicide by taking an overdose of herbs I kept in my pantry?”
“Herbs?” Sister Agatha repeated, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“I was married to Mike Moore back then, and although he had a good job, the company he worked for was small and didn’t offer benefits. We had no medical insurance, so I learned to depend on herbal medicine like a lot of the folks in the Spanish community.”
Ruth gazed at an indeterminate spot across the room, a faraway look on her face. “I remember making hyssop tea for my girls, to keep them pure, you know? I’d read a psalm that said, ‘Purge me with hyssop and I shall be clean.’ I also found out that the herb had been used to cleanse the temples during biblical times, so I started keeping crushed leaves and flower tops in little containers all through the house. It made things smell nicer.”
“You were saying something about Celia trying to commit suicide?”
“Oh—yes. She was such a moody child back then—clinical depression is what the doctors called it. They blamed her problems on the fact I’d married Mike and Celia didn’t accept him, but I don’t know. I think Celia was at that age—becoming a teenager.”
“What happened?” Sister Agatha pressed. Obviously, Ruth was hoping to sidestep the whole matter, but Sister Agatha had no intention of letting it go.
“I’d kept pennyroyal on hand back then—some of the herb and a small amount of the oil. The herb can be used as a decongestant and a cough remedy. The oil, though, is trickier—two tablespoons can cause death. The only reason I’d kept it around was because it was a great insect repellent. You could add just a little to regular skin cream and not have a mosquito or a fly bother you all day. I’d cautioned Celia never to touch it.
If she wanted to use it, she was to come to me. But one day while I was out, she went into one of her dark moods and tried to kill herself by drinking some of the oil.”
“Were you the one who found her?”
Ruth nodded. “I took her to the university hospital in Albuquerque the second I found her. They saved her life, but they told me she needed psychiatric help or she’d try again. With the help of some people from the welfare office, they arranged to have Celia spend time at Nazareth Hospital in Albuquerque.” Ruth rubbed her temples as if pained by the memory of that trying time.
Taking a deep breath, she looked up and continued in a more positive tone of voice. “But those days are behind her now. She got the help she needed and that’s all that matters. Of course, I never told anyone around here where she was. I just let them think that Celia had gone to spend some time with my sister in California.”
“I’m so sorry you had to go through all that. I wish you’d have written me. I was living in Albuquerque then, but that’s still close. I might have been able to do something to help you.”
She shook her head. “There was nothing you could have done. Even Mike gave up on all of us after that,” she said sadly. “But I prayed about it day and night, and now my Celia is going to become a cloistered nun in a mcmastery where she’ll always be protected from the evils of the world.”
Sister Agatha wasn’t sure what to say about that. Obviously evil touched everything—including their monastery. But rather than arguing the point, she decided to stay on her investigative course. “Tell me, which herbs do you keep these days?”
“A little of everything. Is there something you need?”
“What can you tell me about monkshood?”
“Not much, except that the local gossips say it was used to kill Father Anselm. Personally, I’ve never used it, or heard of anyone who does. I’m told it can be used for reducing fever, and as a topical anesthetic, but it’s highly dangerous.”
“The plant is supposed to have beautiful, distinctive blue or white flowers, and people often mistake the root for a radish.”
Bad Faith Page 17
