Bad Faith

by Aimée; David Thurlo

  Sister Agatha left Pax to guard the motorcycle, then, saying a quick prayer, went inside. As she’d expected, her entrance drew attention from the moment she stepped through the doors. A small crowd of men and women of nearly all ages, dressed in strange-looking caps, leather jackets, and jeans, most carrying wallets with chains attached, nudged each other, then stared openly at her as she made her way across the room, searching for Celia. A rumble of curiosity went around the room, interrupted by occasional bouts of laughter and the hoisting of a few bottles of beer in her direction.

  She’d only gone halfway when she spotted Celia at a table in the corner, having an animated conversation with an apparently angry waitress. Celia was dressed in the simple brown dress all postulants wore, but she’d taken off her short veil. As she approached, Sister Agatha tried to focus on what they were saying.

  “What do you mean you haven’t got any money?” the waitress demanded.

  Celia stared at her and shrugged. “I can wash dishes or clean up to pay it off.”

  “That’s not the way it works. This ain’t a charitable institution. Pay up or get arrested.”

  A rough-looking biker sauntered up to them. “I’ll pay your tab, sweetheart,” he told Celia, “providing you come to my place afterwards and do a little straightening up in my bedroom. How about it?”

  “Back off.” Sister Agatha’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Time to go, Celia.”

  Celia stared at her wide-eyed. “I—”

  “Let’s go,” Sister Agatha repeated more firmly.

  “Wait a minute, Sister. She hasn’t paid her bill. Are you going to cover her tab?” the waitress asked.

  “I don’t have any money with me,” Sister Agatha said, then looked directly at the lean-looking biker, who had long black hair fastened in a ponytail that trailed down his back. “But you do. Will you pay her bill in exchange for the prayers of all the nuns?”

  He laughed. “Prayers? I don’t think so. I had some other kind of offering in mind, Sister.”

  “Is this how you show respect for two nuns away from their home on a cold night?” she snapped, and looked around. The people in The Hog were more interested in how she was going to handle things than in helping her and Celia. They were on their own.

  Spotting a pool table next to the wall, she gestured toward it. “Let’s play a game of eight ball. If I win, you pay for her meal.”

  “And if I win?” the man asked, a broad smile on his face.

  “I’ve got a 1986 Heritage Classic Harley outside with a matching sidecar. The bike roars like a cougar. You could take it out for a spin—just as long as you bring it back here within the hour so we can still get home before dawn.”

  He met her gaze and laughed. “How do you know I’ll bring it back?”

  “It would make no sense for you to steal it and leave your own bike behind for me to use to identify you. And even if you walked here, or hitched a ride with someone, you wouldn’t get off. Everyone in this room would know you’re the thief, and the sheriff would be after you almost immediately.”

  He met her gaze, then produced a crooked grin before grabbing a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it with a silver lighter. “Okay. You’ve got yourself a deal, Sister. I’m always up for a game, and I’ve been looking for some real competition tonight.”

  When the man walked over to rack up the balls, the waitress leaned close to Sister Agatha’s ear and whispered, “Back out of this now, Sister. He’s a hustler. I’ve never seen him lose unless he’s setting someone up for an even bigger-stakes game.”

  “I don’t have a choice. No one else has offered to pay for her meal.”

  “Don’t look at me. I barely make enough to feed myself and pay my rent.”

  “Then my course is set.” Sister Agatha looked at the man who’d accepted the challenge as he handed her a cue stick. She placed it down on the table and saw that it had a slight curve about halfway down.

  “I’ll pick my own cue, thanks.” She walked over to the wall rack, looked at two, then picked a third that looked straight and had good balance. Now if she could just remember her days playing with her grad students and the other professors in the student union building.

  “Lag for break?” he asked.

  “No. Just go ahead. Even if you put a few balls in, I’ll catch up soon enough.” She smiled, trying to appear confident. No way she was going to let him know that she couldn’t even remember the rules of eight ball at the moment. But, with him going first, she could watch and maybe pick up enough to fake it without giving herself away.

  The biker walked back and opened a slender hard-sided case, picking out a two-piece cue that he screwed together casually. It looked expensive, and that was a bad sign.

  As he took his position, she glanced over at Celia. The postulant waved just as the biker hit the cue ball. He didn’t even notice, which meant his concentration on the game was total, another bad indication.

  That’s when Sister Agatha started praying. There was no saint who specialized in games of pool as far as she knew, so it would have to be St. Jude, patron saint of the impossible.

  As one of the solid balls, a four, dropped into the side pocket, the biker looked up and smiled. “Shooting solids.”

  He looked at the table, walked around to her side, and eyed a blue ball close to the end pocket. ‘Two at the end,” he called, and proceeded to knock it in. The cue ball followed, but bounced off a side cushion, setting up his next shot.

  Sister Agatha glanced over at Celia, who looked pale all of a sudden. Obviously, Celia already believed she’d lose the game. Desperation and determination made Sister Agatha pray harder.

  The biker proceeded to mix a combination of shots, putting away the ball he called every time. It was going to be her shortest game ever, at this rate.

  Then, as he lined up his next shot, there was a resounding crash from the bar. Several glasses and an empty bottle had toppled to the floor off a serving tray. “Hey, Bubba, sorry about that,” the bartender yelled.

  But the damage had been done. The ball had bounced off the side pocket instead of going in. The biker shot the bartender a look that made the temperature in the room drop by thirty degrees. “Your turn, Sister,” the biker growled.

  Sister Agatha lined up her first shot, which looked pretty easy. With luck it would be like riding a motorcycle—a skill that was never lost. As she bent over, she realized that in the excitement of the moment, her joints didn’t even hurt, despite the high humidity at the moment. Confidence surged through her. “Nine ball in the corner pocket.”

  She lined it up, took a deep breath, and struck the cue ball a little below center. It struck the nine squarely, which shot right into the pocket. The cue ball had enough back spin to stop short, but just barely.

  “Luck.” The biker chuckled.

  “Talent.” Sister Agatha turned and smiled at the man, then looked for her next shot. This would be harder, all the way across the table to sink the three ball, just outside the opposite corner pocket.

  “Take your time,” the biker heckled, crossing in front of her as she was lining up the shot.

  “Put a sock in it, dude,” Celia yelled from across the room. Several onlookers laughed, and Sister Agatha stopped and waited for the noise to subside.

  “Three ball in the corner.” Sister Agatha barely tapped the cue ball, then her stomach sank as it suddenly occurred to her that she’d hit it too gently. The white ball rolled across the table almost leisurely, and all she could do was watch and pray. With a click, it struck the three, which slowly eased to the corner and dropped with a thunk.

  “Nice going, Sister,” the bartender said. Celia applauded, but when she noticed she was the only one clapping, she stopped. Everyone else laughed except Sister Agatha.

  Sister Agatha concentrated and hung on, barely making the next shots, each time silently praising God for His backup. By now, everyone in the room was watching, and she was feeling the pressure. Finally
all she had to do was put the eight ball away.

  “You’ve gotten lucky with a couple of slop shots, Sister, but now you’re going to need some skill. Do you really think you can put the game away?” the man asked with a laugh. “Even I would have trouble at that angle without scratching. Of course, once you move it just a little, I’ll sink it easily.”

  “Did you ever hear the story about David and Goliath? The giant with the leather armor, custom-made sword, and loud boasting was very impressive—but the little guy won.”

  The man just sneered.

  “Go for it, Sister,” the bartender urged.

  Sister Agatha lined up the shot. “Opposite end off the far cushion.” She hit the ball squarely and it flew down the table, bounced off the end cushion, then traveled back nearly the entire length of the table, barely missing the cue ball on the way. The eight ball rolled slowly over to the pocket, then teetered on the edge, coming to a stop.

  At that instant, the door was thrown open and several bikers strode in, laughing and shoving each other as they entered. The gust of wind that caught the door wound around the bar, rattling the blinds and sweeping past the pool table. The eight ball suddenly dropped neatly into the pocket. As the onlookers cheered, Sister Agatha’s knees nearly buckled with relief.

  The biker shook his head, muttered a curse, then laughed. “First time I’ve ever seen that happen. Guess I should be glad it was divine wind, and not lightning. Your victory, Sister.” He went to settle Celia’s tab.

  Sister Agatha decided that she’d better leave now while the going was good, so she grabbed the postulant by the hand and hurried outside.

  “Thank you, Mother Mistress, but I’m not going back,” Celia said firmly, refusing to get on the bike.

  Sister Agatha wanted to throttle Celia, but somehow kept from losing her temper. “Let’s go for a short ride, then. There’s a secularized adobe church—one the Church sold a long time ago—not far from here. We can take shelter there and talk.”

  Celia hesitated, but then got on the bike and petted Pax, who, having hunkered down in the sidecar to keep out of the rain, seemed happy to see her.

  They rode in silence, the headlight cutting through the darkness. When they arrived, Sister tried the heavy wooden doors and found they weren’t locked. The building had become a community project and it was slowly being restored through volunteer labor. Eventually, it would be a community art gallery and meeting hall.

  Sister pulled the motorcycle inside with her, a feat which was possible thanks to double doors and low front steps. “No sense in calling attention to the fact we’re here. This place is dark, and it’s very late now.”

  They took a seat on a low windowsill and Pax came over and rested his head on Sister Agatha’s lap. She stroked his massive head absently, glad he’d come with her. It was good to have a guardian on a stormy night this far from home.

  “You shouldn’t have come after me, Mother Mistress. I can’t go back,” Celia said quietly.

  “You have no money. What were you planning to do, go back to your mother’s house?”

  “No. I’d never be able to bring myself to go back there,” Celia said firmly.

  Sister Agatha nodded slowly. “So what are your plans?”

  “I’ll think of something. All I know now is that I’m bringing chaos to the monastery, and I can’t let that continue. During recreation I overheard Sister Ignatius and Reverend Mother talking. Reverend Mother was saying that the spirit of the monastery would live on in the nuns, no matter where they went. But I could tell that she was really worried about the possibility that our monastery would be closed down. It seems we’ve had too many bills at the same time support from our benefactors is waning. And don’t you see? I’m the reason donations aren’t coming in. I’m single-handedly destroying the monastery.”

  “I hope you didn’t repeat Reverend Mother’s conversation to any of the other nuns.”

  “I kept it to myself—that is, until now. But I knew then what I had to do. I love the Life, Mother Mistress, and I’ve given it my heart and soul. But what kind of nun could I ever hope to be if I disregarded the Rule? It’s very specific about never judging what’s better for oneself over what’s good for the monastery.”

  Sister Agatha fell into a long silence. Celia would make an excellent nun someday, but if that was ever to happen, the next few moments and hours would have to be handled very carefully. “What you’ve said is true. Our monastery is founded on Christian charity and that’s something we all practice and value. But charity doesn’t flow just one way— the nuns extend that to you as well. The monastery needs you, Celia, just as you need us. What the sheriff has done is beyond your control, and God never holds us accountable for the actions of others. You have to trust in God now—not partly but all the way. Don’t tell God how you think things should be handled. Trust Him to handle it for you in the right way.”

  Celia took a deep breath. “In some ways, that’s even harder.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But even if I wanted to return, I don’t think I can do that now. I’ve left the monastery without permission.”

  “No one else knows you’re gone. For now, let’s get you back. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow. But I promise I’ll speak to Reverend Mother on your behalf.”

  With Celia holding on tight and Pax peeking happily around the windscreen, Sister drove quickly back to the monastery. The rain had stopped, and with luck, she’d still get an hour or so of sleep before having to rise. No one had ever accused her of being perky in the mornings, but on days when she didn’t get enough sleep, she could be decidedly grouchy. Tomorrow she’d have to work hard to avoid giving new meaning to that word.

  Before she reached the gates Sister Agatha turned off the engine and they coasted in. She locked the gates behind them, parked the motorcycle, then hurried to the door of the monastery, Celia and Pax beside her. Cautioning Celia with a gesture to remain totally silent, she led the way inside. Maybe, if God smiled, they’d both make it to their cells without waking anyone else.

  They’d made their way down the corridor and were just going around the corner when Sister Agatha suddenly noticed Reverend Mother. The abbess had pulled up a chair, and was sitting right outside Celia’s door, a small oil vigil lamp on the floor beside her and a rosary in her hands.

  Sister Agatha stood there in muted shock. The Great Silence couldn’t be broken except in dire emergencies, but perhaps Mother would consider finding out where they’d been such an emergency.

  Celia stared first at Reverend Mother, then at Sister Agatha, her eyes wide with alarm. But, mercifully, she didn’t break silence either.

  Reverend Mother stood then, and with a nod of her head that spoke volumes about what tomorrow would bring, went wordlessly down the corridor. Moments later, they heard her door close softly.

  Sister Agatha’s knees almost buckled. Taking a deep breath, she gestured for Celia to go into her cell, and then hurried inside her own, Pax trailing behind her.

  Removing her veil and cincture, she lay down. St. Michael glorious Prince, be mindful of us…. St Raphael guide us daily. Tomorrow, when she faced Reverend Mother, she’d need all the help she could get. It couldn’t hurt to try to get a few angels on her side.

  Sister Bernarda woke her a few minutes before the Matins bells. Sister Agatha felt every joint in her body creak and groan as she made her bed and quickly left her cell.

  More awake than she’d dreamed she could be at that hour after her exertions of the night before, she hurried to prepare for what would undoubtedly be a very trying day.

  As Sister Agatha stepped out of her room, Sister Eugenia appeared at the door, two pills in her hand and a small glass of milk in the other. She refused to budge until Sister Agatha had taken the medication. Then, wordlessly, she hurried back down the darkened hall toward the chapel.

  After breakfast Sister Agatha went directly to Reverend Mother’s office. The prioress had a right to an explanation,
but all things considered, Sister Agatha would rather have been stomped on by a herd of cattle than have to be the one to explain the events of last night.

  Sister Agatha stopped outside Mother’s office, took a deep breath, and knocked.

  As expected, she found Mother waiting for her. Visions of a firing squad came to her mind, but she pushed them back quickly.

  Without preamble, she recounted everything that had happened the night before. “Mother, you’ve entrusted me with this postulant, and I’ve taken that responsibility very seriously. What she did was misguided, but her intentions were good. I truly believe that Celia has the heart of a nun. She belongs with us. She’ll have to pay a penalty for leaving, of course. Her postulancy will have to be extended now, but I think we should allow her to return to us.”

  Reverend Mother nodded. “I tend to agree, but before I say more I’d like to speak to her myself.”

  “Yes, Mother. Shall I send for her now?”

  “Yes, but before you do, what are your plans for today? We still need answers, maybe even more than we did before. Will you be going to town?”

  “Mother, I—” She stopped abruptly, uncertain of how much to say.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind, child,” Reverend Mother said softly.

  “I’m convinced that the answers I need now are here, Mother, not in town.”

  “Then you believe, as the sheriff does, that it’s one of us? Whom do you suspect?” Reverend Mother asked.

  She hesitated, but gathering her courage, answered. “Sister Mary Lazarus—though her motive still isn’t clear to me,” she said, and explained fully. “But, Mother, what I have is based on conjecture and hearsay—it’s certainly not something I can share with the sheriff. I have no proof.”

  “All right Follow your instincts, child. But be careful.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Sister Agatha went directly to the scriptorium and, as she walked inside, saw Frank was there already working at a carrel with Mary Lazarus. Sister Bernarda was watching them. She said nothing, but the look on her face worried Sister Agatha.

  “I have bad news, Mother Mistress,” Sister Mary Lazarus said, looking up and seeing her. “I started to use the computer with the library collection when I came in this morning, but it crashed again. I had most of my work on disks so I transferred it all to the other computer, the one that you’ve been using. But then it crashed too. I tried to reload your work into another computer, but it seems your backup disks are all corrupted and won’t reload. All your work …” She couldn’t bring herself to say more.