Contrition

by Maura Weiler

“I listened to her. I went to college, then got a job, and set about looking for a husband, but I knew I was doing it for her and not me.”

  Teresa pointed to the exits. We walked through the doors on our respective sides of the grille and reunited in the courtyard.

  “Finally, in my mid-twenties, I couldn’t ignore it any longer and joined the novitiate.” The extern smiled, blushed, and shook her head in apparent disbelief over her good fortune. “You can’t imagine the joy and gratitude I felt when I was accepted into the community.”

  “Your expression pretty much sums it up.” I slowed my step, touched by Sister Teresa’s quiet humility. “What did your mother do when you joined?”

  “Didn’t speak to me for a year.” The corners of Teresa’s mouth tightened. “Nearly broke my heart. We made our peace after that, and I did get special dispensation to go care for her when she was dying since I was an only child.”

  “I’m sorry.” Realizing I wasn’t ready to leave yet, I sat down on a stone bench among the hibiscus bushes.

  “Every woman has her own struggles when she enters.” The extern took the seat beside me and worried a salmon-colored bloom between her fingers. “Sister Carmella wanted to join us at age fifteen, but Mother insisted that she finish high school first. Sister Scholastica visited the convent as a prospective right out of college, then took thirteen years to think about it before she returned.”

  “Do you ever regret your decision to become a nun?” I couldn’t help asking. The black-and-white cat glared at me from across the koi fish fountain.

  “Regret it? Never. Doubt it? Often.” The extern shooed away the contemptuous cat with a flick of her wrist. “Three of the women who took their initial vows with me have since left the order. I wonder at times if I shouldn’t have left with them, but I believe in the power of prayer. My daily recital of the Divine Office isn’t going to change the world, but maybe it will ease someone’s suffering, and that’s good enough for me.” She tossed the flower into the water, where it floated in languorous circles. “What is your present career?”

  “Well...”

  I struggled with how to answer. After my first visit to the convent, I had decided not to tell anyone at the cloister about my job, my potential article, or even my relationship to Sister Catherine for fear it might further limit my access to the art and the artist. Confessing that my vocation story was a ruse to see my twin wouldn’t help my credibility, and I trusted the silent Sister Catherine wasn’t telling anyone whatever she might know. Yet I readily revealed my career to the extern.

  “I’m a journalist and—”

  “Is that right? A journalist came here in the fifties to interview a few of us and put together a book,” Teresa said.

  “Did you give an interview?” I asked.

  “I did.” Teresa frowned. “But I wish I hadn’t. He didn’t exactly misquote me, but I think he missed the point.”

  “Oh, he knew what you were trying to say.” I definitely wouldn’t tell the extern about my possible article now. “He just twisted it to fit the point he wanted to make. That’s what we journalists do. Sometimes I wonder why we bother to conduct interviews when we’ve typically written the piece in our heads long before meeting the interviewee.”

  “And here I thought he was just a little slow. Now I understand why several sisters refused to speak with him.” She plucked another hibiscus. “I wouldn’t do it again, but back then I was flush with enthusiasm for my new life and I thought the book might help attract more women to serve our Lord.”

  “Did it?” I asked.

  “We got a lot of nibbles, but none of them panned out. Those who enter and stay feel the call long before they read or hear about us. The call comes from within, the rest is just reinforcement. I’m sure you’re a much nicer journalist than he was.”

  “Actually, I’m worse.” I avoided her eyes. “I’m a tabloid journalist.”

  “Well, if being a tabloid journalist is what you feel called to do, then you’re serving God,” Teresa said, gently setting the second hibiscus bloom afloat in the fountain.

  “Maybe.” Part of me liked writing for a tabloid. It provided a wide canvas for the overactive imagination I’d developed as a child fantasizing about what my birth parents were like. The rest of me was disgusted and ashamed that I traded on half-truths and hyperbole for a living. I stood up and headed for my car. “I’d better go before it gets late.”

  Scant radio and phone reception on the long drive home gave me plenty of time to ponder the merits of my occupation. Did God call anyone to write for tabloids? I certainly didn’t feel fulfilled by tabloid journalism, or even straight journalism.

  I had originally wanted to write books. Going the starving author route after being a starving student would have put me over the edge, not to mention sent my student loans into default. I decided journalism was steadier. Steady or not, though, I was often in danger of defaulting anyway. Careful as I was, loans and life in a large city made solvency a constant challenge. In addition to addressing my need to have a relationship with a sibling who didn’t appear to want one, I wondered if publishing the article would improve my financial situation. Maybe I’d conquer my discomfort around nuns along the way.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I opened the door to The Comet’s darkroom around midnight and found Rod, the gangly photography intern, scrambling to cover some print work before the light damaged it.

  “Sorry, Rod. I forgot to knock.”

  “No worries.” Rod grinned and turned down the ska music blaring from his iPod speakers. “I forgot to lock the door.”

  Rod, a college junior, took The Comet’s unpaid internship in photojournalism hoping to beef up his portfolio. Instead, he found himself relegated to both old-fashioned film processing and high-end Photoshop manipulation in an airless room where the chemicals couldn’t help but go to his head.

  “I have a favor to ask.” I tossed him the memory card full of pictures of the painting. “Could you choose the best one of those and make me an eight-by-ten?”

  “Take me about half an hour to get to it.” He turned his music back up and got to work.

  “Thanks. Coffee?” I gestured drinking.

  He nodded. “Lots of cream.”

  I left him to his computer and his chemicals and returned twenty-five minutes later with the biggest cup of coffee 7-Eleven had to offer. This time I knocked but got no answer. The music was off and I wondered if he’d left. Freeing up my left hand to open the door, I found Rod sitting there staring at several eight-by-tens of the Annunciation pinned up on the clothesline for display. The fluorescents were on at full wattage, yet the prints held up as well as the painting had. Rod didn’t notice me until I stood beside him.

  “Holy shit,” was all he could say.

  “Exactly. The artist is a nun.”

  “For real?” He pulled the prints from their clothespins. “She’s wicked good. How do you know her?”

  “I don’t,” I lied. “I came across her work by accident.”

  “Right on.”

  I half-thought I saw Rod’s gaze shift from the Angel Gabriel’s curled hand to my own, but maybe I was paranoid.

  “I printed a couple for myself,” he said. “Hope that’s cool.”

  I hesitated, remembering Catherine’s distaste for exposure, but then rationalized that it was okay since Rod had already seen the image anyway.

  “Sure, as long as you don’t show anyone else.” I gathered up the pictures. “She’s very private about her stuff.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Thanks for the quick turnaround, Rod. I owe you one.”

  “No, you don’t.” He waved it off. Young, green, and new to the tabloid universe, Rod was the only person at the paper whose favors were freely given. Everyone else demanded reciprocity at the worst possible moment.

  As I stuffed the photos into an envelope, Rod flipped through his own copies.

  “Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head.

&nb
sp; • • •

  Encouraged by the photographer’s enthusiastic response, I drove straight from The Comet to my friend Trish’s house in Laurel Canyon.

  Trish was a highly successful art dealer who trotted the globe scouting pieces for film actors and directors who had the money to spend, but no time to follow the auction circuit. The clients got valuable paintings and sculptures they liked, and Trish got to save her commissions for the gallery she hoped to buy someday. She also acquired enough frequent flyer miles to send the entire population of Sweden around the world twice.

  It was after one a.m., but Trish was always up late thanks to chronic jet lag. I jumped when she cracked the door wearing a Maori war mask, her curly, red hair framing it like a mane.

  “Is this a bad time?” I asked.

  “No, I’m not having kinky sex with the gardener, if that’s what you mean. Not that I would mind. He’s quite the hottie.” Trish undid the chain, opened the door, and pulled off her mask in one fluid motion. “I’m trying to scare you, the hypothetical intruder.”

  “Do hypothetical intruders ring the doorbell?”

  “Polite ones do.”

  “Where’s Fritz?” I asked.

  “Broken.”

  Fritz was Trish’s Rottweiler, or rather, the electronic barking machine that went off when her doorbell rang. Living alone in the City of Angels hadn’t imbued her with a sense of safety, particularly since what appeared to be a high-end drug dealer had recently bought the house next door.

  “Did you check his batteries?”

  “Yeah, they’re fine. It’s probably his wiring. The tech said I might have to put him to sleep.” She wiped away a fake tear.

  “Can’t you get another one?”

  “I suppose.” She heaved a theatrical sigh. “There’s a new Great Dane at Radio Shack, but puppies are so much work.”

  “Well, I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up,” I said, holding up the photos.

  “Wow,” Trish said a few minutes later. She sat curled up on her living room sofa, and peered at the prints through the rectangular black frames of her glasses. “Her sense of perspective is incredible—really groundbreaking. Talent certainly runs in your family, Dorie.”

  “So it would seem.” Trish was the only one besides Matt and Graciela who I’d told about my birth family. I was glad she validated my opinion of the picture but couldn’t help wishing I’d inherited a bit of Wagner’s talent myself. “And you agree that the angel’s hand is a common gesture and not a reference to me?”

  “Absolutely. It’s all over religious art. The fact that Sister Catherine uses it in her paintings doesn’t mean she knows who you are.”

  “Given the way she reacted to seeing my hand, I’m not so sure.”

  “But you are sure she doesn’t have a gallery rep?” Trish asked, not one to dwell on personal issues when there was money to be made.

  “That I am sure of.”

  “She does now.” Trish rubbed her palms together. “Wait until the art world finds out that Rene Wagner’s daughter paints as well as he did. They’ll go crazy.”

  “Not yet,” I reminded her. “You can’t tell anybody about this until after my story breaks… if it breaks.”

  “Sure. Fine.” My friend pushed her lower lip into a pout. “But, after that, I plan to take at least half the credit for discovering her.”

  “Fair enough.” I smiled.

  “What are her other paintings like?”

  “I’ve only seen one other, but it was just as amazing.” I relaxed into the luxury of a distressed leather chair that easily cost more than I spent on a month’s rent. “The photos don’t capture the emotion. You should see the original.”

  “I intend to. Along with everything else she’s ever done.”

  “That could be a problem. I can’t officially meet her until the convent’s next Visiting Sunday and then only if she agrees to see me, at which point she still won’t actually speak to me, given her vow of silence.”

  “She’s taking the whole reclusive artist thing a little far, wouldn’t you say?” Trish flipped to the next print.

  “I’m as frustrated as you are.”

  “Well, if I can’t see the stuff, I’ll settle for pictures of everything for now.”

  “That’ll take some time, but I’ll get them,” I promised, having no idea how I would accomplish it.

  “How many does she have?”

  “I’m not sure. She has this nasty habit of painting over completed canvases to save money.”

  “Shut up!” Trish’s jaw dropped in horror. “Painting over old canvases is terrible for the longevity of the work.”

  “Is it? I knew it was bad for the original painting to be lost. I didn’t realize it’s bad for the new painting as well.”

  “It’s disastrous.” She jumped up and grabbed an art book from the shelf. “Unless the artist soaks the canvas and scrapes off the original ground and paint completely, ghosts of the old painting will eventually show through the new one.”

  “Look.” Trish paged through the book and showed me two photographs of the same oil portrait taken years apart. “You buy a clean portrait and ten years later, a tree pops up on the guy’s forehead. Not exactly what the collector paid for.”

  The subject of the painting had the outlines of a maple bursting from his frontal lobe in the second photo.

  “That looks painful,” I said.

  Based on the little I knew about Sister Catherine—and God, for that matter—I guessed they would like such unexpected effects. Trish clearly didn’t endorse the posthumous reinvention of paintings, however, so I kept my thoughts to myself.

  “For Christ’s sake, somebody get the woman some fresh supplies.” Trish returned the book to the shelf.

  “I’ve thought of that, but I can’t afford it,” I said.

  “I can. You fly, I’ll buy.” The art dealer went to her desk and signed a blank check. “Make sure you get the best pre-primed linen or cotton duck. Winsor and Newton Artists’ Oil Colour. And sable brushes.”

  Trish ripped out the check and handed it to me.

  “I’ll pay you back,” I said, not sure how I would manage that either.

  “No need. Just bring me the receipt so I can write it off on my taxes. Does she have a good easel?”

  “An easel won’t fit in my car,” I said.

  “Forget the easel. But buy everything else. Jesus. Wasting such talent on subpar materials is a shame.”

  “I know. And Trish?”

  “Mmmm?” she said as she leaned over another print.

  “It’s probably not a good idea to take the Lord’s name in vain if you ever meet the nuns. Just a little tip I learned the hard way.”

  “Good point, good point. I’ll keep it clean. If I like the rest of her stuff and she has enough pieces ready, we’ll do a show. Religious art can sometimes be a tough sell, but your sister’s sensibility is hip enough to give her paintings a wide appeal.”

  “Hold on there.” My spine stiffened. “I’d love to feature you as the expert opinion in the article, but don’t get your hopes up about a show.”

  “You can’t dangle this in front of me and then say I can’t do anything with it. My clients will eat this up. How many frequent flyer miles do you want for this? Or would you prefer a finder’s fee?”

  “Not gonna happen.” I said, feeling protective. “I guarantee she’ll refuse to sell.”

  “Oh, I’ll make her sell. Money talks, honey.”

  “Not to silent nuns with vows of poverty it doesn’t.”

  “There’ll be more for us, then.”

  I shook my head. “You’re shameless.”

  “What? You get to exploit your sister and I don’t?”

  “I’m not exploiting her.” At least I hoped not. “I won’t print the article without getting her permission first. In the meantime, I’m getting to know her in the only way I know how under the circumstances.”

  “Did you ever consider us artsy types
might want to get to know her and her work, too?” Trish took off her glasses. “Don’t be so selfish. At least I can make her a little money.”

  “Money is useless to her.”

  “I don’t care if she uses it or not. She can burn it for all I care.” Trish tossed the print onto her coffee table. “As long as I get my percentage first.”

  “How much money do you need?” I looked around at the Spanish revival house replete with California Craftsman furniture and an original Diego Rivera over the fireplace.

  “I dunno. More than I have?”

  “Now who’s the one being greedy?”

  “Moi? Always. Time for a drink to celebrate.” Trish cracked open a bottle of Glenlivet and poured us each a belt.

  “What happened to us?” I asked. “You wanted to paint and I wanted to write books. When did that change?”

  “When we ran out of Ramen noodles.”

  I chuckled in uneasy acknowledgment as we clinked glasses and downed our scotch.

  “So,” Trish said, swirling the ice in her glass. “I assume you’ll want to visit with another Wagner since you’re here?”

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  Trish rose, and I followed her to the dining room, where she rolled a china cabinet out of the way and keyed in the security code to her climate-controlled storage vault. My breath quickened as the door swung open to reveal the painting that had changed everything.

  I may not have inherited my birth father’s talent, but I did inherit one of his paintings. Respecting the privacy rules of the closed adoption to the end, Wagner had instructed his estate lawyer not to contact me until after both my adoptive parents had died. When that time came nine years after Wagner’s own death, the main point of the lawyer’s call wasn’t to tell me who my biological family was, but to inform me that I was the inheritor of one of Wagner’s masterpieces, an abstract entitled Shift. Shocked, thrilled, and way too nervous to keep something that valuable at home, I put the painting in Trish’s art vault and paid it frequent visits.

  I peered into the vault and saw Shift nestled between a blood-orange Rothko and a kaleidoscope-colored Kandinsky. Black, white, and gray circles of paint floated up from a murky swath of ebony that covered the bottom quarter of the canvas. Thin, horizontal lines blurred the image slightly, as if warped gas station squeegees or snails had passed over the wet canvas and left tracks. As I stared, the image seemed to move–a babbling brook full of tadpoles playing bumper cars, cells bouncing against one another under a microscope. Birth and life in all its exuberance.