Contrition

by Maura Weiler

  “It’s all right, it’s my spare.” Catherine wiped at the stains. She looked up and I saw that she was crying.

  “Never mind the habit, are you all right?”

  “I’ve never cared how the work turned out before.” She shook her head. “Now I’m trying to anticipate what people might want, and nothing seems right.”

  “You’re giving the public too much power. Forget about the people and forget about the show. No one can compromise your painting unless you let them,” I said.

  “I’ve always felt guilty that I don’t show the artwork to outsiders, but I don’t know how to do that and still paint honestly. Now that I’m showing the paintings, I feel guilty because it infringes on the prayers I intended for God alone. I don’t feel God in these.” She waved toward the new paintings. “He’s not here.”

  I took a closer look at the canvases and realized that they all had the same subject: Jesus’ agony in the Garden of Gethsemane.

  In one painting, Jesus’ expression conveyed the dread of His pending crucifixion. Though He looked up toward the sky in hopeful entreaty, His whole face was pulled down in emotional pain—eyes half closed, lips pursed, chin strong but ready to tremble.

  Another piece communicated His insecurities through the canvas itself. Catherine had scarred and distressed it to resemble an artifact painted on a dissolving sheet of rusty metal, its subject likely to fade away at any moment. It didn’t look like a comfortable space to occupy.

  In a third, the landscape seemed to mock Jesus’ prayers for release from His destiny. His stark, staring eyes and weather-beaten face looked at a candy-colored garden, complete with a theme-park blue lake where I half expected to see pleasure boats bobbing, their captains beckoning me with the promise of a margarita in a plastic novelty tumbler.

  The confidence I’d seen in the Joan of Arc portrait the day before was gone. Catherine was right. Interesting as they were, I couldn’t see God’s hand in these new paintings despite having Jesus as their subject. God was crowded out by the staggering fears of the artist.

  “You worry too much,” I said, rattled but trying not to show it. “Even if you don’t paint another thing, you’ve got more than enough to show Trish.”

  “But what if no one likes those?”

  “Everyone who’s seen your work likes it,” I reminded her.

  “Everybody liked Dad’s paintings too—until he changed his technique. Then the critics panned his new stuff even though it was amazing.”

  “I read about that,” I said.

  “So he changed back to his old style to please the public. He also started drinking.” Catherine shuddered. “After he drank himself to death trying to stay inside that little box the critics put him in, those same critics declared the panned paintings brilliant. Now they sell for three times what his others sell for.”

  “I know,” I said. “He left me Shift.”

  A smile of recognition broke up the moody purple clouds on Catherine’s face like a glorious sunrise. “I remember when he painted that. It was a real breakthrough and we both loved it.” The clouds rolled back over Catherine’s expression. “Everyone else hated it.”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Sometimes it takes the public a while to catch up.”

  “Yeah, well, they did plenty of damage in the meantime. And now here I am trying to please that same public. I’d be disgusted with myself if I wasn’t so busy being terrified.” Catherine looked over her work. “Maybe if I could just do a few more...”

  “If you like. But paint for yourself and for your God,” I said. “God is the only audience that matters.”

  Catherine took a deep breath and turned to face the canvas. I could see the pressure weighing on her shoulders and regretted the part I had played in placing it there. It was time to do what I had to do.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I waited for Trish in the cloister parking lot that afternoon and accosted her the moment she stepped out of the car.

  “I want you to look for a buyer for my Wagner.”

  “What?” Trish’s head reared back. “Why? The taxes aren’t due until April, and the way your career is going, you’ll have the money to pay them without selling the painting.”

  “I know, but I have school debts too and—”

  “So? You’re paying those off on schedule, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Trish looked at the cloister behind me and smacked her forehead. “Oh, Jesus. This isn’t about your loans or the taxes, is it?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Listen to me, Dorie.” Trish looked me right in the eye. “It’s not your job to save this place. You didn’t put these nuns into debt. Don’t throw away your security on a bunch of women you hardly know.”

  “Those women include my sister.”

  “You mean the sister who broke a promise to your dying father and ignored you for nine years?” Trish asked.

  My face fell. Catherine had apologized for not contacting me, but the jellyfish sting of rejection still left my whole body prickling every time I thought about it. I wondered if it would ever not hurt.

  “I hate to be a bitch, D, but there it is. You don’t owe her anything.”

  “It’s not about owing,” I said.

  “I don’t get it. You gave these nuns an opportunity to get out of debt when your articles introduced Catherine’s art to the buying public.”

  “Yes, and the thought of that same public is killing her creativity,” I said. “If she’s sacrificing, so can I.”

  “That painting is your only link to your father.”

  “Sister Catherine connects me to my birth father far more than a piece of canvas.”

  “Fine, whatever.” Trish rolled her eyes. “If you’re going to reduce it to a piece of canvas, then let’s consider the money. Shift represents financial freedom for you. It could pay for time off to write that novel you always talk about, or establish a healthy retirement portfolio, or—”

  “I know, I know. I’ve thought about all that. But this is what I want, and there’ll be enough for the convent and me. If you don’t want to help me, I can always find another dealer who will.” I hoped she wouldn’t call my bluff.

  “Of course I’ll help you. I just want you to think about what you’re doing. At the very least, let’s hold off a few weeks. Your Wagner will command a much higher price if we wait until Catherine’s show generates some renewed buzz on your dad.”

  “I don’t want to wait.”

  “Clearly.” Trish shook her head. “Fine. I’ll start looking.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Now let’s go see if your sister’s stuff is everything you say it is.”

  • • •

  “They’re even better than I imagined.” Trish took in the garage full of Catherine’s art. “I’ll take them all. Has she got any more?”

  “Not at the moment,” I said while Mother Benedicta stood by. The prioress and the community had decided not to hold any paintings back. Instead, they would keep whatever remained unsold after the show.

  “Well, I hope she’s getting busy.” Trish examined another canvas. “Is she fast?”

  “I don’t have any basis for comparison. Mother Benedicta?”

  “Nor do I.” The prioress shrugged.

  “Can she produce a painting a week?” Trish asked.

  “Sure,” I said as Mother nodded in agreement. “Sometimes she does one in an hour. But others take several days or even—”

  “Good, because I could use about fifteen more.”

  “That many?” Mother’s eyes crinkled. She looked worried.

  “But there are at least forty paintings right here.” I gestured around at the art. “How big is this gallery space you leased?”

  “Fairly small, but I like to have additional pieces available in the back to show prospective buyers.”

  “I don’t know if three months are enough for her to finish that many paintings,” I said.

  “It’
s really more like ten weeks.” Trish whipped out a tape measure and checked the dimensions of a canvas. “I need to have everything completed two weeks before we open.”

  “I’m not going to pressure her,” the prioress said. “She’s anxious enough about this show as it is.”

  “Maybe I should talk to her,” Trish whispered to me. “I’ve dealt with my share of temperamental artists.”

  “Well, you’re not going to deal with this one until it’s absolutely necessary.” Mother Benedicta furrowed her brow. “Sister Catherine is more than temperamental, she’s downright fragile.”

  “Then I’ll trust you to tell her what she needs to do.” Trish turned to me. “Can you get that photographer of yours up here to shoot what we’ve got so far?”

  “He’s coming tomorrow.”

  “Good. If I don’t like his work, I’ll still have time to hire someone else before we print the tri-folds.”

  “Is there anything else we need to do?” I asked.

  “Think about a name for the show. I’ll get the title wall painted in mid-November. Based on Catherine’s palette, I’m thinking a cool gray for the gallery walls.” Trish flipped through several canvases. “Or should we do something warmer? Maybe I’ll paint each room a different color. Does she require any special conditions for display?”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like how they should be framed, if at all, lighting, a specific amount of space between the paintings...that sort of thing.”

  Mother Benedicta and I looked at each other before I replied for both of us. “I’ll ask her, but I doubt it.”

  “Well, if she does have any preferences, make sure you find out what they are. Any chance she’ll come down to oversee the installation?”

  “I’d allow it since it’s cloister business,” Mother said. “But I have a feeling she’ll decline.”

  “That’s fine,” Trish said. “As long as she comes to the opening.”

  “She’ll be there,” Mother answered.

  “I still can’t believe that an artist of this caliber is completely unknown.” Trish shook her head. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s a coup for me and it’s going to be a boon for this convent.”

  “We hope so.” Mother balled her hands into tight fists. “We could use a break.”

  “How much can they expect to make on this show?” I asked the question so the prioress didn’t have to.

  “Depends. It’s hard to price a new artist. Then again, my clients are used to paying top dollar.” Trish closed her eyes and did the math in her head. “I’d say if two thirds of these sell, less expenses and my percentage, you’re looking at roughly a half a million.”

  “That much?” Mother asked.

  “More like that little. Believe me, buyers are getting a bargain. I’ve seen stuff half as good sell for twice as much. But since it’s her first show, I have to go in a little low and price them to sell.”

  “Five hundred thousand dollars is enough to make the basic repairs that will enable us to stay here.” Mother touched her cross. “And showing the bank we have a viable income should convince them to loan us the rest of what we need.”

  “Glad to do my part to keep you sisters happy. And I know it’ll put a smile on my face. I love it when everybody wins.”

  I hoped that would be the case.

  “I’ve got to sign the lease for the gallery and start planning the layout.” Trish air kissed me. “See you later, Dorie.” She shook Mother’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mother Benedicta. I look forward to working with you.”

  “You too, Trish. God bless you.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Trish headed back to her Range Rover outside the loading dock door. “I’ll need those images by Friday, Dorie.”

  “No problem.” I waved as my friend climbed into her car and drove off.

  “Well then,” was all Mother could say.

  “She was on her best behavior in your honor,” I said.

  “The habit has that effect on people.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  That night, I returned to the priest’s quarters I’d moved into the day before and reveled in a long, hot shower after almost two months of the campground’s al fresco cold water stalls. Then I sat down in front of my laptop to write the first of the new series on Catherine’s show. The pressure I’d seen Catherine put on herself as she tried to paint for the show began to weigh on me, too. Raising my hands to the keyboard seemed almost impossible.

  A jagged fingernail sent me jumping up to rummage through my toiletries for a file, desperate for any distraction. As I repaired that nail and reshaped the rest, I wondered if I could match the open style of my personal journals.

  I doubted it. Even though I’d written my cloister journal more or less in article format, the content was personal. Writing for myself was much different than writing for a readership of three hundred thousand. Interesting that I did my best work in a journal no one else would have read if Phil hadn’t printed it, just as Catherine did her best painting in isolation until I exposed her. Exposed myself and well aware of the vulnerability of my subject, I wasn’t ready, much less willing, to write that way again.

  I struggled to draft something about Catherine, the gallery opening, and the cloister that readers would want to know but didn’t compromise my sister or her community.

  Several minutes of flurried fingers clicking across the keys resulted in one long keystroke on the delete button. Again, I experienced the relief Catherine must have felt whenever blotting out an image. There was a certain appeal to spilling your guts, then retrieving them and neatly sewing them back into your body before anyone noticed. Tempting as such surgery was, I couldn’t do that now if I was going to give the nuns the publicity they had expressly asked for.

  I switched from typing on the laptop to writing longhand in my notebook to fool myself into thinking that I was writing for only myself and maybe God. I wasn’t fooled, nor was God. The words didn’t express the ardent wonder I felt writing the first series, much less capture the lighter-than-air depth of Catherine’s art.

  Eventually, I managed to string together several dozen phrases capably enough to have something worth sending to Phil. My editor might notice a difference in the tone, but it should be sufficient for an audience already hooked on the subject matter.

  • • •

  Visiting an exhausted Catherine in the studio the next morning, I scanned the results of a full night of painting and recognized the same fear in her completed works that I’d felt in my writing. Not wanting to overwhelm her, neither Mother Benedicta nor I had told Catherine that Trish expected a dozen more paintings, or even that the art dealer wanted all of the pieces she’d seen so far, leaving Catherine unable to rework any of them. Yet my sister seemed to know it. This latest completed painting depicting the miracle of the loaves and the fishes was beautiful and very capable, but the airy lightness had been replaced, if not by darkness, then a pointed sadness.

  Rod, the photography intern, arrived that afternoon with five different cameras and a carload of rented lighting equipment.

  “I’m sorry Phil saw that photo of the painting after I promised you I wouldn’t show anyone,” Rod said right away, as if he’d been waiting to get it out. “It was on my computer screen when he walked into the darkroom and he zeroed right in on it. Then he found that memory card in your desk and I—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I carried a backdrop screen into the garage. “Looks like it all worked out.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Rod mounted a light on a C-stand. “Thank you so much for giving me this gig.”

  “My pleasure. I figure you’ve been working for free long enough, and anyone who appreciates Sister Catherine’s stuff the way you do should get to photograph it.”

  “Right on.” The intern checked the aperture on his first camera. “I just hope I can do her justice.”

  “So do I,” I said more to myself than to Rod.

  • • �
��

  As the weeks passed, I found it much easier to write the second series of articles in the studio while Catherine painted. Fortunately, my sister now welcomed my presence there. Somehow our fears weren’t as overpowering when we faced them together. Whatever unspoken competition we’d felt before now dissolved in the giddy fizz of our common purpose.

  Yet those fears were still there. Catherine was not only aware of my presence where she had been oblivious to it in the past, but she also talked about the future patrons of her work crowding the room with expectation. As I watched this human audience emerge in her mind, the only presence worth hosting, the spiritual one I’d found so powerful when I first witnessed Catherine’s artistic process, continued to fade.

  I no longer peppered Catherine with questions, choosing to quietly cherish her hard-won trust instead. Ironically, the more subdued I was, the more she opened up.

  “It’s funny,” Catherine observed as we spent recreation hour in her studio one night. “Everyone says I’m humble because I keep my eyes on the floor, but it’s not about humility. I’m studying the patterns and colors of the tiles for painting ideas.”

  “I see.” I smiled in my corner chair and put down the pen I’d been using to scribble nothing worth keeping. It was still rare for her to speak. “And you never bothered to correct them?”

  “It’s easy to let assumptions go when you don’t talk.” Catherine picked up a new brush. “Now I look down to avoid the eyes of all those people I imagine will be critiquing the paintings at the show.”

  “Is that why you paint over your pieces? To make sure nobody sees them?” I asked.

  “It didn’t start out that way, but yeah, sort of,” Catherine said. “I didn’t get interested in painting until high school, and by then Dad was drinking and money for supplies was tight. So I painted his blank canvases when he wasn’t around, then re-primed them for him to use. Usually he was so drunk he didn’t notice.”

  “So a lot of his paintings have your paintings underneath?”

  Catherine nodded.

  “That’s so sad that you never kept anything.”