Then Came Heaven

by LaVyrle Spencer

  The joyousness continued and even heightened throughout that afternoon, which was hectic for Eddie. The church building filled again for the annual blessing of the food when parishioners brought everything from coffee cakes to homemade horseradish for Father Kuzdek to bless. Eddie had to be on hand to ring the bells before and after the three o’clock service, and when the church finally emptied, it needed sweeping. The statue of the dead Christ had to be removed from the crèche and packed away in the basement, and a statue of the risen Christ hung in its place. Then the area surrounding the cave was decorated with Easter lilies. More lilies were placed on the altars and fern stands carried up from the storage room and filled with greenery. Also, throughout the church the purple shrouds had to be replaced with white ones before the evening service.

  ________

  Sister Regina was there again with her two helpers.

  It had been an exhausting week for both her and Eddie, and after the doleful stretch of Lent and the intense mourning of Passion week, the sudden elevation of mood affected them both. The church brightened with each white curtain that was hung. The vigil lights burned again in their little glass cups. The dozens of potted Easter lilies filled the nave with an overpowering perfume.

  It was late in the afternoon when the last ladder had been put away downstairs, and the boys released to go home and dress for the evening procession. Sister Regina genuflected as she crossed the center aisle and smoothed the pristine white cloth that ran the length of the Communion rail. Everything so perfect—clean, bright, ready for celebration. Not unlike what it must be like preparing for a wedding, she thought.

  She knelt in the first pew and made the sign of the cross, relishing the quiet and the cleanliness, the sense of accomplishment, even the weariness in her shoulders. She said a prayer, offering up the day’s toil for the greater glory of God. Then Eddie appeared, workworn and soiled in his overalls and heavy boots. He genuflected, too, then slipped into the pew across the aisle from her.

  The church was absolutely silent. It smelled sweet as a garden. The penitents’ sins had all been confessed, and Father had closed up shop and gone back to his house for a respite before the evening’s service. On the seats of the first five pews, candles with cardboard sleeves waited for the children to light them and join tonight’s procession.

  It had been an exhausting and rewarding week. And Eddie and Sister Regina had bumped into each other so often during all the work and worship that they’d begun to lose caution. As they knelt together one more time, the sense of wariness and disquiet were gone. Side by side they had prepared this house for their lord, and they were quiet and peaceful as they awaited His resurrection.

  A curious thing happened as they knelt, tired, reverent, silent.

  He blessed them.

  They felt it as surely as they felt the cushions beneath their knees, and the hard pew beneath their wrists. A benevolence descending upon them in unison, washing over them and filling their souls like sunrise.

  Eddie turned and looked across the aisle at her, and she returned his gaze. Goodness flowed between them, and for once it felt untainted by guilt.

  He whispered, “The church looks beautiful.”

  “Yes,” she replied, “I love Easter.”

  “So do I.”

  They stayed a moment longer, then rose and genuflected. She left the nave through the altar boys’ sacristy, and he followed, making no excuses for walking her out. In the curved passageway behind the altar, the late-afternoon sun angled through the amber and ruby glass, coloring the walls like Easter eggs. He opened the outside door for her and followed her out. When the door closed they lingered on a high concrete landing above a set of steep steps, enjoying an overview of the rectory, the playground, and, to their right, the convent. It was mid-April. Spring was freewheeling, and the smell of fecund, thawing earth lifted all around them. The trees surrounding Father’s rectory wore fat brown buds, and beside his garage a volley of crocuses were splashing color.

  During their time in church, Sister had prayed for Krystyna, and for Eddie’s children. She remarked now, “The girls will miss their mother tonight, getting ready for the procession.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. It’s their first one since she’s been gone.”

  “She always took such pains with their dresses and hair and veils.”

  “That’s for sure. But between Grandma Gaffke and me, we haven’t been doing so bad, have we?”

  “No, not bad at all. But tell the girls, if they need some special help tonight before the procession, they can come to me.”

  “Thank you, Sister. I will.”

  She descended the steps, then headed for the convent, her posture erect even after hours of labor. From his vantage point, he watched her go—the hat pin that secured her black veil on top of her head, the veil itself gently luffing with each step, her black shoes denting the hem of her dress as she walked away. He wondered what her feelings for him were, if he’d read her correctly, and what she’d think about the idea of being a mother to his children for the rest of her life.

  ________

  Sister Regina’s remarks about the girls almost seemed prophetic, for that evening, after weeks of getting along well without Krystyna, Anne cried for her. Earlier that day Grandma Gaffke had set her hair in skinny metal curlers instead of pin curls like Krystyna used to, leaving it abysmally kinky. Eddie tried to help her comb it and put her white veil on so that the whole arrangement looked satisfactory. But Krystyna had had a magic touch that Eddie lacked. His efforts looked sorry at best. He and the girls were standing in his bedroom before the vanity dresser, Krystyna’s combs and brushes strewn on the dresser cloth, when Anne stared glumly at her reflection and got fat tears in her eyes.

  “Do I have to go to church looking like this?”

  “It doesn’t look so bad.”

  “Yes, it does. It looks icky!” Her tears got fatter and her voice grew quavery. “I wish Mommy was here.”

  Eddie’s heart suddenly hurt. Nothing hurt it so easily as the children’s tears for their mother.

  “So do I, angel.”

  As was often the case, when Lucy saw Anne get sad, she got sad, too. Her little pink mouth drooped like a ribbon in the rain and she looked ready for full-fledged tears. “And our bows aren’t tied right, either. We can’t do anything right without Mommy.” Eddie had tried to tie the sashes at the back of their dresses, but, again, he’d been clumsy.

  He went down on one knee and said, “Come here, both of you.”

  They fit themselves against his sides, trying to keep from crying, and met his eyes in the mirror.

  “I know I don’t do as well as Mommy with the bows and things, but the new dresses I bought you are almost as pretty as the ones Mommy used to make, aren’t they?”

  Anne nodded dismally.

  Lucy did the same.

  “And Sister Regina said that when you get there tonight, you look for her and she’ll help you out with anything you need. Now how does that sound?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  “All right, I guess.”

  They still sounded forlorn.

  “She can help you tie your sashes and put your veils on—how’s that?”

  The two little girls tried to cheer up, but it didn’t work. Anne said, “If Auntie Irene would have set our hair it’d look like when Mommy did it.”

  “I know, but we can’t rely on Auntie Irene forever. Come on, now,” he cajoled. “Get your new coats and let’s go. You can help me ring the bells. And don’t forget—you get to carry candles tonight. That’ll be special, won’t it?”

  “I guess so,” Anne replied dutifully.

  “I guess so,” Lucy parroted.

  But his efforts to cheer his children only left Eddie himself blue. He missed Krystyna tonight with an exceptionally sharp ache. He supposed it had to do with tradition—another one changed by her absence. Easter had always meant new clothes for all—dresses, hats, gloves and shoes for t
he children and Krystyna, and some years a new suit for him. The girls had their new coats—matching lavender ones with a row of pearl buttons down the front, ordered out of the Montgomery Ward catalogue—and new white gloves, and new white shoes, and long white stockings, and their crisp white veils for tonight’s procession, and white straw hats with daisy trim for Mass tomorrow, but as the three of them walked to St. Joseph’s in the cool damp of that spring twilight, the girls walked one on each side of Eddie instead of between him and Krystyna as it had always been before. The sound of their hard heels on the sidewalk brought such a lump to his throat he had to look up at the sky and force himself to think about something else to keep his eyes from welling up.

  At church they helped him ring the early bell, and that cheered them somewhat when they got to ride the rope on the upswing. Then they went with him to flip light switches and illuminate the place to its fullest, and look up in wonder at all the purple shrouds turned to white, and peer into the stone cave and grow amazed at the appearance of all those lilies, and smell their sweet scent, and see the candles lying in wait on the front pews and realize with a touch of growing excitement that they would be trusted to carry burning flames in a very short time.

  By the time they returned to the vestibule others were arriving. Mothers were spitting on their fingers and smoothing little boys’ rooster tails, and clamping veils on little girls’ heads. Fathers were collecting coats and carrying them inside as they found pews. Nuns were organizing the procession and shushing the children’s whispers. Overhead, the organ started playing and the rumble could be felt through the floor. Inside, the altar boys were busy lighting candles.

  Someone touched Eddie’s elbow. “Hello, Eddie.”

  He turned. “Oh, hello, Irene.” She looked quite pretty tonight, in a new soft pink spring coat and a hat with a fine veil that floated above her carefully curled hair. She wore eyebrow pencil and tomato-red lipstick and she’d darkened her lashes the way Krystyna always had. Eddie noticed that she looked quite a bit thinner, too.

  “Happy Easter,” she said.

  “Same to you.”

  “Happy Easter, girls.” She looked at their pathetic hair and hid her dismay from them, turning instead to their father.

  “I thought you might send for me to help the girls get dressed for tonight.”

  “Grandma Gaffke helped.”

  “I would have done their hair like Krystyna.” She looked hurt.

  “I know, Irene, but I thought... well, you know.”

  “And who tied their bows? Girls, come here, let Auntie Irene fix you up a little bit.”

  The exchange between Eddie and Irene was observed by Sister Regina from across the vestibule, where she was lining up her students in preparation for the procession. She watched Irene touch Eddie’s elbow, and Eddie turn to find her there, and the two of them visit. Then Irene knelt down to retie the children’s bows. Irene was thinner and, since losing weight, bore a noticeable resemblance to Krystyna—same hair color, same makeup, same smile lines in her face as she turned the little girls to face her, took a comb from her purse and began performing magic on their hair. She produced some bobby pins, opened them with her teeth, drew their hair straight back, clamped it in place with their veils and showed them the results in a compact mirror. They both smiled and flung her a hug and a kiss. When she stood up, Eddie smiled at her, too, and touched her shoulder as they exchanged some conversation. For only an instant, a hint of coquettishness telegraphed itself from the angle of Irene’s head and the slight tilt of her body toward Eddie’s while she left one hand on each of her niece’s shoulders.

  A powerful and foreign reaction caught Sister in the region of her chest, a hand that seized and twisted for the passing of five awful seconds before she recognized it for what it was: jealousy. It spread an uncomfortable warmth, like a lightning bolt, up her neck and down her arms, and brought forth an insidious inner voice that said, but I was supposed to be the one to help them. I’m the one who offered first.

  Appalled at herself, she turned away. But some truths were at work, and undeniable. Irene Pribil was more like the children’s own mother than any other living being. She had the artistic knack to care for them with Krystyna-like flair that Sister Regina had never learned, living a life devoid of pin curls and bows and lipstick as she had. Irene could flirt, practice her wiles on her brother-in-law, comb her hair in a perky flounce, even lose weight in an effort to win him. She could demonstrate her abilities as a substitute mother, and—who knows?—maybe wangle a proposal out of him yet.

  Sister Regina, on the other hand, was forbidden to voice a word of her own feelings. She was forced to stand aloof, beg his silence, and pretend she felt nothing for him. Maybe he was hurt by the fact that she hadn’t divulged her plans to quit the order. Maybe he took that as an indication that he was nothing special to her. Maybe before her dispensation came through he would reconsider Irene and realize what a perfect stepmother she’d make for the girls.

  ________

  That night, at evening prayers, she performed her daily examen, found herself guilty of jealousy and said one of the most fervent Acts of Contrition of her life. After lights out, she lay awake remembering with great chagrin what she had felt while watching Irene with Eddie and his children. How peculiar. She was twenty-nine years old and had never experienced jealousy before. Oh, maybe as a child, when one of her older siblings got a new pair of shoes or the last piece of pie. But jealousy over a man was different. It had been swift and nasty and thorough, and had left her with a sin on her conscience that must be confessed.

  In the dark, she rested the back of one hand over her eyes.

  Oh, she was so blasted tired of guilt. It seemed as if everything she’d done in the last six months resulted in guilt. She was tired, too, of the unorthodox irony of falling in love as a nun, being unable to speak of it, unable to verify that what she was feeling, he was feeling. How she longed to walk right up to him and say, I do love you, and your children, but I’m still bound by my vows until my dispensation comes through. Please be patient. Please wait. Only two more months.

  But she could not do that, of course, under pain of sin.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was a warm sunny Tuesday, May eighth, and school had just been dismissed for the day when Mother Agnes came into Sister Regina’s room and closed the door behind her. They greeted each other as usual.

  “Praise be to Jesus.”

  “Amen.”

  Then Mother Agnes said, “Your dispensation has come through from Rome.”

  Sister Regina’s hand fluttered to her heart. It felt as though it had leaped to her throat from its accustomed place and pelted there like some berserk battering ram. “Oh! So soon? I... I was told six months.”

  “Three to six months. It’s been five, I believe.”

  “Nearly... yes. It’s...” Sister Regina stepped back and dropped into her desk chair, short of breath. “Why am I so stunned?”

  “It’s a step that will alter your life. And very final.” Sister Regina tried to conquer her emotions, but now that the time was here, the uncertainties of her future reared their heads like dragons. She sat in a state of fluster barely listening to Mother Superior.

  “Arrangements have been made for your father to be here at five o’clock this afternoon to pick you up. He’ll be bringing clothes for you to wear. In the meantime, you may strip your bed and remake it and pack your belongings.”

  “F... five o’clock?” That was prayer time when everyone would be chanting Matins and lauds and would be unaware of anything happening in the rest of the house.

  “Am I... I mean, am I not to be allowed to say goodbye to the other sisters?”

  “Under the circumstances, the prioress and the president of the congregation would rather you didn’t.” It was understood, of course, given the hush-hush methods of dealing with this issue, that preservation of the Order was a major concern.

  “But...” What could Sister Re
gina say? But some of them are my friends? She was not supposed to have nurtured special friendships while she lived within the religious community. It suddenly seemed absurd that they would not allow a simple goodbye. What did they expect, a stampede out of here?

  “Not even Sister Dora?”

  A disapproving quirk of Mother Superior’s eyebrow said she would brook no wavering on this issue.

  If not Sister Dora, then surely not the children. Sister Regina glanced over her empty classroom. On the board some cursive writing angled uphill; her fourth-graders had put it there. From the book slots of some of the desks, the edges of papers protruded. On the back of one desk a worn pink sweater hung crookedly with one arm nearly touching the floor.

  “But what about the children? Who’ll be teaching them for the rest of the year?”

  “One of our retired nuns from Saint Ben’s will be coming to take over your classes for the last three weeks of school. If there’s anything special you want her to know, you may tell me, and I’ll relay the message.”

  The revelation that all these plans had been going on behind her back implied that Sister Regina was doing something wrong here, something that needed covering up. No matter that Mother Superior had told Sister Regina last Christmas that it was not a sin to question her vocation, now that the time had come for her departure, everyone was certainly trying to hush it up.

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell my pupils I’d be leaving,” she said.

  “I believe that’s for the best, Sister.”

  I don’t, she wanted to argue. Those children were not merely strangers who sat in these desks five days a week. They were individuals, with unique personalities and needs, young people she cared about in myriad ways, who brought to her something vital and important with each school day. Some, at her urging, had been slowly drawing out of their shells, others were learning to curb their negative tendencies. Some were being encouraged to read more, others to jabber less; some to do their adding and subtracting a little more carefully, others to be more kind or patient, others to brush their teeth every day. All were enjoying a book she’d been reading, chapter by chapter—The Green Turtle Mystery—and hadn’t finished yet. And two special ones, Anne and Lucy Olczak, would think she cared so little about them that she hadn’t bothered with goodbyes or explanations.