It was 2:23 pm on the last Tuesday in June and St Dominique’s Elementary was summer quiet. The hallways were empty, the cafeteria silent, and chairs were perched upside-down, like catatonic ducks in a farmyard. The sea of pale green linoleum floor tiles offered little resistance before the low roar of the floor stripping machines. I parted the double swinging doors and stepped into the library, the one place in the school that did not echo with the absence of children. Standing in front of the circulation desk, I looked to the right at what was now referred to as ‘the computer corner’. It was not, technically, a corner, as the broad conference table was quite out in the open, between the librarian’s desk and the periodicals section. That the computer corner was effectively in the middle of the library was, one part me and one part me-unknowingly-working-with Sister Catherine.
St. Dominique’s school had a website and a small, but enthusiastic computer club. I built the site during my first semester here and organized the club after the Mother Superior gave it her blessings. Well, in the interest of honesty, a quality in abundance among the women in our convent, I got the website online before Sister Bernadine learned of its existence. She was quite understanding, and immediately let Sister Catherine know that she did not disapprove of the 21st Century. And that was how solid-state technology found its place among the shelves of books and racks of periodicals.
The ‘me-negotiating- with-Sister Catherine’ accounts for the location of the school computer. Hers was the voice of tradition in our convent, and, although she did not prevail on the question of yes or no to the internet, she assumed the role of guardian of the gates. Flat screen display and keyboards notwithstanding, the gates were quite real and she took it upon herself to stand watch against the dangers that were a part of the virtual world, at least when it came to children. She was a natural for the job, being second only to Sister Bernadine, the most strong-willed woman I’ve ever known. A gatekeeper is not necessarily limited to controlling access, and when the person that assumes the role places the values of others before their own interests, the guard can become a guardian. Sister Catherine accepted the fact that there would be a door into the virtual world at St. Dominique’s. Her primary interest was in assuring that it become a resource both safe and fun for the children.
Sister Catherine’s first step was to arrange for a large conference table for the monitors and keyboards. Recognizing that various groups of students at different levels of proficiency would avail themselves of it, she made certain there was plenty of room for all who might want to access the system. She ordered a whole new system and when the delivery and installation date was scheduled, put out a school-wide announcement. When I built the original website, it was on the computer that was a gift from a parishioner, complete with a 1990s 14 inch CRT monitor and dot matrix printer. I smiled at the expressions of surprise on the face of the children who gathered in the library when the Geek Squad showed up. The monitors were 24″ flat screen HD. The printer was full color, of course. The care and effort she put into setting everything up was reflected in the delighted faces of the children. The location of the computer corner reflected Sister Catherine’s primary interest. It was out in the open, very easy for adults to supervise without appearing to be doing so. She achieved the proper balance between guard and guardian. Which, of course, was her plan from the beginning.
I sat down in front of the computer and watched the monitor draw a doorway into the virtual world. The old excitement stirred within me and, for an instant, I wanted to hate the feeling. I felt like an un-reformed criminal released from prison.
Once online, I typed into existence three separate identities, created a couple of different Facebook accounts and groups and, after a thought, started a blog. The ‘About’ page, with a photo borrowed from my high school yearbook, reeked of the desperate sincerity of a person reaching into the virtual in the hope of finding something missing in the real world. In other words, just another online encampment, among the millions of blogs that light the perpetual darkness of the virtual wilderness.
My fingers roamed the keyboard, like a musician picking up an instrument and, after a few practice notes, is relieved to discover that the music is still at her finger tips. I knew what I needed to create and, once set free in the virtual world, I proceeded to become a member of the world of chat groups, trolls, insipid online polls and all the other elements of the online world. In each of my three identities, I began to connect with other online groups, chat groups. I sought and found the others who were gripped by a soul-deep dissatisfaction with the state of the world. On an impulse, I opened an online savings and checking account, complete with debit card. I couldn’t have told you why I thought I might need a card, if for no other reason than that for the last thirty minutes my state of mind was one that came from a time of life very far removed from St. Dominique’s convent. Choosing not to think about what I was doing, I did recall that my instincts often anticipated circumstances beyond what could be extrapolated from the present. I stopped and looked around the empty library. I felt a slight tightness in my shoulders and a furrow of concentration grow as I hit ‘Send’ on my application for a credit card. My phone chirped a discrete alert that my PIN was now available. Within minutes I had a decent enough line of credit available for whatever use I might encounter. I was certain my brother would not mind my using his old, pre-seminary address. All this effort was for the good of the family after all. Somehow.
I felt my face suddenly flush with a heat that should have set off the library’s fire alarms. Just as quickly, the feeling was gone. Unfortunately, whatever set fire to the underside of my face now hid in my stomach. And, by all physical indicia, it was not a lightweight mental/emotional event; my insides felt twisted up into near pain, very much the feeling I had when I was first caught bunking school on the first day of the sixth grade.
I fought to push past the mix of guilt and remorse, yet something inside dared me to look at my feelings closer. Rejecting that idea with surprising vehemence, I sat back and stared at the flat screen display, as my new identities became real. Resisting the temptation to do more, I drew on past experience that’d taught me, in a world where effect follows cause at the speed of light, it’s rarely a good idea to do too much, too quickly. In the virtual world, it was wise to let newly created people to settle in and become accepted.
I accepted the fact that there was nothing I could do to help my mother stay in her home. The Bernebau Company, as the first lien-holder, was within its legal rights to take possession of the small, two-story house on Tulip Street. All legal appeal was now moot. The only remedy was to pay off what was owed, and she simply did not have the money. The foreclosure process required only a certain waiting period, ending with an auction. My mother would simply be a statistic, collateral damage in a war that was as off-sided as the decimation of the passenger pigeon or the American buffalo. The price of progress into a faster, more profitable future. It was a matter of business, nothing personal.
There was one avenue left to me, that was to try to find a way to apply pressure against those that seemed to have all the power. I experienced a surprise memory of the first day of freshman Geology at Radcliffe. It was an accident of scheduling that I signed up for an eight o’clock class. The professor, recognizing the signs of an insufficiently caffeinated group of young adults, threw out a teaser fact, “A single raindrop falling on a mountain, if repeated, will reduce the tallest peak to a featureless sand plain”. My friends and I tried to bring the blackboard and podium into focus from our seats in the upper-back row of the small auditorium. The more mathematically inclined among us did the calculations and, in a voice, whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear, said, “Hey somebody better tell Dr. Denolle that it’ll take 88,480,000 years and I haven’t had breakfast yet!” A laughing voice added, “Yeah, Meg, ‘course if you spent less time in the computer lab and the bars and more time in class, you might learn something”.
The virtual world of the internet, with all the irony one could ask of a technological culture, provided a platform for a modern-day David to take on Goliath. The collection of virtual places, digital town squares and solid state bullhorns found in abundance online was nothing, if it wasn’t an updated sling and stone. All the original David needed was the skill to turn a length of leather strapping into a deadly weapon and he brought a giant to his knees. I sat with my hands on a plastic and metal sling, all I needed was the will to use it. I realized that what my burning face and twisted stomach was trying to warn about, was that I knew just the girl to do it.
I leaned towards the computer screen and thought, ‘Lets help those righteous-cause-deprived masses learn of the plight of Mary Alice Ryan, of Fishtown, PA. A kindly widow who’s only dream is to live out her life in the modest home where she raised her family.’ And I let a part of my personality, a part that I had hoped to not ever see again, take up the sling and find a stone.
“Good Afternoon, Sister Margaret, I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Sister Catherine appeared to my right, with what she clearly hoped to be a friendly smile on her face. Unfortunately, a lifetime of disuse of the legendary seventeen muscles to smile, like a patient waking from a years long coma, resulted in the product falling short of the intention. Seeing my face and its non-reciprocating smile, she walked somewhat quickly to the circulation desk and began to rearrange the stacked books that lined the counter.
“No, Sister Catherine. Just doing a little personal work on the computer.” I looked away almost immediately, forgotten instincts protecting me from what they knew to be a threat. I swept my right arm over the yellow pad on the table next to the keyboard. It wasn’t anything but notes and, curious diagrams, mostly arrows and brackets. Without a thought, but accompanied by a growing dismay, I minimized the multiple open windows that, like playing cards in the early stages of a game of solitaire, spread across the screen. I recognized myself at a distance and found the silver crucifix in my left hand.
“The children really enjoy the school’s website and the incredible online resources you’ve made available here in the library.” Sister Catherine spoke in a tone that was both matter-of-fact and yet had a certain shyness to it. The effect was a bit startling. I realized, with a sense of wonder, that she was complimenting me. That she approved of what I’d done in breaking down the wall to the virtual world and making it available to both children and the nuns of St Dominique’s. I must have let the fear of my younger self leak out into my expression, changing a look of concentration into a slightly raised eyebrow. Misinterpreting, Sister Catherine hastened to add, “We must protect the children from those loose in the world who have appetites for the innocent. But I sense that you know that quite well, Sister Ryan. The truth of the matter is that I rest easier knowing that your special skills are applied in the service of the Lord.” Looking around the empty library and unable to find anything else that needed straightening out, the older nun walked towards the door. Pausing, she turned and said, “Thank you for your referral for the lawyer for Roanne Avila. Sadly, there is nothing that can be done to stop the foreclosure on her house.”
I looked at Sister Catherine with what I hoped was a friendly, welcoming expression. “Well, I might not go so far as to say that, Sister.”
“Oh? What do you mean?” Sister Catherine stood, one hand on the door and one to her side.
I turned, and, using my left foot, hooked the leg of a chair and turned it to face more towards her. Sister Catherine stared for a moment, looked around, walked over and sat at the computer table.
I told Sister Catherine about my visit to my mother’s and the notice on the door. I told her about my brother trying unsuccessfully to discover a legal remedy and failing. Finally, I told her about my sudden departure from the house and unhappy resolution to do something. I immediately turned away, feeling ashamed of the behavior of the nun in my story.
“This plan of yours, to attract as much publicity to your mother’s plight, would it help to have another situation, one involving a widow who has two young children?” Sister Catherine’s voice carried a tone of hope that was at odds with the look of determination behind the silver wire-rimmed glasses.
“Well, it appears that we have a coincidence that might be to our advantage, the foreclosing lender is the same, this Bernebau Company.”
“Well, I know that they say, ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’. What do you say we put that hypothesis to the test.”
“I’m Genevieve Novak, welcome to Miami. If you don’t mind, Cyrus would like to have his meeting right away. That way you’ll have the rest of the day to…relax.” The blonde woman looked at Arlen, but spoke to Drusilla. She managed this by directing the first sentence to both, the second to Dru and the last to Arlen. She did, however, smile when she spoke to Arlen.
“I think the second in command likes you.” Dru leaned against Arlen as they stepped off the jet and walked behind the woman who, upon completing her welcome, immediately turned and walked towards the waiting limousine.
“How’d you know she’s second in command?” Arlen tried to not sound like he cared. He took note of the extra animation in the tall, blonde woman’s voice. He did, in fact, care but he was also on alert. The woman was remarkably sexy, quite beautiful and very attractive, she made the brief welcome at 11:00 in the morning feel like two drinks past midnight.
The dark man, Constantin Szarbo, was nowhere to be seen.