Chapter 19

“Tell me what your project is about. Spare me the tech-jargon. What are you doing and what is it you hope to accomplish.” The Mother Superior of St. Dominique’s swiveled the high-back leather chair 180 degrees away from Sister Margaret Ryan. The tall bay windows were open, the scent of salt air sat quietly on the window sill and pointed towards the Chesapeake Bay.

“Well, it’s not such a big deal. Started a Facebook group, joined a couple of financial rights groups. Wait,” with a smile that failed to repress the slight lip curl of a smirk, the younger woman continued, “Oh, and I may have started an online petition against illegal foreclosures. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did that too. Getting some good traffic.” Her voice carried a subtle, grating tone, like a barely heard radio outside of a church during a funeral. The effect  a result of an obviously rehearsed explanation combined with a nonchalance that danced on the edge of insolence. That Sister Ryan was accustomed to being called before the head of the convent was reinforced by her posture. One would be forgiven for characterizing it as slouching in her chair. The dark face of the Mother Superior darkened further; a non-verbal warning clearly wasted on the young novitiate, who glanced around the room, the embodiment of youthful boredom.

An unconscious smile flickered across Margaret Ryan’s face as she identified the rare and exotic woods used in the room’s parquet floor. She was certain the very dark strips that formed the borders with geometric precision was ebony. Such luxurious architectural details were common in many of the older buildings at her former college. Radcliffe University was nothing if not luxurious and old. Her reminisces were interrupted by a quiet voice.

I really don’t believe you’re taking this matter quite as seriously as you should.” Sister Bernadine had not moved, yet for the intensity of her words, she might have been standing on top of her desk, staring down at the young nun sprawled in the plain wood chair.

Sister Margaret glanced towards the door. Like the spasm of a pinched nerve, she felt an unpleasant jolt, somewhere between her heart and her brain. Sister Bernadine was staring at her, with an expression that managed to convey both anger and concern and said, “Lets begin again, shall we?”

Sister Ryan pressed the palms of her hands on the edge of her seat and the soles of her feet against the floor in an effort to sit straighter.  She glanced down at her habit, the skirt bunched and disheveled, gave up her efforts and looked at the other nun with a hopeful expression.

“Perhaps you misheard me, Sister Ryan. I said, ‘Lets begin again, shall we?’ That means you have not yet entered the room. And it certainly means that you’re not sprawled out in that chair, like you had nothing better to do.” The older woman’s smile remained unchanged.

A feeling of danger re-established its grip in her stomach. The young nun managed to stand and walk to the office door. Despite being a large, ornate brass fixture, her first attempt to grasp the doorknob failed. The second time was the charm.

Disorientation accompanied her out into the empty corridor. From somewhere within, an archly gleeful voice whispered, “So she thinks she can play with our head, does she.”

Sister Margaret Ryan stood still, much like a rabbit frozen in the middle of an open field, the hawk circling in the sky and a fox standing at the edge of the surrounding woods; no motion was good motion.

“Some time this afternoon, Miss Ryan.” The Mother Superior’s voice didn’t so much overcome the barrier of the heavy wood door as it reverberated through it. Her words were high fidelity through the door, a 100-year-old stereo speaker.

Directly across from the entrance to the library were double doors that opened out to the courtyard. The corridor ran left and right, window lined and brightly lit; to the left, an archway that led to the convent, to the right, through a set of fire doors, the school. At the moment, a weekday in August, the only sound was that of lawn mowers, advancing and receding as they ate the green grass that lead to the Bay. Nothing moved inside the building. Margaret Ryan reached for the doorknob.

“A word of advice, Sister Margaret?”

Her leg muscles tensed in the most basic of human thought, fight or flight. Glancing to her left, Sister Margaret Ryan saw a small section of the darkness that filled the arched entrance to the residential wing begin to move. The shade-in-the-darkness rearranged itself into the shape of a woman. An old woman. A square of dark grew light and Sister Cletus appeared. Even down the length of the corridor, the nun’s eyes seized her attention like a mother cat lifting one of her kittens by the nape of the neck.

“The path to a life in our Order is not always a straight one. It is not a particularly smooth road. For better or for worse, some who arrive here are fleeing a battle within themselves.” The nun turned, the light tones of parchment flesh and deep blue eyes sank back into the daytime dark of the convent hall. The old woman’s voice slipped from the dark and lightly touching the young nuns, whispered, “I’d knock first, if I were you.”

***

Sister Catherine stepped into the living room of the Avila home.

Roanne Avila put her phone on the coffee table like a half empty pack of cigarettes and shyly looked at the nun, who sat patiently on the dark blue sofa. “Thank you for coming, Sister Catherine. I just don’t know what to do. None of her friends have seen Patrice since they all left the beach yesterday. She told them that she was going to ride her bike home. Should I call the police?”

Sister Catherine felt fear creep over the cushions of the couch and tug at her habit. Like someone reaching for a light switch in a dark room, her hand found her crucifix and tried to steel herself for what she would see with the lights on.

***

I waited a full three seconds after I heard, “Come in.”

As I opened the door I felt like I used to, back in my college days, when our sensei clapped his hands to begin a sparring match. I loved the martial arts. I loved the dance-like movements of the kata. I loved how I felt after a workout. Sparring was an essential element to training; it was, after all, a martial art. In every match there comes a point when one combatant (or two) knows that victory is imminent. I always hated that feeling. A powerful voice pulled me out from my past.

“Come in. Sit down. Listen to me.”

I walked through the door, sat in the single, plain wood chair and waited.

“The Bishop called me yesterday.” Without preamble, Sister Bernadine began, “He believed that I thought it was a friendly, ‘stay in touch with the flock’ call. I did nothing to dissuade him. However, just before he ended the conversation, he said, ‘I recently had a parish priest in my office. In the course of our discussion, he mentioned a sister in the middle of her novitiate, down there in Crisfield. He mentioned her name,  ‘Maryellen’, or ‘Maryanne Ryan.'” Sister Bernadine made a sound that the look in her eyes made redundant.

“Obviously, I was supposed to correct him. That way it would’ve been me who brought you into the conversation. Our Bishop has that approach to his approach to others.” It occurred to me that I should nod or do something to indicate that I was listening, but my rebellious side had crossed her arms and was kind of pouting.

“Be that as it may. I told Bishop Ellerby that you were making good progress in your studies. I also let him know that you were engaged in a number of activities online, including earning a Master’s degree in Education.” She waved away the look on my face that reflected my surprise at how she knew about my efforts to get an advanced degree in less than four months, and continued, “I told His Eminence that I had complete faith in you and that you would do nothing that would embarrass us. Or cause problems for our Order or the Church. He pretended to be satisfied with that and that was the end of our conversation.”

I felt like throwing up. Sometimes throwing up provides relief, but at a price. Like when you’re in bed, feel something crawling up your leg and instantly crush it. Its only when you get out of bed and pull back the blankets do you pay the price. Seeing the overly-appendaged splotch of spider does nothing to enhance your relief.

“I am responsible for the women in this convent. All the women. Tell me what it is you’re really doing online.” The Mother Superior surprised me, yet again, by turning her chair to the windows behind her and Chesapeake Bay beyond.

“I promised my mother I would keep the bank from foreclosing on her house.” The simple statement felt right. Unfortunately there was no agreement, acknowledgment or indication that I needed to elaborate on my answer. A younger, defiant voice in my head added, ‘in terms that she’ll believe.’ That scared me. A lot. I glanced at the door.

I looked up. Sister Bernadine had turned in her chair and was staring at me with an expression both intimidating and protective.

I started to say something about how I would promise to stop. Almost immediately, I decided it was better that I make her understand how important it was and how I almost had the parent company on the ropes, that they were just about to give up and leave my mother alone. The intensity in Sister Bernadine’s dark face locked the words in my head. Hers was the look of a person hearing another’s thoughts. Nothing like a late night talk show mentalist act. More like two people playing a duet, reading from sheet music. Disapproval flashed across her face as I thought about lying, and even now, there grew a look of gentle but amused sorrow.

Quietly, almost as if to herself, she said, “Do you know what it is to be responsible for other people?” I stopped fidgeting, captured by her voice. Her eyes were focused on a place not anywhere near the office of the Mother Superior of St. Dominique’s, “Most believe that being responsible for others means having the power to tell them what to do. Some realize that being responsible for others, is to take on their problems, to accept the blame when things go wrong. This second group tends to do better than the first.

To be responsible for others is to place their interests before your own. Few people attain this level of understanding. The real secret, however, is much more difficult. It’s difficult because it involves you more than the people in your charge. It requires a willingness to project a sense of peace and confidence. It is this attitude within that helps those you lead to attain their potential.

This is not to ignore or deny your inner struggles. We all have them. And there are many people who will help you. But you are the only person responsible to God. You might ask another’s help, but only because it suits a certain purpose. There can be no asking others to do for you what only you can do for yourself.”

“Do you understand me?”

I was about to answer when Sister Clare opened the door and said, “Pardon me, Mother Superior, there’s a man here from the University of Maryland. He says he’s here to do a story about the young nun and success through online education.”

I was startled more by Sister Bernadine’s laughter than I was about the news of a visitor.

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Chapter 18

Genevieve Novak squirmed in her chair, body expressing what her mind lacked the words to describe her feelings. It was nothing as mundane as her physical situation, which was as conducive to physical comfort as money could provide. It was not the social setting, a meeting between her boss and the Cardinal of the archdiocese of Miami. Stress, at least over the execution of her professional duties did not exist, as Genevieve Novak was as competent as she was elegantly dressed. She possessed the depth of skill that made what she did look effortless. Her professional responsibility was to administer to the needs and requirements of the Bernebau Company. Her personal interests were, by definition, more personal. What made her unable to sit still at the moment was the overwhelming presence of both power and prey.

Cyrus St. Loreto was smiling.

By the standards of most cultures, Cyrus was a handsome man. The somewhat old-fashioned description would be that he was possessed of a ‘noble bearing’. A broad forehead, lined only enough to remind the other person that looks were not everything, a strongly ridged nose and smile that seemed to default to charming with an undertone of the sardonic. Not exceptionally tall or muscular, the founder of the Bernebau Company had a vitality that manifested in his slightest gesture, the most casual of movements. Meeting him for the first time, an impartial observer might resort to the deceptively simple description of ‘feral’. While it might be argued that the feral nature of man was the wellspring of the more socially favored quality of ‘animal magnetism’, Cyrus St Loreto was a man who would never be mistaken for an ‘innocent bystander’. In the world through which Cyrus St. Loreto moved, people were divided into two categories: those who liked, (maybe even loved) him and those who hated (and very often feared) him.

“I appreciate your coming by to visit, Ignacio.” Cyrus sat at the head of the conference table. He nodded very slightly towards Genevieve. She immediately put down her ever-present steno pad and walked down the side of the long table to where Cardinal Ignacio Chavez and his assistant sat. Serving them from the silver carafe, she filled the cardinal’s cup with coffee. She smiled, reminding herself of the time of day and the location of her hospitality. Looking up at her, the most powerful man in the Catholic Church, south of New York City smiled and said, “Thank you, my child”. Genevieve felt his left hand brush against her thigh as he turned to allow her to fill his cup. A very subtle glow deep in her eyes flared slightly and then subsided.

Genevieve glanced at the young priest in the chair to the Cardinal’s right and raised her eyebrows in invitation. The priest, the Cardinal’s principle legal counsel, looked at her and smiled. That he separated these two normally integral social responses made her feel that her choice in dress, (more expensive than currently stylish), had been a good decision.

Genevieve felt calmer now, no longer confined to the seat at the right hand of her boss. Even as she smiled at Father Mannheim, she felt Cyrus’s gaze. Stepping back towards the wall of glass, she turned to face both clergymen and said, “Is there anything else you need?” Her tone was soft enough to induce the older man to turn to look at her, now backlit by the sunlight reflected by the neighboring skyscrapers. Even with the engineered glass holding back the glare, the curve of hip and prominence of breast made the towering skyscrapers behind her incidental and at best a distraction. After pausing for an interval refined by women down through the ages, she returned to her seat at the head of the conference table. The sighs of the recipients of her hospitality were, mercifully, inaudible.

“The Church is indebted to you, Cyrus. Your generosity has been a godsend, especially in light of the current political climate. I would hate to think about how much worse conditions would be were it not for the outreach program that your support makes possible. I thank God for your donations. They have made all the difference in the world for those in need.”

The Cardinal frowned suddenly, clearly uncomfortable, stood up and stepped to the broad wall of glass that overlooked Miami’s financial district. He started to speak, stopped, as if re-thinking what he wanted to say, finally turned to face the far end of the conference table and began,

“Of the other matter we discussed…” the white-haired man glanced at Genevieve and Constantin sitting at Cyrus’s sides and, looking directly at the man in the middle, raised his eyebrows.

Cyrus smiled and said, “Aceste două? ele îmi aparțin.” He paused long enough for the look of non-comprehension in the face of the cardinal’s assistant to change to one of annoyance and continued, “That, Father Mannheim, was an ancient Romanian saying,  ‘These people are family, whatever you would say to me you may say to them.” Unheard by anyone other than Genevieve, was a short, muffled laugh from the dark man who sat on Cyrus St. Loreto’s left.

Looking relieved, Cardinal Chavez continued, “The problem in Crisfield is proving more intractable than I’d anticipated. Forgive me, I must be getting old. When you asked if I would help you, my answer was, ‘anything’. That is still true. My mistake was, I fear, to underestimate the degree of change that has occurred, in the Mother Church.  The world I think I see is the world as it was in the past, not the present.  Only one is an illusion. The ways of the young people, the ways of the Church have changed in a very fundamental way. I am sorry, my friend. There is nothing I can do to stop this problem from growing worse.”

Father Mannheim noticed that Genevieve Novak appeared to be dividing her time between staring at her boss and looking at him. What disturbed him was the fact that  her expression remained virtually the same. He was startled at how uncomfortable this made him feel and found himself re-assessing his ambitions. Suddenly, the idea of getting off the fast-track to the Vatican and settling down in the role of pastor at St Emily’s, where he grew up, seemed very appealing.

“That is very kind of you to say, Your Eminence.” The owner and CEO of the Bernebau Company’s voice was softly respectful. Genevieve Novak, sitting to his right, picked up her steno pad and held it before her, a smokeless thurible, and continued her note-taking. She looked at the man to her left with the quiet gratitude of a lamprey eel clinging to the under-jaw of a great white shark.

“Be sure and tell the Bernebau Bears that the National Title is theirs for the taking.” Cyrus St. Loreto stood with a grace that any tiger would recognize and approve of, drawing up with him, the beautiful woman on his right and the silent man on his left. They were as synchronized as the lion in chase, adjusting to the desperately zigzagging of a gazelle fleeing across the savannah.

The cardinal and his assistant stood, the morning light casting their oddly stretched shadows over the expensive wood of the table, in every important way an altar in the church of commerce. Cyrus St. Loreto, as would any gracious host, walked between the two men to the elevators and waited until final handshakes were completed.

The elevator doors closed and swallowed the clergymen. Cyrus turned and walked into the boardroom. Without looking at either Genevieve or Constantin, he began to speak. His tone was one familiar to anyone who has been a member of an athletic team, in a locker room at the end of a halftime meeting, listening to the coach remind them that although favored to win by 20 points, they trailed their opponent.

“I want that nun, her website, her petition drive and every-fuckin-other-thing shut down now. Whatever else she is doing, online or off, I want it stopped. Now! It all stops. If she’s leading that bunch of old maids in morning, afternoon or nap time prayers in their damn chapel, you are to make her stop. Now.  And that goes for everything and everyone helping her, encouraging her or saying fucking hello to her when she walks down the goddamn street!”

Genevieve thought about the investigators who’d been making polite, seemingly deferential, but increasingly frequent requests for information on the Bernebau Company. For such an attractive young woman, Genevieve Novak had a marked tendency to worry.

Constantin Szarbo stood quietly and watched Cyrus. The stillness of his body was all that showed of the barely contained energy that grew ever more lethal.

***

“Sorry, must have the flu or something.” Father Matthew Ryan turned towards the door of the sacristy, seeing the worried look on the face of the altar boy. His coughing fits had increased over the last two days. He felt a bead of sweat tickle its way down into his eye. ‘A fever would not be helpful’, he thought as he prepared for the baptism scheduled for the afternoon.

In the nave, Father Ryan grimaced as the sweat on his palms caused them to slip as he began the ‘Prayer of Exorcism’. Seeing the concerned look in the face of the young man and older woman, who held the infant, started to reassure both the godparents and the child’s actual parents, when the coughing began. The already frightened altar boy looked around the church, hoping that an adult would tell him to go get some water. Deciding that he needed to take matters into his own hands, he started towards the sacristy when he heard a gasp. Turning he watched as Father Matthew Ryan collapsed to the cool marble floor.

Chapter 17

It was the first Tuesday morning of August, after morning prayers and Mass,  when I walked into the kitchen and saw Sister Catherine standing at the sink. It was my job to wash the dishes; being a novitiate makes one eligible for the most sought-after chores. We are not a monastic Order, so along with everyday housekeeping, there is the work of running the school. Those suited by education and temperament, taught the children, others served in more administrative capacities. And, as with any elementary school, the summer months can be as busy for the teachers as the rest of the year.

Smiling a bit mischievously, I stepped as quietly as possible into the kitchen. For un-examined reasons, I thought to sneak up on Sister Catherine, seeing how she appeared to be staring out the window. I decided to set the plates and glasses on the counter without preamble, you know, kinda surprising her. Without moving, Sister Catherine said, “Sister Margaret, you’re looking somewhat stressed. When was the last time you went for a run?” Her reflection in the window smiled with more feeling than I could recall ever witnessing in my face-to-face encounters. Before I could answer, she continued, “Wait, I believe I know the answer! Not since June 3rd.”

I was having less trouble believing that Sister Catherine knew the date of my last run than I was accepting the sly humor that changed her words into italics, the laughter implied. I started to reply, “There are 7 cases of text books that were delivered yesterday and they need to be …”

She turned with surprising quickness and in the manner of helping an elderly aunt get from the table to a comfortable chair on the porch, walked me by the elbow, to the door to the dining room. “I believe Sister Cletus and I can manage the dishes. We promise not to break too many. Now go upstairs and put on those … running shorts, that your friend, the detective, gave you and get some fresh air!”

I turned to Sister Cletus, who was sitting at the kitchen table writing a shopping list. Without looking up from the yellow-lined pad, she said, “Best that you take her up on her offer. Blue moons are a touch more common than Sister Catherine offering to take over your chores.”

It was past mid-morning by the time I ran down the long driveway to the stone pillars that marked the border between the convent and the outside world. The sun was completing the last of its upwards rise towards noon. Any lingering night-mists had long-since joined the non-existent clouds in the clear sky. Once through the gates, I turned right and headed east. I reminded myself it was August and not early June, when last I went for a run. I kept an eye out for cars of beach-goers and speeding bicyclists, whose attention tended to be up the road and not on the road. The stream of humanity swelled as we got nearer and nearer to the ocean. Like those unfortunate baby sea turtles, focused only on their destination as they cross a lethal sandy beach in order to reach the welcoming ocean.

As my body found its rhythm, legs and heart synchronizing, I was free to try to quiet my mind.

My summer was a very busy time, busier than I’ve been for as long as I can remember. First and foremost was the training that was my novitiate. It was not simply learning the history of the Order, it was not merely prayer, meditation and religious instruction; it was embarking on a path to a new life. Though involving much study, the process was more of a joining than it is was a learning. All the women of the convent shared themselves and their stories, in order to help me find my own path from the secular world to a life of the spirit.

Although the pace of study eased a bit in summer, it still filled most of my days. As it must. Of course, I was also working on getting my Masters degree and there was the matter of my ‘special project’. Few were the hours not committed to work and study.

It was my ‘special project’, my social media campaign to stop the foreclosure of my mother’s house that was most taxing, both mentally and emotionally. What twisted my stomach into painful shapes was that in order to accomplish what I set out to do required that I become the girl I left outside the stone gates the night I was welcomed into the convent at St. Dominique’s. What woke me at two in the morning and distracted me in the middle of the simplest tasks was the ease, the naturalness of letting myself become that person, that other Margaret Ryan. She was everything I was not. Rather, she was everything that I no longer am. I could still keep her at bay, under control, but that was becoming increasingly difficult as the demands of the project grew. The more successful my efforts, the stronger and more persistent was her presence within me.

I couldn’t discuss my fears with Sister Bernadine. Chicago, and the immediate aftermath, was still too raw a wound. Although she never spoke of it, it was clear the Mother Superior felt responsible for getting me involved in a matter that not only threatened my life, but caused me to risk my Calling. I refused to put the burden of my struggles on her. She pulled me back into the safety of the Order when it seemed certain my old life would force me to walk away. I refused to be so selfish as to ask to be saved again.

Oddly, the one person who was aware of my online activities and yet provided a measure of support, was Sister Catherine. The people foreclosing on my mother’s house were also trying to take the home of one of her pupils. Sister Catherine never spoke about my past or how difficult it was to call on the skills from a time in my life I very much did not want to face. But one afternoon she appeared in the library door and as I started to shut down all the different screens I had up, she waved her hand in a way that said, ‘Don’t stop what you’re doing on my account.’ As it happened, I was done with what I was doing, which was to set up an automatic telephone campaign aimed at the politicians susceptible to a grassroots petition. I turned in my chair and looked at her.

She touched the crucifix she wore around her neck and seemed to withdraw to a place distant not only in space, but in time. In a tone that sounded almost as if she were praying, she said, “Family is everything. Not because of the people who are in it, the fathers, the brothers, the sisters. What makes family everything is you. Family is the you that’s not limited by the physical. You are not simply a member of a family, a mere component part. Family is a part of you. As much or as little as is appropriate to you as a person, to you as you develop. A person does not require a family, however a healthy person finds and nurtures a family.”

We sat in the summer-quiet school library and neither of us spoke. She continued to hold the crucifix and I felt closer to my new life than my old. It was only for a moment, but there are things in life not measured in seconds and minutes.

I ran the obstacle course that was the Crisfield Town beach. I felt good that I wasn’t winded and could speak as I passed by Morris Richmond. He stood, as he had every morning that I reached the halfway point of my morning run, at the edge of the water. I noticed that he stood without fishing pole, his constant accessory through my Spring-into-Summer runs. No doubt out of deference for the children who ran up and down the wave-stroked beach. Instead of holding a pole and pretending to fish, he held a worn-edged copy of the book, ‘Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind’. I was willing to believe that even this might be a prop to avert well-intended interruptions. A half-past middle-aged man, leather sandals, too-long greying hair and a far-away look in his eyes would be a major temptation to the mothers and their companions to point and wonder. The yellow Labrador who had been as constant a companion as his fishing pole was further up the beach, teaching a group of twelve-year-old boys how to catch a frisbee.

“Suppose the person you once were did some very bad things. But had also acquired certain skills now necessary to help good people. Its like there is an orphan inside who can help but to ask is to invite her into my life again.”

I wasn’t sure if Morris would remember the way we used to speak to each other, a statement exchanged for a statement. Today it was more of a direct question than it had ever been. It didn’t always make sense. But then it didn’t always have to.

I turned at the halfway point and waving to some very surprised looking pupils from the year before, I headed back towards the parking lot and the road home. Morris stood as still as he had been when I passed him on my right. I heard him quite clearly as I passed him on my left. His was a thoughtful voice, as if we were sitting in a quiet study and he’d discovered a passage in a book worth sharing,

“We are the sum of our days. There is no subtracting any of the days that came before, in the hope of making our past self more acceptable to our current self. If we try to ignore or deny who we were, how can we possibly hope to be who we are?”

I ran back to the convent.

***

“Don’t hurt it!” Violet McKenna, all five foot, three inches of her, chased after Matthew Ryan from the vestibule, down a side aisle. A modern-day Marlin Perkins, the housekeeper’s whispered voice was urgent with concern for the well-being of the small flying creature. Father Ryan was more concerned with keeping the animal moving along the side aisle, where the ceiling was not too much more than a broom’s length above their heads. Well, his head, at any rate.

“Did you bring that burlap sack?” the young priest asked, never taking his eyes off the corner where he last saw fluttering wings. He regretted not taking the time to pick up some gardening gloves. He was working on his next sermon when, with a sudden knocking, the woman burst into his study. Given to a tendency to exaggerate, she launched into a plea to, “Save the wee creature.” Deciding that to follow directions would be less tiring than to try to get more information from the woman, he followed her to the back of the weekday-empty church. Holding the straw broom over his head, he kept the thing between the wall and the statue of St. Francis.

Now, less than six feet away, the sound of fluttering wings was decidedly more ‘leathery’ than usually accompanied the low passing of a robin or starling.  Stepping into the transept, the bird flapped it’s decidedly smooth wings.

“Can you get it to fly into the sack?” Matthew reflected on the likely tenure of the small woman to his left and the decidedly non-avian animal just over his head. He did the math of who he would have to listen to for the remainder of his assignment to St. Agatha-James and decided the bat needed to be in the bag.

A prayer to St. Francis seemed to do the trick. With a wave of the broom-end towards the sack, the bat proceeded to roost on his left index finger, which held the burlap open. Father Matthew Ryan felt a sting at the same moment he was able to make a fist of his left hand, which allowed the open sack to collapse around the bat, trapping it inside.

Burlap bag in one hand, he turned and walked down the aisle towards the vestibule. Mrs. McKenna preceded him, holding the broom, its yellowish straw head above her head like a processional cross. He smiled to himself and immediately frowned at the welling of blood between the fingers of his clenched fist.