“Now that you’ve eaten the candy in Crisfield, its time to get to work on the Thanksgiving decorations.” I smiled at the mix of theatric groans from the boys and subdued cheers from my girls as we returned from noon recess. The empty classroom was pleasantly chaotic as twenty-five boys and girls moved among the desks. Like a stream of water that subdivides as it encounters obstacles too solid or high to overflow, they filed into the room. From outside in the hall, I noticed something was caused the forward-moving line to come to a halt. Stepping into the room, I saw Sister Bernadine standing in the aisle between the two rows of desks closest to the windows.
The boisterous atmosphere muted as suddenly as a car radio driving under a highway overpass. With the natural sensitivity to the presence of power found in dogs and children under the age of ten, they responded by becoming silent and taking their seats.
“What a pleasant surprise! Class, what do we say to visitors to our classroom?” Remembering a scene from the old movie, ‘The Wizard of Oz’, I almost laughed at the extra cheeriness I’d put in my voice.
“Good Afternoon, Sister…” before they could complete their welcome, the Mother Superior of the convent was at the front of the room, waiting as I walked to my desk. There are people who have a certain presence, the innate force of their personality makes them, ‘un-ignorable’. Once she locked eyes with me, we might as well have been in her office or in another state. It completely un-necessary to tell the twenty-five children not to listen. Like a herd of pre-historic marsupials, surprised at a watering hole by two large and powerful dinosaurs, the children did everything they could to appear un-interesting and not worth a second thought. It was very much the sociological manifestation of the color-changing skin of a chameleon when confronting deadly force.
“Sister Margaret. I received a call from the hospital about your brother. He is not doing well. I will take over your class. Stay within twenty percent of the speed limit.”
I nodded and was stepping through the door when I heard, “Yes, Sister Bernadine”. As I passed the second of the classroom doors, I saw twenty-five children in their seats, heads bent, hands folded in prayer.
“I said, ‘I wouldn’t of been late if that guy from your office hadn’t stopped to offer me a ride. You beat me here by five minutes,” Zach’s disappointment at seeing his mother’s car in the driveway quickly changed to something akin to alarm as the front door opened for him.
“What man? Arlen? It couldn’t have been, I left him at the office. We were working right up to the moment I got a call from one of your little friend’s mother, asking if you got home all right.” Drusilla Renaude stood in the entry hall, unaware of the fact that she was blocking her son from stepping through the doorway. Seeing him walk up the driveway was all it required to spark the emotional alchemy common in mothers, worry and fear turned into anger.
“I didn’t say ‘Arlen’. I know Arlen. If it was Arlen, I would’ve said, ‘Arlen offered me a ride home.’ And, if it was Arlen, I’d of taken him up on the offer. Jeez.” Much as did his mother, the twelve-year-old boy experienced a somewhat less sophisticated emotional transmutation. As his disappointment turned into guilt, it almost immediately began to sound like exasperation as he tried to relate his experience into something an adult could understand.
Dru felt her son’s impatience as a push-back and it served the purpose of re-establishing a level of everyday-normal to her world. Anything was better than the range of possibilities that existed in the few seconds when she stepped into the house, calling her son’s name and hearing no response. While the house itself did not change due to it being unexplainably vacant, everything in her world did, for a split second. She stepped back from the doorway and, for a reason not in any way rational, took a single step back.
Zacharia Renaude watched his mother take a step back into the hallway. She didn’t say anything yet there was a question in her eyes. He considered that she might have a reason but couldn’t imagine why she would stare at him. Once he’d stepped over the threshold, his mother pulled him into an awkward hug, his backpack and her half-crouched posture combined to create a very unstable stance.
Standing up, Drusilla tried to sort through the wash of emotion that only now was ebbing. She decided it had something to do with the girl in his class being missing and then returning, from New Jersey, of all places. As a rational explanation, it left a lot to be desired, but her fear and anxiety responded to the label. She moved on to being angry with her son.
“We’ll talk about why you didn’t ride home with your friends later. Who was this man you say works with me?”
“I don’t know his name. I only saw him once. But he had a really cool car. It was an Aston Martin… you know, a British car that James Bond drives.”
Drusilla felt fear crawl with too many sinuous fingers up from her gut and try to squeeze her heart into silence.
Sister Cletus was, at eighty-nine, the oldest woman at St. Dominique’s. She had long since come to terms with the occasional ache, split-second twinge of pain, even the rolling-ships-deck uncertainty that sometimes came from standing too quickly at morning prayers. These very fundamental reminders of human frailty held no special power in her daily life. This was, in no small part, due to her ability to accept the day as her life. The past was over but available; tall, dusty shelves of books, some exciting, some frightening, most mundane. The future, which did not yet exist, was consigned to another room entirely, in her metaphorical library. She knew it was there, yet felt no need to visit it, confident that the story of her life would unfold at its rhythm.
This particular late morning in November, she felt a chill course over her shoulders and down into her chest. Walking along the hall of the residence wing of the convent, she stopped at a window that looked out over the courtyard. Like an exceptionally bright shooting star, the unforgiving-red of automobile brake lights flared, at the gates of St Dominique’s. She watched as the black SUV pulled out onto the main road and headed north. As she turned away, something on the far side of the field stone wall caught her eye. As the red of the departing SUV implied acceleration, this other motion was the opposite. It was a non-color, darker than black and unlike the shrinking into the distance of Sister Margaret’s vehicle, it, somehow, seemed to fall into itself and paradoxically grow larger, all without changing its relative position.
Feeling an echo of her years reverberate, the old nun kissed the crucifix she held in worn fingers and headed towards the staircase. She was suddenly convinced that was critical that she speak to Sister Catherine.
“I don’t give a fuck. This thing has gone on long enough. Tell Constantin to make something happen up there.”
Genevieve Novak smiled and held up one finger, the men with the briefcases who stood in front of her desk looked apologetic, as if they had stumbled into a tryst in the back of a Four Star restaurant. The voice coming from the earphones she wore was loud enough to be heard throughout the reception area.
“Enough of the fuckin hints and suggestions. I want something that makes that nun understand. Tell that overdressed hell-hound of mine that he needs to make them all understand. This has gone on too fucking long.”
Alex Dumas smiled with disbelief at the email. Apparently his series, ‘The Nun and the Billionaire’ got the attention of not only the mainstream press, but Hollywood. Some guy, claiming to be an agent wanted to meet with him to discuss movie rights.
Sister Catherine woke up in the dark. Someone, somewhere nearby was playing a Beatles record.