12 The Family Way (32 page)

We stopped several women as they did their shopping. We asked in several stores. Yes, they knew there were nuns in the neighborhood. There was a convent attached to the church on Prince Street—the convent of the Immaculate Conception, but those nuns ran a school, not an orphanage. Their own daughters attended. You couldn’t miss it—big, imposing brick building. We thanked them and made our way there, sure that one set of nuns would know about others. These turned out to be the nuns with the big white coifs we had seen on the street and we encountered a pair of them coming out of the school yard just as we approached.

“Why is it nuns are always in pairs?” Sid muttered. “Are they only allowed out in twos, in case they get up to sinful behavior alone?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered back, “but it’s true. You do usually see them in twos.”

We stopped them and asked about the Foundling Hospital.

They smiled with sweet unlined faces. “It’s up in the East Sixties, my dear.”

I stared at them, confused. “The East Sixties? Not around here at all then?”

“That’s right. Sixty-eighth and Lexington, I believe. And a fine job those sisters do too, taking in poor abandoned babes and even finding good homes for some of them.”

“Then I must have misunderstood,” I said. “I thought there was an order of sisters living in this part of the city who took in abandoned babies.”

One nun looked at the other, turning the coifs carefully so that they didn’t bump into each other. “She must be thinking of that little convent on Broome Street. Aren’t they the same order as the Foundling Hospital? They probably do find babies left on their doorstep, in this part of the city.” I could tell she was examining us—my friends in their bohemian garb and me in my present condition, and trying to work out why we’d be looking for the Foundling Hospital. But she was too polite to ask.

“Thank you,” I said. “I have been asked to deliver a message to a particular sister. I was told she works in this area and I somehow associated her with foundlings. Do these nuns on Broome Street wear a habit with a black bonnet?”

“I believe they do,” one said. “Aren’t they Sisters of Charity? Yes, I’m sure they are. Mother Seton’s girls.”

“And where on Broome Street is their convent?” I asked.

Again they turned to each other in a cautious, stately fashion. “Close to Chrystie Street, do you think Sister?”

“I believe you’re right, Sister.”

“Thank you again,” I said. “We just came from Broome Street. We’d better go back and see if it’s the right place.”

“God bless you, my dear. And the little one you’re carrying,” she said and they resumed their walk, hands tucked in their habits and heads down. We made our way back to Broome Street. At first glance it wasn’t obvious which building was a convent. It was a street of a mixture of old brownstones and ugly new brick tenements. Laundry was draped out of upstair windows. At street level there was the usual mixture of shops, all doing a lively afternoon trade. There was no church to which a convent would be attached. No clear display of a cross or religious statue. But then I noticed a door at the top of a flight of steps with a cross on it and beside the door was a plaque that read:
SISTERS OF CHARITY. VINCENT HOUSE
.

I turned to my friends. “Look, I appreciate the way you are keeping an eye on me, but I don’t think you should come in with me. I want to find out if this nun has connections to the Irish Republican Brotherhood and she certainly wouldn’t tell me in front of you. Would you mind waiting for me somewhere nearby?”

“If you’re really sure…” Gus began.

“I’m sure I’ll be just fine,” I said. “It will only take a few minutes.”

“We’ll wait out here for you then,” Sid said. “On the other side of the street where we can keep an eye on the building. Just in case we’re needed to rush in and rescue you.”

Gus laughed. “It’s a convent, Sid. She’s not going into Eastman’s den.”

I pretended to laugh too, but I hadn’t told them about a nun who had tried to kill me and successfully killed two other young women. Convents were not always safe places. But this nun would not see me as a threat. I’d be the bringer of bad news to her of course, but I’d be seen as a fellow champion of the Irish cause—an ally, not an adversary.

“I don’t think I should be more than a few minutes,” I said, “but I don’t like you having to stand on the busy sidewalk in the heat. Why don’t you wait for me at one of the cafés on the Bowery?”

“We’ll wait here,” Sid said. “We are not delicate violets who will faint in the heat. We can stand under the awning of that tailor’s shop. I’m sure the tailor won’t mind.”

“If you’re sure…” I repeated.

“Oh, go on with you. Get it over with and we can all go for a nice, cool drink,” Sid said.

I nodded, then went up the steps, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a fresh-faced young nun in the severe black habit I had remembered. I told her I was looking for a nun who had a sister in a convent in Tarrytown and her face broke into a smile immediately. “That would be Sister Mary Vincent,” she said. “Very fond of her sister she is too. She’ll be happy to receive a message from her. Won’t you come in?”

I stepped in a dark, narrow hallway and she closed the door behind me. Inside it was so cool it was almost cold. “I believe Sister is still in her office upstairs. If you’d like to go up, it’s the door on the right at the end of the hall.”

I made my way gingerly up an extremely narrow flight of stairs. The irreverent thought crossed my mind that it was a good thing these sisters didn’t wear coifs or they’d get stuck in the stairwells. At the top of the stairs a hallway disappeared into darkness in both directions. I peered around the corner cautiously and started as I saw a figure coming toward me, only a few feet away. The nun’s black habit melted into the darkness of the narrow corridor so that it looked as if a disembodied face was coming toward me. After my initial shock I recognized her. It was Sister Mary Vincent. There was a distinct resemblance to Sister Jerome, but this face was softer and kinder. She started too at the sight of my face appearing around the corner in front of her. And she shot me a look of horror and surprise.

“What are you doing up here in the daylight?” She hissed the words at me in a whisper.

“I’m sorry,” I said, coming up the last of the steps to meet her, “but they told me to come up to you. Was that not the right thing to do?”

She stood there like a statue, staring at me, then shook her head. “I must apologize. You gave me quite a turn. I mistook you for someone else. Now, what can I do to help you?”

“My name is Mrs. Molly Sullivan,” I said, “and I’ve come from the convent in Tarrytown with news of your sister.”

“How very kind of you. How is the dear woman?”

“I’m sorry to be the bringer of such distressing news, but I’m afraid your sister died yesterday.”

“Joan is dead?” she asked and crossed herself. “I mean Sister Jerome, of course. Joan was her name at home and I still think of her that way.” She paused to compose herself. “How did she die?”

I looked at her kind, concerned face. “An accident,” I said gently. “A tragic accident. She fell down a flight of steps.”

“She always was in too much of a hurry,” Sister Mary Vincent said. “Always taking too much upon herself. She wore herself to a frazzle, I’m sure. Ah, well. She’s gone to her heavenly reward and it’s not right to grieve, is it?”

“I think it’s perfectly all right to grieve,” I said.

“You’re very kind,” she said and I saw her fighting not to cry. “But where are my manners. It’s so good of you to take the time to bring me the news in person, rather than the shock and coldness of a letter. Won’t you come down to the parlor and have something cold to drink?”

“Thank you,” I said. “That would be very nice.”

“Watch your step,” she said. “These stairs are horribly steep.” She led the way back down the stairs and into a room that overlooked the street. I couldn’t actually see Sid and Gus, but I presumed they were standing in the shade of that awning. I reminded myself that I shouldn’t leave them there too long as I took a seat at the battered table that was at the center of the room.

“So did you actually know my sister?” she asked. “Are you connected to that convent?”

“I can’t say that I really knew her. They are an enclosed order, after all. But I spoke with her several times,” I said. “She mentioned you. And I can see that you were obviously fond of her.”

“We hadn’t seen much of each other since we were girls,” Sister Mary Vincent said. “But we were close in age. She was the bossy one, of course.” And she smiled. “But I relied on her and it was a blow when we were sent to different convents.”

“Why was that?” I asked.

“It was what our father decided was best for us. And in those days we didn’t argue with our father. There were ten of us, you see and we were sitting around the table one night and father told us that we two were the homely ones. He said we’d never be likely to find ourselves a husband with faces like ours and it would be best if we went into the convent right away and gave them two less mouths to feed. Then he said that I had a pleasant way about me and should do well working with children while Joan was more suited to the intellectual and contemplative life. And so our destinies were chosen for us. Nobody ever asked us if it was all right with us, but off we went, without a word of complaint. That’s just the way it was in those days. I have to say I’ve been happy enough. I expect Joan has too. I know she had been running their ministry of mothers and babies, and running it very well too. Joan always did like to be in charge of things.”

I decided to take the plunge. “I understand that Sister Jerome was a keen supporter of the Irish cause for home rule,” I said.

“She was indeed. She was able to send me small donations from time to time from the contributions they received at her convent, and asked me to pass them along to the cause, which, of course, I was happy to do.”

The amounts of money I had seen would have amounted to more than small donations and I wondered if Sister Mary Vincent was lying to me, or if Sister Jerome had indeed hogged most of the money for herself. I would have to be extra diplomatic in my questions.

“So you yourself are also involved with the Republican struggles are you?” I asked, the Irishness in my voice becoming more pronounced. “God love you.”

She nodded as she carried two glasses of some kind of pink cordial to the table and placed one in front of me. “Our parents raised us to be passionate about the cause,” she said. “After what they went through in Ireland—seeing their home destroyed and cast out into the street with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The English landowner ordered that you know. He wanted the land and didn’t care a fig that people were living on it. Living from it. It’s about time we threw out the invaders and claimed what’s ours by birthright.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I was involved in a small way myself once when I returned to Ireland.”

“You were?”

I declined to elaborate but went on, “So you presumably are in touch with members of the Brotherhood here in New York, if you’re raising money for them. How might I get in touch if I wanted to send my own contributions?”

“If you’d like to give me the money, I’ll make sure it goes to the right people,” she said.

“And if I might want to get involved personally? Is there an address I can meet them and volunteer my services?”

“I wouldn’t be able to tell you that,” she said. “They’re secretive with good reason. The government here is in cahoots with the English. I just have to send on the money to a certain post office box and somebody picks it up. That’s all I know. If you’d care to write a note with your name and address, I could send it along next time there is a contribution.” She paused, reconsidering. “Not that there will be more contributions with my dear sister gone. I work among the poor here. Nobody has money to spare.”

Obviously I couldn’t give her my name and address. It occurred to me to give her a fake one, but I couldn’t see what that might achieve. “I probably shouldn’t do that,” I said. “My husband is a New Yorker and doesn’t understand the Irish cause as I do. He’d be angry with me.”

“I understand. But any time you can spare a little money, you can bring it to me and I’ll make sure it goes to the right place. Every little bit helps, doesn’t it?” She drained her glass and got to her feet. “I should be getting back to work. I have to go and pick up a baby from St. Peter’s church. That’s become a prime spot for dropping off unwanted infants, I’m afraid. I’ll bring it back here to clean it up and then take it to our Foundling Hospital. So many unwanted children in the city. There’s almost not a day goes by that someone doesn’t hand me a child, found in a doorway. Make sure you treasure yours, my dear. Is it your first?”

“It is.” I smiled and got to my feet too. I was trying desperately to think of other things to ask her, but it could well be that she really did know no more than she was telling me. She opened the door for me.

“Thank you again for bringing me my sad news, my dear,” she said. “I appreciate your coming here. Let me just get my basket for the baby and I’ll be off too.”

We stepped out into the blinding sunlight of the day and came down the steps together. Then she nodded to me. “God bless you then.” And she set off down the street with a basket over her arm.

I stood on the steps and it was almost as if I was having a vision. I was recalling the first time I had seen her, nearly colliding with her as I went up to the employment agency. She had had a similar closed basket over her arm then. And I remembered what Sid had said about nuns always going around in twos. She had been alone—the exception to the norm. And she was not there when the woman had started screaming that someone had stolen her baby.

And I knew with utter certainty that Sister Mary Vincent had taken that baby from its baby carriage.

Thirty-two

Why?
I thought.
When there were so many unwanted infants in the city, would she want to steal another?
And I knew the answer to that too. Because Blanche’s baby had died. Sister Jerome had promised a couple a fair, blue-eyed baby and she didn’t have one to deliver. So her sister in the city had obliged, presumably thinking that the money was going to the Irish cause. And I had actually seen her going past in a small black carriage, bringing the baby with her. I wondered whether she had been responsible for any of the other kidnappings.