Missing Sisters -SA (11 page)

Miami almost murmured, “Amen,” but controlled herself.

Father Laverty went on with such delicacy, such gentleness, that at times Miami couldn’t follow. But the gist of it seemed to be that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance on a pancake griddle anyone was going to let Alice get adopted by the Shaws. First, there was money. Then there were the laws of the state of New York. There were Miami’s needs as a preteen recovering from nasty early years she could hardly remember. There were Alice’s special needs. There was Garth to think of, and Fanny, and Rachelle. It turned out Alice had had a chance for adoption already this year, first time ever, and she’d turned it down.

“But that don’t count!” interrupted Alice, her first public pronouncement. “The Harrigans! It was right after Sister Vincent de Paul got burned up! I made a pact with God!”

“Oh, you did,” said Father Laverty, more kindly than ever, so softly Alice couldn’t hear him and looked bewildered.

“
Oh you did
,” intoned Sister John Bosco helpfully into her left ear.

“Yeah, I did. I said when Sister Vincent de Paul comes back safe and sound, I’ll do whatever. I’ll pack up and go anywhere. But not till I know.” Alice had a fierce look, a look of a guttering candle, or of a bird banging against the insides of a window, not knowing why it can’t go through. “I said I won’t go to the Harrigans till after Sister Vincent de Paul shows up! And she never does!”

“The point is,” said Father Laverty, “that Alice is making leaps and bounds this year. Her misbehavior has its positive side, and though Sister John Bosco loses sleep from time to time, I feel quite comfortable in Alice’s development.” Sister John Bosco was shooting him such an onslaught of disapproving looks that he amended his remarks quickly and said, “Of course I only get the most limited of pictures. Sister John Bosco, have you anything to add?”

“Let us remember,” said Sister John Bosco, “that we’re not here to deprive anyone of anything, but to give our children the best chances they have at success. Some of the children start with considerable disadvantages. Alice is one. Learning to disobey—I feel compelled respectfully to correct Father Laverty—is not a sign of advancing maturity. On the other hand, look what Alice
has
achieved this year. Her taking part in the spring musicale by playing Eliza Doolittle was a triumph—not just of her willpower, but an aesthetic success as well. Alice is a gifted singer, even with her disabilities, and may be very proud of how she has marshaled her talents and her confidences.”

Sister John Bosco then went on, “And it is not lost on anyone here that Alice’s pact with God implies a seriousness, a sobriety of moral purpose that is all too lacking in the young in this day and age. Her commitment to Sister Vincent de Paul is further proof of her accomplishments.

Alice has come out of a private harbor, where once she verged on autism, to care deeply about herself and the world. Alice,” she turned, and a lovely smile blossomed within the frame of her wimple and cowl, “we will do all we can to turn you loose on the world with a vengeance, packing six-shooters if you must. But even if adoption by the Shaws were a possibility—which it is not—I could not recommend it for you. You need more exclusive attention still than the Shaws, however devoted to you, could provide. Do you understand what we’re saying?”

“I can’t go,” said Alice in a thick voice.

“You’re not even invited,” said Miami with bitterness. “This is a party to celebrate your being left out. Care for some more lemonade?”

“I can see the family resemblance,” said Sister John Bosco tartly.

“Let’s move on, shall we?” said Father Laverty. “I have to coach a CYO baseball game in Latham at twelve-thirty.”

For a while then they talked about what
could
be done. Next summer Alice and Miami might go to Camp Saint Theresa during the same session. Maybe they could talk on the telephone once a week, on Saturdays? “For a predetermined length of time,” said Sister John Bosco. Maybe monthly visits? “How about Christmas?” said Miami. “There are some things the grown-ups should decide in private,” Sister John Bosco remarked. “But this is a healthy start.

Would the Shaws like to see the home now before we all get on with our busy days?”

“Yeah,” said Garth. “Come on, Alice, show us where you sleep.”

“But just a minute,” said Mrs. Shaw, gathering up babies from the antiseptic floor. “Did I miss something, or is Alice still in the dark about this nun in the fire? This Sister Vincent de Paul?”

Everyone looked just a bit uncertain.

“Well, it’s clearly significant,” said Mrs. Shaw, apologetically but also boldly. “Sounds as if Alice wants to know, and she’s old enough to deserve the truth, I suppose. Did the nun die?”

“Well, of course not,” said Sister John Bosco. “There would have been a requiem mass, and the girls all would have attended.”

“She’s not dead?” said Alice.

“Alice,” said Sister John Bosco slowly, “where in the world did you get the idea she might be dead?”

“Well, where
is
she?” said Alice. “It don’t look like she’s around anymore, so where is she?”

“Oh, my Lord,” said Sister John Bosco. “It never occurred to me you didn’t understand.

I’ll tell you, I need a month off. Alice, look at me. Listen to me. Sister Vincent de Paul is very much alive. She is recovering still. She’s getting better all the time. I don’t know if she’ll come back here. She’s no spring chicken, you know.” Alice’s eyes clouded over at this, and Sister John Bosco said, “I mean she’s an old nun now. In fact she’s been an old nun most of her life. She’s taking her sweet time to recover, and then we’ll see what we see.” Miami saw Alice’s face turn white then red: joy and sorrow, sorrow and joy. “You mean she’s alive,” she kept saying. Miami was just faintly jealous. Here they should be united in fury at the grown-ups ruining their lives, and Alice’s face kept looking like the last two minutes of a Christmas special on TV. “Come on, show us your room so we can get outta this place,” Miami said brusquely.

Behind Alice, Sister John Bosco was gushing. “You never know with her. She’s so sharp about some things, and then the basic bit flies right by her somehow. I can’t thank you enough for seeing what I had missed, Mrs. Shaw. God bless you.”

O CLEMENT O L OVING O S WEET

Alice was in the chapel.

A grab bag of joys, curses, and requests was trying to fold itself into the shape of a prayer. She felt as if she had a circus in her head. It made her tired, and as she knelt she rested her forehead against the back of the next pew and her fanny on the edge of the bench. Sister Paul the Hermit, passing through to hunt for a lost handkerchief, saw her there. To Sister Paul the Hermit, Alice looked like a girl trying to apologize for making so much trouble. There was a keen smell of lemon Pledge from the pews, and tiger lilies brandished their blossoms from plastic buckets. Someone had left a duster on the lectern. Sister Paul the Hermit swooped up to retrieve it, casting a glance at Alice as she went, in case Alice looked as if she needed to talk.

Alice didn’t meet her glance.

Alice’s gaze went back and forth between the two paintings in the chapel, one over each of the wrought-iron racks of vigil candles. The painting on the left showed Jesus tenderly pulling aside His robe to reveal in His chest a heart wreathed in thorny twists of vine. It was a sort of spiritual X-ray painting, because the bleeding heart didn’t seem to drip blood on the white garments. Alice felt a sort of affection for the Jesus of this painting, more so than for the emaciated body of Christ hanging on the cross above the altar. After all, this was the Sacred Heart Home for Girls. And the look on the face of Jesus in the painting was affecting. He looked shy, and honest, and a little bit embarrassed to admit He’d gone through all this trouble just for people. He reminded Alice of that boy with the guitar she’d met on the bus, about whom she’d dreamed once or twice.

The heart didn’t seem so awful. It wasn’t a horror-movie thing. It was God’s heart, but it was like Alice’s heart too. Hearts were really magnets, weren’t they? Her heart seemed to twist in her chest. It strained and rested and strained again, chained not by thorns, but by love and need and desire.

O God, did I do wrong? she prayed. Should I have gone off with the Harrigans last winter? Would none of this then have happened? Is this mess with Miami Shaw just punishment for my bribing You to save Sister Vincent de Paul?

No, said Jesus. I don’t punish people for loving each other.

I wish I believed You, prayed Alice.

It don’t make any sense, said Jesus. After all, the Harrigans probably would’ve sent you to Camp Saint Theresa just like they sent Naomi Matthews. You still would’ve learned about Miami this summer either way.

Alice hadn’t realized Jesus was so logical. So this mess
wasn’t
a penance for being willful. She felt a little better, and politely put Jesus on hold while she turned her attention to the painting on the right, which was of Mary. Long practice at this had taught her Jesus didn’t mind waiting, airing His sacred heart in silence.

Mary hung in a cloudy sky, her hands out, her feet gingerly arching, her face oval, and her hair mostly hidden in a veil. Her expression was more inward, and it always took Alice a longer time to get through to her. Mary was full of grace. She was blessed among women. There was a line from a prayer they repeated daily, a line that the girls enunciated with special fervor, so even Alice understood it. “O clement, o loving, o
sweet
Virgin Mary,” they trumpeted, “braa na na na na na…” and on into obscurity. Alice used “O clement o loving o sweet Virgin Mary” for her icebreaker whenever she prayed to Mary. Sooner or later she got Mary’s attention.

First she adored Mary for a few minutes, never being quite sure how much was too much.

She apologized for her failure of nerve. She gave thanks for the good fortune she’d had and prayed for better in the days to come. Mary cast her eyes humbly to the floor.

The real point of all this, concluded Alice, is what to do now?

Mary said nothing, as usual. She waited for you to figure it out for yourself.

I mean, now that Sister Vincent de Paul is alive again—still alive, I mean—I could be brave enough to be adopted, but nobody wants me now. The Harrigans have Naomi Matthews because I wouldn’t go. That Shaw family has Miami. Now that I have to act brave to keep my end of the bargain, there are no options.

There’s a bravery in waiting, said Jesus from the other side of the room.

Mary smiled inwardly. Well, you wouldn’t expect her to contradict her son.

I thought it would be a little harder, said Alice. I already know how to be patient.

What do you love most of all? said Jesus. The first, best thing?

You, said Alice.

Not counting me, said Jesus; I mean from the world.

I love Sister Vincent de Paul, said Alice, and her heart twisted again, slid against itself, burning. She’s still alive, said Alice, though Jesus of course knew all. And the tears burned in her eyes like her heart flaming in her breast. It was joy and loneliness together, that’s what it was.

Should I ask her what to do? Is that it?

Jesus said, Pray for her, Alice, and keep your ears open. The right thing will present itself.

I’m part deaf, Alice reminded Him.

I know, He said. You know what I mean.

Alice signed off, gratefully, flicking a quick glance at Mary, who seemed to be smiling more lovingly than ever. There really is satisfaction in prayer, Alice thought as she genuflected and took off down the hall toward the dormitory. Chapel’s the only place where grown-ups don’t make you repeat yourself. You can be understood the first time.

She sang as she changed from a cotton skirt and blouse to shorts and T-shirt. She didn’t exactly know what to do next, but she was going to keep her ears open, and maybe the right thing would occur to her.

Sister John Bosco was reviewing the food order for September when the phone rang.

Putting her pencil on the line that said
Jell-O—50 packs assorted flavors
, she shot a “hello” into the mouthpiece. First there was no sound, then a giggle. Then a high voice being pushed into the alto range by willpower said, “Hello, is this Alice the orphan’s house?”

“With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” said Sister John Bosco, faintly amused.

“What?”

“Who is this please?”

“Oh. Umm…umm…” A muffled conference, then: “This is Mister Joe Shaw.”

“I see. Well, Mister Joe Shaw, Alice can’t come to the telephone. May I take a message?”

“What?”

“What do you want me to tell her?”

“Tell her—tell her—” Hysteria overcame the speaker, and the line went dead. Sister John Bosco replaced the handset, shaking her head, but paused a moment later with her pencil at
2

cartons Carnation evaporated milk
. She was not immune to the sound of giggling children’s voices and appreciated the anxiety that encouraged children to misbehave. Heaven knew she had accepted the role of principal of the home because of her savvy with kids as well as an adroitness at administration. Her first duty in this case was to Alice, of course, but she could imagine what Miami and the malleable Garth—and the well-meaning parents, for that matter—would be going through, too. She would have to pray, and reflect, and hope for guidance. She would not allow a serious interruption to the progress Alice had made this year, however, as who knew what trials lay in wait for her outside the gates of the home.

She crossed out
10 packages Oreos
and scribbled
fresh fruit
next to it.

In the evening she made the rounds to be sure all the girls were calm, bedded, prayered, and reading. She held Ruth Peters for a while and took away a water gun from Esther Thessaly.

She noted a broken screen on the third-floor landing, chastised Sister Francis Xavier gently on an abundance of bath water on the tiles, and perched for a minute on the edge of Alice Colossus’s bed.

“Who was our father and our mother?” said Alice, looking up from a Dr. Seuss book she ought to be well beyond at this point.