The Gathering (31 page)

C
HRISTMAS 1947 HAD BEEN,
to borrow William S. Gilbert’s term, modified rapture. At least for one postulant IHM candidate.

Alice McMann, now known as Sister Mary Benedict, was the possessor of good news and bad news. The good news was that the past holy season of Christmas had been the most profoundly religiously moving feast she had ever known.

The bad news was that it was the most lonesome period she had ever experienced.

When the Community was not in chapel, when the ethereal plainchant did not lift one from this earth, when the humdrum routine wore into one like a Chinese torture, even Christmas was a lonely celebration.

Loneliness multiplied because she knew she was under surveillance.

Sister Mary Bridget, the Mistress of Postulants, had had words with Sister Mary Jane, the Assistant Mistress of Postulants. The words concerned Sister Marie Agnes, formerly known as Rose Smith.

The subject: Particular Friendship.

The Postulant Mistress and her assistant had been around a long time. They knew what to look for in applicants to the religious life. They looked for stability, progress, humility, and, perhaps most, obedience.

They recognized that Sister Benedict was dependent. She was that to her core. It was her personality. But that, in itself, was not a reason to discourage her from seeking the religious life.

As far as the Postulant Mistress was concerned, the problem was intensified by Benedict’s attachment to Sister Marie Agnes. It was impossible to overlook the distinct possibility of a Particular Friendship. And that, very definitely would be grounds to dismiss the former Alice McMann from the convent.

Sister Mary Jane and Sister Mary Bridget pondered the situation, discussed it, and reached a decision.

Marie Agnes was summoned to the office after evening prayer. The other postulants looked knowingly at one another: It had to be about Benedict. All were aware of the tie that bound the two.

Was it a Particular or an Ordinary Friendship? The postulants were advised not to entertain these thoughts. This was for their superiors to handle and determine.

Sister Marie Agnes entered the office. Sister Mary Bridget was seated on a somewhat less than comfortable straight-back chair. Sister Mary Jane stood beside the Mistress’s chair. Marie Agnes knelt with no support for her arms, which hung at her side.

“Sister Marie Agnes,” Sister Bridget began, “you have permission to speak.”

Rose nodded.

“I’ll be blunt,” Sister Bridget continued. “We have talked on this matter before. We continue to be concerned about your relationship with Sister Mary Benedict. We have observed the two of you and we are troubled.”

Silence. Sister Mary Jane couldn’t help noticing—and not for the first time—what a beautiful nun Marie Agnes made. Her beauty was not only external; her entire personality was most attractive. All in all, a beautiful young woman whose beauty was enhanced by the habit.

No poster ads could even hint at the special gift that such a gorgeous candidate of both inner and outer beauty could bring to the convent.

Religious life was not designed as a haven for women who can’t “get a man.” It was for those who would settle for nothing but the perfection of Jesus Christ.

If convents were for castoffs, more likely Alice McMann would be there.

“I am truly sorry, Sister,” Rose said. “We have tried to conform to the rule. Religiously.”

The two elderly nuns wordlessly overlooked the pun. Indeed, Rose regretted it as soon as the word left her lips.

“We don’t doubt the attempt,” said Sister Bridget. “We wonder if there is any change as a result of the effort.”

“We pray there is. Actually, Sister, there is little time in our schedule for any communication whatever. We never even sit together in most of our activities,” Sister Marie Agnes said.

An ironic smile briefly crossed Sister Bridget’s face. “For most activities,” she said, “prayer, study, the Divine Liturgy, meals, and the like—alphabetical order is the rule. That is done for no other reason than to organize our routines.”

“There are quite a few letters,” Marie Agnes observed, “between our surnames, S and M, or our given names, R and A. Although not between A and B, our names in religion.

“My point is,” she said, “that for two people who were the closest of friends in the world, we are learning to live apart.”

“What you observe,” Sister Mary Jane said, “about the separation your very names have caused, is valid. The only opportunity you two have to communicate freely is during recreation after dinner—at which time you are free to be near and converse with anyone you wish.”

“Yes,” Sister Bridget said, “and at such times, the two of you are invariably together.”

Marie Agnes felt a blush beginning. She tried, but did not succeed in suppressing it. She was momentarily offended that anyone should take pains to spy on her. This was not, she thought, Nazi Germany. But she said nothing.

“The point is,” Sister Bridget said forcefully, “no matter how much effort you have invested in controlling the situation, nothing much seems to have changed.”

“But we continue to strive,” Rose protested. “And she … uh, Mary Benedict is making progress.”

Sister Bridget’s eyebrows went up, as she and Sister Mary Jane exchanged significant glances, but her face quickly returned to its usual noncommittal expression. “I think that will be enough for now,” she said. “You may return to your cell. Nothing about this to anyone, particularly during recreation period.”

Effortlessly, Marie Agnes rose from her kneeling position. Both nuns couldn’t help but note the ease with which the postulant effected the demanding movement.

Sister Mary Bridget reflected on her own osteoporosis. Long ago she had stopped blaming her weight loss on her meager diet and penitential exercise. She was fragile and growing more so … all due to the one thing she could not control: her advancing age.

After all, she was in her mid-eighties. It was remarkable that so many of the Sisters lived to such ripe old ages.

She was grateful for her mental alertness. That, along with her years of fruitful experience, made her especially qualified for the pivotal position she held in the Community.

Sister Mary Jane remembered clearly a time when she too could have sprung to her feet from her knees unassisted. And not all that long ago. Then, little by little, joints began to stiffen. Eventually, she’d had to surrender her driver’s license because she was unable to turn her head sufficiently to see the blind spots on either side of the car. No one had demanded—or even suggested—that she stop driving. She had done so voluntarily, out of concern for others with whom she shared the road.

The doctors called her debility “degenerative.” She could expect the condition to worsen. She only hoped that she could survive as well as her superior, Sister Bridget.

Both women watched as, with steady step, Rose left the room. Youth, they thought, and sighed softly.

Sister Mary Bridget sat impassively for a few moments. “I think it is time to speak to Sister Mary Benedict.”

Sister Mary Jane nodded. “Yes, she is the Achilles’ heel in this twosome. Sister Agnes, I think, is finding this adjustment period difficult. But I also think she could cope very well if only Sister Benedict were stronger. I have noted that there is an invariable routine during recreation: Sister Benedict always waits before taking a seat to determine where Sister Agnes will be. Then she follows Agnes like a bird dog.

“And did you notice Sister Agnes’s slip of the tongue? Agnes said that ‘she’—referring to Benedict—is making progress.”

“Yes,” Sister Bridget said. “We simply haven’t the time in postulancy to play games. It’s time to take action.”

“Shall I send for her?”

Sister Bridget nodded slowly and a bit sadly.

Sister Mary Benedict walked resolutely down the hall, wondering why she had been summoned to the Mistress’s office—although in her inner heart she knew it had to do with Rose. That they might have to part was too painful to consider. The only thing worse than her being forced to leave the convent was the possibility that Rose would be forced out also. That simply would not have been fair. Whatever difficulty that presently existed was her own fault, not Rose’s.

But maybe it wasn’t that bad. Alice searched her conscience to uncover anything untoward. Something that in the outside world would have been meaningless, but in the convent would be grist for the public Chapter of Faults.

That must be it! That glitch tonight during the Chapter of Faults. The whole thing was so silly. It just sprang from ignorance. She could explain it all so easily.

Benedict had reached the door of the Mistress’s office. She knocked and was bidden to enter.

It was like a tableau. Sister Mary Bridget sat statuelike in that uncomfortable chair. The arthritic Mary Jane stood by her superior’s side. Their expressions did not change as Mary Benedict entered the room.

This was by no means a rare appearance for Sister Mary Benedict before the Mistress and her assistant. By this time, Benedict had broken pretty much all the listed rules as well as some that had never been promulgated because no one had conceived of anyone’s doing such things. Indeed, Sister Mary Bridget was constantly aware of Benedict’s presence in the convent due to the regularity of broken rules.

So there they were again: Bridget sitting, Mary Jane standing, and Benedict kneeling.

“If,” Benedict began, without waiting for permission to speak, “this is about what happened during Chapter of Faults this evening, I can explain.”

Bridget almost smiled. She liked the girl. Benedict was a breath of fresh air—so spontaneous, so open, so irrepressible, so full of fun, so free of guile. But the girl’s many likable characteristics did not necessarily recommend her for the religious life.

The incident at Chapter that Benedict thought was the problem involved the marble staircase—the one everyone was forbidden to use.

It seemed that Sister Rose—another postulant—was bringing in a shipment of dairy products for the communal kitchen. The basket containing the eggs was particularly heavy, and Sister Mary Rose was not a robust young woman. So, to catch her breath and renew her strength, she set the basket down on the sacred steps.

No sooner had she done so than she realized the enormity of her action. She had used the sacred steps! She looked around, but no bolt of lightning flashed. No thunder cracked. She was still alive and well. But, of course, in order to live with herself, she had to submit it—top of the list—at the Chapter. In doing so, she used unfortunate phraseology. “I laid my eggs on the steps.”

Throughout the assembled community could be heard a ladylike titter. But it was Sister Benedict who sold the farm: She laughed aloud, openly, without shame. But only for a moment. Only till she realized that she was the only Sister who had reacted with lack of control.

Then, what to do about it? Guilt laid its heavy hand on her. Should she confess this unnun behavior? Why confess something everyone could testify had happened? And if she did confess, how to do so? As you all know, I just made an idiot of myself publicly and at poor little Sister Rose’s expense …

Or would the better way be to just let it sit where it was? At the end, that’s what she had decided to do.

It must have been the wrong decision. Which was why she had been summoned to the inquisitor’s office. The older Sisters had not laughed aloud—not because they didn’t find it humorous, but because they had practiced self-control until it oozed from every pore.

Now, as Benedict recounted what had happened at the Chapter, the risibility of the event returned. Once again, Sister Bridget and Sister Jane called upon their ample supply of that self-control.

“No, Sister,” Bridget addressed Benedict. “This has nothing to do with Sister Rose, or her eggs, or the Chapter of Faults. As a matter of fact, there isn’t any rule about keeping a self-controlled silence during the Chapter.

“But, Sister, the Rule
is
part of the reason why you have been called in tonight.”

Here it comes—whatever it is.

“There seems to be some enmity between you and the Rule,” Sister Bridget said.

Benedict’s brow furrowed.

“We think it has nothing to do with you personally,” Sister Bridget went on. “It’s just that with some candidates it seems that we can’t think of enough things to tell you not to do.”

Benedict thought that that was rather jocular. But she was done laughing aloud for the evening. And, as things transpired, it was well she controlled herself.

Sister Bridget nodded to Sister Mary Jane, indicating that the assistant should take over.

“Sister Mary Benedict,” Mary Jane said, choosing her words carefully, “we have been watching you closely—as we have all the postulants. For everyone’s benefit, the earlier we can make a decision about the candidates’ future in the Order, the better it will be—the better it is for everyone.”

Here it comes. O Lord, please let it not be Rose. Whatever has to happen tonight, it doesn’t matter what they do to me. Just don’t let it happen to Rose. I will take whatever they have to dish out to me. But not Rose. She will make such a good nun.
Benedict squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head.