Try Darkness (25 page)

“Embers?”

“The love of Christ is lived out through the church. Inside, the fire keeps you warm. But if an ember falls out on the hearth, it quickly grows cold.”

“Love is a good thing, Sister, but I don’t think you have to be in a church to do that.”

“Ah, but how do you know what love is without the church? For love comes from God, is manifested in Christ, and embodied by the church. No one would know what love is without the church.”

“Why not?”

“No ancient civilization knew about love. It was God who brought that to us.”

I tried to think of one. Couldn’t. Sharp little nun.

“What makes you tick, Mr. Buchanan?” Sister Perpetua asked. It wasn’t offensive the way she said it. It was as if she just wanted to know.

“Yes,” Sister Mary added. “That’s a good question.”

I shot her a look. “I like butterflies and rainbows, and little children and rabbits.”

“That’s nice,” Sister Perpetua said.

“And piña coladas and walks in the rain—”

“Oh, stop it,” Sister Mary said.

Sister Perpetua gasped. “Is that any way to talk to our guest?”

“It’s okay, Sister,” I said. “That’s one of the nicer things people have said to me over the years.”

“Who influenced you most growing up?” Sister Perpetua asked.

“My dad. He was a cop.”

“Ah.”

“After my dad, I’d have to say Thomas Magnum.”

“I don’t know him,” Sister Perpetua said.

“He was a private investigator in Hawaii.”

“A television show,” Sister Mary said.

“Oh,” Sister Perpetua said. “I remember Bishop Sheen. Now
that
was a television show. You don’t get that kind of thoughtfulness anymore, I can tell you that. Such charisma he had! And could he ever command a stage. What a voice. What an intellect. You strike me as having quite an intellect too, Mr. Buchanan.”

“Well, Sister, I use what I’ve got and hope for the best.”

“You have gifts, given to you by God. Do you think you were made out of random parts?”

“I sometimes wonder when I try to do a spin move.”

“Amen,” Sister Mary said.

Sister Perpetua shook her head. “I like what Ethel Waters once said. ‘God don’t sponsor no flops.’ Not one of us is junk, Mr. Buchanan, if we get together with our Creator.”

Another voice cut the air. “How is it going?” Sister Hildegarde squinted at us in the sun.

“Like the guy said falling off the Empire State Building,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“So far, so good.”

Sister Hildegarde did not crack a smile. A smile did not get within a hundred yards of cracking Sister Hildegarde. Sister Hildegarde could have gone to a Julia Roberts impersonators’ convention and the collective toothiness therein would not have made a dent in her granite cheeks.

Instead, Sister Hildegarde turned to Sister Mary and said, “I would like to see you in the office. Immediately.”

In the ensuing pause, looks were exchanged between the sisters—Mary Veritas, Perpetua, and Hildegarde—as I watched. Then Sister Mary dutifully descended her stepladder. Sister Hildegarde turned and walked away.

Sister Mary put her roller in the drip tray and followed.

When the two nuns were out of earshot Sister Perpetua said, “That doesn’t sound good.”

114

AS I PUT
the paint roller in the pan, Sister Perpetua said, “I’m sorry if I offended you, Mr. Buchanan.”

“When?” I said.

“When I asked what makes you tick.”

“It takes a lot to offend me, Sister. I’m a lawyer, after all.”

The nun smiled. “I try not to offend people. It’s a better reflection on the church that way. I haven’t always been successful.”

“You? I can’t imagine you offending anybody.”

“I once said ‘crud buckets’ to a cardinal.”

I laughed. “You wicked woman.”

Sister P gave me a long look. “I like you. You don’t put on airs.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to find airs.”

“Let me ask you this then, Mr. Buchanan. What do you yearn for? I used to ask all my students that.”

“Yearn?”

“When I was your age I yearned to go to Africa, to serve the poorest of the poor there. But that wasn’t God’s will. Instead I ended up with sixth-graders. Only now do I see why. It was fitting for me.”

I wiped a little sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I don’t know what I yearn for, to tell you the truth.”

“Think about it,” Sister P said. “Here’s a little secret. What was it you loved to do when you were twelve?”

I folded my arms and it came to me right away. “Basketball. I wanted to be a professional basketball player.”

“And you never realized your dream?”

“Didn’t have the hops.”

“Hops?”

“Jumping ability. White men can’t jump.”

She shook her head.

“That was a movie,” I explained. “Also my autobiography.”

“But you loved playing basketball?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Now tell me why. Why did you love it?”

“I don’t know, I just did.”

“No, no. Go deeper.”

For a second I hesitated. What was this old nun after? And why? What business was it of hers? But then I felt this little door open up in me. Like Sister Perpetua held the key that unlocked it. And I found I actually wanted to talk about it.

“All right,” I said, “there was this one time, in high school, we had a game against the city champions, a monster team. They had a guy named Pierpont Wicks, six-eight, the city player of the year. He actually did make it to the NBA for a few years. He was the leading scorer and just an amazing player.”

And he was. I can see him now. He looked like a sequoia.

“We were playing in their gym, and we were warming up doing layups when they came out. The music pounding, everybody cheering, and they did their layup drill and the last four guys slam-dunked.”

“Were they all right?” Sister P said.

“Oh, more than all right. A slam-dunk is a good thing, slamming the ball down through the basket. You have to be very big or be able to jump.”

“Have hops?”

“Now you’re catching on. Anyway, Pierpont Wicks was the last guy, and when he slammed it seemed like a bomb exploding. So they tried to intimidate us right off the court, but that night we played the game of our lives. Me especially.”

“This is exciting.”

“It was for me. I went into the zone.”

“Where’s that?”

I pointed to my head. “It starts here and your body follows. For a few minutes I felt like I could fly. You know, sort of float over the floor, and around people, without my feet making contact with the wood. And not only that, I could put the ball up with either hand. Little jump hooks, whatever, and I had complete confidence. I went through the middle once and it was like being in a forest, these guys were so big. Pierpont Wicks was one of them. I saw his eyes. It was Ahab looking at the face of Moby Dick.”

“Oh, my.”

“I should have passed the ball away as fast as I could, but I remember having this complete calm, and turned my back and threw up a three-foot no-looker.”

“What is that?”

“I wasn’t looking at the hoop. I was looking at the stands and I threw the ball up back over my head. Thing was, I knew exactly where I was, I knew the ball would go in. And it did. I was past the zone. I was in hyperspace. I was Star Trekking. I was boldly going where I had never gone before. I scored thirty-nine points that night, my all-time high.”

“And you won the game?”

“Uh, no. Unfortunately this wasn’t a Hollywood movie. But we only lost by five points, our little school, and it was more than anybody expected. But the thing that got me . . .”

I stopped a second. I couldn’t believe this thing was getting caught in my throat. Sister Perpetua just waited, an understanding look on her face.

“The thing that really got me,” I said, “was as we were leaving the floor for the locker room, Pierpont Wicks ran up to me. He went out of his way to find me. He puts out his hand. He says to me, ‘Man, you were on fire. Great game.’ You know what? I don’t think anything anybody’s ever said to me since meant as much as that.”

I came back from the past and looked at Sister P. “That’s why I loved basketball. And I guess I’d like to feel that way again sometime. Something I do, where I feel like I’m flying, and I know where everything is, and I make the shot.”

Sister P nodded. “You will, Mr. Buchanan. I’m quite sure of it.”

115

LATER, I FOUND
Sister Mary kneeling and praying in the chapel. Below the big crucifix, candles were lit near her. The rest of the place was in darkness.

She continued to pray. I sat and looked at Jesus on the cross, then cleared my throat.

“I heard you,” Sister Mary said, without turning around.

“Can we talk?”

She stood up, crossed herself, turned, and came to me. She slipped into the pew.

“Can what I’m about to say be confidential?” she asked.

“Of course. I’m your lawyer. I hold whatever my clients say in complete confidence.”

“You’re my lawyer?”

“You need it, Sister. The way you play basketball is criminal.”

“This isn’t funny. Not this time.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve been designated ‘rigid’ by Sister Hildegarde,” she said.

“What’s that mean?”

“It is a term of discipline. It goes on my record, so to speak. If I do not reform my ways it could mean a greater discipline. I could even be asked to leave the community.”

“So what did you do to deserve this?”

“Sister Hildegarde says it’s because I wanted to wear my rosary.”

“Isn’t that a good thing for a nun to do?”

“The community wants the sisters to present themselves a certain way. To move with the times, so to speak.”

“You’re talking about the beads, right?”

“Yes. At first it was optional. Now it’s mandatory that we not wear them. I said something about this to Sister Hildegarde a few weeks ago. And about the change in the community prayer book.”

“What change was that?”

“Oh, she wanted to take out some of the quote-unquote sexist language. I don’t think that’s a good reason to change the prayers of the church. So I reviewed the constitutions of the community, and the process for change, and it wasn’t followed. Sister Hildegarde acted alone. So I wrote her a letter. And in the letter I questioned the decision about selling the land. I said we should be taking care of our own, that this is what St. Benedict would have wanted. That’s why she called me into the office today.”

“What did she say to you?”

“The first words out of her mouth were, ‘Who do you think you are?’”

“She said that.”

“She did.”

“A little harsh.”

“So I’m rigid. I’m on probation. I must accept it.”

“Why?”

“Keep your voice down,” Sister Mary said.

“Let’s do something about it,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m your lawyer, remember? What can we do about Sister Hildegarde?”

“Nothing. I’m telling you—”

“I’ll talk to her, I’ll—”

“You don’t really have any authority in our community, Mr. Buchanan.”

“But I can persuade,” I said. “I’m a great persuader.”

“Oh yes?”

“I’ll tell her, ‘Look, you treat Sister Mary right or I’ll . . . go Protestant.’”

“Ooh, that’ll really get her attention.”

“You think?”

She didn’t answer. She looked forward. “Sometimes . . .”

“Sometimes what?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I need to go.”

“Where?”

“Back to work. And you, too.”

She got up and left, not looking back at me or Jesus.

116

THAT WAS SATURDAY
.

Sundays were quiet at St. Monica’s. In a relative way, of course. It was the Lord’s day. Their day for deep prayer and mass and being about the business of knowing God.

Which left me to be about my own business, which was finding out where Nydessa Jackson was and why she was so determined to pin her ID on Gilbert Calderón.

“In fact,” he told me, “that’s when I got religious. Until I met her, I never believed in hell.”

So be it.

According to the witness list, Nydessa Perry lived in Hollywood, in an apartment building on Ivar. In the twenties this was a fashionable neighborhood. The buildings were high end then. After World War II most of them had become transient nests.

It was in one of these buildings that Joe Gillis, the screenwriter in
Sunset Boulevard,
was avoiding the repo men. As I parked on the street I wondered how many of the people inside were avoiding the law in one way or another.

The building was three stories, squat and white, with a little courtyard visible from the street. As I entered into the courtyard I almost stepped on a dead squirrel. I wondered why nobody had bothered to clean it up.

Nydessa’s apartment was on the ground floor, facing the courtyard. I knocked and got a voice from behind the door.

“Yeah?” A woman’s voice.

“Candygram,” I said. I wanted it to work once.

The door opened with a chain across it. A young black woman, thin in the face, said, “What did you say?”

“I said candygram.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a gift people give, with candy. But this one comes with a condition.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a lawyer. I represent people like you.”

“Whattaya mean people like me?”

“People with troubles.”

“Ain’t got no trouble.”

“You may.”

She said nothing.

“Can I come in for a moment?” I said.

“No.”

“Then tell me about Gilbert Calderón.”

Pause. Then: “You’re his lawyer.”

“You and Gilbert used to be together,” I said.

“So?”

“I’m just trying to find out what happened between you two.”

“You can just get yourself outta here now. I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the DA.”

“And he’s told me all about you. All about your past.”

“You lie.”

“No, Ms. Perry, it’s the law. It’s called discovery. Prosecutor has to give me your info, including your little brushes with the law.”