Golden Years: Three Tales for a Winter's Evening

© 2002 by Michael Clark. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4033-3989-9 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4033-3990-2 (Paperback)

ISBN: 1-4033-3991-0 (Dustjacket)

IstBooks-rev. 10/29/02

Contents

Dedications:

The Second Time Around

One A Joyful Celebration

Two Welcome To St. Therese’s

Three A Critical Decision

Four A Whistle In The Dark

Five The Relentless Pursuit

Six A Mockingbird Sings

Seven Midsummer Rose

Eight One Fine Summer’s Evening

Nine The Stopper In A Bottle

Ten A Momentous Decision

Eleven Free At Last

Twelve Trouble In Paradise

Thirteen Descent From The Mountain

Fourteen Bad Tidings

Fifteen A Second Beginning

The Man On The Balcony

One A New Day

Two Tom

Three At The Foot Of The Mountain

Four The Upward Path

Five A Revelation

Six A Foot In The Door

Seven The Door Opens Wider

Eight A Secret Shared

Nine A Lingering Puzzlement

Ten A Late Night Visit

Eleven A Late Spring Swim

Twelve Christmas Eve Morning

Thirteen Christmas Eve

Fourteen Second Thoughts

Fifteen A Festive Occasion

Sixteen For A Son’s Honour

Seventeen Unwelcome News

Dear Maureen

One A Brotherly Appeal

Two A Liberation Of Sorts

Three A Strange Discovery

Four The Brass Candleholders

Five Laying Down The Law

Six And The Cupboard Was Bare…

Seven The Party

Eight The Visitation

Nine An Outing To The Escarpment

Ten The Little Fishes

Eleven Of Books And Vanishings

Twelve Steve And The Garden

Thirteen Mothers In Arms

Fourteen A Tainted Triumph

Fifteen A Realigned Heart

About The Author

Dedications:

To Kathleen, and to all those others of our invisible generation, that is, the elderly, who in the face of sometimes very cruel odds, show a remarkable courage and humility and dignity which deserves highest praise.

Also: to a loving family, whose patience and unfailing affection over the years is appreciated beyond words.

THE SECOND TIME AROUND

Does the road wind up-hill all the way?

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?

Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

From Up-Hill, by Christina Rossetti

One

A JOYFUL CELEBRATION

Congratulations!

Thank you. Thank you all very much.

Much luck, Celia! Much happiness!

You’re never too old, Celia girl! That’s what I say! Eh? Eh? A wide, crooked, mouth grinned at her. The mouth was toothless, but the eyes, misted and sparkling, seemed sincere.

Celia! a resonant and still lively voice called over at her from the corner where the refreshments stood. A wistful wave accompanied the call.

Celia! All my love!

And that from her rival, Rose McCarthy!

Thank you. Bless you all!"

Celia beamed. After all, they were all there, all of her friends and other guests. She could see Sarah Burke, a bit crumpled and stooped and withered now, but nevertheless smiling eagerly, if a trifle vacantly, from her wheelchair. That same Sarah Burke who had defied Mother Brigid over the rouge lipstick back in Grade Seven-in front of the entire class!-who had married Wild Charlie Hennessey from the city when she was only seventeen, and then lost him tragically to drink. And there! Yes, there was Teresa Singleton who had written poetry, when she was much younger of course, and used to tell the most horrible lies about her father. How Teresa had hated that poor, misguided, man! Poor girl, Celia thought, sadly and automatically. How awfully she’d shrivelled up in the past six months: and half the time she didn’t know where she was. Poor dear! Ever since they’d strapped her husband Thomas into that bed upstairs, her mind had deteriorated so.

To be perfectly candid, Sarah and Teresa were the only ones she really knew: from the good old days, that is. The other guests were almost complete strangers to her, except for the ones she regularly ate meals with or had rendered some service to, and two

or three more from her own floor. And, of course, Rose McCarthy.

Again Celia beamed and waved. Father Sheehan had just looked up from his little conversation with Tim, the retarded boy (everyone called him a boy but, in fact, he was fifty-nine), and gave her one of his most gracious smiles. Affectionately, Father Sheehan gave Tim a little pat on his perfectly rounded head, and cradling a dixie cup full of orange punch in his soft white hand, smiled his way toward her.

Well, Celia. A happy day for you, eh, my girl? There had been times when Father’s eh, my girl? had seemed as cheerful as cracked record, but today Celia didn’t mind. Father Sheehan was a tall, fairly stout man, with wavy silver hair as fine as silk. He planted his modest paunch casually in front of her with the unctuous authority of his caste.

Yes, Father. I’ve been very happy these last months-as you well know from our little talk the other evening.

For a brief moment, the slight embarrassment but especially the pleasure of their little chat, only days before, returned to her.

But this has to be the happiest day of my life, I think.

Is it now? Well, well… I couldn’t be more pleased for you. And how does it feel to be a blushing new bride?

Well, Father-I don’t know if I can quite describe it. I’m just as happy as I can be.

The blue eyes of Father Sheehan narrowed to a canny, twinkling, look. Habitually fascinated by eyes-especially when they were staring directly at her-not for the first time Celia secretly and rather whimsically compared Father Sheehan’s notably flat and rounded, aquamarine, irises and their tiny black pupils to small islands in the Irish Sea.

That’s fine, Celia. That’s very good. That’s the spirit. And- Father’s eyes dropped mildly to his punch, although one fine silvery eyebrow remained good-humouredly arched: -did you say that novena like I asked you to?

Celia’s smile froze. She felt a stab of fearful alarm in her chest. She had not said that novena. She just couldn’t. She’d meant to say it, but it was so lonely, and so silent, sitting there by herself in the chapel, that she’d lasted only two nights.

Yes, Father, she said quickly, lying. What else could she have said? But she was angered too that the priest had forced her into a lie on her wedding day. Incensed, in fact. Why do they always have to bully and prod and make you ashamed, as if you hadn’t the brains of a five-year old? she thought.

Nevertheless, she blushed inwardly. That wasn’t the first lie she’d been guilty of in recent months. Far from it.

That’s my girl, Celia, Father Sheehan said. Now you’ll make the fine wife old John’s been waiting for.

Sheehan sipped comfortably from his cup.

Now, he then said, "let us see, eh, my girl? How’s this old fellow holding up under all the pressure?

How goes it, John?

With some apprehension, they both looked down at John. A sudden small anxiety was painted clearly on both their faces. Seated motionless beside Celia in his wheelchair, John held his large, prominently veined, dark, hands heaped impatiently in his lap. He appeared to be staring out through his rimless glasses at the noisy throng. On his large and still vigorous-looking face he wore the same unreadable smile that had suddenly appeared there, and had rarely left, almost since the day of his stroke. As John was half deaf Father Sheehan had spoken rather loudly. There was no reply. He now reached down, therefore, and taking John’s hand loosely in his own, shook it.

The best of luck, John! he nearly yelled.

Thank you, John said flatly, not looking up. The same to you.

John was a man of few words. It was one of the many reasons Celia loved and prized him. Still, after his unfortunate stroke, she thought at times she could detect a bitterness, a new sharpness.

Politely, Father Sheehan cleared his throat.

You look after this young lady the way we expect you to-you hear me, John? We’re all counting on you, you know.

That’s right, John responded. And then, after a long, unnerving pause: You bet I will.

There’s a fine fellow. Well…

Father Sheehan seemed on the point of turning away, when his twinkling blue eye caught Mrs. Triano, the Social Directress, wending her determined way toward them. Celia had seen her too. Celia was always very quick to spot the vivacious Mrs. Triano. Mrs. Triano’s husband, Sam, was a prominent local lawyer who had his energetic hand in just about everything going. As yet, they were unblessed with children. Mrs. Triano herself, was so filled with vibrant energy and bustle, was so generously endowed with vigorous young flesh, that Celia half-expected her to burst right through the seams of her dress every time she saw her.

Hi all! she exclaimed eagerly.

She stationed herself directly in front of John, and favoured them with an enthusiastic smile. During the brief conversation that followed, Celia watched in secret horror as twice John’s large hand reached out toward the daring hem of Mrs. Triano’s dress, and then drew back at the last second.

Celia, I’m so pleased for you! It was just a beautiful ceremony!

She and Celia quickly pressed cheeks.

Thank you, said Celia.

You must be the happiest woman in the world right now.

Indeed I am. Thank you again.

Of course, I could only catch the end of it, you know, Mrs. Triano continued breathlessly. She looked almost indecently fresh and wholesome, like a basket of full, ripe, peaches.

"I had to take Cassius-that’s our dog, you know-to the vet’s this morning. I had to-Sam’s out of town at that convention. Poor Cassius! Well, you’d never believe it, but the poor dear got sick during the night and brought his supper up all over the rug. Caught a bug, I imagine."

Father Sheehan’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

I understand, said Celia.

And then-but you won’t believe this-just guess what happened to me next!

I haven’t the slightest idea. Celia gazed at the young woman with astonishment.

I blew a tire-half way up the hill! Isn’t that the very limit?

You blew a tire, echoed Father Sheehan, awed at Mrs. Triano’s vivaciousness in spite of himself.

But-how did you get here then so quickly?

I simply left the station wagon right where it was and walked. Or rather I ran. I knew I’d missed the wedding ceremony, but I’d be damned if I was going to miss the celebration!

I see… said Father Sheehan.

With no pause whatsoever Mrs. Triano then turned upon Celia, and gave her such an energetic, wide-eyed look that Celia was momentarily unnerved. What had possessed the woman?

"Now, Mrs. Connors-are you ready?"

Involuntarily, Celia winced. Mrs. Triano glanced quickly down at John who had just withdrawn his exploratory hand for the second time. Mrs. Triano’s cheeks were as large and rounded as ripe pears, and her large white teeth glistened when she smiled.

And you, John. Are you ready too?

Ready? Celia cut in. Ready for what?

Why for the finale of course. I thought I’d better prepare you beforehand, you know. Oh. I see. Of course.

That’s fine, Celia. You stay right there now. Don’t you move one inch!

All right.

Celia and Mrs. Triano beamed brightly at one another for a good ten seconds, as if they were locked into some critical and unvoiced competition. (Surely, thought Celia, that wasn’t an almost uncontrollable urge to slap Mrs. Triano across her wholesome, young face!) Then Mrs. Triano left. Slowly Celia let out her breath again. Mrs. Triano always descended upon you so suddenly; and when she departed you were nearly gasping for air.

Ladies and gentlemen! Could I have your attention?

Mrs. Triano was up on the little stage now, speaking coaxingly into the microphone, her hem an obvious inch or more above her plump, healthy knees.

The moderate din continued nevertheless, as if the Social Directress hadn’t uttered a word. Eyes glittered; feverish tongues wagged; a little shoving match was developing at the refreshment table; several of the more advanced cases wandered about aimlessly-on foot or in their wheelchairs-like lost souls. Celia gave a slight shudder. While there were many still of sound mind who had heard and were attentive, on the whole she was reminded of school children let out for recess.

Your attention please!!

Mrs. Triano had been forced to shout.

The babble ceased. The pairs of eyes-many truly joyful but just as many vacant of any intelligence whatsoever-all turned toward the stage and Mrs. Triano, and several that were able began to glow with an even intenser joy, especially the men’s.

Now then, folks…

Mrs. Triano’s voice was softer again: less strident, more winning. Her large, almond-shaped, eyes commanded; but they half pleaded too. Her broad, radiant, smile reached out generously to embrace them all.

…Let’s have three rousing cheers for the newly-weds! Let’s go now! Hip-

-hip-hooray! Hip-hip-hooraayy! Hip-hip-hooraa-?

The final cheer had dwindled markedly, but everyone had given their best. They were all turned toward Celia and John now, though some could only twist their necks about from their wheelchairs: eyes bright as buttons; the mouths-of the alert ones, at least-toothless, or not, grinning with all their might.

Give her a smack for me, John boy! Right on the lips! yelled out Howie Hendershot, the joker of the crowd.

Howie was a year and a half from being one hundred years old; and once, a few months before, had embarrassed her horribly in the recreation room downstairs.

There were a few feverish titters.

Celia blew several kisses out among her guests. She was filled with joy. From her overflowing heart she wished them all the happiness that she experienced at that very moment.

She felt light as air, and twenty-five years of age at the very most. Holding John’s great hand fondly in her own and patting it, she smiled graciously and nodded gratefully at all of her guests.

Thank you, she said quietly. Thank you all. God bless!

Two

WELCOME TO ST. THERESE’S

Celia hadn’t liked John very much at first. Their relationship initially had not been love at first sight. Not by a long shot. In fact, her first reaction to St. Therese’s itself was anything but favourable. The food at best was mediocre. There were rigidly adhered-to times when they must get up and go to the dining hall for meals. There was a rule, it seemed, for just about everything except breathing. It was lights out at nine for everyone-no exceptions-and she had been an avid night-time reader. And there were prayers for every occasion, which she wouldn’t have minded all that much if they weren’t rattled through with such machine-like and mindless rapidity, as they so often were. Everything was so organized and predictable it very soon got seriously on her nerves. There were bingos, card parties, and those horrible dances, the odd movie that was as tame and tasteless as weak soup, and insipid entertainments-into which the residents, sometimes complaining, were herded like sheep-put on by a variety of local church groups and other organizations. However highly motivated, it all seemed calculated (cynically, Celia sometimes allowed herself to think) to almost brutally remind the patiently assembled residents that yes, they too were still alive, even if just barely. If you were too frequently absent from these events, you had to undergo a friendly but often overwhelming interrogation by Mrs. Triano as to why you were being so anti-social. And the nuns. What could she not say about them? What would she dearly like to say to them? They were her toughest hurdle perhaps. They treated everyone, staff included, like they were ten years old or twelve at best, as if they were little school children who didn’t know their own minds. Many of them didn’t, of course, she shortly discovered. And what might be termed arrogance or bullying on the part of the sisters was just engrained habit, she was prepared to acknowledge, docilely accepted and unchallenged over the years; or could perhaps be somewhat pardoned owing to the rigours and nonstop demands of

managing an institution for the aged. But that didn’t excuse them from treating her like some snivelling, unruly, little schoolgirl. After all, she was only sixty-nine when she arrived there, the youngest woman by far in the Home; and as far as she knew, she still possessed every wit she ever had.

Even a lifetime’s acquaintance with nuns of every personal life style and manner had not prepared Celia for her initial encounter with Sister Marguerite-Anne, the Administrator of the Home, however. It had come on her second day there. Coolly and briskly invited into the office at exactly 10:00 a.m., the door closed firmly behind her, she was told rather than invited to be seated.

You have made out your will, Mrs. Frazier?

The question was sharp, came immediately, with no preliminary whatsoever.

White-and pinched-faced, and looking shrivelled and dehydrated amongst the flowing folds of her habit, Sister Marguerite-Anne had both elbows planted in business-like fashion on the broad desk. She was a mere wisp, but had blank and uncompromising pale blue eyes. Hunching her narrow shoulders, her tiny, delicate, hands played slowly and methodically with a pencil. The harsh light from the hooded desk lamp glanced fiercely from the silver rims of her glasses.

"It’s Miss Frazier, Sister," Celia said.

Miss?

Quickly Sister Marguerite-Anne glanced down at a sheet she had before her on the spotless desk blotter. From where she sat, already decidedly on edge, Celia could see eight, perhaps ten, typewritten lines.

So it is. So it is… I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

So abruptly did Sister Marguerite-Anne look up at this point, that once again Celia received an impression of ashwhitedness combined with an inflexible efficiency, as of a flimsy enough, sun-bleached, reed that was nevertheless made of steel. Sister’s face was human, Celia was obliged to think: but she just qualified by an inch.

You have never been married then?

If I had, Sister, I think I would have said so on my application-don’t you agree? Celia said, a little testily, in spite of a hastily assembled resolution not to overreact.

Nevertheless, she had found herself speedily manoeuvred into telling a lie-about being married before. But just as speedily Celia concluded it was really just a tiny fib, a peccadillo, one that preserved a precious secret that was no one’s business but her own. But that was their way: that was just their way, she couldn’t stop herself thinking, although she knew she was being unfair. They probed for the guilt, the tiny flaw, the harmless lapse, found it at last, and then rubbed it in until you were stifled.

Yes-of course. To return to your will, then, Miss Frazier. You have made one out then?

Forgive me, Sister, but may I ask the reason for your question?

Well-there are really several reasons, Miss Frazier.

Sister Marguerite-Anne was staring down, apparently preoccupied, at the sheet of typewritten paper. Her pencil now doing a nervous, little, tattoo on the glossy surface of the desk, she suddenly shook her astonishingly thin shoulders, as from an unexpected chill, or a strongly distasteful thought perhaps.

One reason, of course, is that it is simply plain good sense to have a will. On the practical side, it naturally avoids a lot of unnecessary problems after one…well, after one dies. You understand what I mean. And then here, at St. Therese’s, the need is even more pressing, as you will no doubt realize after you have been here a while.

Behind the silver rims the pale eyes blinked frankly.

Do you see my point so far, Miss Frazier?

Yes, Celia said, I think I do.

Thus, at St. Therese’s, we make it a rule that everyone who comes to stay with us makes out a will, if he or she hasn’t already. When they first enter, I mean.

I-

Furthermore, Sister Marguerite-Anne cut in. She appeared to be catching a kind of rhythm now, hitting what Celia suspected would be her ironclad stride, and so she reluctantly prepared herself, politely as she could manage, to sit for the time being and merely listen.

-Furthermore, we recommend to all our new-comers, that if they have no one to bequeath their worldly possessions to-and so many of them haven’t, you must realize-to leave them to St. Therese’s. In fact, even if they do happen to have family we strongly recommend it. It will be many years, if ever, until St. Therese’s can be comfortably in the black.

I see, Celia said faintly.

I’m very glad you do, Miss Frazier. These are in some ways hard times, and many-I repeat: many-of our residents are far from wealthy.

While at first Celia had tried very hard to credit her ears, she was now having no little difficulty in keeping her composure. The clinical tone and swift manner of the Administrator’s delivery had caught her up short.

And so I find I must bring you back to my opening question. Have you made out your will yet or not?

No, Sister, Celia managed to say flatly. I have not.

On your application you name no next-of-kin. Am I to conclude then that your immediate family are all deceased?

In my immediate family, yes.

I take it you have no one else?

I have two nephews down in the States. One lives just outside Chicago, the other is now in California, Celia said, feeling uncomfortable and not a little shamed, as if she had practically confessed to a crime.

That is all. Their mother-my sister Denise-died six months ago.

Oh-I see… Celia almost flinched as she felt rather than saw herself the target of an intense scrutiny from behind Sister Marguerite-Anne’s glasses, followed quickly by the query: Would you sister’s married name have been Marshall?

Yes. That was her name.

Of course. Of course: I can see a distinct resemblance. Your sister was most giving of her time in helping out at the Home in many capacities, Miss Frazier.

Sister Marguerite-Anne had casually phrased her remark in such a way, so it seemed to Celia, that while there was obvious praise for Denise for her generosity, there was a slight but neatly barbed note of condemnation for her own lack of it. Clearly the Administrator was not about to descend to something as mean as sentimentality at the acknowledgement of other family members.

And are you close to your two nephews, Miss Frazier?

No, not really. We exchange Christmas cards.

I see.

Celia thought she detected a tiny, rather crabbed, sigh of relief; though it might have been an involuntary shudder, possibly owing to the chilling draftiness that appeared a feature of the Home wherever one went. She also noticed for the first time that Sister’s white cheeks were s maze of fine, lightly incised, wrinkles.

Then-it would seem clear that you have no one close to you, to whom you might-?

No, I haven’t, Sister. No one, Celia admitted, secretly adding to herself: But I wish I had, Sister. I wish to God I had.

She even half-astonished herself by dearly wishing she had the nerve to deceive the Administrator with a second lie.

At this point, Sister Marguerite-Anne cocked a slender wrist and sharply examined her watch. It would appear they were short on time. It was obvious this routine interview must soon be brought to a head.

Then might I encourage you to make your will out in favour of our Home, Miss Frazier? Sister Marguerite-Anne then rapidly continued, managing this time to inject into her words a note of calm reasonableness, even of inevitability. As a matter of fact, I strongly recommend it. So many of our residents have done so before you, and personally I can think of no better choice.

Celia nearly gasped, and was just able to say: I’m certain that you couldn’t.

Is that an implied criticism that I detect, Miss Frazier?

No, no, Sister. Nothing of the sort.

But by now-out of a sheer instinct for survival which always surfaced when some outer limit of being bullied had been arrived at-Celia had regained all of her composure. Thus she was enabled to direct her next question to the Administrator in her most urbane and impersonal manner.

I’m wondering, Sister Marguerite-Anne. Is this simply a suggestion that you are making? Or are you explaining established policy? I would like-personally speaking-to be very clear on the matter.

Celia thought she detected a cold flash behind the silver-rimmed glasses. A point! she thought.

No, Miss Frazier, it is not ‘established policy’ as you put it. At St. Therese’s we do not force people to do anything contrary to their own reasonable desires, I can assure you. Sister’s voice was both exemplary and menacing in its icy matter-of-factedness. She had the pencil in both slender hands now and appeared to be idly testing it for the breaking point. "But allow me to point out to you-to you, personally-the benefits of taking such a step. First, as I have indicated to you, St. Therese’s has a great need of your assistance. You must realize the services and comforts we are able to provide to you in your declining years depend in large measure on gifts such as you are capable of making."

But wouldn’t I have to die be-?

Celia, realizing the inanity of her objection as soon as she made it, was almost startled by swift advantage Sister took of it.

"That’s just my point, Miss Frazier. And it’s not my intention, please believe me, to sound unduly blunt or unfeeling. But just think for a moment of all the others before you, who have contributed to what you will enjoy!"

In spite of herself, Celia now stared open-mouthed. The logic was irrefutable. There could be no doubt of it. And yet it seemed to her that she had never heard such a diabolical chain of reasoning in her life.

And then, of course, Sister Marguerite-Anne calmly continued, ‘there is the benefit to your soul."

My soul?

Your soul, Miss Frazier. Your immortal soul. Sister’s admonitory tone implied decidedly that Celia had been very remiss on this score. "While we are largely funded by the provincial government-largely underfunded, I might add-St. Therese’s is in a certain sense a religious institution, and, quite naturally, we are as keenly anxious about your spiritual well-being as your material. We do not take that part of our mandate lightly. You can understand what I am getting at, Miss Frazier?"

Yes, Sister. Yes-I think I can, Celia could only bring herself to murmur.

And please bear in mind too that such generosity on your part will be fully, and gratefully, remembered in our prayers and masses-a benefit, in the after-life, of no small value to yourself.

The extended pause at this point was apparently intended to allow this last observation to sink in.

I-I hadn’t really considered that… Celia at last all but whispered in reply.

And finally in this regard, Miss Frazier, I hope I don’t have to remind you that it is infinitely more blessed to give than to receive.

Sister Marguerite-Anne’s keen grey eyes blinked a sincere interrogation behind their lenses.

Or do I?

Three

A CRITICAL DECISION

Anyone noting Celia emerging from the Administrator’s office that morning would have detected nothing abnormal about her manner or demeanor. She herself was fiercely conscious of this: she had always felt a justifiable pride, in fact, in her ability, painfully perfected over many years, to offer an unruffled surface to the rest of the world, an exterior that was not only calm but on most occasions displayed a marked willingness to be civil and courteous as well. But without question that morning’s interview with Sister Marguerite-Anne had been a severe test of her equanimity: one of the very worst ever encountered in her lifetime.

Just imagine her being coldly and deliberately assaulted in such a manner on only her second day at the Home!

Still, Celia had left the Administrator’s office somewhat more hurriedly, and with less dignity, than she would have liked, a growing inner turmoil having threatened to strip away her composure completely and propel her out the door like a cannon shot. Nevertheless, before her departure she had summoned up sufficient aplomb to announce to Sister Administrator (her rather unflattering title among the residents, as she was to learn) in an assured and, she had hoped, unimpressed voice that she would give her suggestions some serious thought. And while outwardly she would have appeared to be looking about the hallway with an admirable agreeableness and alertness of mind-luckily there was no one about to see her anyway-deep within she had been greatly shaken.

Thus her first steps away from the office while firm were uncharacteristically tentative, not unlike someone entering for the first time into a new and unfamiliar and possibly frightening world, one strewn with hidden perils unrecognized or unencountered up till then, where caution and patience must obviously be exercised at all costs. Though she strained, rather weakly, to reject the thought-a positive outlook was always

Celia’s preference-it was nevertheless occurring to her that the Administrator’s questions and theme must have a more sinister aim than had appeared on the surface: this being to wear her down immediately, to render her pliable and inert, to finish her off at the outset. She felt unable to resist the impression that she’d just miraculously escaped from the den of some wild animal. Since no one was around to see, for a terrible moment she permitted herself to just stand there in the middle of the hallway, feeling totally without support or direction. Farther along the corridor, Celia noted a low wooden bench, bordered by two potted plants set in large ceramic-looking containers, to which she quickly went over and seated herself. That her knees were now shaking uncontrollably alarmed her, as did the almost audible pounding of her heart. Fortunately the corridor was still deserted, as was the modest foyer into which it led, every gleaming, spotless, tile of which now seemed to her an unbearable outrage.

Celia’s head seemed to reel; for a prolonged minute or two she felt she would faint. Somewhat desperately she stared first at the handsome potted ferns to either side of her, and then at the tidy but somehow excessively remote scene beyond the large window in the foyer, seeking perhaps, from deeply ingrained habit, any consolation from the natural world, however distant, that was available. Then-finally-her mind was able to settle on the indignity she imagined she had just endured at the hands of Sister Marguerite-Anne.

Surely, she thought, what she had just heard was not to be believed! And the manner, the imperious style, with the relentless probing and those merciless icicles for eyes, of the nun! It was shameless! It was not to be borne!

Celia shook her head with some violence, as if to dislodge such hateful thoughts and perhaps erase the memory of her clash-for that is what it had surely been-with the Administrator altogether. Instinctively gazing once again through the large sheet of glass in the corner of the foyer for solace, she found her mind, as it struggled for understanding, becoming calmer, more reflective.

She had heard of nuns like Sister Marguerite-Anne before who-their legends would have it, at least-were out-and-out terrors. She had even met a few, mostly during her schooling years, who, while not exactly terrors, perhaps, were certainly capable of sending a chill up your back if they had a mind to. But the majority of nuns she had encountered had, more often than not, made a genuine attempt to put a kinder and more human face on what many considered to be an unduly strict and uncompromising religion.

She had no difficulty at all recalling Sister Aloysius, for instance, whose personal warmth and sense of fun had brightened many a dreary day in the classroom. Here was a giving nun, Celia found herself remembering with some pleasure, a real model. Although Celia hadn’t thought of her for more years than she would have liked, just the brief memory of Sister Aloysius’ quietly radiant smile, so filled with the gift of understanding and encouragement, brought her a momentary relief for which she was very grateful. A little further effort recalled to her mind the formidable presence of Sister Maria Theresa, a short and portly Italian nun whose often abrupt manner and remarkably large, imperturbable, face, that she carried before her like a danger signal (Celia had often thought of a huge ocean liner coming slowly into port), belied a kindness that was unfailing. Especially memorable was the genuine friendship this good sister had shown toward Celia’s mother in her final months, when every Thursday afternoon she would visit to have a quiet, if animated, chat and to recite the Rosary together.

Shining lights! Celia recalled with almost desperate thankfulness. Beacons in their special way of discernment and love! And how had she neglected to think of the diminutive, black, French nun, Sister Isabelle-Francine, eighty