Affectionately...In Jesus and Mary

Copyright © 2011 Edward Makuta

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-9779-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9781-3 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9780-6 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 3/23/2011

Contents

Affectionately … in Jesus and Mary

The Letter

The Hidden Life of Eddie Moszka

Dying

PF, I Love You

The Stoning

The Trial

Room Visiting

The Burial

A Good Black Suit

Two West

Pvt. York

Pray For The Firemen, Pray For The People In The Burning House

Introduction To Philosophy

The Last Last Supper

Ich Habe Genug

A History Lesson

The Lady Or The Lioness

Expedition With A Bone Hunter

Affectionately … in Jesus and Mary

When Sister Marian Anselm woke up she could hear birds outside her window in the thick ivy that covered the red brick walls of Saint Columbkille’s Convent. It sounded like many birds, not just two or three, and they weren’t chirping softly or sweetly singing, but they were making a loud, shrill, constant noise.

Why should birds be so noisy this early in the morning in the dark?

What time was it? 5:00. Still a half-hour before she had to get up and start her day. What day was it today? Thursday … no, Friday. What was her schedule today?

Those birds! It was hard to even think, the birds were that noisy. How could such small birds be making so much noise? They had to be some kind of small bird to be in the ivy … sparrows or finches or wrens. She didn’t know much about birds. Sister Carmella, the biology teacher in the room next door, would know. She wondered if Sister Carmella could hear them too. It sounded like the birds were upset about something. It couldn’t be that a cat was lurking nearby, because her room was on the second floor of the convent, out of reach of a cat. The birds seemed to be quarreling, bickering about something. She tried to dismiss the noise.

What was her schedule today? Whatever her schedule was, she knew that the most important thing she had to do that day was to talk with Eddie … with Edward Moszka, a senior in Saint Columbkille’s High School, where she taught English. Everything else: classes, choir practice, and household duties, seemed secondary to talking with Eddie … with Edward. Even prayer and Mass seemed secondary, or at least as important.

Those birds! They were going on and on without stopping. What could it be? … It had to be … what date was it today? March something. March 9, the feast of Saint Frances of Rome, whose life was the subject matter of Sister Anselm’s morning meditation. It had to be because it would soon be spring. That had to be the reason for the birds being so noisy, so excited.

She smiled. Now she understood clearly those lines from Chaucer about the birds that slept the whole night through with open eyes … or was it eye, the singular?

And smale fowles maken melodye,

That slepen al the night with open ye

The singular. To rhyme with melodye. Her English professor at Seton Hall University had scheduled The Canterbury Tales to coincide with the coming of spring. The first assignment had been to memorize the first eighteen lines of the General Prologue, not in Modern English, which would have been difficult enough, but in Middle English, which had been almost impossible for her. But she had always been a good student all her life, and her religious order expected her to do well now in the course, so, dutifully, she memorized the first eighteen lines of the Prologue.

Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote

She had got so caught up in the rhythm of the lines, especially the lines about the birds, that, in spite of herself, she found herself recalling lines from the Prologue throughout the day, sometimes even at Mass. She would be saying her prayers at Mass, but down deep inside of her, she could hear the lines of the Prologue. But unlike Chaucer’s birds, these birds outside her window now slept the whole night through with open mouths … beaks. It was probably the birds that woke her up in the first place.

Chaucer’s birds and these birds were unlike each other as she was to the Prioress. The only thing she had in common with the Prioress, other than that they were both nuns, was that they were both somewhat overweight. Chaucer had described the Prioress:

For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe

Sister Marian had to admit that it did sound better in Middle English. The Prioress was a frivolous character, to be sure, and not to be taken too seriously, but the Prioress’s Tale had moved Sister Anselm very deeply. O alma Redemptoris Mater … O sweet, dear Mother of the Redeemer, sang the young boy in the Prioress’s Tale, a widow’s son, as he went to school and on his way home. Even after they slit the young boy’s throat and threw his dead body into a cesspool, he miraculously continued to sing: O alma Redemptoris Mater. Even though the schoolboy in the Prioress’s Tale was only seven years old, Sister Anselm couldn’t help thinking of Eddie Moszka as she was reading the Tale, especially the lines:

They walk before the Lamb, and sing an ever new song,

Who never had carnal knowledge of women.

Now what were the words in Middle English? … Those birds! Who could think clearly with all that racket going on!

She felt like getting out of bed and chasing the birds away, but she decided not to interfere with Nature, with such small, harmless—although very noisy!—creatures. Spring. Soon the birds will be finding mates, building nests, laying eggs, caring for the young. All day long they will be flying back and forth to the nest, bringing insects and berries and seeds. If only she were as lucky as the birds. What Nature made them feel only in the spring and summer months, she felt every month of the year, year after year. If she felt like that only in the spring and summer, then in the fall and winter, it wouldn’t be a problem. She could forget about it for a while; she would have peace at least for part of the year. But no. Nature was cruel to her: inevitable, relentless, demanding, on and on, beyond her control. April is the cruelest month, that poet wrote. But no. March was cruel too. And August. And January. Every month of the year was equally cruel to her.

She knew she should be getting up out of bed and not be lying there thinking like this, because whenever she did, all her problems would become magnified, she would overreact to them, and she would soon get depressed and wouldn’t feel like getting up at all. How she hated waking up earlier than she had to! Here she was, supposedly getting ready for morning visit to the chapel, meditation, and Mass, but what was she thinking about? Everything but. She had those birds to thank for that!

She turned on the lamp next to the bed, opened the missal lying on the night stand to March 9, and tried to concentrate on the subject matter for her morning meditation.

SAINT FRANCES OF ROME

Widow

Although she wished to be a nun, St. Frances was made to marry a

nobleman, Lorenzo Ponziani. She became a model mother, carefully

looking after the education of her children. With her own hands she

helped the poor and the sick. She led a very deep interior life. She

died in 1440 in a monastery which she founded in Tor di Specchi

and entered after her husband’s death.

SISTER MARIAN ANSELM

Nun

Although she was a nun, Sister Marian Anselm wished to be a mother…

Saint Frances experienced both lives: she was a mother and a nun. But to be a nun first and then a mother would be impossible for Sister Anselm, not physically she supposed (but how could she be sure?), because she was still young enough to have a child (wasn’t she reminded of that every month?), but spiritually, because she had taken her final, solemn, religious vows. The sin against her vow of chastity would be a sacrilege. Only one sin was greater than a sacrilege: the unpardonable sin against the Holy Ghost. But she couldn’t help feeling that she was missing the most important thing for her in life: being a mother. Forty-one years old. How many more years would she be able to have a child? She knew that the spiritual life should be enough for her. Her day was filled with spiritual activities. Didn’t she do everything required of her and more? Didn’t she follow not only the rule of her religious order but also the spirit of the rule? Didn’t she strive to lead a sinless life to such a degree that she wouldn’t tell a lie to save the world? Wasn’t she getting a graduate degree in English only because her religious order had asked her to (for State certification for the high school), and not out of any love of English? How much more could she do? Why, then, did she feel so empty, so unfulfilled?

Sister Anselm didn’t know how the other nuns of Saint Columbkille’s Convent felt about not having a child. Did it haunt them the way it haunted her? It was something they would never talk about among themselves. Never. It would never come up in conversation. Never. Did they also get depressed about it? Was the feeling as insistent in them as it was in her? If it was, how did they manage to go on day after day, year after year? Outwardly: in chapel, around the convent, in school, the other nuns always seemed to have such control over their lives; they always seemed to be content and at peace. But maybe they thought that she had control; and maybe none of them had control. Maybe they all felt empty and unfulfilled. You couldn’t tell just by looking at them. Was Sister Carmella, in the room next door, as troubled as she was? Maybe every nun in the convent was in her room right now feeling the same way as she did. She didn’t know.

Or was it only her? Maybe the prayers of the other nuns were more efficacious than hers in controlling such thoughts and feelings. God might be more generous with His grace to them than He was to her. Or was there something wrong with her? Something mentally wrong? Two nuns from her religious order, one middle-aged, the other in her late twenties, were in a hospital in New York, in the locked psychiatric ward. You couldn’t tell that anything was wrong with them just by looking at them: they wore their religious habits in the hospital, said their prayers, and attended daily Mass, as though they were still living in a convent and not in a hospital. One of them has been in the hospital for five years, the other for three. What problems drove them there? Were their problems the same as hers? Would they ever return to the convent? Sister Anselm didn’t know.

Or maybe there was something physically wrong with her. Maybe even now she was physically incapable of having a child, maybe she was never capable of having a child. How could she know? And, besides, what man would want an older, somewhat heavy woman—nat undergrowe—with graying hair? What good would a graduate degree in English be if she had to start looking for a husband? And what did she know about men? Almost nothing. She had entered the convent immediately after high school, having never gone steady with a boy. No boy had ever touched her body in an impure way. She thought about Eddie, who in a few hours from now would be over in the park across the street from Saint Columbkille’s, sitting with Dolores Leveroni on a bench—their bench!—near the statues of Monsignor Comden, the founder of Saint Columbkille’s Parish, and two young children, a boy on the Monsignor’s right and a girl on his left. There, at the exact center of the park, to which, from which, all the sidewalks of the park, eight of them, came and went, like the spokes of a wheel, there, the Monsignor and the children stood day and night looking at the buildings of St. Columbkille’s Parish across the street from the park: the lyceum on their left, then the convent, the grammar school, the high school, the rectory, the beautiful Gothic church on the corner, whose twin steeples were so high they seemed to touch the sky. The seasons and the years passed by, but there the Monsignor and the children stood unchanged, a source of comfort, inspiration, and stability to Sister Anselm. If only you were alive now, she whispered to the Monsignor in the dark. If only you were still alive on Earth. As a priest and a man, you would know what to say to Edward, and Edward would probably be more willing to talk with a man than he would with a woman. Nevertheless, she would try her very best to get through to Edward. Today, she whispered to the Monsignor. I promise to talk with Edward today. The birds brought her back; on and on and on. There seemed to be so many of them. The noise filled her room.

5:20. Lying on her back, she distended her stomach under the dark green blanket and held it for as long as she could. She slowly, reluctantly, let her stomach fall as flat as it could. What would it feel like to have a child inside of her? Every school day, all day long, she was surrounded by children, but they were all outside of her, they were her spiritual children. But to have a child inside of her! Her very own child! Even the ever-virgin Mary knew what it felt like to have a child in her womb and at her breast. You are a spiritual mother to countless children, she could hear her spiritual advisor, Father Charles Bellamy, saying. "Because you are not tied down to one particular child, all children are yours." But was spiritual motherhood enough for her? Yes, she answered. Yes, it was! It had to be. It had to be! She would make it be enough. Yes! she shouted out loud, so loud she was afraid Sister Carmella in the next room might have heard her. Yes, she whispered. Yes.

It was quiet now. Even the birds were quiet. Her shout must have scared them away.

The bell to rise rang in the corridor. May Jesus Christ be praised now and forever, she responded to the bell. Yes. You are enough for me. She washed and dressed quickly, yes, then she went down to the chapel on the first floor to make morning visit to the Blessed Sacrament. Yes.

The chapel was quiet, the only sounds were the other nuns arriving, entering the pews, and pulling down the kneelers. The only other sound was Sister Constantia in the last pew, the oldest nun in the convent, who always whispered her prayers out loud. If only she were as old as Sister Constantia, beyond child-bearing years, perhaps then she would be at peace; then she could devote herself entirely, soul and body, to the spiritual life. But maybe the sense of loss would be even greater then. Never … never to be able to have a child. She felt like going up to the front of the chapel and facing the other nuns. How do you manage to go on without having a child? Tell me. Do you feel the way I do? Please tell me. Please help me. Please. I must be doing something wrong. The other nuns say nothing. Tell me! she shouts. The others keep their eyes lowered, say nothing but their silent prayers to the Blessed Sacrament, the Bridegroom of their souls. Even when she shakes them one by one, pew by pew, not one of them looks up at her or answers.

O God, come to my assistance, said Sister Margaret Mary, the Mother Superior in the first pew, beginning the morning prayers.

All the others answered in unison, O Lord, make haste to help me.

Sister Anselm suddenly realized that the image on the laminated holy card which she was holding in her right hand was that of the Holy Ghost in the form of a dove: a solitary, hovering white bird, facing her with outstretched wings, from which came rays of light: bright, warm, soothing rays, that slowly, surely, entered her and filled her inmost being. Yes! Yes! Yes!

∞

Eddie sat on the top rung of a bench near the center of the park, near the elevated, enshrined statues of Monsignor James Comden and two young children, a boy on his right, a girl on his left, the three of them looking at the buildings of St. Columbkille’s Parish across the street from the park: the lyceum on their left, then the convent, the grammar school, the high school, the rectory, and, finally, the Gothic church on the corner.

Eddie looked past the statues, looked down the left diagonal sidewalk, watching … waiting … waiting for … waiting for … at last! … there she is now! … Dee! … beautiful Dee! … beautiful dark Dee! who was walking to him with slow, tiny, soft steps, placing one foot in front of the other, as though she were walking a tightrope … closer … closer … eddieanddee … eddee … Eddie’s heart pounded much faster and harder than Dee’s slow, soft steps.

It’s not for me to say you love me;

It’s not for me to say you’ll always care.

Our song … no, not our song … never our …

To her breasts, with crossed arms, Dee hugged her books. Dee … beautiful Dee … beautiful dark Dee … my Dee … no, not my Dee … never my … Dee, who was a near occasion of sin. Yet, he hadn’t committed a single mortal sin in thought, word, or deed, in … how many months was it now? March, February, January, not for over two months, not since the beginning of the year. His only New Year’s resolution. A resolution that he had to keep.

Dee snuck beneath the statues that saw only the buildings of Saint Columbkille’s Parish across the street from the park.

Eddie sat on the top rung of the bench, his feet on the seat; Dee sat on the seat rungs, looking up at him. Between them lay their books.

What was that smell, that sweet smell that filled the park and him? It was a flower, some kind of flower, a flower in full bloom before the beginning of spring!

As far as I can see, this is heaven;

And speaking just for me, it’s ours to share.

Our song … no, not our song … never our …

When, into the corner of Eddie’s eyes, entered a distant, dark figure, coming slowly up the right diagonal sidewalk toward them … closer … closer … until Dee and the figure were one in his eyes.

It stopped.

Not even a flower in full bloom could overcome the stink of … it smelled like sweat … it smelled like pee and shit … like dirty clothes and dirty feet.

Smiling, the figure shifted its weight from left to right to left without lifting its feet from the ground, as though it were dancing in time to music that only it could hear.

What’s long and thin, it said, smiling, and covered with skin, only God knows how many holes it’s been in?

Dee glanced up at Eddie, then she lowered her eyes.

It leered at Eddie, it leered down at Dee, shuffling its feet in place.

A snake, it said, smiling, then it walked away, beneath the statues of Monsignor James Comden and two young children that saw only the buildings of Saint Columbkille’s Parish across the street from the park.

∞

As soon as Sister Marian Anselm opened the side door of the convent, the loud, shrill, constant voices of the grammar school children came through and above the tall privet hedge that separated the convent from the grammar school. She adjusted the black, woolen shawl that was draped on her shoulders—she still needed her shawl on these cool March mornings—pulling it closer around her neck, and walked down the porch steps onto the red brick sidewalk. Purple crocuses with golden centers, and white crocuses with golden centers, lined her way; bright, deep-blue ajugas crept out of their beds; tulips and hyacinths were about to burst. She went through the opening in the tall privet hedge, and was soon surrounded by many grammar school children.

Good morning, Sister, sang the children from every side.

Good morning, children, she kept repeating, without stopping.

One small boy, playing tag, bumped into her. Frightened and embarrassed, the child looked up at her with his bright, blue eyes. A little Eddie Moszka, she couldn’t help thinking. She smiled and gently touched the soft, curly blond hair of the small child, the beautiful child, the so sweet child, my … no, not my … not really my … never my …

Sorry, Sister, said the beautiful child.

Shielding herself with her black leather book bag, holding it in front of her, to the right, to the left as needed, she hurried through the grammar school children to the high school building.

From the raised ground on which the gray cement high school stood, she looked across the street into the park where she knew they would be, Edward Moszka and Dolores Leveroni, sitting on a park bench—their bench!—near the statues of Monsignor Comden and two children. They were there now every nice morning, separated from their friends, seeking privacy. Edward sat on the top rung of the bench, Dolores on the seat, looking up at him. If only the Monsignor could tell her what they were talking about. She would have to act before it was too late. She would have to be as ruthless with Edward as she had to be with herself.

Sister Anselm climbed the front steps of the gray cement high school and went in.

In her homeroom on the second floor front, she reached between the pots of the tall, crowded snake plants that had pushed to the edge of the pots and over the sides, and, lifting the windows shades, she looked across the street into the park. The new, young, little leaves on the trees allowed her to see the bench where they were sitting; soon the trees would be full and she wouldn’t be able to see them. The school bell rang, and she watched Edward and Dolores walk slowly—reluctantly, it seemed to her—toward the school. At the front of the school they separated, Edward coming up the front steps to the senior entrance, and Dolores going around to the side entrance.

Sister Anselm looked over at the Monsignor and the two children, now all alone in the park. Today, she said to the Monsignor. Definitely today. I promise.

There will be choir practice in the choir loft immediately after school today, said Edward Moszka over the loudspeaker, making the morning announcements, which was one of his duties as president of the senior class.

Listening to him, Sister Anselm smiled. What a good speaking voice he has: clear, sure, melodious, soothing. She could listen to him all day long. What wonderful sermons he would give some day as a priest! … that is, if he was still interested in becoming a priest.

She eyed Dolores Leveroni, who was sitting in the middle of the second row from the door, dressed in the school uniform: a dark green jumper and a tan top. Pretty, yes. Beautiful even, with her black, long curly hair; her dark, full eyebrows; her dark, long eyelashes; her big, dark brown, almost black, eyes; her full figure, although she was only sixteen years old, a sophomore. How physically unlike each other, Edward and Dolores were, Sister Anselm thought. He: fair and tall and thin; she: short and dark. Pretty, yes; beautiful even, but definitely not for Edward! Even if he weren’t going into the seminary—was it possible he no longer was going into the seminary?—Dolores wouldn’t be the right girl for him. He was so much smarter and talented than she, so much more mature. Opposites do attract, but Sister Anselm supposed that what a couple had in common is what keeps them together. She looked around the room at all the girls, looking up and down each and every row, but, in the end, she found no one suitable for Edward.

Edward announced: There will be a bake sale this Sunday in the lyceum to benefit the steeple fund…

That terrible thunderstorm damaged both steeples of the church. Sister Anselm’s mind fell from the steeples to the choir loft. The only thing Edward and Dolores had in common, besides their good looks, was their good singing voices. As director of the choir, Sister Anselm had watched their growing interest in each other, singing to each other—she couldn’t help thinking of Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald—ignoring her direction, each singing slightly louder than the others in their sections, oblivious of everyone else in the choir, oblivious even that what they were singing was a prayer, and as such should be directed to God, not to each other. Kyrie eleison … Lord, have mercy, they would sing to each other, not only in practice, but during Mass itself … Who was that sailor she saw Dolores with after Mass a couple of Sundays ago? After Mass, they walked down the street together toward Dolores’s house, holding hands. The sailor had to be her boyfriend. But, then, what did Edward and Dolores mean to each other?

Sister Anselm asked the Monsignor: Is this thing between Edward and Dolores really serious or are they just good friends? Or is it just a crush, puppy love, a final infatuation before he enters the seminary? Am I overreacting? Misreading the situation?

The County Basketball Tournament will begin tonight in the Armory, said Edward over the loudspeaker. Saint Columbkille’s will meet City High at seven o’clock. Tickets may be purchased in the Principal’s office or at the Armory door before the game. Let’s all go out and support our team…

Sister Anselm couldn’t wait until the end of the basketball season when Edward would let his hair grow in. He had such beautiful, soft—she supposed soft, because even the gentlest of breezes could move it—curly blond hair, but during the basketball season, he kept his hair cut so short that he looked just like a monkey.

The Junior Dance will be held next Friday night at eight o’clock in the school auditorium…

During the last dance, the Sophomore Dance, Dolores’s dance, Sister Anselm had watched Edward and Dolores dance a waltz together, too closely she felt. As they waltzed close to the folding tables that had been set up for the nuns in the corner of the gymnasium near the folding bleachers, she felt like saying something to them—at least to him—at the time. When they looked over at her and smiled, she nodded and had to force a smile. She let them waltz away. She regretted now that she didn’t say something to him at the time.

She began rehearsing what she would say to him today: Edward, how do I begin to talk with you? It seems as though we haven’t talked in such a long time. I guess we’ve both been pretty busy—

No, she told herself, be straight forward. Come right out with it. Edward, I was wondering if you’re still going into the seminary. Even if he says no, she would continue to talk with him, because a religious vocation wasn’t something you say yes to one day and no to the next. It was much deeper than that. Even if he says no on the surface, somewhere inside of him he was still, hopefully, saying yes.

Since you confided in me that you were going into the seminary, I feel I have the right, maybe even the obligation, to say something to you—the fact that I’m your spiritual mother and you my spiritual son gives me not only the right, but the obligation. I am more than just your English teacher. This is so much more important than Shakespeare and Macbeth. From all eternity, God foresaw that you would be in my class. It is my responsibility, then. I’m very concerned about you and Dolores Leveroni. You’re a senior, president of your class, vice-president of Our Lady’s Sodality, co-captain of the basketball team. Dolores is only a sophomore. I’ve seen it so many times before. Going out with you makes her feel important, a somebody … But Sister Anselm rejected that approach, because Edward might get defensive, he might feel that she was attacking Dolores, belittling her, and it might push them even closer together.

She looked at Dolores in the middle of the second row. Or should she, as Dolores’s homeroom teacher, talk with her, woman to woman? She thought it was common knowledge that Edward was going to enter the seminary, but maybe Dolores didn’t know … no, of course Dolores knew. Dolores knew exactly what she was doing. Who and where was that sailor she saw Dolores with a couple of Sundays ago after Mass? Did Edward and the sailor know about each other? Edward had to have seen the sailor with Dolores. Maybe Dolores was still seeing the sailor, and while he was away wherever he was stationed, Dolores was hanging around Edward. Dolores had two men. Two! That wasn’t fair to … to Edward or the sailor.

What about Edward’s parents? Were they aware of Edward’s involvement with Dolores? Did they want him to go into the seminary? Should I get them involved?

No. The best approach would be to talk to Edward about herself, about a religious vocation and the sacrifices that were necessary in order to follow it. Was he too young and immature to understand what she would say to him? She would have to take the risk of him not understanding, of him telling the other students, of them, maybe, making fun of her. Maybe she would lose the necessary distance that there should be between a teacher and a student, lose the confidence of the students, become ineffective, and have to be transferred from Saint Columbkille’s. But it would all be worth the risk, whatever the consequences, just as long as Edward entered the seminary. If anyone had a religious vocation, it certainly was Edward, of that she was sure, as sure as she was about her own vocation.

After school then. After choir practice. Yes … Oh no! She had forgotten that it was her week to set up for dinner in the convent. There wouldn’t be enough time to talk to Edward today. It would have to wait until Monday. Monday, then. Nothing she would do until Monday seemed as important. She prayed that the weekend wouldn’t put Edward beyond her reach. Somehow she would have to get through Friday’s classes, then during choir practice after school she would have to watch Edward and Dolores sing to each other, then on Saturday she would have to take her Chaucer course at Seton Hall, then on Sunday she would have to watch Edward and Dolores sing to each other during Mass…

On Sunday, that sailor—thank God for that sailor!—was there in church, sitting with Dolores’s parents, a very handsome young man, who walked home with Dolores after Mass, hand in hand; Edward had to have seen them.

Finally, Monday.

A steady, heavy rain fell Monday morning, forcing all the students of Saint Columbkille’s inside as soon as they arrived at school. Nevertheless, Sister Anselm, out of habit, peeked from under her black umbrella into the park, at their bench, which, not surprisingly, was empty. How lonely and desolate the Monsignor and the two children looked in the quiet, cold, wet, gloomy park. There was no indication of where the Monsignor actually was now: in heaven, in the light and warmth of heaven, surrounded by the saints, listening to the choirs of angels, receiving the hundredfold for all his years of hard work and sacrifice.

If you have a few minutes after school today, she had said to Edward after English class, I’d like to talk with you in my homeroom. He was wearing a pink shirt with a Mr. B collar and a cocoa-brown thin tie. The shirt and the tie were nice enough separately, but they certainly didn’t go well together. Not at all! And that hair! Monkey! She couldn’t wait until the end of the basketball season when Eddie would let his beautiful, soft—she supposed soft—curly blond hair grow in.

Finally, the end of the school day. Help me, Lord, Sister Anselm prayed, waiting for Edward to arrive in her homeroom. Help me, Monsignor.

As soon as Edward entered the room, he sat down in a desk, and lowered his head.

"Edward, since you confided in me that you were going into the seminary, (and since I am your spiritual mother and you are my spiritual son, she was thinking), I feel I have the right and the obligation to say something to you. A religious vocation is a gift, an invitation from God to follow Him in a very special way. The sacrifice involved is difficult, very difficult, and at times it seems almost impossible—" Be careful not to scare him, she told herself.

Edward was silent, his head was lowered, she was talking to that hair. Monkey! Was he embarrassed? Was he angry at her intrusion? Whatever he was, he wasn’t leaving the room, which encouraged her to continue: I almost left the convent a number of times because I thought I couldn’t go on without having a child. It hurt, it still hurts so much at times, I feel so empty and unfulfilled at times, that I almost get physically sick about it. Some days I feel so terrible that I can hardly get out of bed. But a religious vocation is worth any sacrifice you have to make, no matter how hard it hurts. In the end, you get back so much more than you have to give up.

His head—with that hair! Monkey!—was still lowered.

Come to the point, she told herself. Frankly, Edward, I’m worried about your involvement with Dolores Leveroni.

With his head still lowered, he said in a soft, shaky, hesitant voice: You don’t have to worry about me going into the seminary anymore.

Did that mean he wasn’t going into the seminary?

There’s nothing between me and Dolores.

Even though his head was still lowered, she could tell that he was terribly upset. It wasn’t like Edward to be so withdrawn, so tentative, and unsure. It had to be because of that sailor. What else could it be? Thank God for that sailor! She felt both sorry and happy for Edward at the same time. I’m so sorry that you got hurt, Edward, she felt like saying to him, but not that it turned out this way. She was sure it was divine intervention through the intercession of Monsignor Comden. Someday Edward would look back at this experience and see the hand of God in it. She realized that maybe she didn’t have to reveal herself to him the way she did; she felt embarrassed now, vulnerable, but it was such a small price to pay.

She felt like … she wanted to … could she? … may she hug him? Someone in the hall might see her hugging him through the glass in the classroom door, and misunderstand. But it would be a spiritual embrace, she assured herself. He was a fellow religious, or almost one. And she could justify the hug by the allowance of an embrace when a fellow religious was going off on a long journey. Hadn’t she given Sister Mary Boniface an embrace when she was going off to the missions in Africa? Edward might not be a religious yet, and he may never go to the missions, but he was, she knew so very well, he was going off on a long, long journey, so long and so lonely, so difficult, so desperate a journey … nothing at all like the journey of the pilgrims in The Canterbury Tales.

The Letter

As JV Delancey knelt on a wooden kneeler at the side of his desk, making his morning meditation, he thought only about the letter in the desk drawer. Perhaps kneeling on the floor at the side of the bed with his back to the desk would help him concentrate better on the subject matter of his morning meditation.

JV was supposed to be meditating on the feast of Christ the King: how every king has a kingdom to rule and soldiers to defend that kingdom. Saint Ignatius of Loyola had founded the Jesuits as the militia of Christ the King. But before a Jesuit could do battle against the enemies of the kingdom, he had to conquer himself by poverty, by chastity, and, especially, by obedience. A good Jesuit was an obedient Jesuit.

How wrong JV Delancey’s mother had been. How easy it had been for him to enter the seminary and follow the rules. After he told his parents that he was entering the seminary, his father, typically, said nothing at the time or during the four months before JV left home, but his mother said, more than once: I only hope you know what you’re doing, because you were never one for obeying rules, and I imagine there’s a lot of rules you have to follow in a seminary. You were never one for listening to anyone, whether it was us or your teachers or your bosses. How many times over the years did we have to hear from your teachers that you weren’t listening to them, and I remember last summer when you walked off your father’s construction site just because the foreman told you to go out and get some coffee for the men. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t go into the seminary, if that’s what you really want to do, but just remember, no matter where you go in life or whatever you do, whether you’re in the seminary or not, there’s always going to be somebody in authority over you. I’m just afraid that you’re going to have a very tough time of it there in the seminary.

His mother had been wrong.

O how beautiful! Mrs. Delancey said as they were driving up the front road from the highway, and Hodder Hall, the Novitiate-Juniorate of the religious order, formerly a luxury hotel called Hotel Freneau, suddenly came into view. O how beautiful! she kept saying as they walked the spacious, secluded grounds, especially when they saw the view of Lake Freneau, and the island close to the near shore, and the mountains on the far shore miles away. O how beautiful! I feel a whole lot better now, she said.

And meeting the Master of Novices, Father Francis McGuigan, S.J., made her feel a whole lot better too. He seems like such a nice man, she said.

I’m going to be so mad, his sister said from the back seat of the car, if they don’t let you come home for my wedding.

That’s still a whole year away, Mrs. Delancey said. I’m sure JV will be home by then.

Mother and son glanced at each other.

I don’t mean home for good, she said. I only meant that you may be allowed to visit us in a year from now.

I don’t know what the rules are, JV said.

If you obey the rules, his sister said, they may let you out for good behavior.

You make it sound like it’s a prison, his mother said. She stuck her head out the car window, and looked up at the five-story Tudor-style building. It certainly doesn’t look like a prison to me. How many prisons do you know that are done in Tudor style? Then she pointed past her husband’s head, out the car window, across the oval to the basketball courts. "See the poles there between the backboards on each side of the courts. I bet they’re for a tennis net. I knew