Authors: Ann Warner
“Please, stay here.” Mary John released Clen’s hand. “I want to say a prayer.” She walked over to the nearby statue and stood before it with head bowed.
Prayer wasn’t going to help. Besides, Clen had gone a long time without it, the words dried up and blown away with Josh. Even when Gerrum was missing, she hadn’t prayed. And she especially disliked praying to statues. What did people see in them anyway? All exposed hearts, insipid expressions, and garishly painted robes.
Not this one, though. Not garishly painted. In fact, not painted at all, its curves likely as cool and smooth to the touch as the snow they resembled. She’d forgotten until this moment she’d stared at this particular statue before, while talking about Josh. Did she notice then the way light glanced off a cheek and shadows pooled under the eyes of the two figures depicted—a woman holding a man’s body on her lap? Pain frozen in stone.
Mary John finished her prayer and came to sit beside Clen. “I want you to think about something, Clen. I want you to consider other explanations for what you saw.”
“What I saw was clear.”
Mary John patted her arm and nodded toward the statue. “What do you see?”
Easy enough to figure out what Mary John was suggesting. That there were many kinds of embraces. But Mary John hadn’t seen what Clen saw. Mary John gave her shoulder a squeeze, then went inside. Restless, Clen wandered from the organized tidiness of the garden into the green and gold disorder of the woods surrounding Resurrection. Anger accompanied her. Anger at Gerrum and Hailey but also anger at herself.
For running away. Again.
The word “abbey” had evoked an image of a stone castle-like building, perhaps with ivy-covered walls, so the simple brick structure set among trees beginning to turn gold was not what Gerrum was expecting.
He stepped onto the porch and rang the bell. More than a minute passed without a response. He was about to ring again, when an elderly nun dressed in a traditional black and white habit opened the door and greeted him in the soft voice he’d last heard when he’d telephoned.
She bowed. “The Lord be with you. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. I’m here to see Clen McClendon.”
The nun pursed her lips, examining him, then without speaking, motioned him to follow her to what they no doubt called their parlor. It was roughly the size of his Wrangell living room and furnished with several straight-backed chairs and two formal settees. Lounging not encouraged, apparently.
“Please, wait here. That is, if you wouldn’t mind?”
He nodded and she backed out, pulling the door closed.
For fifteen minutes, he alternated pacing with staring out the window, his frustration growing. Finally, the door opened and another nun, also in traditional garb, walked in. This one was middle-aged and round-figured. A comfortable, motherly sort of person, or so he thought until he looked in her eyes. Those eyes were nothing like the gentle, inquiring eyes of the nun who’d answered the door. Instead, these were the eyes of the person one called when someone came to disturb a “retreatant” who was choosing not to be disturbed.
“I’m Sister Mary John.” She extended a blunt hand almost as work-roughened as his.
“Gerrum Kirsey.”
“Sister Kevin tells me you have asked to see Clen McClendon.” She folded her hands into the wide sleeves of her habit and stood perfectly still, staring at him with careful eyes.
“Yes.”
“And that it’s not exactly a family emergency.”
To counter his discomfort, he employed one of the tactics he’d found to be successful when he was practicing law. He nodded without speaking and waited for what she would say next.
She gestured toward the settees. “Please. Have a seat, Mr. Kirsey.”
Willing himself to patience, he waited for her to sit, then took the settee facing her across a small patch of faded rug.
“Clen was quite disturbed when she arrived here. Do you know why that might be?”
“I have an idea. But I don’t know for certain.”
“What is your idea?”
Ordinarily such a conversation would either annoy him or make him uncomfortable, but knowing Clen was nearby, he now felt calm. “I think Clen saw something she misinterpreted and it upset her.”
“And there was no reason for her to be upset by what she saw?”
“No.”
Mary John sat motionless and silent after his “no,” and he had the impression she was prepared to continue to remain that way indefinitely. Further, he suspected she wasn’t going to let him see Clen unless he did a better job of explaining himself.
“Clen may have seen me comforting a friend...a woman who’s been going through a difficult time. What Clen saw...well, she could have thought...the woman and I...but it wasn’t...”
He had no idea how long the silence lasted after he stumbled to a stop. Mary John continued to sit, her hands once again tucked into her sleeves.
“Please. You have to let me see her. I need to tell her—” His throat convulsed, cutting off speech. He swallowed, took a breath, then another, fighting his way back to control. Finally, he raised his eyes to the nun’s face.
“I’m extremely sorry to tell you, Mr. Kirsey. A short time ago, Clen left without saying where she was going.”
“You put me through the third degree, and she’s not even here?”
She had the grace to wince. “I do apologize. I wanted to assure myself of your sincerity in the event Clen was in touch.”
He swallowed, trying to get his voice under control. He really needed to stop yelling at middle-aged women. “And you have no idea where she might have gone?”
“No. I’m sorry. But if she is in touch, I will urge her to contact you.” She stood and bowed slightly. “The Lord be with you, Mr. Kirsey.”
There must be a set response to that, but he had no idea what it might be, although the habit of courtesy was strong enough he stood and bowed in return. Then he returned to Stowe where he rented a room for the night. Calls to Clen’s parents and her brother went unanswered.
He had no idea what to do next.
Marymead College - Mead,
Kansas
From a distance, Marymead looked exactly as it had the first day Clen saw it twenty-three years ago. She pulled into the parking lot, puzzled that it was empty. Surely fall semester should have started? She stepped out of the car into the heat and humidity of a late summer Kansas day and walked up the steps of the Administration Building. There she found a NO TRESPASSING sign affixed to the door.
She turned to look over the campus, noticing for the first time that the grass surrounding the two dormitories and the Fine Arts Building was dry and overgrown and the flower beds were filled with weeds.
It looked desolate and it made her feel like she’d been transported to some indefinite future time—a feeling so real, she glanced at her hands to see if they were gnarled and spotted with age. Maxine would know what happened, of course, and would no doubt have shared that information if Clen had bothered keeping in touch.
A spasm shivered through her, reminding her of the horrible shaking attacks she’d suffered through most of her junior year. She’d known they’d been caused by grief and guilt and had only stopped because, eventually, she’d been too worn out to feel anything.
If Thomasina hadn’t gone away, Clen would have confessed to her, but by the time the nun returned, Clen had buried that time so deeply, she thought she could live her life as if it never occurred. But the last few days had made it clear that was folly.
Clen drove downtown and parked near Mead’s tiny library. Inside, a young woman who looked about twelve sat at the main desk chewing gum and reading a magazine. She looked up with a bright smile when Clen entered.
“I wonder if you can tell me what happened to Marymead College.”
“It was closed a year ago.”
“But why?”
“Bishop decided it cost too much.”
“Just like that?”
“Pretty much. Bummer. I was hoping to go to school there.”
“What about the sisters?”
“Hmm. Well, I don’t know much about that. There’s a nun who comes in here occasionally. She should know. She lives right over there.” She pointed out the door. “You could see if she’s home.”
Clen thanked the girl and walked across the street to the small apartment building the girl had indicated. The mailbox for apartment 1B was labeled, Sr. S. Moriarity. Clen found the right door and knocked.
The woman who answered was a sturdy redhead with freckles across her nose.
“Sister Moriarity?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Clen McClendon. I was a student at Marymead. I came to visit and discovered it’s been closed.”
“Ah, yes. A terrible thing for the entire town.” Her voice carried a hint of the brogue promised by her name and her coloring. “Would you like to come in?” She gestured for Clen to take one of two chairs in the sparsely furnished front room. “When did you graduate, dear?”
“Nineteen sixty-six.”
“Ah, before my time, I’m afraid. I didn’t arrive until seventy-three.”
“Do you know Sister Thomasina?”
“Oh, my goodness. Of course. Marymead’s last president. Installed right before the bishop decided to shut us down. She fought the good fight. Well, you know what a fighter she was. But only a miracle would have saved us.” She sighed.
“Where is she now?”
“Oh dear. Is that who you came to visit?”
Clen nodded.
“I’m so sorry. She died, you see. Last spring.” Her brogue thickened and her eyes welled. “She was a great favorite of mine. Such a bonny person.”
“How...what happened?”
“A heart attack. I saw her afterward. She said it should be no surprise since her heart had been giving her great difficulties for years. She was speaking metaphorically, of course. We thought she was going to be fine, then...”
“Where...” Clen stopped to clear her throat. “Could you tell me where she’s buried?”
“Why at the Motherhouse in Lawrence. Do you think you might go there?”
“I...I don’t know. Maybe.”