Read In This Small Spot Online
Authors: Caren Werlinger
Tags: #womens fiction, #gay lesbian, #convent, #lesbian fiction, #nuns
In This Small Spot
In This Small Spot
By Caren J. Werlinger
Copyright © 2007, 2013 by Caren J. Werlinger.
All rights reserved.
Published by Corgyn Publishing, LLC at
Smashwords.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9886501-4-5
Print ISBN: 978-0-9886501-5-2
Scripture readings are taken from the
Jerusalem Bible
, copyright 1966 by Darton, Longman and Todd
Ltd., & Doubleday and Company Inc. Used by permission.
Cover photograph by José Luís Mieza
Cover design by Patty G. Henderson
www.boulevardphotografica.yolasite.com
Book design by Maureen Cutajar
E-mail:
[email protected]
* * *
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Please purchase only authorized electronic editions.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.
Currently available:
Looking Through Windows
Miserere
In This Small Spot
Coming Soon:
Year of the Monsoon
Neither Present Time
She Sings of Old, Unhappy, Far-off
Things
For Beth
nunc et ad infinitum
The acknowledgements for this book go back
more than thirty-five years: to my aunts who were nuns in a medical
order, to the nuns in our local parish and the nuns of various
other convents here in the U.S. and in England who met with me and
wrote to me, all of them replying to my neverending questions as I
searched for my path in life. I eventually found it, and discovered
that it did not lie within convent walls, though a part of me is
still drawn toward a life of contemplation.
And though that part of me has always
wondered “what if?”, I cannot now imagine my life without my
partner, Beth. For over twenty years, she has been by my side, my
most perfect other – and often better – half.
As always, I must thank the people who read
my early drafts of this novel and offered their feedback and
encouragement: Beth, as well as Marty, Marge, Susan and Debbie. I
am indebted to all of them.
I was still having difficulty finding the
right title for this book, even after it was mostly written, when I
heard a beautifully spare piano composition by Windham Hill artist
Tim Story, titled
In This Small Spot
. The piece itself was
so haunting, so contemplative, that it became part of my soundtrack
(in addition to LOTS of Gregorian chant) as I worked on the
subsequent edits of this novel. The title just worked wonderfully
for this book, so I owe a tremendous thank-you to Mr. Story.
And to my readers, thank you. I would
probably keep putting my little stories out there, even if you
didn’t read them, but it sure makes it more gratifying when you
do!
Typical Daily Schedule at St. Bridget’s
Abbey
4:30 a.m. rise
5:00 a.m. Lauds
6:00 a.m. Prime
6:15 a.m. breakfast (Silence ends)
7:30 a.m. Terce
7:45 a.m. Mass
9:00 a.m. work
11:15 a.m. Sext
11:30 a.m. lunch
Recreation
1:15 p.m. None
1:30 p.m. work
4:00 p.m. Vespers
4:30 p.m. Rest, reading, study
5:30 p.m. supper
6:30 p.m. Compline
7:00 p.m. Lectio Divina
8:00 p.m. Matins
9:00 p.m. retire (Silence begins)
Chapter 1
A few drops of water, unable to cling to the
fly line as it was whipped off the stream, hung suspended for a
split second, miniature prisms in the morning sunlight. The fly and
line landed softly above a small eddy in the current. There was a
sudden splash as the fly drifted over the eddy, and a fat rainbow
trout was rushing upstream, accompanied by the singing of the reel
and Mickey’s whooping laughter as she held the rod.
In an effort not to lose the fish, she
worked her way upstream also, slipping on mossy rocks while trying
to keep the rod up with tension on the line. The trout gradually
tired, and she was able to reel it closer. After a few more
minutes, she was kneeling in the shallows near the bank with the
tired trout lying placidly in the water between her knees. She
unhooked it with her forceps, and gave it a gentle nudge back into
deeper water. At the realization that it was free, the trout
flipped its tail, splashing water all over Mickey’s face. Laughing
again, she wiped her face with her sleeve and said, “Thank you,
mister trout, for a memory that will last me the rest of my
life.”
As if on cue, a deep-toned bell began to
ring in the distance. Sighing, she looked around. Still kneeling in
the water, she listened to the noise of the stream as the water
roiled over rocks in the streambed. She watched robins and
chickadees hopping from tree branch to ground and back up again.
The trees were just beginning to bud on this April morning in the
Adirondacks. Small pockets of snow remained on the ground on the
north side of the trees, hidden from the weak spring sunlight.
Green shoots were pushing up through the fallen leaves littering
the ground, and small bunches of crocus bravely bloomed. She heard
the hollow clunk of a hoof striking a rock, and looked the other
way to see a curious Angus cow looking over a nearby fence at her.
A small black calf peeked from behind its mother, not sure what to
make of this creature in the water.
Mickey picked up her rod and got to her
feet, sending the calf skittering away across the field. She
climbed up the bank and started along a trail through the woods.
The trail eventually diverted from the stream, and the water sounds
grew fainter as she continued down the mountain. After a half
hour’s walk, she came to her four wheel drive vehicle. She quickly
broke down her fly rod and pulled off her wet waders and boots.
Slipping into dry shoes, she hopped into the driver’s seat and
began to drive carefully down the rutted dirt road. Another thirty
minutes and she was pulling into the drive of a small white
clapboard farmhouse with a sturdy red barn adjacent. The white door
of the barn slid open as she got out of the SUV.
“Hey, Mickey,” yawned the man emerging from
the barn, rubbing his hands through his red hair, so that it stood
up at odd angles. “How was the fishing?”
“It was great. Ten or twelve fish.” She
looked at his blood-shot eyes. “Have you been working all
night?”
“Yup,” he grinned. “When the muse is with
you… Want to see?”
Accompanying him back into the barn, Mickey
saw a larger-than-life clay sculpture of a nude woman holding an
infant.
“Oh, Jamie,” she breathed, “it’s exquisite.”
Circling the sculpture bathed in the soft light coming from the
south-facing windows, she took in the gentle play of light and
shadow on the clay’s contours. “I don’t think Michelangelo could
have done a better job with the anatomy.”
“Thanks,” he murmured modestly, but his face
shone with pride as he looked over his work. “I think it’s one of
my best.”
Mickey put an arm around his shoulders and
said, “C’mon. Let’s get some breakfast.”
They walked over to the house where Jamie
made coffee while Mickey fried eggs and bacon at the seventies-era
avocado green stove. A little while later, as they sat at the table
over empty plates, sipping a second cup of coffee, Jamie broke the
silence.
“Mick?” He looked up into blue eyes almost
identical to his own. “Are you sure about doing this?”
She looked out the window for several
seconds before answering. “I’ve asked myself that question a
million times. I honestly don’t know. Maybe it won’t work out.
Maybe I’ll leave in a few months, or be asked to leave. Who knows?
But I have to try.” She took a deep breath and carried her plate to
the sink. “I’d better get ready.”
Jamie did the dishes while she went upstairs
to shower. Back in her room, she dressed slowly in a grey flannel
skirt, white blouse and grey sweater. Lacing up plain, black shoes
over thick black hose, she stood to study her reflection in the
mirror. She couldn’t help but laugh at herself. She tucked one last
book into the trunk at the foot of her bed. Hesitating a second,
she put a black leather bag inside also and closed the lid with a
snap of the brass latches.
When she came back into the kitchen, Jamie
looked up and gagged on his coffee, spraying some on the newspaper
he was reading.
“What?” she scowled. “You’ve seen me in a
skirt before.”
“Yeah,” he laughed, wiping coffee off his
chin with his sleeve, “when we were five! Oh, I wish Mom could see
this.”
“Leave her out of this.” Gesturing back up
the stairs, she asked, “Are you sure the other boxes won’t be in
your way? I wasn’t ready to get rid of everything, you know, just
in case.”
“They won’t be in the way at all,” he
smiled. “That room will be yours anytime you need it.”
“Jamie,” she began, but her voice cracked.
He came to her and gave her a hug. “I don’t know what I would have
done without you these last couple of years.”
“I know,” he whispered. “You would have done
the same for me.” They both wiped their eyes and went upstairs to
get the trunk and her one suitcase.