In This Small Spot (5 page)

Mickey grinned. “I know and God knows, but
you’d better wipe those crumbs out of your beard.”

He quickly combed through the thick dark
hair with his fingers. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he
said.

“Without Alice, you mean,” Mickey
corrected.

“No,” he said sincerely. “I meant both of
you. Your donation to the PFLAG group was very generous.”

“What’s generous is your letting them meet
here,” Alice said, coming from around the car with another armful
of cookie containers. “I’m guessing you didn’t ask the bishop.”

Christopher shrugged and laughed. “Better to
ask forgiveness than permission.”

“See?” Mickey said indignantly, turning to
Alice with her arms outstretched. “How come that doesn’t work when
I say it?”

Alice looked at her, one eyebrow raised
slightly. “It’s his church. And he doesn’t have to live with
you.”

Chapter 6

“Mother, I was angry at being asked to do an
extra task in the kitchen. I broke two plates because I wasn’t
paying attention.”

Each week, the community held a Chapter of
Faults before Mass. Mother Theodora would call the names of five
nuns to come forward, one at a time, kneel before the community and
confess any transgressions against abbey rules or other
sisters.

“Most convents have done away with the
Chapter of Faults,” Sister Rosaria told the postulants when she had
first explained the process, “but in a cloistered community where
we can’t get away from each other, even little things can fester
and grow with time. Better to clear the air while they are
little.”

Mother Theodora would assign each a penance
in accordance with the severity of her infraction. To the nun who
had confessed the breaking of the plates, “You will ask the
forgiveness of the Sister you were angry with, and you will assist
her with her work in addition to your own for one day.”

Mickey had discovered that Mother Theodora’s
brand of penance was powerful. Requiring personal forgiveness
rather than simply assigning menial, unsavory tasks as penance had
the effect of drawing the community closer together. “Sister
Stephen is much less intimidating after she has had to ask your
forgiveness for losing her temper with you three times last week,”
Mickey had written to Jamie who thought this was a barbaric
practice when he learned of it, but “no one can hold a grudge under
those circumstances,” Mickey insisted and usually the penitent
would only be permitted to perform a token task by the other
sister.

Usually, but not always. Twice, Mickey had
confessed to losing her temper and swearing – both times at Wendy.
There’s just something about her,
Mickey often thought in
frustration, but… it was impossible for her to put it into concrete
terms. It wasn’t anything Wendy said or did overtly – “but she
isn’t overt, that’s part of the problem,” Mickey would have said if
she could have voiced these thoughts aloud. Wendy was still
scrupulous in her observance of the rules – when Sister Rosaria was
looking. But Mickey had noticed how often Wendy seemed to disappear
when there was work to be done, only to reappear just in time for
the work to be inspected. Her comments often contained subtle
double-entendres,
but why am I the only one who reads the
nastier meaning into them?
Mickey wondered. None of the senior
nuns seemed to notice these things; in fact, they seemed to delight
in the ease with which Wendy had adapted to the discipline of
monastic life, treating her like a sort of pet.

“It must be me,” Mickey said with a shake of
her head. And yet… just the week before, Wendy had taken full
advantage of Mickey’s penance, letting her scrub an entire floor by
herself before returning and feigning that she only meant for
Mickey to start on it before she took over. But there was something
else. Wendy had said she got caught by one of the senior nuns and
couldn’t get back any sooner, but later, Tanya had mentioned seeing
Wendy reading in the library. It was one thing to not want to scrub
yet another floor, but to actually lie….

“Does anyone else wish to speak?” Mother
Theodora asked, her voice cutting through Mickey’s thoughts, when
the last of the five had finished. Mother expected only those who
felt they had committed serious infractions to come forward if
their names weren’t called. “Otherwise, we’ll be here all day,” she
often said.

Mickey kept her eyes downcast, knowing she
should probably confess everything she had just been thinking.
“You’re being uncharitable,” she told herself sternly for the
hundredth time.

╬ ╬ ╬

The air throughout the orchard was heavy with
the smell of apples and there was an autumn bite in the air. The
peach harvest was long over, the preserves sold to local
markets.

“Can’t we keep more of them?” Tanya had
asked mournfully, as peaches were her favorite. “Only a dozen or so
jars stay with us,” Sister Regina said. “The ones that discolored
and don’t look as appealing. The rest must go to raise money for
the abbey,” just as the apple butter would soon, as well as the
cheese the abbey made from the cows’ milk. “I don’t mind selling
that,” Jessica said with a wrinkled nose. “It stinks.”

As the days cooled and shortened, as the
plants in the enclosure garden died and were pruned back, Mickey’s
mood – “and my temper,” she would have admitted remorsefully –
darkened also. She had expected it; this time of year was always
like this now. “Would it be any easier,” she asked herself, “if it
had happened in the spring when everything was blooming and coming
to life?” She knew it had nothing to do with the time of year and
everything to do with her memories….

The juniors were called upon again to help
harvest the apples from the orchard. Mickey set her ladder against
a tree farther down the row, separated from the others. She could
hear their conversation and laughter as she filled the canvas bag
hanging from her shoulder. She tried to maintain a polite demeanor
with the others, but just that morning, “Michele!” Sister Rosaria
had reprimanded her when she snapped at Abigail for, “for being
Abigail,” Mickey said to herself now as she moved her ladder around
the tree. She knew the others found her prickliness tiresome, and
were content to leave her by herself. From what she could hear,
Wendy was once again comparing St. Bridget’s with her former
convent, and it was all Mickey could do, even from a distance, not
to tell her to shut up.

At Recreation, she had taken to wandering
restlessly off to isolated parts of the enclosure or back to her
stall in Chapel. She tried writing to Jamie, but gave up in
exasperation, the unfinished letter lying folded on her bedside
table in their dormitory.

In wandering the enclosure paths, she had
discovered the monastery’s cemetery, a few stone benches providing
places among the gravestones for prayer and reflection. Set on a
slight hill, the cemetery provided a view down toward the abbey and
the lower garden where figures walked about, all dressed alike in
black and white.

Mickey heard a rustling and looked around to
see that Jessica had carried her ladder over and set it up in the
next apple tree. Abigail’s voice carried to them. With a roll of
her eyes, Jessica climbed her ladder and began picking, “and my
immediate reaction,” Mickey would admit shamefacedly later, “was to
be pissed. I almost gathered up and left. I’m glad I didn’t.”
Jessica understood, as few did, Mickey realized, the comfort of
simply being near, without any need to fill the silence. Side by
side, they picked through the afternoon work period until the bell
rang for None. They carried their picking bags and ladders back to
the tractor, and then headed to Chapel, following behind the
others.

It was early October before the picking was
done and the apple butter was made and bottled.

“Michele,” Sister Rosaria said, catching
Mickey at the end of Vespers one afternoon, “Mother Theodora would
like to see you, please.”

Mickey had seen Mother nearly daily for the
past seven months, in the Chapel and during the talks she sometimes
gave for the juniors, but other than casual greetings during
Recreation, there had been no direct contact. If she were to be
honest, this had been one of the most unexpectedly difficult things
about entering St. Bridget’s.

I knew it would be different,
Mickey
thought as she made her way through halls that no longer seemed a
maze,
but I had grown to rely on our talks – even I didn’t know
how much until they couldn’t happen anymore.

She understood. “No favorites.” How many
times had Sister Rosaria told them that that was one of the
greatest dangers of community life? Mickey was astute enough to
have realized that her relationship with Mother could hardly be
unique – “You have no idea the people who come to consult our dear
Mother,” Sister Lucille could have told her. “I often wonder how
she gets anything done,” but, somehow, Mother did. “What must be
done, is,” Mother Theodora would have said simply. Mickey had never
considered before that her visits and talks might have taken Mother
away from other things – “more important things,” Mickey was coming
to realize – but Mother had never, not once, made her feel an
imposition.

Knocking, she heard Mother Theodora’s voice
call, “
Venite.”

“
Pax tecum
,” Mickey responded as she
entered and closed the door behind her.

“
Et cum spiritu tuo
,” Mother Theodora
answered as she rose. “Sit down, Mickey.” Mickey realized how
accustomed she had become to being called Michele. It sounded
comforting to be addressed by her nickname, and she suspected
Mother Theodora did it to set her at ease.

“How have things been going?” Mother
Theodora asked conversationally.

Mickey smiled. “It’s definitely been an
adjustment from my old schedule. And it’s been quite a while since
I sat in a class. I’m afraid Sister Stephen is convinced at times
that I am hopeless.”

Mother Theodora laughed. “Sister Stephen has
thought that about many generations of us.” Her expression became
more serious. “How are you getting along with the other
postulants?”

Mickey’s heart jumped a little. Was her
dislike of Wendy obvious? “The age difference between us seems a
chasm at times, but for the most part, we all get along well. And
Sister Rosaria is very patient and kind.”

“Actually, Sister Rosaria is the one who
asked me to speak with you.”

Mickey’s heartbeat increased again as she
tried to keep a neutral expression. “Is there a problem,
Mother?”

“Only that she has noticed a distance in you
lately. She says that for the last few weeks, you’ve isolated
yourself from the group and she is concerned. She said you wouldn’t
talk to her about it.”

Mickey’s jaw tensed and her eyes focused on
the wood grain of the floor.

“If I remember correctly,” Mother Theodora
continued, watching Mickey’s face, “this is a difficult time of
year for you.”

Mickey glanced up. “I didn’t expect you to
remember,” and even she could hear the note of accusation in her
voice.

“I remember,” only Mother didn’t say it
aloud. Her face had such a knowing, chiding expression that Mickey
instantly understood that Mother remembered every word of their
conversations as much as she herself did.

“I should have known better,” Mickey said as
her face flushed.

She rose suddenly from her seat and went to
the window, her hands tightly clenched together. When she turned to
look at Mother Theodora, there were tears in her eyes. “There are
times when I miss her so much it’s a physical pain, like an
amputation. I’ve been praying that it will pass, and I know it
will. It always does.” She turned back to the window. “But I can’t
tell Sister Rosaria why I’m so distracted. I haven’t meant to draw
attention to myself.”

She remained standing at the window, waiting
for Mother Theodora to speak.

“Mickey, all of us go through periods of
struggle. At times, it may be a personal grief, or sometimes a dry
period in your spiritual growth, or a time of questioning your
vocation. In such a small community, any difference in behavior
will be noticed, but we try to respect each other’s privacy.
Sometimes it’s hard to know how to offer support without intruding.
I don’t think you’ve tried to draw attention to yourself. I think
your efforts to isolate yourself and not be noticed have had the
unintended effect of drawing the notice of Sister Rosaria, who is,
after all, very experienced in watching and observing.”

She came around her desk to stand next to
Mickey, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It’s natural to
grieve, Mickey. And it’s important not to try and wall off your
grief. God uses these times of vulnerability and frailty to touch
us in ways he can’t when we are feeling strong and in control.”

Mickey nodded and wiped a tear from her
cheek. “I like strong and in control better, though.”

Chapter 7

Mickey woke at the usual time on Thanksgiving
morning, even though the community had been given permission to
sleep in until six, with Mass beginning the day at six-thirty. She
dressed silently and tip-toed from the dormitory. Once in the
hallway, she hurried to the cloakroom to get her heavy cloak. She
opened the door to the enclosure garden and gasped. Three or four
inches of snow covered everything, and the snow was still falling
in large, feathery flakes. She stepped out from the covered stone
walk and lifted her face, letting the heavy flakes tickle her skin.
The snow created an even deeper hush than normal.

Mickey felt a childish desire to dive into
the snow and make a snow angel, but she suspected the senior nuns
might feel that was inappropriate, angel or not. She settled for
scooping up snow and packing it tight, then hurling her snowball at
one of the trees. The snowball splattered against the dark trunk,
leaving a telltale white lump on the bark. She made and threw
several more snowballs, her breath forming clouds of steam that
hung in the cold, damp air. She had another snowball packed, her
arm drawn back and her foot up like a big-league pitcher when she
was startled by the sound of the door opening behind her.