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  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

  www.gopublished.com

  E-mail: [email protected]

  * * *

  This work is copyrighted and is licensed only for use by the original purchaser and can be copied to the original purchaser’s electronic device and its memory card for your personal use. Modifying or making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, without limit, including by email, CD, DVD, memory cards, file transfer, paper printout or any other method, constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment. 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.

  Books By Caren J. Werlinger

  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

  Dedication

  For Beth

  nunc et ad infinitum

  Acknowledgments

  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!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  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.

  When everything was loaded into the SUV, Mickey handed Jamie an envelope. “This is the registration to the truck, and a copy of my will, you know…”

  “Just in case,” he finished.

  They got in and drove. Jamie tried to keep casual conversation going, but after receiving nothing but monosyllabic responses from Mickey, he gave up. After about twenty minutes, a tall stone bell tower came into view over the trees. As they drew nearer, a sprawling complex of buildings, mostly stone, became visible behind a tall cast-iron fence. “St. Bridget’s Abbey”, in large bronze letters formed an arch over the entry to the long drive.

  Jamie followed the drive up to the largest of the buildings, and stopped the car in front of a pair of tall oak doors. When Mickey just sat there, her hand gripping the door handle with white knuckles, he asked, “Want me to drive away before anyone comes?”

  She laughed sheepishly and got out. Bracing herself, she raised the brass knocker and rapped twice. In a moment, one of the heavy doors was opened by a diminutive nun in a full-length black habit.

  “Hello, Sister Lucille,” said Mickey nervously, “I’m Mick– uh, Michele Stewart.”

  “Of course, my dear,” replied the nun with a smile which made her eyes crinkle. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Do you have any baggage to bring in?”

  You have no idea, Mickey thought wryly as she reached to take her suitcase from Jamie. Together, they carried the trunk over the threshold. Turning to Jamie, she gave him a hug.

  “Call me if you need anything,” he murmured. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and went back to the SUV. Mickey heard him pull away as Sister Lucille swung the oak door shut.

  “Mother Theodora asked to see you when you arrived. Follow me, dear. Your trunk and suitcase will be taken to the postulants’ dormitory.”

  Sister Lucille led Mickey on a familiar path through a maze of marble-tiled halls, passing many heavy oak doors spaced at regular intervals in the plaster walls which were painted a creamy white. As always, Mickey felt like she was making a lot of noise as her footsteps echoed in the corridors, while Sister Lucille didn’t seem to make any sound other than the soft wooden click of the rosary she wore at her waist. At last, Sister Lucille stopped and knocked on a door at the end of a hall.

  “Venite,” said a voice from within.

  Sister Lucille opened the door, and replied, “Pax tecum.”

  “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

  “Mother, Michele Stewart has arrived,” Sister Lucille announced as she stepped aside to allow Mickey in.

  “Thank you, Sister,” Mickey said as Sister Lucille pulled the door shut.

  “I wasn’t sure you would come,” said Mother Theodora as she stood to greet Mickey. She was not an especially tall woman, but she exuded a calm authority that, from the beginning, had made her seem imposing. Mickey had always felt that Mother Theodora’s piercing dark eyes could see right through her. In all their talks over the past two years, she had been brutally honest with Mother Theodora, simply because it had seemed futile to be anything but.

  “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure either until I actually knocked on the door.”

  “You look, uh, different.” Mother Theodora smiled.

  Mickey laughed, an infectious, self-deprecating laugh. “I suppose I do.”

  “Please, sit down,” Mother Theodora said, indicating one of the chairs in front of her desk. She sat in the other, the folds of her black habit falling into place around her.

  Mickey had spent many hours in this office, situated in a round tower on the southeast corner of the abbey. Large windows looked out on the grounds, and the sunlight streaming in highlighted the grain in the wide wooden floorboards. The circular walls were lined with bookcases, built to match the curve of the stone walls.

  “You will join the others in a few minutes,” Mother Theodora began, “but I wanted a chance to speak with you privately beforehand.”

  Mickey shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Surely Mother Theodora hadn’t changed her mind at this late date?

  “I have decided not to share our conversations with Sister Rosaria, your postulant mistress. Being a postulant can be difficult enough without added scrutiny.”

  Mickey met her gaze unflinchingly. “Thank you, Mother. I know there are many who would feel you are making a mistake. I won’t betray your trust.”

  Several seconds passed as Mother Theodora searched Mickey’s eyes. “I know you mean that, Mickey. But remember that an abbey is not a place where you can run from yourself. Quite the contrary. Having stripped away the disguises and distractions of the outside world: clothes, career, material possessions, the true you is most often magnified, for be
tter or for worse.”

  Smiling suddenly, she stood and pressed a button on her desk. “I may not have a chance to speak with you later, so I’ll take this opportunity to welcome you to St. Bridget’s.”

  Mickey stood to receive an embrace from Mother Theodora. Sister Lucille knocked and escorted Mickey through an unfamiliar series of halls to a sparsely furnished room where four other young women waited, all dressed in similar fashion with simple clothing in shades of grey, black and white. She murmured a hello which was shyly returned by the others. She could see they all felt as nervous as she. It was obvious that, at 36, she was much older than the others.

  A door on the other side of the room opened, and a matronly nun entered. “Hello, girls. I’m Sister Rosaria. I will be your postulant mistress. Welcome to St. Bridget’s.” She looked around, appraising them. “This can be a difficult time, adjusting to abbey life. If any of you have problems, please know that you can come to me anytime.”

  She bustled over to a table where lay a pile of neatly folded white linens. Picking one up, she said, “I will pin your veils on before we go into the Chapel.”

  One by one, Sister Rosaria refolded the short white veils and placed them on the heads of each of the postulants, using bobby pins to hold them in place.

  “Now, are you all ready? You will be presented to the community following the Eucharist.”

  She opened the door through which she had entered, and led the five postulants to the main Chapel. The east end of the Chapel was highlighted by a magnificent stained-glass window depicting Jesus greeting Mary Magdalene after his resurrection. Below the window was the altar, a plain, massive slab of granite, embellished only by a beautiful altar cloth. A couple of steps down from the altar dais were the nuns’ stalls, arranged in tiers on either side of the Chapel so that they faced each other. Each wooden stall contained a narrow wooden kneeler and a hinged seat which flipped up to reveal a small storage space for prayer books. At the west end of the Chapel, separated from the nuns’ stalls by a floor to ceiling grille, was the public area where visitors and locals could come to hear Mass on Sundays and holidays. Above this small chapel was the organ loft, with a forest of pipes reaching up to the vaulted stone ceiling which was supported by a series of stone arches and pillars.