In This Small Spot Read online

  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.

  Turning, she saw another nun entering the courtyard. Sheepishly, she held the snowball while the other nun approached. As she drew near, Mickey recognized Sister Anselma in the dim grey light. Sister Anselma stood with her hands tucked into her sleeves, her long, black veil and cloak giving her a very dignified air. Mickey was suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must look. Her short veil had slipped, and the snowball was melting into her frozen fingers. She opened her mouth to speak, but remembered she couldn’t break Silence. Finally, she closed her mouth, tossed the snowball over her shoulder and walked back inside shaking her head.

  Sister Anselma watched her go with a bemused expression.

  By the time the nuns were assembled in their stalls, the public pews had filled nearly to capacity. As the bell rang to signal the start of Mass, there was no sign of Father Andrew. The peals of the bell faded away and still no priest. A very faint rustle of unrest had begun to move through the community when, suddenly, he appeared in the door of the sacristy, straightening his chasuble as he walked to the altar. Mickey tried to keep her eyes on her prayer book, but there was an audible tremor in his voice as he began the Introit. She stole a glance toward the altar and was shocked at the dark circles visible under his eyes, even from a distance. As the nuns sang their responses, there were slight lapses where Father Andrew seemed to struggle to find his place. Mother Theodora subtly altered the tempo of the responses to give him more time, and the community followed her lead. During the consecration of the Eucharist, Mickey could see his hands shaking as they held the host.

  “Poor thing, he must be sick,” the nuns murmured sympathetically as they made their way to the refectory for a late breakfast following Mass.

  The normal work schedule was suspended for the Thanksgiving holiday. Instead, the community used the time to make preparations for Advent which marked the beginning of the church year and came with a feeling of anticipation leading up to Christmas. “It’s like being a little kid again,” Abigail said gleefully, and even Mickey had to admit that the excitement was contagious. During the four weeks of Advent, an Advent wreath was lit in the Chapel with a smaller one in the refectory during each evening meal as a reader read a passage from various meditations on Advent and Christmas as they ate.

  The juniors spent Recreation each day rehearsing their traditional Christmas concert for the rest of the community under the direction of Sister Margaret, the precentrix. “This is a heavy load on her,” the novices warned the postulants. “She still has the Christmas choir to rehearse also.” They also helped with the Chapel decorations. Sister Teresa, the sacristan, was in charge of putting out the chalices and plates for Communion each day, and for the cleaning and decorating of the Chapel. There was a lot of extra work involved in preparing the Chapel for Christmas. The novices had helped with these tasks before, and directed the postulants as they hung evergreen garlands from the stone arches and pillars. Mickey was up on a ladder accepting garland strands from Sister Helen, one of the second year novices, and attaching them with wire to the small hooks set in the stone. As Sister Helen climbed back down to get another strand, she mis-judged the rungs and fell a couple of feet to the floor. Mickey came down off the ladder quickly, asking her if she was okay.

  “It’s my knee,” Sister Helen responded, grimacing.

  Without thinking, Mickey began palpating and moving her knee carefully. “It seems to be just a sprain,” she pronounced. She realized the others were all gathered around them. Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, she helped Sister Helen to her feet and said, “You should get some ice on that. Why don’t we get you to the infirmary?”

  Sister Helen put one arm over Mickey’s shoulders as Mickey put her arm around Sister Helen’s waist. Gingerly, Sister Helen limped out of the Chapel. Once in the infirmary, Mickey left her with Sister Mary David, the nun in charge there, and hurried back to the Chapel. Wendy seemed to be waiting for her, because she came over as soon as Mickey returned.

  “How is she?” she asked casually.

  “Fine.” Mickey was on guard. She squatted down to get more garland.

  “It’s a good thing you were here.”

  Mickey was starting to get annoyed. “It wasn’t a serious injury.”

  “Maybe,” Wendy shrugged. “But it was bad enough for you to almost carry her to the infirmary.”

  “What is your point?” Mickey asked in a low voice, straightening up to face Wendy.

  Wendy shrugged again. “Nothing… it just must have felt good, to be able to help, I mean.”

  Mickey bit back the words that leapt to her tongue. Clenching her jaw, she turned her back on Wendy and carried her garland back up the ladder.

  ╬ ╬ ╬

  Over the next few weeks leading up to Christmas, Mickey kept her distance from Wendy, but she could feel Wendy’s gaze whenever Si
ster Helen spoke to Mickey during their rehearsals at Recreation. To Mickey’s chagrin, Sister Helen was friendlier after the knee sprain, and did seek opportunities to speak with Mickey whenever she had a chance.

  She’s just being nice, Mickey kept telling herself. Don’t let Wendy make you question yourself.

  When Sister Margaret asked Mickey to sing a duet of The Cherry Tree Carol with Sister Helen, Mickey was uncomfortably aware that Wendy was listening.

  “You have a good voice,” Sister Helen said appreciatively.

  “No, just loud,” Mickey grinned, blushing. Sister Helen easily had the best voice among them, a soaring soprano that often gave Mickey goosebumps when it reached into the upper octaves.

  “Your alto will provide perfect counterpoint if we transpose the harmony to a lower octave,” Sister Helen insisted, getting excited about the project.

  In spite of her nagging worry about Wendy, Mickey found herself enjoying the rehearsals with Sister Helen who was also an excellent pianist and provided the accompaniment. Patiently, she coached Mickey through the harmony whenever Mickey’s voice would slip back into the melody. The first time they made it completely through with no mistakes, Sister Helen laughed and gave Mickey a hug.

  “We make a good pair,” she said, looking at Mickey with an intensity that chilled Mickey’s heart. No matter how much she wanted to dismiss Wendy’s jealousy, she could no longer pretend Sister Helen was just being friendly.

  When she was teaching, Mickey had often had medical students of both genders develop crushes on her. Occasionally, a crush crossed the line into infatuation. In the beginning, Mickey had tried to gently discourage the attention, but “you do realize how much more elusive and attractive that makes you,” Alice would point out drolly, amused at Mickey’s consternation when that approach didn’t work. Mickey had discovered that a little public humiliation in the form of one or two biting, sarcastic comments was much more effective, although “I feel horrible,” she always said afterward. What made this situation especially difficult was Mickey’s suspicion that Sister Helen would have been mortified at the suggestion that she had a crush on Mickey. She kept remembering what Mother Theodora had said about abbey life magnifying the real her. “You wanted this to happen,” she could hear Wendy saying, and she couldn’t help wondering if she was, in fact subconsciously doing something to invite this attention. In an atmosphere of women who had foresworn physical intimacy, touch was incredibly powerful, even touch as simple and innocent as examining an injured knee. She appreciated as never before the delicate balancing act of living in a small, cohesive community and still maintaining enough personal space to stay true to monastic life.