“Maybe your mother wouldn't let him,” Father Joe offered, but it gave her small comfort, and maybe Mother Gregoria was right after all. She had a very different life, and the ghosts of her past had to be released, though they still haunted her in darker moments. “Where is she now?” he asked, referring to her mother.

“San Francisco, or she was up until she stopped sending money for my room and board here.” It still amazed him to think that her family had completely abandoned her, never wrote to her, never visited, never saw her. He couldn't understand how they could do that. It was entirely beyond him.

“Well, Sister Bernie, you have a good life here, and St. Matthew's needs you. The nuns all love you. I think Mother Gregoria thinks you're going to step into her shoes one day. That would be quite an honor. We've done all right for ourselves, haven't we?” he said, smiling at her. But as their eyes met, they both knew how hard-won it had been, how far they had come, and how much of themselves they'd left behind them. He patted her hand gently with his own, and for an instant she looked startled when he touched her. His hand was so firm, so strong, and once again reminded her so much of her father's. It had been so many years since she'd been that close to any man, that it couldn't help but bring back memories of the only other man she'd ever known or been this close to. And as though he sensed the shock of her memories, Father Connors stood up slowly. “I'd better see how drunk my pals are after drinking your wine all afternoon, and get them back to St. Stephen's.” She couldn't help laughing at the vision of drunken priests, falling down amidst the nuns in the convent garden.

“They look all right to me.” She stood up next to him, glancing around, and then laughed at the image he'd created of them. Two of the priests were talking to the Mother Superior, and another was talking to a family he knew. Sister Emanuel looked as though she was trying to round up the postulants to clean up the kitchen, and most of the children and visitors were looking happy but tired. It had been a lovely Easter for all of them, and especially for Gabriella, talking to Father Connors. “I never talk about this stuff with anyone,” she confessed as she prepared to leave him and join the others. “It still scares me a little.”

“Don't let it,” he said wisely. “They can't hurt you now, Gabbie. They're all gone. You're safe here, and you have been for a long time. They'll never come back to hurt you again, and you never have to go back there.” It was as though he had released her, with his kindness and his words, and with his gentle presence. It was as though just being there next to her for a while, he could protect her. “I'll see you in the confessional,” he said with a lopsided smile. “Try to stay out of trouble with Sister Anne,” he said, looking amused. Sometimes he felt so old when he was talking to her. She was twenty-one, and knew so little of the world beyond these walls, and he was a full ten years older than she was, and in his own eyes, a great deal more worldly, and far wiser.

“I'm sure she'll have a lot to say about my talking to you this afternoon.” Gabriella looked a little tired and somewhat exasperated as she said it. It was so annoying to have to deal constantly with the angry young postulant's accusations.

“Will she?” He looked startled. “Why would she say that?”

“She always has a bee somewhere in her bonnet. Last week she was complaining about the stories I write. She claimed I was writing one when I was supposed to be saying Matins… or Vespers… or Lauds, or something. There isn't much I do that she doesn't complain about.”

“Just keep praying for her,” he said simply. “Shell get tired of it.” Gabriella nodded, not particularly worried, and she left Father Joe with Sister Emanuel as she hurried off to the kitchen. There were a mountain of pots waiting to be scrubbed, a stack of platters, the pans the hams and turkeys had been cooked in, and the floor was a complete disaster. But for once, Sister Anne was so busy when Gabriella walked in, that she didn't even see her. Gabbie put an apron on, rolled up her sleeves, and dug into the stack of greasy pans with a handful of steel wool and a bottle of liquid soap. And it was hours before they had finished. By then the older nuns were sitting quietly in the main hall talking about what a good job the novices and postulants had done with lunch, the families had all gone home, and Father Joe was back at St. Stephen's, in his room, looking strangely serious, and staring out the window.





Chapter 10




FOR THE NEXT two months, Gabriella was busy with the other postulants, doing her chores, attending Mass, studying all that she needed to know, and working happily in her garden. She'd been working on a new story for a while, and it was so long that when Mother Gregoria read part of it, she said it was rapidly becoming a novel. But she was proud of her, she had done well, and even Sister Anne had stopped complaining about her for the time being.

It was already hot in New York and well into June when some of the older nuns left for their retreat at their sister convent in the Catskills. The younger nuns stayed in town, to continue working at Mercy Hospital and teaching summer school, but the postulants and novices rarely left the convent, and summer was no exception. Mother Gregoria also stayed to supervise all of them, and diligently run her convent. It had been years since she'd taken a vacation. She felt that was a privilege best reserved for the elders.

A group of missionary Sisters came to town, to stay with them, and the stories they told of Africa and South America were fascinating, and made Gabriella wonder if one day she might want to be one of them. But she said nothing to Mother Gregoria, for fear it would upset her. Instead, she listened intently to the tales they had to tell, and after they left, wrote wonderful short stories about them. And when Sister Emanuel read them, she insisted that they really ought to be published. But Gabriella only wrote them for the pleasure of it. Writing always released something in her. It never felt as though she were doing the writing herself, but rather as though there was a spirit that moved through her. She had no sense of her own importance as she wrote them, but felt instead as though she didn't exist at all, as though she were a windowpane that another spirit looked through. It was difficult to describe, and the only person she said that to was Father Joe, when he found her scribbling away one day, eating an apple and sitting at the back of the convent garden. He asked if he could look at what she'd done, and when he did, he was deeply moved. It was a story about a child who had died, and returned to earth to seek injustices and bring peace to others.

“You really ought to publish that,” he said, looking impressed as he handed it back to her. He had a deep tan, and said he had been playing tennis with friends on Long Island. Listening to him say it reminded her instantly of her parents. She hadn't heard anyone talk about playing tennis since her childhood, although she was sure that some of the people she knew had played while she was in college. But she had never talked to any of them, she just went silently back and forth to St. Matthew's. “I'm serious,” he said, going back to the subject of her writing. “You have real talent.”

“No, I don't, I just enjoy doing it.” And then she told him the feeling she had, about the spirit that seemed to just pass through her. “When I'm conscious of it, of what I'm doing, I can't write anything. But when I just let go, and forget myself, then it just seems to come through me.”

“Sounds pretty spooky,” he teased with a grin, but he understood what she was saying and was impressed by it. “Whatever's doing it, you ought to stick to it. How've you been otherwise?” He'd been on vacation for a week, and felt as though he hadn't seen her in ages.

“Fine. We've been busy planning the Fourth of July picnic. Are you coming?” They had a barbecue every year. Mother Gregoria was good about doing big holiday celebrations. It was their way of staying in touch with friends and relatives and people who were important to their community, and a relaxed way to see them. And as Gabriella looked at him, she felt as though she were talking to her brother. They were becoming good friends, and with very little effort, had developed an easy friendship.

“Is that an official invitation?” he asked, feeling almost exactly the same as she did.

“You don't need one,” she said casually. “Everyone from St. Stephen's comes, all the priests and secretaries, and altar boys. A lot of people from the hospital come too, and from the school. Some of the families come, but a lot of people are away then.”

“Well, I won't be. They have me working six days a week this month. They're keeping me pretty busy, saving sinners.”

“That's good.” She smiled up at him, and handed him a sprig of mint and a handful of strawberries. “If you don't mind their not being washed, they're delicious.” He tried one of the strawberries and seemed to be in ecstasy as he ate it.

“Terrific.” From the look in his eyes, anyone watching him wouldn't have been sure if he meant her or the berries. He seemed happy to see her. And eventually, he walked her back to the main hall where she had to place an order for more seeds with the sister in charge of buying supplies for their garden. He told her he'd be saying Mass the next day, and would be delighted to come to the picnic.

The next time they met was in the confessional the following day. They recognized each other's voices and they chatted all the way through her confession. She was used to his easy style now, and she didn't have much to tell him. He gave her absolution, and stopped for just a moment to say hello to her after she'd completed her penance.

“How about if some of the Fathers and I do your barbecue for you at the picnic?” he asked, and she looked delighted at the suggestion. It was the one job she truly hated. The smoke got in her eyes, and their habits made it awkward for them to deal with the fire and the charcoal The priests had it a lot easier, since they always came to the picnic in jeans or khaki pants and sport shirts.

“I'll ask Sister Emanuel, but I think she'd love that,” Gabriella said gratefully. “Barbecue is not really our forte.”

“What about baseball?”

“What?” She looked at him, not sure if he was joking, serious, or just making idle conversation.

“How about a baseball game? St. Matthew's against St. Stephen's? Or we can mix up the teams if you think you'd be at too much of a disadvantage. I just thought about it this morning.”

“What a great idea. We did it two years ago, with two teams of nuns, and it was pretty funny.”

He looked down at Gabriella with a mock serious air, and pretended to be insulted. “We're not talking ‘funny,’ Sister Bernie. This is serious. The priests at St. Stephen's have the hottest team in the archdiocese in all five boroughs. What do you think?”

“Why don't you ask Mother Gregoria? I can't speak for her, but i think she'll love it. What position do you play?” she asked, teasing him, but the Fourth of July picnic was beginning to sound seriously exciting.

“Pitcher, what else? This arm was once recruited for one of the best minor league teams in Ohio.” It was a small claim to fame, but it was obvious from the way he looked at her, that he had a sense of humor about it, and it amused him. But he did love to play baseball.

“What happened? How come you're not playing for the Yankees?”

“God made me a better offer,” he said, smiling at his young friend, and happy to be talking to her about something as mundane as baseball. Much of the time they dove into serious discussions, about their lives, their histories, their vocations, or her writing. They always had a lot to say to each other. “What about you? What do you play?”

“I think I have a real talent as bat boy,” she said demurely. She had never played any sports as a child, for obvious reasons. She'd been here with the nuns, and hadn't even attended a real school from the time she was ten until she went to college, and the only exercise she'd gotten was walking around the garden at St. Matthew's.

“We'll put you in the outfield,” he said confidently, and promised to talk to Mother Gregoria before he left the convent.

And within days, word of the Big Game, as it was being called, had spread all over the convent. When Father Connors had proposed it to her, Mother Gregoria had loved it. All the nuns were laughing and giggling and whispering. Some hadn't played since they were kids, others were bragging about how good they had been, and the postulants were all arguing amicably about what positions they wanted to play. Chubby Sister Agatha insisted that she wanted to play shortstop. It was all in precisely the right spirit.