Angelology

Evangeline woke before the sun came up, when the fourth floor was silent and dark. Quiet, so as not

to wake the sisters who had prayed through the night, she gathered her shoes, stockings, and skirt in

her arms and walked barefoot to the communal lavatory. She dressed quickly, half asleep, without

looking in the mirror. From a sliver of bathroom window, she surveyed the convent grounds, covered

in a predawn haze. A vast snowy courtyard stretched to the water’s edge, where a scrim of barren

trees limned the Hudson. St. Rose Convent perched precariously close to the river, so close that in

daylight there seemed to be two convents—one on land and one wavering lightly upon the water, the

first folding out into the next, an illusion broken in summer by barges and in winter by teeth of ice.

Evangeline watched the river flow by, a wide strip of black against the pure white snow. Soon

morning would gild the water with sunlight.

Bending before the porcelain sink, Evangeline splashed cold water over her face, dispelling the

remnants of a dream. She could not recall the dream, only the impression it made upon her—a wash

of foreboding that left a pall over her thoughts, a sensation of loneliness and confusion she could not

explain. Half asleep, she peeled away her heavy flannel night shift and, feeling the chill of the

bathroom, shivered. Standing in her white cotton briefs and cotton undershirt (standard garments

ordered in bulk and distributed biyearly to all the sisters at St. Rose), she looked at herself with an

appraising, analytic eye—the thin arms and legs, the flat stomach, the tousled brown hair, the golden

pendant resting upon her breastbone. The reflection floating on the glass before her was that of a

sleepy young woman.

Evangeline shivered again from the cool air and turned to her clothing. She owned five identical

knee-length black skirts, seven black turtlenecks for the winter months, seven black short-sleeved

cotton button-up shirts for the summer, one black wool sweater, fifteen pairs of white cotton

underwear, and innumerable black nylon stockings: nothing more and nothing less than what was

necessary. She pulled on a turtleneck and fitted a bandeau over her hair, pressing it firmly against her

forehead before clipping on a black veil. She stepped into a pair of nylons and a wool skirt,

buttoning, zipping, and straightening the wrinkles in one quick, unconscious gesture. In a matter of

seconds, her private self disappeared and she became Sister Evangeline, Franciscan Sister of

Perpetual Adoration. With her rosary in hand, the metamorphosis was complete. She placed her

nightgown in the bin at the far end of the lavatory and prepared to face the day.

Sister Evangeline had observed the 5:00 A.M. prayer hour each morning for the past half decade,

since completing her formation and taking vows at eighteen years of age. She had lived at St. Rose

Convent since her twelfth year, however, and knew the convent as intimately as one knows the

temperament of a beloved friend. She had her morning route through the compound down to a science.

As she rounded each floor, her fingers traced the wooden balustrades, her shoes skimming the

landings. The convent was always empty at that hour, blue-shadowed and sepulchral, but after sunrise

St. Rose would swarm with life, a beehive of work and devotion, each room glistening with sacred

activity and prayer. The silence would soon abate—the staircases, the community rooms, the library,

the communal cafeteria, and the dozens of closet-size bedchambers would soon be alive with sisters.

Down three flights of stairs she ran. She could get to the chapel with her eyes closed.

Reaching the first floor, Sister Evangeline walked into the imposing central hallway, the spine of

St. Rose Convent. Along the walls hung framed portraits of long-dead abbesses, distinguished sisters,

and the various incarnations of the convent building itself. Hundreds of women stared from the

frames, reminding every sister who passed by on her way to prayer that she was part of an ancient

and noble matriarchy where all women—both the living and the dead—were woven together in a

single common mission.

Although she knew she risked being late, Sister Evangeline paused at the center of the hallway.

Here, the image of Rose of Viterbo, the saint after whom the convent had been named, hung in a gilt

frame, her tiny hands folded in prayer, an evanescent nimbus of light glowing about her head. St.

Rose’s life had been short. Just after her third birthday, angels began to whisper to her, urging her to

speak their message to all who would listen. Rose complied, earning her sainthood as a young

woman, when, after preaching the goodness of God and His angels to a heathen village, she was

condemned to die a witch. The townspeople bound her to a stake and lit a fire. To the great