Rose Convent.
In recent years traffic to the Mission Office had risen, while recruitment had fallen into a deep
decline. Once upon a time, the young had flocked to St. Rose for the equity and education and
independence convent life offered to young women loath to enter into marriage. In modern times, St.
Rose Convent became more stringent, demanding that women make the choice to profess vows on
their own, without family coercion, and only after much soul-searching.
Thus, while recruitment flagged, the Mission Office became the busiest department at St. Rose. On
the wall of the office hung a large laminated map of the world with red flags affixed to affiliate
countries: Brazil, Zimbabwe, China, India, Mexico, Guatemala. There were photographs of sisters in
ponchos and saris holding babies, administering medicine, and singing in choirs with the native
populations. In the past decade, they had developed an international community-exchange program
with foreign churches, bringing sisters from all over the world to St. Rose to participate in perpetual
adoration, study English, and pursue personal spiritual growth. The program was a great success.
Over the years they had hosted sisters from twelve countries. These sisters’ photographs hung above
the map: twelve smiling women with twelve identical black veils framing their faces.
Arriving at such an early hour, Evangeline had expected to find the Mission Office empty. Instead
there was Sister Ludovica, the oldest member of their community, installed in her wheelchair as the
early edition of a National Public Radio broadcast played from a plastic radio on her lap. She was
frail and pink-skinned, her white hair springing about the bandeau edges of her veil. Ludovica
glanced at Evangeline, her dark eyes glistening in a way that confirmed the growing speculation
among the sisters that Ludovica was losing her mind, slipping further and further from reality with
each passing year. The previous summer a Milton police officer had discovered Ludovica pushing
her wheelchair along Highway 9W at midnight.
Lately her attentions had turned to botany. Her conversations with the plants were harmless but
signaled further disintegration. As she wheeled through the convent with a red watering can dangling
from the side of her chair, one could hear Ludovica’s stentorian voice quoting Paradise Lost as she
watered and trimmed: “‘Nine times the Space that measures Day and Night / To mortal men, he with
his horrid crew / Lay vanquisht, rowling in the fiery Gulfe / Confounded though immortal!’”
It was plain to Evangeline that the Mission Office’s spider plants had taken to Ludovica’s
affection: They had grown to enormous proportions, sending shoots dripping over the filing cabinets.
The plant had become so profound in its fecundity that the sisters had started snipping the baby plants
and placing them in water until they sprung roots. Once transplanted, the new spider plants grew
equally enormous and were stationed throughout the convent, filling each of the four floors with
tangles of green spawn.
“Good morning, Sister,” Evangeline said, hoping that Ludovica would recognize her.
“Oh, my!” Ludovica replied, startled. “You surprised me!”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was unable to pick up the mail yesterday afternoon. Is the mailbag
in the Mission Office?”
“Mailbag?” Ludovica asked, furrowing her brow. “I believe that all mail goes to Sister
Evangeline.”
“Yes, Ludovica,” Evangeline said. “I’m Evangeline. But I wasn’t able to pick up our mail
yesterday. It would have been delivered here. Have you seen it?”
“Most certainly!” Ludovica said, wheeling the chair to the closet behind her desk, where the
mailbag hung from a hook. It was, as always, filled to the top. “Please deliver it directly to Sister
Evangeline!”
Evangeline carried the bag to the far end of the Mission Office, to a darkened cove where she
might find more privacy. Spilling the contents over the desk, she saw that it was filled with its usual
mixture of personal requests, advertisements, catalogs, and invoices. Evangeline had sorted through
such muddles of post so often and knew the sizes of each variety of letters so well that it took her only
seconds to locate the card from Gabriella. It was a perfectly square green envelope addressed to
Celestine Clochette. The return address was the same as the others, a New York City location that
Evangeline did not recognize.
Pulling it from the pile, Evangeline put the card with the others in her pocket. Then she walked to
the metal filing cabinet. One of Ludovica’s spider plants had all but buried the tower in leaves, and
so Evangeline found herself brushing aside green shoots to open the drawer containing her records.