for him. Yet there was no way they could possibly know where he had gone in the convent, and surely
they wouldn’t know he’d spoken to Evangeline. She had not been happy to see him and would
probably never speak to him again. In any event, it was important to be practical. He needed to get to
a train station or find a bus that would get him back to the city, and he doubted that he would find
either of those in Milton.
St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York
Evangeline did not know Sister Celestine well. At seventy-five, she was wheelchair-bound and did
not spend much time among the younger nuns. Although she made an appearance each day at morning
Mass, when one of the sisters would push her wheelchair to the front of the church, Celestine resided
in a position of isolation and protection as sacrosanct as a queen’s. Celestine always had her meals
delivered to her room, and from time to time Evangeline had been dispatched to Celestine’s cell from
the library, a stack of poetry books and historical fiction in her arms. There were even the occasional
works in French that Sister Philomena had secured by interlibrary loan. These, Evangeline had noted,
made Celestine particularly happy.
As Evangeline walked through the first floor, she saw that it had filled with sisters at work, a great
mass of black-and-white habits shuffling along under the weak light of bulbs encased in metal sconces
as they performed their daily chores. Sisters swarmed the hallways, opening broom closets,
brandishing mops and rags and bottles of cleaning agents as they set about the evening chores. The
sisters tied aprons at their waists and rolled up their dolman sleeves and snapped on latex gloves.
They shook the dust from drapery and opened windows to dissuade the perennial mildew and moss of
their damp, cool climate from taking hold. The women prided themselves on their ability to carry out
a great deal of the convent’s labor themselves. The cheerfulness of their evening chore groups
somehow disguised the fact that they were scrubbing and waxing and dusting, and instead it created
the illusion that they were contributing to some marvelous project, one of much larger significance
than their small individual tasks. Indeed, it was true: Each floor washed, each banister finial polished
became an offering and a tribute to the greater good.
Evangeline followed the narrow steps from the Adoration Chapel up to the fourth floor. Celestine’s
chamber was one of the largest cells in the convent. It was a corner bedroom with a private bathroom
containing a large shower equipped with a folding plastic platform chair. Evangeline often wondered
whether Celestine’s confinement freed her from the burden of daily participation in community
activities, offering her a pleasant reprieve from duties, or if isolation made Celestine’s life in the
convent a prison. Such immobility struck Evangeline as horribly restrictive.
She knocked on the door, giving three hesitant raps.
“Yes?” Celestine said, her voice weak. Celestine was born in France—despite half a century in the
United States, her accent was pronounced.
Evangeline stepped into Celestine’s room, closing the door behind herself.
“Who is there?”
“It’s me.” She spoke quietly, afraid to disturb Celestine. “Evangeline. From the library.”
Celestine was nestled into her wheelchair near the window, a crocheted blanket in her lap. She no
longer wore a veil, and her hair had been cut short, framing her face with a shock of white. On the far
side of the room, a humidifier spewed steam into the air. In another corner the hot coils of a space
heater warmed the room like a sauna. Celestine appeared to be cold, despite the blanket. The bed was
made up with a similar crocheted throw, typical of the blankets made for the Elder Sisters by the
younger ones. Celestine narrowed her eyes, trying to account for Evangeline’s presence. “You have
more books for me, do you?”
“No,” Evangeline said, taking a seat next to Celestine’s wheelchair, where a stack of books sat on
a mahogany end table, a magnifying glass atop the pile. “It looks like you’ve got plenty to read.”
“Yes, yes,” Celestine said, looking out the window, “there is always more to read.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sister, but I was hoping to ask you a question.” Evangeline pulled the
letter from Mrs. Rockefeller to Mother Innocenta out of her pocket and flattened it upon her knee.
Celestine folded her long white fingers together upon her lap, a gold FSPA signet ring glinting on
her ring finger, and stared blankly at Evangeline with a cool, assessing gaze. It was possible that
Sister Celestine could not remember what she had eaten for lunch, let alone events that had occurred