Angelology(6)

grainy black-and-white photograph showed the carcass of the convent, beams burned to charcoal. A

caption read, “Milton Convent Ravaged by Morning Blaze.” Reading through the article, Evangeline

found that six women, including Mother Innocenta, the abbess who may or may not have been in

correspondence with Mrs. Abigail Rockefeller, had died of asphyxiation.

Evangeline took a deep breath, chilled by the image of her beloved home engulfed in flames. She

opened another box and paged through a sheaf of encapsulated newspaper clippings. By February 15

the sisters had moved into the basement of the convent, sleeping on cots, bathing and cooking in the

kitchen so that they could assist in repairing the living quarters. They continued their regular routine

of prayer in the Adoration Chapel, which had been left untouched by the fire, performing their hourly

adoration as if nothing had happened. Scanning the article, Evangeline stopped abruptly at a line

toward the bottom of the page. To her amazement she read:

Despite the near-total destruction of the convent proper, it is reported that a generous donation from

the Rockefeller family will allow the Franciscan Sisters of Perpetual Adoration to repair St. Rose

Convent and their Mary of the Angels Church to their original condition.

Evangeline put the articles into their boxes, stacked them one on top of the other, and returned them

to their home in the archive. Edging to the back of the room, she found a box marked EPHEMERA

1940—1945. If Mother Innocenta had had contact with anyone as illustrious as Abigail Rockefeller,

the letters would have been filed among such papers. Evangeline set the box on the cool linoleum

floor and squatted before it. She found all variety of records from the convent—receipts for cloth and

soap and candles, a program of the 1941 St. Rose Christmas celebrations, and a number of letters

between Mother Innocenta and the head of the diocese regarding the arrival of novices. To her

frustration, there was nothing more to be found.

It was possible, Evangeline reasoned as she returned the documents to their correct box, that

Innocenta’s personal papers had been filed elsewhere. There were any number of boxes in which she

might find them—Mission Correspondence or Foreign Charities seemed especially promising. She

was about to move on to another box when she spied a pale envelope tucked below a pack of receipts

for church supplies. Pulling it out, she saw that it was addressed to Mother Innocenta. The return

address had been written in elegant calligraphy: “Mrs. A. Rockefeller, 10 W.54th Street, New York,

New York.” Evangeline felt the blood rush to her head. Here was proof that Mr. Verlaine had been

correct: A connection between Mother Innocenta and Abigail Rockefeller did, in fact, exist.

Evangeline looked carefully at the envelope and then tapped it. A thin paper fell into her hands.

December 14, 1943

Dearest Mother Innocenta,

I send good news of our interests in the Rhodope Mountains, where our efforts are by all

accounts a success. Your guidance has helped the progress of the expedition enormously, and

I daresay my own contributions have been useful as well. Celestine Clochette will be arriving

in New York early February. More news will reach you soon. Until then, I am sincerely

yours,

A. A. Rockefeller

Evangeline stared at the paper in her hands. It was beyond her understanding. Why would someone

like Abigail Rockefeller write to Mother Innocenta? What did “our interests in the Rhodope

Mountains” mean? And why had the Rockefeller family paid for the restoration of St. Rose after the

fire? It made no sense at all. The Rockefellers, as far as Evangeline knew, were not Catholic and had

no connection to the diocese. Unlike other wealthy Gilded Age families—the Vanderbilts came

immediately to mind—they did not own a significant amount of property in the vicinity. Yet there had

to be some explanation for such a generous gift.

Evangeline folded Mrs. Rockefeller’s letter and put it into her pocket. Walking from the archives

into the library, she felt the difference in temperature in an instant—the fire had overheated the room.

She removed the letter she had written to Mr. Verlaine from the stack of mail waiting to be posted and

carried it to the fireplace. As the flame caught the edge of the envelope, painting a fine black track

into the pink cotton bond, an image of the martyred Rose of Viterbo appeared in Evangeline’s mind—

a flitting figment of a willowy girl withstanding a raging fire—and disappeared as if carried away in

a swirl of smoke.

The A train, Eighth Avenue Express, Columbus Circle station, New

York City

The automatic doors slid open, ushering a gust of freezing air through the train. Verlaine zipped his