Dear Old Dead(40)

Now she picked up the big box of crayons Sister Edna had sent her in to the storehouse to get—there were only used crayons at the center; schools and church groups donated them when they were half their original size and embedded with flecks of dust and sand—and went back out into the play area, where a little clutch of girls was lying on the floor, drawing something that made them giggle that they wouldn’t show anyone else. Martha made a face at them—first to fourth grade didn’t matter; Martha knew what they were drawing; it had something to do with sex—and went across the room to where Sister was sitting at an old-fashioned teacher’s desk. Sister Edna was a tiny woman in her early sixties who wore more of a habit than any other nun at the center except Sister Kenna. Sister Edna was some kind of Dominican and had a white dress with long white flaps to the front and back and a black veil. Martha didn’t like nuns any more than she liked anyone else at the center. They gave her the creeps.

Martha put the box of crayons down on Sister’s desk.

“Here they are,” she said. “Are you going to need me for the next five minutes?”

“I always need you,” Sister Edna said, imperturbable. “Where do you want to go?”

“I want to run down and get myself a cup of coffee. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Coffee.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“You should make a point of getting to sleep on the nights before you’re on duty here. You’re expected to be here when you’re on duty here.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“This isn’t a hobby, you know. This is a desperate necessity in the lives of these children.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“This is a desperate necessity in the lives of these children’s parents, too. Are you sure you need this coffee?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Well, go get it, then. But hurry along. We’re understaffed even when you’re here.”

Martha was going to say “yes, Sister” one more time, but she didn’t. Nuns didn’t just give her the creeps. She hated them. They made her feel as if she were ten years old again. Who was Sister Edna to tell her when she couldn’t get a cup of coffee and when she could? Who were any of these people? This wasn’t some job Martha had taken to pay the rent or further her own career. She got paid room and board and a dollar a week. It was a charity she was doing. She wouldn’t be doing it much longer. If it had been up to Martha, she would have handed in her resignation to the center the day after Grandfather was found dead in Michael Pride’s office. With Grandfather dead, there was no reason for her to suffer under this nonsense anymore. It was Ida who had convinced her to stay. How would it look? Ida had said, and Martha had had to concede the point. If Martha up and quit right after the death, the police might think it was because she suspected Michael Pride and didn’t want to be around him. Then again, they might think it was because she was guilty herself and wanted to be away from the scene. There was no way to tell which way the police would jump. Martha didn’t want to pit herself against Michael Pride. In the city of New York, Michael Pride was a secular saint.

The Afterschool Program was held in the east building. Martha didn’t like to cross to the west building over the bridge because she didn’t like to look at the day-care children any more than she liked looking at the children she was supposed to be caring for herself. She didn’t like to cross the bridge in the dark because it was spooky. She went down to the first floor of the east building and out the front door. The street was absolutely empty and absolutely calm. Even the damn fool with the sign had disappeared. Martha went down the east building stoop, along the sidewalk, and up the west building stoop. The doors there were wide open as always. Sister Augustine only deigned to close them when the wind chill got into the negative figures. Martha said hi to the girl at the reception desk—the girl at the reception desk was always some local teenager, fourteen years old and very pregnant—and went on to the back to the stairs that led to the cafeteria. She didn’t really want a cup of coffee. She was only here because she wanted to make sure nobody saw her anywhere else and reported her whereabouts to Sister. Why did she care?

The cafeteria was almost empty. Sister Kenna and Sister Clarice were sitting together at a table in the far corner, eating coffee and chocolate cake. Nuns ate so many sweets. Julie Enderson was sitting by herself in a table near the cash register, drinking a glass of milk and reading a thick textbook that was making her frown. Shana Malvera was sitting by herself, too, looking over a copy of the New York Sentinel she didn’t seem to be very interested in and glancing up every once in a while to see who else had come in. Martha caught her eye and waved. Shana waved back. Martha got herself a cup of coffee, paid for it and went to sit with Shana. On her way she passed the only other table in the room that was occupied, taken up by a tall, muscular, well-padded man in a good suit and a red sweater—and the Eternal Protester, Robbie what’s-his-name. Martha wondered who the well-dressed man was. The chief lawyer in charge of Right to Life Vigilantes, Inc. The president of Keep Women Down Unlimited. Somebody. Martha knew good tailoring when she saw it.