“What has Reverend Mother General heard about me?” Bennis hissed into his ear as Mother Andrew Loretta passed them along to the next nun in the line. This was someone named Mother Robert Marie, who had charge of the Southern Province of the United States.
“How am I supposed to know what Reverend Mother General has heard about you?” Gregor asked. “You’re in the papers a lot.”
Mother Robert Marie passed them along to Mother Marie Genevieve, who had charge of the Provincial House in France. Mother Marie Genevieve spoke nonstop in French, as if it was beyond her comprehension that anyone on earth could fail to understand the language.
Bennis understood the language. That’s what came of spending four years at Miss Porter’s School. She made polite conversation until they were passed along to Sister Mary Deborah, who had charge of the house in Melbourne, and then hissed into Gregor’s ear: “The only time I’m ever in the papers anymore is when I’m in the papers with you, unless you’re trying to tell me Reverend Mother General reads the fantasy fan press, which I don’t believe—”
“You were on the cover of the New York Times Sunday Magazine.”
“That was four years ago. These days I’m only in the papers with you. Caption under the picture on the first page: ‘Gregor Demarkian with constant companion Bennis Day Hannaford.’ What does that woman think?”
“The same thing that everyone on Cavanaugh Street thinks,” Gregor said, “and you don’t care.”
“Everyone on Cavanaugh Street isn’t a nun.”
“Tibor’s a priest.”
“Tibor doesn’t think I’m sleeping with you.”
“This is Mother Mary Bellarmine,” Mother Mary Deborah said, passing them along one more time but looking reluctant about it. “Mother Bellarmine is the superior of our house in the southwestern United States.”
For a moment, Gregor was distracted by Mother Mary Deborah’s obvious confusion. She so plainly had no idea where “the southwestern United States” actually was or what it might comprise. Then he turned his attention to the next nun in line, and paused. Beside him, Bennis had paused, too. The woman they were standing in front of was not particularly large or particularly small, not especially pretty or noticeably ugly, not different, in any significant degree from any of the other nuns in the line. If someone had walked up to him at that moment and asked him what it was that bothered him about Mother Mary Bellarmine, Gregor couldn’t have said. She wasn’t exactly as accommodating as some of the others. There was that. She had a sour expression on her face. Gregor looked over at Bennis. She had temporarily lost her nervousness. Her head was cocked and her eyes were thoughtful. She might have been looking at a bug.
Mother Mary Bellarmine shook Gregor’s hand abruptly. Then she shook Bennis’s hand, just as abruptly. Then she folded her arms against her body and said, “Gregor Demarkian. I’ve heard all about you. You’re a friend of Cardinal O’Bannion’s. And you cause trouble.”
The nun on the far side of Mother Mary Bellarmine must have heard. She jerked into motion, swung toward the little group and said, “Oh! Gregor Demarkian. We’ve been waiting for you to come through the line. Sister Scholastica is most anxious to speak to you.”
“Sister Scholastica,” Mother Mary Bellarmine said with contempt.
“I’m Mother Mary Rosalie,” the new nun went on, holding Gregor firmly by the arm and dragging him along to her. “I’m in charge of the Northwestern Province—of the United States, that is. I know it must seem as if we’re divided up with no good plan behind it at all, and of course that’s true, to an extent, we did rather just grow, like Topsy, oh dear, I’m indulging in clichés again. You must be Bennis Hannaford. I’m very glad to meet you too.”
“Bennis Hannaford,” Mother Mary Bellarmine said. If it was meant to be a whisper, or a mutter, it failed.
Mother Mary Rosalie still had her hand on Gregor’s arm, and Gregor could see she had no intention of letting go. She had no intention of shutting up, either.
“We’re all so looking forward to your talk,” she was saying, “because of course all that trouble in Maryville last year did upset quite a few of us. We really didn’t know what to make of it all. Of course, you’ll tell us, and then we’ll all feel much better about it. Not better about the fact that the poor girl died. God bless her. That was horrible. Oh. Here she is. Here’s Sister Scholastica.”
Gregor didn’t know how Mother Mary Rosalie recognized Sister Scholastica—now that they were this far down the line and so close to the inner doors, the world seemed to be full of nuns; with the strictly defined habit the Sisters of Divine Grace wore, the world seemed to be full of nuns who all looked exactly alike—but it really was Sister Scholastica that Mother Mary Rosalie had gotten hold of. Gregor had a distinct feeling of relief. Sister Scholastica was someone he knew.