Precious Blood(31)

That, Gregor decided, had to be Father Andy Walsh. And this—he looked toward the church, whose stained-glass windows were now dotted with head-shaped shadows—had to be six o’clock Mass. It was going to start a little late. From what he’d heard about Andy Walsh, he supposed that was typical. He turned his head to the left, to the building he was now sure was the convent, and had his conjectures at least partially confirmed. A little knot of nuns was straggling across the courtyard from that direction. They were trying to look pious, but mostly only succeeding in looking cold. It’s too bad, he thought. Those new habits aren’t anywhere near as graceful as the ones they used to wear in the old days.

He sat back to wait for whatever might happen next, and for the nuns to come back after Mass. He was fairly sure they wouldn’t have breakfast until then.





[2]


If he’d known anything about convents, he would have gotten his breakfast sooner. As it was, he waited until seven o’clock before going across the courtyard, even though the nuns had come back from church at twenty to. He had a half-formed conviction that he was giving them time to get their cooking done.

By the time he’d straggled his way to the convent’s front door—he didn’t have the courage to go bumbling around looking for the back one in a day that was still mostly dark—the nuns had not only got their cooking done, but most of their breakfast eaten. The rosy-faced little Sister told him that, and told him a lot of other things, too, most of which he didn’t retain. He’d always been under the impression that nuns were quiet people. This one made his favorite niece look like a mute.

“Sister Superior was wondering what had happened to you,” the little nun was saying. “She said she hadn’t told you what time we ate breakfast, and she didn’t know what time you got up, so she thought what we ought to do was put up a plate for you and leave directions for the microwave, but Sister Martha said she didn’t think you needed directions for the microwave, everybody knows how to run a microwave, but then Sister Francis said you never really know with men, which is of course a very sexist remark, so Sister Superior didn’t like it, so—” The little nun pushed open a door and stood back to let him pass. “Oh,” she said. “Here we are.”

Gregor looked into a long, narrow room almost entirely filled with a long, narrower table and its chairs—not the kitchen, but the dining room. At the far end of the table, Sister Scholastica sat over a cup of coffee, casting a jaundiced eye at Gregor’s nun-guide. The rest of the nuns were all eating breakfast and trying to correct school papers at the same time. Most of them had their veils unfastened and hung on the back of their chairs. Only two of them bothered to look up at him.

“Vatican Two,” Sister Scholastica said, still looking at Gregor’s little nun. Then she turned to Gregor himself and said, “Good morning, Mr. Demarkian. Won’t you please sit down? Coffee’s already on the table and Sister Martha—”

“Oh,” Sister Martha said. She jumped up from her place, flushed. “Mr. Demarkian. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I haven’t woken up yet. I’ll bring your breakfast right in.”

“Sister made up your plate last night,” Sister Scholastica said.

“It’s so hard to know what to serve someone who isn’t supposed to have eggs or butter,” Sister Martha said. “Especially a man.”

“Why isn’t Mr. Demarkian supposed to have eggs or butter?” Gregor’s little nun said. “Is he sick?”

Gregor wanted desperately to tell this child that he would be happy to have eggs and butter both, but Sister Scholastica got to her first. She rose out of her seat, leaned forward against the table, and said,

“Peter Rose, it’s after seven o’clock in the morning. You’ve got your class and your catechism students coming, too. Don’t you have something to get done this morning?”

“Of course I do!”

“Good.” Sister Scholastica sat down again. “Go do it.” Then she turned to Gregor again. “Do sit down, Mr. Demarkian. In fact, sit down next to me. I’ll keep you company for a while. I suppose I ought to be over at the school making some sense out of the arrangements for the children’s Mass, but I just don’t have the stomach for it at the moment.”

“I don’t have the stomach for what I’ve got to do, either,” one of the older nuns said, “but I’m going to go do it.”

“Sister Benedict Marie is a martyr to her work,” Sister Scholastica said.