Edith shook her head. “Do you work here? You don’t look like you work here. You don’t look like a nun.”
“Nuns aren’t the only people who work here.”
“You’re wearing jeans,” Edith said. “Does the Church let you wear jeans when you work for it?”
“Her,” the young woman said automatically. “The proper pronoun for the Church is ‘Her.’”
“I don’t think so,” Edith said. “It’s not a her. It’s an it.”
“Are you always so delicately attuned to the sensibilities of people from cultures other than your own?” The young woman slid the van’s side door shut and went around the back to open up there. “I’ve got to get these boxes into the basement. I’m running late by two hours.”
Edith went around the back of the van and looked inside. The backseats had all been shut down and the empty space was full of cartons that seemed to be full of cans and other food, pasta, cookies, peanut butter. The young woman propped the van’s back door open with her shoulder and took one of the boxes out.
“I’m Edith Lawton,” Edith said.
“I know who you are,” the young woman said. “If you’re going to hang around, will you help me out with this? Go open the door to the basement.”
Edith looked dubiously at the door to the basement. “Won’t it be locked?’
“The keys are on my belt. All you have to do is unhook them.”
The keys were on one of those snap-spring key rings. The young woman jutted out her hip, and Edith got them off.
“You could tell me your name,” she said. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“My name is Mary McAllister,” the young woman said, “and you already know it. Or you should. You’ve asked three times before.”
“Sorry.”
“Get the door.”
Edith got the door. Mary McAllister went inside. Edith pushed against the door until the spring caught and held it open. Mary McAllister had disappeared down a hallway. Edith went in the only direction she could go, and found herself in a large open room with an industrial-grade carpet on the floor. The room was decorated with children’s crafts, crosses and lambs cut out of construction paper. They gave Edith the creeps.
“The thing is,” Edith said, “I wouldn’t have done it. Killed her, I mean. I wouldn’t have killed that nun because she was, you know, she was one of the good ones.”
“One of the good ones.” Mary straightened up. She had been bent over a table, sorting the food in the box into different piles. “What do you mean by one of the good ones?”
“Oh, you know,” Edith said. “One of the ones who think. Who live in the real world. Not like the ones in the habits who think they’re still in the sixteenth century.”
“Right,” Mary said. “I’ve got to get another box. Carry boxes if you want to hang around and talk.”
Edith didn’t know if she wanted to hang around and talk. She only knew she didn’t want to go home. She followed Mary out into the parking lot and took the box she was handed. It was heavy.
“What’s this for?” she asked. “Is the church having a picnic?”
“It’s from the food bank,” Mary said. “We do the food bank down at the homeless shelter mostly. There isn’t much need for it in this neighborhood. But there’s some, and there are always people who would rather come here than get their stuff somewhere there’s likely to be a drive-by shooting, so once a month we do a distribution from the church. Watch out for that box. It’s got jars in it.”
It felt like it had rocks in it. Edith wondered how old Mary was. Eighteen? Nineteen? She was stronger than Edith had ever been. The box she was carrying was bigger, and she was balancing it on her shoulder. Edith followed her across the parking lot and down the steps into the basement again. Mary put her box down next to the table. Edith put her box down next to Mary’s box.
“We used to make up bags for people to take,” Mary said. “Then I realized, that was stupid. They’re like everybody else. They like some things. They don’t like other things. Now we put the stuff out and give everybody a bag to fill and they can put whatever they want in it that will fit. I wish we could make it two bags for everybody. We never have enough food.”
“The Church should sell some of its art and give the money to the poor,” Edith said virtuously. “That’s what they’d do if they really believed all that crap they put out.”
“Is that so?”
“The Church is full of hypocrites,” Edith said. “You must know that. You can’t miss knowing that. You’re not stupid.”