Chapter Seven

Sr. Inez got up from her place before the shrine to the Virgin with the use of her blackthorn walking stick. She helped Sr. Helen arise and handed her a brightly painted cane. They stretched, limped down the aisle of the nuns’ chapel at Mt. Carmel Academy, and exited into the thick, hot summer air.

“I saw Prudence Niles at Rainbow Liquor and Groceries today. She was stocking up on booze for the week. Doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.” Sr. Inez shook her head sadly. “She said she had a postcard from Renee. She and her cowboy went to Casper, Wyoming, to help with a rodeo for special kids.”

“That doesn’t sound like Renee. I was under the impression she only went to charitable affairs to meet rich men. Do you think our prayers for her are working?” Sr. Helen asked.

“I’m positive, but I believe we need reinforcements. The BVM cannot handle this alone. Tomorrow after dinner, we should go into the pine woods and pray to St. Mary Magdalene at her statue.”

“Ah, Nessy, I don’t think I can make it down that long and winding path anymore. With all the praying we’ve been doing in the chapel, even in the air-conditioning, my knees are killing me. I’m happy to offer up my pain to God, but if I collapse halfway there, you won’t be able to carry me back to the convent.”

“I’ll ask the Mother Superior to borrow the golf cart. She does approve of what we are trying to accomplish—the redemption of Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes.”

“Very well, then,” said Sr. Helen, her blue eyes twinkling, her white head nodding. “You bring a candle. I’ll cut some flowers for an offering. And BYOB—bring your own bug spray.”

They carried out their plans after the seven p.m. prayers and went into the woods smelling of candle wax, incense, and DEET. Sr. Nessy drove the golf cart, a gift from the father of one of their Academy girls who had given up the dubious pleasure of the sport. Her recklessness behind the wheel caused Sr. Helen to squeak each time they rounded a curve. Petals from the bouquet of white crepe myrtles she held scattered in the artificial breeze the turn created.

“The intention of the winding path is to promote the contemplation of one’s sins, not serve as a Formula One race course,” she reminded her fellow nun tartly.

“I’d like to get there before the mosquitoes come out if you don’t mind. Good thing it stays light until almost nine this time of year, but under the pines the bloodsuckers rise earlier.”

Sr. Helen clamped her mouth shut and held on. God saw them safely to their destination at the rather lascivious statue of Mary Magdalene who reclined upon a couch, her long hair undone, her feet bare, her body lush and curvaceous. If the Blessed Mother Leontine hadn’t declared it a work of art and a true tribute to the Magdalene, surely some priest would have had it hauled away a century and more ago. She got down from the golf cart rather unsteadily and laid her tribute of flowers by St. Mary’s feet.

“Not much in bloom in the summer heat. Sorry we have nothing better to offer. The marigolds are meant for the Virgin, you know.” Whether Sr. Helen’s apology was intended for her companion or the saint was hard to say.

“The little spray of red roses is a nice touch though,” Sr. Nessy assured her.

“Yes, a tough variety of climber, it tries to bloom even when the temperatures hit ninety. The old roses Mother Leontine planted long ago do fare better than the modern hybrids, but this is all the bush had to offer right now. We’d better get started.”

Sr. Nessy set the squat pale yellow candle by the flowers and lit it with a cheap cigarette lighter she quickly stowed away deep in her habit again. She’d given up smoking long, long ago, but even possessing a lighter for a short time brought back the old urge to light up again. The scent of mosquito-repelling citronella filled the air.

“Practical and pleasant,” she remarked. Getting to her knees rather gingerly in the soft pine needles, she closed her eyes and folded her hands. Her strong voice filled the glade and scared off a plump raccoon just about to start its nightly marauding of the convent’s garbage cans.

“St. Mary, hear our prayer. We beseech you, who stayed by the grieving Virgin and went with her to into the garden to see the miracle of the risen Christ, to lend your strength to hers in bringing about another miracle. One of our Academy girls needs your help most grievously. She is called Renee Niles Bouchard Hayes. As you can tell from her excess of names, she has married often, but not in true love and happiness. Please show her the right path to travel in order to gain these most invaluable blessings.”

Sr. Helen continued in words so soft they did not so much as startle the flock of sparrows that had hidden in the bushes when Nessy began her plea. “Give the man she travels with strength and everlasting patience. I believe he is a good man, full of the type of kindness Renee has never known. He paid for our ice creams.”

“She doesn’t need to know that!” Sr. Nessy interjected with her usual force. The tiny birds took flight.

“It’s an example of his generous spirit if you please, Sister.” Sr. Helen continued gently, “He also has courage, great courage. He is a bullfighter, you know. He will need all that courage and whatever more you can lend him to help our girl. Please do not let him fail. Oh, I am sure if the task is too great for you and Mother Mary, our own Blessed Mother Leontine will lend you her great strength as well. She would never give up on salvation for a Mt. Carmel Academy girl.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” Sr. Nessy whispered as if the statue might overhear. “I mean we should not cast doubt on her ability.”

“I am not! This is a great task we ask of her. Calling on Mother Leontine is simply a suggestion. She knows that.”

“I suppose.”

“St. Mary, hear our prayer,” Sr. Helen ended as Sr. Inez had begun.

The last shaft of evening sunlight speared through the pines and illuminated the white marble of the statue. Prettier than any dove, a snowy egret fluttered from the darkness under the trees and landed on St. Mary’s voluptuous hip. It wrapped its golden feet into her draperies to secure its perch, then turned one round, dark eye toward Sr. Helen, then Sr. Nessy. Its small head made a single bob, and it flew away to join a flock arrowing toward a night roost in the distance.

“Did you see?” asked Sr. Helen, her voice full of awe.

“Of course, I saw the bird. My hips and knees are going, not my eyesight.” Sr. Nessy put her hands on the base of the statue and heaved herself up. “They should put a handicapped bar right here. We aren’t the only old women who come here to pray.”

“Oh, offer up your pain to God! Didn’t you notice the bird wore its mating plumage, those glorious white aigrettes people used to kill them for?”

“Pretty, but what of it?”

“They don’t breed this time of year, Nessy, only in the spring. We have experienced a vision and must tell the Mother Superior when we return the golf cart.”

“If you insist, but I think your logic is shaky, even if I do back your word.”

“No more than your driving. Help me up. I know our prayers will be answered.”