Changing Habits (14 page)

SISTER ANGELINA

“H
ow are you going to style your hair, Sister?” Corinne Sullivan asked, cocking her head as she studied Angie.

Like the rest of the Health class, she'd been assigned to read her textbook in silence. “I'll give you a few hints, if you want,” she offered excitedly. “I'm good with hair. I styled Megan's.” Turning around in her desk, she looked at her handiwork while Megan pretended to be reviewing the chapter.

“Read,” Angie whispered in warning, not wanting to disturb the others. While most had their heads obediently bowed over their reading assignment, Corinne continued to assess Angie as she walked down the aisles between the rows of desks.

“I'm just interested,” Corinne said in a low voice when Angie glared at her.

Corinne might be interested, but for Angie the whole subject of hair was a source of anxiety rather than pleasure. In the past fourteen years Angie had done nothing more than run a brush through her hair. She'd noticed the other day that there were several gray hairs in her brush. It didn't surprise her. For most of her life her father had been completely gray; in fact, the last time she'd seen him, his hair had gone white. Premature graying ran in the family. Which brought up
another question: would…should Angie color her hair? Would that be allowed? Somehow she doubted it. Vain and contradictory though it was, she didn't want to appear old—or, at least, any older than thirty-two. She sighed at the prospect of all these decisions she didn't feel equipped to make, all these changes she wasn't ready for.

Redesigning the habit was a sign of the upheaval taking place within the Catholic Church, an upheaval that would profoundly affect the religious life—was already affecting it. Angie felt more and more uncomfortable with the loss of traditions that had defined the order for more than a century.

“Didn't you ever think about marriage?” Corinne pressed, still watching Angie, who paced up and down. “I'm sorry, Sister, it's just that I've never really thought of you as a
woman
before, you know?”

That was understandable enough, Angie mused. For that matter, she didn't consider herself one, either. Her menstrual cycle was a nuisance and her breasts were useless appendages she struggled to contain and minimize.

“We heard you're going to be wearing dresses just like everyone else!”

Before Angie could hush the girl a second time, the class bell rang and the students, including Corinne, surged out the door. Weary after the last class of the day, Angie sat down at her desk and flipped absently through the homework papers she'd collected earlier.

“You busy?” Sister Kathleen asked as she stepped into the classroom. Tiredly she leaned against the doorjamb. “Were you drilled about the new habits all day? I don't understand it. You'd think we were about to break a hundred-and-thirty-year-old tradition or something,” she teased.

Angie chuckled. “I got my share of questions.”

“If it's this bad now, can you imagine what it'll be like once we actually start
wearing
the habits?”

The students were merely curious, whereas Angie was worried. In all the years she'd spent in the convent, every bit of individuality had been methodically stripped from her. And now…

“I'd better get over to the rectory,” Sister Kathleen said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

Angie encouraged her with a smile. The church books must be a disaster if Father Sanders had requested Sister Kathleen's help. Angie liked both parish priests. Father Sanders, who often celebrated Mass at the convent, was congenial in that bluff, hearty way, and from personal experience, she knew it was hard to refuse him. Father Doyle was younger, obviously idealistic and more serious in his manner. Angie suspected he never would have made such a request.

“I'll see you later,” Sister Kathleen said as she left.

As Angie gathered up her papers and placed them inside her briefcase for the short walk back to the convent, she glanced out the window overlooking the parking lot below.

She immediately found Corinne, who was talking to a young man sitting in a car. Angie didn't have a clue what kind it was, but it appeared to be new. The driver's window was rolled down and his elbow rested on the edge. He took a puff on a cigarette and offered it to Corinne. Angie was relieved that the girl shook her head and declined. That relief was short-lived, however. A moment later, Corinne shrugged and reached for the smoke. Looking carefully around, the girl leaned close to the car and took a deep drag on the cigarette before handing it back to the young man.

Angie picked up her briefcase, and feeling mildly depressed, headed out of the classroom. Generally she walked directly to the convent, which was down the street from the school. However, at the last minute, she decided to take a more circuitous route and went around the back of the building, toward the parking lot. Corinne had probably left
with her boyfriend already, but if not, maybe Angie's presence would remind her of their earlier discussion about smoking—and the fact that it was forbidden on school premises.

She was in luck, she saw. Corinne was half in and half out the car when Angie sauntered past.

“Good afternoon, Corinne,” Angie said casually, as though she often took this out-of-the-way route.

“Sister Angelina?” Corinne's eyes went wide with shock—and then guilt.

Without waiting for an introduction, Angie nodded in the direction of the driver. The young man was quick to avert his gaze.

“This is Sister Angelina. She's my Health teacher… I tried to get into her Home Ec class, too, but I haven't heard if there's room yet. Everyone wants Sister to teach them how to cook a real Italian dinner.”

“I got the paperwork this afternoon. I guess you'll be joining us, after all,” Angie told her.

“I'm in?” Corinne nearly exploded with excitement.

“I don't believe I caught your name,” Angie said to the boy. He was attractive enough, with dark hair and eyes, and he didn't seem particularly tough-looking. That reassured Angie.

“Oh, Sister,” Corinne said eagerly, “this is Jimmy Durango, my steady.”

“Do you attend school here?”

“No.” Jimmy shrugged. “I'm not a Catholic.” He said this as though he expected her to disapprove. He was studying her, though, and trying not to be obvious about it. Angie understood his curiosity; this was possibly the first time he'd ever seen a nun up close.

“Where do you go to school, Jimmy?” she asked.

“Garfield High in Osseo.”

“Isn't that quite a ways from here?”

“He comes to town to see me,” Corinne put in.

“And your parents have met Jimmy?”

“Oh, yes.” She gave her boyfriend her hand and they entwined their fingers, expressions fervent. “Mom wants me to date a Catholic boy,” Corinne said, “but I don't like any of the guys around here.” She made it sound as though any boy at St. Peter's couldn't possibly meet her exacting requirements, although Angie distinctly remembered a young man who'd followed Corinne into class that first day.

Jimmy's eyes narrowed; he seemed to assume that Angie would agree with Corinne's parents and discourage the relationship. She wouldn't. That wasn't her job. Angie was a teacher, not a counselor. She liked Corinne a great deal; the girl had spunk and a sense of humor, and she didn't hesitate to question what she didn't understand. Those were traits Angie admired. She'd just have to hope that Corinne had enough common sense and self-respect not to do anything foolish.

“Nice to meet you, Jimmy.”

“You, too….” He hesitated, apparently uncertain about how to address her.

“Oh, just call her Sister Angelina.”

“Even if I'm not Catholic?” Jimmy asked.

Angie nodded. “Of course.”

“You aren't going to change your name when you get your new habit, are you, Sister?” Corinne asked.

“No, I'll still be Sister Angelina Marcello.”

“You have a last name too?”

“Yes, Corinne, most of us do.” Try as she might, Angie couldn't keep the amusement out of her voice.

“I know that,” Corinne said with a sheepish grin. “It's just that I've never heard yours before. Wow, that is so cool! Sister Angelina Marcello,” she repeated reverently.

Angie was about to turn away, but Corinne stopped her. “Jimmy sometimes has questions I can't answer about the Church. Would it be all right if I asked you, Sister?”

“Corinne.” Jimmy's voice was low and full of warning.

“Jimmy?” Angie smiled at the young man, thinking he might be more comfortable asking her himself.

“It's nothing important,” Jimmy insisted, looking pointedly at Corinne. His face had gone red, as though his girlfriend had betrayed a confidence. When he realized that Angie was studying him, he grew even more flustered. He turned abruptly and started the engine.

“You coming?” he asked Corinne.

She looked torn. “I don't know yet,” she said, holding her books tightly.

The nuances of what was happening were beyond Angie. It was time for her to leave. “Once again, it was a pleasure to meet you, Jimmy.”

“Thanks, Sister. You too.”

“Bye, Sister,” Corinne said. She suddenly raced around the front of the vehicle and slid into the passenger side next to Jimmy.

Remembering years ago when she'd been a teenager herself, Angie stood back and watched as the two of them roared off. She liked Corinne's boyfriend, she decided.

SISTER KATHLEEN

“S
ister, I was wondering when you'd arrive,” Mrs. O'Malley said when Kathleen stepped into the rectory. A blast of chilly air followed her inside. “I have tea brewing if you'd care for a cup.”

Kathleen didn't have time to spare. The housekeeper was an inveterate talker—like Mrs. O'Halloran back at the motherhouse—and if Kathleen took the time for tea, the woman might easily waste an hour with her chatter.

“Thanks for the offer, but I can't today. I'd better get to work,” she said grimly. Kathleen had come to realize that her being at the rectory, accepting this task, was a sign of weakness—not the kindness and generosity she'd first thought. Well, it was in part, but she knew that generosity wasn't her primary motivation. She was eager for recognition, eager to leap in and save the day for the parish priest, eager for praise.

“I'll just go into the office,” Kathleen said.

With a disappointed nod, the housekeeper returned to the kitchen.

The church office was quiet. After Father Sanders had given her the books and his receipts that first afternoon, Kathleen hadn't seen him again. Father Doyle wasn't around
much, either. Even when she did happen upon them, they exchanged only the briefest of pleasantries.

In the back of her mind—and Kathleen was embarrassed to admit this—she'd assumed that once she was in the rectory she'd have the opportunity for interesting discussions about theology and various church matters with one or other of the priests. Friendly discussions, because no nun would dare question a priest or challenge him in any way. She reminded herself that even entertaining the notion that any priest would care to hear her philosophy was to assume a higher opinion of her own intelligence and position than warranted.

Taking her chair, Kathleen opened the ledger and penciled in the deposit from Sunday's collection. That was easy enough. The monthly bank statement had arrived, so Kathleen sorted the checks by number and marked them off as having cleared. This was the first statement she'd seen. Previous ones must have been destroyed or stored elsewhere; they hadn't been in the box with the other material.

The first problem she encountered was a discrepancy in the deposits. It wasn't much—twenty dollars in the first deposit and fifteen in the second. The ledger showed one thing, while the bank statement noted a lesser amount.

Kathleen set the statement aside until she had a moment to ask Father Sanders who, she assumed, had deposited the Sunday collections. Normally Mrs. Stafford would have seen to the task first thing Monday morning, but she'd been on vacation since mid-August, when Father Sanders had assumed her duties.

Kathleen worked diligently for the next hour, reconciling the accounts, but she found one small discrepancy after another. It was as though whoever was making the deposits had skimmed a bill or two off the top each time. She couldn't imagine Father Sanders doing such a thing, but he was the one who made the deposits. It didn't make sense.
She also discovered that receipts for rectory expenses didn't tally with amounts deducted in the ledger.

The bell above the rectory door chimed and she glanced up just as Father Doyle strolled down the hallway toward the kitchen. He paused when he noticed Kathleen.

“Good afternoon, Sister. Beautiful day, isn't it?”

Kathleen smiled in agreement. She did enjoy these lovely autumn afternoons, when the air was crisp with intimations of winter. They reminded her of Boston and the big leaves falling from oak trees on the street outside her family home.

“Father,” she said, stopping him before he disappeared. “Do you happen to know where Father Sanders is?” If she could have ten minutes of his time, she might be able to clear up these discrepancies. She was certain he'd have a logical explanation.

“Father is out for the rest of the day. Can I help?” he asked, moving into the office.

“No, no… I have a few questions I need answered, but they can wait for another day.”

“You're sure I can't be of assistance?”

She appreciated his willingness but she needed the older priest. “No, unfortunately, I have to discuss this with Father Sanders.”

Father Doyle shrugged, then said slowly, “I'll ask him to be available for you the next time you're here.”

“Thank you.” Kathleen glanced up and saw that Father Doyle was frowning. She'd never really looked at him before. Or rather, had never looked beyond his collar. Although he bore a solid Irish name, his facial features betrayed none of the typical signs of being from Ireland. He might be one of the so-called Black Irish, she decided. It was said that Spaniards had settled in Ireland at the time of the Armada, which accounted for the blue-eyed, dark-haired men.

Loud jovial singing could be heard coming from the
kitchen. “That must be Father Sanders now,” Kathleen said. She wanted her questions answered as quickly as possible. Otherwise she might be held up for several days.

“I'll check and see.” Father Doyle hurried toward the kitchen and left the door between the rectory and the private dining room open in his rush. The singing became louder and more boisterous.

Father Sanders joined her a moment later, obviously in an expansive mood. “Good day to you, Sister Kathleen.”

“Good afternoon, Father.”

“I understand you have a question for me?”

“I do.” As simply as possible, she explained the differences between what the bank statement had noted for the deposit and the amount he'd entered in the ledger.

“I must've written the deposit amount incorrectly,” the priest said. “Like I explained earlier, this accounting business is beyond me. Just change what you need to so it comes out right.”

His advice shocked her. “Father! I can't do that.”

“You can if I say so.”

“But…but what will Mrs. Stafford think when she returns?”

Father sighed sharply, and she caught a whiff of mint on his breath. “She won't think a thing of it, seeing I was the one who made the mistake. Mrs. Stafford makes allowances for my many flaws and you should, too.”

“Yes, Father.” He was growing impatient with her, but Kathleen hesitated to alter the books simply because Father told her to. While it wasn't a lot of money, she had no moral or legal right to do that.

“Anything else?”

Kathleen hesitated.

“I don't have all day, Sister,” Father said.

Kathleen felt properly chastised. “Just one more thing,” she said, drawing in a deep breath. She could feel the embar
rassment redden her face. “I'm afraid the receipts you gave me for expenses don't reconcile with—”

“Reconcile?” Father's voice was too loud. “Speak English. How am I supposed to know what that means?”

“I…I—”

“Father.” The younger priest appeared, almost as though he'd been waiting in the wings. “Perhaps it would be better if you discussed this later.”

“Yes, yes, it would,” Father Sanders mumbled, suddenly deflated. He stared down at the floor in apparent confusion.

“I believe Mrs. O'Malley has coffee for you, Father.”

“Coffee?” Father Sanders repeated with a scowl. Father Doyle artfully steered the older priest back toward the kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder at Kathleen. Feeling his gaze, she looked up and read the apology in his eyes.

It was then that she knew. At that moment she recognized what should have been obvious from the first. Father Sanders was drunk. It'd been years since she'd seen anyone in that condition. And yet, now that she was aware of it, she wondered how she could have missed all the signs, from the mouthwash or peppermints masking his breath to the too-careful enunciation and mood swings.

Just as she was clearing off the desk, Father Doyle returned. He hesitated, evidently unsure of what to say.

When he finally did speak, his voice was regretful. “In the future it might be better if you came to me with your questions, Sister.”

“Perhaps you're right.” Father Doyle preferred to handle the situation on his own—preferred not to involve her—which was understandable, she supposed. Understandable and very kind. What he probably didn't realize was that she was already embroiled in Father Sanders's troubles.

Father Doyle was the most honest and ethical man she'd
ever known and if he wanted to protect Father Sanders, then she could only agree.

“As Father said, he doesn't have a head for numbers.”

Kathleen offered him a weak smile. “So it seems,” she murmured.

Father Doyle was studying her, as if to gauge how much she'd discerned from the other priest's behavior. She considered explaining that she'd been around a tavern most of her growing-up years, but Father Sanders's drinking was a subject that needed to be handled with discretion.

Singing exploded from the kitchen again, loud and badly off-key.

Father Doyle's gaze sought hers.

Kathleen recognized the song from her uncle's pub. “My uncle used to sing that,” she said in a whisper.

“Your uncle?”

They were tiptoeing around each other, neither wanting to say what was obvious. “He's…a favorite uncle of mine. My father works at the pub my uncle owns. Uncle Patrick doesn't have a head for business, either, and so my dad helps tend the bar and he does the books.”

Father Doyle's relief was unmistakable. “Father Sanders is a good priest,” he said seriously. “He has his struggles, as we all do, and I'm sure he'll…improve.”

Kathleen was relieved, too. Father Doyle was taking care of the situation. She needn't worry. “I'm sure he will.”

The younger priest grinned. “So it appears your uncle Patrick and Father Sanders share a certain weakness for…numbers.”

Kathleen grinned back. She could keep a secret and she wanted Father Doyle to know that. As far as she was concerned, the fact that Father Sanders liked to drink would stay between the two of them.