The Passion of Mary-Margaret (21 page)

“I want you to marry Jude Keller.”

IT'S AMAZING HOW YOU CAN PUT A PROJECT DOWN THAT means so much to you and end up walking away for months. It is now December of 2001 and I'm in Florida once again for the Christmas holidays. I still haven't looked into Brother Joe's whereabouts after his time at the mission on The Block. And I still haven't planted Jude's bulbs either. You know, I knew what kind of flowers they would produce years ago, and now I simply cannot remember.

This past summer I tried, and failed, once again to get a showing at a gallery in Ocean City and I vowed to never try again. That owner has something out for me because he hangs all manner of seascapes with waves that are about as luminescent as a pot roast and even sculpture that's crafted from old lawn mower parts, but my sculptures are, in his words, “Pedestrian, Mary. Utterly pedestrian.” If I go down in obscurity, so be it.

I visited with Morpheus for two weeks in June, stayed at the retreat house in Virginia for a week in July, then, amid flower-arranging classes and beading sessions, had to get my plans ready for the coming year to submit for the budget. I needed to develop a more advanced painting class for two women who were going great guns, as well as a few of the men decided they wanted to learn how to carve decoys. Researching, finding a teacher and inexpensive supplies, not to mention a field trip in early August to the Waterfowl Museum in Havre de Grace, took up the rest of my summer.

All wonderful, happy reasons to forgo a search.

Unfortunately, however, after a vacation to Niagara Falls with Gerald and Hattie that included a ride on Maid of the Mist and dinner at a Tyrolean restaurant, as well as a visit to several wax museums, Hattie took a turn for the worse. They'd stepped down their care level and moved into a lovely little unit with a kitchenette, a bed and bath, and a sitting room. On September 11th, she had a stroke just after watching the second plane slam into the World Trade Center. She's been in a vegetative state ever since. We can't figure out if the attack caused the stroke or it was just a coincidence. I figure the latter; Angie, of course, says Hattie was probably more frightened of the changes in the world than she ever let on. The woman who rescued people in hurricanes single-handedly? I just don't think so. “She lived in a lighthouse most of her adult life, Mary. That's quite a sheltered existence.”

Whatever the reason, Gerald can't cope, simply put, so I haven't felt the freedom to just go traipsing off to find my father. Aunt Elfi trained me too well. However, Hattie's youngest sister finally convinced Gerald to visit her in Hagerstown for the Christmas holidays and I begged him to go.

“Hattie might linger for many more
months. But if she does wake up, and it would take a miracle, Gerald, I think she would be glad you took a trip to see Adele. Don't you? Honestly?” We were sitting in the facility dining room eating tapioca pudding with vanilla wafers ringed around the inside of the pedestaled, glass dessert cup.

“I think you're probably right. But what if she dies while I'm gone?”

“You'll come home from Hagerstown and I'll return from Florida and you and I will walk through that valley together. I'll be with you every step of the way. I promise, Gerald. Do you understand?”

After what Jesus told me about our death order, I felt fully confident saying that. Jesus doesn't lie.

He whipped a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and dabbed at his eyes. Hattie's illness aged him a good five years. “You've been a good friend all of these years, MM.”

“I've tried. And you've always made it easy, Gerald.” I lightly pinched his bony forearm. “So don't start making it difficult for me now.”

“Aye, aye.”

Later I took him in my arms as we sat at the edge of Hattie's bed, just like Jesus always took me into his. Gerald said, “All right, MM. I'll go.”

I've got to get back to the mission. Maybe I will after vacation. But for now, I've got my toes in the sand, a very large hat on my head, and this notebook. And so I will continue my tale.

My latest letter from my son John in Africa bore good news. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to come back to the United States for classes last summer and ended up completing his hours in Johannesburg.

Dear Mom,

I miss you as always and am craving a plate of your crab cakes as
usual. Please tell me you eat them at least once a month. I've been hankering
for some good old Maryland seafood lately.

December is always the worst time here in Swaziland as all the rituals
with the king are in full swing. I'm staying put here in Big Bend and
putting off my trip to Mbabane until after the New Year.

The church from Colorado finished their building out at the nearby
carepoint and we were able to start classes for the older children who
cannot afford school. We have thirty students ranging from ages 14–18.
You'd love them so much. I think a few of them will actually make it in
this world. At least a third of them are already HIV positive.

I'm so very sorry to hear about Aunt Hattie. Poor dear. I know you
two have always been good friends as well as sisters-in-law. Tell Uncle
Gerald the brothers and I are praying for them.

I don't have time to write a detailed letter as the drought has been
terrible this summer and a steady stream of patients rolls through the
clinic. I did want to tell you to pray for a girl named Tengetile. She is
fourteen, head of household, and her uncle is raping her regularly. We're
doing all we can for her, but this culture fails to protect these girls. Pray
for her safety and that we can show her a little kindness in the name of
the Lord. I'm sure she has AIDS and if she isn't pregnant already, she
soon will be. At times like these, as you might well guess, I feel utterly
inadequate.

You are always beside me in my thoughts and prayers. I hope you'll
come next summer. We sure could use the help, and I'd love to see you.

Much love,

John

If John is still alive as you read this, sisters, please offer up a prayer for him.

Well then. Let's pick up where we left off with Jesus dropping that whopper of a request on me! Marry Jude? Lord have mercy!

I called Angie first after I landed back on the island, still shell-shocked at the marching orders Jesus had given me. She still lived in Bainbridge though the school year had ended, helping to set up the new school.

“You don't do stuff like this, Mary,” she said. “Not even close. What's gotten into you?”

“God told me to do it.”

“How?”

“He has his ways.” I rested my feet up on the secretary's desk again. It was amazing the woman didn't kick me out of her office. But Patty was a nice enough lady who, I can tell you right now, almost always eavesdropped on the conversations anyway, and the fact that she found them so interesting just proved how boring life at St. Mary's could be.

“Care to tell me?”

“I can't. Just suffice it to say I know it for sure. Do you really think I'd be doing this of my own accord, Angie? Jude Keller? Captain VD as you've so taken to calling him?”

She chuckled. “That wasn't very nice of me, was it? But I swear, Mary, I didn't think he'd end up as your darned husband.”

“Don't jump ahead of it all. He may refuse.”

“Are you nuts? The guy's been cuckoo over you for years.”

The bulbous black receiver began to feel heavy in my hand. I sighed. “You're right. I was just clinging to the hope he'd think I was too good for him.”

“Well, he'd be right about that!” she snapped.

“You don't sound happy.”

“Why should I be? We had plans, Mary! Big plans and now you're telling me God's told you to give up everything you've ever wanted to be, all your entire life, from practically the cradle—”

“Not the womb?”

“Have it your way. The womb. And you're going to find one of the most . . . dis
gus
ting men ever to walk the face of the earth and marry him? Did God say anything about having sex with the man?”

“No.”

“Well, at least there's that.”

“Angie!” Boy, would Patty get an earful now. “The Church encourages sex within marriage and you know as well as I do they deem it a sin not to procreate if it's possible.”

She blew a big breath into the phone. “Yeah, yeah. I know, I know.”

“I'm sorry. I don't really want to do this. I mean . . .”

“You do love him, though, don't you?”

“Yes, but not like a wife should.”

“But, okay—how to say this delicately—you feel
excited
by him, don't you?”

“Well, yeah, but that was—”

“The devil? You've said that before, but I'm not so sure. So he excites you and you feel love in your heart for him.”

I had to say it. “It's a pity love, Angie! What kind of a marriage is founded upon pity?”

“Apparently yours.”

Apparently so.

“And probably more marriages than we realize,” she snickered. She paused. “Okay, cut the crap, Mary. It isn't pity and you know it. I don't know what it is. I don't even think you know. Heaven knows it's confused and convoluted. But is it enough?”

“Will you pray for me?” I couldn't think of anything else to ask.

“Of course. Probably more than I have time for now, so thanks for that. Have you told the higher-ups?”

“No. I called you first.”

. . .

“Angie?”

. . .

“That's all I needed to hear, Mary. You say the
word, you need anything, I'll drop everything. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I hung up and walked to the graveyard of St. Francis. I had no flower to lay upon my mother's grave, no white rose to express the sorrow I felt at not fulfilling her dream and my own. My loyalty felt shattered and spread like pulverized glass upon the grass over where she lay, but I had a greater loyalty. And surely she would understand that. I tried to picture her, reaching forward and comforting me. But I could not.

I sat cross-legged next to her as the day waned, until Sister Thaddeus found me and sat beside me as the night set in.

After withdrawing from the order of the School Sisters of St. Mary, a day that still hurts my back teeth so much I hate to think about it, I cried in the arms of Sister Thaddeus. I had visions of my mother, whose dreams were shattered by that seminarian, and now, mine were shattered by Jesus. The irony was inescapable. I thought I knew what Jesus meant when he told me I was his bride.

Apparently I jumped to the wrong conclusion. But I could share none of this with Sister Thaddeus.

She sat me down and made me a cup of tea. She appeared so fresh in her gray habit and white veil, her long skirt and shirt pressed perfectly, a far cry from my habit that always ended up wrinkled, underarms circled with perspiration.

“Let me tell you what I left behind to follow God's path for me, Mary-Margaret.” She eased down onto a hard chair, her back pin-straight, sitting ladylike yet at ease. Still, there was always a bit of a nervous twitter to her fingers. “My father was a very rich man. Very busy too. He owned one of the shipbuilding companies in Baltimore.”

“My goodness.”

“Yes. He gave me this good education here at St. Mary's and planned on enrolling me into university and handing the company over to me someday.” She picked up her teacup and stared into the reddish brew. “He was very forward thinking.”

“You gave up the life of wealth and privilege?”

“Oh no! More than that. All that wasn't what I was looking forward to. I was looking forward to working alongside my father for a couple of decades, learning what he loved, and what I loved too, and giving him peace of mind in his old age. But mostly, just being with him. You'd had to have known him to know what I mean. I had no other siblings and my mother was always ill. She was delightful but highly delicate.”

“Do you ever have moments of regret?”

“Not regret.” Her eyes softened. “But sadness at what never could have been. It's sad to leave behind what we love, what we thought we were going to do, even for the best of reasons.”

“Do you understand, Sister Thaddeus?” I leaned forward, feeling the edge of the table knife into my belly.

“I believe you when you say this is from God. If you really know that, then I believe you.”

“I'm so sorry.” I shook my head, heart in two pieces.