Michael nodded and entered the empty room; he felt compelled to sit for a moment. There was a spiritual aura present, although, the room was quite austere. Perhaps it was the profound silence and the knowledge that its last occupant was no longer on this earth. A simple wooden cross adorned the wall over the bed. The ivory-colored chenille bedspread camouflaged the lumpy mattress; a small bathroom mirror over the medicine cabinet reflected the unassuming scene. He gazed over to the little bathroom; glossy, white tiles stretched from floor to ceiling.
He brought himself back to the moment, crossed himself almost unconsciously, and pulled the chair to rest under the designated wet spot on the ceiling. Climbing up and pulling the trowel out of his pocket, he began removing the damp area on the ceiling. He mindlessly chipped away, thinking about Sara’s upcoming birthday. He really needed to find her a gift.
Suddenly, the ceiling began crumbling and caving in. He was startled as a huge chunk fell to the floor. Damn! He reached in, pulling out chunks of damp wallboard. There was mold, and not just a little. Double damn! He pulled away all the damaged drywall and part of the adjoining wall. The ceiling’s vent cover hung by a thread. As he scraped the last bits away, his trowel bumped the vent, and a rattling sound of metal came from within—perhaps a carpenter forgot some tools; it wouldn’t be the first time.
He peered down the duct and paused; a rush of curiosity came over him. A red metal tin was sitting in the vent, just within reach. The room had not been used for some time; the last occupant had been the terminally ill Sister Andrea or Adriana, or some name like that. As he pulled the tin out, he tried to remember what Sister Bernadette had said about the nun.
It was an old three-layer English tea biscuit tin. He puzzled as he held it—this didn’t belong to anyone living here now—or did it? Maybe somebody thought it would be a good hiding place. What to do? It certainly had not been placed recently; the layer of dust on the lid was thick. He should give it to Sister Bernadette—but wait a minute, maybe it was something personal.
He gave the box a gentle shake; there was something in there. Whatever it was, it was not heavy enough—or loud enough—to be coins. He was tempted to take a peek, but thought better of it for the time being. He placed the tin back in the vent, careful not to disturb the dusty surface of the lid. There it sat, like forbidden fruit. He would mention the damage to the ceiling, walls, and ductwork at lunch; he hoped all the sisters would be present. If it belonged to a current resident, surely the owner would retrieve it. If it was still there when he came back to complete the work, then he’d figure out what to do. Curiosity had reared its mischievous head.
Just then, Sister called from the hallway. “Let’s have lunch, Michael; Father Murphy will be joining us today.”
Michael made his way to the dining room. On the table, there were two plates of sandwiches and a soup tureen from which emanated an enticing aroma. Father Murphy flew in like an unexpected burst of wind. Michael wondered if Father Murphy could really be that busy or if it was it his way of keeping some distance from the group. Father’s husky Irish brogue highlighted his dry sense of humor. If Michael never received a dime for his work at the convent, the ambiance was well worth his time.
“Ah, my dear sisters, and what would we be servin’ today? ‘Tis sure to be a favorite of mine.”
Sister bustled in. “Oh, Father, always the charmer!”
Michael joined the nuns as they chuckled at Father’s countless quips. In Father’s presence, Michael noticed that Sister Bernadette’s brogue became thicker. On occasion, the two would break into full-on Gaelic. Michael didn’t have a clue what they were saying.
All sisters were present except Sister Clara. Michael waited for an opportune moment and cleared his throat. “Sister, I have run into more work in one room—the one nearest the door facing the garden? There is mold, and it has affected one of the studs. I’ll need to rework the loose ducting in the ceiling. I’ve opened up the wall and the vent.” There, Michael thought, now we’ll see if anyone takes the bait!
“Do whatever is necessary, lad.”
Michael took advantage of the lull to press for more information. “Excuse me, Sister, for asking, but who did you say lived in that room?”
“That was Sister Abreanne’s room, poor dear. Her life was a wee bit short. Forty-nine years she was, too soon—way too soon. She was a caring person, but very private, she was. She left us four years ago.”
An older nun chimed in. “Her funeral was a solemn occasion; we could find no relatives. She came to us from a convent in Dublin, and before that, an orphanage.”
Sister Bernadette stopped clearing the dishes and went through her ritual of straightening her apron. “Aye, she was shy, but with inner resolve. She had no problem adjusting to our life at the convent. I believe there were some distant relatives in Ireland, but they had already passed at the time of her death.”
Michael interrupted, “What part of Ireland?”
“She was from an area just north of Dublin, County Meath it was. A great deal of poverty hit Ireland when Abbey was a child. Parents gave their children to orphanages, just to make sure they had a roof over their head and soup in their tummies. Some of those orphanages only closed their doors a mere ten years ago. There was some scandal about the conditions within their institutions.”
Father Murphy lowered his head in an open display of sadness. “Hard to believe things could be so bad, giving up your children—awful, awful. ”
Sister Bernadette continued, “Aye, lad—these are all conclusions on our part; Abbey seldom spoke of her beginnings. I tried to piece her story together. Something happened to put her in an orphanage, and some things are better left unsaid. The orphanage stated they had no information about her parents.”
Sister Bernadette finished serving dessert and plopped down on a chair. “As I said, she came to us from one of our convents in Dublin. The nuns in that diocese supervised a small grade school called St. Chad’s. Abreanne transferred from the orphanage to St. Chad’s. She stayed with the nuns and passed her grades handily. Perhaps they didn’t have a Children’s Protective Service, or it was agreed the child would be in better hands at St. Chad’s. Who knows what the government could offer in such terrible times?”
Another sister chimed in, “Remember, there was an older woman who visited her one time?”
A third sister added, “Yes, I remember thinking that woman was not far from the grave, she looked so ill and thin. Sister Abbey said the woman died a few months after her visit here.”
With a deep sigh, Michael said, “That is quite a story. Did any other sisters come to the States with her?"
Sister Bernadette offered, “Sister Kathryn attended a St. Francis of Assisi Celebration in Dublin and brought Abreanne back with her. Abbey was our only novice. She took her final vows here. Oh, wait a minute; a curious thing did happen about a month after her death. A man came looking for her, saying he was a ‘friend of a friend,’ so to speak.”
Michael interrupted, “Was he from Ireland?”
The nun continued, “Most likely; he had an Irish brogue for certain. When I told him she had passed, he asked if she had any belongings that should be returned to Ireland. She had nothing, and I told him so. I found it odd; he didn’t seem to know much about her. He didn’t even ask to see her grave. I don’t much remember his face, but he limped and used a cane. He didn’t stay long, not even for tea. We never saw him again.”
Michael chimed in, “That does seem odd.”
A younger nun spoke up, “She may have had poor nutrition as a child. That may be the reason she passed so early in her life. We miss her terribly.”
Michael persisted, “Did she ever go outside the convent—perhaps to visit friends?”
Sister Bernadette deliberated, “Well, let me think. She would do our shopping and banking. She took some of the girls to the zoo. But no, she was content here; she never mentioned any friends outside our convent.”
The
younger sister continued, “The children loved her because she asked their opinion on everything. They felt Abbey respected them.”
Father Murphy, who had been silent to this point, spoke up, “Too bad parents don’t understand that philosophy. Ah well, we seem to think children are dyin’ to hear only our opinions.”
Sister Martha, who rarely said anything, dabbed her lips with a napkin and chimed in, “They are more likely to listen when the conversation is directed towards another child. I soaked up admonishments only when they were directed toward my sister.” The group nodded in affirmation.
Everyone then focused on gathering plates and cleaning up. As Michael stood and replaced his chair, Sister Bernadette spoke again. “Sister Abbey was closest to Sister Clara. Perhaps she could tell you something about Abreanne—nothing personal, of course, but perhaps something about the part of Ireland where Abreanne was raised.”
“As you know, Sister, I do plan to visit Ireland. That would add a personal touch to my trip.” He almost choked on his words. It was true he wanted to visit Ireland, however that statement was a stretch.
He was now immensely curious about the mysterious cookie tin. Who else could it belong to other than Sister Abbey? Sister Bernadette spoke up, “Sister Clara will return tomorrow. Perhaps she will join us for lunch. It might be a good time for her to tell you a little about Abreanne’s wee corner of Ireland.”
Michael nodded. “I’d like that very much!” Walking back to Sister Abbey’s room, he could not help thinking he was intruding into the sister’s private life. Nevertheless he felt invigorated; it was exciting. If the tin did belong to the deceased nun, whoever opened it would be invading her privacy. It was obvious she had hidden it for a reason. On the other hand, perhaps another nun had used the tin to hide something after Abbey’s death.
He finished up for the day, still mulling over the dilemma. Had Abreanne forgotten it, or had she decided to leave it up to fate? Curiosity killed the cat. The right thing would be to pass the unopened box to the appropriate person. The problem was, who was that person? He did not want his own desires (and boring life) to affect his decision.
He needed someone to help him figure out this quandary. Adam or Sara? Most likely Sara. In a sense, she also lived a cloistered life. He did have some reservations about handing the box to Father Murphy. What if the contents would disgrace the deceased nun? How about Sister Bernadette? She was his first pick. Or Sister Clara, Abbey’s closest friend. He would meet Clara tomorrow.
Of course, this would all be a moot point if the tin was not there in the morning. Perhaps his comments today alerted the real hider that her treasure was about to be discovered.
For Sister Clara’s benefit, he would mention the location of his work again tomorrow. She was the only person missing from the table today. Then, he would allow a few more days for someone to remove it. He pushed the dilemma aside for now and found Sister Bernadette. “Goodbye, Sister. I’m off early to shop for Sara’s birthday gift.”
“Aye, and what will you be gettin’ her?”
“Well, we go to Manhattan on Sundays, and it’s getting chilly. I’m thinking of a blanket or matching gloves and hat.”
Sister put down her potato peeler and dug into her petty cash, hidden in a soup tureen.
“Here’s the money for the supplies and for your work today. This is some extra to put towards Sara’s present. We’ll give her the blanket, and you can give her the gloves and hat; a washable blanket in a dark color would be best.”
Michael marveled at her way of remaining charming and still calling the shots. “Wow, Sister, this is great! Will you make it to her party?”
“I hope so. Father will be there,” she paused. “He baptized her, y’know. I plan to come along if Father will spring for a cab.” She made a point of rolling her eyes and grinning. “Perhaps he will break down and use the parish car. Dear Lord—he isn’t the best driver!”
Sister disappeared into a pantry closet and returned with a pretty card. “Enclose this with the blanket, and here’s a few more dollars—get that fancy store giftwrap.” The old nun took his hands in hers. “Watch over her, Michael. Sara is such a blessing, and you are a kind man.”
CHAPTER THREE
Despite the jostling crowds at Bloomingdales, he enjoyed shopping for Sara’s birthday. He found the perfect gifts, but picking the correct card was a dilemma; most were too personal. He finally decided on one with sparkles and a bouquet of flowers; fortunately, the verse wasn’t too mushy.
*******
After shopping, Michael headed to his gym. There weren’t many people around. He relished the thought of lingering in the sauna and shower. He was thankful he could access a gym, in light of his current circumstances. As he opened the door, the warm air and familiar sounds welcomed him. The thwack of metal clanking, coupled with occasional Tarzan-like grunts completed the scene. The body odor of fresh sweat was tolerable, not musty like the hostel on a summer night.
It was uplifting to be among folks who weren’t aware of his situation. He was proud of his physique and assured walk. After the workout, he nodded to a few familiar faces in the sauna. A diverse group hung out at this hour; a couple of guys looked a little high. Lingering in the warm shower, he reveled in the feel of the water caressing his skin. Showering was a form of meditation for him. He put on clean clothes and headed for Mel’s, which was only a few blocks from the hostel.
*******
Michael opened the door of Mel’s Bar and Grill and stepped in; he glanced around as he made his way towards the massive bar. Red imitation leather dominated the room. The glass-like patina on the bar countertop, the familiar pool tables, and the typical overhead fixtures completed the atmosphere. The bar had the usual Budweiser beer ads; the clock advertising Gordon’s Gin had stopped working long ago (as if to validate that the whole place was frozen in time). Pictures of movie stars hung throughout the room. The back wall consisted of caricatures of the first owner who had been an avid golfer. A gallery of liquor selections under the bar’s multicolored lighting was gaudy; however, the greens, reds, and gold evoked a festive setting.
Due to the No Smoking Law, the atmosphere was altered somewhat; no more hazy particles hovered under the saloon light. The booths were always full at dinnertime, which was pretty much the only time women were present at Mel’s. After the dinner hour, it turned into the quintessential man cave. It was still dinnertime; folks still lingered in the comfort of the cushioned seats. He waved to a few of them. This was his home turf.
Michael claimed his usual barstool. From behind the bar, Adam nodded to him in acknowledgement. Adam was the chief bartender, and Michael knew him well. He had worked the evening shift for years; proactive listening was his specialty. On occasion, he offered an opinion, but more often he would ask an open-ended question in order to keep the conversation going. The two men had become pals, comfortable agreeing to disagree on certain subjects. Adam had an incredible vocabulary for a bartender, and Michael suspected he was a closet academic. He was a nice guy.
Michael picked up his ice-cold beer. “What’s on TV?”
“Iraq stuff,” Adam mumbled.
Michael sipped his drink and said, “When these folks sign up for the Armed Forces, they’re signing up to defend our country. In the case of Iraq, the lingering question remains—should we have invaded the country in the first place?”
Another regular at the bar chimed in, “Why not spend all that money securing our own shores? There’s a shitload of loopholes in our homeland defense. It’s the kind of war we don’t know how to fight; our forces are too sophisticated. The Iraqis are like goddamn ants!”
Michael raised his glass. “A toast to peace!”
“Hear, hear!” several others joined in with enthusiasm.
Michael nursed his beer and listened to the rest of the conversation in amusement. It was obvious the debate had been going on for quite a while, and he had been coming to this bar long enough to know th
ings could get out of control in a flash. He ordered a sandwich, ate quickly, and headed out.
“Later, guys.”
“See ya, Mike!”
He made his way to the hostel, shuffling through the crisp fallen leaves that littered the sidewalk. He kept his head lowered, avoiding eye contact with the odd drunk. No hands in his pockets on this street! He was ready to react at a moment’s notice. He kept a controlled pace, claiming his right to occupy a strip of the sidewalk. He imitated Denzel Washington’s walk; wow, that guy had the perfect stride. Denzel made a solid statement—confident, but not conceited. Michael felt sure he could clean up on anybody who dared to bother him.
As he entered the hostel, Boots, the night watchman, sat in his familiar, sprawled pose with his feet up on the shabby desk. Boots was a lanky guy in his mid-forties and was rarely clean-shaven. He held his own when residents became unruly. He read decent books, which seemed curious to Michael. His commanding voice, heavy tortoise-rimmed glasses, and laissez-faire attitude convinced Michael he had to be an interesting story. Life seemed more genuine in these quarters—perhaps a bit too genuine.
He climbed the stairs to his room and retrieved his pen. He struggled with what to write on Sara’s card. “Let’s do dinner at your favorite restaurant and a movie. XO, Michael.” How benign! He pulled the covers up; the cadence of his roommates’ snoring soon lulled him to sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
In order to avoid too much interaction with his roommates, Michael’s mornings began early. They were nice guys with hard luck stories, but their dissimilar pasts made strange bedfellows. He felt that most of these men never had much of a chance. In Michael’s case, he had had everything he needed as a kid; now fate had brought him here. Life sure pulled some hard punches. As he shuffled down the hall, he could hear the usual muffled sounds of men rising to meet the day.