Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy (2 page)

Then he removes a painting of cows grazing near missionaries
hoeing a field. I jump back a little, because behind it is a wall safe. He laughs at my expression. “We have to have some place to keep our collections, don’t we?”

I nod, but it still seems kind of strange, having that safe appear from behind cows grazing and missionaries hoeing.

“Now, take your time, lass. I only get ’round to this every ten years or so, so she’ll need at least two coats.” He whistles through his teeth and says, “Here, Gregory … Come on out, lad. She’s all right.”

Out from under his desk comes a dog. And he’s not the kind of dog you’d ordinarily do a double take for. He’s just a Welsh terrier—fairly small with wiry brown and black fur, and ears that kind of flip forward at the tips. But I
do
look at him twice because he’s got a carrot in his mouth. A nice slobbery, droopy old carrot.

I look up at Father Mayhew to see if he knows his dog’s hauling around vegetables, but he knows, all right. He laughs. “He’s a taste for carotene, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to break him of it.” Then he ruffles Gregory’s ears and says, “There are worse habits, I suppose.”

Father Mayhew goes over to open up a window, and I kneel down and say, “Hi, boy!” to his dog.

Gregory wags his way over to me, panting and smiling right through his carrot. I laugh and scratch his chest, and then Father Mayhew turns from the window. For a moment he just stares, and then he says, “Well, I’ll be.”

I say, “What?” and stand up, because his eyes are looking extra complicated.

He shakes his head. “Gregory is not what you’d call a
social animal. The nuns are scared to death of him. Not that he’s given them any real reason, mind you, but he does tend to growl at strangers.”

He whistles for Gregory to follow him and says over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you. If you need anything, I’ll be next door at the parish hall. Just come down.”

I get busy rolling paint, and pretty soon I’m humming to myself because sprucing up Father Mayhew’s office doesn’t feel like detention at all. It’s almost fun. And I’m getting the knack of rolling way up the wall without splattering myself in the face or bumping into the ceiling, and I’m stretching out with a really loaded roller when I hear, “Glory be! What a
fine
job you’re doing!”

Well, there goes the roller,
bump
, right into the ceiling, and while I’m thinking Rats! because now there’s a big white blotch on the ceiling,
splat!
I catch a drop of paint, right on my forehead.

So while I’m wiping paint off my face and out of my hair, I look over my shoulder and what I see taking up the whole doorway is a nun. A big, loud nun. She’s grinning from ear to ear, and between her front teeth is a gap the size of a Popsicle stick. She says, “Child, you are
dripping
,” and then rushes in to save me from raining paint all over the office.

She gets the roller away from me, then grabs a rag and wipes my hands and face like I’m a little kid. “There now, that’s better,” she says, then flashes her gap again. “I’m Sister Bernice—or Sister Bernie—whatever you prefer. Who might you be?”

I smile back at her. “Hi. I’m Samantha Keyes—or Sammy—whatever
you
prefer.”

She throws her head back and laughs, then sticks her hand out. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Sammy.” And as she’s pumping my hand up and down, she says, “I’m with the Sisters of Mercy. Father Mayhew’s expecting us. We were told we could find him here …?”

What I really want to ask is, The Sisters of
what
? but instead I say, “He said he’d be at the parish hall.” And I’m about to tell her how to get there when two other nuns appear in the doorway.

Now, no one has to tell me these nuns are with Sister Bernice. They’re wearing black habits, too, which is what you might expect
all
nuns to wear, but they don’t. Sister Josephine and Sister Mary Margaret never wear habits. They dress in gray skirts, simple white blouses, and sensible shoes—not as sensible as high-tops, but definitely sensible. And even though they don’t wear habits, Sister Josephine and Sister Mary Margaret are still very nun-like. You just can’t tell from three blocks away that they’re nuns like you can with the ones that
do
wear habits.

Anyhow, I guess I was staring, because Sister Bernice follows my gaze and says, “Mercy me, that was fast, Sisters! Did you find a good spot?”

The tall one with red bangs says, “An excellent spot, right by the parish hall.” She smiles at me. “And who have we here?”

Bernie puts an arm around me. “An angel—nothing less! This sweet thing was busy rolling over the sins of the
past, bringing new life and spirit into the chambers of the holy.”

The other two kind of look at me and smile, and I’m not real sure they know what Sister Bernice is talking about so I say, “I was painting Father Mayhew’s office …?”

They say, “Of course you were, dear,” and “After all these years we’ve come to understand Sister’s way with words.” The taller one puts out her hand and says, “I’m Sister Abigail, and this is Sister Clarice. It’s nice to be with you in God’s service.”

Now, I’m not about to break it to them that their little angel was painting holy walls so she could work off some junior high detention time. I just shake hands and say, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Sister Bernice says to the other two, “So you found a spot over by the parish hall? Sammy here tells me that’s where Father Mayhew can be found. Shall we continue our pilgrimage and make his acquaintance?”

So off they go, their habits shushing through the church, and I get back to covering up the sins of the past.

And I’m just finishing the first coat when Sister Josephine comes hobbling into the office. She asks, “Where’s Father Mayhew?” then peeks under the desk and mumbles, “Hope he took that overgrown rabbit with him.”

I put my roller down. “He left a little while ago—said he’d be over at the parish hall.”

Sister Josephine is old. She’s hunched over and walks with a cane—a thick black cane with a lot of nicks and scuffs on it. Some of the kids at school used to go to St. Mary’s School when they were little and they say that the
one thing they remember about third grade is Sister Josephine’s cane. She’d pound it on the floor to get them to be quiet, she’d slap it against the chalkboard to get their attention, but mostly what they remember is that she’d whack it against their shins if she caught them lying or cheating.

Anyhow, she’s standing there, hunched over, and all of a sudden her cane starts shaking. I’m not talking about a little quiver, either. That cane’s got a serious wobble to it. And at first I think she’s going to faint or have a stroke or something, but then I realize that this is one mad nun.

So I ask, “What’s wrong?”

She points her cane at the wall like a pistol. “This is how it
always
goes. We ask and ask and ask for something and before you know it,
he
gets what we’ve been asking for!”

I don’t know exactly what she’s talking about, but before she starts firing that cane around I say, “Did
you
need some painting done, too?”

Down comes the cane,
whack
, onto the floor. “Our entire house needs paint, inside and out! Sister Mary Margaret and I have been telling him that for years. He always says there’s no money for it, and here he is, having his office painted
again
.”

I should’ve just stood there nodding or something, but instead I blurt, “I’m just doing this one wall. Father Mayhew said it hasn’t been done in ten years.”

“Ten years! I think it was just last year Christmas he had this wall painted.” She takes a deep breath, then mumbles, “One of these days …” and then hobbles out.

I watch her go, and then get busy on the second coat,
wondering just how black and blue Father Mayhew’s shins are.

It didn’t take long to paint the wall again, and as I’m wiping up the last drips, Father Mayhew walks in with Gregory trotting along behind.

His shins don’t seem to be bothering him at all, and he’s in a great mood. “Ah, beautiful job, lass,” he says, then winks a complicated eye at me. “A clean slate feels good, doesn’t it?”

I know he’s talking about more than just the color of his wall, so I nod and get busy closing up the can and wrapping up the roller. “Did Sister Josephine find you?”

He smiles. “That she did.” Then he raises a brow and says, “Ah, the paint. That’s what’s upset her,” and I can tell that Josephine waved that cane all around Father Mayhew, but never actually fired off about the paint.

So I say, “You want me to do some painting at their house tomorrow?”

“Hmm … That’s sweet of you, lass, but no. It’s across town, and besides, there’s a lot of sanding needs to be done. It’s really a job for a professional, I’m afraid.”

“Did those other nuns find you?”

“Ah, the Sisters of Mercy. That they did.” He winks and says, “Perhaps we’ll have the money for some professional painting after our guests’ fundraiser.”

“So that’s why they’re here?”

“That’s the reason. They’ve come to help out with the Thanksgiving food drive, but it looks like they’ll be doing much more than that.” He goes over to his filing cabinet, takes a carrot out of the top drawer, and says, “That Sister
Bernice is a fountain of ideas. I’ve never met anyone quite like her.” He gives Gregory the new carrot, then smiles at me and says, “Run along now, lass. Tomorrow I’ll have you clean the windows in the church, if you don’t mind?”

I say, “Sounds fine,” and head for home.

And the next day there’s Father Mayhew, waiting for me, Windex in hand. He gets me a ladder and shows me the stained-glass windows he wants washed, and then says, “Now, if someone comes in to worship, I want you to move to the back of the church and just wait. It may take you a few days to do all the windows, but that’s all right. It’s better than interfering in someone’s time with God.”

So I take my rags and Windex and for a long time it’s just me and the windows. Then a lady in a shawl comes in, so I wait. And wait and wait. And when she leaves, a man and a woman come in and just kind of sit in the back and cry for a while. So I wait and wait some more, feeling bad that they’re sitting there crying.

When they left, I got back to work again, and I guess I was concentrating on buffing glass because I didn’t even notice there was anyone else in the church until I got off the ladder and stood back to look at the window.

She was on her way out of the church before I could get a very good look at her, but what I could see was that she was thin, had a brown ponytail, and was about my age. Now, kids don’t usually come to church in the middle of the afternoon on a school day—they’re too busy running around town trying to put together enough sins to make going to church on Sunday worthwhile. So her just being
there was enough to make me do a double take, but it was her shoes that made me want to go up to her and say, “Hi!”

She was wearing high-tops. Like mine, only older. And I was about to chase after her, only just then Father Mayhew comes through the side door and says, “Samantha, I want to see you. Right now! In my office!” and I could tell from the way his voice was booming through the church that something was wrong.

Very wrong.

I followed him, all right. Straight back to his office. And when he sits down behind his desk and stares at me, I stand in front of it and ask, “What happened? What’s wrong?”

He swivels in his chair for a minute while his fingers push back and forth against each other. Then he takes a deep breath and says, “As I’m sure you know, we religious take a vow of poverty. The Church provides us with food and shelter and a modest living allowance, but by and large, we own very little. Very few things that I have do I consider to be
mine
. Do you understand this, Samantha?”

This priest sitting behind the desk may have looked like Father Mayhew, but he sure didn’t
sound
like him. I just gulped and said, “Yes, sir.”

He takes another deep breath like he’s counting to ten. “One of my few earthly treasures is my papal cross.” He’s quiet for a long time, pushing his fingers up and down. Then he says, “It was given to me by my father when I was ordained. He has since passed on, and it can never be replaced.” He looks straight at me. “Samantha, I implore you—give it back. There’ll be no repercussions—just, please, return it.”

Now I
think
I know what cross he’s talking about. Whenever Father Mayhew gives a service, he wears this
ivory cross on a knotted rope of ivory beads. It’s not a plain cross or one with Jesus on it like you’re used to seeing. It’s got one big cross bar with two smaller ones above it—like the top of a power-line pole. So I ask, “Your ivory cross?”

His fingers freeze. “Please, lass, give it back.”

“But Father Mayhew, I didn’t steal your cross!”

“Samantha, please. It’s very important to me.”

“I don’t have it!”

“Samantha …”

“Really, I don’t!”

He shoots out of his chair. “Well, if you insist on denying it, then perhaps it’d be best if you spent your time with Sister Josephine over at the soup kitchen.” He comes from behind his desk, and you can tell from the way he’s moving that he wants me
out
of there.