The Blue Bottle Club (44 page)

Mary Love gaped at her. "How did you know about that—the bathtub, I mean?"

Reverend Mother's eyes twinkled, and she tried vainly to suppress a smile. "I was a postulant once myself—a long time ago, in the Dark Ages, you understand—but not unlike you, Mary Love. I had my moments of rebellion."

"You? I can't believe it."

"Believe it, child. All of us are, beneath this habit, quite human." The Superior paused and gazed at Mary Love—an expression filled with tenderness and compassion. "Tomorrow you will submit three names to me for approval. Together we will choose one, the name you will be given at your reception. Have you thought about what name you should take?"

"I have, Reverend Mother. I'll be ready."

The Superior stood, indicating that the interview was over. "Go with God, my child."

Mary Love knelt to receive Reverend Mother's blessing, and as the woman's hands touched the crown of her head, she felt peace flowing through her, like a river of warmth in her veins. She still did not know what her future held, whether she would ever wear the wedding band that would signify a perpetual profession. But that decision—the taking of her final vows—was still a long way off. She had time. Time to study and meditate, time to paint and seek the will of her Creator.

God had not spoken . . . yet. But much to her amazement, it seemed that even in the silence, she had heard.

42

SISTER ANGELICA

September 1, 1932

M
ary Love stood next to Adriana, waiting for the moment when she would walk down the aisle and take on the full habit, with the white veil and wimple, that signified reception into the novitiate. She was anxious to get the ceremony over with, but not for any deeply spiritual reasons. The high lace collar of the bridal gown she wore scratched at her neck and made her uncomfortable. The small anteroom off the chapel, where the postulants had dressed for the ceremony, was stuffy and stifling hot, and a trickle of sweat ran down her back.

Mary Love looked over at Adriana, who seemed totally calm and collected, her face radiant with a beatific smile. Adriana had chosen the name Jeanne, after Joan of Arc. Appropriate, Mary Love thought—a name that reflected piety, spirituality, prophetic vision, and unflinching commitment to God. The Perfect Nun would be named after the Perfect Martyr.

Reverend Mother had laughed when Mary Love had informed her of the name she had chosen. Most people would assume that the choice was a derivation of St. Angela or one of the several beatified hermits who went by the name of Angelo. Only Mary Love and her Superior knew better. The name actually came from a man who wasn't an official saint at all—Fra Angelico, the fifteenth-century artist whose work manifested God's creativity in all its glory Despite the fact that the man hadn't been canonized by the Church, Reverend Mother heartily approved of the choice. For Mary Love, she said, taking the name of a maverick non-saint was probably the best reflection of the way God had worked in her life.

From this day forward, she would be known as Sister Angelica.

November 1, 1932

Mary Love sat at her desk, staring out the wide windows of her studio across an expanse of snow-covered lawn. The first substantial snow of the season had come last night, blanketing the convent grounds with huge, soft flakes. Now the sun shone against the new snow and cast back prisms of light, as if God had showered the world with diamonds.

She wasn't sure if she would ever get accustomed to the Minnesota winters. Unlike the milder seasons back home in the Blue Ridge Mountains, winter here began early and lasted long. Mary Love didn't mind the snow—it gave her an ever-changing scene to paint, full of subtle colors, shadings, and minute detail. But she dreaded the numbing cold, when the temperatures dipped into the minus column and the wind whipped across the prairie. Even in summer the convent was cool; in winter, it became downright frigid.

She blew on her fingers and applied a little more azure paint to her palette. But before she could load her brush and begin again, the door opened to reveal Adriana.

Sister Jeanne,
Mary Love reminded herself.
Adriana is now Jeanne.
It was hard, getting accustomed to the new names the postulants had adopted when they had been received into the novitiate.

"A blessed All Saints' Day to you, Sister Angelica."

Mary Love looked around, wondering who else had wandered into her studio, and then realized with a start that
she
was Sister Angelica! Even her own new name would take some getting used to. She still thought of herself as Mary Love, the chubby little Catholic girl from North Carolina. Flustered, she laid down her brush and palette and rose. "Sister! Come in!"

Jeanne folded her hands and shook her head. "Reverend Mother sent me to tell you that you have a visitor, Sister." She raised one eyebrow. "His Excellency is on his way to see you."

"The Bishop?" Mary Love let out a gasp. Bishop Reilly was making rounds, visiting the convents throughout the state, she knew, and had honored them by celebrating All Saints' Mass for the nuns at Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. But why on earth would he want to see
her!

In dismay she stared down at the paint-smeared smock that covered her work habit. "Thanks for warning me." She ripped off the smock and replaced it with a clean one. "I'm such a mess." With stained fingers she pushed stray wisps of hair back under her wimple. "Is that any better? Do I have time to go change?"

"No change is necessary," the Mother Superior's voice came from behind Jeanne. "Sister, may I present His Excellency, Bishop Reilly."

Jeanne disappeared and the Superior entered with the bishop right behind her. He was a tall, handsome man with gray hair and bright blue eyes. His bulk seemed to fill the studio, and as he stepped forward, the hem of his cassock swiped a new painting that leaned against the wall. Mary Love grimaced as she saw the black fabric smudge the wet oils.

"Careful, Excellency—that painting is still drying," she blurted out. She ran and knelt at his feet, rubbing at the stain with a rag. "Mineral spirits should get it out." But the rag wasn't as clean as it might have been, and her attempts to tidy up the mess just made it worse. The small streak of paint seemed to grow with every stroke of the rag, until what had been a tiny stain became a three-inch swath of smeared paint.

The bishop looked down, first at her groveling at his knees, then at the ruined painting. "Never mind the cassock," he said as he raised her to her feet. "But I am sorry about the painting. I should have been more careful."

"It's all right," Mary Love stammered. "I can fix it."

At last she raised her eyes to his and remembered her manners. "Forgive me, Your Excellency." Awkwardly she genuflected, grabbed for his hand, and kissed his ring.

His crow's-feet crinkled, and he laughed. "I should be the one asking forgiveness for barging into your studio and making a mess."

Mary Love liked this affable man immediately. He seemed so normal, so down-to-earth. The kind of person she could be herself with. Her gaze went to Reverend Mother, who was smiling.

"When His Excellency heard about your rather unorthodox work assignment, he had to see for himself." She turned to the prelate. "Her work is quite good, don't you think?"

The bishop didn't answer. He was stepping carefully around the perimeter of the room, peering at Mary Love's paintings. At last he turned. "Reverend Mother, you are to be commended on your encouragement of this novices talent."

The Superior nodded. "Thank you, Your Excellency."

"And you, young woman—"

"Yes, Your Excellency?"

"I'm no expert, but I think you have great talent. Talent that you are obviously using to the glory of God."

"Thank you, Your Excellency."

"Your Mother Superior tells me that you have some hesitations about going on with your training."

Mary Love lowered her eyes. "That's correct, Your Excellency."

"Do you mind telling me why?"

Mary Love slanted a glance at Reverend Mother, who nodded reassuringly. "Tell him."

"Well, sir, I—ah—" Mary Love paused, then took a deep breath and continued. "When I first came here as a postulant, Excellency, I came under false pretenses. I used the convent to escape. I hid my artwork, doing sketches after hours and when I was supposed to be working." She shook her head. "Reverend Mother has been gracious enough to encourage my art, and I have learned a great deal about myself and about faith in the process. But when the time came to be received into the novitiate, I wasn't sure my motives were pure. Reverend Mother allowed me to continue, with the understanding that I would use my novitiate years to explore my vocation—and my art. I want to be honest about what is really in my heart, but I've had a hard time discerning whether or not I truly am called to the religious life. God may have hidden reasons that I don't know about; but for myself, I do not want to continue my training in deception, or by default."

"A wise choice, my child—and a godly one," said the prelate. He turned back to the paintings. "This one in particular I find very moving." He pointed to an oil, rendered from Mary Love's original sketch of Adriana with a child in her arms. "The Madonna," the bishop continued, "not as we often see her, so holy and removed, but as a real person, an ordinary young girl chosen by God for an extraordinary mission." He peered more closely at the face. "She has a purity that shines from within, like a celestial light. And yet she looks familiar somehow."

Mary Love shot a glance at Reverend Mother, who was smiling. "She should, Your Excellency," the Superior answered. "That is the face of the young nun, Sister Jeanne, who escorted us here this morning."

Much to Mary Love's surprise, the bishop did not criticize her for using Adriana's countenance to represent the Holy Mother. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully "A very good choice. Michelangelo took his faces for the Sistine Chapel from ordinary working men in the tavern. He was much maligned for making saints out of sinners, but isn't that what God does all the time?" The prelate looked up at Mary Love and grinned. "You're in good company, I'd say, with both the Lord and Michelangelo on your side."

Bishop Reilly came back to Mary Love's desk and sat down, being careful not to swipe his sleeve in the wet paint. "Would you be willing to sell one or two of your paintings?"

"Sell
them?" Mary Love gasped.

"Yes. You know, for money."

"I—I—don't know," she stammered. "I've only just begun, Your Excellency. I have lots of sketches and a number of works in progress, but only a few that are finished. Besides—" She turned in a panic to Reverend Mother. "Is that allowed—to take money for my work?"

"The money wouldn't come to you directly," the prelate went on, "but to your order. And your paintings would hang in the offices of the diocese, where many people would have the opportunity to view your work—and give glory to God, of course." He paused. "The Scripture is very clear that the laborer is worthy of payment."

"Well, I—yes, I suppose so." Mary Love's heart was pounding, and she wiped her sweating palms on the sides of her smock. "If Reverend Mother approves, of course."

The Superior folded her hands and nodded.

"I'd like to take this one—" The prelate pointed to the Madonna. "And I'm fascinated by that one—" He indicated the snow scene where the face of God looked out with pride over creation. "I'd like that for my own office."

At last Mary Love found her voice. "I'm honored, Your Excellency."

"No, child, you've got it backward. The diocese will be honored. And more importantly, God will be honored."

Bishop Reilly made his way to the door with Reverend Mother on his heels. "You have a great gift, Sister Angelica," he said in parting. "Use it wisely."

43

THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME

April 28, 1934

S
pring was late in coming—or at least in staying. An early melt the last week of March raised everyone's hopes, only to dash them when April brought more snow and ice. The poor bulbs, deceived into budding by the unseasonable warmth, now lay shivering and rigid as sleet coated their tender shoots.

It was bad enough, Mary Love thought, when winter stretched on and on. But when the fickle weather teased them, then thrust them back into a gray and frozen wasteland, it was almost too much to bear. For days now, the entire convent had labored under the gloom. Everyone was snappish and irritable. Meals were taken in glum silence, and Masses were mumbled and uninspiring. For herself, Mary Love hadn't painted in a week. She just stared out the window, waiting for some sign of life. Waiting for resurrection.

A faint knock sounded on the door of the studio, and she turned. "Come in."

The door opened, and Sister Jeanne stood there, but even her radiant Nordic countenance seemed less bright than usual. "Sister Angelica, Reverend Mother would like to see you."

Mary Love sighed. "All right. Tell her I'm coming."

When she reached the Superior's office, the door was shut, and she could hear voices inside. She waited, trying not to listen, but she was certain that one of the voices—the one raised loudly in protest—was that of Mother Margaret. The Dragon was roaring, and it was impossible not to overhear.

Mary Love caught snatches of the conversation:"... never
a word of thanks
from anyone . . . when I discovered her. . . good riddance, is what I say."

The door slammed open, and the Mistress of Postulants nearly bowled Mary Love over in her haste to leave. When she saw who it was, the nun scowled and shook her head. "Eavesdropping?" she hissed. "I should have known. No good comes from coddling a novice." She brushed past, leaving Mary Love standing in the hallway.

"Come in, child," the Superior called.

Mary Love entered cautiously, as if walking on eggs. She could still feel tension in the room, an almost palpable atmosphere of discord.

"I don't know how much of that you heard—"