Gilman, Dorothy - A Nun in the Closet Page 2

  "Noises?" said Sister John.

  He nodded. "Some kid fooling around with Fourth of July firecrackers could start a hell of a fire in the woods. Naomi?"

  A girl magically appeared behind him, slim as a reed, copper-colored hair reaching to her waist and a shapeless muslin dress curling around her ankles. "Hey," she said, "nuns," and two against two they measured each other across the tangle of weeds until the girl's glance dropped to the box of plants at Sister Hyacinthe's feet.

  "Herbs?" she cried and politeness vanished. Naomi flew across the path and dropped to the ground, crossing her legs under her and displaying a pair of remarkably dirty feet. "That's sage," she said, poking it with a long finger. "Hey, you've got rosemary and skullcap and-is this comfrey?"

  "Yes," said Sister Hyacinthe, and smiled. The effect was startling. Some people smile easily: Sister John gave the impression of smiling all the time because the corners of her mouth turned up, and even when she was not smiling there was a radiance about her. Sister Hyacinthe's face, on the other hand, was all angles, dark and stubbornly secretive. When she smiled it was an event that very nearly took the breath away.

  Naomi, regarding the transformation with astonishment, said, "You must be really into them."

  "Into them?"

  "Care about herbs."

  "Sister Hyacinthe is very gifted with them," said Sister John. "She cured Sister Thecla of asthma and Sister Charity of arthritis, and her sorrel omelet is an aesthetic experience. She dries them, too."

  "Dries them!" The girl stared at Sister Hyacinthe in awe. "Would you show us how? Could you give us tips?"

  "Tips?" repeated Sister Hyacinthe.

  "Like in horse racing," said Sister John, and held out her hand. "If we're neighbors I think we should introduce ourselves. I'm Sister John and this is Sister Hyacinthe from St. Tabitha's Abbey in Bridgemont, Pennsylvania. Mr. Moretti left this house and one hundred and fifty acres to St. Tabitha's and we've come to look it over."

  The young man's gaze lifted to the house, his eyes following the scallops of gingerbread around the eaves and up the turrets. "A real spook house, isn't it? Just the two of you?"

  "Just the two of us."

  He thrust out his hand. "I'm Brill Stevenson. Naomi-?"

  "Naomi Witkowski," she said, standing up and brushing grass from her skirt. "We have chickens, you know, we can sell you some eggs. Have you been camping here long?"

  Sister John glanced at her watch. "Sixty-five minutes."

  Brill grinned. "Oh-well then. No use asking if firecrackers woke you up last night, we'll be on our way again. Look, it's great meeting you but we've got to go and look around some more. Maybe you'd like to stop in and see us soon. Considering," he added dryly, "it's probably your land we're camped on."

  "Oh, I do hope we'll meet again," Sister Hyacinthe said in a rare burst of enthusiasm. "Come for a cup of goldenrod tea."

  "Goldenrod tea," breathed Naomi. "Oh, beautiful. We're trying to live off the land, you know. I can't say we're very successful yet but-"

  "Naomi."

  "Oh-coming, brute," she said, and blowing them a kiss she followed her companion through the privet hedge and vanished.

  Sister Hyacinthe said in an awed voice, "He looked just like John the Baptist."

  "And the girl like a gypsy. Perhaps some kind of tribal custom," Sister John said, puzzled. "Boy Scouts never used to look like that. Are you ready to draw the water now?"

  "I liked them," Sister Hyacinthe said, turning reluctantly back to the well, and they grasped the iron handle, which resisted them until Sister John leaned on it, and then the chain clanked away noisily, bringing up what felt like a large container. As it neared the top, Sister Hyacinthe's eyes widened. "What on earth can it be?" she protested. Two more turns of the crank and a completely dry old suitcase arrived at the surface. Sister John reached out and swung it over the top while Sister Hyacinthe disengaged the chain. "What a ridiculous thing to put down a well!"

  "And completely dry," said Sister John, puzzled. She leaned forward to stare up into the peaked roof. "Ingenious," she said, pointing. "Look, there's a pulley wheel here with metal teeth, and a stick was inserted to keep the suitcase above water level." She reached up and drew out a broken stick. "That's why we had trouble turning the crank at first. I wonder what's inside it. What kind of moss is growing on it?"

  "That's not moss, it's lichen," said Sister Hyacinthe, and attaching her empty bucket to the chain she began turning the crank again. "It's padlocked, too, as you can see."

  "Yes, but under the lichen it's genuine cowhide. A good scrubbing and a little sunshine and it would make a lovely case for Sister Vincent's lute." Sister John regarded it thoughtfully. "It all depends on whether there's mildew inside. Have you water yet?"

  "Almost," gasped Sister Hyacinthe, reeling up the chain.

  "Then I just might see . . . the padlock shouldn't be any problem, it's rusty." She carried the suitcase to the bench, placed a knee across it to steady it and hit the padlock with a sharp rock. On the third attempt the padlock snapped and fell to the bricked path. Sister Hyacinthe, bringing up a bucket brimming with water, put it down on the flagstone and came to watch. Sister John opened the suitcase, removed a crumpled New York Daily News and exposed its contents.

  "Holy Mother of God," gasped Sister Hyacinthe.

  "Why, that dear Mr. Moretti," said Sister John warmly, "he's left us money as well as a house. Look, Sister Hyacinthe-a whole suitcase of money."

  The bills had been crammed into the suitcase in a very untidy manner, some of them crisp, some of them worn. Sister John reached out and plucked one from the pile. "A twenty-dollar bill," she said in a hushed voice. "Just think how long it's been since we've seen one. Here's a fifty, a hundred, and three more hundreds. They're real, Sister Hyacinthe, just look at them."

  "I am looking at them," said Hyacinthe, "but are you sure they're meant for us?"

  Sister John smiled at her forgivingly. "One should never doubt miracles, Sister Hyacinthe. Mr. Moretti's legacy included all the furnishings, didn't it? And the well," she added reasonably, "simply happens to be furnished with money."

  "It seems a very peculiar place to leave it."

  "There are men like that, they don't trust banks. Have you thought what this means, Sister Hyacinthe?"

  "Trouble," hazarded Sister Hyacinthe.

  Her eyes were glowing. "Nonsense, it means a new oven for St. Tabitha's, perhaps even a new roof, and then there's the Missionary Fund-" She sank down beside the suitcase, the voluminous skirts of her habit surrounding her like petals of a blue flower, a rapt look on her face. "We were guided here, Sister Hyacinthe, God works in mysterious ways His wonders to perform."

  "Mr. Moretti too," pointed out Sister Hyacinthe. "Look, there's a breeze stirring up, Sister John, the bills will blow all over the garden, and we've had nothing to eat yet-"

  Sister John promptly closed the suitcase. "How selfish of me," she sighed. "It just proves how quickly money corrupts, I'm afraid I was even thinking of a new printing press." She picked up the suitcase and waited while Sister Hyacinthe sprinkled water over her herbs and then they stoically struggled toward the house, Sister John with the suitcase, Sister Hyacinthe with her half-filled bucket of water. Stopping in the middle of the kitchen to catch her breath, Sister John said, "I'll write to the abbess about this tonight." She carried the suitcase into the pantry and with only one last wistful glance placed it under a shelf lined with glass jars of sugar. But not happily, for ideas were blossoming in her fertile mind like flowers.

  Back in the kitchen she found Sister Hyacinthe pouring water from the bucket into the soup kettle. "The stove works?"

  "Mercifully, yes. What's that in your hand?"

  "The New York Daily News from the suitcase, it's dated December 12, 1963. Sister Hyacinthe, do you suppose that's the day the money was put down the well?" Meeting Sister Hyacinthe's skeptical glance she said, "Well, it could be, I don't see why not. It seems a very logical
deduction."

  She smoothed out the crumpled news sheet while Sister Hyacinthe sliced the goat's cheese. This and the water beginning to bubble on the stove were the only sounds, and then abruptly Sister Hyacinthe dropped her knife and stared at Sister John with widened eyes. "Holy Mother of God, what was that?"

  Sister John stood very still, listening. "It was a thump. Something fell."

  "But it came from upstairs, Sister John."

  "Yes, I know."

  "Chairs don't move around by themselves," Sister Hyacinthe told her desperately. "Beds don't move, either. To make a thump something has to move."

  "Or someone," said Sister John, and they both stared at the ceiling from which the noise had come.

  2

  After a short pause Sister Hyacinthe said, "You're getting a funny expression on your face, Sister John. I have the feeling you're going to be terribly brave in a minute and I can't bear it."

  "But we have to, you know. We have to go up and see what it is."

  "I don't have to," said Sister Hyacinthe.

  "It's a matter of alternatives," pointed out Sister John. "I'm experiencing the greatest reluctance to sleep in a house that has thumps. Where's your faith, Sister Hyacinthe?"

  "Back at St. Tabitha's, where I'd like to be right now."

  "Yes, but we're not at St. Tabitha's, we've entered the World," Sister John told her firmly. "We have to expect certain oddities. It isn't as if we have to go upstairs unarmed, you know, there's a heavy iron skillet hanging on the wall behind you, and I can take the carving knife, because I'm sure God appreciates whatever help we give Him. I think, Sister Hyacinthe, that we've got to go upstairs."

  Sister Hyacinthe shivered but reluctantly followed her into the main hall. Lifting her skirts, Sister John led the way up the wide mahogany stairs to the second floor, turning on lights as she met them, the carving knife in her right hand, the flashlight in her left. The hall upstairs was spacious, running the width of the house and broad enough to entertain two alcoves with window seats and several niches for potted plants. Only two ceiling lights worked, and feebly, but it was nevertheless brighter up here, the wisteria having dissipated most of its energy in the climb to the porch roof. Through a wide bow window on the landing they could see the thruway, its cars like small bugs racing from north to south and south to north.

  "The thump came from over the kitchen," whispered Sister Hyacinthe, pointing down the hall to the right.

  Sister John nodded but calmly turned to the left and began a methodical search of each room. The hall was carpeted and their steps muted. She opened the door to a large bedroom and Sister Hyacinthe opened the door to a linen closet. They discovered five large bedrooms, all of them furnished with huge beds and chiffoniers, and after inspecting each of them they came at last to the room at the end of the hall over the kitchen. Here Sister John bowed her head and silently moved her lips. Sister Hyacinthe urgently crossed herself, held up her frying pan and pushed open the door.

  The room was small and dark; it was also empty of furniture. There was a solitary window at the rear and four doors lining one side, but Sister Hyacinthe immediately found it ominous that the light bulb had been removed from the socket on the wall. Sister John turned on the flashlight, crossed the room to the farthest door and opened it.

  "Closet," she said, bumping into Sister Hyacinthe as she turned. "Sister Hyacinthe, don't look so frightened, there's nothing here."

  "All right, all right," Sister Hyacinthe said crossly, and took the flashlight and opened the second door. "Turret," she announced, looking at narrow dark wooden stairs curving out of sight. "There must be a tremendous view up there, Sister John." Encouraged, she opened the next door and stood a long time staring inside. After an interval she said, "Oh," and then Sister John heard her say in a strangled voice. "In the name of Jesus Christ go away in the name of Jesus Christ go away in the-"

  Sister John walked to her side, glanced into the closet and drew in her breath sharply.

  "-name of Jesus Christ go away. In the name of-"

  "But he's not a ghost," said Sister John. "At least his foot just moved. I think he's alive." She removed the flashlight from Sister Hyacinthe's trembling hand and directed it at the man slumped against the wall of the closet. "He's unconscious," she said in astonishment.

  Sister Hyacinthe stopped her incantations and looked. "Holy Mother of God," she whispered, and slipped to her knees beside the man. "Move the light to his face," she said, and placed a hand on either of his cheeks. "Clammy," she told Sister John. Her fingers flew to his pulse and then to the collar of his shirt to loosen it. When she drew back she held her hand up to the light and stared at the wet red stickiness dripping from her fingers. "Blood?" She faltered.

  "Yes," said Sister John, adding unsteadily, "He can't stay in the closet."

  "No," agreed Sister Hyacinthe.

  "Stay with him," said Sister John, and fled the room to return with a light bulb that she screwed into the empty socket.

  Illumination did not bring enlightenment, however; the man looked no less corpse-like in the light of a twenty-watt bulb, and there remained no suitable explanation for his being in the closet of an abandoned house. There was a smear of blood on his forehead and a scarlet line under his ear, but these were minor compared to the alarming amount of blood staining the sleeve of his left arm; he was drenched with it from elbow to shoulder. They patted his pockets for a clue to his identity but found not so much as a wallet or a slip of paper. As for his appearance, it was as nondescript as his clothes and made more so by the stubble of a gray beard. Only his condition was identifiable: it was precarious.

  They hastily dragged a mattress down the hall, covered it with a sheet from the linen closet and loosely knotted a second sheet around the man's waist. With Sister John pulling and Sister Hyacinthe propping they succeeded in dragging him from the confines of the closet and across the floor to the mattress, after which Sister John knelt beside the man, cut away his shirt and began an appraisal of the damage.

  "I believe he's been shot," she said at last.

  "With a gun? In this house?" gasped Sister Hyacinthe.

  "With a gun but not necessarily in this house because the wound's almost a day old. He's been shot three times and lost a great deal of blood, but the extraordinary thing is that none of the bullets stayed in him. It's really extraordinary."

  "Why?" asked Sister Hyacinthe.

  "Because it's a miracle," said Sister John impatiently. "One bullet grazed his scalp, a second tore his ear, while the third made this fiendish hole in the fleshy part of his arm but it went right through without touching anything vital. Just think, Sister Hyacinths-three bullets and none of them killed him. Of course it's a miracle."

  "Or someone who can't shoot straight."

  "That too is a miracle," Sister John told her firmly.

  The man's eyelids fluttered, a pair of glazed eyes opened to regard them blankly and Sister John leaned closer, speaking to him as if he were deaf. "You mustn't try to move, you're badly hurt," she shouted. "Just relax we'll get a doctor for you, an ambulance and the police."

  The man gave no evidence of relaxing; her words only appeared to agitate him. "No," he said, and then with a gasp, "No doctor, no amb-"

  "Quiet," Sister John told him sharply. "You've simply got to have a doctor, you've lost a great deal of blood and if you'll just-"

  "No," he shouted. "Hide." He struggled to sit up while Sister Hyacinthe held him down. "Sanctuary," he gasped. "I beg-sanctuary!" With that he collapsed into unconsciousness again.

  "Sanctuary," murmured Sister John, looking pleased. "A religious man, wouldn't you say, Sister Hyacinths?"

  "Or a hunted one," put in Sister Hyacinthe indignantly. "We'll both be murdered in our beds tonight."

  "Certainly not by him, and I don't think he was shot here," said Sister John, pointing, "because look at the trail of bloodstains going out the door. Sister Hyacinthe, it's a grave responsibility, sanctuary. Is there a ch
ance of healing this man without a doctor?"

  "You mean keep him here?"

  "Yes, keep him here and heal him. We're under God's laws, not man's, and this poor soul has appealed to us for help."

  Sister Hyacinthe edged closer. "You're sure there are no bullets in him, it's just a matter of-of holes?"

  "Yes."

  Sister Hyacinthe nodded. "I can try, at least until morning. When I was picking Scutellaria lateriflora on the thruway I put a puffball in my basket."

  "Puffball," said Sister John blankly. "What else will you need?"

  "More puffballs, probably, they stanch the bleeding. A comfrey poultice, too, but I brought comfrey and powdered slippery elm with me. Did we bring along any of Sister Elizabeth's dandelion wine?"

  "She insisted."

  Sister Hyacinthe brightened. "Considering the potency of Sister Elizabeth's dandelion wine, his chances increase."

  They went down to the kitchen where Sister John unwrapped the bottle of wine from her bedroll. A sheet was torn up for bandages, and Sister Hyacinthe rummaged in her pack for dried herbs. She made a paste out of boiling water and powdered slippery elm bark, worked powdered comfrey root into it and spread the mixture, still hot, on a bandage. After this they went upstairs, carrying their odd paraphernalia on a tray. The man barely stirred as Sister John scrubbed the caked blood from his arm. When she had cleaned the wound as best she could . Sister Hyacinthe knelt beside the man, crushed the puffball over the unpleasant hole in his arm and carefully wrapped the warm comfrey poultice around the arm.

  "What do these things do?" asked Sister John anxiously.

  "Pour the wine into the spoon, will you? Puffballs are fungi, the only fungi the Indians ever trusted-the spores clot the blood-­comfrey has allantoin in it."

  "How very astonishing," said Sister John, and knelt beside their patient with her offering of wine. He coughed, he weakly gagged but the wine went down his throat. Sister John recorked the bottle and tucked a blanket around him.