and he knew there was nothing overtly spiritual about a priest’s living quarters. Minus the biblically themed artwork and the occasional hanging crucifix, it was just a place to live.
The convent, on the other hand, was an entirely different animal. While it was near the church—on the other side of the street—there had never been a reason for CJ, or any other altar boy, to darken its doorway. This had lent the place an air of mystery that was missing from the priest’s home. And when one threw in the historical terminology, like cloister, solemn vows, and Mother Superior—not to mention that, as a boy, CJ had thought the average nun looked a good deal more imposing than any priest he could call to mind—it was easy to see why the sidewalk on that side of the street always carried less traffic.
CJ hadn’t attended the parochial school attached to St. Anthony’s and so, unlike most of his fellow altar boys, he had little experience with the nuns outside of the church walls. He didn’t see any of them teaching classes, organizing music programs, or otherwise displaying their human sides. Sister Jean Marie had been the exception with the amount of time she spent at the church, and the fact that she had a ready smile and kind eyes. Learning that she loved baseball was the clincher. She could talk Yankees and Mets as if she’d spent time in both dugouts, and she threw a fair fastball.
What CJ found amusing as he stopped on the sidewalk in front of the sister’s home was that the place couldn’t have looked more benign—surely not a place that harbored yardstick-wielding, mean-tempered old women. His youthful mind had substituted brooms for the yardsticks and a steaming cauldron for whatever secret activities they performed in their lair, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if research proved the whole modern-day perception of witches had been formed among the students of whatever was the medieval equivalent of a Catholic school.
The convent was a two-story brick building with copper gutters and stone steps that had weathered in all the right places. Atop the steps was a large solid-looking wooden door with a small window behind wrought iron. It was the only thing that belied the otherwise genial nature of the place. And it was immediately offset by the vibrant garden that stretched from either side of the steps. What little CJ knew about gardening came from his having spent a single summer working on a landscaping crew. He recognized the hostas, azaleas, amaryllis, and freesia right off. Other plants and flowers, though, were new or their names forgotten. What made this garden so striking was the obvious care that had gone into its planning. There were thick areas, with plants of all kinds and colors arranged in a wild but complementary harmony, along with sections of thinly populated ground that held their own whimsical beauty.
Thor, who seemed to share an equal appreciation for the foliage, if on a more empirical level, had his nose buried in a chrysanthemum. CJ put a quick stop to any ideas the dog had with a tug on the leash.
The door opened before CJ reached the top step.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to pay me a visit.” The abbess looked down at Thor, who was not quite straining against the leash to get a better look inside but was near enough to that state that CJ gave the leash a little pull.
“Although I’m not sure what the other sisters will say about this one.” She looked back to CJ. “He won’t drink the holy water, will he?”
CJ saw the twinkle in her eye as she asked it, and if there was any doubt about her true sentiments, she went to a knee to work her fingers behind the Lab’s ears. But he decided not to answer the question on the off chance his dog would indeed do something unholy if allowed inside.
Although he’d seen her at Sal’s funeral, it wasn’t until now that he realized how much things must have changed since he was a boy in the Catholic Church. Rather than a habit or the more casual blue skirt and white shirt he remembered from years ago, Sister Jean Marie was dressed in jeans and a New York Rangers T-shirt. In fact, except for a cross on a chain that hung from around her neck, he might not have guessed any religious affiliation.
After a few moments the sister stood