Carol Sister O'Marie - The Missing Madonna

“How long would you wager the piece of hair across the top of his head is?” Eileen watched Mary Helen unlock the car.

“About a foot.” She was abstracted. Al Finn was Erma’s boss and landlord. If the name on the mailbox was correct, he was her next-door neighbor too.

Obviously he was also her friend. Otherwise, why would she tell him she was going away and not tell Lucy or her own daughter? Yet she couldn’t remember Erma ever mentioning him. Odd!

“Now, see?” Eileen fastened her seat belt. “You worried for nothing. And now I’m really hungry,”

“I wonder when she’ll call,” Mary Helen said.

“Most likely today. Or tonight, when the rates are lower.” Eileen pointed to a deli. “By tomorrow, this whole thing will be cleared up.”

Mary Helen nodded her head. Eileen was probably correct. She thought she would give Kate Murphy a call this evening, however, just in case.

Kate Murphy was in the upstairs bathroom splashing water on her face when she heard the phone ring. Her husband, Jack, answered it on the sixth ring. He must have been waiting for me to pick it up, she thought, checking her eyes in the medicine-cabinet mirror. They didn’t look too red, she decided.

“Hon, it’s for you,” he called up the narrow staircase.

“Thanks.” She hoped her voice sounded strong and cheerful. She didn’t want him to know she’d been crying.

Wrapping Jack’s old flannel robe tightly around her, she padded toward the extension in their bedroom.

The moment Kate heard Mary Helen’s voice, she felt teary again. What was wrong with her?

She hardly heard what the old nun was saying. Something about an OWL friend of hers who was missing. At least this time the person was missing, not dead. Kate felt relieved, although she wondered what in the world an OWL was. She didn’t have to wonder long.

“Older Women’s League,” Mary Helen explained. “We are advocates for women’s rights.”

And a formidable group, I imagine, Kate thought, remembering her previous dealings with the old nun in the Holy Hill murder cases.

“Don’t worry, Sister. It’s probably nothing,” she said, trying hard to put Mary Helen’s mind at ease. “All kinds of people disappear for a day or two, then show up unharmed.”

There was an awkward silence on the other end of the line. Mary Helen must have suspected Kate of trying to pacify her. “Why, there was…” Oh, help! Kate desperately searched for a good example.

“Agatha Christie?” Good old Mary Helen came to the rescue herself.

“You’re absolutely on target, Sister. Agatha Christie,” Kate repeated. “And she lived to a ripe old age, didn’t she?

“On the other hand, if your OWL friend isn’t heard from in a day or two, you call back,” she added just before she hung up, “and we’ll look into it.”

“Is everything all right?” Jack’s voice startled her.

“Sister Mary Helen has an OWL friend whom no one has heard from or seen in a couple of days. She’s beginning to get concerned,” Kate answered without turning around. Her eyes might still be red. “Older Women’s League.” She anticipated Jack’s question.

“You’re Homicide; I’m Vice. That sounds like something for Missing Persons. Whew! That lets us both off the hook.” She could feel his hands on her shoulders. “Is something wrong, hon?”

“No. Why?” Kate forced a little laugh.

“Your voice sounds funny and you don’t seem to want to look at me.”

She shrugged her shoulders, not trusting herself to speak.

“And I always figured that you thought I was handsome.” She could feel his warm breath in her hair and his strong arms slipping around her waist, pulling her close to him. “It’s my three gray hairs, isn’t it?” he teased. “Ever since you discovered the first gray hair in my raven locks-”

“Not funny,” Kate said.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were crying.”

“Now what in the world do I have to cry about?” She turned, buried her head in her husband’s shoulder, and sobbed.

Poor Jack. She knew he must be bewildered. Yet he stood there holding her, saying nothing, just waiting.

“Actually, it’s just your mother,” she finally managed. “I called her from work to ask what I could bring for dinner tonight and she said, ‘Nothing.’ ” Kate blew her nose.

Jack stared down at her, frowning. The look on his face was patient but puzzled. “I’ll bet poor Ma thought that would make you happy.”

“Oh, that’s not why I’m unhappy.” Kate pushed herself away. “How can men be so thick?”

Jack ran his fingers through his wavy hair. “Did I miss something?”

“I’m not pregnant again this month.” Kate plopped down on the corner of their old-fashioned brass bed. The springs creaked and jingled under her weight.

“Can’t say we didn’t try.” Smiling, Jack sat down beside her.

“Both your sisters will be at dinner tonight. And I know your mother is dying to be able to tell them that at least one of her children is giving her a grandchild.”

“Did she say that?”

Kate shook her head. “No, but I can just tell.”

“I thought we’d already settled that. It’s not whether Ma wants a grandchild that’s important. It’s what you and I want, Kate. Remember?”

“Of course I remember. But you and I do want one. And it’s just not happening, Jack. As hard as we try, I just cannot seem to get pregnant.”

Jack shook his head in disbelief. “Kate”-he gently kneaded her spine as he spoke-“trying isn’t all it takes. Remember those illustrations in your biology book. Those little wiggly-looking things. Or didn’t they have that chapter at the girls’ school?”

“Don’t try to be funny, Jack. This is not funny.”

“For chrissake, Kate, we’ve only been trying since around Christmas. That’s not even five months; and February, you remember, is a short one. Relax! Let’s give it a chance.

“As a matter of fact, if it would put your mind at ease”-Jack moved closer-“we could give it another try right now, before we go to my mother’s.”

“You don’t suppose God is punishing us?” she asked, pretending not to feel his hand under her loose robe.

“Punishing us for what?”

“For living together all those years before we got married.”

“I don’t believe you!” Putting his hands on her bare shoulders, Jack turned her toward him.

“Let me take another look. Is this the same wild-eyed feminist I lived with all those years? The one who never wanted to ‘ruin our relationship’ with marriage? The one I nearly had to club and drag to the altar to give her some respectability?”

Bouncing his eyebrows like Groucho Marx, he ogled her, flicking an imaginary cigar. “Ah ha!” he said. “It looks like the same one.”

“You’ve made your point.” Kate closed the front of the flannel robe and hugged it tightly. She pulled her knees up under her chin. “Maybe He’s punishing me,” she said.

“Punishing you for what? Although I must admit you would try the patience of the ordinary run-of-the-mill saint.”

“For not wanting to have a baby at first. Now when I want one, I can’t have one.”

“Jeez, Kate!” Jack stood up, stuck one hand in his pocket, and held the back of his head with the other one. He walked to the window and stared out at a sea of backyards.

Kate knew from experience that was Jack’s ultimate frustration pose. She waited, not daring to say anything until he got hold of himself.

For several moments he just stood there. Finally he turned, came back to the edge of the bed, and sat down. “If that isn’t the damnedest, guilt-ridden, Irish-Catholic thing I’ve ever heard you say.” He put his hands back on her shoulders. “And I was worrying about your biology book! I should have been worrying about your theology book. What the hell kind of a God do you believe in?”