Carol Sister O'Marie: The Missing Madonna

Before they had left their bedroom this morning, Eileen and she had agreed to meet after lunch in front of the waterfall in the hotel lobby. It was a good thing, too, because they hadn’t seen each other since.

As soon as the group was dismissed, Mary Helen followed the arrows marked LOBBY, planted herself firmly in front of the waterfall, and searched the milling crowd for her friend. Quickly, she spotted Eileen elbowing her way across the crowded lobby, with Lucy Lyons and Erma Duran trailing in her wake.

Erma hung behind the other two, and even from this distance, Mary Helen thought the woman looked distressed. What’s wrong, she wondered, watching Erma stop at the main desk. She couldn’t remember ever having seen her upset before. Erma said something to the man in a morning coat behind the desk.

The gentleman smiled brightly, checked the slots behind him, then shook his head. The thick mane of gray hair bounced from side to side, making him look, Mary Helen thought, for all the world like a friendly lion. He picked up the phone receiver, spoke briefly, then shook his head again.

Erma clutched her cloth purse to her chest. For a moment her shoulders drooped, but only for a moment. Running her hand over her gray-streaked hair, she pushed a stray curl behind her ear. She straightened up, smiled at the gentleman, then bent forward to pat his hand. She wouldn’t want him to feel bad. As he gaped, she turned and bustled across the crowded foyer.

“Congratulations on the remarkably erudite blessing you gave this morning,” Eileen said before Mary Helen could wonder what that was all about.

Eileen’s gray eyes twinkled. “You do amaze me!” she said. “We’ve been friends for more than fifty years and I’ve never heard you say the Prayer of St. Cyril of Jerusalem used in the Coptic Orthodox Church.” She moved closer. A group of women going to the Cafe Fonda squeezed around her. “To tell the God’s honest truth, I hadn’t the ghost of an idea you even knew any Coptic Orthodox prayers. Where did you manage to dig up such a thing?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” Mary Helen said.

“That was a lovely grace, Sister.” A stout woman touched Mary Helen on the shoulder. “Very inspirational.”

Mary Helen smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” she said. The woman paused to exchange pleasantries with Erma and Lucy.

“Come clean, Mary Helen.” Eileen was not to be put off.

“It was printed on the back of the plastic bookmark I stuck in my murder mystery,” she whispered. Mary Helen was happy that Erma and Lucy were busy chatting.

“And there are those among us who dare to doubt the luck of the Irish!” Eileen rolled her eyes heavenward. Mary Helen not only doubted that the Irish had an edge on luck, she had her doubts about the rest of Eileen’s superstitions as well. She was just about to say so when Lucy turned back to the group.

“Did I hear Irish?” she said. “Which brings to mind St. Patrick’s and Fifth Avenue. What kind of devilment can we get into this afternoon?” Her eyes twinkled behind her horn-rimmed glasses.

“What exactly did you have in mind?” Mary Helen asked.

“I can’t hear myself think in here, which probably is no great loss.” Lucy leaned in toward the group. “But I can’t hear you either. Can we talk outside?”

“Where are the other two?” Eileen shouted over the crowd.

“Noelle is introducing the speaker in one of the minisessions,” Erma explained, “and Caroline has a childhood friend living in an apartment on East Fifty-sixth Street whom she promised to visit.”

Outside the hotel, New York City was having a sparkling spring day. The sky above the tall buildings was a clear, picture-postcard blue and the air had a snap to it.

The noontime crowd bustled along in all directions. Taxis honked at trucks, cars, and pedestrians alike. A tight group of young men with yarmulkes and earlocks dashed across Seventh Avenue against the light Businesswomen in smartly tailored wool suits and tennis shoes rushed past one another on the crowded sidewalks.

Although Mary Helen had visited New York City several times in her seventy-plus years, she never seemed to get over the sense of excitement she felt whenever she was there. There was a certain verve in the air that could not be denied.

“Shall we head for St. Patrick’s Cathedral first?” Erma’s brown eyes snapped with eagerness. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”

They all nodded. Who would have the heart to say no, Mary Helen wondered. Lucy led the way and the others followed her, zigzagging single file across West Fifty-third Street to Fifth Avenue. Sister Mary Helen brought up the rear.

“We must look like a string of gray-haired ducklings,” she shouted to Eileen, who was just ahead of her. She was not sure her friend had heard her. She wished Eileen would wait. She wanted to tell her about Erma looking worried and stopping by the front desk of the hotel. She also wanted to ask Eileen if she had any idea why, but they had reached St. Patrick’s before she caught up.

The four women stood for several minutes, looking up at its Gothic splendor. Then they threaded their way through groups of people seated on the entrance steps, having lunch, chatting, or just leaning back to enjoy the sunshine.

Skirting the bronze doors, they entered the vestibule. Once inside the cathedral, Mary Helen paused while her eyes adjusted to the cool dimness of the immense structure. Behind her on the west wall, the rose window, framed by the thousands of shining pipes of the great organ, shed muted light on the nave.

The group moved reverently down the side aisle past the altars of St. Anthony, St. Anne, and St. Monica. They stopped for a moment at the shrine of Elizabeth. Ann Seton, the first American-born saint.

Mouth open, Erma pointed to the cardinals’ hats hanging from the ceiling hundreds of feet above them. Craning their necks, the women stared up at the four round, flat red dots, with their clusters of dangling tassels.

“These cardinals!” Lucy whispered after a few moments. “They really have their heads in the clouds.”

Mary Helen had wondered how long it would take her to say it.

“But they do keep on top of things,” Eileen whispered back. Egad! Lucy Lyons was rubbing off!

The group decided to split up. Mary Helen and Eileen would attend the one o’clock Mass in Our Lady’s Chapel, drop by the elegant old Scribner bookstore, and then simply windowshop. Lucy and Erma intended to shop in earnest: Saks, Gucci, Tiffany, F.A.O. Schwarz. The four agreed to rendezvous at quarter past three at the Lexington Avenue entrance of Bloomingdale’s.

Mary Helen didn’t realize how sore her feet were until three-ten, when Eileen and she were seated on two hard chairs next to the fine-jewelry department in Bloomingdale’s. From where they sat they had a perfect view of the store’s glass doors and the three or four steps leading to the old revolving door that opened onto Lexington Avenue. No one could get in or out without their noticing.

She and Eileen had bought a Big Apple T-shirt to take back to Sister Anne. The shirts were so cute. But in Mary Helen’s opinion, Anne was the only nun at Mount St. Francis College young enough and thin enough to wear one. They had picked out a large box of Fanny Farmer chocolates to bring home to the others. Which calories they didn’t need, they both had agreed.

Right on time, Lucy and Erma arrived, smiling and laden with brightly colored shopping bags. They had just greeted one another when a piercing cry echoed from the entryway. The milling shoppers stopped, momentarily stunned. Mary Helen could feel the hair rise along the back of her neck.

She strained to see. A thin redheaded woman grabbed at her throat, paled, then burst into tears. In front of her a sinewy teenager in jeans and a maroon velour shirt turned and bolted down the steps. Hitting hard against the revolving door, he whirled out onto the crowded street. He was fast, but not so fast that Mary Helen didn’t see a piece of thin gold chain dangling from his clenched fist.