Carol Sister O'Marie - The Missing Madonna

“Oh, what was that?” Gallagher was getting interested.

“He made me so damn mad I offered him money-plane fare to St. Louis to see if he could find his mother.”

“If you ask me,” Gallagher said, “that sounds like you were trying to help.”

“Erma wouldn’t think so,” Finn said, licking his lips and nervously blinking even more.

By the time Jack Bassetti arrived home, Kate was bathed, powdered, St-Gerard oiled, and in bed. “Did you eat, pal?” She watched him hang up his jacket and loosen his tie.

“Couple of hours ago.” His face was pale and drawn. “We sent out for pizza.”

“Bad day, huh?”

Nodding, Jack threw his slacks over the back of a chair and climbed into bed. “I’m beat,” he said, closing his eyes. “How was your day?”

Kate turned out the bed lamp. “Not so good either.” She plumped up her pillow and moved closer to her husband.

Reaching over, he put his hand on her hip. “What happened?”

“Everything! And on top of it, I had a real screaming match with Denny.”

Jack grunted.

“But I think we made up. At least, we were speaking by the time we left Alphonso’s Bistro.” She waited for his reaction.

“Alphonso’s?” Jack repeated, without even opening his eyes. “What were you doing there?”

“That’s another thing. I’m so damn mad at Honore. Letting me go all the way over to that restaurant, only to hear that the missing woman had been found.”

A flash from the headlights of a car parking on 34th Avenue shot across the bedroom ceiling. “Isn’t it terrible,” she asked, watching it fade into a corner, “to want to get away from your own children?” She moved closer to her husband. “It doesn’t seem right, Jack. Erma has three kids she has to escape from, and I want just one baby so badly.”

Beside her, Jack’s body was warm and firm. She snuggled closer to him. The hair on his bare chest tickled her cheek. Maybe tonight is the night, she thought, feeling her husband’s hand slip down her thigh. Only when it landed on the mattress with a thud did she realize that Jack Bassetti was sound asleep.

On Sunday morning a low, wet fog covered Mount St. Francis College. For once, Sister Mary Helen was glad. Futhermore, she hoped it wouldn’t burn off for a good long time. As of last night, Sister Anne was still determined to run in today’s Bay-to-Breakers Race. Running was bad enough, Mary Helen thought, without courting the chance of a heat stroke.

About five o’clock this morning, Mary Helen, unable to sleep, had heard the young nun in the convent hallway. She had cracked open her bedroom door to see if everything was all right. Anne was carrying a large glass of orange juice in one hand and a piece of whole-wheat toast in the other.

“Shouldn’t you have an egg?” Mary Helen asked before she thought to stop herself. She knew Anne hated to be mothered or, in this case, grandmothered.

“No eggs,” Anne mumbled, still a little groggy. “No slowly digestible protein.”

“That’s right.” Mary Helen had read the same article in last Sunday’s paper. On Saturday night, the participants were encouraged to eat a “Last Supper” of spaghetti, French bread, ice cream, and cake-all carbohydrates. Then, three hours before the race, they were to have a light breakfast of “no slowly digestible protein.” Whatever that meant.

“Will you and Eileen be there?” Sleepily, Anne pushed her bedroom door open with her foot.

“We wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Mary Helen answered, knowing for sure that she, at least, wouldn’t. The previous Sunday, the Examiner , which had sponsored the race since it began in 1912, had put out a special booklet with all kinds of interesting facts and figures. Mary Helen could hardly wait. One hundred thousand runners were expected, the booklet had said, for the seven-and-one-half-mile cross-city race. With that many people in the race, she figured, there could only be a couple of hundred spectators. Eileen and she should have no trouble finding a good place.

“Where do you suggest we go to watch?” Eileen asked when the two nuns met in the Sisters’ dining room as soon as Father Adams had finished the morning Mass. Obviously Eileen was interested in attending. In fact, she sounded downright enthusiastic.

Mary Helen had ripped a map showing good spectator spots from last week’s paper. “As far as I’m concerned, the top of the Hayes Street hill is out.” She pointed to the spot on the map. The hill rose two hundred feet and “separated the men from the boys,” as the saying goes. “I am afraid it will be packed,” she said, knowing full well that what she was more afraid of was witnessing a heart attack.

“And the finish line at the beach, there at the Great Highway, probably will be packed too. Plus, we would have to drive-and where would we park?”

Eileen’s face puckered. She looked a little disappointed. “If we situated ourselves at the Great Highway, we would have a chance to see the thrill of victory and… de agony of de feet.”

Mary Helen groaned. Lucy Lyons should be quarantined. “Our best bet seems to me to be the Pan Handle.” She pointed to the narrow, grassy entrance to Golden Gate Park, which was so named because, to Mary Helen’s lasting amazement, it did in fact resemble a pan handle. “And besides, we can walk over there.” Quickly Eileen warmed to the suggestion.

At about eight-thirty, the two nuns were elbowing their way to the front line on Fell Street, which bordered the Pan Handle to the north. Mary Helen watched in awe as the serious racers blistered past. Chests heaving, feet pounding the asphalt, they seemed guaranteed to reach the finish line within the hour.

“Get a load of those guys!” A bald-headed man next to Mary Helen pointed to the sweating runners. “Hell, I read in the paper that Bobby Vlught, the first guy to win this thing, would have come in one hundred sixtieth today.” He looked at her for a reaction. She tried to look impressed, although she had read the same article herself.

Before long, Eileen waved to a panting Anne. “Here comes our girl,” she said. Anne’s T-shirt, which read SOLE SISTER, distinguished her from the runners around her.

Quite a few minutes behind Anne, Mary Helen spotted several hand-waving politicians. Next to them were a man with a toddler on his back and two gray-haired women who looked as if they were well into their seventies.

“Glory be to God, look at that!” Nudging Mary Helen, Eileen pointed down the block to a set of human dominoes jogging along next to a life-sized whale, a couple of colored crayons, and the Bank of America team dressed as sheriffs who were chasing three women “bank robbers.”

“Go, Jack, go!” Mary Helen recognized a familiar voice. She turned. Sure enough. Kate Murphy was pushing up right behind her.

What a stroke of luck! Mary Helen had been debating all weekend whether or not to call Kate. Now she was spared having to decide. Meeting the woman in a crowd like this was more than a coincidence or even good luck: it was clearly an act of God.

“Well, you never know who you’ll run into.” Mary Helen faced Kate and tried not to look or sound too pleased.

“Hi, Sisters.” Kate seemed genuinely happy to see them. “There goes Jack!” she shouted, momentarily distracted. “If he ever gets to the finish line, he’ll need a week off.” The three of them waved as Jack Bassetti, gaining speed, ran steadily toward the entrance to Golden Gate Park.