Carol Sister O'Marie - The Missing Madonna

“Pshaw!” she muttered.

“Pshaw, indeed! Be careful you don’t date yourself, old girl.” Eileen was right behind her.

Mary Helen spun around. “What would you suggest I say instead?”

Her friend paused for a moment, as though pondering a weighty issue. “Shucks would bring you forward two or three generations at least. And you’d have such a nice out-West ring. Like a regular Gary Cooper.”

“Good Lord, Eileen!” was all Mary Helen could think of to answer.

“What were you pshawing about, anyway?”

“Erma. Something is definitely wrong with her.”

“What do you mean wrong? Is she ill?” Eileen craned her neck to see if she could pick Erma out of the dense crowd.

“No, not sick. She’s disturbed or distressed, or something. I saw her across the room talking to Lucy. Everything about her said she was upset.” Mary Helen nodded her head. “Yes, definitely upset!” she emphasized.

“You saw her across this packed room and could tell she was upset?” Eileen gestured a bit too dramatically for Mary Helen’s liking. “Glory be to God, Mary Helen, you must give me the name of your optometrist. Whoever he is, he’s a regular miracle-worker.”

Eyes narrowed, Mary Helen faced her. “You know blasted well Dr. Van Houten is my eye doctor. And I tell you, Eileen, the woman is upset!”

Eileen was not to be cowed. “They could be talking about anything at all. For instance, maybe they’re discussing arthritis. Now, that is upsetting!”

She paused and looked hard at Mary Helen. “The point I’m making is, don’t be searching for trouble. There’s an old saying back home…” To Mary Helen’s astonishment, Eileen could always dig up an old saying from “back home.” She often suspected her friend made them up to fit the occasion. “ ‘Don’t trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.” And from what I’ve noticed, trouble troubles you soon enough!”

It is not my fault, Mary Helen wanted to say but refrained. It sounded too much like s whine. If there was anything Mary Helen detested almost as much as a bore, it was a whiner.

“Humph” was all she said. Turning on her heel, she squeezed her way across the crowded room. Where in the world had Erma and Lucy disappeared to? She checked her wristwatch. Four-thirty. The women had agreed to meet at six for a final fling. Their four traveling companions had planned to treat them to dinner at a place they’d found in the Three A’s tour book, before a quick walk over to West Forty-fourth Street and the eight o’clock performance at the Majestic Theatre.

Maybe Erma and Lucy had gone to their hotel room to start dressing for the evening, or perhaps to sneak in a short nap. Suddenly Mary Helen realized how tired she was. A short nap sounded heavenly. Maybe she’d sneak one in herself. It had been a long day. But first she’d stop by Erma’s room and make sure everything was all right. Grudgingly she admitted to herself that she’d do well to take Eileen’s advice and leave well enough alone. Absentmindedly, she pushed the elevator button.

The fourth floor of the hotel was plushly carpeted, dimly lit, and deadly quiet. The line of thick wooden doors, like so many rabbit hutches, were shut tight against any intrusions.

Mary Helen stopped in front of Erma’s door and leaned forward to listen. She had just poised her hand to knock when she heard the pathetic sound of muffled crying.

“Shush, Erma. Stop it.” Even through the thick door she heard Lucy’s high-pitched voice pleading. “You’re working yourself up to an absolute frenzy. And about what? Money!” She spat out the last word almost as if it were an obscenity.

Erma muttered something unintelligible and cried all the harder.

“Damn it, Erma! You’d drive a preacher to cuss,” Lucy shouted, but her tone was not angry, just helpless. “Better yet, to drink. And I think I will pour us both a short one.” There was a long pause, but Mary Helen thought she heard Erma sobbing quietly.

“Please don’t worry,” Lucy said as if she were comforting a small child. “Here, drink this. Worry is not going to solve a thing,” she went on. “It’ll only ruin the little time off you have. I tell you, Erma, everything will work out. We’ll make sure it does. And in the meantime, I’d be happy to help out. You know that.”

Mary Helen heard what she thought was Erma blowing her nose and hiccuping softly.

Suddenly she shifted, embarrassed. She was intruding on a private conversation. Well, she’d never let on for one moment that she’d heard a thing. Straightening up, she decided against even knocking. Whatever was bothering Erma, she and Lucy would work it out. We’ll make sure it does, Lucy had said. Mary Helen had heard that.

Besides, it was really none of her affair. To be very truthful, she had probably heard too much already. Eileen was absolutely correct. Why go looking for trouble? It was bad enough that she seemed to stumble into it even when she wasn’t looking. She would go straight to her hotel room, put her feet up for a half hour or so, see if she could nap. And if she couldn’t, she’d just relax and read a chapter or two of her murder mystery.

Squaring her shoulders, Mary Helen turned away from the door, adjusted her bifocals, and began to walk down the thickly carpeted hall. She was very glad she had, too, for just then the elevator door opened and out stepped Eileen. She would not, for one tiny moment, want Eileen to think that she would stoop to eavesdropping.

On Friday evening Sisters Mary Helen and Eileen had arrived back at Mount St. Francis College, where they spent the weekend recuperating. The other nuns were happy to have them home. Or so they said. Eileen staunchly denied that Sister Cecilia’s face fell when they’d arrived in the community room on Friday after supper and announced they were home.

“You are terrible!” Eileen said. “Besides, it is just not true. Her face did not change one iota when she saw us. If anything, she smiled.”

“Barely,” Mary Helen conceded.

“Glory be to God, give the woman credit She’s the college president. Even if she wasn’t completely happy to see us, she never would have let on. After all, she has had years of practicing the fine art of pretending to be happy to see people. The poor thing probably just had a hard day.”

“Maybe it wasn’t her face. Maybe it was something in her eyes.” Mary Helen stopped to let that sink in. She considered herself an expert on eyes.

Eileen didn’t dignify the remark with an answer.

“But what really made me wonder was when she looked up from her crossword puzzle and said, ‘I need a seven-letter word for disturbance,’ glanced over at us, and said, ‘Trouble.’ ”

“You are the living limit” was all that Eileen said.

There was no doubt young Sister Anne had been glad to see them back. “It’s Dullsville around here without you two,” she said, giving each of them a warm hug. The Big Apple T-shirt they brought home for her was a hit At least Anne wore it the very next day.

“How do you like it?” she had asked at breakfast, blinking naively behind her purple-rimmed glasses. Mary Helen cringed.

Sister Therese, who preferred her name pronounced trays , sniffed and answered for the group. “I do think something from the shrine of St. Elizabeth Seton might have been more appropriate.” She rolled her dark eyes toward Mary Helen, then heavenward. “However,” she added, with a little jab in her voice, “it does match the blue jeans and those sandal-like shoes you insist on wearing.”