Susan Albert - Rueful Death

Tom looked at me, his face a mask of desperation. "What are we going to do?"

The old man roused himself. "I'll tell you what we're goin' to do," he said with unexpected clarity.

Tom looked down. "Oh, yeah? You got some more bright ideas, Pop?"

His father snorted. "You bet. See that switch?" He gestured with his eyes at the humming electrical equipment. "I can't reach it. You're goin' to flip it for me."

"You're crazy," Tom said. "I can't do that!"

"Sure you can," his father replied. "You can turn it back on again when I'm gone. Who do you think is goin' to know? Doc Townsend?" He grunted. "That turkey is dumb as a dodo bird. Dumb as a box of rocks."

Tom's mouth hardened. "If you think I'm going to help you kill yourself, you've got another think coming."

The old man lifted a trembling hand, his voice wispy, failing. "You want me to beg, son? Well, I'm beggin'."

"Forget it," Tom said. "There's no way-"

"Look at me, boy," the old man whispered desperately. "I can't go on livin' like this, tied to a bed. I'm beggin', damn it!"

This was between father and son. I went out into the hall.

A half-hour later, Tom came out of the room, red-eyed. "It's over," he said. He sagged against the wall. "People have the right to choose how they want to die."

"Sadie didn't."

There was a silence. After a minute, I said, "Did you mnk your dad might still be there when we drove over to sbe ranch this morning?"

He shook his head. "I left home before seven. I thought I'd talked him out of going to see her. But when she didn't show up, I knew the old man had out-foxed me." He pushed himself away from the wall. "I guess I'd better go ■Ear to the sheriff's office. This isn't the kind of thing I can tell Stu Walters over the phone."

"'Why tell him anything?"

He looked at me. "Because Sadie's dead. My father killed her. And then he committed suicide, with my help. Or I killed him, if that's how the county attorney wants to look at it."

I shook my head. "Sadie was kicked in the head by a horse. Her death certificate says so."

His eyes were large and staring. "You're kidding."

"It's Doctor Townsend's expert opinion," I said, "ratified by the local JP." I shook my head. The old man was right. Dumb as a box of rocks.

"You knew that, and you let Dad commit-"

"People have the right to choose how they want to die," I said again. ' 'What would you have chosen for him? That he drag out his dying for another month? Maybe even two or three?"

"Oh, Jesus, China," he whispered, agonized, and reached for me. He pulled me against him, burying his face blindly in my shoulder, weeping for his father. I wept, too, but my tears were for Sadie.

After a moment I pushed Tom away and stepped back. "What do you know about your father's will?" I asked.

' 'His will?'' He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm his sole heir, I suppose. Why?"

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cross, the only evidence that Tom Rowan, Senior, had been with Sadie Marsh that morning. "This belongs to you now," I said,

and put it in his hand. Sadie's death would be mourned, but not avenged.

But perhaps it had been. Her killer lay dead beyond the door. I figured she'd call it even.

By the time I got back to St. T's that evening, I was ready to give Mother Winifred and Olivia a hand with the Chapter of Faults, if they needed it.

They didn't.

The sisters were already in the chapel when I arrived and I took a seat in the shadows at the back of the room. The chapel was lighted by flickering candles set into the wall sconces, and I could smell the sweet muskiness of incense. The chairs had been moved into a large circle, and for the first time I saw all of the sisters of both groups sitting together, heads bowed as Mother finished a simple prayer.

"Forgive us our transgressions," she said quietly, "and give us the grace to forgive those who have transgressed against us. In Christ's name, amen."

While Mother stood silently, I scanned the circle. Yes, Olivia was there, seated next to Gabriella. Across from her, on the far side of the circle, sat the women with whom I had spoken over the past few days: Ramona, who was longing to escape to San Francisco; Ruth, her hands folded quietly over her pillowy bosom; Regina, square-shouldered and firm; Rose, who said she'd never wanted to know who had driven her cousin Marie from the novitiate. I didn't see John Roberta, whom I presumed was still in St. Louis. But Anne was there, and Dominica, and Miriam, and Maggie, and all the others. The room was tense with waiting silence, taut with anticipation.

Mother stood for a moment more, her hands folded at her waist. Then she raised her head.

"We are here this evening as a community," she said, "to celebrate a Chapter of Faults, an ancient tradition of religious life. We will ask for mercy for our own sins and the sins of others, and we will pray for the redemption that brings us new life through the mystery of grace and compassion." She looked around. "These are not empty words, but healing words. It is God's grace that allows us to be touched with the consciousness of our shortcomings. It is His grace that leads us to repentance, and His compassion that redeems even the most unspeakable sin. These are the true mysteries of the divine life that lives in each one of us, the mysteries that will allow us to knit the unraveled ties of our community." She turned to Olivia. "Sister, you will lead us, please."

As Mother Winifred took her place in the circle, Olivia stood. "Our Chapter tonight has one purpose," she said. Her voice trembled, and I saw one or two St. Agatha sisters glance up sharply, questioning.

Olivia stopped, cleared her throat, and went on. As she spoke, she seemed to regain some of her former authority. "We are here to confront the sister who has caused our community so much pain and anguish in the last few months, whose groundless accusations have made our

hearts heavy, and whose heedless disrespect of life and property has robbed us of peace and calm." She paused. The room was so quiet I could almost hear the sound of our beating hearts. Then she spoke.

"Sister Ruth, I accuse you."

There was no outcry, no loud gasp, not even the rush of expelled breath. No one stirred. But there was an unmistakable heightening of the tension, a subtle, focused energy sweeping around the circle, gathering force. All eyes turned to Ruth, who sat with her head still bowed, her hands still folded over her breast, as if she had heard nothing.

Then Regina, next to her, bent over. She spoke softly, but we could all hear what she said. "It's time, Ruth. Your sisters are waiting to hear your confession."

Obediently, Ruth stood, her conscientious eyes hidden behind the flickering reflections of the candle flame on her thick glasses. She fumbled for the rosary at her plump waist and cast her eyes upward, as if to heaven. I remembered the picture on the wall of her cell, the painting of the bound saint about to be burned to death on a pile of branches. Was that how Ruth imagined herself?

"Sister," Olivia said again, more softly now, "you cannot be forgiven unless you confess your transgressions. Tell us, please, what you have done."

Ruth lowered her gaze and looked around the circle, wonderingly, as if she were not entirely sure why so many eyes rested on her. Then, in a flat, uninflected voice so low I had to strain to hear it, she spoke. As I listened, it seemed to me that her recitation of sins was just that-a recounting of what she had done, a summing-up. I heard no consciousness of guilt in it, no awareness that others felt she had done wrong.