Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

I looked up from the paper. I was seated once again in the Great Room. Sister Mary Ryan stood in front of me, picking nervously at her lower lip.

“You see?” she said.

I picked up the second piece of paper, the copy of the note that the nuns had received on Saturday.

Sisters-

In love, respect and reverence, a Gift awaits you. It is yours. This is my wish and decree. You must not allow anyone to talk you out of accepting it. Do not let them. You are pure lambs. They are filthy. I want this for you. You are deserving. You are purity. You are endangered. I love you so much. Your Gift awaits you at the Cloisters. You will claim it with the enclosed claim check. Today. After three o’clock. Please be trusting. Please be swift. I am your lamb. From slaughter comes Grace. I am in tears with happiness over your Gift.

A Friend.

“You see?” the nun said again. “There’s no question in my mind. The lamb? The gift?” She stepped to my side. “You see? ‘I can’t endanger my sisters any longer.’ And then in the other one. ‘You are endangered.’ This note we received is obviously related somehow to Sister Margaret. That’s not coincidence.”

I studied the two notes again. She was right. If this was coincidence, then my skin was green and feathery and so were my eighteen toes. I indicated Sister Margaret’s suicide note. “Is this the original?”

She shook her head. “It’s not. As far as I know, the police still have the original. It was Sister Natividad who requested at the time that we procure a copy. I told you how close she and Margaret were. Natividad wanted to have a copy of Margaret’s final words. The note was read to us over the telephone, and we copied it down and then typed it up. Sister Anne has some ambivalence about Natividad’s… I don’t want to call it obsession … with her desire to keep Margaret’s memory vivid. Natividad refers to ‘Margaret’s final words’ quite often. That’s why when she had a look this morning at the note we received on Saturday, she burst into tears. She brought out Sister Margaret’s note and… well, as you can see.”

“I can.”

“What do you think it means, Mr. Malone?”

I lowered the two notes and gazed up at the crucified figure on the far wall. Then I stood and turned to Sister Mary.

“It means I want to talk to your youngest nun.”

WHILE I WAITED FOR SISTER NATIVIDAD TO BE SUMMONED, I PHONED Tommy Carroll’s office. The commissioner wasn’t in. I was put through to his faithful assistant.

“Commissioner Carroll is with the mayor,” Stacy said.

“How does he look today?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“How does the commissioner look today? He went home sick yesterday. I was just curious how he looked to you this morning.”

“He. Looked. Fine.” It took nearly six seconds for her to say the sentence.

“Choosing your words carefully there, Stacy?”

“Excuse me?”

“I. Think. You. Should. Relax.”

She asked sharply, “Do you enjoy giving everyone a hard time or just me?” No problem spitting that sentence out.

“Only the lucky few,” I said.

“I will tell the commissioner that you called,” she said officiously.

“Atta girl.”

I heard what might have been a large sigh. “What is it? Is it something particular that I’ve said? I don’t understand you.”

“You do your job well,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“I’m just looking for the entry point to the rest of you.”

“Well, I wish you would stop. It’s rude. I’ll have Commissioner Carroll call you.”

“Tell him to have the Cloisters note handy, as well as the other notes from Nightmare.”

“Cloisters note. Nightmare. I’ll tell him.”

“Listen. Now that we’ve had this brief moment of air-clearing frankness, could you tell me now how he looked this morning? How does the old man seem to you?”

“I don’t believe that is in the purview of my job.”

“ ‘Purview’? Aw, Stace, do we have to go back there?”

“Make all the fun you want, Mr. Malone. Go right ahead. It’s fucking kick-Stacy week anyway.” She hung up.

Very interesting. Layer upon layer.

Sister Natividad was brought before me. That was how it felt. The young nun’s head was bowed, and she moved almost as if her ankles were chained together. Sister Mary was slightly behind her, seeming to push her forward by the elbow.

“I would like to speak with the sister alone,” I said. “If that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

I addressed the young nun. “Is there, um, someplace less great we could talk? Where would you be more comfortable?”

She answered immediately. “The fountain.” I cocked an eyebrow at Sister Mary.

“Natividad can show you,” she said. “I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

She left the room. Sister Natividad led me through the large dining room, then took a left before reaching the kitchen. We followed a clammy corridor down to a large oak door that led out onto a small garden arbor. A gravel pathway defined the square space, as did a framework of weathered trellises bearing the empty gray limbs of what I figured were grapevines. Precisely defined strips of turned earth indicated dormant flower beds. In the center of the square was a small fountain, not much more than a glorified birdbath in which a silver burble of water rolled over itself. A pair of finches perched on the rim of the fountain.

Beneath one of the trellises was a wooden bench. The nun moved directly to the bench and sat down, and I took a seat at the other end. It felt absurdly like a courting dance. The nun spoke first.

“Margaret had a rule. She was not allowed to be sad here.”

“Here. You mean out here in the garden?”

She nodded. “Sometimes it was only for a minute. Sometimes she could be here for almost an hour. Not often, though.”

“What happened to Sister Margaret?”

She looked over at me. “What do you mean?”

“Why was she so miserable? Why did she kill herself?”

The nun answered without hesitation. “God was angry with her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“And why was God angry with her?”

“Because she drank, and because she could not keep herself from drinking. Even here. In God’s holy house, she could not keep her sins away. Sometimes she was found on the floor. Passed out. Sometimes when she was drinking, she would say horrible things.”

“Did she seek help? Did she try to go it alone, or did she look for help? Counseling? A.A.?”

“Yes. Sometimes. The meetings. She went to them. There were times when she was better, but they didn’t last.”

“When she killed herself. I’m assuming she was drinking at that point.”

The nun looked down at the ground. “She was in a lot of pain this time. This time was different. She had… She was difficult to talk to. She felt hopeless.”

“Did you have any idea exactly how desperate she was? Had she ever mentioned suicide before?” The young nun raised her head and looked for a long time out at the small fountain. I watched as her dark eyes began to glisten. She said nothing. “Natividad?”

“I should have known.” Her voice wasn’t much louder than a whisper.

“Why should you have known?”

“I just should have. She did not have to die like that. I should have been a better friend. I should have saved her. I knew she was in pain.”

“But you didn’t know she was going to kill herself. Isn’t that right?”

The whisper again. “I don’t know. Maybe I did.”

A thought occurred to me. “Sister Margaret was found out in Prospect Park. All the way out in Brooklyn. That’s an awfully long way from here.”