Black Apple (33 page)

She would have turned to Cyril and told him, “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me either. I’m nineteen years old,” but the dining room was starting to list, she was dizzy, and she had to put a hand behind her back to support herself against the table.

“Maybe it’s time I stopped doing what everyone else tells me I should be doing,” Frank said softly. “Maybe we both should be makin’ up our own minds, eh, Rose Marie?”

Sucking in breath, she pressed forward, and the two men parted to let her pass.

  *  *  *  

After finishing washing up, she made her way down the hall, past Frank’s closed door to the stairs. Cyril stepped from the porch, took her elbow, and led her outside. He sat down on the top step as usual, but she didn’t take her spot on the step below. The movement was too much for her; she was afraid she’d topple. Putting a hand against the post for support, she remained standing. Even though she had refused cigarettes until he had stopped offering them, tonight Cyril took his pack from the step, pulled a cigarette forward, and, reaching up, offered it to her.

She took it. “I never saw any of the nuns smoke,” she said, hunching closer as he struck a match with his thumbnail for her. “Sometimes I thought I smelled tobacco on Sister Bernadette, though it could just have been burnt food.” She took a shallow puff.

Cyril laughed, a happy laugh, and she talked, letting her words spill out, releasing the tightness in her chest. She told him about her parents, who had smoked a bone pipe with guests or in ceremony, sometimes cigarettes they rolled from
kinickinick
. “If they were outdoors, they used new bark instead of papers. But that was a long time ago.” She took another puff. “I think it’s the mountains that make me think of them so much.”

“Yeah, the mountains grow on you,” Cyril said, and Papa flashed through her mind, colours spilling from his skin like there was too much of him for his body to contain. Like Frank.

“Frank is always asking me to go for a walk with him,” she blurted.

“I know. He’s a good guy. Don’t understand about your, you know, that church thing—”

“Holy vocation.”

Cyril smiled. “Yeah, that. Don’t worry. I’ll have a talk with him. Tell him to lay off.”

“No, I don’t need anyone looking after me.” Maybe God was trying to guide her through Cyril Brown, she thought. But she wasn’t sure she wanted Him to.

“I feel like I’m just, I don’t know, waiting. At St. Mark’s, I always knew exactly what I had to do, where I was going, and how I would end up. Now my life feels sort of . . . uncertain.”
Dust
, she thought,
blowing in the western wind.

“Waiting? Yeah, I kind of feel like that too. What are you waiting for?”

“I guess for ‘that church thing,’ my holy vocation. My
destiny.
” She heard the cynicism in her voice. “I don’t know, exactly.”

He chuckled. “Probably neither of us should be spending our lives just waiting.” He took another drink of beer.

“You know, I’ve never tasted beer before. Only Communion wine.”

“Here, take a swig,” he offered, holding the bottle out to her.

“Sure.” That feeling: like she wanted everything she was not supposed to have. “Hey, bubbles. I guess it’s better than Communion wine.” She handed the bottle back. “It’s nice having you to talk to you, Cyril.”

“I like talking to you too,” he told her, his voice suddenly gruff.

She went up the stairs ahead of Cyril and into her room.

“Oh,” she gasped, staring at a girl, young—thirteen, maybe fourteen—wearing a St. Mark’s uniform, for crying out loud! Perched on the chair, the girl didn’t turn her head to Rose Marie but gazed out the window, her thick black hair glowing as if struck by a shaft of sunlight.

“Taki!” she cried, running over and sliding on her knees before her so she could look up into her friend’s face. “Oh my God, it’s you! How I miss you.”

“I’m with you lots of times, Rosie,” she said, looking right at her. “You’re my sister.”

“Yes, I am.” Laughter tickled over her ribs. “I’m so glad to see you, Taki. My life’s all mixed up.”

Taki smiled. “You’re my sister, and I love you. Sisters are important. Brothers too. Don’t feel alone, Rosie. You’re not alone.”

For a second, she didn’t feel it.

Then she made the mistake of reaching for Taki’s hands. But they were in the past and beyond the Wolf Trail, folded in memory and buried in a place she didn’t know.

“Don’t go, Taki,” she said, though she knew it was too late.

M
OTHER GRACE RESUMED
the execution of her duties at St. Mark’s. Hour by hour, day by day, she existed, as efficient as she had ever been, as practical, as reserved, and even more commanding. Not as watchful, perhaps. Certainly not as caring. Yet, not one of the sisters could honestly complain about her performance. Not one of them could have put a finger on exactly what had changed.

It was just after breakfast on St. Jude’s feast day, the twenty-eighth of October, and she was gazing out her office window at the school grounds, the rolling prairie, and, in the distance, the vague blue outline of the mountains. On nearby farms, the harvest had been completed a month and a half before, but there had been no precipitation since, and the farmers were already grumbling that they needed a dump of snow to provide moisture for planting the following spring. The weather had turned cold overnight, and now a few flakes were fluttering to the ground. Not too much snow, Mother Grace was thinking. Not yet.

Sister Cilla rushed through the door.

Startled, Mother Grace tried to rise to her feet, wincing at the dry rasp of her skirts. Her entire body felt the same as her habit. Widow’s weeds, every bit of her, inside and out. As she fell back in her chair, she caught the expression on Sister Cilla’s face.

“
Vieilli
, what is it?”

“Mother Grace,” Sister Cilla cried. “Oh dear, oh law, I don’t know how to say this!”

“Sit down. What on earth is the matter?”

Sister Cilla hunched forward in the chair, dissolving into sobs. Having no handkerchief to mop her eyes, she lifted her skirt and buried her face.

“What
is
it, Sister?”

Louder sobs broke out from behind the folds of Sister Cilla’s skirt.

“Is it Sister Joan? Did she say something cruel? Or Sister Margaret?”

“No, no.” Sister Cilla briefly moved her skirt from her mouth. “It’s me, my position—” But she was sobbing and speaking at the same time, once more burying her face in her skirt, and her words were unintelligible.

Reaching across her desk, Mother Grace touched Sister Cilla’s wrist. “Now, now, Sister, there’s no problem we can’t solve with the grace of God.” The word
God
tasted foreign in her mouth.

Sister Cilla howled louder.

She tried to tug Sister Cilla’s hand free of her face. But Cilla, as always, was strong as an ox, while Mother Grace’s own strength was minimal, her arm aching with the effort.

“Maudit,”
she murmured, pressing her lips together. She really had no time for histrionics, and she pushed herself from her chair, grasping her cane. With all that had taken place recently, she had little patience left, and there was no point in pretending she did. She made her way to the door and was about to walk out of her office, when Sister Cilla wailed, “Please, Mother Grace. I can’t bear you turning your back on me!”

Mother Grace turned her head. “Well, Sister, what is it?”

“Dear, oh law. At least say you’ll give Olaf and me your blessing?”

“What?” She wheeled around to face Sister Cilla. “What did you say?” She stumbled backwards, and the doorknob planted itself firmly between her buttocks.
“Merde!”
she cried, unable to keep the curse to herself. For a moment, the overhead light seemed to swing in wild yellow circles. She was falling.

“Mother Grace!” Sister Cilla flew to her. She caught her up and eased her to the floor. “Should I get someone? I’ll phone the doctor at Hilltop.” She sprang to her feet. “I’m sorry! I’m so—”

“Help me up, Priscilla,” she snapped. “And take me to my bed this instant!”

Sister Cilla took her up the stairs, half carrying her to her room, and blabbering apologies every brutal step of the way.

“Have you spoken of this, of your
intentions
, to anyone else?” Mother Grace demanded once she was propped up on her bed. Every bone in her widow’s body, she could swear, had fractured.

“No, Mother Grace, I haven’t. But I think Sister Bernadette suspects.”

“You will say nothing of this to anyone until I give you permission, Sister Cilla. Now, brandy,” she ordered. “Get me the bottle in my bottom desk drawer. Bring my cane too. And hurry. I have a few questions for you, mademoiselle.”

“Aren’t you being a little rash in making this decision, Sister Cilla?” she asked a few minutes later, a tumbler of brandy in her hand. “Surely you don’t think you’re the only sister who has ever been in love?”

Sister Cilla looked down at her, astonished. “Dear, oh law, I never . . . Well, I guess not, Mother Grace.”

“And Sister Bernadette was certainly remiss if she ever left you alone with that man.”

“Dear, it’s not Sister Bernadette’s fault.”

“I really have to wonder if the younger generation has any concept of sacrifice, any idea of what service to the Lord means, any desire to labour for the greater good!” Looking up at Cilla, she saw her face crumple. “
Mon Dieu
, sit down before you fall down, Priscilla.”

“I tried, Mother Grace,” Sister Cilla wailed, collapsing on the end of Mother Grace’s bed. “Time and again, I really did.” She snatched up her skirt and wiped her nose. “For eight years, Olaf has been asking me to marry him. I thought he was joking at first—we like to share a laugh—and I shrugged it off. Later I knew he was serious, but I turned him down. I prayed. I put myself at God’s mercy.”

Sister Cilla’s face was blotchy, her eyes were a little wild, but Mother Grace noticed that her voice had steadied.

She took another good long swallow of brandy, fully aware that Cilla could probably use a drink herself.
Tant pis
, she was too annoyed to offer her one.

“This time when Olaf proposed, I knew that I wanted what he wanted: a family. I knew my heart wasn’t in my work here anymore. And most of all, Mother Grace, I knew that I love him.”

“Love?” Mother Grace uttered the word like the punch line of a bad joke. Her intention was to imply that in light of the divine, romantic love was ridiculous, a parody of God’s love. That was how she
should
feel. In fact, before Patrick’s death, it was how she believed she
did
feel. “Love,” she said again, more softly. “Well, Sister Cilla, I’ll summon you tomorrow when I have more to say on this matter.
Va t’en
.” Since it was St. Jude’s Day and since he was the patron saint of desperate causes, she’d say a prayer or two about keeping Sister Cilla at St. Mark’s.

  *  *  *  

The following day, Mother Grace awoke in a grim mood. Despite her prayers to St. Jude, she had the feeling Sister Cilla would not remain a Sister of Brotherly Love and, when the time came, take the reins from her and run the school. She had seen the set of Cilla’s jaw and heard a winsome note in her voice when she said Olaf’s name.
Oui
, and her departure would irrevocably alter the future of St. Mark’s as she had imagined it, as she had hoped and prayed it would be.

Her misfortunes had started with Rose Marie’s departure, she realized. Then came the terrible news of Patrick’s death. After that, the order to close some residential schools—not St. Mark’s, at least. Now Sister Cilla was running off with a man like, like
une catin
. What was God doing?

Mon Dieu
, but she was old and useless. The knowledge carved its way through her with a twisted blade as she dressed and struggled downstairs to her office.
How could you, Jesus?
she muttered, staring up at Patrick’s cross.
How could you take so much from me?

Yet she still had the girl. She must not forget that. What was that precious little saying Sister Bernadette chirped from time to time?
God doesn’t close a door without opening a window.

Dear Rose Marie
, she would write.
By the time you get this, it will be a month before your return to St. Mark’s, the order’s requirements fulfilled. After a recuperation period, you will travel by train to the Mother House. Your destiny awaits you, child! After two years, God willing, you will return here as an ordained Sister of Brotherly Love. It is all unfolding, Rose Marie, just as God intended
. She’d write those exact words without mentioning that Sister Cilla would not be her chaperone to the Mother House, that it would have to be Sister Simon instead, and possibly Sister Bernadette too.

Was there something else she had to attend to concerning Rose Marie? She had the feeling there was, but she couldn’t focus, and truth be known, she didn’t care enough to try.

With Rose Marie gone to the Mother House, what would be in store for
her
? Well, she considered, taking the nail file from her top drawer, she could begin to chronicle Rose Marie’s childhood and the details of the Visitation
,
her first miracle.
Oui
, Rose Marie was her window. The loss of Cilla was simply the price she had to pay for indulging in self-pity after Patrick’s death. She had ignored the needs of others when they had most required her. She sank to the floor beside her chair and knelt on her stiff knees.

Lord
. But as she closed her eyes, it wasn’t the cross Patrick had made her that burned into her brain; it was the crucifix hanging over her bed upstairs. Bronze—the face, cut by shadows, dark and craggy. An Indian face.
Forgive us, Père, we know not what we do
. Tears trickled down her old cheeks.

A
NOTHER DAY GONE,”
Rose Marie muttered to herself as she slipped into bed each night. Another night closer to her return to St. Mark’s. Yet each dawn made her feel farther from the school and the sisters, especially from Mother Grace, who still had not written. Didn’t the old bat care about her anymore?