Gregory Maguire - Missing Sisters

Look. Lookit, Sister, said the girl. She stretched her hands out on either side of her. Its raining out one window and snowing out the other.

Ill look in a minute, said the nun. After I get this oil off the burnerits popping like nobodys business. She hustled the skillet onto the chopping board. Ill burn this place to the ground yet.

Oh, dont do that, said the girl.

Pray that I dont, said the nun. Say a prayer to the patron saint of stupid people, whoever that might be. She dried her pink hands on a square of burlap cut from a potato sack. Now, whats to see, Alice?

Lookit: snow, said Alice, pointing out the large windows over the kitchen counter. Snow indeed. And lookit: rain. Across the room and above the sink, the other windows were spattered with raindrops.

Well, well, said the nun. Fancy, youre right. She folded her arms across her apron bib for a moment in stillness, not like her. Isnt it grand.

In the dawn storm the big kitchen of the retreat house seemed lit with purple. Alice was a twelve-year-old shadow, dark and observant, of ancient Sister Vincent de Paul, who in her black veil and habit and white apron looked like a witch in bandages. Slotted spoons and ladles and strainers hung from a central ring, a kind of chandelier of utensils. Flour from the days bread-baking efforts drifted in the air between the windows, an inside weather of white dust. The room smelled of oil faintly scorching.

The other girls and the other sisters were still asleep. Alice thought of them in their beds in the dormitories. Seventeen girls snoring their vacation trip away, while only Alice Colossus was awake and listening. Alice and, of course, Sister Vincent de Paul, who with her bum foot clumped around in a huge shoe like a safe-deposit box.

Youre very sharp, said Sister Vincent de Paul. Youve a keen eye when youre on your own, Alice.

Im not on my own, said Alice. Youre here.

You know what I mean. Sister Vincent de Paul went to the walk-in refrigerator for eggs. She planted her square shoe like a cinder block and swung the rest of her body around it. Her skirts swished. Alice tried hard to keep the sounds sure in her mind, for relishing: the thump of shoe, the rustle of black cotton, and behind it the hiss of the two-minded storm. Or perhaps it was the sizzle of oil she still heard. Alice loved to be Sister Vincent de Pauls helper before the house was up. It was her ears clearest time of day.

Think fast! called Sister Vincent de Paul from the door, and threw a package of frozen blueberries across the room. Alice saw it before she heard it, but managed neatly to swipe it from the air before it landed on the floor. Bravo! chortled Sister Vincent de Paul and returned, thump rustle thump rustle , with two dozen eggs.

Now tell me why you think the storm both rains and snows, said the nun, cracking eggs with one hand until twenty-four golden suns had flopped chummily in the flour.

It cant make up its mind, like me, said Alice.

Say it slower. Think your consonants.

Itcantmakeupitsmind, said Alice again. If Sister Vincent de Paul would look up, she could easily lip-read what she couldnt make out by sound. But Sister Vincent de Paul wouldnt lip-read Alice, because Alice was merely lazy and could do better if she tried.

The storm cant make up its mind?

It had been a joke, but it wasnt funny the second time. Storms stupid, said Alice.

Its beautiful, Sister Vincent de Paul declared, poking out the eyes of the eggs with a slotted spoon till they bled yellow. Are you going to grease those muffin tins?

Storms mixed up, said Alice. Like me.

The storm, said Sister Vincent de Pauland then a crash of thunder announced an opinionthe storm is brilliant! Like you! There was lightning, and more thunder. The snow was dancing in spirals. Around and down, more and more. The rain out the other window spattered all the harder.

The line of snow cloud must be just above this room, said Sister Vincent de Paul, sprinkling a little flour onto the breadboard, lifting a spoon, and pointing heavenward. Itll shift in a moment. Were at a miraculous juncture. As usual. Warm front and cold front having a stare down directly overhead. And only you and me to notice, Alice.

Alice missed some of this. She rubbed Crisco into the muffin tins. Its just a cloud, she said.

And youre just a girl, and life is just life, said Sister Vincent de Paul gaily. And the morning bread just feeds us daily so we may notice such goings-on! She began to sing in a sort of off-center wayher voice was riding the melody like a kid on a bicycle for the first time, whoopsing and wobbling along. Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to Thee. How great Thou art, how great Thou art!

Alice hummed a little to herself. The lightning stitched a path between snow and rain, the thunder kettle-drummed. The kitchen lights flickered and went out just as Sister Vincent de Paul was returning the pan of oil to the burner. Oh, said Alice. Mercy! said Sister Vincent de Paul. The skillet bumped into the corner of the stove, and a long silver tongue of oil sloshed out. In a moment the counter was on fire. Small yellow-blue flames ran up the wall like morning glories growing on a trellis in a hurried-up nature movie.

Salt, snapped Sister Vincent de Paul. Alice ran for the butlers pantry and came back with six saltshakers, not one of which held more than a teaspoon. She began to untwist the caps. No, the salt in the canister! said Sister Vincent de Paul, beating at the fire with her apron. Alice hadnt remembered the canister.

But salt didnt do it, and the fire extinguishers help was only limp and sputtery. Alice, you must run and wake everyone. Sister Vincent de Paul was yelling to be sure she was heard. And call the fire brigade!

Alice couldnt do the phone. For some reason she couldnt hear well over wires and through the little dots in the ear-piece. So she stumbled through the swinging door and across the refectory, past the twenty-five places set at the two long tables. Skidded on the circle of braided rug in the hall and turned the corners on the big, carved staircase like a pro. Her long legs drew her up four steps at a time.

Rachel Luke and Esther Thessaly were coming back from the john together (they were supposed to call it the jane, since John was an evangelist and apostle, but nobody did). Sister Isaac Jogues was wafting up and down the corridor with her nose in her breviary, muttering matins. Hadnt they noticed the lights go off? Ahh, said Alice. Fire in the kitchen! Wake up!

Rachel and Esther, who were only about eight, clutched each other and said, Whatd she say? But Sister Ike dropped her breviary to the floor and strode like a linebacker down the corridor toward Alice. Fire! Where, Alice?

Wake up, wake them up! Alice said wildly, tearing from Sister Ikes grasp and turning into the older girls dormitory. Fire in the kitchen! Dont anyone hear me? Fire!

The clock in the hall chimed six and three quarters. Alice could hear its bonging, like an angels announcement of the hour of death. Domestic thunder. Sister Ike had roused Sister John Bosco, who appeared without her wimple, showing spikes of silver hair and putting to rest for all time the rumor that she was bald as a basketball. Alice had gabbled her message more and more clumsily at the groggy girls. In a tatter of nightgowns, habits, and even four-year-old Ruth Peters in her shameful soiled diapers, they lined up and counted themselves and marched single file down the right-hand side of the stairs, no talking and no running. Sister Francis of Assisi soon hoisted the sobbing Ruth in her arms, thinking nothing of the stink, or maybe just offering it up.