Contrition Read online

“I’m going to take that as the endearment I’m sure you meant it to be.” I smiled. “Anyway, I’m going to lose a lot more than weight and a bad habit when I tell Phil there’s no story.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “There’s plenty of story. Fulfill your obligation by writing the nice piece like you planned and let him reject it if he wants to.”

  “I can’t. I’ve decided I’m not going to write anything about Catherine for Phil or any other paper.”

  “Su hermana said no, eh?”

  “My sister managed to talk me out of it without saying a word.” I nodded. “And I’m glad. But I’m also about to be unemployed.”

  “Oh, please. El Jefe would never fire you.”

  “He said he would,” I reminded her.

  “He lied.” Graciela looked at me askance. “Wait a minute. You’re glowing. Did you meet a guy or something?”

  “Not unless you count Jesus,” I joked, eager to avoid the topic of my personal life before Graciela asked about Matt. His proposal seemed so surreal that I wasn’t even sure it actually happened. I definitely wasn’t ready to talk about it. “Did I miss much while I was gone? Any good libel suits?”

  “Nada.” The unlit cigarette bounced on Graciela’s lips as she spoke. “Just some guy who’s mad because we erroneously reported his death. I don’t see what the big deal is. His wife got some beautiful flower arrangements out of it. Anyway, I’m glad you’re back. Manipulating Phil isn’t any fun without you.” Graciela sniffed the air and stashed her cigarette. “Speaking of our editor…”

  “Little Virgin Mary’s back from the nunnery.” Arriving at my desk, Phil sized me up, scratched his chin and turned to Graciela. “She look any holier to you?”

  “Nah, just skinnier,” my coworker said.

  “So what’s the dirt?” Phil asked, twirling his cigar like Groucho Marx. “Did you and your sister duke it out, hug it out, or both?”

  “We ended up getting along pretty well,” I said, focusing on how we left each other rather than our shaky start. “Too well, I guess. I didn’t find anything I wanted to write an article about.”

  “Write it anyway,” Phil said. “Didn’t pay for your time there so you and your sister could braid each other’s hair and sing Kumbaya.”

  “I was, er, kind of hoping you would let me make up the hours,” I said.

  “Dunno.” Phil considered. “Would require me to be charitable, and no one around here appreciates my generosity—”

  “That’s because you never display any,” Graciela pointed out.

  “No sense in starting now then.” Phil shrugged and turned to me. “Have the story on my desk by the end of the day.”

  “I’m sorry, Phil,” I said, my knees knocking despite my resolve. “I know we had a deal, but I can’t write the piece. So, I’m prepared to accept the consequences.”

  “Really?” Phil looked at me.

  I nodded. He chewed on his cigar and whistled.

  “Well, then, I guess you’re fired, aren’t you?” he half asked, half pronounced. He tried to sound cavalier, but his words packed about as much punch as a deflating balloon.

  I nodded and managed to remain calm, even slightly relieved. My dismissal forced me to move on—something I’d needed to do for a long time anyway. Graciela almost fell over. Phil ignored her reaction.

  “You can finish out the week,” he called over his shoulder as he walked off. “Give me a thousand words on the Strip Bar Seniors by five.”

  “¡Creo que no!” Graciela yelped when he was gone.

  “Believe it,” I said. The truth was, losing my job paled in comparison to losing Matt. Our friendship had survived a breakup, but I doubted it could survive a proposal. Still, I felt tears well up in my eyes. I didn’t want to cry in the middle of the newsroom. “Who the hell are the Strip Bar Seniors?”

  “Word is a bunch of little old ladies frequent the Lust Lounge on Melrose every Monday for the lunch special,” Graciela said. “How could el Jefe fire you?”

  “Well, there’s that part about me failing to do my job.” Trying to stay professional, I pulled up the Lust Lounge on my phone and got directions. “Why would elderly women go to a strip bar?”

  “It’s a bargain. Where else can an abuela on social security get all the mozzarella sticks she can eat for a mere four ninety five? Not to mention live entertainment.”

  I copied down the strip club’s details in a fresh reporter’s notebook. Graciela watched my silent tears drop onto the page.

  “Can we talk about you now?” She closed my notebook.

  “Let me get through the work day first.”

  I grabbed my keys and raced out of the newsroom, glad I hadn’t worn mascara.

  • • •

  I’d regained my composure by the time I returned to The Comet that afternoon, thanks in part to the patrons of Lust. The lunch special ladies were charming, and the dancers, meager tips notwithstanding, said they found the polite applause of their female audience a refreshing change from the catcalls and lewd comments of typical customers.

  I settled down at my keyboard to write the piece, not quite believing I got paid for such tasks, though not for much longer. I cranked out the story before deadline and then lingered at my desk rereading my cloister journals, marveling at a world so different from the one I now inhabited.

  At five o’clock on the dot, Graciela appeared in my cubicle.

  “Vamonos, chica,” my coworker urged. “Let’s go drown your sorrows in sugar.”

  “I’m actually all right.” I tucked the cloister journals into my desk drawer. “Better than I expected.”

  “I’m not. I can’t believe you’re going to leave me alone with these sharks and piranhas.”

  “Graciela, you’re one of the sharks and piranhas. So am I.”

  “Details, details.” She took my elbow and pulled me up. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I laughed and picked up the photography intern’s camera. “Okay. I need to give this back to Rod.”

  “I’ll be out front.” Graciela waved her pack of cigarettes and left.

  As I walked to the dark room, I remembered that the camera’s memory card was full of pictures of Catherine’s work. Part of me knew I should erase all the pictures, part of me wanted a personal record of my sister’s paintings. I paused. Unwilling to erase them, but unable to hand them over to Rod, I decided I would keep the memory card and buy him a replacement that night. Retreating to my desk, I put the camera in the drawer with my notebooks, then gathered my bag and left.

  • • •

  Suffering from a hot fudge sundae hangover, I yawned and opened my front door the next morning to get the papers. When I saw the latest edition of The Comet, my mouth hung open for an entirely different reason.

  The tabloid lay face up in the hallway. A full-page, color photograph of Catherine’s Last Supper masterpiece graced the cover. The headline read, “It’s a Miracle! Our Father Paints Through My Sister The Silent Nun, by Dorie McKenna.”

  My reflexive sense of excitement at seeing my byline in one-inch type was soon eclipsed by confusion and dread. I snatched the paper and pulled it into my apartment before Matt came looking for our shared subscriptions.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was in the car and on the cell phone with Graciela. “How did this happen?”

  “Apparently Phil saw Rod’s print of one of Sister Catherine’s paintings, then el Jefe found the notebooks and camera in your desk,” Graciela explained.

  “What the hell was Phil doing in there?” I glanced at the ocean rushing past my window.

  “He says he was looking for a pen.”

  “Looking for a pen? In my desk?” I snapped my wrist rubber band so hard that it left a red welt on my skin. “Tell him to get his own!”

  “I guess his pen drawer isn’t as interesante as yours.”

  “But I told him I wouldn’t do the article.”

  “And you didn’t,” Graciela said. “He figures he saved you the trou
ble of a story by running segments from your notes, not to mention saving face himself. He didn’t want to fire you and now he doesn’t have to. He even printed it mostly verbatim, minus his famous editorializing.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that.” I slowed to take a curve and thought back to my cloister journal. I hadn’t made my typical, rambling entries at the convent, but instead recorded events in more of a journalistic format. Had I written that way because I still thought of my sister’s story as an article even after I decided I wouldn’t publish it, or had I subconsciously held out hope that it would somehow make it to print? “Thank God for small favors.”

  “More like a big favor. We sold out on newsstands by seven-thirty this morning and the online hits are off the charts. Phil’s a hero and the owners want to meet you. There’s enough in your journals for a whole series of articles.”

  “Not if I can help it,” I said.

  “I don’t think you can. Anyway, you don’t want to stop him. The Los Angeles Times has already called asking permission to reprint excerpts.”

  “They did? What are LA Times editors doing reading The Comet?”

  “Probably gawking at the pictures like everyone else. Those paintings leap off the page. No wonder you’ve been so obsessed with them.”

  “They are something, aren’t they?”

  “Sí, sí, Señorita. And your commentary is magnífico. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” My guilty conscience was unable to dampen the swell of pride in my chest. “I only wish it didn’t have to happen this way.”

  “Quit your worrying. Who could possibly mind publicity as good as this?”

  “My sister, for one.” A poky, green Dodge chugged along ahead of me and slowed my progress.

  “Oh, she’ll love it. When are you coming in to soak up all the glory? I want to bask in the glow of your success.”

  “Not until later.” I put my signal on and changed lanes. “I’m on my way up to the cloister to apologize to the nuns.”

  “For what?” Graciela asked. “Making them famous?”

  “Exactly. I wouldn’t be surprised if Catherine sues for breach of privacy. She never signed a release.”

  “The investors won’t care,” Graciela said. “Whatever it takes to settle will be worth the ad revenue this thing’s generating.”

  “What have I done?” I wondered aloud.

  “You’ve arrived,” Graciela assured me. “Enjoy it.”

  For a few moments, I did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I pulled up to the cloister entrance just before two that afternoon. The gate seemed more ominous standing wide open in the sunlight than it had when it was locked fast and wrapped in darkness the first time I’d seen it. Sister Teresa greeted me with a smile but considerably less chatter than usual. She quickly ushered me into the parlor.

  A moment later, Mother Benedicta entered on the cloister side of the grille. Her tired expression suggested disappointment more than anger.

  “Our phones are ringing off the hook.” Benedicta sat down heavily. “We’ve had to unplug them.”

  “I am so sorry, Mother. I never intended for—”

  “I’m sorry, too. Not so much for the article, which was beautifully written, but for the fact of its publication after you promised that you wouldn’t. It means you can’t be trusted.”

  “But I can, Mother.” I shifted in my seat.

  The prioress squinted and touched the cross around her neck. She looked as if she wanted to believe me.

  “I didn’t break my promise. When I told my editor I wasn’t going to write the piece, he found my journals and the photos and ran them without my permission.” I sighed and wished I could start over. “Not that my explanation exonerates me in any way. I should have been more careful. What he published was personal. Those were my private thoughts that I had no intention of showing anyone. So on some level I understand the violation Catherine must feel.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. You saw for yourself during your stay that we have nothing to hide here. I am not against publicity per se, especially during hard times. Lord knows it helps to make people aware of our financial worries. And I happen to agree that the public should be allowed to enjoy Sister Catherine’s art.”

  “You do?” I asked.

  Mother nodded. “I’ve asked her many times for permission to put it up for sale in the gift shop or at a gallery to no avail. I could order her to, but I do my best to honor the wishes of the nuns in my charge. In your sister’s case, that means respecting her intensely felt sense of privacy.”

  “I understand. May I see her? I’d like to apologize.”

  “I don’t know that it will do any good.” Mother’s lower lip jutted out into a frown. “I’m sure she’s asked God to put forgiveness in her heart, but so far I don’t believe she’s found any.”

  “I’d like to give it a try anyway.”

  Mother Benedicta paused. “Very well. I’m not going to force her to come out here, but since you’ve been inside the cloister before, I will make an exception and let you go to her. I believe she’s in her studio.”

  “Thank you.”

  I raced to the studio and found the door closed. Before I could catch my breath and knock, it opened. Catherine stood on the other side with her head bowed and waved me inside.

  My sister’s posture of humility aside, I only needed to look at the latest work propped on the ladder to see how she felt.

  The angry, slashing image that glared back at me accusingly depicted Judas turning Jesus over to the authorities. Judas had barely pulled away from his kiss of betrayal and the soldiers were already moving in, yelling and shoving in their blade-colored armor and spiked helmets. Judas’ robes had a bruised and bloodied scarlet tint that writhed in tangled chaos, while the soldiers’ eyes were white splotches resembling the sightless eyes of the dead. Despite Jesus’ expression of weary resignation, the piece warned of a lurking evil. Unseen spirits swirled, moaned, and begged for release. I saw red-hot, super-charged rage, felt waves of a familiar pain. Old wounds ripped open. Our traumatic birth. A glimpse of Hell. The painting seemed to dare me to turn away from its shifting, roiling agony. I could not.

  I was speechless at the sight of such pain and anguish, horrified that I had been the cause.

  “I… I… I’m so sorry.” I finally averted my eyes, which skated around the room in search of something else to rest on. “I never meant for this to—”

  Catherine looked up at me. The heat in her normally chilling stare silenced me.

  Calm but purposeful, she pulled the huge painting from the ladder and dragged it out of the studio, the red paint on her hands marring the composition. The canvas caught on the edge of the doorframe. Catherine forced it through with a giant heave that gouged the edges.

  “Be careful!” I cringed. Disturbing as the image was, it was a powerful painting and I hated to see it damaged. “You’re ruining it!”

  “It doesn’t matter!” an exasperated Catherine snapped in a voice thin and cracked from lack of use. She lugged the lightweight, but awkward, piece down the hall.

  I froze. My sister, the silent nun, had spoken. That alone showed how enraged she was. I berated myself and followed her, catching up just as my twin arrived outside the common room. Catherine opened the carved door and slid the painting through this larger threshold without further damage. Then she let the heavy door bang against it and tear the canvas. I swallowed a scream.

  Before I understood her intention, Catherine dropped the painting into the massive fireplace and stoked the glowing embers from the previous night’s fire. I instinctively moved to retrieve it but was forced back as the oil paint caught quickly. Gaseous flames in sickly, neon-electric hues leapt into the air as the canvas warped. In seconds, the entire painting was consumed. I felt my face twist in horror, but Catherine’s expression was one of relief, if not satisfaction.

  “What are you doing?” I wrung my hands.

  “Giving it back to God.” Cat
herine solemnly watched the ashes rise up into the chimney. “It doesn’t matter if anyone else sees it, as long as He has.”

  “Doesn’t matter?” I flailed my arms in frustration and paced. “You’re insulting God by abusing your talents!”

  Catherine shook her head and pointed an accusing finger at me.

  “No, you’re insulting God by giving me the credit for His gift. That article raises me up in the eyes of people, when all I want is to be humble in the face of the Lord. If I have to destroy the results to avoid the praise, then that’s what I’ll do!”

  I looked at her in disbelief, unable to fathom such a sentiment.

  “God forgive me.” Catherine recoiled and covered her mouth with her hand. “I’ve broken my silence with angry words. I’m sorry.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. Then another. She fell to her knees and wept as the fire subsided.

  “You spoke your mind, and I deserved it.” I sat down on the worn plaid couch. “I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through, for making you feel you had to destroy your, I mean, God’s, painting to prove your point.”

  “God didn’t paint that one. I did,” Catherine said, sitting back on her heels.

  I hung my head. Catherine’s fury over my article had inspired her first painting not meant to glorify God. The Jesus and Judas painting wasn’t a prayer, but a protest, and I was at least partially responsible for the shift. It wasn’t a good feeling.

  “Regardless of your motives, it’s a shame to burn it,” I said.

  Catherine shrugged and wiped away a tear. I marveled at my sister, who didn’t mourn the loss of her painting, but instead grieved the loss of her self-control.

  “I’m jealous that you inherited our father’s talent,” I said.

  “Why?” Standing up, Catherine pulled the offending newspaper article out of her pocket and waved it at me. “Looks to me like you inherited our mother’s.”

  “Thanks.” Her compliment disarmed me, partly because I knew she was right. My article was full of confidence and passion. I did have talent—it had just taken meeting my sister for me to recognize it. “Listen, I didn’t mean for this to happen and I’m sorry. I understand why I’d remind you of Judas.”