“Have you told this girl what happened to me?” Mrs. Costello asked.
Sister Lucy was placing a tea towel over the woman’s chest. “What happened to you?” She seemed only vaguely interested.
Mrs. Costello indicated her missing leg with an abrupt, angry gesture. “My foot,” she cried. “My leg.” She looked at Sally. “I was bitten by a mad dog, in a yard. I startled him and he came after me. He might have gone for my throat.”
Sister Lucy was stirring sugar into Mrs. Costello’s tea. “That’s ancient history,” Sister Lucy said placidly.
But Mrs. Costello was now focused on Sally, appealing to her as she spoke. “I grabbed the pole so the devil wouldn’t drag me down. I scraped my cheek.” She touched her face. “They heard me cry out, the other women in the street did. They came running. A big man was with them. He beat the dog away and carried me home.” Mrs. Costello raised her two hands. “Oh, there was terrible blood.”
Sister Lucy said, “Eat your breakfast.” She turned to the hope chest at the foot of the bed, opened it, and took out new bed linen. There was the brief scent of cedar as the lid closed again—a green scent in the close room. She said to Sally, “That chamber pot needs emptying,” and indicated with her chin the wooden commode beside the bed.
But Mrs. Costello took Sally’s wrist to keep her there. “They wrapped the rags too tightly, the women did. Those biddies. My toes turned black. My husband had to carry me to the hospital in the milk cart.”
Infected by the woman’s indignation, Sally asked, glancing at Sister Lucy, who was paying no heed, “Didn’t anyone call the Sisters?”
And Mrs. Costello shook her head. “They did not,” she said.
“Someone should have called the Sisters,” Sally told her.
Sister Lucy spun on them both. “The chamber pot,” she said to Sally. And to Mrs. Costello, “Put your thoughts elsewhere, Mrs. Costello. Eat your breakfast and say your prayers.”
The nun returned to making up the bed, and Sally and Mrs. Costello exchanged a look that briefly allied them against her. Then Mrs. Costello let go of Sally’s wrist and lifted her tea. “This girl should know what happened to me,” she said to Sister Lucy, and blew gently over the cup. “Shame on you, Sister. You should have told her. How that dog came after me in the yard.”
Sister Lucy shook out the fresh sheet, let it billow over the thin mattress.
“And whose yard was it?” she asked. “Was it your own yard?”
Mrs. Costello waved her hand. “I don’t know whose yard it was,” she said.
Sister Lucy was smoothing down the sheet, leaning over the bed and spreading her arms like a swimmer. “Then you should have minded your own business,” she said. And then she said to Sally, “The chamber pot. Emptied and cleaned, if you please.”
Sally held her breath as she lifted the porcelain bowl from the seat. She averted her eyes from the yellow liquid and the strings of clotted blood. She emptied the bowl into the toilet and pulled the chain, then washed the thing out in the bathroom sink, uncertain if she should use the clean towel on the bathroom roll or find something else. She carried the wet bowl into the kitchen, thinking to dry it with the towels Mrs. Costello had used in her bath, but they, as well as the bed sheets and the nightgown, were already bundled neatly into a canvas bag, ready to be carried to the convent laundry. The kitchen restored to order. She waved the bowl in the air and carried it back to the bedroom still wet, hoping Sister Lucy wouldn’t see.
When Mrs. Costello had finished her breakfast, the tray removed, the dishes washed and dried and put away, Sister Lucy sent Sally through the three rooms with a dust mop and a broom, while she once more brought the woman to the commode and changed her cloth. And then placed a glass of milk and a plate of bread with butter and sugar on the tea tray, within the woman’s reach.
From the bare living room, Sally heard Sister Lucy say, “One of the Sisters will be back to give you your lunch today. Mr. Costello has some business in the city. He left a note. He’ll be home by dinnertime.”
There was a silence, and then, slowly, Sally could hear that the woman was crying again. “I’m frightened when he’s gone,” she said, weeping. “I’m afraid when I’m alone.” She cried gently for a while, childish and heartbroken. And then, suddenly, her voice snapped back into peevishness. “Do you hear me, Sister?” she called out. “I said I’m afraid.”
“There’s nothing to fear, Mrs. Costello,” Sister Lucy said coolly. “Say your prayers to pass the time.”
And then there was a thump, as of something dropped or thrown. “I have a pain,” Mrs. Costello cried out. “Do you hear me?”
Sister Lucy’s voice broke like thunder. “Behave yourself, woman,” she said. “We’ll have no more of that.” And then, hissing it: “Say your prayers. Thank God for the life He’s given you. Thank Him for your good husband. You’ll get no other.”
There was a fraught silence. Into it, Sister Lucy muttered, “You might have broken this lamp.”
When Mrs. Costello spoke again, her voice was subdued, conspiratorial. “Look at this bun, Sister,” she said. “It’s a rat’s nest. Take it out, won’t you? Before you go.”
From the living room where she stood, Sally could hear the hairpins going back into the dish.
She walked into the kitchen to put away the dustpan and the broom. Her own eyes were smarting with what she knew were foolish tears.
When she returned to the living room, she could hear Sister Lucy saying, “I would defer to your husband’s good judgment. He’ll be back for dinner, as always.” And then she was walking out of the bedroom, rolling down her sleeves. There was a brush of brown blood on her apron. When she saw Sally, she paused abruptly, as if she’d forgotten her, and then her expression changed again. For a moment she looked at the girl with narrowed eyes, as if she recognized in her a liar or a thief. And then, slowly, a purple hue rose into the nun’s stony face. She ducked her head, slipped off her apron, folded it into her bag, and then reached for her cloak. She told Sally to go fetch the bag of laundry.
As they were about to leave, Mrs. Costello called out again. “I’m afraid,” she said. “Please don’t leave me.”
“Say your prayers,” Sister Lucy called back.
“I’m in pain,” Mrs. Costello said, but with diminished insistence.
“You’re fine,” Sister Lucy said, closing the door, locking it with her key.
“I’m afraid,” Mrs. Costello called again.
Following Sister Lucy down the stairs, Sally asked, “Will she be all right?”
Sister said, without turning, “Of course.”
Faintly, she could hear Mrs. Costello’s voice still complaining. “Is it her leg that’s hurting her? The short one?”
“That’s an imaginary pain,” Sister Lucy said. “It isn’t real.”
Sally said, “But if she feels it.”
Sister Lucy said, “She wants company, is all. She doesn’t like to be alone.”
“Maybe we should stay.”