Behind the Stained-Glass Window

First there was the noise—footsteps. A split second later, we realized they were heading toward us. We searched frantically, silently, for a place to hide. The only possibilities were the refrigerated body-slab drawers next to us, and what we took as a broom closet on the other side of the room next to the only door in or out of the room. The footsteps came to a stop and a key was now jiggling in its lock. Without hesitation, we darted across the spotless black and white tile floor and leapt into the closet just as the door opened.

‘I could have sworn I locked this door,’ a gruff voice said absent-mindedly. It was a nun’s voice.

‘I’m sure you did, sister. Perhaps someone came down here while you were taking lunch. It’s been a trying day for all of us—perhaps they forgot to lock it on their way out,’ a second voice said, unmistakably Sister John Marylin’s.

‘Yes, well... I’m usually so... anyway, are you sure you want to do this, sister?’

‘Yes, I must see her,’ Sister John Marylin replied.

As the two nuns padded across the floor, I looked around the musty closet where Rachel and I were hiding, holding our breath, crossing our fingers and silently reciting a string of Hail Mary’s that would surely be the least of our future punishment. The dark space was cramped but I could make out floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with huge jars filled with murky yellow liquid. In the corner, there was a metal pail on wheels with mop handles sticking out of it. Behind that, there was a stockpile of brooms, mops and assorted cleaning supplies—some of which had never been used and were still in their packaging. In the faint light that seeped in through the cracks in the door, I could make out a price tag on one of the brooms. Rachel had her head flat against the door, listening breathlessly to what was happening on the other side.

Suddenly, there was a loud rumble that shook everything in the closet, including the huge glass jars on the shelf behind us which I was sure were about to crash on top of us and lacerate us beyond recognition. Startled, Rachel fell back, bumping into the pail, causing a mop handle to hit me on the forehead. Rubbing my head and mentally repeating whatever prayer or litany came to mind, I clenched my teeth to scare the pain away, and asked Rachel what happened.

‘They’ve opened one of the drawers,’ she whispered. Even in the almost total darkness, I could see the whites of Rachel’s eyes and knew that she was terrified to the point of being sick. Reaching out until I felt her, I put my arm around her and pulled her next to me. I could feel panic rising in her and knew she was about to cry. I touched my finger to her lips:

‘Shh, let’s see what’s happening now,’ I said, and we leaned against the door and pressed our ears against it. Still hugging Rachel to me, I could feel her breast heaving as she fought to fight off her tears and summon courage.

‘I can’t hear anything, can you?’

‘It sounds like someone is—’

‘Sister, are you okay?’ the gruff-voiced nun asked. ‘Sister?’

‘Hmmm? Oh, yes, sister, I’m fine. It’s just so very difficult—we were quite close, you know. She was so full of energy and life—how could this have happened?’

‘I guess we’ll know that soon enough,’ the other nun said. ‘Of course, it doesn’t take a coroner to see she was burned. I suspect the fumes are what did her in, though, since most of the burns are on her chest and arms. I suspect the good Lord’s hand was at work in keeping the flames off her face. Might even be able to have an open-casket ceremony—if that’s what Mother Superior decides.’

I could hear muffled crying and could feel it spreading to Rachel.

‘I sure wish they’d come get her, though,’ the gruff nun said. ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to get anything done. It’s been a revolving door around here all day.’

There was a short pause and all I could hear were quiet sobs.

Then, the gruff nun cleared her throat. ‘Sister, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get on with my chores. If you would just please lock up when you leave, I’ll leave you here to mourn privately.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Sister John Marylin replied, ‘I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I’ll be sure the door is locked when I leave.’

I could hear the gruff nun’s footsteps coming closer. They stopped just on the other side of the closet inside which Rachel and I were frozen with fear; and, in a horrible epiphanic moment, I knew she was going to open the closet door and we would come tumbling out like the pent-up guilt of the vilest sinner at confession. I had already concocted a feeble confession when I heard the door knob turn. In the next moment, the other door opened, there were footsteps, and then the door closed.

All was silent save the slosh of the yellow liquid in the jars on the shelf behind us and the sounds of Sister John Marylin weeping over the body of Sister Lucious, who was laid out on a cold slab in the basement morgue of St Philomena Academy.