Novella: Sister Aloysius Beauvier’s Mortal Sin, Chapter: 6 Cat, Kitten, Rat
Title: Sister Aloysius Beauvier’s Mortal Sin
Chapter: Six, Cat, Kitten, Rat
Author: halfsquat (aka Half Squire)
Fandom: Doubt
Pairing: Sister Aloysius/ Sister James
Rating: PG 13
Genre: Romance/Drama/Suspense
Spoilers: Doubt
Disclaimer: All characters from Doubt belong to their creators. I claim no ownership and intend no copyright infringement. Everything unrelated to Doubt and all divergence from their script is my doing. Much of the dialogue comes directly from the script.
***
“Sister Aloysius Beauvier’s Mortal Sin”
a fan fiction novella
by Half Squire
inspired by the film Doubt,
and, respectfully, drawn heavily from it
***
Chapters:
I. The Dragon Is Hungry
II. My Concerns Are My Own
III. Candy, By Another Name
IV. Farther From God
V. Doubt Presses Her To The Bed
VI. Cat, Kitten, Rat
VII. The Cat And The Kitten
VIII. A Serpent In The Garden
XI. Caged
X. Questions Of Taxonomy
XI. Madonnas
***
VI. Cat, Kitten, Rat
***
Conroy, the boy, who had been listening to a transistor radio during class, sits on the bench outside the principal’s office. Sister Aloysius’s office. Now, he is in trouble for talking in class. This week is not his week. He twiddles his thumbs and sighs. Father Flynn turns the bend, then sits and joins him.
“What are you doing out here, Conroy?” he asks gently.
“I talked in class, Father.”
“Waiting for Sister Aloysius? She know you’re here?”
“She knows.” He sighs. Suddenly, the door swings open. Sister Aloysius imperceivably jumps at seeing Flynn.
“Good morning, Father Flynn. Good of you to come by.”
“Good morning, Sister Aloysius. How are you today?”
“I’m very well, thank you.” She nods, then shifts her attention to Conroy. “Mr. Conroy?” she questions, with an eyebrow arched.
“Yes, Sister?”
“Mister Transistor Radio.” A smug pause. “Multiplication table ten times, in its totality, delivered to me tomorrow morning.” She doesn’t even ask his infringement. “Legible, Boy! Return to class. Go. Go, go.” She barks, as she shoos him with her hand. Miserable, Conroy drags his feet back to class. The nun turns to Flynn.
“I’d invite you in, but we’re just short Sister James.” She pauses and looks around for Sister James. “Hear that wind last night?”
“I certainly did!” he exclaims, but their conversation quickly pitters out. “Did I hear Sister Veronica had an accident?”
“Yes, Sister Veronica fell and practically killed herself,” she huffs, eying him apprehensively.
“Is she alright?” His tone lacks concern.
“Oh, she’s fine.”
“Her sight isn’t good, is it?” Flynn questions. Sister Aloysius stiffens like a fresh corpse.
“Her sight is fine. Nuns fall, you know.”
“Nah, I didn’t know that.”
“It’s the habit. It catches us up more often than not.” She motions with her hands. “We go down like dominoes.” And, smiles at the imagery. With her habit pulled an inch off the ground with her hands, Sister James comes running down the hall.
“Am I past the time?” She’s nearly out of breath, but composed.
“Not at all,” Flynn says with a smile.
“Good morning, Father. Good morning, Sister. I’m sorry I was delayed. I ran into Sister Veronica.” Searching, the young nun’s eyes don’t even connect with Flynn. She stares directly at Sister Aloysius.
“How is she?” Flynn glances between the two nuns, as he speaks.
“I’m afraid she has a bit of a bloody nose,” the young nun says, but her eyes don’t waver. The older nun grows uneasy at the attention. She shifts from foot-to-foot and pulls at a hem of her habit.
“I’m beginning to think you’re punching people,” Aloysius attempts as a joke, but her tone is nervous, which is not lost on either Flynn or James.
“Sister?” Sister James’s confusion mars her face, and her countenance drops.
“First William London and now...” she attempts, in explanation. “Never mind. Well, come in, please.”
***
Flynn and James stand in the center of the principal’s office. Various desks and bookshelves pattern the green room. Bright sun strongly shoulders through the partly closed blinds. On the desks, some books stand at attention, some at ease. There is a main desk. Sister Aloysius’s. Among papers, a pot of tea rests on it. Two chairs sit opposite Aloysis’s own chair. Sister Aloysius stands at the door.
“Please. Sit. Have a seat. I actually have a hot pot of tea.” The others move to take their spots. Sister Aloysius almost closes the door, but leaves it open a thumb’s width. “And,” she mutters to herself, “close this, but not quite, for form’s sake.” She pats the air near the door, as if to emphasize her point. She moves to her desk. Her voice rises to address Flynn. “Father, would you care for a...” She offers him a seat on the opposite side on the desk, as she speaks, but he doesn’t notice. Instead of taking the offered seat, he sits in Aloysius’s chair. She falters, but recovers. “Would you have a cup of tea, Father?” she continues.
“I would love a cup of tea.” He says, while he adjusts himself in the older nun’s chair.
"Sister, perhaps you could serve him?” she says, nervously glancing at the young nun.
“I’d be glad.”
”And yourself, of course.”
“Would you like a cup of tea, Sister Aloysius?” James asks and rests her hand on the woman’s. Unexpectedly, she glowers.
“No, I’ve already had my cup.” James sinks sadly into her seat, like a kicked dog.
“Is there sugar?” Flynn asks, his chubby cheeks turning apple-like.
“Sugar? Yes!” Sister Aloysius rushes to her desk, and rummages through it, which becomes awkward because Flynn is sitting in her chair. He turns his head. “Yes. It’s somewhere here. I put it in the drawer for Lent last year and never remembered to take it out.”
“Ah, it mustn’t have been much to give up then,” Flynn jokes and winks at James, but, blank-faced, she stares at him.
“I’m sure you’re right. Here it is. I’ll serve you, though for want of practice, I’m, I’m a little clumsy.” Her hands contort awkwardly, as she uses tongs to hover a sugar cube over his cup. Her eyes narrow. “I see your fingernails,” she observes quietly. The nails are unusually long and well kept for a priest, or for a man.
“I wear them a little long. The sugar?
“Yes. One?”
“Three.”
“Three?” Appalled, she starts, but tries to hide it. Sister James’s eyebrows rise.
“Sweet tooth,” he says in James’s direction. He tosses her a smile. With tongs, Sister Aloysius digs at the sugar cubes. The cubes have melded together from disuse.
“One. Two. Three.” She states as she drops the lumps in. “Sister, you care for sugar?”
“Never!” she exclaims, but then calms. “Not that there’s anything wrong with sugar,” she aims at Flynn. Smiling at James, Sister Aloysius puts the sugar back in her desk.
“Well, thank you, Father, for making time for us. We are at our wit’s end,” the older nun says with constructed exasperation.
“Well, I think it’s an excellent idea to rethink the Christmas pageant. ‘Cause last year’s effort was a little woebegone.” Sipping his sugary tea, he chuckles.
“Oh, I loved it!” Sister James exclaims. “But I love all pageants.” She looks affectionately at Aloysius, who is seated next to her. The taller nun stares at Flynn. “The hymns! O Little Town of Bethlehem, O Come O Come Emmanuel, O Come All Ye Faithful-“
“- all right. Thank you, Sister James!” Aloysius rudely interjects, while she fidgets under the now waning affectionate gaze. “So what do you think, Father? Is there something new we could do?”
“Well, we all love the Christmas hymns, but it might be jolly to include a secular song.” Aloysius is taken aback.
“Secular?”
“Yes. ‘It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas’- something like that.” He smiles and sips lightly at his tea. Undissolved sugar lumps float idly in it. On his tongue, he pulls one into his mouth, and smiles at the sweetness. The older nun rises.
“What would be the point of a secular song?” Testily, she starts to pace.
“Just fun.” He shrugs. With concern, Sister James eyes Aloysius.
“Or Frosty the Snowman,” the young nun tries, hoping to diffuse the other’s bad mood.
“That’s a good one,” Flynn says with a chubby smile. “We could have one of the boys dress as a snowman and dance around.” Sister Aloysius walks to the window and further opens the blinds. Sunlight bleaches the priest’s face and causes him to squint. The daystar glares at him
“Which boy?” Aloysius says, with edge.
“We’d do tryouts.” Aloysius nearly sneers at him. She paces again.
“Frosty the Snowman’ espouses a pagan belief in magic. The snowman comes to life, when an enchanted hat is put on his head. If the music were more somber, people would realize the images are disturbing and the song heretical.” At the end of Sister Aloysis’s tirade, James and Flynn exchange a glance. James squirms in her seat, and stares into her unsweetened tea.
“I’ve never thought about ‘Frosty the Snowman’ like that.” Childlike guilt spreads it handprints over her face.
“Well, it should be banned from the airwaves.” The older nun says haughtily.
“So. Not ‘Frosty the Snowman’,” he says with a thick eyebrow raised. Looking down, he writes in a small notebook. Aloysius eyes him warily.
“Oh, ‘It’s Beginning to Look A Lot like Christmas’ would be fine, I suppose. Parents would like it. May I ask what you’re writing down?” she asks. “With that ballpoint pen?” she adds testily.
“Oh. Nothing. It’s an idea for a sermon.”
“You had one right now?”
“I get them all the time.”
“How fortunate.”
“I forget them. So, I have to write them down,” he explains.
“Oh. What is the idea?”
“Intolerance.” Aloysius doesn’t flinch at the jab, but Sister James does.
“Would you like a little more tea, Father?” James asks, hoping to defuse the situation.
“Not yet,” he says to James, then turns to the other. “It’s a new time, Sister.”
“What’s new about it?” she gaffs.
“Something inside of people is new,” he suggests.
“There is nothing new under the sun.” As she says this, Father Flynn squints against the sun blazing onto his face.
“The Church needs to change. We should sing a song from the radio now and then. Take the kids out for ice cream.”
“Sweet tooth,” Aloysius says, unable to hide her distaste.
“Maybe,” Ignoring her comment, Flynn continues. “take the boys on a camping trip.”
“The point being?”
“We should be friendlier. You know, the children and the parents should see us as members of their family.”
“But we are not members of their family. We’re different.”
“Why? Because of our vows?”
“Precisely.”
“I don’t think we’re so different.” He looks to James. “You know, Sister, I would take some more tea.” Flynn gets up. Sister James rises to pour him more.
“And they think we’re different, yeah? The working class people of this parish trust us to be different.” Aloysius says. Her nerves tie themselves into sailor’s knots, while Flynn and James walk about. James purposefully brushes into the older nun when she walks by. Flynn flips the blinds closed. His eyes finally unsquint.
“I think we’re getting off the subject,” he says, now more at ease.
“Yes, you’re right. You’re right. Back to it,” the tall nun admits. The wall intercom rings; she answers it. “Yes, Sister Raymond? Well you tell her to wash her face and her neck and report to me at three.” Aloysius hangs up and returns to her seat.
“Excuse me.” A pause. “The Christmas pageant. We must be careful how Donald Miller is used in the pageant.” Spilling some, sister James shakes as she pours the tea for Flynn.
“Easy there, Sister,” he says to James.
“Oh, uh, yes, Father,” murmurs James. She grabs a napkin and tries to sop up the spill. The cup and sauce jingle together. James grows more nervous.
“All right, what about Donald Miller?” Flynn finally asks.
“We must be careful, in the pageant, that we neither hide Donald Miller nor put him forward.”
“Because of the color of his skin?”
“That’s right, yeah.”
“Why?”
“Oh come, Father.” Brows knitted, Aloysius scoffs.
“I think he should be treated like every other boy.”
“Well, you yourself singled the boy out for special attention. You held a private meeting with him at the Rectory.” Her voice is calculated. She turns to James for support. “A week ago?”
“Yes.” Sister James nods. Father Flynn freezes and seems to drift off.
“What are we talking about?” he returns.
“Donald Miller,” the tall nun’s voice is cross. “The boy acted strangely when he returned to class.”
“He did?” Flynn frowns, and sips from his new cup of tea. He has not yet put sugar in it. His lips pucker.
“When he returned from the Rectory. A little odd, yes.” Sister James’s words halt on and off, as she adds her input.
“Can you tell us why?” Sister Aloysius asks slyly.
“How did he act strangely?”
“He...” Sister James is visibly unsettled. “I’m not sure how to explain it. He...he laid his head on the desk, and he...some...”
“Do you mean you had some impression?”
“Yes,” James affirms.
“And, he’d come from the Rectory. So, you’re asking me?”
“Hmhm,” Aloysius rests her chin on laced hands.
“That’s it,” says James, sitting a little straighter now.
“Mmhmm.” Flynn says. He reaches for the sugar and dumps a hefty portion in his tea. He takes a sip. Granules of sugar litter his lower lip, when the teacup pulls away.
“Hmm.” Aloysius remains mostly silent, waiting for him to explain.
“Mm-hmm. Hmm.” His expression grows angry, though he tries to hide it. “Did you want to discuss the pageant, is that why I’m here, or is this what you wanted to discuss?”
“This,” the older nun says sharply, as she points to her desk.
“Well. I’m a little uncomfortable.” It shows.
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“The boy’s well-being is my responsibility.” Aloysius says; a protective slant enters her tone. The phone rings.
“His well-being is not at issue.” Ring. No one answers.
“I’m not satisfied that that is true. He was upset, when he returned to class.”
“Did he say something?” Ring.
“No,” says James, pulling herself from her silence.
“What happened in the Rectory?” the older nun says, pointedly. Ring.
“Happened?”
“Mmhmm.” She peers at him from narrowed eyes. Ring.
“Nothing happened. I had a talk with the boy.”
“What" Ring. "About?”
“Private matter.”
“He’s twelve years old,” Aloysius nearly yells. Ring. “What could be private!” The phone anxiously chimes for someone to answer it.
“Should I get the phone-?” Sister James nervously interjects.
“No.” the taller nun says bitingly.
“I object to your tone.” Flynn says, with a sneer.
“This is not about my tone... or your tone, Father Flynn. It’s about arriving at the truth.” The phone finally stops ringing.
“Of what?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t you? You’re controlling the expression on your face right now. Aren’t you?” The expression on his face remains intact. One thick eyebrow is raised. One stays complacent.
“My face? What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“I am not accusing you of anything, Father Flynn. I am asking you to tell me what happened in the Rectory.”
“I don’t wish to continue this. And if you’re dissatisfied with that, I suggest you speak to Monsignor Benedict. I can only imagine this unfortunate behavior is the result of overwork. Have a good morning. Sister.” He turns to James and nods at her. “Sister.” Flynn heads for the door; sister Aloysius follows him. He pulls the door open farther, to exit.
“There was alcohol on his breath,” she hisses. Flynn turns. “When he returned from his meeting with you.”
“Alcohol?”
“I did smell it on his breath,” James ventures from her seat.
“Well?” Aloysius sounds smug.
“Let this alone.”
“No.” A school bell rings. Quickly, students come down the stairs. They can be seen through the ajar door. He is pensive, troubled. Slowly, he closes the door.
“Take your time, Father. Would you like some more tea?” James asks sweetly.
“You should’ve let it alone.”
“Not possible.” Sister Aloysius backs away from him. With a sigh, Flynn looks down, then up.
“Mr. McGuinn caught Donald drinking altar wine. When I found out, I sent for him. There were tears. And he begged not to be removed from the altar boys. I took pity on him. I told him if no one else found out, I would let him stay on.” Overjoyed, Sister James leaps up. A smile stretches from one ear to the other.
“Oh, what a relief! That explains everything! Thanks be to God! Look, Sister, it was all a mistake!” Hoping to see her relief mirrored in her partner, she looks to Aloysius. The taller nun looks more severe and displeased than usual.
“And if I talk to Mr. McGuinn?” she asks. Her hands firmly lace, and her head tilts in challenge.
“Oh, talk to him by all means. But, now that the boy’s secret’s out, I’m going to have to remove him from the altar boys. That’s what I was trying to avoid.”
“You were trying to protect the boy!” Sister James says eagerly. She looks to her fellow nun. Thinking this new piece of information with placate the woman, she smiles, but it vanishes as she notes the woman’s expression.
“That’s right,” says Flynn; he looks pleased, now that Sister James appears to be siding with him.
“I might have done the same thing,” Sister James tries. Quickly, she is feeling smaller and smaller and more vulnerable. Sister Aloysius looks harshly at her. “Is there a way Donald could stay on the altar boys?” she asks the taller nun. With frustrated tears, her young eyes are nearly glittering.
“If the boy drank altar wine, he can’t continue as an altar boy,” she replies solemnly.
“Of course. Are you satisfied?” Flynn spits.
“Yes.”
“Hmmm. Well, I’ll be going. I have some writing to do.” He glares at the taller nun.
“Intolerance,” she states; her lip pulls over her teeth, like an angry animal’s.
“That’s right.” He says. His teeth unsheathe. “I’m not pleased with how you handled this, Sister.” He turns toward James and nods, as per way of goodbye. “Sister.” Closing the door, he leaves.
***
Chapter: Six, Cat, Kitten, Rat
Author: halfsquat (aka Half Squire)
Fandom: Doubt
Pairing: Sister Aloysius/ Sister James
Rating: PG 13
Genre: Romance/Drama/Suspense
Spoilers: Doubt
Disclaimer: All characters from Doubt belong to their creators. I claim no ownership and intend no copyright infringement. Everything unrelated to Doubt and all divergence from their script is my doing. Much of the dialogue comes directly from the script.
***
“Sister Aloysius Beauvier’s Mortal Sin”
a fan fiction novella
by Half Squire
inspired by the film Doubt,
and, respectfully, drawn heavily from it
***
Chapters:
I. The Dragon Is Hungry
II. My Concerns Are My Own
III. Candy, By Another Name
IV. Farther From God
V. Doubt Presses Her To The Bed
VI. Cat, Kitten, Rat
VII. The Cat And The Kitten
VIII. A Serpent In The Garden
XI. Caged
X. Questions Of Taxonomy
XI. Madonnas
***
VI. Cat, Kitten, Rat
***
Conroy, the boy, who had been listening to a transistor radio during class, sits on the bench outside the principal’s office. Sister Aloysius’s office. Now, he is in trouble for talking in class. This week is not his week. He twiddles his thumbs and sighs. Father Flynn turns the bend, then sits and joins him.
“What are you doing out here, Conroy?” he asks gently.
“I talked in class, Father.”
“Waiting for Sister Aloysius? She know you’re here?”
“She knows.” He sighs. Suddenly, the door swings open. Sister Aloysius imperceivably jumps at seeing Flynn.
“Good morning, Father Flynn. Good of you to come by.”
“Good morning, Sister Aloysius. How are you today?”
“I’m very well, thank you.” She nods, then shifts her attention to Conroy. “Mr. Conroy?” she questions, with an eyebrow arched.
“Yes, Sister?”
“Mister Transistor Radio.” A smug pause. “Multiplication table ten times, in its totality, delivered to me tomorrow morning.” She doesn’t even ask his infringement. “Legible, Boy! Return to class. Go. Go, go.” She barks, as she shoos him with her hand. Miserable, Conroy drags his feet back to class. The nun turns to Flynn.
“I’d invite you in, but we’re just short Sister James.” She pauses and looks around for Sister James. “Hear that wind last night?”
“I certainly did!” he exclaims, but their conversation quickly pitters out. “Did I hear Sister Veronica had an accident?”
“Yes, Sister Veronica fell and practically killed herself,” she huffs, eying him apprehensively.
“Is she alright?” His tone lacks concern.
“Oh, she’s fine.”
“Her sight isn’t good, is it?” Flynn questions. Sister Aloysius stiffens like a fresh corpse.
“Her sight is fine. Nuns fall, you know.”
“Nah, I didn’t know that.”
“It’s the habit. It catches us up more often than not.” She motions with her hands. “We go down like dominoes.” And, smiles at the imagery. With her habit pulled an inch off the ground with her hands, Sister James comes running down the hall.
“Am I past the time?” She’s nearly out of breath, but composed.
“Not at all,” Flynn says with a smile.
“Good morning, Father. Good morning, Sister. I’m sorry I was delayed. I ran into Sister Veronica.” Searching, the young nun’s eyes don’t even connect with Flynn. She stares directly at Sister Aloysius.
“How is she?” Flynn glances between the two nuns, as he speaks.
“I’m afraid she has a bit of a bloody nose,” the young nun says, but her eyes don’t waver. The older nun grows uneasy at the attention. She shifts from foot-to-foot and pulls at a hem of her habit.
“I’m beginning to think you’re punching people,” Aloysius attempts as a joke, but her tone is nervous, which is not lost on either Flynn or James.
“Sister?” Sister James’s confusion mars her face, and her countenance drops.
“First William London and now...” she attempts, in explanation. “Never mind. Well, come in, please.”
***
Flynn and James stand in the center of the principal’s office. Various desks and bookshelves pattern the green room. Bright sun strongly shoulders through the partly closed blinds. On the desks, some books stand at attention, some at ease. There is a main desk. Sister Aloysius’s. Among papers, a pot of tea rests on it. Two chairs sit opposite Aloysis’s own chair. Sister Aloysius stands at the door.
“Please. Sit. Have a seat. I actually have a hot pot of tea.” The others move to take their spots. Sister Aloysius almost closes the door, but leaves it open a thumb’s width. “And,” she mutters to herself, “close this, but not quite, for form’s sake.” She pats the air near the door, as if to emphasize her point. She moves to her desk. Her voice rises to address Flynn. “Father, would you care for a...” She offers him a seat on the opposite side on the desk, as she speaks, but he doesn’t notice. Instead of taking the offered seat, he sits in Aloysius’s chair. She falters, but recovers. “Would you have a cup of tea, Father?” she continues.
“I would love a cup of tea.” He says, while he adjusts himself in the older nun’s chair.
"Sister, perhaps you could serve him?” she says, nervously glancing at the young nun.
“I’d be glad.”
”And yourself, of course.”
“Would you like a cup of tea, Sister Aloysius?” James asks and rests her hand on the woman’s. Unexpectedly, she glowers.
“No, I’ve already had my cup.” James sinks sadly into her seat, like a kicked dog.
“Is there sugar?” Flynn asks, his chubby cheeks turning apple-like.
“Sugar? Yes!” Sister Aloysius rushes to her desk, and rummages through it, which becomes awkward because Flynn is sitting in her chair. He turns his head. “Yes. It’s somewhere here. I put it in the drawer for Lent last year and never remembered to take it out.”
“Ah, it mustn’t have been much to give up then,” Flynn jokes and winks at James, but, blank-faced, she stares at him.
“I’m sure you’re right. Here it is. I’ll serve you, though for want of practice, I’m, I’m a little clumsy.” Her hands contort awkwardly, as she uses tongs to hover a sugar cube over his cup. Her eyes narrow. “I see your fingernails,” she observes quietly. The nails are unusually long and well kept for a priest, or for a man.
“I wear them a little long. The sugar?
“Yes. One?”
“Three.”
“Three?” Appalled, she starts, but tries to hide it. Sister James’s eyebrows rise.
“Sweet tooth,” he says in James’s direction. He tosses her a smile. With tongs, Sister Aloysius digs at the sugar cubes. The cubes have melded together from disuse.
“One. Two. Three.” She states as she drops the lumps in. “Sister, you care for sugar?”
“Never!” she exclaims, but then calms. “Not that there’s anything wrong with sugar,” she aims at Flynn. Smiling at James, Sister Aloysius puts the sugar back in her desk.
“Well, thank you, Father, for making time for us. We are at our wit’s end,” the older nun says with constructed exasperation.
“Well, I think it’s an excellent idea to rethink the Christmas pageant. ‘Cause last year’s effort was a little woebegone.” Sipping his sugary tea, he chuckles.
“Oh, I loved it!” Sister James exclaims. “But I love all pageants.” She looks affectionately at Aloysius, who is seated next to her. The taller nun stares at Flynn. “The hymns! O Little Town of Bethlehem, O Come O Come Emmanuel, O Come All Ye Faithful-“
“- all right. Thank you, Sister James!” Aloysius rudely interjects, while she fidgets under the now waning affectionate gaze. “So what do you think, Father? Is there something new we could do?”
“Well, we all love the Christmas hymns, but it might be jolly to include a secular song.” Aloysius is taken aback.
“Secular?”
“Yes. ‘It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas’- something like that.” He smiles and sips lightly at his tea. Undissolved sugar lumps float idly in it. On his tongue, he pulls one into his mouth, and smiles at the sweetness. The older nun rises.
“What would be the point of a secular song?” Testily, she starts to pace.
“Just fun.” He shrugs. With concern, Sister James eyes Aloysius.
“Or Frosty the Snowman,” the young nun tries, hoping to diffuse the other’s bad mood.
“That’s a good one,” Flynn says with a chubby smile. “We could have one of the boys dress as a snowman and dance around.” Sister Aloysius walks to the window and further opens the blinds. Sunlight bleaches the priest’s face and causes him to squint. The daystar glares at him
“Which boy?” Aloysius says, with edge.
“We’d do tryouts.” Aloysius nearly sneers at him. She paces again.
“Frosty the Snowman’ espouses a pagan belief in magic. The snowman comes to life, when an enchanted hat is put on his head. If the music were more somber, people would realize the images are disturbing and the song heretical.” At the end of Sister Aloysis’s tirade, James and Flynn exchange a glance. James squirms in her seat, and stares into her unsweetened tea.
“I’ve never thought about ‘Frosty the Snowman’ like that.” Childlike guilt spreads it handprints over her face.
“Well, it should be banned from the airwaves.” The older nun says haughtily.
“So. Not ‘Frosty the Snowman’,” he says with a thick eyebrow raised. Looking down, he writes in a small notebook. Aloysius eyes him warily.
“Oh, ‘It’s Beginning to Look A Lot like Christmas’ would be fine, I suppose. Parents would like it. May I ask what you’re writing down?” she asks. “With that ballpoint pen?” she adds testily.
“Oh. Nothing. It’s an idea for a sermon.”
“You had one right now?”
“I get them all the time.”
“How fortunate.”
“I forget them. So, I have to write them down,” he explains.
“Oh. What is the idea?”
“Intolerance.” Aloysius doesn’t flinch at the jab, but Sister James does.
“Would you like a little more tea, Father?” James asks, hoping to defuse the situation.
“Not yet,” he says to James, then turns to the other. “It’s a new time, Sister.”
“What’s new about it?” she gaffs.
“Something inside of people is new,” he suggests.
“There is nothing new under the sun.” As she says this, Father Flynn squints against the sun blazing onto his face.
“The Church needs to change. We should sing a song from the radio now and then. Take the kids out for ice cream.”
“Sweet tooth,” Aloysius says, unable to hide her distaste.
“Maybe,” Ignoring her comment, Flynn continues. “take the boys on a camping trip.”
“The point being?”
“We should be friendlier. You know, the children and the parents should see us as members of their family.”
“But we are not members of their family. We’re different.”
“Why? Because of our vows?”
“Precisely.”
“I don’t think we’re so different.” He looks to James. “You know, Sister, I would take some more tea.” Flynn gets up. Sister James rises to pour him more.
“And they think we’re different, yeah? The working class people of this parish trust us to be different.” Aloysius says. Her nerves tie themselves into sailor’s knots, while Flynn and James walk about. James purposefully brushes into the older nun when she walks by. Flynn flips the blinds closed. His eyes finally unsquint.
“I think we’re getting off the subject,” he says, now more at ease.
“Yes, you’re right. You’re right. Back to it,” the tall nun admits. The wall intercom rings; she answers it. “Yes, Sister Raymond? Well you tell her to wash her face and her neck and report to me at three.” Aloysius hangs up and returns to her seat.
“Excuse me.” A pause. “The Christmas pageant. We must be careful how Donald Miller is used in the pageant.” Spilling some, sister James shakes as she pours the tea for Flynn.
“Easy there, Sister,” he says to James.
“Oh, uh, yes, Father,” murmurs James. She grabs a napkin and tries to sop up the spill. The cup and sauce jingle together. James grows more nervous.
“All right, what about Donald Miller?” Flynn finally asks.
“We must be careful, in the pageant, that we neither hide Donald Miller nor put him forward.”
“Because of the color of his skin?”
“That’s right, yeah.”
“Why?”
“Oh come, Father.” Brows knitted, Aloysius scoffs.
“I think he should be treated like every other boy.”
“Well, you yourself singled the boy out for special attention. You held a private meeting with him at the Rectory.” Her voice is calculated. She turns to James for support. “A week ago?”
“Yes.” Sister James nods. Father Flynn freezes and seems to drift off.
“What are we talking about?” he returns.
“Donald Miller,” the tall nun’s voice is cross. “The boy acted strangely when he returned to class.”
“He did?” Flynn frowns, and sips from his new cup of tea. He has not yet put sugar in it. His lips pucker.
“When he returned from the Rectory. A little odd, yes.” Sister James’s words halt on and off, as she adds her input.
“Can you tell us why?” Sister Aloysius asks slyly.
“How did he act strangely?”
“He...” Sister James is visibly unsettled. “I’m not sure how to explain it. He...he laid his head on the desk, and he...some...”
“Do you mean you had some impression?”
“Yes,” James affirms.
“And, he’d come from the Rectory. So, you’re asking me?”
“Hmhm,” Aloysius rests her chin on laced hands.
“That’s it,” says James, sitting a little straighter now.
“Mmhmm.” Flynn says. He reaches for the sugar and dumps a hefty portion in his tea. He takes a sip. Granules of sugar litter his lower lip, when the teacup pulls away.
“Hmm.” Aloysius remains mostly silent, waiting for him to explain.
“Mm-hmm. Hmm.” His expression grows angry, though he tries to hide it. “Did you want to discuss the pageant, is that why I’m here, or is this what you wanted to discuss?”
“This,” the older nun says sharply, as she points to her desk.
“Well. I’m a little uncomfortable.” It shows.
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“The boy’s well-being is my responsibility.” Aloysius says; a protective slant enters her tone. The phone rings.
“His well-being is not at issue.” Ring. No one answers.
“I’m not satisfied that that is true. He was upset, when he returned to class.”
“Did he say something?” Ring.
“No,” says James, pulling herself from her silence.
“What happened in the Rectory?” the older nun says, pointedly. Ring.
“Happened?”
“Mmhmm.” She peers at him from narrowed eyes. Ring.
“Nothing happened. I had a talk with the boy.”
“What" Ring. "About?”
“Private matter.”
“He’s twelve years old,” Aloysius nearly yells. Ring. “What could be private!” The phone anxiously chimes for someone to answer it.
“Should I get the phone-?” Sister James nervously interjects.
“No.” the taller nun says bitingly.
“I object to your tone.” Flynn says, with a sneer.
“This is not about my tone... or your tone, Father Flynn. It’s about arriving at the truth.” The phone finally stops ringing.
“Of what?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Don’t you? You’re controlling the expression on your face right now. Aren’t you?” The expression on his face remains intact. One thick eyebrow is raised. One stays complacent.
“My face? What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“I am not accusing you of anything, Father Flynn. I am asking you to tell me what happened in the Rectory.”
“I don’t wish to continue this. And if you’re dissatisfied with that, I suggest you speak to Monsignor Benedict. I can only imagine this unfortunate behavior is the result of overwork. Have a good morning. Sister.” He turns to James and nods at her. “Sister.” Flynn heads for the door; sister Aloysius follows him. He pulls the door open farther, to exit.
“There was alcohol on his breath,” she hisses. Flynn turns. “When he returned from his meeting with you.”
“Alcohol?”
“I did smell it on his breath,” James ventures from her seat.
“Well?” Aloysius sounds smug.
“Let this alone.”
“No.” A school bell rings. Quickly, students come down the stairs. They can be seen through the ajar door. He is pensive, troubled. Slowly, he closes the door.
“Take your time, Father. Would you like some more tea?” James asks sweetly.
“You should’ve let it alone.”
“Not possible.” Sister Aloysius backs away from him. With a sigh, Flynn looks down, then up.
“Mr. McGuinn caught Donald drinking altar wine. When I found out, I sent for him. There were tears. And he begged not to be removed from the altar boys. I took pity on him. I told him if no one else found out, I would let him stay on.” Overjoyed, Sister James leaps up. A smile stretches from one ear to the other.
“Oh, what a relief! That explains everything! Thanks be to God! Look, Sister, it was all a mistake!” Hoping to see her relief mirrored in her partner, she looks to Aloysius. The taller nun looks more severe and displeased than usual.
“And if I talk to Mr. McGuinn?” she asks. Her hands firmly lace, and her head tilts in challenge.
“Oh, talk to him by all means. But, now that the boy’s secret’s out, I’m going to have to remove him from the altar boys. That’s what I was trying to avoid.”
“You were trying to protect the boy!” Sister James says eagerly. She looks to her fellow nun. Thinking this new piece of information with placate the woman, she smiles, but it vanishes as she notes the woman’s expression.
“That’s right,” says Flynn; he looks pleased, now that Sister James appears to be siding with him.
“I might have done the same thing,” Sister James tries. Quickly, she is feeling smaller and smaller and more vulnerable. Sister Aloysius looks harshly at her. “Is there a way Donald could stay on the altar boys?” she asks the taller nun. With frustrated tears, her young eyes are nearly glittering.
“If the boy drank altar wine, he can’t continue as an altar boy,” she replies solemnly.
“Of course. Are you satisfied?” Flynn spits.
“Yes.”
“Hmmm. Well, I’ll be going. I have some writing to do.” He glares at the taller nun.
“Intolerance,” she states; her lip pulls over her teeth, like an angry animal’s.
“That’s right.” He says. His teeth unsheathe. “I’m not pleased with how you handled this, Sister.” He turns toward James and nods, as per way of goodbye. “Sister.” Closing the door, he leaves.
***