After a few blocks she comes to a ruined garden. Between crumbling marble statues, a double avenue of old trees stretches before her. As she enters the park, the noise from the street diminishes. She walks down the middle of the avenue, her steps crunching the gravel. There are couples in the garden, lying entwined under the shade of the trees on the edge of a deep woods. She tries to make out the statues, but they have decayed into unrecognizable shapes. Finally, she comes to the end of the walk where a large gate rises up in the gloom. “Convento de los Descalzos,” the sign says. “Diez soles. Cerrado los martes.” She has come to an abandoned monastery, of Franciscans, she guesses, the shoeless ones. She doesn’t have ten soles for the tour, and she starts to laugh. Now she’s locked out of a convent, wanting to get in. The monastery is closed Tuesdays, but what day is this? She can’t remember. She passes her hand over the stone gate and feels its roughness, solid and cold. The single step in front of the gate is worn smooth. The gate is closed to her now, the monastery empty, locked shut.
She turns away, retracing her steps through the park. Dusk is coming on quickly now, and she feels a damp chill rising from the grass. The leaves rustle in the wind, and she thinks she hears footsteps behind her. She walks faster, anxious now, toward light, people.
The blow comes from behind. Stunned, Kate drops to her knees as an arm circles her head and a rough hand clamps her mouth shut. She does not try to scream. Hot anger rises in her, and she scratches and claws at the hand that is gagging her.
“Hija de la gran puta,” a voice, low and musical, his breath hot on her face. Daughter of the great whore.
“No, Mother, Mother,” she cries out. Then she feels a sharp, slicing sting on her arm, and looks down to see fresh blood blooming like so many roses on the white field of her habit. She kneels, motionless, her eyes closed as the man searches her clothes, running his hands over her body. He finds the envelope with the few soles she has left and yanks off a small silver cross she wears under the habit. Her grandmother had given it to her when she made her first communion at St. Roch’s.
Suddenly an image appears of herself on that day, small and blond, brushing back her hair, squinting into the sun. Her mother stands beside her, tall, in a long skirt and a hat. Her grandmother is on the other side. She, too, wears a hat with a veil and her shoes are heavy and black. Kate is surrounded by their love, as warm and real as the spring sun that casts sharp shadows on the grass. Her father must have been taking the picture. She sees it all so clearly.
When she opens her eyes, the man is gone. Her arm stings, the blood seeping through her sleeve. She pulls back the sleeve to see the cut which is wide but not deep, and then looks around for the jacket to wrap it around her arm to stop the bleeding. It’s gone, and for some reason this loss seems unbearable.
Kate staggers to her feet, trying to steady herself. Her knees are trembling. It’s very dark in the garden now, but she can see the street in the distance. She walks stiffly, holding her arm with her hand, pressing down hard on the wound. As she emerges from the avenue of trees into the street, she feels dizzy. A voice, young and familiar, calls to her.
“Madre Catalina, what are you doing here?”
Kate turns to the voice. It is Magdalena, their Peruvian novice who had left the community. It does not seem strange to Kate that she has appeared like some dark-haired guardian angel.
Magdalena’s eyes widen as she stares at Kate’s habit. “What happened? There is blood all over you. Papi, help me. It is one of the nuns from the convent in Juliaca.”
Now Kate sees a man at Magdalena’s side. He is a big man, with a massive head of curly gray hair. She feels him catch her as she starts to fall. His arms are strong as he lifts her up, cradling her. He carries her for a long time when finally Magdalena whispers to her, “Cálmate, Catalina. Ya estamos en mi casa.” They enter a dark building, and Magdalena’s father begins to carry her up the stairs. Kate is embarrassed and protests, but he shushes her and goes on, stopping at each landing to take a breath.
Then a door opens, there is light, and a woman’s voice cries out. Kate hears Magdalena reassure the woman that everything is all right. Despite all the blood, the wound is not deep. The woman bends over her, and Kate sees another Magdalena in the mother, but her hair is graying and the face has the beginnings of delicate lines by the mouth and the dark eyes. The woman passes her hand over Kate’s forehead in a gesture of infinite tenderness. Kate tries not to cry.
Later she is sitting at the kitchen table eating the stew Magdalena’s mother has put before her. It is steaming hot, and the aroma of eggplant and tomato reaches her as she lifts her
