November

Issue 38

         The sound of a car backfiring—or a gunshot—beyond the walls of the convent jolted Sister Rita awake and she murmured an automatic prayer. Too often it was a gunshot; which was a sign of how far the neighborhood had fallen, and of the poverty and sense of hopelessness that engulfed its people.

         Rita gave up on sleep and reached for her rosary beads. The smooth wooden beads slid through her fingers as rhythmically as the murmured words fogged the cold air, while the greater part of Rita's attention focused on asking God, again, to help the neighborhood.

         There was a frost in the morning, though once it melted the day would be warm.

         "My turn at the gate," said Rita. She was dressed for gate duty in jeans and a brown sweater with "Carmelites Forever" across the front.

         "I'll be gardening," said Sister Veronica. Despite creeping arthritis, she refused to give up the satisfaction of plants raised from seed to the glory of flowering. In seventy years of life, Veronica had learned that grace grew in odd corners.

         Rita moderated her pace to match Veronica's deliberate tread and they walked together through the empty corridors of the convent to the southern door and the large enclosed convent garden.

         The nuns had started opening the garden to the neighborhood a year ago. In an area of concrete and violence, the walled garden was a sanctuary of green. Children could play there. Old people sat in the sun and gossiped. There was only one rule: No weapons.

         "Marco, give me the gun," said Rita patiently an hour later.

         The seventeen year old met her gaze with good-humored defiance. "What gun?"

         Two girls, just into their teens, giggled from where they sat watching over their younger brothers and sisters playing.

         Rita sighed. "Marco, you know the rules." She had known his family for years; had shared meals with them at the soup kitchen. Rita held out her hand. "The gun."

         Three young men sauntered forward and sudden tension changed the scene. Marco, who had been reaching into his jacket, stopped.

         Rita's patience snapped. It was an almost audible ping in her ears. "Tell you what, Marco. If I levitate, you give me the gun, deal?"