Before the final bell rang for the day, Sister Agnes enlisted a couple of the older children to carry more than a decades worth of yearbooks from the school library over to the parish house. With the local news providing ambient noise, she studied each 3rd grade class looking for the face from the previous night. The news anchor reported a story of drug trafficking, an all too common occurrence in an area once gutted by homemade methamphetamine, now in the thrall of its crystalline cousin from Mexico. A former therapist at a drug treatment facility had posted a large, cash bond after being arrested for possession of methamphetamine, cocaine, and fentanyl after two former patients alleged that he was in fact, their drug dealer. Sister Agnes took a break from the yearbooks to whisper a prayer for the victims and the perpetrator, as she always did, ever believing that God did not distinguish between the two.
The rain ceased to a drizzle before dinner, then the skies opened into a deluge that continued into the night. Sister Agnes drifted in and out of sleep, brought on by her comfortable chair and a “cozy mystery” she picked up from a display at the local library. In the fog of dreams, she watched herself from above as the book in her lap thudded to the ground, startling her awake. She looked down to find the book still in her lap with her thumb marking the page. The downpour outside sought to lull her back to sleep until another knock rattled her door.
Sister Agnes dropped the book to the floor as she stood upright, her pulse quickening as though she had woke from a nightmare. She repeated last night’s hesitations before opening the door to the same stranger who had occupied her thoughts the entirety of the day. They stood there staring at one another until she broke the silence.
“Need the phone again?”
The stranger smiled.
“Not tonight. Just shelter from the storm.”
Sister Agnes stepped aside, allowing the stranger to enter. He hung his coat on the rack near the door and walked ahead to the living room. He looked down at the novel and the stack of yearbooks.
“I thought nuns just read the Bible,” the stranger said as he sat down on the couch.
Sister Agnes bristled at the word or the tone in which it was said.
“Sisters of St. Benedict are people too, Caleb.”
He smiled.
Acknowledging his name restored lost confidence, that which she carried into the classroom back then. He was no longer an unpredictable stranger, but a child she educated in morality and math.
“Sorry. It’s strange learning that teachers are real people.”
“Why would we not be “real” people?”
“Don’t know. Something about seeing a teacher at the front of the classroom, then at Walmart wearing Crocs and a MAGA hat. Never could reconcile that.”
She let the false equivalency linger.
“Why did you not introduce yourself last night?”
“It’s not something I’m in the habit of doing.”
“It was rude and I taught you better.”
Caleb looked down at the hundred-dollar bill, refusing to betray any guilt from her comment.
Sister Agnes worried the newfound confidence had given way to pride.
“May I sit?” Caleb asked, gesturing toward the donated couch.
She nodded.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“A beer please.”
Sister Agnes narrowed her eyes, then smiled.
“I worry if I brought you a beer, it would prompt an existential crisis.”
She walked to the kitchen and returned with her preferred, evening drink. Hot, black tea mixed with honey. On the saucers sat two shortbread cookies. The teacups rattled from the unsteadiness of time, not fear as they would have the previous evening. Sister Agnes sat in the recliner while her former student placed the tea cup and saucer on an aged coffee table.
“Things aren’t the same.” Caleb said, gesturing in the direction of the church and school.
The masonry on the sixty year old school building and hundred year old church showed their age. Discolored and cracked. “Lifers” like Sister Agnes felt the same and prayed the phrase “good bones” applied to those who inhabited the buildings as much as the buildings themselves.
“They never are,” she said.
Caleb sipped his tea and bit into a cookie.
“Town doesn’t need God or a good education anymore?”
Sister Agnes’ expression sent a reminder of the manners she instilled in her students. Caleb covered his mouth as he chewed. She disregarded the first half of his question.
“The population has been declining for years. The factories have shut their doors and public school is still free.”
“Supply and demand.” He said, clicking his tongue against his teeth and shaking his head. She quietly acknowledged the assessment.
“Where’s everyone else?” He encompassed the upstairs with a wave of his hand.
She thought of those who taught when Caleb attended.
“Sister Mary transferred to a church in the city before retiring to our home Monastery. Sister Alice passed and so did Sister Katherine, both about a decade ago.”
“You’ve been alone here for that long?”
“I’m never alone,” Sister Agnes replied.
Caleb sipped his tea, doubt flashed in his eyes. Sister Agnes had attempted the answer with confidence, but days when faith failed to replace thirty years of Sisterhood happened all too often.
“Do you still teach?”
“The occasional religion class, but I spend most days in the office now. The diocese closed our middle school classrooms and we needed space for those teachers, so I gave up my 3rd grade assignment.”
“Who’ll teach them chess now?” Caleb asked.
Sister Agnes smiled at the memory.
“It was my favorite part of math class,” he said.
They sipped their tea and ate their cookies in a dragging silence until a cell phone’s vibration interrupted. Caleb reached into his pants pocket, removed the phone, glanced at the screen, then returned it.
“I have to get to work.”
“Why have you chosen to visit?” Sister Agnes asked. She felt guilty, as the tone ran contrary to Benedictine values.
“I miss it here.” He said, standing to leave.
“The church is always open to you.”
He shook his head.
“I miss my time here. I learned important lessons, was treated well, made friends. There was hope here.”
Sister Agnes saw the 9-year-old boy who was always so happy in her classroom, entertaining his peers, and occasionally receiving a stern look for disrupting her lesson. He was here, thirty years later, standing in the old parish home, all of those qualities lost along the way. She had met many past students, some whose happiness radiated and others who wore tragedy like an article of clothing.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
"...thirty years later, standing in the old parish home, all of those qualities lost along the way. She had met many past students, some whose happiness radiated and others who wore tragedy like an article of clothing." Such a lovely metaphor and so very thoughtful. It touched me. An unexpected last line tacked on. Assuming there will be no part 3, you left us with questions. Good!