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"At the appointed
hour, Sister Ursula

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waited as instructed, by
the main gate, beyond which

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no men save priests
were permitted entry,

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and awaited her
father's arrival.

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She hoped he would come by coach
or carriage that would then

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convey them to the
village train station.

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But if necessary,
she was more than

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happy to make the journey
on foot, so long as she

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and her father were together.

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She had better shoes
now, but she still

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hobbled like a cripple.

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And so, when the carriage came
into view in the dusty road

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beyond the iron gate,
her heart left up--

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until she recognized it as the
one belonging to the convent.

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Inside sat not her father,
but Sister Veronique,

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who had not been kicked in the
head by a horse despite three

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years' worth of Sister
Ursula's dogged prayers.

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And when the carriage
drew to a halt,

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Sister Ursula understood that
her hopes had been led astray

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by her need, and that she was
to be banished from the convent,

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not rescued from it.

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She did not fear a worse
existence than her present one,

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because of worse
existence was not

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within her powers
of imagination.

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Rather, what frightened her
was the possibility that if she

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was taken from the
convent school,

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her father would no
longer know where

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to find her when the time came.

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This terrible fear
she kept to herself.

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She and Sister
Veronique did not speak

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a word on the long
journey to the city.

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Late that evening, they
arrived at the hospital

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and were taken to
the charity ward,

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only to learn that Sister
Ursula's mother had

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expired just after they left
the convent that morning.

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A nun dressed all in white
informed Sister Veronique

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that it would be far
better for the child

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not to see the deceased, and
a look passed between them.

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All that was left
by way of a keepsake

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was a brittle, curling,
scallop-edged photograph,

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which the white nun gave
to Sister Ursula, who

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had offered no reaction to the
news that her mother was dead.

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Since arriving at the
hospital, Sister Ursula

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had lapsed into a
state of paralytic fear

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that it was her father
who had fallen ill there.

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Instead, it seemed that at
least one of her prayers

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have been answered.

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Her father was free.

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But where was he?

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When she summoned
the courage to ask,

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the two nuns exchanged another
glance, in which it was plain

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that the white nun shared Sister
Veronique's belief that she

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had no father.

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And sister Ursula
saw too that it

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would be useless
for her, a child,

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to try to convince the
white nun otherwise.

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Her fear supported her
during their train ride,

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but then, when the convent came
into view from the carriage,

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Sister Ursula broke
down and began to sob.

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To her surprise, if not
comfort, Sister Veronique

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placed a rough, callused
hand on her shoulder

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and said softly,
"Never mind child.

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You will become one of us."

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In response, Sister Ursula
slid as far from the old nun

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as she could and
sobbed even harder,

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knowing that it must be true.

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"Are we ever going
to meet the father?"

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one student wanted to know.

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"I mean, she yearns for him
and he gets compared to Christ.

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But we never see in directly.

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We're, like, told how
to feel about him.

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If he doesn't ever show up,
I'm going to feel cheated."

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Sister Ursula duly
noted this criticism,

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but she had only to
look at the old woman

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to know that the father
was not going to show up.

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Anyone who felt cheated by this
could just joined the club.

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The day after Sister
Ursula's second workshop,

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my doorbell rang at
7:30 in the morning.

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I struggled out of bed, put on
a robe, and went to the door.

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Sister Ursula stood on the
porch, clearly agitated.

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The forlorn station
wagon idled at the curb

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with its full cargo of curious,
myopic nuns, returning,

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I guessed, from morning mass.

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The yard was strewn with
dry, unraked November

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leaves, some of which
had attached themselves

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to bottom of Sister
Ursula's flowing habit.

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"Must he be in the story?

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Must he return?"

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Sister Ursula wanted to know.

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As badly as she had wanted
her father to appear in life,

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she needed, for some
reason, to exclude him

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from the narrative version.

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"He's already in the
story," I pointed out,

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cinching my robe
tightly at the waist.

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"But I never saw
him after she died.

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This is what my story is about."

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"Well, how about a flashback?"

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I suggested.

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[LAUGHTER]

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"You mentioned that there
was one Christmas holiday--"

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But she was no longer listening.

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Her eyes, slate
gray, had gone hard.

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"She died of syphilis."

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I nodded, feeling
something harden in me too.

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Behind me, I heard the
bathroom door open and close,

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and I thought I saw Sister
Ursula's gaze flicker

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for an instant.

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She might have caught
a glimpse of Jane,

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the woman I was involved
with, and I found myself

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hoping that she had.

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"My father's heart was broken."

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"How do you know that, sister,
if you never saw him again?"

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"He loved her," she explained.

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"She was his ruin.""

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