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mentioned seeing
Wendy reading in the library. It was one thing to not want to scrub
yet another floor, but to actually lie….
    “Does anyone else wish to speak?” Mother
Theodora asked, her voice cutting through Mickey’s thoughts, when
the last of the five had finished. Mother expected only those who
felt they had committed serious infractions to come forward if
their names weren’t called. “Otherwise, we’ll be here all day,” she
often said.
    Mickey kept her eyes downcast, knowing she
should probably confess everything she had just been thinking.
“You’re being uncharitable,” she told herself sternly for the
hundredth time.
    ╬ ╬ ╬
    The air throughout the orchard was heavy with
the smell of apples and there was an autumn bite in the air. The
peach harvest was long over, the preserves sold to local
markets.
    “Can’t we keep more of them?” Tanya had
asked mournfully, as peaches were her favorite. “Only a dozen or so
jars stay with us,” Sister Regina said. “The ones that discolored
and don’t look as appealing. The rest must go to raise money for
the abbey,” just as the apple butter would soon, as well as the
cheese the abbey made from the cows’ milk. “I don’t mind selling
that,” Jessica said with a wrinkled nose. “It stinks.”
    As the days cooled and shortened, as the
plants in the enclosure garden died and were pruned back, Mickey’s
mood – “and my temper,” she would have admitted remorsefully –
darkened also. She had expected it; this time of year was always
like this now. “Would it be any easier,” she asked herself, “if it
had happened in the spring when everything was blooming and coming
to life?” She knew it had nothing to do with the time of year and
everything to do with her memories….
    The juniors were called upon again to help
harvest the apples from the orchard. Mickey set her ladder against
a tree farther down the row, separated from the others. She could
hear their conversation and laughter as she filled the canvas bag
hanging from her shoulder. She tried to maintain a polite demeanor
with the others, but just that morning, “Michele!” Sister Rosaria
had reprimanded her when she snapped at Abigail for, “for being
Abigail,” Mickey said to herself now as she moved her ladder around
the tree. She knew the others found her prickliness tiresome, and
were content to leave her by herself. From what she could hear,
Wendy was once again comparing St. Bridget’s with her former
convent, and it was all Mickey could do, even from a distance, not
to tell her to shut up.
    At Recreation, she had taken to wandering
restlessly off to isolated parts of the enclosure or back to her
stall in Chapel. She tried writing to Jamie, but gave up in
exasperation, the unfinished letter lying folded on her bedside
table in their dormitory.
    In wandering the enclosure paths, she had
discovered the monastery’s cemetery, a few stone benches providing
places among the gravestones for prayer and reflection. Set on a
slight hill, the cemetery provided a view down toward the abbey and
the lower garden where figures walked about, all dressed alike in
black and white.
    Mickey heard a rustling and looked around to
see that Jessica had carried her ladder over and set it up in the
next apple tree. Abigail’s voice carried to them. With a roll of
her eyes, Jessica climbed her ladder and began picking, “and my
immediate reaction,” Mickey would admit shamefacedly later, “was to
be pissed. I almost gathered up and left. I’m glad I didn’t.”
Jessica understood, as few did, Mickey realized, the comfort of
simply being near, without any need to fill the silence. Side by
side, they picked through the afternoon work period until the bell
rang for None. They carried their picking bags and ladders back to
the tractor, and then headed to Chapel, following behind the
others.
    It was early October before the picking was
done and the apple butter was made and bottled.
    “Michele,”