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Sister Bernadette savored the quiet of the main office, surrounded by her ledger books, receipts, and records. She felt so

very blessed to work for the Good Shepherd order in this capacity, particularly since she had taken her First Vows at such

a young age. She was just eighteen, though in her soul she sometimes felt much older than that.

Of course, she had not always been Sister Bernadette. In the Before Time, she was Genesee, named for her birth mother’s brand

of cheap beer. Perhaps it was a nickname, perhaps not. It was the only name she knew.

When she was little, her first chore of the morning had been to collect the empty bottles strewn around the flat and set them

on the stoop for the rag-and-bone man. She used to line up the bottles in perfect formation, like soldiers on parade. Although

she rarely attended school in the noisy, trash-strewn neighborhood, she learned to add and keep track of things—how many coins

the bottles yielded, how to add and subtract figures simply by picturing the calculation in her mind. She became a champion

at skully, and she spent hours customizing her bottle caps for the street game. Ma would jeer at her and maybe give her a

cuff on the ear for doing that, but Genesee persisted, and sometimes she won a few pennies off the other kids. Most days,

it was the only order she could find in the chaos of her life. Most days, it was all she could do to keep out of sight of

Ma’s clients, because most of them were mean. And a few were too friendly.

She would always remember the blessed day when the people from Catholic Charities made a tour through the Tenderloin neighborhood on the lower east side, emerging from the looming shadows of the buildings on a rainy afternoon in their perfectly ironed garb, like angels in black, leaving the scent of rain and soap flakes in their wake.

In the poorly heated flat, Genesee had cowered on the bare mattress, her thin shoulders drawn up in anticipation of some kind

of punishment. Instead, the nuns had spoken with soft reassurance, and the priest had taken her hands in his and promised

they had come to help.

The nuns took note of the bruises that marred Genesee’s delicate skin, exchanging sorrowful glances. At the age of twelve,

she knew enough to be ashamed of her frailty and ill-fitting clothes. Although the plumbing in the tenement didn’t always

work, Genesee tried to keep herself clean, and one of the sisters remarked upon the effort. They also remarked on her tangled,

lice-ridden hair.

Her mother complained about what a terrible burden it was to raise such a useless daughter, and she readily signed the paperwork

presented by the priest. This was followed by a visit to a shelter with showers and a cafeteria. Her hair was shorn; she was

given clean clothes and taken to the station for a long and tedious train ride to Buffalo.

Genesee had been one of the girls who entered the Good Shepherd with a feeling of relief, not fear. While so many other girls

resisted and rebelled and bemoaned their fate, Genesee held her heart open to this new opportunity. She craved the cleanliness

and order of the place, the strict discipline and constant reminders that the way to salvation was through hard work and penitence.

At the Good Shepherd, Genesee found the things in life she’d never had—an orderly world, a community, an identity, a sacred

purpose.

At first, she didn’t understand the building marked Laundry.

She soon came to understand that it was a way for girls in need of reform or girls who found themselves with child to achieve grace through their hard labor.

Bernadette had thrown herself into the work, never uttering a word of complaint.

It was soon discovered that she had a gift from God—a mind that was made for memorizing things, whether it be the complete high mass in Latin, passages of scripture, lists from the phone book, complicated calculations, or the lives of the saints.

Her knack for figuring caught the attention of the prioress, who realized that with Genesee managing the bookkeeping, there

would be no need for a paid layperson to do the work.

Before long, she became a devoted aspirant, certain she’d been called to serve for the rest of her life. Her postulancy lasted

just six months because her mind was so sharp and her devotion so deep, and then she took her first vows as a novice, glorying

in the white veil and her new identity as Sister Bernadette. The sense of mission that coursed through her every waking moment

assured her that she was doing the Lord’s work. Two years from now, she would make her solemn vows, and her commitment would

be permanent.

The refuge was a stark place, austere and unyielding, much like the Mother Superior who ruled it with ironclad command. The

girls, waifs and strays from Buffalo’s harsh streets, labored in the laundry, their youth spent amid steam and suds, their

small hands scrubbing away sins as if they could be cleansed with soap and water.

Bernadette didn’t understand why so many of the girls who came to the Good Shepherd resisted this way of life. It was a place

of cleanliness and order, predictability and security. She wished they knew how lucky they were to be given a chance to redeem

themselves, even the ones who had done terrible things—thieving and destroying property, running away, drinking alcohol and

taking drugs, getting themselves with child, and falling in with horrible people.

Sometimes a girl who gave birth out of wedlock made a terrible row about keeping her baby, but the nuns always managed to

persuade her that the most loving act was to place the child with a caring, two-parent family. Bernadette wished the girls

would realize that this was the safest place in the world.

With a sigh and a silent word of praise, Bernadette organized the day’s receipts and invoices, glorying in the straight, precise columns of figures in her leather-bound book.

When it came to matters of budget, Mother Superior required vigilance and precision.

She insisted on making sure the Good Shepherd was self-sustaining, never in need of outside funds.

To that end, she had instructed Bernadette to keep a private record of the payments that were made in cash or in silver certificates.

These were kept in a hidden compartment under the reliquary dedicated to Saint Apollonia.

When Bernadette had inquired about the practice, Sister Gerard’s reply was always veiled in rationalizations. “We prosper

as only those do who are resolved to do and dare for God alone,” she was fond of saying. The funds were held for charitable

work, to support the local community, and for the betterment of the Good Shepherd itself, which was too often overlooked by

the diocese. Bernadette was too timid to question Mother Superior, particularly since Sister Gerard had been so supportive

of Bernadette’s skills.

Bernadette still remembered how she’d been praised when officials from the diocese examined the books, remarking on her accuracy,

neatness, and efficiency. Afterward, she’d had to go to confession to disclose the heady rush of pride that had filled her,

earning a lengthy but well-deserved penance.

A scuffle from the back hallway interrupted Bernadette’s thoughts, and she felt her shoulders contract with tension. She knew

what the sound meant.

“Get your damn hands off me.” A voice, loud with youthful fury, echoed off the cold stone walls of the corridor. “Don’t you

touch—”

Bernadette could have predicted the sharp slapping sound. Sometimes a painful blow was the reminder it took to bring a girl

to her senses. It was never pleasant, seeing what some girls had to endure in order to realize the error of their ways, but

it was a necessary step in their journey toward redemption.

She was quite sure the new girl would turn out to be the source of today’s trouble.

That one—Mairin O’Hara, who would be known here as Ruth—had an air of trouble about her.

Some of the girls brought in were limp with surrender, but not Mairin O’Hara.

With her bright red hair and even brighter green eyes, the tilt of her chin, and her defensive posture, she had radiated defiance when she’d arrived.

She had even dared to pro claim her name, loudly and with conviction, rejecting the gift of the new name she would adopt here at the Good Shepherd.

In spite of the girl’s attitude, Bernadette had felt drawn to Mairin, reluctantly admiring that spark of spirit. But like

everyone who came here, Mairin—Ruth—would bend to Sister Rotrude’s will. Eventually, everyone did.

“Step inside the closet,” Sister Rotrude ordered. “You’ll stay until you are cleansed by repentance.”

“I will not” came the response. “I swear I’ll—”

“You’ll swear? You’ll swear ? You’ll make no vow except to your lord and savior.” There was more scuffling, followed by the thud of a closing door and

the iron yawn of the latch slamming home.

Bernadette winced, her concentration flickering away from her chores as the sound of muffled pleas echoed down the hallway.

“You can’t lock me in,” Mairin wailed. “What if the building burns down?”

“Then you’ll know what hell feels like.”

Bernadette glanced at the clock. Soon it would be suppertime, and then vespers, the shadowy prayers offered up to welcome

the night.

Sister Rotrude swept into the office. There was high color in her cheeks, but her face was soft with serenity. It must be

such a relief when a difficult girl finally surrendered, thought Bernadette.

“Don’t give her the bucket,” Rotrude commanded. “Make her wait.”

Bernadette could hear gasps of panic emanating from the closet. Complete darkness tended to do that to a girl. The disorientation

and isolation induced anxiety that not even prayer could assuage.

“Will she go to supper, then?” Bernadette asked, keeping her eyes averted and her voice tentative, respectful. Though only