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refuge—and young girls at that—it would seem only natural to hear plenty of chatter and noise around the place. But the rules

were strict in this regard. No one was allowed to speak without permission, and this was enforced with a nun’s ruler or penance

stick.

Even so, the girls always seemed to find ways to skirt the rule, holding conversations and sometimes even singing in the laundry

rooms until someone stifled them.

Bernadette would never dare to complain about it. She conceded that her discomfort with the enforced silence had its roots

in her own flawed character. She was supposed to embrace the tenet that silent contemplation and prayer were essential for

redemption of the spirit. When the nerves got the better of her, creeping around her like a choking vine from the past, it

helped to remind herself that she was in a place of safety here at the Good Shepherd, and for that, nothing but gratitude

was in order.

The days were regulated by the chapel bell, keeping the whole community on track with uninterrupted sameness.

The predictable routines of the community were a welcome contrast to the chaos Bernadette had endured as a child.

She was still haunted by memories of shouting neighbors; screeching stray cats; rumbling traffic and horns; and the oniony, old-sock smell of her mother’s visitors.

Most nights of her childhood were punctuated by the sounds of shattering beer bottles; creaking bedsprings; and loud, gulping snores.

After matins, she made her way to the office to see to the usual chores. Here in her austere little chamber and at her desk

in the office, she heard only the whistle of the wind under the eaves and the rumble of the old coal-burning furnace in the

basement.

The office was empty, as Thursday was the day Mother Gerard spent away from the refuge, attending meetings with the diocese

and conducting business with suppliers and clients on behalf of the Sisters of Charity. Mother Gerard never complained about

the many tasks she juggled to keep the Good Shepherd running. Bernadette considered it a privilege to do her small part.

She knelt at the prie-dieu to offer a prayer before getting to work. The light through the window fell just so across a framed

picture of Jesus standing at the door, a print of a famous allegorical painting. The glowing face of the Lord was enhanced

by the sunlight, and the verse at the bottom always filled Bernadette with inspiration: I am the way, the truth and the life .

Bernadette whispered a quick prayer of gratitude before getting to work on the laundry records, receipts, invoices, and correspondence

of the day. This was where she belonged, helping with the day-to-day operations of this place of redemption. She went about

her tasks with a brisk and satisfying air of efficiency, recording what came in and out of the laundry, and keeping track

of the all-important host production operation. It felt so very right and proper to provide communion hosts for the diocese.

She paused in her work to peruse an unusual note from the Redcap Uniform Company. The client’s operations manager mentioned

that they believed there were two missing shirts from their recent bundles. This was unusual, because Sister Theresa and the

laywomen in charge of intake were meticulous when it came to managing the inventory of each job. It was very likely that there

had been a miscount when the items were dropped off. Bernadette set the letter aside to bring to Sister Gerard’s attention

later, after confession today.

Yet something niggled in the back of Bernadette’s mind.

Last week, a fancy hotel that provided laundry service for guests had indicated a cou ple of missing garments as well.

In a normal week, nothing went missing. Yet this was two weeks in a row that a discrepancy had been noted.

Was someone in the operations department getting careless?

Sister Gerard was not going to be happy, as she prided herself on the accuracy of the laundry work.

Bernadette fed a page of Sisters of Charity letterhead into her typewriter, enjoying the crisp precision of the roller as

she snapped the paper bar into place. The inky scent of the ribbon filled the air when she started typing a message to the

manager of the uniform company, promising that a thorough recount and search was underway, and that any discrepancy would

be promptly addressed. Bernadette knew that the Redcap account was of particular value to Sister Gerard, because the firm

always paid in cash, week in and week out. This meant that the payments were kept in the cash drawer and not deposited in

the bank.

In her heart of hearts, Bernadette knew this practice was a dangerously loose interpretation of diocesan bookkeeping standards.

She also knew better than to question the wisdom of her superiors. But her deepest thoughts were sometimes tinged with suspicion

and weighted by unspoken truths. Even so, fear of reprimand kept her from speaking up.

Perhaps, then, it was propitious that today was Thursday. Thursdays were Bernadette’s favorite day of the week, since it was

the day everyone went to confession—the girls to whisper their shame to the visiting priest and receive penance, and the nuns

to keep their consciences clear. For Bernadette, it was a break in the silence as well as a chance to unburden herself of

her judgmental thoughts about procedures that had been in place since long before she’d come to serve at the Good Shepherd.

Father O’Flaherty rarely had much to say during her sessions, but as far as she could tell, he did listen.

Bernadette’s spirits lifted a little when she checked the calendar and saw that it was the third Thursday of the month, which

meant a visit from the library bookmobile. The event always created a flurry of anticipation. The driver, a kind woman named

Mrs. Jenkins, always brought a selection of books to be checked before distributing them to the residents, sometimes enjoying

a cup of tea in the refectory while she waited for Rotrude and Bernadette to approve the selected books.

Not all the girls here enjoyed reading books. A few of them had never learned to read at all, and even though the mission statement of the Good Shepherd included “education of the mind and spirit,” no one here bothered to do any instruction other than having a girl read from scripture at mealtimes.

However, a good number of the girls and nearly all the nuns craved the solace of the printed word. Bernadette knew it was

a sin to yearn for the small pleasure of a book, but even the staid approved materials she borrowed often felt like a new

adventure for the mind.

A book might be a small beacon of hope for the residents here, a chance to travel to worlds beyond their own through the pages.

It was little enough to offer the girls, who seized on any interruption in the monotonous drudgery of laundry work and the

stifling silence enforced by the nuns. Not so long ago, when she was a student here, Bernadette loved to lose herself in stories

of saints, sin, and redemption.

Sister Rotrude took her role as book arbiter very seriously. It was her job to scrutinize each title for propriety, making

sure the material was appropriate for young girls. To root out harmful material, she used an ancient Catholic text called

The Index of Forbidden Books .

Bernadette looked forward to the afternoon diversion, and was always proud to assist with the process of approving the day’s

choices. She couldn’t help being curious about some of the texts that were rejected. There was an illustrated astronomy book

that mentioned Galileo Galilei, who claimed the earth revolved around the sun—which it certainly did, but the text was still

forbidden. Another offending title was an illustrated book called The Wonderful Wizard of Oz , which had become a famous movie, but there were witches both good and bad in the story, and a little girl who didn’t know

her place. Bernadette had been disappointed to learn that she would never be permitted to read the ancient Greek play Lysistrata , because it was about a group of women who used their collective power over men in order to end a war. Ending a war was never

a bad thing, Sister Rotrude had explained. But the women’s method—banning intimacy from their husbands—was ungodly.

Bernadette completed her tasks for the day just as the afternoon sun painted lively shadows across the room.

The chapel bell rang, signaling that Father O’Flaherty was hearing confession.

The nuns went in pairs to ensure that the girls would not be unattended.

Bernadette knew there was no hurry to get to the chapel, since she and Sister Rotrude were always last to be shriven—after the girls, the consecrates, and the nuns.

The autumn sunshine felt as warm as a blessing on Bernadette’s face and hands. While she crossed the quadrangle to the chapel,

she saw that the bookmobile had pulled up right on time, its engine humming softly and then shutting off. The senior girls

would go first, selecting their books and placing them in the bin for the driver to bring to the office for Rotrude’s approval.

The girls were required to go directly back to work. They would not receive their book selections until after evening prayers.

The chapel was nearly empty when Bernadette entered the dimly lit sanctuary, dipping her finger in the holy water font and

making the sign of the cross. She avoided eye contact with those making their exit, as absolution was a private matter. Sister

Mary John was practicing the organ in the choir loft, which she did each Thursday to cover the secret whispers of the sinners

in the confessional, and the murmurs of penitence. The music swelled with the haunting melody of the “Stabat Mater Dolorosa.”

The somber notes resonated deep in Bernadette’s gut, seeming to speak of sorrow and salvation all at once.