At this point Anne had tuned out, and she stared down at the cover of the missalette, which depicted the Deposition, Jesus’s descent from the cross and lamentation. It was by an old Italian master, and Anne counted the three Marys there—the Mother of God, Mary Salome, and Mary Magdalene. Anne sucked on her cheek. Even here. When all the men are gone, when a mother’s son is dead and deserted. Even here they have to make their point: don’t forget what women really are.

Timmerman droned on for a few more minutes, and when he was finished, he returned to his chair, where he sat for another unnecessarily long pause. What in God’s name is he meditating about now? Anne wondered. Finally Timmerman stood up, the organ bellowed, the basket came, and then the gifts. Anne left right after communion, her obligation fulfilled.

Taking Merrell Road, Anne drove home, past the Episcopal School of Dallas and then winding down Rosser, shooting across six lanes at Royal, past the field of high-tension power lines, to the turn at Northaven Park. Her thoughts spiraled back again to her novitiate, her frustrations and loneliness. She had written to Sister Elizabeth, who tried to root her on: life as a bride of Christ only got better; her faith would awaken, deepen.

And then prayers were answered and Anne was assigned to Father Sacramoni’s daily Mass. Vincent Sacramoni had been born in Jersey City and taken his orders with the Christian Brothers at De La Salle. He was a handsome man in his thirties, with a shock of early gray hair; his summers pastoring on the Jersey shore had kept him tan and healthy. He was also chaplain to all the teams at Manhattan College and was often seen on the quad trying to corral some boys into following him to the basketball courts.

Anne obeyed the speak-only-when-spoken-to order, but Father Sacramoni had plenty to say while getting ready for Mass. They argued Yankees/Dodgers and Harriman/Stevenson in equal measure, and each afternoon, Anne found herself rushing to chapel earlier, preparing for Mass quicker, and leaving as much time as possible in that cramped sacristy for this chatty priest. Father Sacramoni heard confession for all the sisters at Mount St. Vincent’s. He could recognize the sound of Anne’s voice through the screen, so she stuck to a rehearsed list of venial sins about concentrating on prayer and heeding the sisters. Father Sacramoni would chuckle slightly and then ask in his clipped, rhotic accent: “Is that all, dear? If so, I’ll put you up for sainthood.”

“That’s all I can think of, Father.”

“No impure thoughts?” he asked casually. Anne, kneeling, leaned back in the confessional.

“I’m sure I’ve had some, Father, but to recall them . . .”

“You’re right, Anne, don’t dwell there. For penance I want you to . . .”