“No, Mother Superior, it’s not—”

“But you like working in that sacristy, no?”

“I serve as best I can.”

“And you have had thoughts of him like that, have you not?”

Anne couldn’t even conceive of this reaction. She shook her head frantically, but lying about it didn’t matter.

“You must conduct yourself as a sister of this order at all times. Do not smile and flirt. Do not ask him questions or talk more than necessary. Never turn your back to him. Don’t you see? All of these things are a way of giving him permission. You can’t lead him on. And you must cleanse yourself of thoughts about him. Is that clear?”

“He touched me. I didn’t—”

Sister Angeline opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of brown leather.

“You have to be mindful, Anne, that the body is a corruption of the spirit. That you haven’t developed control over your body in a way that will not bring notice to it.” She stood menacingly. “It’s good that you came to me this early.”

“Sister Angeline—”

“We have to control ourselves. Otherwise we abandon the Lord, and this”—she pointed at her own buxomness and paunch—“will do the work of sin. Please kneel before the desk.” She raised her hand, coiling one end of the leather strop around her palm. With tears streaming down, Anne could think of nothing to say.

Anne gathered the mail that had been pitched through the slot in the front door. Below the normal crap and coupons, there was a letter from the city addressed to Ann Malone. My name misspelled, the other not really my name. It was a summons.

Jury duty. Christ.

“Mooooooom . . .”

No hello, no how are you. Just Dan doll eyed in front of the computer in his room yelling out.

“What’s for dinner?”

The way Dan whined the question, Anne refused to reply.

Jury duty. I hope it’s for some defeated housewife who turned on her unfeeling husband and child.

And with that sad joke of a thought, the déjà vu kicked in once more. As she checked the pantry for hot dog buns, the whole pattern was set in motion again—the sound of the TV from the den, Pat’s shake of the ice in his glass, and Anne’s immediate thought: how long had he been at that, drinking alone? That worry followed by the next, and it was overwhelming, and she couldn’t step out of it.

Anne put on a pot of water, and as she waited for the water to boil, she relived that long gray bus ride back to the South Bronx. Her mother and Sister Elizabeth were in the parlor, drinking tea, waiting for her. Anne had little to say. She didn’t mention Father Sacramoni or Sister Angeline.

“What’s there to be confused about?” her mother scolded.