The Missing Madonna Read Free

her, you’d think she had the world by the proverbial tail,” Mary Helen had remarked to Eileen after one OWL meeting.
    “Erma’s made of sturdy stock.” Eileen had nodded her head knowingly. “She’s full of faith, a real survivor.
    “Besides’—she winked at Mary Helen—“she has a touch of the lace-curtain Irish in her, so she would never let on otherwise.”
    *  *  *
    Eileen nudged her. Mary Helen opened her eyes with a start. She must have been dozing.
    “We are about to enter the Lincoln Tunnel.” Mrs. Taylor-Smith sounded like a high-class tour guide. “But before we do, ladies, over there.” She tilted her head.
    “Look, Mary Helen.” Eileen pointed across the darkness to the magnificent skyline. Mary Helen drew in her breath.
    On the horizon New York looked like a clear, well-taken photograph. Thousands of lights blinked. A phrase from a Hopkins sonnet popped into her mind—“O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air.” She wanted to pinch herself. It didn’t seem possible that she and Eileen were actually here. It had been so unexpected.
    After meeting Erma at the college—yes, that was exactly what she had been thinking about when she dozed off—after Erma’s invitation, they’d barely had time, what with Holy Week services and Easter Sunday, to make the necessary arrangements at the college,pack a small bag each, and purchase a few traveler’s checks.
    “Disneyland for adults.” That’s what Sister Cecilia, the college president, had called New York when the two Sisters told her they’d be there for a few days.
    Cecilia had looked pleased. Too pleased, if you asked Mary Helen.
    “I’m so glad you two have the opportunity,” Cecilia had said. “It’s a perfect time for you to go before graduation and the start of summer school.”
    “We’ll be gone only three days,” Eileen reminded her.
    “Oh, don’t hurry back,” Cecilia added quickly. “Stay as long as you like. We’ll manage without you.”
    “That was nice of Cecilia, don’t you think?” Eileen had remarked when they left the president’s office. “She seemed genuinely thrilled we could go.”
    Not only thrilled, downright eager, Mary Helen thought. If I didn’t know better, I might even think she was happy to be rid of us.
    Mrs. Taylor-Smith pulled to an abrupt stop at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Fifty-third Street. A doorman dressed like a deserter from the French Foreign Legion held the car door open. In a matter of seconds, he had summoned the porter for their luggage, opened the front door of the Sheraton Centre, and escorted them into the plush forest-green and red lobby of the hotel.
    While Eileen spoke to the desk clerk, Mary Helen gazed sleepily around. On one wall, by the curved stairway leading to a small cocktail lounge, she spotted a waterfall, the basin of which was full of coins. CONTRIBUTIONS FORST. MALACHY’S stated a printed sign nearby. Mary Helen was wondering how she could persuade the Fairmont or the Mark Hopkins in San Francisco to install a waterfall to benefit the scholarship fund of Mount St. Francis, when Eileen pulled her sleeve.
    Still drowsy, she followed her friend into the elevator, then out and down the narrow fourth-floor hall to their double room.
    “I was a bit surprised when you agreed so quickly to pronounce it,” Eileen called from the small closet where she was hanging up her clothes.
    Mary Helen sat on the edge of the bed, removing her shoes. She was too tired to unpack.
    “I agreed to . . .? What are you saying, Eileen?” She yawned and unbuttoned her blouse.
    “Agreed to pronounce it. I thought you didn’t like to speak in public.” Eileen stood with her hands on her chubby hips.
    “What in the name of all that is good and holy are you talking about?” Mary Helen adjusted her glasses and blinked at her friend. “When did I agree to . . .?” Suddenly she remembered: In the airport, when she had let her mind wander. She cleared her throat.