MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 45

Advice

Wilmington—20 Months Ago

All the way to Wilmington I worried. Not about the assignment, and not even about facing Sister Thomas. I worried about Angie. What if I saw her? What if she saw me? I hated Tony for telling me about her the way he did, but I hated her more, and not just for running off and getting married. I hated her for making me love her so much. 

St. Elizabeth’s loomed before me. My stomach churned. I found myself wondering what the hell I was afraid of. Me, Nicky the Rat, afraid to face a nun, and an old one at that. With a deep breath, I opened the doors and climbed the steps. I almost hoped she wasn’t there; then I could turn around, drive back to Hershey and finish the job. 

Six steps led me to a small concrete landing, then six more, followed by eight. I pushed open the double doors at the top. Her class was the first one on the right. I peeked inside. I hadn’t given much thought to what I’d do once I got here. What the hell was I thinking? Class was going on. As I turned to leave, Father Tom grabbed me by the arm.

“If it isn’t Nicky Fusco. How long has it been?”

A smile came naturally. “Father Tom, good to see you.” 

“What brings you back, Nicky?”

I hesitated. “Nothing. Just…” I knew my face was flushing. “Actually, I was in the area and thought I’d come by to see Sister Mary Thomas.” 

“Wait here. I’ll get her.”

“No need, Father. I’ll come back.”

Father Tom shook his head. “No you won’t.” 

She came out a moment later, looking not much older than the last time I’d seen her, and still with the permanent smile on her face and gleam in her eye. Wrapped around her left wrist were the ever-present rosary beads, ready to draw and inflict forgiveness on unsuspecting sinners.

Sister Mary Thomas opened her arms and embraced me. “Nicky Fusco. My favorite student.”

I blushed again. “Sister Thomas, you say that to everyone.”

“You should never accuse a nun of lying.”

“You’re right. Sorry, Sister.”

“So what brings you back? I thought you were in New York.”

I paused. Probably for too long. “Down here for a few days on work.”

She grabbed my hand, led me toward the door. “Why don’t we walk, Nicky? The Lord has blessed us with a nice day. He must have known you were coming.”

To object would be useless. Once Sister Mary Thomas had her mind made up, she was worse than Mamma Rosa. “How have you been, Sister? How’s Sister Theresa?”

“Sister Theresa passed away last year, I’m sorry to say. We will miss her company and wit.” She sighed. “As to me, I’m fine. I have another good class, filled with good students.”

I smiled as we made our way down the stairs. Optimism had found a permanent home in Sister Mary Thomas, probably coming with that smile she carried around. 

“And you, Nicky? How have you been?” 

“Great. I’ve been lucky.” I held the doors open for her.

She squeezed my hand, stepped off the curb and started across the street to the park. “Yes, lucky. You lost your mother at birth. Your father at fourteen, and Rosa Sannullo went to God a few years later.” 

I didn’t say anything. What could I say? 

She sat under a giant old oak on a bench that had been there forever. Concrete sides, with small wood planks for a seat and a back, it had lasted for many years and had heard many tales—lovers’ quarrels, proposals, family fights, kids plotting, girls gossiping. Sister Thomas pulled me down beside her. She stared until I held her gaze. 

“Your father was a good man, Nicky. He raised a good son.”

I fought my emotions, but lost, tears forming in my eyes. “Sister, you don’t know.” I shook my head. “Sometimes I wish I could start over.”

She pulled my hand to her. I slid across the bench some. “Would you do things differently?”

I turned my head. Wouldn’t let her see the tears. “I would. I truly believe I would.”

“Then do it,” she said. “You can never go back, Niccolo, but you can always start fresh.”

“Sister, you don’t—”

“I don’t know what you’ve done?” She patted the back of my hand. “I feel like I have raised a thousand children, though I am empty from having none of my own. My children have become priests, cops, carpenters, bricklayers, plumbers, nurses, teachers—even murderers.” She caught the surprised look in my eyes. “Yes, even murderers, and yet, there was good in all of them.” She fought tears. “Do you remember Tommy Dougherty?”

I nodded. “The one who killed those girls up in Boston?” 

“Yes, that’s him. I spoke with him after he was sentenced.” She paused, choking back tears, almost as if she had personally failed Tommy. “He never asked for forgiveness, at least, not from me. All he talked about was what if he had made another decision that night? He looked me in the eyes and he said, ‘Sister, what if I had turned left at the stop sign instead of right, I would have never seen those girls and offered them a ride.’ And then, Nicky, he took a big sigh. I felt his pain. He said, ‘Sister, I truly believe that if I had not seen those girls that night, I would have never done anything like this. But now look what I’ve done to my family.’” She stood. Walked around a bit. “Think on it. Make your decisions count.”

“Sister, you don’t know what I’ve—”

“Niccolo Fusco. If you want to go to confession, find Father Tom. If you want to feel sorry for yourself, go down to Schmitty’s and drown your sorrows in beer or whiskey—you’ll have plenty of company. But if you want to do something with your life, make up your mind to change and then stick to it.” She grabbed hold of my shoulders and shook. “God knows what you’ve done, boy, and you’re not dead yet. He must be keeping you alive for something. Go earn this new life you’ve been granted. Start tomorrow on a new path. Hell. Don’t wait for tomorrow, start today.”

I got up from the bench and paced, cracking my knuckles and biting my lip. “Sister, you would be so ashamed if—”

She held up her hand. “I told you, if you want to confess, go to confession.”

“I don’t go to confession, Sister. Can’t trust them.”

“Yet you trust me?”

“Of course.”

She remained silent while I continued pacing and cracking my knuckles. Finally, she faced me. “Don’t do anything until tomorrow. Promise me that.”

“Why?”

“I have to think about something. I have to pray tonight for guidance.”

“Sister, I—”

“Promise me, Nicky.”

“All right, Sister. I’ll see you tomorrow.” As I walked away, I cursed myself for not asking about Angie. It seemed as if every emotion was telling me to go see her. Say hi, if nothing else. But emotions held me back. Pride had shoved a cantaloupe down my throat, and I couldn’t get past that. And past jealousy. All these years, and I was still jealous of the guy she married. Most of all though, I was envious of the life she had—married, with a child and a house. The kind of life we planned so long ago. I shook my head as I walked to the car. 

Screw Angie. I’ll make my own life.

#

Sister Mary Thomas prayed that night, knelt on the hard tile floors in the convent chapel and prayed for hours. When she finished, she went to her room and slept. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. This was a truth kept hidden for too long.