paused, assuming that Father Poole knew how she was going to finish the sentence. “You can visit it tomorrow on your own. You then won’t have me hanging around and harassing you.” Without more ado she walked past the priest and yanked open the door. “Now,” she said flatly, “you’ll meet Mrs. Keats.”
As she led the priest into the kitchen, a sudden smell of boiling meat hit him. In front of them stood a short, middle-aged woman of about 300 pounds with black hair tied up tightly in a large bun. Her pudgy fingers were kneading dough on the center table, with her head down, as she gave all her concentration to the task at hand.
“Father Poole,” Sister Ignatius began in a low monotone. “This is Mrs. Keats. She is the full-time cook at St. Andrew’s. You can say anything you want to her so long as you speak loudly. She’ll make all her answers known to you in her own way, but never expect a single word to leave her lips. She’s a mute, but please don’t treat her as an invalid.”
“She’s a mute?” Father Poole repeated, feeling sorry for the woman.
“Yes. She’s been that way ever since… .” Sister Ignatius stopped. She perceived that Father Poole had not been listening, but rather giving all his undivided attention to Mrs. Keats as thick beads of sweat dripped from her forehead onto the thick lenses of her glasses and from there onto her hands, which were half immersed in the dough. Next to her Father Poole spotted the ominous cymbal suspended from the ceiling by a rope. On the table next to it was a rolling pin that she substituted for a hammer. The priest noted that the woman had not once looked up since they arrived, had no idea anyone else was in the kitchen with her, and had no knowledge that she was currently the focal point of discussion. He crouched down a bit and waved his hand in an attempt to get her attention, but given her bad vision she took no notice of either of them.
“What happened to the poor woman?” Father Poole inquired.
“Her husband happened to her,” Sister Ignatius said, devoid of emotion.
“I don’t understand,” he replied. “Was she abused in some way?”
“How detailed would you like it, Father? I can speak in generalities or be as explicit as you like.”
For a reason unknown to Father Poole, Sister Ignatius’s voice sounded even more menacing than before, as if he were to blame for the damage done to Mrs. Keats. “Tell me what you can,” he answered.
“Mr. Keats beat her every day of their marriage,” she replied. “After I’m done telling you everything, don’t ask me how I know what I know. That’ll be my business if you don’t mind.”
Father Poole continued observing Mrs. Keats and agreed to respect Sister Ignatius’s wishes.
She began to give him an account of what the cook had endured. “He slapped, punched, kicked, and cut her,” Sister Ignatius began. “He used to hit her on the side of her head once a day just to ‘make sure she was still breathing,’ as he would put it.” She inhaled deeply and went on. “He was big on playing cruel pranks on her at the beginning: putting molasses in her good shoes, spiking her lemonade with castor oil. Oh, the things he did to her! Once during a town picnic it suddenly started to rain. He blamed her for forgetting the umbrella at home and told her that, if she ever did something so stupid again, he was going to pull out as many of her pubic hairs as he could.
Father Poole gasped, yet as he recovered from the shocking beginning of Sister Ignatius’s story, Phineas realized that she’d either invented the story herself or saw it first hand, as he could never fathom anyone telling a nun such a story.
She continued as coolly as she had begun. “It’s a good thing for Mrs. Keats that I was able to overhear some of the ladies who come to Mass on Sunday. I sit in the pew behind them. Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Honigmann were two rocks of reliability when it came to spilling the beans, but
As she led the priest into the kitchen, a sudden smell of boiling meat hit him. In front of them stood a short, middle-aged woman of about 300 pounds with black hair tied up tightly in a large bun. Her pudgy fingers were kneading dough on the center table, with her head down, as she gave all her concentration to the task at hand.
“Father Poole,” Sister Ignatius began in a low monotone. “This is Mrs. Keats. She is the full-time cook at St. Andrew’s. You can say anything you want to her so long as you speak loudly. She’ll make all her answers known to you in her own way, but never expect a single word to leave her lips. She’s a mute, but please don’t treat her as an invalid.”
“She’s a mute?” Father Poole repeated, feeling sorry for the woman.
“Yes. She’s been that way ever since… .” Sister Ignatius stopped. She perceived that Father Poole had not been listening, but rather giving all his undivided attention to Mrs. Keats as thick beads of sweat dripped from her forehead onto the thick lenses of her glasses and from there onto her hands, which were half immersed in the dough. Next to her Father Poole spotted the ominous cymbal suspended from the ceiling by a rope. On the table next to it was a rolling pin that she substituted for a hammer. The priest noted that the woman had not once looked up since they arrived, had no idea anyone else was in the kitchen with her, and had no knowledge that she was currently the focal point of discussion. He crouched down a bit and waved his hand in an attempt to get her attention, but given her bad vision she took no notice of either of them.
“What happened to the poor woman?” Father Poole inquired.
“Her husband happened to her,” Sister Ignatius said, devoid of emotion.
“I don’t understand,” he replied. “Was she abused in some way?”
“How detailed would you like it, Father? I can speak in generalities or be as explicit as you like.”
For a reason unknown to Father Poole, Sister Ignatius’s voice sounded even more menacing than before, as if he were to blame for the damage done to Mrs. Keats. “Tell me what you can,” he answered.
“Mr. Keats beat her every day of their marriage,” she replied. “After I’m done telling you everything, don’t ask me how I know what I know. That’ll be my business if you don’t mind.”
Father Poole continued observing Mrs. Keats and agreed to respect Sister Ignatius’s wishes.
She began to give him an account of what the cook had endured. “He slapped, punched, kicked, and cut her,” Sister Ignatius began. “He used to hit her on the side of her head once a day just to ‘make sure she was still breathing,’ as he would put it.” She inhaled deeply and went on. “He was big on playing cruel pranks on her at the beginning: putting molasses in her good shoes, spiking her lemonade with castor oil. Oh, the things he did to her! Once during a town picnic it suddenly started to rain. He blamed her for forgetting the umbrella at home and told her that, if she ever did something so stupid again, he was going to pull out as many of her pubic hairs as he could.
Father Poole gasped, yet as he recovered from the shocking beginning of Sister Ignatius’s story, Phineas realized that she’d either invented the story herself or saw it first hand, as he could never fathom anyone telling a nun such a story.
She continued as coolly as she had begun. “It’s a good thing for Mrs. Keats that I was able to overhear some of the ladies who come to Mass on Sunday. I sit in the pew behind them. Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Honigmann were two rocks of reliability when it came to spilling the beans, but
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