they had no idea I was listening. Mrs. Honigmann only knows what she knows because her husband is the town doctor. He’d have firsthand knowledge of Mrs. Keats’s injuries. Naturally there is no such thing as patient confidentiality in this town.”
Sister Ignatius stopped for a moment. At first Father Poole assumed that she was beginning to suffer from a guilty conscience, talking in such detail about Mrs. Keats in front of her and to a perfect stranger, but her break was only so that she could think of more details to tell him.
“When they were first wed,” Sister Ignatius went on, “they quickly consummated the marriage, but it was as if Mr. Keats needed to consummate every night, and she accepted him every night. When she was six months with child he began coming home late every night drunk as could be. One evening he threw her down a flight of stairs, and she lost the child. After that he began raping her at will. Not long after she began to refuse him, but he’d go for her anyway. He’d have his way with her and amuse himself by finding different ways to humiliate her. He used broom handles, sharpened pencils, and a pair of scissors. Once I even heard that he got a telephone receiver halfway up… .”
She stopped abruptly as Father Poole shrieked in disgust and compassion all at once. The priest slowly regained what little composure he had left. By this time Mrs. Keats had taken notice of the two of them standing there. She nodded her head ever so slightly at Sister Ignatius but didn’t pay much attention to Father Poole.
“God bless you, my child,” he said to her softly as the plump woman turned her back to them, focusing her attention on the boiled meat atop the stove.
“Remember, Father,” Sister Ignatius said matter-of-factly. “If you want her to understand you, let her read your lips or simply talk very loud. She’s lost over ninety percent of her hearing. Her husband hated that she’d put too much rosemary on his lamb, so he boxed her ears with the handles of two wooden spoons.”
Father Poole looked back to the hanging cymbal and said softly, “It’s her way of calling us to eat, isn’t it?”
Sister Ignatius didn’t answer at first, although her brief pause was pregnant with a thousand silent insults directed entirely at Father Poole.
“Does she not speak from the sheer trauma of her past?” he asked.
“Oh, you want me to go on, do you?” Sister Ignatius said sarcastically.
“You mean there’s more?” Father Poole replied nervously, thinking Who could have survived what I’ve just heard ? And yet there was more. “Brain damage, I suppose,” he said at length. “The injury done to her eardrums penetrated… .”
“No, no, no,” said Sister Ignatius in an annoyed tone. “Nothing like that. This woman had promised to love, honor, and obey that beast. What did he do to her? Beating her wasn’t enough. Breaking her eardrums wasn’t enough. That son-of-a-bitch… .” She paused, looked over at Mrs. Keats, and then leaned toward Father Poole. “He made her eat lye,” she whispered.
“What was that? Her husband made her what?” The nun grunted at the thought of having to repeat what she had just said.
“HE-FED-HER- LYE !” she hollered.
“Lye!” he repeated.
“Yes, Father,” she replied, sounding calmer now. “ Lye . She lost most of her eyesight. Lye blinds you if you ingest it, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Father Poole said. “I see. And this ultimately rendered her incapable of speech?”
The Sister sucked her teeth and began, “No, Father. You must let me finish the story.”
“Yes,” the young priest said, needlessly keeping his voice low. “Please finish. I am… uhm. Yes, finish your… uhm… .”
Sister Ignatius continued, ignoring Father Poole. “Mr. Keats was in fact a very smart man. He knew that feeding lye to his wife might land him in prison, possibly for attempted murder, so to silence her… .” She paused again
Sister Ignatius stopped for a moment. At first Father Poole assumed that she was beginning to suffer from a guilty conscience, talking in such detail about Mrs. Keats in front of her and to a perfect stranger, but her break was only so that she could think of more details to tell him.
“When they were first wed,” Sister Ignatius went on, “they quickly consummated the marriage, but it was as if Mr. Keats needed to consummate every night, and she accepted him every night. When she was six months with child he began coming home late every night drunk as could be. One evening he threw her down a flight of stairs, and she lost the child. After that he began raping her at will. Not long after she began to refuse him, but he’d go for her anyway. He’d have his way with her and amuse himself by finding different ways to humiliate her. He used broom handles, sharpened pencils, and a pair of scissors. Once I even heard that he got a telephone receiver halfway up… .”
She stopped abruptly as Father Poole shrieked in disgust and compassion all at once. The priest slowly regained what little composure he had left. By this time Mrs. Keats had taken notice of the two of them standing there. She nodded her head ever so slightly at Sister Ignatius but didn’t pay much attention to Father Poole.
“God bless you, my child,” he said to her softly as the plump woman turned her back to them, focusing her attention on the boiled meat atop the stove.
“Remember, Father,” Sister Ignatius said matter-of-factly. “If you want her to understand you, let her read your lips or simply talk very loud. She’s lost over ninety percent of her hearing. Her husband hated that she’d put too much rosemary on his lamb, so he boxed her ears with the handles of two wooden spoons.”
Father Poole looked back to the hanging cymbal and said softly, “It’s her way of calling us to eat, isn’t it?”
Sister Ignatius didn’t answer at first, although her brief pause was pregnant with a thousand silent insults directed entirely at Father Poole.
“Does she not speak from the sheer trauma of her past?” he asked.
“Oh, you want me to go on, do you?” Sister Ignatius said sarcastically.
“You mean there’s more?” Father Poole replied nervously, thinking Who could have survived what I’ve just heard ? And yet there was more. “Brain damage, I suppose,” he said at length. “The injury done to her eardrums penetrated… .”
“No, no, no,” said Sister Ignatius in an annoyed tone. “Nothing like that. This woman had promised to love, honor, and obey that beast. What did he do to her? Beating her wasn’t enough. Breaking her eardrums wasn’t enough. That son-of-a-bitch… .” She paused, looked over at Mrs. Keats, and then leaned toward Father Poole. “He made her eat lye,” she whispered.
“What was that? Her husband made her what?” The nun grunted at the thought of having to repeat what she had just said.
“HE-FED-HER- LYE !” she hollered.
“Lye!” he repeated.
“Yes, Father,” she replied, sounding calmer now. “ Lye . She lost most of her eyesight. Lye blinds you if you ingest it, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” Father Poole said. “I see. And this ultimately rendered her incapable of speech?”
The Sister sucked her teeth and began, “No, Father. You must let me finish the story.”
“Yes,” the young priest said, needlessly keeping his voice low. “Please finish. I am… uhm. Yes, finish your… uhm… .”
Sister Ignatius continued, ignoring Father Poole. “Mr. Keats was in fact a very smart man. He knew that feeding lye to his wife might land him in prison, possibly for attempted murder, so to silence her… .” She paused again
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