before letting out a deep sigh. “He cut out her tongue.”
Father Poole yelled, “HE CUT OUT HER TONGUE? HOW BEASTLY!” Horrified by the brutality of one human being toward another, Phineas placed a hand on his heart and fell back against the wall. “God damn,” Father Poole whispered, but loud enough for Sister Ignatius to hear.
She walked over to Father Poole and nodded in approval. “The Keats’s were neighbors of this church. Their house lies just beyond. You can see it from the stained-glass windows. Every time Father Carroll, Argyle Hobbs, or I used to hear her cries, we’d run next door. That is, Argyle Hobbs would limp, and I would run. Father Carroll wobbled.”
The nun laughed a little at her cruelty, and Father Poole immediately ascertained that Carroll and Sister Ignatius liked each other very little if at all.
“I came here in 1921,” she continued. “By Christmas of the same year we’d had to go next door, due to shrill screams in the darkness, six times. The front door was always ajar, and Mr. Keats always stormed out before we could confront him. But by May of 1922, Mrs. Keats had had enough. One morning we heard screams coming from the Keats’s house, but they weren’t her screams. She’d already come to us just minutes before with a bloodstained knife in her hand. At first Father Carroll thought she’d been cutting tomatoes, but the red stains were darker than any tomato juice.”
“She killed him!” Father Poole gasped.
“No,” Sister Ignatius snapped. “Father, you must let me continue! She did not kill him, although I’m sure he wished she had.” The nun grinned and even managed a chortle. “In the end he got exactly what was coming to him.”
“And what was that, Sister?” Father Poole inquired anxiously.
“ He had robbed her of her eyes, ears, voice, dignity, and self-respect. She robbed him of his jewels. Cut them right off with that old knife! She stood before us with the bloody knife in one hand and her husband’s severed scrotum in the other.”
Father Poole, his mouth hanging open, crossed himself and muttered, “God Almighty!”
Sister Ignatius, still relentless, went on. “I believe his screams could have been heard in the town below. Had we not been right next door, she’d have had no place to go. He would have killed her, writhing in his own pain. We saved her from him . Like a faithful child of God, she knew the doors to His house are never closed. Like a true Christian woman she acknowledged the ultimate sacrifice Jesus made for us, saving her from that jackal she once called husband. She is now devoted in her own way to serving the Lord.”
As Sister Ignatius went over to Mrs. Keats, the crippled woman handed her a plate of food, generously filled, and Father Poole thought, “And serving you as well, isn’t that right, Sister of the Humble Shepherd?”
SEVEN
Argyle Hobbs
Dinner being ready, the three prepared to sit down in the dining room. By now it was dusk, and both Sister Ignatius and Mrs. Keats were making their rounds along the first floor, illuminating the lamps that made for a pleasant ambiance equal to that of candlelight. Father Poole, not knowing the rectory’s protocol, was seated at the head of the table and waited for the ladies.
He inspected his setting, which contained boiled meat of some kind, two unpeeled boiled potatoes, string beans, cooked carrots (also unpeeled), and a glass of milk. The latter was not cold, as Father Poole was able to make out by the warm feel of the glass.
The ladies came back and took their places at the other end of the long table, sitting directly across from one another. As they did so, Father Poole noticed that Mrs. Keats walked with a limp.
“Why is the dear lady limping?” he asked.
Sister Ignatius replied coldly, “Ask her yourself. I’d like to start my dinner, if you don’t mind.”
Father Poole still didn’t know how to gauge the nun. He found her to be boorish and insubordinate,
Father Poole yelled, “HE CUT OUT HER TONGUE? HOW BEASTLY!” Horrified by the brutality of one human being toward another, Phineas placed a hand on his heart and fell back against the wall. “God damn,” Father Poole whispered, but loud enough for Sister Ignatius to hear.
She walked over to Father Poole and nodded in approval. “The Keats’s were neighbors of this church. Their house lies just beyond. You can see it from the stained-glass windows. Every time Father Carroll, Argyle Hobbs, or I used to hear her cries, we’d run next door. That is, Argyle Hobbs would limp, and I would run. Father Carroll wobbled.”
The nun laughed a little at her cruelty, and Father Poole immediately ascertained that Carroll and Sister Ignatius liked each other very little if at all.
“I came here in 1921,” she continued. “By Christmas of the same year we’d had to go next door, due to shrill screams in the darkness, six times. The front door was always ajar, and Mr. Keats always stormed out before we could confront him. But by May of 1922, Mrs. Keats had had enough. One morning we heard screams coming from the Keats’s house, but they weren’t her screams. She’d already come to us just minutes before with a bloodstained knife in her hand. At first Father Carroll thought she’d been cutting tomatoes, but the red stains were darker than any tomato juice.”
“She killed him!” Father Poole gasped.
“No,” Sister Ignatius snapped. “Father, you must let me continue! She did not kill him, although I’m sure he wished she had.” The nun grinned and even managed a chortle. “In the end he got exactly what was coming to him.”
“And what was that, Sister?” Father Poole inquired anxiously.
“ He had robbed her of her eyes, ears, voice, dignity, and self-respect. She robbed him of his jewels. Cut them right off with that old knife! She stood before us with the bloody knife in one hand and her husband’s severed scrotum in the other.”
Father Poole, his mouth hanging open, crossed himself and muttered, “God Almighty!”
Sister Ignatius, still relentless, went on. “I believe his screams could have been heard in the town below. Had we not been right next door, she’d have had no place to go. He would have killed her, writhing in his own pain. We saved her from him . Like a faithful child of God, she knew the doors to His house are never closed. Like a true Christian woman she acknowledged the ultimate sacrifice Jesus made for us, saving her from that jackal she once called husband. She is now devoted in her own way to serving the Lord.”
As Sister Ignatius went over to Mrs. Keats, the crippled woman handed her a plate of food, generously filled, and Father Poole thought, “And serving you as well, isn’t that right, Sister of the Humble Shepherd?”
SEVEN
Argyle Hobbs
Dinner being ready, the three prepared to sit down in the dining room. By now it was dusk, and both Sister Ignatius and Mrs. Keats were making their rounds along the first floor, illuminating the lamps that made for a pleasant ambiance equal to that of candlelight. Father Poole, not knowing the rectory’s protocol, was seated at the head of the table and waited for the ladies.
He inspected his setting, which contained boiled meat of some kind, two unpeeled boiled potatoes, string beans, cooked carrots (also unpeeled), and a glass of milk. The latter was not cold, as Father Poole was able to make out by the warm feel of the glass.
The ladies came back and took their places at the other end of the long table, sitting directly across from one another. As they did so, Father Poole noticed that Mrs. Keats walked with a limp.
“Why is the dear lady limping?” he asked.
Sister Ignatius replied coldly, “Ask her yourself. I’d like to start my dinner, if you don’t mind.”
Father Poole still didn’t know how to gauge the nun. He found her to be boorish and insubordinate,
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