Houses and the Holy

"I'm trying to get her to do just that, but she's a stubborn cuss."

"Jesus," I said. Used to my blasphemies, Henriette didn't flinch. "This is ridiculous. Most women I know live to go to the doctor." And to share the results of the inspection with the entire office, I thought. Baron Munchhausen can't have been any match for the baroness.

Henriette grinned. "Nuns aren't women. Nuns are nuns." She smote her palm with a fist to reinforce the point and headed back toward the kitchen. I abandoned my mashed potatoes and followed.

We found Sister Lucia sitting on a high stool by the dishwasher, holding a rag to her nose. When she saw, me she waved gaily and put on a hostess' smile. "How are you doing?" she asked.

"Never mind me," I said. "How are you doing?"

She made a gesture of dismissal. "Oh, never mind me. My nose gets sensitive in dry weather, especially during cold snaps. I'll be fine. I'm just sorry I had to run out on everyone." When I asked if she planned to visit the doctor, she balled up the napkin and dropped it in the wastebasket. "Don't let Henriette scare you," she said, wagging a finger. And then she was gone. I could hear her making the rounds, apologizing for her disappearance.

Henriette shrugged and listed out the door. Remembering my stuffing, I turned to go myself. As I passed the wastebasket, I caught side of Sister Lucia's napkin. I try not to dwell too long on other people's used sanitary products, but I was struck by the thought of that napkin lying in a jeweled reliquary, a conduit for miracles venerated by throngs of pilgrims. The blood on that rag, I realized, could turn out to be the blood of a martyr.