Free The Next Queen of Heaven-SA by Gregory Maguire Page B

think it could probably be arranged. How are Tuesdays?”

    He didn’t want to sound too eager. It sounded perfect. “I’d have to run it by the guys. But I don’t see why not—”

    “Not so fast. There’s a cost here.”

    “We’re not in a position to rent the space, Sister Alice. We don’t have any money, either singly or as a group—”

    “I’m talking barter. There are seventeen old nuns out there, in varying degrees of physical health. But their mental health is my concern, too. They are woefully secluded. They are too infirm to get out often, and yet too healthy to die. They are women with a wide variety of interests and also, I might add, a considerable amount of education, in some cases. But they suffer from being isolated out there. Not enough going on for them. The word I’m trying to avoid is …”

    “Lunacy?”

    “Depression. This is a group of seriously depressed older women, able to take care of themselves but not much more than that. They can manage the running of the building, the cooking, the laundry, the nursing of the sick among them—more or less—while I handle the finances and so on. My Abbess in Montreal approves my administrative work here at Our Lady’s, but requires that I look in on the Motherhouse and try to provide what they need. And I feel that what they need is some human contact.”

    “Oh.” Jeremy felt conflicted. “Some say gay men aren’t fully human.”

    “They say that about women who live in community, too,” snapped Sister Alice. “Look, I think I could persuade them to open up their parlor to you boys, if you agreed to spend some time chatting with them each time you went. You would get your rehearsal space and you’d be doing a service to them as well. What do you think?”

    “Sister Alice.” Jeremy rubbed his hands together. It must look like avarice, he thought, and that’s what I feel, but can I make this work? “I don’t want to be rude, but we’re talking about men who don’t all have as easygoing an attitude toward the Church as I do. We’re talking about a couple of gay men with HIV. One of them isn’t Catholic. And the Catholic one hates organized religion with a passion.”

    “There’s a Bechstein.”

    “Oooh, you’re good.” Jeremy turned to Father Mike. “Are you sure that Wednesday nights are out—?”

    “Isn’t she a miracle worker?” Father Mike beamed at Sister Alice.

    “Flattery, flattery; more welcome than accurate. Still, I’ll take what I can get.” Sister Alice picked up a motorcycle helmet from behind the plastic tub of a dying ficus. Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “I did a mischief to the car’s rotator cuff, or whatever it’s called,” she said as they walked out together. “I talked the garage into loaning me a bike for the duration.”

    “Don’t you need a special license to drive a motorcycle?”

    “Jeremy. Come on. No highway trooper in upstate New York is going to ask to see a nun’s driver’s license.”

    He didn’t know if she was joking or not, but a bike waited in the parking lot, next to the St. Vincent de Paul Society drop-off bin. “Want to take a spin around the block?”

    “No. No thanks.”

    She looked at him with a shake of her head. “You know, I hate to fall back on stereotypes, Jeremy, but isn’t a handsome young buck like you supposed to have a more heightened sense of adventure than a middle-aged nun? You should get out more.” He thought she’d stepped across the line. He tried for a neutral tone, maybe mocking, maybe aggressive: “You want to get me a hooker? Or some Ecstasy? Or a new job that actually pays real money?”

    She wasn’t one to back down. “A new boyfriend, maybe. Someone who could make you a little cheerier. Don’t look so shocked. I told you I know depression when I see it. Here, would you pin my veil to my backpack? It tends to whip about.” She handed him an old Clinton/Gore button and turned her back to him.

    “Are you allowed to do