I swallow hard and scan my brain for any possible trouble that could potentially ambush me once the Crab closes her office door behind us. It doesn’t take much for a teacher to be swept up into a shit storm. Some parent’s boss makes them feel powerless during the day, so when they come home they call Mother Catherine and—with godlike confidence—critique my lesson plans. Or maybe somebody forgot about the peanut ban and stuck a threatening PB&J in a lunchbox, which would have the food allergy moms shooting nuclear warheads at everyone if only they had the capability, and since they don’t, they call and scream until mushroom clouds come out of the phone. This is just par for the course when you are a teacher.
“Sit,” the Crab tells me once we are in her office, and I do as I am told.
“Crazy parent call?” I guess.
“No,” she says.
“So?”
“How’s your marriage?” Mother Catherine says, confusing me.
I blink and then go for a joke. “How’s yours?”
“If you wish to know the thoughts of my husband, I suggest you get down on your knees and ask Him yourself.”
“I just might do that, Mother Catherine.”
“Indulge me. Please. How is your marriage, Mr. Bass?”
“Why are you asking?”
“You are aware that Portia and I speak from time to time? That we have a . . . a relationship.”
“Yes,” I say, and wonder where this is headed.
“I’d like to speak to you now as a friend and not your boss. May I have your permission?”
“Sure,” I say, and begin to feel my palms getting sweaty.
“Portia tells me many things about you. I do believe the woman has mistaken me for a priest, because she has been confessing to me. Only I’m not bound by God to keep what she tells me a secret. Again—not a priest. We both know I would never tell anyone else her secrets, but husband and wife are one flesh, and therefore there should be no secrets between you and Portia.”
“Secrets?” I say, imagining the worst.
“You are a good man, Chuck Bass. One of the best teachers we have here in this school—one of the best teachers I have ever seen in action—mostly because you care so much about the kids. That’s what makes teachers great—empathy. Anyone can learn the subject matter. But caring, well you can’t teach someone that. You either have it in you or you don’t.”
“What does this have to do with my marriage?”
“You are very good to Portia. And she knows it.”
“I love her.”
“And she loves you too, but she’s stuck. You see it plainly, and she knows you see it, which makes it hard for her. Your Tommy sees it too, but pretends he doesn’t just so she won’t feel bad, which ends up making her feel even worse, because she doesn’t know how to get unstuck and she very much wants to—for you and Tommy and herself too. She’s had a crisis of faith, although she wouldn’t put it that way.”
I don’t know what the Crab wants me to say. “I’ve been trying to—”
“You have been a good husband, better than Portia ever dreamed possible.”
I just look at the Crab in her habit and wonder what this is all about.
“Portia and I have been praying together, did you know that?”
I shake my head.
“I have the sisters praying for Portia, and nun prayers are very powerful. I pray for Portia too. Every night. There are some people who are meant to tend the light, and that can be a difficult job over the long haul. Just look at what happened to my husband.”
“Mother Catherine, I appreciate your prayers and the kind words. I really do. But why did you bring me into your office today?”
The Crab grins. “So direct, Mr. Bass.”
I shrug playfully, because I did not mean to be offensive.
She’s smiling too much, I think, just before she says, “Do you remember that when I first interviewed you, I said that Portia and I were linked?”
I don’t remember that specifically, but it sounds like the type of mystical Catholic talk the Crab often uses, so I nod.
“Well, my dear friend Sister Maeve’s prodigal son has come home.”
It takes a second to sink in. “Mr. Vernon is alive? He’s back in the Philadelphia area?”
“No, he’s not in the Philadelphia area,” she says. “But he is alive. We have been communicating. He finally responded to the letters his mother and I wrote him when she was dying and he was in the Vermont wilderness, feeling sorry for himself. Took him some time to get up the courage. But he finally got around to it.”
“He’s really alive?”
“Very much so.”
“Does Portia know about this?” I say, thinking that Mr. Vernon’s being alive—actual proof—is the one thing capable of putting the light back in her eyes. It seems like a miracle, because we’d completely given up.
“She hasn’t a clue,” the Crab says.
“Why didn’t you tell her yourself already?”
“Because opportunities like this don’t come along very often. Chances to resurrect people. Make them whole again. In my experience, it’s best to do it with a little style and flair—panache even, don’t you think? Heighten the experience. Make it memorable—epic. Be a little romantic about it.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Mother. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you do, Mr. Bass. You absolutely do,” Mother Catherine says, and then she slides an envelope across her desk.