Passenger(29)

Sister Eleanor’s room is at the end of a tight, poorly-lighted corridor with a low ceiling. The room itself is just that—a single room with a child-sized bed against one wall, two shelves groaning with books, a table at the room’s center surrounded by four chairs, a miniature refrigerator on a countertop, and a portable radio on one windowsill. There are a few random photographs on the walls in modest frames, mostly of young black children with their arms around each other or playing on a swing set in some urban park. A closet door stands open and, like the closet of a cartoon character, I make out a file of black frocks and robes, each one identical to the next.

“Have a seat, son.”

I sit at the table while Sister Eleanor goes directly to the cupboards. She removes a plate and sets it on the counter. Then she goes to the refrigerator and takes out cold cuts and bread. I listen to an invisible clock tick and tick and tick as the old nun makes me a sandwich. By the time she sets it in front of me and sits across from me at the table, I have nearly grown a beard.

“My name is Matthew?” I say.

“Eat,” she insists, so I take a big bite of the sandwich. Ham and Swiss cheese with mayo.

“Good,” I say, my mouth full. “Thank you.”

“Your name isn’t Matthew,” she says finally. “I think we both know that by now.”

“I don’t understand…”

“When I first met you, it was John. Maybe you forgot in the time you disappeared. But I never forget.” She brings up a hooked index finger, gnarled and angry-looking, and presses it to her temple. “I am old and there is a lot wrong with me,” she says, “but none of it has anything to do with my mind.” Again, that wry smile appears. “Also, I have committed myself to this life from an early age. I was just a young girl when I heard the call of God. Do you think I’m unfamiliar with Matthews and Johns, with Lukes and Marks? That each time you give me a name you are glancing down at one of the Bibles in the pews?” She wags that crooked index finger at me. “Eat, eat.”

“How many times have you seen me here? How often have I been coming?”

“What has it been? It is not consistent. You disappear for a time and I worry about you. I think of asking Father Griegsheim if he has seen you at a different service, but what do I say? I talk about the man with the shaved head whose name I do not know?” This talking seems to exhaust her. Breathlessly, she adds, “Anyway, I do not want to bring attention to you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, child. You tell me—why?”

“So I’ve been coming here, on and off, for some time now? Giving you different names?”

“The first time was early in the summer. You had more hair then, more meat on your bones. Now you look like a shadow of yourself, but you looked healthier then. We talked and it was very pleasant.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t remember any of it. Please tell me more.”

“It is very clear to me. You said your name was John. You looked lonely and hurt so I talked to you for a long time. I told you about the stomach pains. You convinced me to see a doctor. That is how they diagnosed the cancer. Don’t you remember? It was far along, but I am strong. I am still here. And will be for some time still, God willing.”

“And then what?”

“And then you left. And came back maybe two months later. Again, we talked. I had to soften you up because you seemed uncomfortable talking this time.”

“Like I didn’t know who you were?”

“Like that, yes. And you said your name was Mark. I knew then, right then, that you were in trouble. So I convinced you to attend Sunday mass. And you did. And we talked after Mass every Sunday.” Sister Eleanor frowns, dragging her wrinkled face down to her chin. “You do not remember any of this?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So maybe it has something to do with your headaches.”

“I think maybe you’re right.” I finish the sandwich and Sister Eleanor is already up, filling me a glass of milk. “You said you knew I was in trouble. What did you mean?”

She sets the glass of milk on the table and retakes her seat. “After so many years, it becomes easy to recognize the downtrodden, the needy, the folks who’ve found themselves too far down the wrong path. The second time I saw you—the time you were Mark—you looked haggard and weak, tired and too thin. Your mind seemed preoccupied. I told you about the cancer, and how they were treating the cancer, and you only smiled and continued looking preoccupied. Also, you never talked about yourself. Nothing specific, anyway. It was always about the weather, or about books you’ve read, or you would ask questions of me.”

“All right…”

“Then the names, the fake biblical names. It didn’t take much for me to figure it out.”

“But I still don’t understand. Figure what out?”

“That you are running from someone,” she says. “That it could be the police or it could be people more dangerous than the police. I wasn’t sure and I’m still not sure. And you don’t have to tell me about it now, either. It is none of my business. I am here to talk, and to make sandwiches and pour glasses of milk.”

“And in all this time—during all these conversations—I never said anything specific about myself? Where I was from, if I was married, what I did for a living?”