How Like an Angel by Margaret Millar Page A

shapeless gray robes it’s hard to differentiate them. That’s probably the purpose of the robes, to suppress style and individuality. It works, anyway.”
    He realized, even as he spoke, that it was an exaggeration. Sister Blessing had managed to retain her individuality, and so, to a certain extent, had the others: Brother Light of the In­finite with his anxious concern for the livestock that were his responsibility, Sister Contrition trying to save her children from the evil ways of the world they would learn in school, Brother Tongue, mute, with only a little bird for his voice, Sister Glory of the Ascension thriftily constructing a mattress from the Brothers’ hair, Brother of the Steady Heart wielding his razor with myopic zeal—they were, and always would be, individuals, not ants in an ant hill or bees in a beehive.
    â€œShe was once a nurse?” Martha O’Gorman said.
    â€œSo she told me.”
    â€œI know a lot of nurses now, of course, but I didn’t in those days before I started to work here. Besides, most of the people Patrick and I considered our friends are still living in Chicote.”
    â€œLike John Ronda and his wife?”
    â€œHis wife, certainly. John, perhaps.”
    â€œAnd George Haywood?”
    She hesitated, looking out at the fountain as if the moving water had half hypnotized her. “I’ve met Mr. Haywood, though not socially. A long time ago Patrick worked for him for a few weeks. It wasn’t a satisfactory arrangement. Patrick was much too honest for that kind of job.”
    Her version, Quinn noted, was a lot different from Ronda’s. “Are you acquainted with a Mrs. King, one of Haywood’s associates?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhat about Alberta Haywood?”
    â€œThe one who stole the money? I was never introduced to her but I used to see her occasionally in the bank when I cashed Patrick’s paycheck. Why on earth are you asking me about all these people? They have nothing to do with Patrick or me. It’s been seven years or more since Patrick worked for Mr. Haywood, and, I repeat, I never met him socially and I don’t know either his associate or his sister.”
    â€œYour husband was a bookkeeper, Mrs. O’Gorman?”
    She looked suddenly cautious. “Well, yes. He took a cor­respondence course. He didn’t have a natural talent for figures, but—”
    â€œBut you helped him?”
    â€œSometimes. You got that from Ronda, I suppose. Well, it’s no secret. It’s a wife’s job to help her husband when he needs it. I’m not ashamed either of helping him or of his needing help. I’m a realistic woman, Mr. Quinn, I don’t fight facts. If Patrick was not overly endowed with brains, he could lean a little on mine, as I leaned, more than a little, on the fine qualities he possessed which I didn’t, sweetness, generosity, tolerance. Those aren’t my good points. They were Patrick’s. We borrowed from each other, and we leaned on each other, and we had a full, happy life together.”
    Tears glistened in her eyes, and Quinn wondered whether they were caused by regrets for the once full and happy life or by a realization that it had not been as full or happy as she liked to pretend. Had the O’Gormans been an ideal couple, or a couple whose ideals prevented any admission of failure? Had O’Gorman accepted the fact of his own inferiority with the same equanimity as his wife did?
    â€œFor a long time after Patrick’s accident,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, “there were rumors, whispers, insinuations. People would stare at me and I could see them thinking, is that the Martha O’Gorman we know or is it some monster who would kill her husband for his insurance money? No, I wasn’t imagining things, Mr. Quinn. My own friends were suspicious. Ask John Ronda, he was one of them. For me it was a double tragedy: I