under my elbow, lightly, as if he were afraid he might frighten me, and led me over the fallen logs and around the blackberry branches. I was still half asleep, and it never occurred to me to ask where we were going, or to think there might be something unusual about the groundskeeper leading me off into the woods in the middle of the night. I just wanted to follow.
When we got to the other side of the woods, I saw a small white farmhouse, all lit up. "I wanted you to meet a friend of mine," Son said.
"Isn't it a little late to be visiting people?"
"Miss June's always up," he said. "I've never been by here when she hasn't been up."
He knocked on the door and sure enough, the woman who answered looked like she'd been expecting us. She was a thin woman of maybe sixty-five or seventy, with her hair done up in an elaborate twist on the back of her head.
"Miss June," Son said, "this is my friend Rose. Rose, this is Miss June Clatterbuck."
She took my hands and pulled me inside, saying how glad she was to meet me. "I can always count on Son to make my day. It used to be girls came down from the hotel all the time, but I'm starting to think that back pasture must be getting wider. No one comes to visit now, it's not like the old days at all." She put me down in an old flowered armchair and went off to get us some drinks.
"So do you like living at the hotel?" June called out to me from the kitchen. I wasn't exactly awake yet. I wasn't sure what I was doing there at all.
"It's fine," I said.
"Not something a person could get very excited about, I suppose," she said happily. "Living in a home for unwed mothers and all."
"No," I called back. "I suppose not." I shot Son a look. He nodded at me. I took it to mean that everything was all right.
"Miss June owns Saint Elizabeth's," Son said.
"I do not," she said.
"Well, you sure own everything under it. It was criminal the way they took that place from you. If you ask me, they ought to at least be paying rent."
"What am I going to do with rent from the church? It's not the kind of money a person can enjoy." She came back in, carrying a tray that she put down on the table. "When I'm dead," she said, "they'll find a way to get it once and for all." She seemed a little too bright about the proposition, like she'd cheerfully resigned herself to both facts: her death and the Catholic Church winning out. "You've just got to promise me, Son, you won't let them take down my sign."
"Not while I'm around," he said, putting a couple of cookies on a napkin and handing them to me.
"Oh, they hated that sign," she said, and laughed. "Did you see it?"
"First thing when I came in," I told her. That's when I put it all together. This was June Clatterbuck, the little girl. She was the three-year-old whose father made her drink the water and saved her life. She was the reason Saint Elizabeth's was there at all.
"I had that sign made after my mother died. Cost me a fortune, solid brass. I had it made up to look just like one of those historical markers the state puts up." She stopped and poured herself a Coke. "She wouldn't have liked it, my mother, she would've said I shouldn't do anything that might upset the sisters, but that was only because she was afraid of the big one. But I did it as soon as she was gone. They're fine over there, they do good by you girls, but no one likes to admit that Saint Elizabeth's used to be the Hotel Louisa, and that before that it used to be my father's field and my father's spring."
"They were supposed to call the place the Hotel June," Son said. He was sitting on the couch, which was too small for him. His knees came up nearly to his shoulders.
"There never would have been a Hotel June, I wouldn't have stood for that, even at seventeen. There aren't too many people who remember the spring anymore. I'm not saying it was any sort of miracle, mind you. It was a long time ago, maybe it wasn't anything at all. But it did put Habit on the map for a while, and I
When we got to the other side of the woods, I saw a small white farmhouse, all lit up. "I wanted you to meet a friend of mine," Son said.
"Isn't it a little late to be visiting people?"
"Miss June's always up," he said. "I've never been by here when she hasn't been up."
He knocked on the door and sure enough, the woman who answered looked like she'd been expecting us. She was a thin woman of maybe sixty-five or seventy, with her hair done up in an elaborate twist on the back of her head.
"Miss June," Son said, "this is my friend Rose. Rose, this is Miss June Clatterbuck."
She took my hands and pulled me inside, saying how glad she was to meet me. "I can always count on Son to make my day. It used to be girls came down from the hotel all the time, but I'm starting to think that back pasture must be getting wider. No one comes to visit now, it's not like the old days at all." She put me down in an old flowered armchair and went off to get us some drinks.
"So do you like living at the hotel?" June called out to me from the kitchen. I wasn't exactly awake yet. I wasn't sure what I was doing there at all.
"It's fine," I said.
"Not something a person could get very excited about, I suppose," she said happily. "Living in a home for unwed mothers and all."
"No," I called back. "I suppose not." I shot Son a look. He nodded at me. I took it to mean that everything was all right.
"Miss June owns Saint Elizabeth's," Son said.
"I do not," she said.
"Well, you sure own everything under it. It was criminal the way they took that place from you. If you ask me, they ought to at least be paying rent."
"What am I going to do with rent from the church? It's not the kind of money a person can enjoy." She came back in, carrying a tray that she put down on the table. "When I'm dead," she said, "they'll find a way to get it once and for all." She seemed a little too bright about the proposition, like she'd cheerfully resigned herself to both facts: her death and the Catholic Church winning out. "You've just got to promise me, Son, you won't let them take down my sign."
"Not while I'm around," he said, putting a couple of cookies on a napkin and handing them to me.
"Oh, they hated that sign," she said, and laughed. "Did you see it?"
"First thing when I came in," I told her. That's when I put it all together. This was June Clatterbuck, the little girl. She was the three-year-old whose father made her drink the water and saved her life. She was the reason Saint Elizabeth's was there at all.
"I had that sign made after my mother died. Cost me a fortune, solid brass. I had it made up to look just like one of those historical markers the state puts up." She stopped and poured herself a Coke. "She wouldn't have liked it, my mother, she would've said I shouldn't do anything that might upset the sisters, but that was only because she was afraid of the big one. But I did it as soon as she was gone. They're fine over there, they do good by you girls, but no one likes to admit that Saint Elizabeth's used to be the Hotel Louisa, and that before that it used to be my father's field and my father's spring."
"They were supposed to call the place the Hotel June," Son said. He was sitting on the couch, which was too small for him. His knees came up nearly to his shoulders.
"There never would have been a Hotel June, I wouldn't have stood for that, even at seventeen. There aren't too many people who remember the spring anymore. I'm not saying it was any sort of miracle, mind you. It was a long time ago, maybe it wasn't anything at all. But it did put Habit on the map for a while, and I
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