Then Came Heaven by Lavyrle Spencer

parish grounds and were walking up the narrow tarred driveway between the church and the school. “Thank you for your prayers and for your charitable counsel,” Sister Regina said as a comer of the convent came into view. “I shall strive to do better.”
    They entered the convent through the kitchen door and found Sister Ignatius crimping the crusts on two apple pies. The room was redolent of bay leaf and onion from the chicken that was stewing on the stove. The sound of rudimentary piano music came from one of the music rooms as Sister Gregory gave a piano lesson, and Sister Regina felt her emotions shift into a comfort zone, for this was the familiar, and there was a great deal of comfort in the familiar. Even in the regimented words of greeting they spoke as they encountered the cook.
    “Praise be to Jesus,” the two said as they walked through the room.
    “Amen,” replied Sister Ignatius.
    In the refectory, Sister Cecelia was setting the table for supper.
    “Praise be to Jesus,” they greeted her as they passed the open doorway.
    “Amen,” Sister Gregory replied, and they continued upstairs.
    It was Saturday afternoon, which was considered free time. But Sister Regina’s charge this month was to act as Sacristan, which meant keeping the sacristy clean and preparing it especially for Sunday Mass. In her room she found a straight pin and tacked her veil together in back, donned a clean white floor-length apron over her black habit and, since she’d be scrubbing, removed her elastic undersleeves.
    She entered the church by the back door that led into Father’s sacristy. It was connected to the altar boys’ sacristy, on the opposite side of the sanctuary, by a passageway that curved around behind the main altar. Now in late afternoon the light in the passageway was the color of apple juice as the sun filtered through the amber panes of the leaded windows.
    Crossing the sanctuary, Sister Regina genuflected, made the sign of the cross, and began her work. Father had finished Confessions, so all was still. She damp-mopped the floor, dusted the carvings on the altar, the priest’s and servers’ chairs against the left wall, the pulpit, the furniture that held Father’s vestments, and the deep windowsills. She changed the altar cloth and put a crisply ironed corporal over the chalice. She made sure the chalice was filled with hosts from the small safe in Father’s sacristy. She put new candles in the gold candlesticks and kept the old stubs to melt down for future use. She threw away some wilting gladioli from the altar and went over to the schoolhouse to get two potted yellow chrysanthemums from the flower room. When they were nicely balanced on the main altar she went to one of the side altars and put a lighted candle before the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary—always part of the Saturday ritual. At the communion rail she hung a crisp new linen cloth edged with wide crocheted lace. And finally, she went to the twenty-gallon crock in Father’s sacristy and filled a pitcher with holy water. She was replenishing the fonts in the front vestibule when the door opened and Eddie Olczak appeared. He was dressed as he’d been at the funeral home, in dark trousers and a plaid shirt instead of his workday overalls.
    He stopped halfway inside when he saw her, then his hand went up to remove his felt dress hat.
    “Oh, Sister,” he said in surprise, and let the door close behind him. The vestibule turned dun in the scarce light from the two tiny leaded windows set high in the doors.
    “Mr. Olczak, what are you doing here?” She had not expected to encounter him since his brothers had taken over his work.
    “Well, you know... force of habit. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay over here. Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
    “Your brothers have seen after everything. There’s no need for you to worry about anything here. And I’ve taken care of the sacristy for Mass.”
    “Yes... well...” He glanced away, then