When they left an hour later, Willy and Alvirah walked Monsignor Ferris to the door of the rectory. The already cloudy sky was now completely overcast. The wind had become sharp, and the raw, damp cold was bone penetrating.

  “They’re predicting a long winter,” Alvirah said. “Can you imagine in a couple of weeks, having to tell those little kids that they can’t go to Home Base, where they’re safe and warm and comfortable?”

  It was a rhetorical question, of course, and as she asked it, even Alvirah was only half listening. Instead, her attention was directed across the street, where a young woman in a sweat suit was standing, staring at the rectory.

  “Monsignor Tom,” she said. “See that woman. Don’t you think there’s something odd about the way she’s just standing there?”

  He nodded. “I saw her there yesterday, and then she was at early Mass this morning. I caught up to her before she left and asked if I could help her in any way. She just shook her head and almost rushed away. If she has a problem she wants to discuss, I think I’m going to have to let her come to me.”

  Willy put a restraining hand on Alvirah’s arm. “Don’t forget we’re due at Home Base to help Cordelia with the rehearsal for the Christmas pageant,” he reminded her.

  “Meaning mind my own business. Well, I suppose you’re right,” Alvirah agreed cheerfully.

  She glanced across the street again. The young woman was walking rapidly away, headed west. Alvirah squinted to get a good look at her classic profile even as she admired her regal carriage. “She looks familiar,” she said flatly. “I’ll have to put on my thinking cap.”

  4

  They’re talking about me, Sondra thought as she hurried away. The townhouse she had been standing in front of was no longer under repair, as it had been before. There was no scaffolding to shield her today as she tried to decide what to do.

  But what could she do? Certainly she couldn’t buy back that moment seven years ago when she had crossed the street, opened the stroller and left her baby on the rectory stoop. If only. If only, she thought. Then: Dear God, where can I turn? What happened to her? Who took my little girl? She fought back tears.

  A cab with its light on was stopped in traffic. She raised her hand to signal the driver. “The Wyndham, on West Fifty-eighth between Fifth and Sixth,” she said as she got into the backseat.

  “First visit to New York?” the cabbie asked.

  “No.” But I haven’t been here in seven years, she thought. Her first visit had been when she was twelve and her grandfather brought her here from Chicago to a Midori concert at Carnegie Hall. He had brought her twice again after that. “Someday you will play on that stage,” he had promised her solemnly. “You have the gift. You can be as successful as she.”

  A violinist whose hands had been limited by arthritis, cutting short his career, her grandfather had made his living as a music teacher and critic. And supported me, Sondra thought sadly-when he was sixty years old he took me in.

  She had been only ten when her young parents had been killed in an accident. Granddad devoted himself to me, taught me everything he knew about music, she reminded herself. And he used every spare penny he could find to take me to hear the great violinists.

  Her talent had earned her a full scholarship to the University of Birmingham, and it was there, in the spring of her freshman year, that she met Anthony del Torre, a pianist visiting the campus for a concert. What followed should never have happened.

  How could I have told Granddad that I got involved with a man I knew was married? She asked herself now. I couldn’t have kept the baby. There was no money to pay for help. I had years of schooling ahead of me. And if I had told him what had happened, it would have broken his heart.

  As the cab made its way through the slow traffic, Sondra thought back to that wrenching time. She thought about how she had saved money to come to New York, she remembered checking into a cheap hotel on November 30th, buying the baby clothes and diapers, the bottles and formula and stroller. She had located the hospital closest to the hotel and had planned to go to the emergency room when she went into labor. She would, of course, have to give a false name and address. But the baby had come so quickly on December 3rd; there had been no time to get to the hospital.

  Early in the pregnancy, she had decided that New York was where she would leave the baby. She loved the city. From her very first visit there with her granddad, she knew that someday she would live in Manhattan. She had instantly felt at home there. On that first visit, her grandfather had taken her to St. Clement’s, the church he had attended throughout his boyhood. “Whenever I wanted a special favor, I would kneel in the pew nearest Bishop Santori’s picture and his chalice,” he told her. “From them I always received comfort. Sondra, I went there when I realized there was no hope for the stiffening fingers. That was the nearest I ever came to despair.”

  In the several days before the baby was born, Sondra had slipped in and out of St. Clement’s; each time she had knelt in that pew. She had watched the clergymen there; she’d seen the kindness in the face of Monsignor Ferris and knew that she could trust him to find a good home for her baby.

  Where is my baby now? Sondra wondered in despair. She’d been in agony since yesterday. As soon as she checked into the hotel, she had phoned the rectory and said she was a reporter following up on the story of the baby who had been left on the stoop of the rectory on December 3rd, seven years ago.

  The astonishment in the secretary’s voice had warned her of what was to come. “A baby left at St. Clement’s?! I’m afraid you’re wrong. I’ve been here twenty years, and nothing like that has ever happened.”

  The cab turned onto Central Park South. I used to daydream that maybe the people who adopted the baby were pushing her in her carriage here, along the park, Sondra thought, where the baby could see the horses and carriages.

  Late yesterday afternoon she had gone to the public library and called up the microfilm of the New York newspapers of December 4th, seven years ago. The only reference to St. Clement’s that day was an article about a theft there, stating that the chalice of Bishop Santori, the founding pastor to whom many of the devout prayed, had been stolen.

  That’s probably why the police were there when I called that night; that’s why the monsignor was outside, Sondra thought, her distress growing. And I believed it was because they’d found the baby.

  Then who had taken the baby? She had left her in a paper shopping bag for added warmth. Maybe some kids had come by and pushed the stroller away and abandoned it, without ever realizing she was there. Suppose the baby had died of exposure. I’d go to prison, Sondra thought. What would that do to Granddad? He keeps telling me that all the sacrifices he’s made over the years have been worthwhile because of what I’ve become. He’s so proud that I’ll be playing a concert at Carnegie Hall on December 23rd. It’s what he always dreamed of-first for himself, and then for me.

  The celebrity-studded charity affair would introduce her to the New York critics. Yo-Yo Ma, Plácido Domingo, Kathleen Battle, Emanuel Ax and the brilliant young violinist Sondra Lewis were the main attractions. She still could hardly believe it.

  “We’re here, miss,” the cabbie said, an edge in his voice. With a start, Sondra realized that his irritation was due to the fact that he’d already told her that once.

  “Oh, sorry.” The fare was $3.40. She fished in her wallet for a five-dollar bill. “That’s fine,” she said, opening the door and starting to get out.

  “I don’t think you really wanted to give me a forty-five dollar tip, miss.”

  Sondra looked at the fifty-dollar bill the cabbie was holding out to her. “Oh, thank you,” she stammered.

  “That’s a big mistake, lady. Lucky for you I don’t take advantage of pretty young women.”

  As Sondra exchanged the fifty for a five-dollar bill, she thought-too bad you weren’t around when I traded my baby for my grandfather’s good opinion of me and my own chance at success.

  5

  When they reached the building on Amsterdam Avenue -formerly the Goldsmith and Son Furniture Emporium-that now housed Sister Cordelia’s clothing thrift shop, Alvirah and Willy went directly to the second floor.

  It was four o’clock, and the children who regularly came to Home Base to take advantage of the after-school facilities were sitting cross-legged on the floor around Sister Maeve Marie. The large area had been transformed into a kind of bright and cheery auditorium. The faded linoleum was polished to the point that even the floorboards beneath the worn spaces glistened.

  The walls were painted sunshine yellow and decorated with drawings and cutouts the children had made. Old-fashioned radiators whistled and thudded, but thanks to Willy and his near-magical ability to fix the unfixable, there was no mistaking the warmth they provided.

  “Today is very special,” Sister Maeve Marie was saying. “We’re going to begin practice for our Christmas pageant.”

  Willy and Alvirah slipped into seats near the staircase and watched affectionately. A regular volunteer at Home Base, Alvirah was in charge of the party that was to follow the pageant, and Willy would be playing Santa Claus.

  The children’s expectant and lively eyes were riveted on Sister Maeve Marie as she explained, “Today we’re going to start learning the songs about Christmas and Chanukah that we’ll be performing at the pageant. Then we’ll study our lines.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful that Cordelia and Maeve are making sure that everybody has a speaking part?” Alvirah whispered.

  “Everybody? Well, let’s hope it’s a short speaking part,” Willy replied.

  Alvirah smiled. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “Sshh.” She patted his hand as Sister Maeve Marie read off the names of the children who would be assigned to tell the story of Chanukah. “Rachel, Barry, Sheila…”

  Cordelia appeared from downstairs and, with her practiced eye, glanced over the children. Seeing mischief about, she walked over to Jerry, the lively seven-year-old who was poking the six-year-old seated next to him.

  She tapped him lightly. “Keep that up, and I’ll find a new Saint Joseph,” she warned, then turned and joined Alvirah and Willy. “When I got back, there was another message from Pablo Torres,” she said. “He’d gone to bat for us, and I do believe he tried his best, but he says there was no way he could get an extension on keeping this place open. I think he was as happy as I was to hear about Bessie’s townhouse. He knows the block and said he’s sure there won’t be any problem transferring our operation there. We can even take in more kids.”

  One of the volunteer salespeople at the thrift shop came rushing up the stairs. “Sister, Kate Durkin is on the phone, asking to talk to you. Hurry; she’s crying her eyes out.”

  6

  No traces remained of the festive luncheon they had enjoyed only a few hours earlier. But once again, Willy, Alvirah, Monsignor Ferris and Sister Cordelia sat at the same table they had dined at earlier in the day. Kate was with them, quietly weeping.

  “I spoke to the Bakers an hour ago,” she said. “I told them that I was turning the house over to Home Base and that I couldn’t renew their lease.”

  “And you say they produced a new will?” Willy asked incredulously.

  “Yes. They said Bessie had changed her mind, that she hadn’t been a bit happy at the prospect of having the house wrecked by a bunch of kids. They also told me that she said the repairs Vic has made and the painting he’s done showed her that they’d keep the house in pristine condition, just the way she wanted it. You know how much she loved this house.”

  She married the judge to get it, Alvirah thought wryly. “When did she sign it?”

  “Just a few days ago, on November 30th.”

  “She showed me the previous will when I stopped in to see her on November 27th,” Monsignor Ferris said. “She seemed quite happy with it then. That was when she asked me to make sure that Kate could stay in the apartment after she transferred the house to the Home Base program.”

  “Bessie left me an income, and according to the new will, I’m allowed to live in the apartment in the Bakers’ home rent free. As though I’d stay here with those people!” The tears now ran freely down Kate’s face. “I can’t believe Bessie would do this to me. To leave this house to perfect strangers like that. She knew I didn’t like the Bakers. And to get an apartment somewhere else is impossible. You know what the prices are in Manhattan.”

  Kate’s scared and she’s angry and she’s hurt, Alvirah thought. But even worse… She looked across the table and thought that for the first time since she’d known her, Cordelia looked her age.

  Catching her sister-in-law’s eye, she said, “Cordelia, we’ll think of something to keep Home Base going, I promise.”

  Cordelia shook her head. “Not in under four weeks,” she said. “Not unless the age of miracles isn’t over.”

  Monsignor Ferris had been carefully studying the copy of the new will that Vic Baker had presented to Kate.

  “From my experience, it looks absolutely legitimate,” he commented. “It’s on Bessie’s stationery, we know that she was a good typist, and that certainly is her signature. Take a look, Alvirah.”

  Alvirah skimmed the page and a half and then reread it carefully. “It certainly sounds like Bessie,” she admitted. “Listen, Willy. ‘A home is like a child, and as one nears the end, it becomes important to surrender that home to the protection of those who would care for it in the most fitting manner. I cannot be comfortable knowing that the daily presence of many small children will totally change the appearance and character of the pristine house for which I have sacrificed so much.’

  “Does she mean being married to Judge Maher?” Willy asked. “He wasn’t a bad little guy.”

  Alvirah shrugged and continued to read. “‘Therefore I leave my home to Victor and Linda Baker, who will care for it in a manner suited to its genteel quality.’ “

  “Genteel quality, indeed!” she snorted as she laid the will on the table. “What could he more genteel than giving a helping hand to children?” She turned to the monsignor. “Who witnessed this miserable piece of paper?”

  “Two of the Bakers’ friends,” Monsignor Ferris said. “We’ll get a lawyer, of course, just to see if there’s anything to be done, but it certainly looks legitimate to me.”

  Willy had been observing Alvirah for the past several minutes. “Your brain cells are working, honey. I can tell,” he said.

  “They sure are,” Alvirah conceded as she reached to turn on the microphone in her sunburst pin. “This will may sound like Bessie in most ways, but Kate, did you ever hear her use the word ‘pristine’?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Kate said slowly.

  “What kind of things did she say when she talked about the house?” Alvirah asked, persisting in her probe of the new will.

  “Oh, you know Bessie. She’d brag that you could eat a seven-course meal off the floor-that sort of thing.”

  “Exactly,” Alvirah said. “I know it looks bad, but every bone in my body says that this will is a phony. And Kate, Cordelia-I promise you that if there’s any way to prove it, then I’ll find that way. I’m on the job!”

  7

  Sister Maeve Marie had remained at Home Base and continued the rehearsal for the Christmas pageant, although in her mind she conjured up the worst possible scenario to explain why Sister Cordelia, Willy and Alvirah had raced off to see Kate Durkin.

  “Something’s gone wrong, and Kate’s all upset,” was all that Cordelia had time to tell her before she left.

  Was it possible that Kate had been robbed or mugged? Maeve Marie wondered. She knew that sometimes felons would look through the death notices in the paper and would burglarize the deceased’s home when they thought the bereaved were at the funeral. A former New York City cop herself with four policemen brothers, Maeve Marie thought instantly of potential criminal activity.

  All the children at Home Base had been assigned their parts for the pageant and told to practice their lines at home. The Chanukah story would be recited at the beginning of the pageant, immediately followed by the Chanukah song.

  Next would come the scene in which the decree from Caesar Augustus was read, proclaiming a census and telling everyone to go to the village of his ancestors to be registered.

  The play had been written by Cordelia and Alvirah, and Maeve Marie had complimented them on including so many speaking parts in that first scene. The kids loved that. Plus the lines were both simple and familiar.

  “But my father’s village is so far away.”

  “It is such a long journey, and there is no one to care for the children.”

  “We must find someone, because nothing is more important than that our children are safe.”

  Cordelia had confessed that she was taking a few liberties with some of the dialogue, but she had invited the housing inspectors to the pageant and she wanted to be sure to get the message across to them: Nothing is more important than that our children are safe.

  The only children who had not been assigned lines at random were the three wise men, the shepherds, the Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph. The ones selected for those parts were the best singers in the group and would lead the singing in the stable scene.

  Jerry Nunez, the biggest cutup among the younger children, was to be Saint Joseph, and Stellina Centino, a grave and oddly composed seven-year-old, was Mary.

  Stellina and Jerry lived on the same block, and Jerry’s mother picked up both children at the end of the day. “Stellina’s mama took off for California when she was a baby,” Mrs. Nunez explained to the nuns. “And her dad is away a lot. Her great-aunt Lilly raised her, but now lately Lilly’s been sick a lot, poor woman. And she worries so much. You wouldn’t believe how she worries about Stellina. She says, ‘Gracie, I’m eighty-two; I gotta live another ten years anyhow so I can raise her. That’s my prayer.’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11