Second Place Winner

A Different Path

By Susan Machnica

The door clicked shut behind her, echoing through the otherwise silent corridor. The heels of her black oxford shoes beat like a gavel against the worn maroon carpeting as she continued toward the door at the end of the hall.

Crystal rosary beads dangled from her right hand, clinking together like a pouch of coins and marbles, as she began her way down the walk. The rosary had been a gift from a neighbor child, Amanda. “To YoYo,” the card had read. Amanda couldn't say “Yovita” and the nickname attached itself until the child reached her teens and began calling her “Joni.” Yovita liked the name “Joni,” for it felt to her to be a name of endearment.

She stopped for a moment, observing a layer of fog that had obscured the earth like a cloud that had dropped from the sky, illumined by the sun's early morning rays. Celestial , she thought. It had been three years since she had begun her early morning regimen, and it had become her favorite part of the day. It cleared her head and she felt it brought her closer to nature, and thus, closer to God. She began her walk with the same prayer each day:

“Slow my pace, Lord. Take my hand and walk with me on my journey each and every day of my life. Help me to rejoice in the little things and the quiet moments of this day, for they are the fibers of a rich and fulfilling life. Thank you for this day and for the gift of life.”

When she had entered the convent 14 years earlier, she felt certain that she was following God's plan for her life, and now she just wasn't sure, nor did she know what to do with her feelings. There were some days when she felt trapped, and others when she longed for a companion. In her confusion, she continued to pray for guidance.

She started down Hamilton Street and then picked up a path that meandered through the neighborhood, as she did most days. The blissful sounds of nature were replaced by the detonation of dueling lawn mowers, with both mowers headed in her direction. She quickened her pace until she reached Marietta Lane, the noise becoming more faint. The picture of the lawn mowers moving in on her brought back thoughts of her childhood when she was often caught between her parents' bitter quarrels.

“Good morning, Sister.” The male voice stopped her abruptly and she turned her head. She hadn't realized that she had just passed the Bedermans' house. Each morning as she walked by she would glance up the flight of stairs leading to the second floor at 1216 Marietta, where she would often see Jeff Bederman sipping coffee from a mug and smoking a cigarette.

“Good morning, Mr. Bederman. Beautiful morning, isn't it?” she called back.

Sister Yovita liked Jeff Bederman. She liked his gentle, easygoing manner. On occasion when she had seen him up close, she noticed that a lock of his dark, wavy hair would wander down over his left eye. She sensed a depth to his eyes she had not observed in others, mixed with a sparkle of mischief, and she had always had a fondness for blue eyes. Yes, Jeff Bederman had caught her attention from the day she first met him at a Sunday service ten months earlier. At first she had thought he was unmarried, but then he had mentioned his wife. She often thought that if she had met someone like Jeff Bederman instead of Benny McPherson years back, perhaps she wouldn't have entered the convent. Not that she ever regretted the choice she had made. Not for a minute. In fact, she felt the choice she made had saved her life.

“How's convent life treating you?” Jeff Bederman called out again.

“Very well, thank you.” Sister Yovita smiled back and could feel the pink of embarrassment rising in her cheeks. He always got the same reaction from her. She had finally and reluctantly admitted to herself that she was attracted to him, and that she enjoyed the attention she received from him.

“Enjoy the weather, Sister. You have yourself a nice day.” He waved as he spoke, and as she looked up and smiled at him once more, she waved back.

“You do the same, Mr. Bederman,” she called back, as she continued her walk while making the effort to regain her composure. Does he go out of his way to engage in conversation with me? Is he just being friendly or is it more than that?

She stopped at a tree stump and sat staring trance-like at the flickers of light dancing on the water, the scene becoming hypnotic. Why Jeff Bederman? Why now? She felt ashamed and confused.

She pushed up the left sleeve of her blouse, glancing down at her wrist to check the time, her watch literally smiling back at her. Of the few possessions she had chosen to take with her to the convent, this one had been a must.

At sixteen, she had just started her first after school job in a jewelry store and each day she would arrive at work and look through the glass case to see if the watch was still on display. She had wanted it so badly, but she knew it would have taken her a year or more to save enough money to buy it. The tiny diamond eyes would sparkle back at her as she peered in. Mr. Cribbs, the shop owner, noticed that Yovita could not take her eyes off the watch, and had asked if she would like him to put it away for her. He had said he could deduct a small amount from her paycheck each week until the watch was paid for, and that he would let her buy it at his cost. Yovita thanked Mr. Cribbs and told him that she would have to think about it.

She had never dreamed that there was a way she could actually own the watch. She was afraid to agree to Mr. Cribbs' plan of payment -- afraid that her father would find out, demanding to know why she would do such a selfish and frivolous thing with her money. But something inside told her she must do this. It was a chance at owning something of value, something that she could pay for by herself.

She barely slept that night, thinking that she should have agreed to buy the watch right then and there. She tossed and turned, worrying that it would not be there when she returned for work. After school the next day, she ran the six blocks to the shop. Her chest heaving as she walked through the door, she went immediately to the case that had contained the watch, and it grinned up at her.

“Mr. Cribbs,” Yovita said breathlessly, “I've decided,” she continued, stopping for a few short breaths, finishing her sentence in one final burst, “I've decided that I'd like to buy the watch.”

A subtle smile could be seen under the brush of his mustache as he turned to get the key to unlock the case. He leaned over and his arm stretched to its full length as he gently reached into the case, plucking the watch from its resting place. His smile broadened to a grin that matched the one on the watch as he placed into Yovita's waiting hands. She resisted the urge to hug Mr. Cribbs, knowing no other way to express her thanks.

“I lied.” Mr. Cribbs spoke softly. Yovita's head came up abruptly and her eyes met his. What was he saying? Could he have changed his mind? “ I want you to have the watch. You owe me nothing. On the contrary. I owe you.”

“Mr. Cribbs, I couldn't,” Yovita objected, but Mr. Cribbs just gently shook his head.

“No, Yovita, I insist,” he continued. “Do you have any idea how much it means to me that I have someone working in my shop whom I can trust? You must accept this, Yovita. I want you to have it.”

This time, Yovita could not resist showing affection to Mr. Cribbs. He had treated her with kindness and respect since the day she started working for him four months earlier, and she was overwhelmed by his generosity.

Her eyes wet with tears, she stepped towards him and her arms reached around his neck, feeling the stubble of his cheek against hers. She had felt safe at that moment, a feeling she had never felt once with her own father.

“But Mr. Cribbs,” she continued to object, her finger crooked and dabbing at the tears collected in her lower eyelids, “I can't accept this and pay nothing . It just wouldn't feel right.”

“Okay,” he said, “you win. I'll charge you one dollar and not a penny more.” He stood looking at her with his hand out, palm up. “C'mon. Pay up.”

Yovita smiled and went for her purse. She unfolded a dollar bill and placed it in his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Cribbs.” Again, tears welled up in her eyes. “I'll never forget this, and I'll never forget you. Not ever.”

Although she wore the watch every day, she always made sure she wore a long sleeved blouse or carried a sweater with her, so that her father would never see it. He could not find out, or she was certain he would take it from her.

A week later, Yovita showed up for work at 2:45 just as she did every day after school, but the door was locked. She put her right hand up to the window, leaning her head against it like a salute and peered in, but she could see no lights or movement. Not knowing what else to do, she went home and called the shop. There was no answer.

A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Mr. Cribbs' son Marvin. “I'm so sorry to have to tell you, Yovita,” he began. “I don't know if you knew, but my father had not been feeling well. Last night he passed away.” She could feel what little hope she had drain from her body. “You were very special to my father, Yovita.”

Her voice was barely audible. In a faint whisper, she finally spoke. “Your father was very special to me.” He had been the one person in her life whom she felt cared about her.

She hung up the phone, looked down at her watch, and just stared into space. Tears spilled from her eyes and ran in streams down her cheeks. She hadn't felt that depth of emotion since her mother's death two years earlier, when she had come home from school questioning her mother's absence.

“She ain't here and she's never comin' back,” her father barked. “She's dead. Just keeled over this mornin'. Now what am I supposed to do?” Overcome with grief at the feeling of abandonment, the thought of living alone with her father had been unbearable. It was then, at the age of fourteen, that she first began to think about entering the convent. That was before she met Benny.

Benny McPherson had been charming at first and treated her like a princess. In fact “Princess” had been his nickname for her until his jealousy took over several months into their relationship. At fifteen, she had become emotionally sandwiched between a critical and demeaning father and a boyfriend who forbid her to spend time with anyone but him. It took years of living in fear of setting either of them off before she began talking to Father Dittrich about the possibility of becoming a nun. When she finally made her decision at the age of eighteen, she chose The Sisters of St. Anthony. Both her father and Benny had been livid when she finally announced her decision. Her father had bellowed at her as she left home for the last time, “You walk out of here, don't come back. Any girl that would leave her home don't deserve to have one.” You don't have to worry about that , she had thought, and never looked back once.

A Chihuahua tugging at the end of its leash yapped up at her, breaking her reverie. “Oh, my gosh!” she gasped, noticing the time. It was 7:50 and Mass started at 8:00. How could that much time have passed? she thought, and began running toward the church.

Her cheeks were flushed as she walked through the massive oak doors of St. Mary of the Meadow. She could see her empty space beside the Sisters. On that morning, she chose to sit in a pew toward the back of the church so as not to “make a spectacle of herself,” as her father used to say. Whenever she would put on a little lipstick and mascara, or wear brightly colored clothing, he would ask, “What're you tryin' to do? Make a spectacle of yourself?” She had responded no, that she just wanted to look nice. “Well makeup ain't gonna help you” he would cajole. “Just go in the bathroom and wash it off right now. No daughter of mine is goin' around lookin' like a painted lady.”

And so she would. Her tears would mix with the soap and water and she would scrub her face hard in frustration. She would emerge from the bathroom, her face red along with her eyes, and dart into her bedroom hoping her father wouldn't see her. It was those times in particular that she had missed her mother desperately, crying herself to sleep.

She knelt and made the sign of the cross. With her head bowed and her rosary clutched to her chest, she silently asked for forgiveness for being late for Mass, for thinking negative thoughts from the past, and most of all for not being the kind of nun she felt she should be.

Throughout the Mass, she found it difficult to concentrate. She took particular notice of a little girl in front of her with meticulously braided hair.

Memories began to overlap as she remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her mother. She could still feel the tugs -- right, then left, all the way down the length of her strawberry blonde hair. When her mother had finished not one hair would be out of place and her mother would ask if the braids were too tight. Yovita always lied and said “no.” She knew her mother loved her and didn't mean to hurt her. She also knew that if her father heard her say that the braids were too tight, he would have scolded her and called her ungrateful. There had been just one time when she admitted that the braids were a little tight. He had yanked her away from her mother and ripped her braids apart, and then jammed her face at the mirror saying, “So you don't want to look nice, huh? There. See how you look now? Now everyone will laugh at you. ‘Looky there,' they'll say, ‘Yovita looks like a little witch.'” Then he made her go to school without brushing her hair, her head aching. Her mother could only look on in silence, her eyes heavy with sadness. Yovita understood that if she did speak up, the anger would have intensified, triggering a barrage of verbal hailstones or worse.

After that day, she had never admitted it when her braids were too tight. Each night before she went to sleep, she would gently unbraid her hair and finally feel relief -- until the next day.

It was raining a steady drizzle the next morning as Yovita headed down Hamilton Street. She took a different route, one where she knew she could hug the buildings should a downpour occur. As she approached an apartment building on South Everett, she heard a faint sound and saw a figure dressed in dark clothing draped across the steps. She could finally see that it was a young girl quietly sobbing, her auburn hair spilled across her folded arms. Yovita walked up the steps to where the girl sat and asked if she could help. At first startled, the girl finally responded by slowly shaking her head.

“No one can help me,” she said, “but thank you anyway.”

“No one is ever beyond help,” Sister Yovita replied, although she had often felt the same.

The girl apologized for her appearance as she lifted the edge of her sweater and began wiping her eyes, streaking lines of dirt across her face. She appeared to Yovita like a porcelain doll, neglected and tossed in a corner by an ungrateful child. Her huge, green eyes glistened as she looked up, eyes framed with thick, dark lashes that had become spiked by her tears. Sister Yovita didn't know what else to say, but she also couldn't just walk away and leave the girl there. Something inside gnawed at her that this girl needed help. Her help.

“Look,” Sister Yovita began, “the convent where I live is just around the corner. Would you like to walk back with me and have a cup of tea to take away the chill from the rain?”

“Oh, I couldn't!” Yovita was disturbed at the girl's frightened response.

“I'm Sister Yovita. Do you mind if I ask your name?”

“It's Julia, but my friends call me Jules -- when I had friends.”

“That's a lovely name -- like gemstones. May I call you Jules?”

It was then that a high-pitched shriek came from the second floor apartment. It sounded to Yovita like the unbridled voice of an untrained opera singer. “Jooo-leee-ahhh!”

Julia looked terrified. She told Sister Yovita that she'd better go or her Aunt Minerva would be furious. Sister Yovita asked her why her aunt would mind that she was just chatting with a neighbor, but she didn't have time to answer. A woman appeared at the door. She wore blue eye shadow and pink lipstick that bled into the tiny grooved lines around her lips. Her brassy red hair appeared decoupaged to her head. Gold-toned earrings dangled from her head like wind chimes. She wore a turquoise ruffled blouse with black slacks and gold plastic shoes. Triggered by the appearance and demeanor of this woman, Yovita instinctively took a step back.

“You'd better go inside, dear.” A lit cigarette teeter-tottered on her lower lip as she began to speak to Julia, while glaring at Sister Yovita.

Julia spoke through her eyes as she jumped up and ran into the building while Minerva stepped outside.

“Can I help you?” she asked, a phony smile curling her upper lip.

“Oh, no,” Yovita responded. “I just stopped to chat with Julia. She appeared to be very upset and I couldn't ignore that. Is everything alright?”

Minerva took a drag on her cigarette. “Of course. Why wouldn't it be?” Small puffs of smoke escaped through her lips with each word as she spoke.

“She was sobbing and there must be a reason,” answered Sister Yovita.

The woman leaned against the building as she spoke. “You must understand. Julia has a vivid imagination and a tendency to exaggerate. I don't know what her problem is this time, but it could be something as minor as a chipped fingernail. Quite frankly, it's none of your business.”

Yovita had the urge to shove the woman out of the way, run inside and rescue the girl. When Julia had looked up at her through her tears, it was as if Yovita had caught a glimpse of her own soul.

She finally told Minerva she had to go, but to tell Julia that she would be back to see her.

“Why?” the woman asked after she had tossed down her half-smoked cigarette, crushing the butt with the plastic sole of her shoe. She stared at Yovita, her arms folded, waiting for an answer.

“Because I like her. Tell her that, too. On second thought, don't bother. I'll tell her myself when I see her.”

Miniature volcanoes appeared to erupt in the woman's eyes. “Well, she may not be here when you come back. She's going to live with her grandparents. She's attempted to run away from her mother twice. Fool girl doesn't know how lucky she is.”

A week passed. Yovita could not forget the desperate cry for help in Julia's eyes. She had made a point each day of passing the building where she had seen the child, but there had been no signs of her since.

Then returning from her walk one day, Sister Katherine handed Yovita a slip of paper. At first not trusting her eyes, she stared at the looped handwriting: “Call Jeff Bederman, 722-1729.” A hand flew to her stomach as she felt a sensation of a butterfly trying to escape. Jeff Bederman. Calling me? I wonder whatever for!

“From the urgency in his voice, you'd better call back soon,” Sister Katherine instructed.

The fluttery sensation in her stomach remained as Yovita went to her room and dialed the phone number.

“Hello?” His voice sounded different over the phone and she wasn't sure she had dialed correctly.

“Mr. Bederman?”

“Yes?”

“This is Sister Yovita. I received your message.”

“Oh, yes, Sister. Thank you for calling me back. I, uh, I -- I don't know if I would be imposing on you, Sister, but I was wondering if I could talk to you. In person, I mean.”

“Oh,” was her only response, taken aback by his request.

“I don't want to bother you, Sister, but I need to talk to someone. Although I don't really know you very well, there's something about you that I feel I can trust. If you can't, it's okay. But if you could, I would really appreciate it.”

“I see,” she finally continued. “I suppose that would be alright. Would you like to come to the convent? The parlor is often available, and we could talk there.”

“If you don't mind, Sister, I would rather not,” he responded. “Would you mind coming to my home, or maybe we could meet somewhere.”

“Oh, alright.” She spoke with hesitation. She didn't think she would feel comfortable going to his home. Her mind wandered through the neighborhood searching for a suitable place to meet. “How about the Copper Coffee Pot on 14 th and Maple? If you're still working the late shift, we could meet tomorrow around 1:00 p.m. Would that time be alright?” She could have kicked herself for mentioning his work schedule. How embarrassing, she thought, knowing that it made him aware that she had taken notice of the hours he appeared to work.

“That would be fine, Sister, and thank you. Thank you very much. I'll see you there tomorrow.” She noticed the tone of his voice lighten as they said their goodbyes.

She awoke early the next morning, the nervousness in her stomach having returned with the thought of meeting Jeff Bederman. She was a bit frightened at the thought of talking with him one-on-one. Will I appear like a love-struck teenager? She began the day with her prayer, as always, then asking God to remain with her and help her find the right words to say. She dressed in a pink blouse with pearl buttons down the front, and a navy skirt. On this day, she chose to abandon the oxford shoes and slipped into a pair of navy pumps. Without her veil, tendrils of her chestnut colored hair tumbled over her forehead and touched her collar in the back. She tucked the sides of her hair behind her ears.

As she approached the coffee shop she saw Jeff Bederman pacing back and forth, head down, a cigarette in his hand. Okay, Joni, slow deep breaths, she reminded herself, at the same time wondering how she could possibly allow herself to be so affected by this man.

“Hello Mr. Bederman,” she said as she walked up to him, reaching out her right hand in greeting.

“Sister.” Their hands met in a firm grasp. “You look different without -- I mean -- thank you again for meeting me.” He opened the door and gestured for her to go inside before him, and she brushed past.

“Two?” the hostess asked while assuming the answer and led them to a table near the back. A waitress appeared soon after. “Two coffees coming up,” she said, confirming their order, then whisked up the menus the hostess had placed on the table.

“Sister, I don't want to take up too much of your time,” he began. “I just needed to talk and didn't know who to turn to. My,” he stopped, dropped his head and took in a deep breath. “My wife left a week and a half ago and took my daughter with her. I haven't heard a word, and they could be anywhere. I'm worried about my little girl. I miss her so much and I don't know what to do.”

“Have you taken any legal steps?” She immediately felt drawn in by his dilemma.

“No, not yet. I've just been hoping Ann would come to her senses and contact me. My marriage is over. I know that. It has been for some time, but I can't live not knowing where Julia is. She means everything to me and I'm worried about her.”

A surge went through Yovita's body. Did he just say Julia? “How old is your daughter?” she finally asked, holding her breath for the answer.

“She's 14,” he replied. “She's so beautiful. She has this reddish brown hair and green eyes.” His voice trailed off, tears welling in his eyes.

Yovita could barely speak. Finally the words began to come.

“Does the name Minerva mean anything to you?”

His head snapped up and his eyes intently linked with hers. “Yes. She's my wife's aunt. She's an old biddy who thinks she's still 25 years old. She's never liked me and has made it clear every time I've ever seen her.” He spoke rapidly, his eyes never straying from hers or losing their intensity. “Why did you bring up her name?”

Yovita took a deep breath. She needed to find the right words.

“Mr. Bederman,” she began with a hold-onto-your-hat inflection. “I think I know where your daughter is. At the very least, I think I know where to start to find her.”

“Do you think Minerva is involved?” he asked pleadingly. Yovita nodded. “I should have known my wife would have schemed with her to keep Jules from me!” When Yovita heard him say “Jules” it erased her last shred of doubt.

“Sister, will you help me? Will you help me find my daughter?” He spoke as he rose out of his chair with urgency.

She could not resist his vulnerability, nor could she ignore her need to help Julia. “Yes, Mr. Bederman, I will,” she responded.

“Please call me Jeff, Sister,” he said as they left the coffee shop together with quickened steps, almost running.

“Then please call me Yovita. No -- call me Joni.”

THE END