Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

“Why, Mike, how delightful to see you! Let me return this gentleman’s property to him and I’ll be right with you.” Mary Dominic sounded as if she’d had no idea Mike was going to drop in. The muscular, dark-browed DiPietro looming over her desk scowled as she took out the cross with the capped arms. As soon as DiPietro grabbed it, Mike read him his rights and arrested him.

Vincent told Mary Dominic every detail of her abduction as she was required to do in obedience. Mary Dominic listened in some amazement.

“Dear Sister Vincent, Our Lord must be most pleased with the confidence you showed in Him, remaining so serene in the face of danger.”

“He cannot be pleased with my disobedience, mother. Had I obeyed the bell, I would have been safely in the chapel. I deserve penance, not praise.”

Mary Dominic considered for a moment. “In that case, your penance is to refrain from mentioning the weeping statue to the community. I would like to wait and pray before speaking of it to anyone.”

When Vincent replied, “Of course, mother,” humbly as a child and quite unlike her usual argumentative self, Mary Dominic was half inclined to believe a miracle had indeed taken place.

Over the days and weeks that followed, Vincent continued to be responsible, soft-spoken, and obedient. Mary Dominic marveled at the change, even as she wondered how long it would last.

Some months later, a retreatant asked to see Sister Vincent for spiritual direction. A buzz went through the community. Vincent, being asked for? It was unheard of.

When Vincent arrived at the parlor to meet her retreatant, she found the shorter of the two thugs who had held her captive. This time instead of a gun he held a black hat in fingers that nervously worked their way around the brim.

“Rocco DiPietro,” he said, holding out one stubby hand. “Maybe you don’t want to shake, considering.”

“You asked to see me?”

He nodded and mangled his hat some more. “Was you scared in the crypt when you was tied up with a gun at your head?”

“Not in the least.” About to blurt she was more surprised than anyone at her unshakable calm, Vincent bit back the words. Least said, soonest mended.

“Yeah. You didn’t act scared. Got God in your corner, huh?”

She smiled. “Something like that.”

He looked at the floor. Vincent maintained a tranquil silence. When he finally glanced at her, she was struck by the beauty of his eyes, soft and brown, totally out of keeping with the rest of his battered features.

“My brother Sal’s been killed. My kid won’t talk to me. I have HIV.”

Vincent, realizing he wanted something from her but not knowing what it could be, said softly, “I will pray for you.”

“That ain’t enough.” He looked at her steadily. She found his attention unnerving, but didn’t know what more she could do for him.

“Everything’s changed,” he said. “I mean, like, I never been afraid to die. But knowing you’re gonna die some far-off day ain’t the same as knowing you’re dying right now. And Sal — Sal was my kid brother. He wasn’t supposed to die before me. It ain’t right. Nothin’s right. You get what I mean?”

Suddenly Vincent did. A beatific smile lighted her long, plain face. He wanted her to help him make sense of his world. She could do that, for the world made perfect sense to her.

She gestured towards a straight-backed chair. “Please be seated, Mr. DiPietro.”

She sat close by, feeling as tender towards him as if he were her own infant son. Gently, softly, speaking in the most loving tones, she began to tell him of God.

The Witch and the Fishmonger’s Wife by Angela Zeman

“You seem to be the only person I ever run into at this infant hour,” the witch murmured, not disguising the sharp edge of her opinion of that fact. “Except your husband, of course.” She examined the young woman standing two stories above her through eyes that only appeared sleepy and slowly added, “And the milkman.”

The draperies of the witch’s garments lifted in a sudden breeze. Her dark figure appeared doom-laden on the pale boardwalk already shimmering with heat.

The woman up on the flat roof of her house looked sourly down upon her fellow villager. The same breeze that disturbed the witch’s clothing was the breeze the young woman had come to her roof seeking this morning, hoping to catch it for a few blissful minutes before descending into the heat and work of the day. The wind stroked one strap of her tattered nightgown from her shoulder, and she left it hanging. With a raw hand, she pushed back from her face a mass of black hair marred with dull patches. As soon as she took her hand away, the heavy hair fell back to where it had formerly hung. It was as if all the world held contempt for this woman this morning, including her own hair.

She perched her hands on wide hips and arched her ripe body up towards the strengthening sun as if her back ached, as well it might. The milkman had dashed from her back door seconds before the witch had arrived.