The Statue’s Eyes Moved—Really

It was a usual fall Friday afternoon in the parish church. The eighth-grade girls, ready to help the nuns and the sacristan with the weekly cleaning, had entered from the side door. The early arrivals, the nonnas, were already hard at work—kerchiefs tied around their heads, sweat on their upper lips, and feather dusters in hand. One had even set up an ironing board in the sacristy, the better to iron the lace-trimmed linen altar cloths. They worked swiftly so they could get back to their kitchens and prepare the Friday night fish dinner.

The three nonnas were dusting the wonderfully detailed Stations of the Cross that graced either side of the church when the girls arrived. In place of hats, the girls wore tissues bobby-pinned to their hair; they crossed in front of the altar several times as they scrubbed the frieze that supported the altar itself, and genuflected each time they passed the tabernacle. The nuns were in the sacristy arranging bunches of pom-poms and Fuji chrysanthemums for the altar.

Surrounded by the scent of lemon polish, beeswax candles, and starched linen, the nonnas smiled as they went about their tasks. It was tough work for each of them at a majestic height of five feet two inches to reach the noses of the statues they dusted, never mind whisking the halos. Still, they swiped, as best they could, the beards and sometimes even the ears of the martyrs. And as they dusted, each stopped to light a candle and say a prayer in front of her favorite saint.

Suddenly, a scream rang out. An eighth-grader prying wax from used candleholders followed her scream with a shout. “I saw it; I saw it.” she said. “I saw Saint Anne’s eyes following me.” Nuns and nonnas came running. They calmed the girl with hugs and their reassurance that the “movement” was only a trick of the light. She accepted their ministrations and went on to the next bank of candles. The nuns entered the sacristy, and the nonnas set about their tasks.

The girls left early on those short fall days to get home before dark. The nuns returned to the convent. Only the nonnas remained standing in front of the statue of Saint Anne, as twilight filtered through the stained glass windows.

One looked around to make sure they were the only ones left. Then she nudged the nonna on her left, “Here, see for yourself,” she said quietly, “they really are moving.” She paused. “I saw it myself first, but I didn’t want to upset everyone.” With that, she got to her knees, pulled rosary beads from her apron pocket and began to pray.

“What do you mean, you saw it yourself?” demanded the second one. “I was here before you, not only did they move, they blinked,” as she fell to her knees and began saying a rosary of her own.

“You know Saint Anne spoke to me when I first got here,” boasted the third. “She said, ‘Tell them I’m going to move my eyes today.’” And then the nonna knelt, rosary beads in hand. “These kids,” she said, shaking her head, “they think they know everything. But we show them, eh?”

Venetian Friday Fish in Saor

Serves four

1 1/2 pounds lemon sole, flounder, petrale, or grey sole
Salt and pepper to taste
1/4 cup unbleached flour
1/4 cup olive oil
4 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes
6 red onion rings, thinly sliced

Rinse and dry fish; sprinkle with salt and pepper.
Dust fish with flour; shake off excess.
Heat a broad skillet. Add oil. Saute fish until golden on each side.
Transfer fish to a flat plate; sprinkle with vinegar and red pepper; scatter onion rings atop fish.
Allow to remain at room temperature before serving.