Quiet People.(Short Story)

Maureen came in today to talk about some property the order has been forced to sell on the other side of the city. Afterwards when I was helping her on with her coat I told her I liked her. I didn't carry it off very well--the words came out too easily--but she was good about it. She gave me a peck on the cheek and said, `Yes, we've known each other a long time.' I know I said it partly out of guilt because I have never really liked her. She has a righteous, domineering streak that has always left me cold. But mostly it had to do with trying to kick-start myself out of this depression or whatever it is I've been going through since Chusok, the annual Thanksgiving holiday they have here.

That was a month ago. Some of the nuns had come over for lunch. There was roast beef and potatoes made specially as well as kimchi and the usual side dishes for anyone who wanted. Seven of our men were there and Maureen had brought over four of her crowd--two of the older ones along with the young Australian nun who works in the hospital and a novice; I guessed she was from the Philippines. It wasn't bad, being able to talk in English, female company and so on, but I think most of us hated it. Chusok is not a good time for us. Everyone migrates to their hometown for the festivities and we are left by ourselves to face the fact that no matter how long we've been here we never fit in.

There were the usual tensions at the table between the old and the young, the Irish and the non-Irish (more than half of us are Irish), and the same old harping on about the local clergy and how they are always messing things up. Nothing very strange or startling, although there were a couple of interesting moments. In the middle of the meal the new Australian nun put down her knife and fork and said, `My God, everyone in this country is so paranoid! It's as if they've never seen a foreigner before!' There was a pause and I could see Maureen dabbing her mouth with her serviette getting ready for battle. But she's lost some of her fire these past few years and she ended up giving a tame little speech about all the foreign invasions they've suffered and how outsiders like us can never understand how deep the wounds run.

`I see,' the Australian nun said when Maureen had finished; `so in order to understand these people we have to suffer. Maybe that explains why so many of our crowd go and get themselves so screwed up over here.'

The younger people and some of the older ones laughed and then old Freddie Whitmore at the end of the table gave a little cough and said, `Speak for yourself' and everything went quiet. My thoughts were still with what the young nun had said about people getting screwed up and in the silence that followed Whitmore's comment I heard myself say, `Like Christopher Goode.' A couple of people turned to me, including the Filipino novice at my side, but just then Mrs. Oh came in with the trifle and we all became distracted and soon the mood returned to normal.