For weeks, even months after she let Father Lantom and her sisters take her away from Jack and their new son, Maggie was numb. She allowed herself to sink into the ritual and routine of the Church, her world contracting into prayer and duty and care. The orphans got the love she could not give to her child, and she took her vows and tried to forget about Battlin' Jack Murdock and his rough lips and soft eyes.
Forgetfulness did not come. The Murdocks came to Mass, and she saw her son begin to grow into himself. Father Lantom said little of the boy, save that he was bright, mostly obedient but with a rebellious streak like that of his father. Sister Maggie lit candles for them, and said her rosary, and the years passed.
The accident which robbed her son of his sight was the talk of the Kitchen for weeks after it happened, and Maggie listened with a mixture of grief and pride. Grief, for the potential taken so early; and pride, to know that a man's life was saved by the quick actions of a nine-year-old boy. Later, she heard from the Murdocks' neighbours how the boy's cries were keeping the block awake at night, and her heart bled for those she could not help.
It was not so long after that that Jack was killed. His funeral Mass was well-attended, and all looked with pity at the small figure of his son seated at the front of the church in a new black suit, shades masking his eyes but not the tear streaks down his cheeks. When the service was over Father Lantom brought young Matthew to the orphanage.
He stopped by the infirmary afterwards, where Maggie was rolling bandages and making an inventory of medicine.
"He's asleep," the priest said. "The doctor prescribed a sedative, for tonight at least. I'm told the boy hasn't been sleeping well."
"What do I do?" Maggie asked, turning with bandages in her hands.
"Love him, as you love all the children," Father Lantom said simply. "I don't think you'll find it hard. God bless you, Sister."
She did not find it hard, although the boy was not an easy charge. He was smart, and quick, and angry. He hated being touched, and he hated most noises above a whisper. They bought him a Braille Bible, several huge volumes which he worked his way through. Sister Maggie made sure she did not favour her son, though she showed him the same affection she showed the other children. She held him, sometimes, when he found the night noise overwhelming, and wished she could whisper the truth in his ear.
He calmed down only after the arrival of the blind old man, who started taking Matthew off for private lessons. The boy never said much about what he was learning, but whatever it was, it cooled the anger and rebellion – for a while.
She tried to distance herself from him during his teenage years. There were others who could, and did care for him. They coped with the boy, after his odd mentor vanished again. Sometimes the nuns would sit around the dinner table after their meal, and debate what to do with Matthew Murdock, but it was clear none of them were prepared to abandon him.
It was a day of pride for all at St Agnes when the acceptance letter came through from Fordham. When, three years later, Matthew won a place at Columbia Law School Sister Maggie felt her heart swell. Despite everything, he would be successful. She did not forget her son, but she stopped worrying, quite so much.
All the nuns heard about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. He was the talk of the orphanage, of the shops and bars and the gossip between the congregation before Mass and afterwards. First a man in black, and then the image of Satan complete with horns and crimson eyes. But that was outside, and within the convent walls life went on. There was always something to do, someone to care for.
And then, one wet evening, Father Lantom arrived on the doorstep with the Devil himself, battered and bloodied and bruised. Sister Maggie took one look at the extent of his injuries and knew healing him would be at the edge of her abilities.
"Was this your bright idea to bring him in?" she demanded of the priest, as one of her sisters began wiping blood from the Devil's face.
"He's one of ours, Maggie. What other choice did I have?" Lantom asked.
"Metro-General, maybe?" she said, trying to tamp down her un-Christian feelings of annoyance. "Call 911."
"He's a vigilante. If he goes to a hospital, the police will arrest him," he argued.
Maggie took the phone from the hand of her sister, and dialled, but Lantom turned to her.
"It's Matthew," he said. "Jack Murdock's son."
The words fell heavy on her. She ended the call, automatically, and turned and looked at their patient, unconscious. There were rings under his closed eyes and his face was puffed up with the bruises, but now that she looked properly she could see the teenager they had known.
She sent the priest away, and got to work.
Matthew slept for weeks, and Maggie thought they had lost him several times before his fever subsided and he finally woke. Even then, it took weeks more before he could sit up, and his anger and grief burned hot. He had come back despairing.
He tried to walk before he could stand, and run before he could walk. It tore her heart in two to watch Matthew stumble around the crypt, to see him try to fight, to hear him talk of forgetting his friends. When all Sister Maggie wanted to do was hold her son closer, he was pushing her – and his faith – away.
But he kept coming back. The Church and the orphanage held something still for him, and she thought she was beginning to chip a chink in his heart. He was wearing her cross, and seeing the cord around his neck was a link; a sign that not all was lost.
Later on she would understand that he would have discovered her truth at some point. Matthew would mask himself from the world, but he read others like an open book. Whether it was overhearing her at prayer, or some other way, the truth would have come out. She watched him push her away, let him walk out of the door again, and wondered if he would ever come back.
He did come back. When everything was over, and they buried Father Lantom, he came back, and tentatively reached out to her. They spoke only a few minutes that first day, but for Maggie it was enough.
Matthew started coming to Mass again, in a suit, his head bowed over the handle of the cane Maggie knew he did not need but still clung to as a prop. After a few weeks, he came to her and suggested coffee, and they sat in the vestry and he told her about the new firm. They could have been neighbours on the street, not mother and son or nun and vigilante.
Two weeks later, he brought her a salami from Nelson's deli, and asked her to talk about Jack Murdock. The following week, he reached out unerringly and took her hand, and told her about the fight with Wilson Fisk.
They talked, each week or so, for the rest of the year. At the start of Advent he arrived with an invitation: Christmas lunch at the Nelsons', with his law partner Foggy and Karen Page. Sister Maggie was pretty sure it had not been Matthew's idea, but she said yes. She knew the Nelsons, a little; the sort of family who came to church for weddings and funerals and occasional baptisms, but who had their roots in Irish Catholicism. And she liked Karen Page, and could tell that the young woman liked Matthew.
After morning Mass on Christmas Day she took Matthew's elbow and they played out the fiction of her leading him along the icy streets of Hell's Kitchen. He said little, but there was a quiet confidence in his movements now that she would not have recognised from the days of his recovery at St Agnes'.
He had explained that the Nelsons did not know about their relationship, but there was extra warmth in Karen's welcoming embrace and in Foggy Nelson's voice as he handed her a glass of wine. They invited Sister Maggie to say Grace before the meal – all 20 or so Nelsons and their guests, squashed around a table in the backroom of the deli with the detritus of Nelson, Murdock & Page tided away – and she paused a moment, thinking.
"Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which of thy bounty we are about to receive, through Christ our Lord," she said, and added, "and on this Christmas day, let us give thanks for family and friends. Amen."
"Amen," said everyone, and sat down with a clatter of dishes to get to business. As they did so, Matthew reached out and clasped her hand. She squeezed back, trying to say with that touch everything she wanted to say – 'forgive me', and 'I love you', and 'I'm proud of you'.
Glancing at him, she saw he was smiling at her, and the last weight lifted off her shoulders. She let go of her son's hand, and accepted a dish of mashed potato from Foggy. Matthew was laughing at something Karen had said and for a second he reminded Maggie strongly, painfully of Jack Murdock. Then the moment was gone and he was simply himself, and she was herself.
Son, lawyer, fighter; mother, sister, nun. Somehow, they would make it work.