Belladonna

by Anbara Salam

  “What work have you seen us conduct?” Sister Teresa said, watching me with the sharp, encouraging eye of a teacher.

  “The sisters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Um.” I thought of the bags of our laundered clothes, which appeared weekly in our rooms. The plates whisked away after every meal. The perpetual sound of brooms swishing against marble. “Sort of—housework,” I muttered.

  Isabella was shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she said to Sister Teresa, shooting me a contemptuous look.

  “No.” Sister Teresa nodded. “She’s quite correct. Menial labor—is that what you mean?”

  “Um, yes,” I said in a quiet voice.

  “There’s a reason for this.” Sister Teresa rummaged in her apron and lit a cigarette, offering us the pack. “Do you know the meaning of ‘kenosis’?”

  Next to me, I felt Isabella shaking her head, so I joined in.

  “It means something like death of the self.”

  Isabella caught my eye. We exchanged a grimace, and my mind settled on the scythe in the spa graveyard. “I thought that was a sin,” I whispered, finally.

  Sister Teresa laughed. “No. In this sense, it is beautiful. It means to empty yourself of yourself. To practice death of the self, so God can fill in all the empty space.”

  I remembered Katherine’s comment about St. Teresa—how when she died she was nothing but a shell, filled up with God. But if St. Teresa was tried by fire, then what was Sister Teresa’s trial—gardening? I pointed at the bumps in the earth. “I don’t understand, though. What does that have to do with lettuce?”

  “Repetitive work is a way of teaching discipline,” she said. “Weeding. Sweeping.”

  I thought now of the strange calm that comes with erasing a whole page of notes, the pencil marks obliterated into scraps of hot putty.

  “Our humble acts are a form of mortification,” Sister Teresa continued. “They help us to die.”

  I shivered. All around us were moldering leaves and white pebbles glinting through the dirt. I looked more closely at Sister Teresa. Was she really slowly trying to die? The smoke was putrid in my mouth. I wanted to be away from the garden and Sister Teresa’s uncanny calm. “No offense,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “but that sounds sort of creepy.” I laughed and looked at Isabella, but she was pale.

  “I know it sounds unappealing,” Sister Teresa said, “but it is meant to aid concentration.” Her tone was obliging; I recognized it as a storytelling voice. She must have had the same conversation many times with many other nosy academy girls.

  Isabella turned and stubbed her cigarette out on the gate, and without looking at her, Sister Teresa held her palm out. Isabella placed the crumpled butt on Sister Teresa’s outstretched palm; then Sister Teresa shook open her packet and slid the two burned ends back into the packet. It was such a natural, synchronized gesture that a circle of complicity was cast between them and shut me on the other side. My chest squeezed. I ground my cigarette butt under my heel, not wanting to test if Sister Teresa would also hold her hand out for mine.

  “Mortification is a form of devotion,” Sister Teresa was saying. “And silence, also. It brings its own blessings.”

  “The quickenings? Yeah, I read about—,” I said.

  Isabella frowned at me. I stopped talking.

  “Exactly,” Sister Teresa said, with no trace of a smile. “Silence allows us to hear the voice of God. It’s hard,” she said. “But it’s supposed to be hard.”

  While she spoke, I imagined yellow sand draining through the throat of an hourglass and gathering in the empty bulb below. I was struck by how strange it was. That her concept of fullness was my idea of lack. I looked around the shabby allotment of straggly herbs. This was what she did all day. Sweeping and weeding and snipping apple leaves and pulling worms from the earth.

  “Well, I’m glad,” Isabella said, swallowing. “I mean, it’s a good thing we’re here now. Since your time is short. Your speaking time, I mean.”

  Sister Teresa smiled at her. “I’m glad too.”

  It occurred to me with a tilting lurch that Isabella and Sister Teresa had become friends. And why not? She was beautiful, otherworldly, with her white cloak and meditative calm. I was a sort of gargoyle next to her. My stomach gave a despairing twinge.

  “I should probably head in,” I said to Isabella, putting my hands in my pockets. “You coming? I could use some help with my grammar.”

  Isabella stuck her tongue out. “Grammar? No, thanks. I’ll take my chances with the lettuce.”

  * * *

  That evening it began to hail. Hard, sharp little teeth of ice that skittered against the window frames. I was in the common room when it began, copying the notes Patricia had made of Patrizi’s lectures. Barbie had raised the window, and the clattering sound of hail filled the room. Chips of ice were bouncing off the floorboards, and Joan caught a little rubble of hail in her palm. “It stings,” she said.

  “Taste it,” Bunny said. “I dare you.”

  Joan balked. “You taste it.”

  And before I knew what I was doing, I’d scooped the shards of ice from Joan’s hand into my mouth, where they dissolved. “Delicious,” I said. “Just like ice cream.” Truthfully, it tasted like rainwater, slightly metallic.

  “Bridge, no!” shrieked Bunny, as if it were the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen.

  “Oh, I miss ice cream,” Barbie said mournfully.

  I yawned and stretched and went to stand up. “You’re not going to bed, are you?” Joan said, wiping her hands on her jeans.

  “Maybe not quite yet,” I said, collecting my papers.

  “I need to ask you something,” Joan said. She looked pointedly at the corridor. “But not here.”

  “OK.” I walked down to my room, Joan following at my heels.

  Joan took a seat on the second bed, pulling out a book lying on the blanket. “Your—” She began to hand it to me, then frowned at the cover.

  “Oh.” I reached for it. It was a German recipe booklet I’d found jammed into the magazine stand in the common room. It was old and grimy, and I didn’t understand the words, but I found it soothing to look at the photos of neat little pies tucked into their trays, glossy and plump. “It’s just some magazine,” I said, casually sliding it onto my nightstand. Isabella teased me for looking at pictures of German pies in the middle of the night, and I wasn’t keen for the others to begin, too.

  But Joan had a glazed, distant expression. “Bridge, your family is Catholic, right?”

  I started. “Of course. Everyone is, aren’t they, other than Nancy, but—”

  “Yes, but I mean Catholic Catholic.”

  I slipped my hands under my legs. “Yes,” I said, a little stiffly.

  Joan’s shoulders relaxed. “It’s just—the other girls can be so—” She twirled her fingers. “And Ruth is so—” She grimaced.

  I laughed.

  Joan gave me a weak smile. “Listen, don’t tell anyone, will you—but—it’s my sister.”

  “Oh?” My ears tingled. I hated talking about sisters. It made me feel like I was standing at the edge of a deep pool.

  Joan swallowed. “She wrote me and—” She looked over at the door. “She thinks she might be”—she licked her lips—“in—in the family way. But—but she’s not married.”

  “Oh.” I tried to keep my expression neutral, not to look too shocked, too sorry. After a moment, I said, “Does your mom know?”

  Joan shook her head. “And I just don’t know how to help.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  I stood to embrace her but she waved me away. I sat back down, impressed by her self-containedness, that she wasn’t using the moment to snare attention for herself. I passed her a box of tissues instead. Joan dabbed at her eyes.

  “And her beau—is he—”


  Joan sniffed. “Oh, he’s all right. He works for the postal service.”

  “Ah. Good.” I took a moment to imagine what a Catholic Catholic might say to sound reassuring. “So, I suppose, isn’t this a happy thing?” I said. “A baby?”

  Joan cocked her head to one side.

  “I mean, no one’s sick or dying. It’s a good thing, surely,” I said. “That is, if they get married right away,” I added.

  Joan rubbed her eyes with the tissue. “I guess.”

  “I bet your sister is scared, but perhaps she needs someone to remind her what a blessing this is.”

  Joan licked her lips. “I hadn’t thought about it like that. But I guess it will be a blessing in the end.”

  “My mom always says”—I hesitated—“she always says, God doesn’t make mistakes.”

  Joan took a deep breath. “Right.”

  “So it can’t be a mistake,” I said, gaining confidence now.

  Joan nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right. And it sounds like your mom is just as strict as mine. No boys and all that.”

  I pretended to adjust the hem of my skirt instead of answering.

  Joan reached for another tissue. “I suppose my mom—”

  There was a soft knock on my bedroom door, and Joan shot me a terrified look.

  “I won’t say a word,” I whispered. “I swear.”

  Joan nodded.

  “Come in,” I called.

  Katherine poked her face around the door. “Did you see it’s hailing?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Wild, huh?” Katherine lingered. “Wonder how long it will last.” She twisted the door handle. Her excuse for loitering was so feeble that it became awkward.

  I grimaced apologetically at Joan. “Did you want to come in?”

  “Yes, please! So, what are we talking about?” Katherine settled on the bed, kicking off her slippers and folding her legs under her.

  “Nothing,” Joan said abruptly.

  Katherine smiled. “Ah, Bridge confession.”

  “What?”

  Katherine tucked part of the blanket over her knees. “You know, like confession. But with St. Bridget.”

  There was a bright sting in my chest, like a knitting needle. I tried to control my expression. Was she being cruel or was it a joke? “Don’t be an idiot,” I said eventually.

  “Oh, Bridge, I didn’t mean it like that,” Katherine said, her forehead pinched.

  I forced a laugh. “I know.” I pretended to plump my pillow.

  “You’re just so patient with us,” Katherine said. “You’re never in a mood or anything.”

  Joan was nodding. “Like Old Faithful.”

  Despite myself, I couldn’t help but laugh. I was so relieved, my eyes began watering, but I passed it off as mirth.

  Katherine was staring at Joan. “What’s Old Faithful got to do with saintliness, you goose?”

  “I just mean it’s steady, you know.” Joan’s cheeks were going red.

  Katherine laughed and they began to talk about national parks and bears and camping stoves and poison ivy.

  While they talked, I pulled out a bag of biscotti cookies and a bottle of wine, which I poured into the toothbrush glasses I now strategically kept washed and ready for visitors.

  There was another knock on the door. “Oh, I thought I heard a party,” Bunny said. She called behind her, “Barbs, come—party in Bridge’s room.”

  Then we were six, then eight, and everyone was lounging across the two beds, laughing, drinking, squabbling over whose turn it was to try on Rhona’s fur, to fluff up my curls. I marveled at the magic of the cookies.

  “Would someone knock on Isabella’s door?” I said. I could have gone myself, but it was better that one of the girls collect her—that way she could see me nonchalantly at the center of the fun.

  “Tried,” Sylvia said, her mouth full of crumbs. “Her door’s locked.”

  “It’s locked?”

  “She always locks her door when she gets one of those headaches.”

  “She does?” This worried me. What if she was ill again? And she was in there, coughing, turning, flushed, restless.

  As discreetly as I could, I untangled myself from Sally’s knitting and went down to Isabella’s door. I knocked. There was no answer.

  “Isabella?” I said, knocking again. “It’s just me.” Nothing. I tried to jiggle the door handle, but Sylvia was right; it had been locked.

  I stooped and looked through the keyhole. The room was dark, the curtains closed. I couldn’t make anything out except for a clothes hanger lying on the floor. I came away feeling uneasy. It was one thing to lock the door by turning the key in a moment of pique. It was quite another to lock the door, take out the key, and place the key on the dresser. That was a truly locked door.

  I went back to my room and stood for a moment in the doorway to appreciate the view. The hail was still falling, catching sparks of light. The girls were lounging on the beds, on the floor, thumbing through the German recipe magazine, tossing around my green beret, passing the bag of cookies, clinking glasses, dropping crumbs on the bedspread. Making a mess, a glorious mess.

  20.

  November

  Over the next couple of weeks, Isabella spent a lot of time in the garden. She said being cooped up with the academy girls aggravated her headaches. But I much preferred to be indoors with the other girls. And also, I didn’t have a choice. I had assignments to finish and comprehension exercises to catch up on, so I bound myself to the common room. After Signor Patrizi’s lectures we all crowded in there. Joan took territorial responsibility for stoking the fire; Katherine sat in the armchair and knitted in companionable silence. Nancy helped correct my copybook. Greta and Sally decided it was the right place to learn handstands, and my pen wobbled every time the floor shook. In the evenings I hosted girls in my bedroom, sharing cookies and wine. And at night, carefully bathed, wearing my new nightgown, my hair unbraided, I sat in bed, waiting. I waited as long as I could, just in case, struggling against sleep until my head knocked against the iron headboard.

  Weekends weren’t much different from school days. I spent Saturday mornings with Elena and Saturday afternoons with Nancy. I learned Nancy had a fiancé, and when she showed me a picture of him, I was surprised to see he was strong-jawed and extremely handsome. I’d figured her as a spinstery sort who would go back to California and adopt three Great Danes and play the cello to them every morning and go protesting the atomic bomb with her knitting circle.

  After my sessions with Nancy, I studied in the common room or sat by the fire while girls took turns to perform dramatic readings from care-package magazines. The engagement notices were most popular, followed by ruthlessly specific advertisements for home help. We had to place a ban on anything to do with Laika or else Greta cried. When I could escape, I went down to the garden to visit Isabella and Sister Teresa. Usually Sister Luisa was also there, picking vegetables or digging. If Sister Luisa was there, then I waved and smiled and walked on, as if I’d only happened to be passing. I don’t know how they could bear to exchange words while other sisters worked in silence beside them, listening. Something about seeing Sister Teresa speak in front of the other nuns made me more aware of their presence in the academy. I watched the sisters more carefully now. The slow, gliding way of walking that they shared. The downward tilt to their gaze. Perhaps because I had been away, or because of Sister Teresa, I noticed the nuns in all the places where I hadn’t before: trimming trees in the orchard, hanging bedsheets to dry on the lines behind the bell tower. When I watched Sister Benedict sweeping the steps with a fixed expression, or Sister Maria mopping the refectory floors, I wondered if they, too, were wearing away at themselves. If they were practicing their own numbing paths to oblivion.

  If Isabella and Sister Teresa were alone in the ya
rd, then I’d stop and ask them inane questions about herbs and vegetables. Isabella would come over and kneel on a sackcloth bag while I rubbed the stiffness out of her shoulders.

  When it was the three of us, Isabella insisted on calling her Rosaria. But I couldn’t get used to the idea that she had another name. I thought Teresa was her name. It was so odd, to look at Sister Luisa and think she might really be Giulia or Holly or Delphine or Bridget.

  “How do you pick your nun name?” I asked Sister Teresa finally, one Thursday afternoon. Why would anyone pick a name as ordinary as Teresa, if they had anything to choose from? I would have selected something delicate and classy. Sister Anastasia, perhaps, or Sister Hyacinth.

  “It is personal choice,” she said. “But also, we must be able to sign for it.”

  “What?” My mouth dropped open. I looked to Isabella and she was nodding. Clearly they’d already had this discussion.

  Sister Teresa laughed. “How did you think we communicated?”

  “I don’t know.” It had never occurred to me that the sisters would communicate with each other. I’d never seen two of them exchanging as much as eye contact. With the routine of the place, I figured everyone just knew their positions, their routines, their duties, and slid along as if on grooves inside a cuckoo clock.

  “They have all sorts of symbols,” Isabella said excitedly.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Like if they get sick or something.”

  “Right,” I said, looking at Sister Teresa. But I was losing interest. It seemed prurient and unsettling to be privy to the intimacy of the sisters’ private customs, like spotting a teacher on the weekend, grocery shopping with her own kids. I would rather the sisters stayed part of the scenery of the academy, drifting peacefully in the background. Not miming to one another about their period cramps.

  “Neat,” I said.

  “Honestly,” Sister Teresa said to Isabella, “I shouldn’t have told you my birth name.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re not meant to be fixated on personal things, are you?” Wasn’t she supposed to be trying to kill her personality?