Belladonna

by Anbara Salam

  I would have Isabella to myself again.

  The faint smell of coffee floated under the door and I sniffed it eagerly. I climbed stiffly out of bed; my calves and knees were aching. Wrapping my bathrobe around me, I went to the common room. Katherine had lit the fire and was knitting a snood from pale yellow wool. Next to her on the floorboards was a cup of coffee.

  “Hi,” I said, my voice frayed with sleep.

  She smiled at me over her shoulder. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  I shook my head, although it wasn’t true.

  “Me neither.” She looked back at the fire. “I keep thinking about Sister Teresa out there.”

  I went to sit by her. “I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.”

  She smiled weakly. “I guess. Though as soon as it was light, I went walking around, unlocking all the doors. I keep thinking—what if she tries to come home and the door is locked . . .” She trailed off.

  “But she can’t, can she? Come back?”

  “That’s what Nancy said.”

  We sat in silence while the wood popped.

  “Seems cruel, doesn’t it?” she asked. But before I could answer, she seemed to change her mind. “She must be brave, though. To leave it all behind, her whole life. She must have been planning it for months.”

  “Yeah,” I said, although an uneasy, slithery feeling was crawling in my gut. What would happen when the cops went through her cell and realized she wasn’t planning for months? Wouldn’t they ask questions about it? Wouldn’t they want to know why she’d split? I had the image of Sister Teresa being brought back to the convent under the flashing lights of a police escort. Would they make her confess? My stomach scrunched. Would she be forced to tell about Isabella? I squeezed my nails into my palms.

  “Morning,” said Nancy. She was standing in the doorway, her jeans spotted with mud.

  “Have you heard anything?” Katherine said, half rising out of her chair.

  Nancy shook her head. “The officers will be asking questions.”

  My pulse picked up.

  “Questions about what?” Katherine frowned.

  I cleared my throat. “Nance,” I said deliberately. “I still have your jacket. Will you please come with me so I can give it back to you?”

  Nancy looked startled. “Sure.”

  In my room I climbed onto the left bed while she took the wicker chair. I lit a cigarette and offered her the pack. She shook her head without even looking at it.

  “Nance, I’m sorry. This has been crummy for you.”

  She rubbed her eyebrows with the back of her sleeve. “I’m not the one in trouble.”

  For a moment I thought she meant me, and my vision squeezed. Nancy took off one of her earrings and massaged the lobe.

  “So, the police, what kind of questions—,” I began, but Isabella’s elbow knock came at the door and I shut my mouth.

  Isabella was wrapped in a blanket over the same orange sweater from the day before. Her eyes were swollen and her nose pink. “Oh. Nancy, hi,” she said.

  I shuffled over on the bed and patted it. She came and sat down next to me. Her hair was greasy at the roots.

  “Are you OK?” I said, reaching over to hug her with one arm.

  She blinked. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  I offered her the cigarette, and she took a pull and handed it back to me.

  Nancy rose from the chair with a groan and sat on the other side of Isabella, the bed lurching. She put her arm round Isabella, underneath mine. “Yesterday was horrible. I know. But at least you don’t have to worry anymore.”

  “What?” Isabella stood up. She took a step away from us. “Of course I’m worried. She’s gone missing. Who knows what might’ve happened to her? She disappeared in the middle of the night!”

  Nancy froze. “Izzy—,” she started.

  I stabbed out the cigarette in an espresso cup.

  “Something awful has happened, I know it.” Isabella clutched the blanket tighter in front of her chest. “She wouldn’t leave like that, there’s no way. I’ve been thinking about it. And I’m sure something happened to her. I think—” She pointed in the direction of the convent. “I think someone came in and took her. And they took her stuff, too, so it would look like she left deliberately. And that’s why there’s no note—because some stranger came and took her away, and they couldn’t leave a note because that’s how we’d know it wasn’t her and it wasn’t in her handwriting.” Her words came quickly; then she began crying and rubbed the sides of her face roughly with the blanket.

  Nancy took a deep breath and glanced quickly at me. It was the same worried, collusive look as the one from Granny, in the hospital. I felt like I might cry myself, I was so exhausted by being implicated by that tired, responsible look.

  “Izzy.” Nancy stood up and took a step toward her.

  Isabella flinched away before she had a chance to touch her.

  Nancy let her hand drop. “I’m sorry you’re so upset. But—” Nancy looked at me and I deliberately kept my eyes blank. “There’s no doubt Sister Teresa left of her own accord. The boat—the rowboat? It’s missing too. She was the only one with the key to the padlock on the gate. Other than Donna Maria. But, look—clearly, she decided to go out and live her own life. Be independent. Can’t say I blame her either,” Nancy said.

  “No,” said Isabella, sobbing in hard, wet fractures. “She wouldn’t’ve gone, not without saying good-bye.”

  Nancy softened, putting her hand gently on Isabella’s shoulder. “Maybe she thought we might tell the father? But what’s important is that this was her decision. She’ll be OK. And she’s very smart, and she’ll take care of herself.”

  Isabella gripped the blanket. “But why wouldn’t they just check?”

  Nancy grimaced. “Um, well, now we know there’s no crime—I doubt the cops are going to pursue this. Her.”

  “Why not?” Isabella stared fiercely at Nancy. Then at me, and back at Nancy. “She’s all by herself. She could be in trouble!”

  “Honestly, because—” Nancy looked at me again.

  “I don’t know,” I said defensively.

  “Because she’s not a high priority, Izzy.”

  “You mean, because she’s black,” Isabella said, taking a step back again, so she was pressed against the window. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Because she’s black, so nobody cares.”

  Nancy opened her mouth.

  “Nobody cares,” Isabella said, her voice dropping. “Nobody cares. Except for me.”

  “Look, that’s not fair,” Nancy said, her mouth twitching. Isabella’s face was pinched with disgust. “She’s not a fugitive from the law, Izzy. She’s an adult.”

  “Ugh.” Isabella wrenched herself away from Nancy. The edge of her blanket knocked over the glass from my bedside table so it rolled and dropped onto the bed, and Rhona’s Valentine’s Day card fell onto its face.

  “It’s disgusting. This is—this is—prejudice. This is disgusting.” She strode out of the room, her blanket billowing behind her like a cape, making the dramatic exit slightly comical.

  Nancy groaned and rubbed her face. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she said to me. “Why would they go looking for her? She doesn’t want to be here.”

  “I know. Listen, I’ll deal with her,” I said as I went after Isabella.

  I approached Isabella’s door and pushed against it, but it was locked.

  “Isabella?” I said, knocking on the wood. “It’s me.”

  “Go away!” she yelled. “I can’t bear to talk to any of you.” The pitch of her voice was verging on hysterical, and it irked me. I chewed the inside of my mouth.

  “Fine,” I said, as obligingly as I could manage. “Come and find me when you’re ready to calm down.”

  * * *

  When I went
down to breakfast, there were a few bleary-eyed faces. No one had put on makeup or pinned up their hair. To my surprise, the two cops and Father Gavanto were sitting at the end of the table, their hats lying next to their plates. I squeezed in beside Katherine and Greta, and we ate three rolls each, cramming them into our mouths, pressing our shoulders into each other in mute solidarity.

  Father Gavanto came behind us. “Ladies,” he said, dipping his head. Then in Italian, he said they would be waiting in the library to interview us in turn.

  We nodded, and then, as they walked away, looked between each other.

  “Oh jeez, what now?” said Katherine. I started laughing—I couldn’t help it—and Greta caught the giggles bad and choked on a mouthful of bread so we had to tap her on the back while she coughed, her eyes streaming.

  Katherine went first. Greta and I stood by the door into the courtyard smoking.

  After the library door closed, Greta sighed. Finally she said, “Do you think they’ll let me call Bobby?”

  “Whyever not?”

  “It’s just”—Greta grimaced—“this is so bad of me. His dog, Buster, is really sick. I want to see if he’s all right. Is that terrible of me?”

  I shook my head at her, not understanding.

  “To care about a dog with cancer when”—she waved her cigarette— “all this is going on? But Buster was sick before Sister Teresa left, so—” She wrinkled up her nose as if she were balancing the two incidents on a scale.

  I understood then how little Greta cared about Sister Teresa; it was a disconcerting itch at the back of my ribs. It made me envious of her and feel distanced from her, too.

  “I’m sure they’ll let you,” I said. “Try at lunch.”

  Greta let out a breath. “OK.”

  When Katherine came out of the library, she crept over to us and asked for a cigarette.

  “Well?” Greta whispered.

  “They want to see if there’s any funny business going on.”

  My skin flared hot and cold at the same time. “Like what?”

  Katherine shrugged. “Search me. Nancy’s there, though, and Donna Maria. It’s not so bad.”

  “Jeez.” Greta jiggled another cigarette out of her pack. “It’s like I’m back in high school, getting in trouble for skipping lacrosse.”

  Katherine pointed her cigarette at Greta and laughed. “Exactly! I kept waiting to have my hall pass revoked.”

  Greta grimaced at me. “Who should go next?”

  “It’s OK, I’ll go,” I said, desperate to get it over with. I pressed my fingernails into my palms. What if they could tell it was my fault? The dread was so hard in my stomach it was like I had gobbled down a sack of marbles.

  I knocked on the door, and Father Gavanto’s voice called out, “Entra.”

  Two of the tables had been pulled into the center of the room, and the stove was blazing. Nancy and Donna Maria were sitting on the left side of the table. Nancy’s hair was escaping from her bun and her shirt was stained with drops of coffee. Donna Maria had put on a blue blouse I had never seen before and had tied a long navy scarf around her neck. The idea she’d made an effort to look nice for such a macabre occasion was heartbreaking.

  On the far side of the table were the two detectives, their shirtsleeves rolled up. The younger man had strangely hairless forearms. Father Gavanto was sitting on the right, and there were two chairs by the door.

  I took a seat.

  Father Gavanto cleared his throat. “Bridget Ryan,” he said, and one of the cops looked down a list of names and crossed mine off.

  The cops introduced themselves. The younger was Vigile Roberto and the older man Vigile Mario.

  “What’s this about?” I said, turning to Nancy. My mouth was dry.

  “They want to get a sense of why Sister Teresa left. To make sure she wasn’t under pressure,” Nancy said.

  “Do they know something? Has something happened?”

  She translated my question. The cops began smiling even before Nancy had finished speaking.

  Vigile Mario said, “No crime. Don’t worry,” and shrugged as if it were a joke I didn’t understand.

  Then Father Gavanto said, “The agents will check why the sister left.”

  “Sister Teresa?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Father Gavanto said, bemused.

  “Father Gavanto is helping us,” Vigile Roberto said.

  The father gave him a bow of the head.

  Then I understood. This was all for the benefit of the cops. Imagine how it must look to have a runaway sister. Father Gavanto couldn’t risk any scent of a convent scandal getting back to the families of prospective academy girls. Mrs. Fortescue must be frothing at the mouth. I looked again at the way Father Gavanto’s hands were neatly folded over the table. I felt sorry for him.

  The detectives began speaking to Nancy. I waited, glancing politely between them.

  Nancy cleared her throat. “They are asking if Sister Teresa ever discussed being unhappy with the academy, and if she ever discussed her plans to leave. They want me to reassure you that everything you say in here is confidential. I’ve been sworn to silence.” She gave me her best attempt at a smile.

  I licked my lips. “Should I tell them?” I gestured toward the cops. “Or?”

  “You can say it to me. I’ll translate.”

  “I often spoke to Sister Teresa,” I said. Nancy nodded. “Occasionally we spent time in the garden together.” I pressed my thumbs into the groove in the wooden table, simply to keep them occupied. I worked the tips of my thumbs back and forward over the lip in the wood. “She is very smart and kind,” I said. I felt a surge of tearfulness and swallowed against it.

  Nancy nodded patiently.

  I licked my lips again. “But—” I paused, working my thumbs back into the groove.

  Nancy stopped translating and stared at me, surprised. “Go on.”

  “She has family here, in Italy. I don’t know if the officers—” I looked at them, and they turned to Nancy, their eyes expectant.

  “Family?” Nancy said. Vigile Roberto began to ask her something, but she raised her hand to indicate that he should wait. I was shocked by the casualness of the gesture, her total confidence. He glared at me as if I’d encouraged her impertinence.

  “Yes,” I said, looking between Nancy and the cops. “Her father. Her dad—he lives in the south, she told me.”

  The cops asked Nancy questions. Her answers went on for a great deal longer than I’d expected. Vigile Roberto was making notes in a book; then he addressed Father Gavanto, who spoke to Nancy; then Donna Maria was speaking.

  I focused on a crack in the top of the table where the light was pooling.

  “Bridget,” Nancy said. I could feel all their eyes on me. “Did she say where her father lived? Anything about going to see him or reconnecting with him?”

  “She said he was in the south,” I said, trying to recall the details. Bari popped into my head, but I couldn’t remember if she’d mentioned it or if I had made an independent connection. “Maybe Bari?” I said. “But I’m not sure.”

  Vigile Mario asked Nancy another question.

  “What does he do for a living? Work in a fishing boat?” she said.

  “I really don’t know.” I said. Then I realized why they automatically assumed he would work on a boat. “But he wasn’t— He’s not from Africa; he’s Italian.”

  “An Italian citizen?” Nancy asked.

  I nodded.

  She translated again, then asked, “Was he a soldier?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  After a minute of conferring, Nancy said, “What were you discussing, when her father came up? Maybe her father is taking her back to Africa?”

  “No,” I said. “Her father isn’t African; that’s what I’m saying. He’
s Italian. He lives here, in Italy. We were speaking about it because she’s mixed.” Nancy’s eyes were focused on mine. I felt myself blush to the roots of my hair. “I really don’t know anything about his profession.”

  Nancy translated for the cops. My heart lurched against the front of my body.

  “They weren’t aware of that, apparently,” Nancy said. “I suppose it’s in her papers, but—are you absolutely sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Maybe she meant—”

  “Look, I’m sure.” My chest squeezed, and a thrill of adrenaline curdled in the drum of my stomach. I cleared my throat. “I’m sure. Because I’m mixed too. That’s why she told me.”

  Nancy opened her mouth, blinked, shut it again.

  I swallowed. “I am also of mixed heritage, and we discussed it often. I was of the understanding that her Italian father lives in the south and she wished to see him.”

  “Right,” said Nancy. “Right.” She blinked down at the table. And then back at me. “Right.”

  “My mother is also from Africa,” I said, releasing my thumbs from the groove in the table. A strange calm had settled over me. “And so Sister Teresa and I had a special connection. That is why . . .” I sat up straight. “That is why I can reassure the officers they don’t need to waste any resources searching for Sister Teresa or bringing her back.”

  Nancy took a long drink from her glass of water and then turned to the detectives. Their heads snapped to me. I kept my posture straight as the two officers began a deliberate, evaluative look over my face, my figure. Nancy’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes fixed on the corner of the room. Donna Maria frowned, her face focused on mine.