by Lily Miles
“Well?” she presses, teeth gritted in irritation that it took me longer than a second to compose an answer.
I grab my shovel again, tossing it over my shoulder as I gaze at the stocky woman with the stormy eyes. She’d like nothing more than to crush everyone here under her thumb in the name of her faith, but I'm not going to help her do that. I’d never help her do that—not even if it cost me my job here and sent me to jail.
Mother Antonia may have thought I would be another eager pawn in her game, but she has another thing coming. I’ll play her game, but I’ll play it right back at her.
A smile brightens my face and I dip my chin a single time.
“I understand what you’re asking completely,” I assure her, promising her nothing.
9
Sister Catherine walks—or better, wafts—on Cloud Nine through the darkened halls of the convent, inhaling the dank air and beaming from ear to ear. Occasionally, she does a perky little spin which reveals fishnet thigh-high stockings under her habit—her own personal form of rebellion, among other things.
She’d never been more proud of her ability to play-act then she is right now. This wasn’t the first time she’d pulled one over on the mother superior, but this had been by far her best performance.
Earlier, Catherine had paced up and down the halls outside Mother Antonia’s office for a full fifteen minutes trying to work up those tears, before she ran inside that office. She’d thought of everything from her childhood dog dying, to her parents kicking her out when she was just sixteen, to her first lover breaking her heart.
But she hadn't been able to work up a single teardrop until she thought about a very painful, old memory, one she usually avoided thinking about at all costs.
Just that thought had sent shivers rolling through her entire body, and before she could even help herself, she was sobbing hysterically. Sister Catherine doesn’t know how she feels about faith or even the vows she took as a nun, but she does know that, when it comes down to it, Mother Antonia is no match for her strength. Sure, the mother superior has her intimidating moments, but Catherine didn't fear her at all.
The strawberry blonde pauses at one of the upper windows, her fingers trailing across the dusty pane. The sky today is a perfect shade of blue, the kind that you would think comes from a tube of paint instead of nature.
Some people must love this weather, she muses to herself. She knows Maggie does. To Catherine, that girl was like a flower. Maggie needed to be outside, warm and nurtured, to bloom. Maggie hadn't flowered yet, but she would with Catherine’s help, at least. Beautiful people like Maggie deserved as much.
“Cat!” cries Maggie’s voice abruptly from the hall, quietly echoing from wall to wall.
Catherine turns to grin at the slightly disheveled woman whose dark veil was completely askew. Catherine walks up to Maggie and fixes the veil, carefully tucking unruly dark curls away, just the way she knew Maggie liked it.
“What’s going on with you?” Catherine asks curiously, eyeing her with interest.
Maggie was usually much more composed than she is right now, and so Catherine was eager to hear what had put her in such an unsettled state. Things could be rather dull in the Convent of the Blessed Virgin, and Catherine loves gossip. Maggie gulps and stares at her friend, taking in her own panicked expression in the reflection of Catherine’s blue eyes.
“He saw me,” she whispers hoarsely, clutching at her flushed red throat with horror. “He saw me without my veil. He saw my hair!”
“He?” Catherine prompts, nodding when Maggie shrieks out the gardener’s name and buries her face in her hands.
“That’s hardly the end of the world,” Catherine responds with typical nonchalance. Nothing was ever a big deal as far as unflappable Sister Catherine Mary was concerned. “A lot of other nunneries allow nuns to show their hair now, you know.”
“But we’re not a lot of other nunneries!” whispers Maggie, clutching her best friend’s hand tightly.
Catherine notices her hand shaking and her detachment gives way to compassion. She wraps her friend in a hug and pats her back. Maggie trembles in her arms and Catherine concludes that the other woman wasn’t trembling solely because of humiliation, but something else, something more torrid and visceral. The way Maggie’s hands and knees were trembling so ferociously, Catherine knew that feeling well.
“Okay, so Trevor saw you. What can be done now?” Catherine asks gently, rocking Maggie back and forth like a mother soothing her child. “You can’t go back in time, Mags, so you have to just accept it—it is what it is. Anyway, it’s really alright. There’s no way he was shocked, we know that. And what’s more, he won’t tell anyone. We may not know him well, but I can tell he can keep a secret.”
Catherine’s words seem to have the desired effect, because Maggie relaxes against Catherine, her head on her friend’s slender shoulder.
“I suppose it’s true, nothing can really be done,” Maggie relents. “But I’ll have to tell the priest at confession.”
“And he’ll give you twelve ‘Hail Mary’s’ and an hour of deep prayer and that will be that. Mother Superior won’t even find out.” Catherine steps back and places her hands lightly on Maggie’s shoulders. Her blue eyes shimmer eagerly. “I have news. It’s something that’ll definitely take your mind off this.”
“Oh?” asks Maggie, brightening slightly, like a wildflower peeking through the crack of concrete.
Catherine gives a tight-lipped nod, her eyes wide and excited.
Maggie slips away from Catherine and slides up so she’s sitting on a window sill just barely wide enough for her to fit. Sister Grace would be able to lay sideways along the sill and stare up at a night full of stars if she wanted to, though Maggie had the feeling Grace would consider that disrespectful to the building. Grace walked with her arms tucked close against her tiny body and her feet just barely drifting over the floors, as though she wasn’t worthy of touching even the dust on the walls.
“Are you going to tell me what it is?” Maggie presses with a faint laugh.
Feeling a bit more rejuvenated, Maggie frowns impatiently at Catherine while adjusting her veil to make sure her hair was thoroughly in place.
“Well … I had a meeting with Mother Antonia,” Catherine begins leisurely.
“Mother Antonia, Cat,” chides Maggie before shaking her head and reminding herself to focus on what was important right now—that being Catherine’s story, of course. Even Maggie was drawn to gossip. “What about?”
“Our homework assignments,” continues Catherine, stretching it out. She’s clearly enjoying feeding Maggie crumbs of her tale and making her work for the details.
“It’s not a school assignment, it’s a moral mission,” Maggie says with a sigh.
She rests her hands on the window sill beside her and lets her back rest against the warm glass, which she can feel through the cotton of her habit. When Catherine responds by dramatically rolling her eyes, Maggie lightly kicks at her shin to beg for more information.
“You and I get to work together!” Catherine cries joyously, throwing up her hands in celebration. “Isn’t that great! You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to convince Mother Antonia. I had to pretend to cry, ugh, it was such a pain.”
Maggie groans, not joining in on her friend’s delight. “That’s great for you, but that means I'm going to be doing double the work. You really want to transcribe manuscripts with me?”
“Oh, God, no,” Catherine grimaces, as though the very thought is repulsive.
Maggie sucks in a breath and almost yells at her friend not to use the Lord’s name in vain, but decides she’s corrected Catherine too much in the last five minutes and yet another would risk Catherine not continuing her story. Maggie knew Catherine well enough to know that there was more left to share that Catherine was still withholding. So, instead, Maggie keeps silent.
“Maggie, I told you I was going to find you something more interesting to work on …�
�� Catherine says, leaning towards Margaret and planting both her palms on either side of Maggie’s knees.
The two girls are close together, Catherine leaning over Maggie, who was pressed against the stained glass.
Maggie narrows her eyes suspiciously. “And what might that be?”
She racks her brain, trying to figure out just what Catherine could be up to, but she could come up with nothing. You never knew with Cat, after all.
“You and I are going to be doing work around the gardens. Imagine that, you and I outside in the sun day in and day out nourishing our souls and the land and taking in God’s bounty … yadda, yadda, blah, blah, you get the point,” Catherine trails off with a dismissive wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes.
“But ….” Margaret gulps, “but Trevor works in the gardens …”
“And he is surely going to be able to help us with our demanding tasks. Won’t that be kind of him?” Catherine muses with feigned nonchalance, though her eyes have turned to sly slits. “We’ll have to ask him tomorrow, of course. But I'm sure he’ll be eager.”
“I can’t, Cat. I can’t be around him. He makes me feel …” Maggie trips over her words, stumbling to a clumsy halt.
“Feel what, Maggie?” Catherine asks, one hand lazily tapping piano keys over Maggie’s knee.
Maggie shifts away from her, sliding free of the window sill.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” she whispers hoarsely, her eyes darting up and down the hall to make sure there were no prying ears nearby.
“If he makes you feel nothing at all, then this shouldn’t be an issue,” Catherine chirps breezily. “I'm glad to hear that you’re up for the task. Gardening is hard work, I hear. We start in the morning. You should make sure you get some rest tonight.”
Maggie could only shake her head, watching as Catherine descended down a nearby set of stairs. Only then did she slump back against the window pane, desperately looking out over the wildflower-dotted hills around the convent.
She has no idea what tomorrow will bring, but she’s sure it will be trouble.
Slowly, she lifts one palm to place it over her heart, feeling the rapid pace of it throbbing against ribs which by now must surely be bruised. Even just thinking about the gardener made her feel as though she was going to burst. How would she be able to work near him? Briefly, she considers going to Mother Superior and asking for a change of project, but she also knew that would only bring Catherine’s wrath upon her; there’s no way she’d ever disappoint her best friend.
In the end, she closes her eyes and hopes that something good would come of this task. For example, perhaps this was a trial of her faith, and she would have to show her devotion to the Lord by refraining from her own desires. Or maybe this would be her chance to bring Trevor into the holy light. Yes, that’s what she would focus on for now. She could surely help him.
She opens her eyes, feeling refreshed, and hopes to make her sisters and her mother superior proud. She will use this temptation to better herself … or at least that’s what she’s telling herself right now.
Catherine, meanwhile, continues to prance down the stairs, completely overjoyed with the way things had worked out. She hops with almost juvenile glee from one slick step to the next, humming some Top 40 song she remembered from before the convent—one that had a fair share of deliciously sinful words in its lyrics.
When she rounds the corner, however, all that delight melts clean off her face when she almost runs headlong into Sister Eva, who had a habit of appearing exactly when she was unwanted most.
“Watch your step,” mutters Sister Catherine, despite the fact that she had been the one not looking where she was going. “You wouldn’t want to hurt one of your dear sisters, would you?” she adds, venom on her tongue.
Cat and Eva stare at one another, the tension thick.
The two women are vipers circling each other carefully, waiting for a moment to strike. “I have no sisters,” Eva barks back, just as venomous, “only competition.”
10
Margaret
Hearty chicken noodle soup, just-baked crusty French bread and fresh spinach salad had never smelled as scrumptious as they did when placed in front of us fifteen minutes ago, marking the break from our blessed fast. We hadn't been sure how much longer we’d be forced to go without food, but thankfully the fast had finally come to an end, whether or not Mother Antonia approved. I could tell she was less than thrilled that we were finally being fed, because her eyes are set like smoldering, gray stones above her scowling mouth.
We’d all already eaten at least three bowls of the soup, only stopping when Mother Antonia rose from her own table near the front of the dining room, reminding us that gluttony was a sin. Twins Lucy and Genevieve sat beside each other with Sister Isabelle across the table, begging for their leftovers.
The only one who’d shown any amount of restraint after our forced fast was Sister Grace, who delicately sipped from her bowl as though she hadn't been starving. Her eyes, however, were much less grim than they had been in the library before, and it was nice to see some color back in her cheeks.
Next to Grace, Sister Monica’s face is practically in her bowl inhaling the remaining soup she has, and when she lifts her face some of the broth clings to the corners of her mouth. When I indicate for her to wipe it away, she gives a faint giggle and does so. Though a bit of a trickster, Sister Monica did have a heart of gold. She just despised feeling bored more than she enjoyed peace and quiet; I couldn’t fault her there.
Monica then rose to her feet, collecting everyone’s bowls when supper ended. She even took Sister Eva’s without “accidentally” spilling any of the remaining broth on the brunette nun’s habit, though probably because Monica intended to slurp up the rest in the kitchen. After all, you could never be too sure when Mother Antonia would order another fast in the name of our faith. We each took turns helping clean up after dinner once the cooks were finished in there for the night.
The rest of us would retire to our rooms for our evening prayers.
Once we were released by Mother Antonia, Catherine and I walk side by side up the stairs towards our shared room. Catherine is a little more quiet than normal, brooding over something or other. I saw her shooting glares at Eva all through dinner, the expression quite forcefully returned. I’d have asked what was causing the tension, but there was always something going on between Eva and Catherine. It was like they enjoyed being at odds with one another. Tonight, among the rest of my prayers, I’d pray for both of them to find peace and harmony. It would surely lead to more peace and harmony for the rest of us as well.
Inside our room, Catherine and I begin to slowly strip away our habits and veils before getting ready for bed.
Catherine flings off her clothes and dives stark naked between her sheets. I slip into a modest, virginal white nightgown that hangs down to my ankles, then promptly climb into my own little cot. The beds themselves are not remarkable in any way. They’re small, lumpy, and the quilts were stitched by nuns that came before us generations ago. I notice it’s time to wash the quilt that’s on my bed.
All of us sisters take turns sorting the dirty linens and clothes and sending them down the massive laundry chute that’s in the hallway wall. They’re loaded onto the big white truck every Saturday evening to take into town for washing. Sometimes, when it’s Catherine’s turn, she even convinces the driver to request fabric softener, so that for a week we can enjoy sheets that aren’t stiff and scratchy.
Outside, the moon has risen, dangling from somewhere high up in the evening sky.
Our room has two barred windows, one above Catherine’s bed and one above mine. They’re set high up on the wall so that I have to sit up in bed to gaze out of it, but I don’t mind. Then when I'm lying sideways on my mattress, I can see stars twinkling through the thick, iron bars that protect the window. And moonlight too, if the moon is in the right place.
When I first arrived, I’d asked Mother Superior why the
bars were there. She’d claimed it was to keep anyone from breaking into our consecrated rooms, but I have a feeling it’s more to keep us inside.
“Are you excited for tomorrow?” Catherine asks, her voice drifting from her bed where she’s curled like a nude cat between her sheets.
She doesn’t seem to care that the sheets and quilts are scratchy and old and might bother her milky white skin—it’s being naked and free that she loves, after being caged all day in her nun’s habit.
“Why?” I ask, though my voice is quivering and gives away the fact that I know exactly what Catherine is referring to.
Tomorrow, I get to see Trevor.
Not only that, but I also get to talk to him … to spend time with him … to watch his broad shoulders as he digs through the earth and helps Catherine and me garden for the first time.
I get to see the delicate way he handles the pretty plants, and I get to feel the earth under my hands. I think of his fingernails, which were brown from soil and dirt, and lift one of my own hands to inspect. My palms are now healed smooth, the welts where Mother Antonia had punished me no longer painful or swollen; the aloe Trevor had given me had worked wonders. I wonder if these hands are capable of doing such work as Trevor does. I’ve never really had to do anything with my hands; I’ve never had to work so hard my back ached or my muscles throbbed. The only time I felt that sort of discomfort was during long prayer sessions with Grace, when my legs would go numb as I kneeled and I would lose feeling in my clasped hands.
Catherine ignores my feeble attempt at coyness and draws in a slow, long yawn.
