Sweet Salvation

by Lily Miles

  Would it make her smile even if she and I would never have a chance to speak again? That’s what I wanted. For her to be happy.

  With a sudden stricken gasp, I spot my abandoned bag beside the garden bed and remember that I still had my notebook inside the now-waterlogged backpack.

  I spring into action, scooping up the bag and holding it against my soaked chest as I dart back towards the apartment. My legs pump as fast as they can as soft, wet earth tugs at my shoes as I run, nearly tripping me and sending me hurtling headlong into the grass. I keep sprinting until I skid safely into the apartment foyer and welcoming shelter.

  Cliff, who was reading a medical journal in the living room when I slid inside, looks up as I make my dramatic entrance and shakes his head slowly.

  “You’re going to catch your death, kid,” he calls over, using the demeaning moniker, despite being only a few years older than myself. “Come see me tomorrow when you wake up with a fever.”

  I ignore him, storming up the stairs and to my room. I don’t even bother stripping off my wet clothes, not caring about the puddle of water gathering underneath my body as I rip open the bag. Turning it upside down and shaking it, I watch in horror as water carrying my notebook and a few empty water bottles spills out onto the already soaked carpet.

  With clumsy hands I lift the notebook. Grabbing a towel hanging from the corner of my room, I furiously rub the water off of the soaked cover. All my drawings, all my art, have got to be ruined inside.

  When I flip it open, however, I'm shocked and beyond grateful to see that the pages are nearly completely dry.

  All of my artwork is safe, including the beautiful drawing of Maggie with her wild mane of untamed curls and her Mona Lisa smile. I thumb through the pages, unable to believe what I'm seeing. Though the wet edges of the pages are a little worse for wear and will furl with water damage, tomorrow they’ll be dry and the pages will still be intact.

  Overwhelmed by relief, I collapse back on the now-wet carpet of my bedroom, staring up at the ceiling with my arms and legs extended and the notebook resting safely on the table.

  If there is a God, He had surely saved those pictures for me. Because they may be the last remaining memory I have of that lovely woman who has captivated me so.

  Eventually, I climb to my feet and pad out to the hall to get more towels, laying them down around my room on the puddles before I strip slowly out of my soaking wet clothes and hang them on furniture to dry. Later, I’ll take them down to the laundry room to wash the dirt and mud out of them. Then I grab one of the dry towels and wrap it around my waist, heading to the bathroom to wash the chill from my bones.

  I take my time showering, even though it’s late and the rattle of water through ancient plumbing will keep everyone in the dorm awake. Once I'm warmed up, I ease out of the shower and dry off before pulling on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a white tee shirt.

  When I pad back out into the hall, I hear my name being called in a gruff but quiet voice. It’s coming from the kitchen, along with the sound of light clattering of dishes. Curious, I follow the sound, finding Henry standing at the stove stirring a saucepan. I clear my throat, wishing I’d just gone back to my room and closed the door. I'm exhausted from everything that happened and I just want to close my eyes and try not to think about Maggie for a while.

  “Have a seat,” he says quietly in his husky drawl. For a change he's not wearing his cowboy hat, and I take note of his full head of chestnut brown hair that’s gone salt and pepper at the temples and sideburns—even though he’s at least fifty, he's still a handsome man. Distinguished, even. Though rough around the edges, of course.

  Sensing he’s got something important to say, I do as I'm told and sink down into one of the uncomfortable chairs. A second later he plops a mug in front of me filled with steamed, hot milk. Tendrils of steam roll up from the chipped porcelain mug, licking my face as I inhale the comforting fragrance. He pours himself a cup and then sits opposite me at the table.

  “I heard the doc say you're going to get sick so I figured this would help you avoid that,” he explains with a shrug while watching me sip from the mug.

  Each drop of the milk warms my throat all the way to my stomach, slowly calming me. For the first time since Maggie dashed off, I feel like I can finally take a breath and try to sort out the hurricane that is my thoughts. Outside the apartment building, the wind still roars, rain hurled against the roof so loudly that perhaps my shower wouldn’t have woken anyone. Occasionally, the plink of hailstones peppers the windows. Hopefully, this terrible storm doesn’t do too much damage to the plants, or we’re all going to have a long day tomorrow.

  “Thank you,” I answer, surprised that Henry could actually think about someone other than himself—considering his typical aloofness, this loner could be surprisingly kind. Before now, I’d had him pegged as a selfish lout who helped himself to the last cup of coffee and didn’t make more; now I was grateful he at least didn't try to comfort me by making one of those gross mayo sandwiches he loved.

  Henry just shrugs again, staring down at his cup of milk as though he could read the future from the small ripples in the steaming drink. Eventually, he sips it, slurping from the rim of his glass so noisily that I have to bite back a laugh. He may not be as selfish as I thought, but he was certainly just as loutish.

  When he sets his mug back down, he’s already gulped up all the milk like a starving cat, the remains of the drink clinging to the edge of the cup. I continue to sip at mine much more slowly, savoring the sweetened flavor. Apparently Henry had added honey and perhaps a bit of vanilla to the concoction. It made my eyes drowsy and I had to put my chin on the palm of my hand to focus on the man as he began to speak.

  I keep one eye on him, wondering why he had summoned me down to the kitchen. Did he have something to say, or was he just feeling hospitable?

  “I just want to tell you that I understand how confusing it can be to work at the convent,” he explains quietly. He gazes off towards the corner of the room as if lost in his own thoughts, like he’d forgotten he was talking to someone; all the same, he continues. “The girls are beautiful. Unnaturally so. Blessedly so,” he adds with a faint chuckle. “The Lord does shine on them, in their youth, at least.”

  “Have you been here long?” I ask, despite knowing the answer. I thought perhaps I would glean more information from him if I feigned ignorance.

  “Since I was a tad older than you,” he says with a nod, talking more glibly than I’d ever heard before. I wonder if perhaps he’d snuck a little rum into the drink mix. His eyes connect momentarily with mine, though the copper-colored orbs are still hidden behind a layer of what seems like distant foggy glass. “And there was one of the girls who caught my eye. She was so very beautiful. I wanted her.”

  “Did you get her?” I ask, despite realizing that Henry is now here at the convent with no bride and no home to go to. He’s spent every day here, gardening endlessly until his face is tanned and weathered and his eyes are foggy with memories.

  “No,” he says grimly. “Take this to heart, Trevor. You will eventually have to make a choice. Her or you. It’s that simple. You may believe you can have both, but you can’t. These women don’t give up their own lives, you just find yourself in a hopeless trap, unable to escape once they’ve snared you.”

  I don’t say anything, pondering his words and letting them soak into my brain.

  He blinks. Suddenly he’s back on planet Earth and rises slightly in his chair.

  “Do you want more?” he asks, gesturing to the still-simmering pot on the stove.

  I push away the glass, letting it skid across the table even though I’d only drunk half of it and the sweet liquid still clung to my lips.

  ‘No, thank you,” I answer, getting up to wash the cup, then walking towards the stairs. “Thanks for the drink,” I call over my wearily over my shoulder.

  “Trevor,” Henry calls. He waits for me to look at him, but I just stop at
the bottom step, one hand on the rail, my shoulders slumped with exhaustion. With my back to him, I can't tell whether he’s smiling or frowning as he looks at me. “I just thought you might find some use in that story. Sometimes I think the young boys need to hear it most of all. You won’t be the last to fall for a holy temptress.”

  With a nod, I continue up the stairs and though my footsteps are heavy, I keep my chin lifted. When I enter the room, the notebook with my drawing of Maggie is still open on the table, her smiling face still etched on the page where I’d drawn her. I gaze at her, leaning against the door, more confused now than I’ve ever been before.

  18

  After supper, Mother Antonia makes her way slowly down to her office. For a woman who is frequently fierce, she seems rather at peace at the moment.

  This is perhaps the only time of day she doesn’t stomp about the halls looking for misbehaving young ladies to punish. She knows the younger nuns will all be finishing their dinners, and then roguish Sister Monica will be stuck in the kitchen cleaning for at least a half hour, so she has no one to worry about. Soon enough, the girls will gather in the small, dimly lit choir hall for their after-dinner hymns.

  Today had been long and Mother Antonia is looking forward to finishing up her evening routine and retiring to her private chamber, a large but simple room with a mattress newer than those of the rest of the nuns, and far softer blankets. She listens to the sound of her feet clicking along the stone floor, absently counting the steps it takes to return to her office. She’d been on the phone for most of the day calling other convents and slowly working her way up the Catholic Church's bureaucratic ladder.

  Things are finally starting to fall in place, and she’s clearly pleased by this. Though Mother Antonia doesn’t smile often, she’s been delightedly giggling to herself for hours. Only a few more pawns need to move and then the way will be cleared.

  Safely within the locked space of her office, the mother superior sinks down to her knees before the lifelike representation of Christ on his cross, her hands folded and pressed against her forehead as she whispers urgent prayers. Even though she wants to start with the matter at hand, which she considers the most important, she delicately pushes it aside for the moment so as not to appear too selfish to the good Lord above.

  One’s prayers should always be about others first. She’d been taught to do her litanies that way since she was old enough to whisper out the garbled devotionals as a toddler. Never start your prayers pleading for the things you want: it’s selfish and won’t do for a proper Catholic girl.

  Just like weary Mother Antonia now, child Antonia would collapse to her knees and vehemently pray. Back then she would pray for simple things; she knew better than to pray for new toys or clothes, because she never received new things to begin with. She would pray for her schoolmates’ salvation, especially the little boys who would tease her relentlessly and pull her pigtails ’til she cried, and she would pray for her teachers, even the ones who gave her bad grades, and she would pray for her parents, even when they were cross with her.

  But most of all, young Antonia prayed for a purpose.

  She always knew she wanted to be a nun. The calling had found her at a young and tender age. Or perhaps it was the incessant bullying of her schoolmates that pushed her towards a cloistered living, though she would never admit that out loud.

  Today, Mother Antonia is glad that she had finally discovered her purpose: guiding her flock of young nuns to their faith, even if it required a heavy hand.

  As far as the reverend mother was concerned, harsh and ruthless severity was the only way she would ever convince the wild-hearted young ladies to stick to their vows. She’d seen far too many other nuns fall by the wayside, one by one forgetting their sacred calling after being drawn towards the shiny allure of earthy pleasures.

  This disgusts Mother Antonia, who had never once wavered in her own promise to the Lord … as far as she would ever admit to herself.

  The day she accepted her holy cloak and veil was the day she felt the most complete; she could still remember that momentous occasion with absolute clarity. The smell of starch as the old mother superior, who was far too kind, placed the veil upon young Antonia’s dark hair. The weight of the rosary as it was tenderly placed around her neck, the rosary she still wore to this day. At that precise moment Antonia had gazed up at the previous mother superior and known that she was destined to replace her—and so she had.

  But things had changed since Mother Antonia took over the head position at the Convent of the Blessed Virgin, and for the better, she was sure—she did not believe in the significance of laughter or importance of joyous devotion as the previous mother superior had. Mother Antonia is of the opinion that true dedication to the faith should be one of grim, austere commitment and nothing more.

  She continues to pray, her hands clutching tighter and tighter, her fingers laced together. Her squeezed eyelids occasionally twitch from the vigor with which she appeals to the Lord.

  Now she prays for those sinful young sisters gathering now to sing their evening hymns.

  The newest group of nuns at her convent are beautiful—save plain but useful Eva—and that is a problem: it’s the pretty ones Mother Antonia has to worry about most. She knows she mustn’t covet what others have, but even in her prime years the mother superior was never beautiful, and it infuriates her that these lovely young things are as delicate and desirable as newly bloomed roses. That was why, despite having a multitude of older nuns to lead at her convent, on a daily basis she focused mostly on her young nuns, and had now ordered that their cloister be even more strict than previously. There was no way she’d risk any of the men working on the grounds plucking one of her beautiful flowers. They belonged to Mother Antonia and to her alone.

  Besides, it was just more enjoyable to focus her attention on the younger nuns. Inexperienced, cowed by authority—both hers and the Church’s edicts—and best of all, susceptible to threats of eternal damnation, they were easy to control and bend to her iron will. The icing on the cake was, how entertaining it was to punish them. What good would their beauty do them when a mere whim of mine could make them miserable?

  Yet that beauty was still troubling. Because in the face of it, not one of the male staff around the convent was to be trusted.

  Mother Antonia has always despised men, from young to old. She’d fought to have them all removed and replaced with an entirely female staff, but the convent headquarters hadn’t been able to find any women willing to do the grueling work the convent required.

  She was tired of her requests being denied.

  Mother Antonia had tried to be rid of the men and of elderly Sister Ruth but she’d been stuck with them both, all the same. Still, she wouldn’t give up. She would turn this convent into the perfectly sacred place she knows it can be. She just has to pray a little harder and the Lord will see her tasks through.

  She’s so very close now. She can tell that soon enough the pendulum will swing back in her favor; she must only be patient as the Bible commands.

  Her head lifts as she hears a noise from out in the hall—a door swinging closed in the stone frame?

  She abruptly silences herself mid-prayer and listens hard instead, straining her ears, but it’s begun to storm outside and she can’t hear anything beyond the whirl of the tempest, with its billowing wind gusts and sheets of heavy rain. Perhaps the door had been left ajar earlier, and it was only slamming now because of the air pressure.

  From down the hall, she could hear the beginnings of a few sweet voices singing the holy hymns they’d been assigned for the week, and Mother Antonia forgets her momentary concern with the door. As infuriating as the redheaded sister was, even she has to admit that Sister Monica has the voice of an angel. It was devout Sister Grace who was the weakest singer of the group, though that was possibly because she was afraid to lift her voice higher than a squeak.

  Mother Antonia climbs to her feet, rubbing at her creaking kn
ees.

  Though she was a nearly thirty years younger than Sister Ruth, lately it was getting harder and harder for her to pray while kneeling on the floor. She’s considered laying a pillow down to cushion her knees, but that would seem to make her prayers too easy. Devotion, Mother Antonia believes, should hurt a little or what is it worth?

  She hobbles over to the door, pushing it open and peering out into the darkened passage in the direction she’d heard the slamming noise.

  Because she’d ordered those annoying, flickering electric lights to be turned off promptly as evening arrived at the convent, she could hardly see anything among the dark shadows in the hallway. She can just barely make out a few shimmering puddles near the convent doors, but she shrugs, assuming those are due to the door being thrown open and then closed by the storm. No one would be stupid enough to frolic outside in such a maelstrom, not even that irritating Sister Catherine, who pushes every boundary possible in order to get a rise out of the mother superior.

  Thinking of Catherine, Mother Antonia shakes her head and closes her door once more, clicking the lock into place. She returns to her prayers, listening to the sweet sound of the hymns with distaste: she hates the song they’re singing right now.

  Meanwhile, down the hall from the mother superior’s office the small group of sisters continue singing together in a back room of the convent which had been made into a little choir. Though there should be at least eight of them this evening, two are notably missing.

  Sister Grace, squeaking along beside melodious Sister Monica, does her best not to assume that Sisters Catherine and Margaret are getting into trouble somewhere. She doesn’t want to jump to unfair judgment as that would not be morally sound. Sisters Genevieve and Lucy share a role, their voices perfectly pitched for the supportive alto undertones to Monica’s soprano solo. Monica, who took the lead of the song as she typically does, is too lost in the beautiful flow of her hymn to wish that she were out with her sisters instead of stuck in this dark room with only one flickering candle lighting the pages of the hymnal. Anyway, Monica knows the songs by heart, though Sister Eva was having more difficulty.