Bad Habits: A Dark Anthology

by Yolanda Olson

  “Yes, Sister.”

  “Very well then,” she said in a very pleasant but resolute tone. We both followed her to the stop light and crosswalk and waited for the crossing sign to blink. “I trust your Mother Superior explained everything to you about the Blessings of Hope and our small parish. Did you have any questions?”

  On my way here, after growing bored of looking at nothing but highway, I had read all the information in the packet Mother Margret had given me. A few glorified bake sales and an auction were what I was volunteered for. There was a small note about spending an hour a day with any one of the homeless people who Trevorstone Parish fed on a nightly basis, the only time they opened their doors to the outside.

  “No, not really,” I answered her.

  “Very well. Sister Abigail will be the one you will report to every morning and night,” she gestured absently at the beady-eyed woman beside us.

  Ah. The “Gail” Mother Margret mentioned. Wonderful.

  Just then, a gust of wind blew, taking my veil and headpiece along with it. Long strands of blonde hair whipped across my face, stinging like a thousand bees. “Drat!” I turned around and watched as my veil danced on the sidewalk behind me, only to lift up into the air to hitch a ride on a truck that passed by.

  “Well, there goes that.” I turned back around to see the two Sisters staring at me. It wasn’t a good stare. Whatever they saw there was anything but good.

  When the automated voice of the cross walk reminded them to get going, they shook themselves, and we crossed the street, me trying to tame my hair with one hand while carrying my luggage with the other.

  When we got to the car—just an ordinary sedan, not too new, not too old—Sister Hazel took the driver’s side and gestured to the back seat. “In you go, child.”

  With a sigh, I climbed in. I finger-combed my crazy hair and attempted to braid it into a long tail as the Sister drove us through the quiet streets of Trevorstone.

  Aside from the aloof welcome I’d received, I was still quite excited. Trevorstone was indeed a tiny town, and I assumed the street where the bus dropped me off was the only busy place in the whole town. We passed no shops or houses, just endless fields of wheat, until I finally saw some evidence of life. A gas station, a bank, and a small strip mall. At the light, we turned left, and before I knew it, we’d arrived.

  The convent was small and only one-story, pretty much just a slab of concrete with a red roof. Connected at the side was the church and parish office. As far as size, the whole place was less than a tenth of Our Lady of Heavenly Hope’s massive grounds.

  I grabbed my luggage and exited the car, following the Sisters to a side door. The sun was just setting, and the night was cool upon my head, reminding me that my hair was still uncovered. As soon as I thought it, Sister Hazel had me sitting in a chair in the entryway once we were inside while she went to a small closet.

  “Here,” she said, rummaging through something there. “Put this on for now. You can return it once you’ve had a chance to unpack.”

  She handed me a plain gray veil, and I put it on quickly, adjusting the tail of my braid as best as I could.

  Satisfied with this, she nodded, then whispered something to Beady-eyes, and told me to follow. Sister Abigail went on ahead in an opposite direction, while Sister Hazel led me down a hall, to where I hoped my room would be. I was in no hurry to meet the others.

  At last we stopped at the end of the dark hallway that smelled faintly medicinal. Maybe this place had once been a clinic. The room was already open, but dark, until she turned on the light switch. A single bed, a night table, and a narrow wardrobe were the only things in the room. It was perfect. More importantly, it was a room for one person.

  Sister Hazel told me she’d come get me in fifteen minutes, to change and freshen up for dinner. Once alone, I sat on the bed and took off my shoes.

  “Look at you, child,” Solomon said softly.

  I rubbed the arch of my foot, looking around the small space and smiled. “Indeed. It’s wonderful! And I have two whole weeks to enjoy it.” I stood up and stretched, wiggling my stockinged toes into the carpet. I was tired but way too excited to give into exhaustion now.

  I put my things away and placed my empty suitcase under the bed, then laid out a fresh habit and my veil. I’d have to find a bathroom, which I was sure had to be nearby. Back at Our Lady of Heavenly Hope, we novitiates had a community bathroom, one to each hall. I doubt they had that here.

  Turned out the bathroom was the room across from me. I washed my face and brushed my hair, pinning it up when I was done. Then went back to my room to change and don my veil. As soon as I was finished, Sister Hazel was knocking at my door.

  “The dining hall is on the opposite side of the building,” she told me as we walked. “We eat at seven for breakfast, and noon for lunch. Dinner for the homeless at six to seven, then we eat.” She paused, then in a hushed voice that was so soft it made me look at her she said, “Sometimes Father Kent joins us, but he’s been gone since Friday and probably won’t return for another week.” She kept her eyes ahead, her posture stiff.

  I frowned. What she said wasn’t too unusual, considering that this parish was so small. It wasn’t a teaching Order, nor a school, and they were just now settling in. So why was she acting all… embarrassed? Or was it relief I heard? Was this Father some kind of creep, then? Or mean? God, or worse, abusive?

  Well, I’ll surely find out when I meet him, I thought, not caring all that much, honestly. My focus was food, then sleep.

  The dining hall—room, really—was busy. About seven nuns sat at a long table against the back wall, while two handed out their meals. On the side wall, near a door that must lead outside, was a cafeteria-style set-up where Beady-eyes was passing out bowls of steaming food to three men. The homeless, I assumed.

  Sister Hazel directed me to a seat at the end of the long table, my back to the entrance. The Sisters, now busy with their meal, eyed me briefly but didn’t speak. A bowl of stew was placed before me in seconds, and I bowed my head, whispering a blessing of thanks for my meal before I dug in.

  The stew was shit, but I ate it up. The room was quiet now, the homeless eating outside or back to their homeless dwellings. I was almost disappointed that they didn’t sit at the long table with us. Probably a wise idea, what with a bunch of women who had sworn off cocks for the rest of their lives.

  But temptation and taboo always burned brighter when alone together, I mused as I waited to be dismissed.

  I heard the metallic sound of the exit door shut, and my veil lifted briefly from the air that escaped.

  “You must be Constance,” Solomon said close by. His tone sounded funny.

  Huh?

  I felt a large hand upon my shoulder. Turning my head in the voice’s direction, I looked into the most mesmerizing eyes I’d ever seen. Amber in sunset.

  The man was tall, blond, and his tanned skin contrasted beautifully with the pristine white collar that marked him as a priest.

  “What—” Stunned, I tried to stand, knocking over the empty bowl of my stew in the process.

  The man chuckled, and with Solomon’s voice said, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Sister. I’m sure you are very tired from your trip. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Father Kent.” He held out his hand after backing up a bit, giving me much needed space.

  Standing, I shook his hand, totally confused at this turn in events. What was he doing with Solomon’s voice? And it was his voice, one I’d heard since I was old enough to know my ABCs.

  He released my hand and smiled, thankfully ignoring my rude staring. Perfect teeth, perfect lips. “I would like to thank you for volunteering your help. We are very glad to have you.” Something sparked in his honeyed eyes and I blinked.

  “Father, would you like tea tonight or water?” asked a young Sister who glided near the head of the table, stew bowl in hand. Her head was bowed, and she had a nervous look about her.

  “
Water, please, Sister.” He took the seat at the head of the table then, the empty space to my left.

  Complete silence at the table. The energy was more off than when I came in here. Were they scared of him? Guilty of something? With an internal shrug, I finished my own water and wiped my mouth with the cloth napkin that was next to my bowl.

  Breaking the eerie silence, Sister Abigail, who was only now seated at the table with us, cleared her throat. “Glad to see you have returned, Father.”

  He replied back, but I wasn’t paying attention to his response.

  When the silence returned, I took advantage of it. ‘Solomon, what’s going on?’ I asked in my head. But all I was met with was radio silence. I risked a glance at the priest, looking for any sign that he’d heard me, but he was spooning up the stew, his eyes on his bowl.

  Oh Divine Mother, he was beautiful. Nerve endings I didn’t know I possessed sang inside my body, merging into a buttery ball in my lower stomach and making me feel breathless and feverish.

  This was only a man, albeit a beautiful man, but he was real, not an angel sent down from the heavens, and he certainly wasn’t Mr. Voice/Solomon conjured into flesh, no matter how uncanny the Father’s voice was.

  Coincidence, then. Or exhaustion on my part. I had hardly slept more than two hours last night, had been traveling since six this morning. That must be it, surely.

  Right?

  Lost in my thoughts for sometime, I absently noticed when something nudged my foot under the table. On my left side. I looked at Father Kent and found his eyes on me. A corner of his mouth lifted. I swallowed.

  When another hand touched my shoulder, this time I yelped.

  “Come along, child. I would speak with you before we go to mass,” Sister Abigail said in a terribly snooty voice.

  Gladly, I stood up, bowed my head to the others, murmured some type of response, and quickly left the dining area.

  Chapter Four

  After my meeting with Beady-eyes, which consisted of her going over her expectations of me and me reciting them back, we all met up in what the Sisters called the breeze way and stood in line to go inside the church for mass. It was full-on dark now, and I was about to drop. Thankfully, the mass wasn’t a long one—Father Kent mainly just went through the motions of prayers and rites—and by the time it was over, Sister Hazel was pulling me up and out of the pew as though I were a rag doll.

  “Go on to bed, child. We wake at six, so sleep up.”

  I nodded absently and dragged my tired ass back to the convent. I didn’t pay any attention to the other occupants I passed in the hall on the way to my room, just found my door, pushed it open, and fell to my bed after kicking the door closed with my foot.

  “You will feel better in the morning,” Solomon said in that same, real, voice.

  Fatigue forgotten, I sat up, scrambling back to lean against the headboard, and stared at the apparition at the foot of my bed. There stood Father Kent, who I’d just seen in the church. There was no way on earth he got here before me.

  “Do not be frightened, Constance. It’s a shock, I know. But it really is me.” He slowly walked around the bed and sat down. “It was time to finally meet in person.” His expression was almost… tender. My breath caught as I felt his eyes tracing each inch of my face. “You are beautiful, my Constant Star.”

  I closed my eyes tightly. “No. No, no. Stop playing tricks, Mr. Voice. This isn’t funny. I’m tired and I want to go to bed.” When I got no response, I opened my eyes to peek at him, but he was still there.

  “Shh… we will have plenty of time to talk, I just… wanted to see you for my own selfish motives, I suppose.” To my utter shock, he reached toward me and cupped my cheek. His hand was warm, soft, and so very masculine. “Beautiful,” he whispered.

  And just as quickly as I could blink, he was gone. I waited a few moments, my arms wrapped around my drawn-up legs, staring at the closed door. But he didn’t return. Slowly I reached over and felt the coverlet at the end of the bed wear he had been sitting. There was an indent there, still warm from his weight.

  “He’s real,” I said to the room. Shaking my head, I tried to deny it again. I ran all the logical reasons and past experiences through my mind, replaying every single thing Solomon/Mr. Voice and I had ever said to one another.

  “Constant Star” was what he’d once named me one night when I was six. I’d been crying about not ever having had a nickname like the other children in the orphanage did. I thought the nickname was ridiculous, and we had laughed and laughed then, but the name stuck.

  He hadn’t called me that in years.

  There was no other explanation. It really was him.

  In a daze, I undressed, my thoughts filled with all sorts of craziness, from excitement to fear, to confusion and relief. What did this mean for our friendship? Was that part over? And more importantly, how was any of this possible? Was it true, then, that I really was touched by something… extraordinary? Was I psychic? And why did God have to add this to my already growing list of things that separated me even more from everyone around me?

  Too tired to care anymore for answers, I slipped into the cool sheets. As soon as my head touched the pillow, I was fast asleep.

  I dreamed I walked through the breeze way and stood at the threshold of the church, looking ahead at all those gathered. Clergy, parishioners. The congregation of Trevorstone had grown, filling every inch of available space. Shadows danced outside the aisles of dark walnut pews, and candles in tall candelabras and sconces gleamed, burning with life. Every face was directed to the front, where Father Kent, in a white robe and gold scapular, stood before the altar. His lips were moving, probably reciting the Penitential Act, but I heard no words, only bells ringing, a beautiful wave of soft chimes that flowed around me like water. The sound was above and below. Beside, far and near, circling.

  Sisters Hazel and Abigail stood at the side of the altar, smiling, totally transformed in manner and age. They bowed their veiled heads. “The Bride has come,” they sang.

  “Come, my beloved. Come home.” Solomon’s voice broke my attention from them, and I looked ahead to where Father Kent was. His eyes were on me.

  The bells stopped, only to be replaced with the congregation repeating his rite. “Beloved, come. Mercy unto us,” they intoned.

  As if an invisible rope was tied around my breasts pulling me forward, I walked. My feet were bare, and I realized I was naked. I felt powerful, though. Not ashamed. This was me. No habit, no veil, no shoes on my feet. Only that voice dipped in gold, beckoning me.

  “Constance,” Solomon said through Father Kent’s lips. “Come home.”

  And so I did as he commanded. With one foot in front of the other, I walked the aisle like a bride, ever closer and closer to the one who looked upon me as if I were everything in the world that was true. His Beloved. But what looked only yards away from the start, now seemed endless—a cavernous space from my feet to him, and the more steps I took, then more he shrank into the ever-growing horizon.

  “Solomon? Come closer!” I cried out in a panic, but he and the altar kept getting further and further away from me. I looked around me now and saw I was no longer in the church but in a field of dark purple and crimson delphinium. The sky above me darkened with angry fat thunder clouds, and the sun was a dark circle with only a ring of white light outlining it. An eclipse.

  Pure fear assailed me, and my steps faltered, weakening my knees until—

  Suddenly, I sat up, my hair plastered with sweat against my cheeks and the back of my neck. I was in my bed, in my single room at Trevorstone Parish. It was a dream, a nightmare.

  “Solomon?” I whispered on a panicked breath. “Solomon, I need you.”

  Silence.

  “Please, Solomon. Mr. Voice. Please.”

  The feeling of loss was overwhelming when, after waiting in vain for an eternity for any response, I finally fell back to sleep.

  Chapter Five

  I didn’t see
Father Kent again until mass that next night, which certainly didn’t give me an opportunity to speak with him. He hadn’t come to eat with us at dinner before that, nor did he come to my room after everyone had gone to bed. Later that night in my own bed, I laid there in the dark, waiting to hear Solomon’s voice, but the room was pregnant with silence.

  It was on my third day at the parish that he summoned me to his office.

  Sister Beady-eyes gave me the message while I was stapling little ziplock bags of treats for the children of Trevorstone under the ever-watchful eye of Sister Diane, a nun who I was tempted to slap whenever she corrected me on some stupid little thing I was doing wrong. I’d been tasked with making the giftbags for the Blessings of Hope, which started tomorrow.

  Already, the parish had an undercurrent of anticipation for the event. Last night, two priests from Anderson County had arrived. Supposedly, they were volunteering their time as well and would be staying with us the rest of the week. Sister Hazel had appointed them the first two rooms in the resident hall, kicking out the two Sisters that occupied it.

  I kept waiting to hear some type of gossip—nuns were notorious for the juice—but this place was unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. These people, even the new arrivals, were too sedate. It was like the time we novitiates visited the seniors at Gladberry Center: a gaggle of constipated, frowning old biddies who knitted and complained all damn day.

  Putting down my stapler and ignoring the distaste on Sister Diane’s face, I gladly left the room and headed for the breeze way exit for Father Kent’s office.

  It was going on lunchtime, so I assumed his appointments or whatever it was small-time clergy did during the morning was done. Which meant we’d be alone, no doubt.

  I was nervous, my hands sweating, as I walked dutifully to his door, past the church entrance whose doors stood closed to the public at this time of day.