Father Devon’s mouth quirked for one-half of a second, but it was enough for me to know he could tell the penguin behind me was at her wit’s end. I almost felt sorry for her.
“I see.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking weary. It was growing on lunchtime, and he was probably ready to split. As counselor of our school, his office was always busy. “Have her put on breakfast duty for—”
“Already did that last week… uh, Father,” Harriet said in a rush, forgetting herself.
He gave her a condemning look but didn’t admonish her for interrupting. “And what came of that? Did she complete her duties?”
“She put espresso into Sister Bethany’s oatmeal. It took hours to settle the poor soul down.”
I almost laughed out loud. The old bat was a blast that day!
His eyes widened. “She…never mind, I don’t want to know.” The Father’s gaze landed back on me again, eyebrow raised. “Sister Constance, are you bored with our parish? You have, what, a few more months until your vows from novitiate to nun. Can you not do as the good Sisters say? You are an adult now, and your childish games need to cease. I understand you’ve been here since you were an infant, but you are a woman now, and the order you take this time next year will not put up with this behavior. Do you understand?”
“I do. I apologize, Father,” I said as contritely as I could.
He gave me a level look. “You’re a smart young woman, Sister, and I know you have it in you to do good. I’ve witnessed it myself.”
Yes, he had. Several times. However, he wasn’t talking about those times.
With another sigh, he opened a drawer and took out a legal pad. “Sister Harriet, leave her to me. Come get her in an hour. I shall put her to work.”
Harriet’s vise on my nape loosened until, finally, she left the room, closing the door behind her. I lowered my head, my eyes open, and waited.
I heard the scribbling of pen to paper. Curious, I looked up. Father Devon’s dark head was down, focused on his work. Was he going to ignore me? Or was he planning on making me write out five-hundred words on why I was such a “difficult child,” like Mother Superior made me do all the time in school?
While he wrote, he asked, “What did you and these prostitutes talk about, Constance?”
“Cocks.” I crossed my arms, growing bored.
“What about them?” Scrape, scrape, went his pen.
I shrugged. “Oh, you know, the different variations. Sizes, colors, that type of thing. Can I go now? I really need to use the bathroom, Father.”
Scrape, scrape.
What was he writing?
“No, you may not.” He flipped the paper over and started a new page, still not looking at me. “What else?”
“About cocks? Why, want to show me yours?” I grinned.
The pen stopped. Fucking finally.
As if commanded by God, Mother Margret floated into the room. “There she is. My apologies, Father Devon. This shall not happen again. I will take it from here.”
The whole time, my gaze stayed on Father Devon’s ice-blue one. I had to give him credit yet again; the man was made of sterner stuff than old Sister Bethany’s mushy stew on Fridays.
Coyly, I smiled. And with a slight bow of the head his way, I left the room with Mother Margret’s grip digging into my arm.
“Child, idle child. What shall we do with you? Hmm?” With a sniff, she pulled me along with her through the stark hallways, past the chapel, past the many closed doors of classrooms in session. Our boots clicked and clopped to the sound of Sisters reciting their lessons, the many windows lighting our way with afternoon sun.
When we turned the corner, a few Sisters nodded in greeting, but their eyes widened at seeing me. I was used to it. Sometimes, when the elder Sisters weren’t present, they’d make the sign of the cross, but usually it was just a rapid departure from my presence, as though I were the bringer of the plague. Then they’d scatter like cockroaches, their lips tightly shut, eyes ahead of them.
Well, I didn’t want to be with them either.
Another corner passed, and I knew exactly where we were headed. The janitor’s closet near the storeroom. It was my second home, practically. I was quite intimate with its paneled walls, the kind your mind conjured macabre faces from—open mouths, silently pleading with the observer to release them from the wall, like trapped souls. A room that smelled of Murphy’s Oil and old socks. A wonderfully boring space. But at least Mother Mary Margret did let me leave the light on.
We stopped at the closet, me still in her grip. She reached inside her habit and pulled out her stupid chain that held all the keys to all the doors here in this place, then unlocked the door.
“I trust you’ll think on why you are in here yet again, Sister Constance.” She looked down at me, her nose a bit too big for her haggard face. “When I come for you, we will talk about your future here at Our Lady of Heavenly Hope Convent. In fact,” she paused, seeming to consider something, then nodded, “I have a mission for you.”
I scrunched my nose at her, totally not expecting her statement. “A mission?”
“Indeed.” She opened the door, pulled on the light string, and shoved me none-too gently into the small space. “You’ll know all once you’ve had time to think on your behavior.” And with that, she shut the door, leaving behind only the sound of the key twisting in the lock.
“Huh. A mission.” With a shrug, I turned around and found my little spot in the corner, readying myself for endless minutes of absolute boredom.
“Good afternoon, Constance.” The soft, deep masculine voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere. There was no direction to it, something that I’d long grown out of finding curious. It had been many years since I’d even wondered about it at all. The voice, the… man, creature, spirit was just a part of anything in my environment, like a dust bunny or a hinge on a door.
I’d known since I was five that no one other than me could hear Mr. Voice. After years of watching and waiting for someone, anyone, to notice him—how could they not hear him?—I’d finally accepted that he was either a figment of my imagination, or he was a spirit. I thought a few times he was our Lord talking to me, like the burning bush spoke to Moses. But really, I was no Joan of Arc. And what conversations we did have never had anything remotely “godly” about them—no, downright lame most of the time. He was just there. Someone to chat with, someone to pass the time with when I was in confinement, which was more often than not. He was once my best friend, my only friend. Now I just knew it was a part of me.
But even with that awareness, that the voice was born of my imagination, and the fact that I was older, my mind still kept him around. There was no harm in it, really. As long as I kept it to myself.
I yawned, already tired from my confinement. “Afternoon,” I mumbled absently. A loose string on my hem caught my attention, and I fiddled with it as my thoughts drifted to what Mother Mary Margret had said about a mission. I’d never left the convent for more than an hour or two accompanied. And alone, the gates were as far as I dared to venture. Others, even a few novitiates like myself, were trusted to leave the convent on errands and such. Never me.
Whatever the mission was, though, it was probably a punishment, something sure to be grueling and tedious. Perhaps cleaning the—