“Why do you give in so easily, child? Why do you not fight?” the voice asked.
I looked up from my now unraveling hem. “What? Fight what, them?”
“Yes.”
I shrugged. “All it does is cut the kite strings.” And that was more truth than I’d ever confessed out loud. Always this place wanted to contain me, to tie me down, to enforce rules, rules, and more rules. It was exhausting, but as time went on, they did win. Just like he said.
“You let them, Constance. You practically hand them the scissors.”
Rolling my eyes, I crossed my arms. “I have no control here, Mr. Voice. And where have you been all this time?” Now that I thought about it, I was a bit surprised to hear him after so many days and nights of silence. He had been absent for nearly a year.
“Oh I’ve been here. Watching.”
“Uh huh,” I said, losing interest already. For some stupid reason, I felt hurt. I looked at the paneling, searching for that one face in the patterns that bared an uncanny resemblance to the Virgin. A few years back, I’d thought of borrowing a camera from Sister Sarah’s classroom and taking a picture of it, selling it to some lame newspaper or magazine. I wonder why I never did.
“I think it’s time to introduce myself. I am Solomon,” Mr. Voice said almost reverently, like I was supposed to curtsy, like he was of some grand importance.
When I didn’t reply back, I could’ve sworn I heard him sigh in a pissy huff.
Since I had nothing better to do, I indulged him—or myself, really. “Great. Glad you have a name.” I went back to my tattered hem, then stopped on a strange thought. “Why the name Solomon?” An image filled my head of a disembodied voice reigning over a cheesy Arabian court, with two women, a sword, and a baby.
“Is that all you know of Solomon?” the voice said with a laugh, reading my mind.
Wait. Something was different. A chill absently, lightly, chased down my spine. I didn’t recall the voice ever laughing. Come to think of it, it really never seemed to have a personality.
“Tell, me, Mr. Vo—Solomon—”
The knob on the door jingled then, the lock turning. I shut my mouth, listening.
It was Sister Hannah, humming a hymn. An honest to God good person in this hell hole, she worked the storeroom, waiting on deliveries that came to the convent. She was part of a handful that seemed to overlook whatever it was inside me that made others, well, react.
“Sister Constance?” her little shy voice asked when the door opened. She reminded me of a Disney movie princess, the one with blood-red lips and super thin eyebrows, the one who befriends the dwarves or whatever. With clear skin and big blue eyes, Sister Hannah even looked like a princess. At least ten years or so older than me, she’d been here since I could remember.
I looked at her now, waiting. Solomon was silent.
“I thought you were in here.” She put the key in the pocket of her habit, then softly smiled. “I need your assistance, dear.” Holding the door open with one hand, and the other waving me onward, I stood up and followed her out. “Today has proved a bit too busy for me. I’m sure Mother Superior won’t mind if you help me out today.”
I nodded, pleased with this reprieve.
Most people, I imagine, would be surprised at how busy our convent was. Of course, the Sisters always had some type of occupation to fill our “idle hands,” but ours really was like a factory or a business. The various charities, the books and merchandise, etc., kept us busy like a hive of black and white bees.
Not that I was a part of it. Nor did I have any interest in the workings of it. It simply was my home in all its flat and boring glory. Only so often did they need my assistance. But I didn’t mind helping Sister Hannah out when asked. Like I said, the woman really was nice.
Aside from her and Mother Superior, I was left pretty much alone. After being the troublemaker for so long, it was well known in the convent that Sister Constance was a nun in name only. They should have named me Charity. That was what I was, after all.
We made our way through the swinging door and out into the delivery room. In the back, toward the yawning bay doors, was the Sister’s small office. And over the next hour, in there we sat, me affixing labels to empty bubble-wrap envelopes, she clicking away on the computer.
When the buzzing of the delivery room sang, she told me to go see to it. It was Jack, the UPS man, who had been delivering here for at least two years. Young, handsome, charming. Also a nice person. In a world with so few of them, the nice ones always stood out to me.
I made my way over to the counter and considered him while he opened the sliding door on his truck. Just because I was dedicated to our Lord and Savior, didn’t make me ignorant of the ways of men. Our friend Jack here had the hots for the good Sister. But like I said, he was a good man. And it was just too bad, really, that the two had no chance together. One, she’d never pursue it. And two, he’d never dip his toe into that particular pool. Society’s frown on sacrilege was just too loud, too deep, too harsh. It was something I thought about a lot over the years, actually. The blatant desire that was there for all to see, juxtaposed by a blinding will to fight it, to hide it, to hold it back. Both were a visible thing. One of my talents, I guessed…. the ability to see people’s true self. The self God was said to shun.
Such a shame these two couldn’t heed their desires.
Jack came striding over, humming something under his breath. His smile faltered a bit when he saw me, as if disappointed, but then he recovered, his eyes friendly and full of honest charm again. He held up his boxy-tablet thingy. “Ah, afternoon, Sister. I have a few things today, just need Sister Hannah’s signature on this.”
I folded my hands in front of me, like the good girl I was, and led him to Sister Hannah’s office. She looked up when we entered, and when she saw Jack, the longing that showed in her eyes after the heated blush of her cheeks ran its course was so loud, I was surprised no one came running into the room to investigate.
As it was, it was still just the three of us in this small space.
“Well, I am here too, child,” Mr. Voice said in my ear. I wasn’t surprised. I had a feeling he’d show up again so soon after appearing out of the blue earlier.
I didn’t bother to respond to him, just acknowledged him with a pass of my hand. He was very chatty today, and I wondered why, but I pushed it aside for later.
A thought was brewing, one that sprouted from that place inside me the convent wanted to burn to the ground. A veritable garden of devious delights and hungry seedlings that begged to be fed, writhing in want in the dark—and it was always dark. But it was resilient, my garden. Made of strong shoots of steel, with carnivorous thorns and thirsty roots. And no matter what the Church tried, nothing could kill its fruit.
I shut the door behind me, locking it. While Jack handed Hannah his tablet for her signature, I grabbed one of the folding chairs against the wall and set it up at the door, then took a seat and faced the room.
The show was about to begin.
“How are you today, Sister?” Jack asked her. He watched her with soft eyes, his hand going to his nape to rub gently at the short brown hair that reached the collar of his uniform.
I watched their body language, a language that was truer and spoke clearer than any tongue could ever possess.