“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 theynothear 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—
“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.Alwaysthis 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 nameSolomon?” An image filled my head of a disembodied voice reigning over a cheesy Arabian court, with two women, a sword, and a baby.