God help me, I was starting to actually like the woman.
From the corner of my eye, I could see the three men had arrived. I looked over at them as they, too, stood waiting. My eyes traveled up and down their body. Not too old, not too young, pretty healthy-looking. They’d do.
I turned back to the woman at my feet. “Something I learned long ago is that when people insult another, throwing accusations or insults back and forth, it’s usually because they themselves are what they charge the other of being. You called me a slut, a whore.” Here she shook her head adamantly, now becoming afraid. I touched her head. “Be still, listen. It isyouwho yearn to be used, to be passed from man to man.” I gentled my voice then. “To desire is not wrong, Sister. If it were, you and I wouldn’t be here, neither would anyone. Desire is the fuel to life’s spark. Without it we cannot create.”
“Yes, Sister.” She lowered her eyes. “You are very wise. He was right to choose you.” She looked up at me again. “Please forgive me… Mother.”
The word jolted me, and for an instant it felt like the whole wooded-area around us waited on bated breath, waiting for my acceptance. I felt the concept she offered surround me, touching my spirit with infinitesimal, probing fingers.
Setting it aside for later observation, I waved it all away and leaned down to kiss my fellow Sister’s lips. They were warm and trembling. There was no passion in the act, only a benediction. Having given it, I whispered, “Do as thou wilt, Daughter.”
I released her and turned to the men. “She is yours to take. Make it fast if you want to eat. We close our doors at seven.”
And then I left them to it.
When I made it back into the dining hall, I ran right into Sister Abigail.
“Child, what are you doing? You need to be in the kitchen! Do you see the time?”
I looked at the clock on the wall above the serving table. Six on the dot. Wait. Kitchen?
“Yes, you! It’s your night.” She shooed me with a hand as she began setting up for dinner, rummaging through the shelf that held all the to-go boxes.
Shit.
She was right. On the board that hung on the swinging kitchen door was my name in chalk, right next to “Friday’s Dinner Duty.” I sure didn’t volunteer for it, so this was the first time I’d heard of it.
I frowned. Did the Sisterswantto die? I didn’t know how to cook!
I opened every cabinet, searching for something simple that I could just take a can opener to. Not a damn thing, not even bread for sandwiches. All they had was fresh food that, when combined, went into a stew or casserole. Even if I knew what the hell I was doing, there wasn’t any time for casseroles.
There was only one thing to do.
I sprinted out to Sister Hazel’s office, switched on the light, and found a phone book. After a brief phone call, I went back into the dining hall and went to wait by the exit door. The nuns were just now starting to bustle in, and Sister Abigail stood at the ready behind the buffet-style setup with not a dish of food in sight.
“Well? Is it ready yet?” she asked.
I folded my hands and stood patiently. “On its way.” Ignoring her soon-to-be tantrum, I watched the rest of the room. Each Sister was silent as the grave, and it was getting to the point where I’d had it with their walking-dead attitude. Maybe it was a good thing I was assigned dinner tonight. I had a feeling things were about to get interesting for the Sisters of Trevorstone Parish.
With that thought in mind, I murmured that I’d be back in a moment, leaving Beady-eyes trailing me with a death glare, and ran to the storage area in the back of the kitchen. I grabbed four containers of boxed-wine—the Church was never without alcohol—and a punch bowl with a ladle attached. Then I set myself up at the counter and made a pretty decent punch. I even found a jar of maraschino cherries, much to my delight. I remembered having them once at a carnival we sponsored for charity a few years ago. Such yummy circles of goodness. I popped a few in my mouth, grabbed the now-filled punch bowl, and headed carefully to the dining hall.
The exit door opened as soon as I entered, and the by the time I sat down the punch in front of a gaping Sister Beady-eyes, the smell of pizza greeted my nose.
I paid the delivery guy with a check I’d taken from Sister Hazel’s check book I’d found in her office earlier, just as Sister Diane squeezed in past him and the door. I grabbed her arm, keeping her at my side.
“Sister, just in time,” I told her, then handed her five pizza boxes, while I took the rest to the buffet table.
After delegating tasks to the nuns for napkins and plastic cups, I welcomed the homeless from outside with a wave of my hand out the door. They came in quietly. I didn’t see any sign of the three men I’d met earlier, but I really didn’t care one way or another.
“Pizza! Sister Constance,” Sister Hazel cried, striding over to me. “We do not eat… outside food. We prepare our own healthy food, food that we—”
I tried not to roll my eyes. It was difficult, but I did it. “Yes, yes. I know. But I was running out of time. Pizza will do just as well in our bellies.” I grabbed a paper plate for myself and waited in line behind the men, ignoring the Sisters. Their disapproval was audible, but it was done, and they’d get over it.
By the time we’d fed the men and had seated ourselves at the table, the punch—which I instructed was only for us—was pretty much gone. If the Sisters noticed anything sinful about it, they didn’t mention it. In fact, for the first time since I’d been here, the conversation was actually worth taking note of. Sure, it wasn’t stimulating conversation, but it was speech, at least. Unlike the sedate, drawn-out dinners we’ve been having.
Just then, I felt a tickle between my shoulder blades. Solomon.
Sister Diane caught my eye across the table. I nodded.