Page 98 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

When I return to the oratory, the sunlight has dimmed dramatically. Night is falling fast, or maybe the gentle rain is becoming a thunderstorm.

I flick on the light and put on the cassock that the nuns pressed. It’s a little official for day-to-day attire, but it’s the best I have, given that everything else is in the wash or ruined. I rip out the wet collar from my torn shirt and slide it through the cassock’s collar, pinning it in place. Pants are on next, beneath the robe. It’s not until I’m hunting around the floor for my spare shoes that I notice shadows moving over the rug. That’s odd. Hand on a loafer, I grow still and extend my awareness.

Something feels wrong. Nearby.

Slowly, I look behind me and scour every corner of the room.

Nothing appears amiss.

Rising, I slip on my shoes, gaze still searching, drifting to the clock on the wall. It’s only mid-afternoon. Then why was it so dark before I turned on the light?

Tingling ants crawl up my spine. Shadows ripple on my face. It’s not from me, but on me. My attention snaps to the lancet window above the desk, and I see flies. Thousands cling, hump, and shift in waves over the colored panes, blocking out the light. They move like a swarm of bees, all with one mind.

For a fleeting moment, I think I see the outline of a face, or maybe a mouth.

I shove my rosary and prayer book into the cassock pockets. On second thought, since the pockets are deep, I stow more items from my exorcist’s travel kit—holy water, spell book, cross. Then I wrap another cross in doused fabric from the lavabo and grab a cigarette lighter from the desk drawer.

The flies are watching me work. They can’t enter this sanctified building, but it is still creepy. With one last glance at the window, at their unblinking eyes, I walk out of the room and then the church.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The setting sun appears to peek through gaps in clouds above the branches. Steeling my resolve, I position the lighter behind the wrapped cross and walk down the side of the church. Every footstep on the gravel and mulch is too loud. I’m about to start praying in Latin when I catch sight of the oratory window.

They’re gone.

Thirty-Four

Cisco

In the abbey proper, it’s a different world. Warm. Bright. I am drawn to the heat and bustle of the dining hall, already running at full throttle in preparation for this evening’s meal. Nuns glide about in their black-and-white habits, hair netted, hands busy.

In the kitchen at the back, massive stockpots are bubbling, and the sharp tang of vinegar and spice hangs in the air. My mouth should water, considering I’ve fasted for most of the day, but food isn’t what I want. I wonder if I’ll hunger for it again.

Certainly not with Mercy around.

It’s not her fault.

Mea culpa.

Frowning, I walk straight up to the kitchen counter. The nuns’ vow of silence ensures they don’t speak, but their energy is a thousand times more alive than the flies were at my window.

“Buona sera,” I greet anyone who glances my way.

Some widen their eyes and then offer a quick smile. Sister Beatrice, a young nun with a strip of lavender tucked in the cross pinned to her lapel, claps in joy. She runs the flower gardens and the apiary. She provides the honey, the beeswax for the church candles, and the pollination that keeps the entire ecosystem running.

A few nuns touch their palms to their hearts, bow their chins. Another taps her lips with two fingers, then her wrist. It’s Sister Edith, the one who is keen to learn Italian.

“Sì, Sorella.” My eyes crinkle. “Confession is at the same time, same place.”

Some of these women saw me unravel in the pool hall, but no one looks at me differently than before. It feels safe here, a bubble of ritual that’s lasted centuries.

I turn to anyone who is watching. “Thank you for tending to the church.” I gesture at myself. “And keeping the priest looking presentable.”

Portly Sister Martha is in the kitchen, face rosy and hands dusted with flour. She bobs her head and shoves a basket of dinner rolls across the counter toward me, then makes a subtle gesture toward the bubbling pots.

They want to feed me, but I shake my head and smile back. “Save it for those hungrier than me. I just wanted to stop by and say thank you.”

Still, I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter. The shine is perfect, and the red is lush. I take a bite, but it tastes like cardboard and dirt. The core is mushy brown. Even the rot is tasteless now. I spit it into the trash and grab another, but it’s even worse. Black rot winds through the pale flesh in a perfect spiral, from the stem to the pit. Frowning, I toss it into the trash. Third time’s the charm. I pick up a green one and startle at the big, fat fly beneath it, sitting on the bowl between two more apples.

This thing is easily the size of my thumb, electric blue with oil-slick rainbow stripes. It just sits there, flexing its wings, staring up at me with bulbous, wet eyes.