The Abbess
today
The novices were smoking behind the statue of the Virgin Mary in the courtyard when the procession began. They stood there as the sour peal of bells resounded down the hallowed streets of the city, so soberly and so earnestly—their faces set hard as though in stone, every edge and muscle softened into false charity so that it seemed as though they were themselves icons of divinity—and, when Carmen’s laugh broke out amongst the lot of them, first traveling to one girl’s lips and then the other, not like a kiss, but an entire enveloping devotion, suddenly all the yellow and red leaves on the trees in the monastery began to fall in waves of antipathy, and Sister Anita looked up from her desk where she had been writing and fell into a horrible fit of fever.
She had seen them there before—beyond the stained-glass window in her cell—watched as they moved through color, habits beginning to slip, hair peeking out from beneath white veils, gold and sweat slicked to foreheads in black-brown curls. She’d seen the cigarette butts collect around their feet, nudged beneath bushes and flowerbeds, ground into concrete. But something about how their still faces had come undone now, cracked and split to expose a thing more dire, more ardent than she could ever have expected of them, ignited a cold panic within her—and she sneezed.
It was something Sister Anita would have condemned now, their smoking—had it not been for her station, and the way Carmen would look at her from around the statue’s ghost-gray figure, her fingers at her lips, her eyes flashing silver. Carmen was much taller than the other girls, and strong such that she rose up above them like an angel or a soldier, smiling brighter, laughing louder—bigger and better and more everything than anyone Anita had ever known. She was a titan among them. And when something in the convent had to be moved or fixed or Anita, suffering from whatever fragile disease the doctors deemed so, found herself unable to quell the simplest of responsibilities, she would always call on Carmen and Carmen alone; watch as she glided into the room; pretend she was not looking as she rolled up her white sleeves, the bends and curves of her muscles flexing and curling, wrapped softly around skin and bone, lifting whatever Anita bid, fixing whatever she said was broken—and Anita would feel as though she were back in her youth, standing before some Greek sculpture in the blessed halls of a museum under a spot of sun all her own—as though she were God. Together, they did much more than speaking.
She reached for a tissue and blew her nose.
Things had changed so quickly since Carmen had arrived three years ago. And it had not even devolved into something shocking—something so different that Anita looked back on the rest of her life and wondered which step it was that had led her here to this moment, which plot of earth had transfixed her and not yet let her go. Everything had changed while it all remained the same. And she remembered the first time she had ever seen Carmen, seated across from the abbess in her dark cell, the shadows of late afternoon wrapped around her face, shifting, breathing, and how then a great light had broken through the window beyond the abbess’s veiled head, shining down on Carmen with the soft incandescence of harmony, the sight filling Anita with such joy as if every doubt she’d ever had, had never been.
Again Anita sneezed.
Smoke was rising out around the girls in the green courtyard. Carmen’s gaze flicked to Anita’s and away, only to drift back again. The sun had reached its peak in the sky, and the novices shaded their eyes, their hands glowing like honey in the sunlight. On the horizon lay a thick gray; in the air, the cold humidity of thunder. Anita felt the cold heat of sweat as it crawled down her back beneath her habit and looked to the cold walls of her cell—the scripture, the paintings, white and gold repeated against an endless blackness as if it could drive it out. She heard again the tolling of the bells, felt the sound ring through her chest and glanced back over her shoulder, out the window. The sky had become split by a tumult of black clouds, dark and hanging, raging against the white light of day, and as the rain came and the wind, the girls scattered back to the convent like a flock of sparrows, the cigarette butts left behind circling in the wind. The black silhouette of the procession grew nearer and nearer to the cemetery as the storm worsened, the black fabric of their costumes whipping around their bodies like waves in the sea—and there stood Carmen, alone. The rain came and soaked her down to her bones. She glanced up at the Virgin’s serene face and looked back at Anita as though her gaze had never left her. She clutched her breast as though she meant to tear out her heart and give it to her, still beating for her—and every possibility which lay behind a stolen glance—and Anita pictured the blood dripping from her fingertips, saw every color, thick and full of amnesty, a million colors glistening, shifting. The delicate gold chain around Anita’s neck began to grow heavy.
“Sister,” someone said at Anita’s door. “Sister.”
Anita looked back to her writing and the face that called her—a postulant, whose name she did not know, sticking her head through the door. Her gray pinafore hung about her listlessly and her face seemed to show nothing. She took a step forward, her heels clipping against the floor. Anita was excited and terrified—she thought God—that it was all God, and she almost cried with joy.
“They’re here,” the postulant said gravely. Anita stood from her little chair, glancing back out the window at the empty courtyard where a black dog stood, pissing on the cigarettes around the statue’s feet. The white flags of Christ flapped in the wind like a terror as the procession swept over the grounds, and Anita smiled, falling back in her seat, her mind gleaming and drifting with colors.
She had seen them there before—beyond the stained-glass window in her cell—watched as they moved through color, habits beginning to slip, hair peeking out from beneath white veils, gold and sweat slicked to foreheads in black-brown curls. She’d seen the cigarette butts collect around their feet, nudged beneath bushes and flowerbeds, ground into concrete. But something about how their still faces had come undone now, cracked and split to expose a thing more dire, more ardent than she could ever have expected of them, ignited a cold panic within her—and she sneezed.
It was something Sister Anita would have condemned now, their smoking—had it not been for her station, and the way Carmen would look at her from around the statue’s ghost-gray figure, her fingers at her lips, her eyes flashing silver. Carmen was much taller than the other girls, and strong such that she rose up above them like an angel or a soldier, smiling brighter, laughing louder—bigger and better and more everything than anyone Anita had ever known. She was a titan among them. And when something in the convent had to be moved or fixed or Anita, suffering from whatever fragile disease the doctors deemed so, found herself unable to quell the simplest of responsibilities, she would always call on Carmen and Carmen alone; watch as she glided into the room; pretend she was not looking as she rolled up her white sleeves, the bends and curves of her muscles flexing and curling, wrapped softly around skin and bone, lifting whatever Anita bid, fixing whatever she said was broken—and Anita would feel as though she were back in her youth, standing before some Greek sculpture in the blessed halls of a museum under a spot of sun all her own—as though she were God. Together, they did much more than speaking.
She reached for a tissue and blew her nose.
Things had changed so quickly since Carmen had arrived three years ago. And it had not even devolved into something shocking—something so different that Anita looked back on the rest of her life and wondered which step it was that had led her here to this moment, which plot of earth had transfixed her and not yet let her go. Everything had changed while it all remained the same. And she remembered the first time she had ever seen Carmen, seated across from the abbess in her dark cell, the shadows of late afternoon wrapped around her face, shifting, breathing, and how then a great light had broken through the window beyond the abbess’s veiled head, shining down on Carmen with the soft incandescence of harmony, the sight filling Anita with such joy as if every doubt she’d ever had, had never been.
Again Anita sneezed.
Smoke was rising out around the girls in the green courtyard. Carmen’s gaze flicked to Anita’s and away, only to drift back again. The sun had reached its peak in the sky, and the novices shaded their eyes, their hands glowing like honey in the sunlight. On the horizon lay a thick gray; in the air, the cold humidity of thunder. Anita felt the cold heat of sweat as it crawled down her back beneath her habit and looked to the cold walls of her cell—the scripture, the paintings, white and gold repeated against an endless blackness as if it could drive it out. She heard again the tolling of the bells, felt the sound ring through her chest and glanced back over her shoulder, out the window. The sky had become split by a tumult of black clouds, dark and hanging, raging against the white light of day, and as the rain came and the wind, the girls scattered back to the convent like a flock of sparrows, the cigarette butts left behind circling in the wind. The black silhouette of the procession grew nearer and nearer to the cemetery as the storm worsened, the black fabric of their costumes whipping around their bodies like waves in the sea—and there stood Carmen, alone. The rain came and soaked her down to her bones. She glanced up at the Virgin’s serene face and looked back at Anita as though her gaze had never left her. She clutched her breast as though she meant to tear out her heart and give it to her, still beating for her—and every possibility which lay behind a stolen glance—and Anita pictured the blood dripping from her fingertips, saw every color, thick and full of amnesty, a million colors glistening, shifting. The delicate gold chain around Anita’s neck began to grow heavy.
“Sister,” someone said at Anita’s door. “Sister.”
Anita looked back to her writing and the face that called her—a postulant, whose name she did not know, sticking her head through the door. Her gray pinafore hung about her listlessly and her face seemed to show nothing. She took a step forward, her heels clipping against the floor. Anita was excited and terrified—she thought God—that it was all God, and she almost cried with joy.
“They’re here,” the postulant said gravely. Anita stood from her little chair, glancing back out the window at the empty courtyard where a black dog stood, pissing on the cigarettes around the statue’s feet. The white flags of Christ flapped in the wind like a terror as the procession swept over the grounds, and Anita smiled, falling back in her seat, her mind gleaming and drifting with colors.
last night
The night the abbess died, Anita dreamt of the black dog. It had reviled her, eaten her—and when she awoke to the song of her sisters, it was not because dawn had broken, but because the dog had chosen to let her go.
The nuns led her through the dark passages of the monastery as though she were blind, guiding her by the tips of her fingers—their hands rushing over her body like the wind. She could hear only the soft patter of their footsteps against the stone, the whisper of their breath, their voices as they broke out against the silence, flying against her and through her like the gasps of so many beasts. Anita felt lost—empty. The walls which she had once known had abandoned her to darkness and it seemed as if they were roaming endlessly. Each step she took felt as if she were passing through a great wall of stupor, like every moment she was endlessly falling, not truly moving, but drifting down, down, down, down on uneven wings past the world and everything she had known of it. She slumped and tripped and staggered. She could not tell if her eyes were open or closed—if she were dreaming or she had died, too—and as the nuns’ hands clawed for her in the darkness, every callous and wrinkle unrecognizable against her skin, Anita swayed back and forth between their weight, and knew that Carmen was among them.
“I can’t believe this could have happened.”
They sat in the abbess’s small room under the hollow white glare of the lights and waited. Anita thought her death ought to come as a great shock to her, an agonizing pain which would swallow her completely and not let her go. She’d expected something a bit more grandiose—the grief she had seen in paintings in school, the frozen, war-torn faces of women and men, stricken by a sorrow that she had not then known. But there was nothing. And as she looked at the abbess, laid bare upon her cot, her hand clutching her breast, the pale wrinkles of her skin stretching across her body like cracks in stone, she found herself drifting. The room had somehow never seemed so empty. It bustled with bodies here and there, the clatter of nuns’ shoes against the stone almost deafening, their black and white habits moving endlessly like leaves floating on a stream. She felt as if she were the only person still living, and she remembered Carmen, sheathed in darkness, the night it had been decided, the smile that had crept over her cheeks.
The abbess had been dead an hour, someone said, their voice falling dull against the clamor of the room, and they went about dressing her and washing her face, their tears falling to her bare skin in crystal pools. The nuns touched her so delicately, so frightenedly as though they feared they might wake her, and Anita watched their fingers as they brought the black woolen fabric of her habit around her body as if Anita could feel it—as if the abbess’s corpse were hers. They all stood there, looking to the abbess as the dark shade of night gave way to dawn, like she might rise again, speak to them—and Anita’s eyes fell to Carmen, rising up above their veiled heads, unthinkably still, unthinkably tall, and as she met Anita’s gaze, she saw a great blackness flood the space between them and felt as though her feet were placed firmly on earth again.
The nuns led her through the dark passages of the monastery as though she were blind, guiding her by the tips of her fingers—their hands rushing over her body like the wind. She could hear only the soft patter of their footsteps against the stone, the whisper of their breath, their voices as they broke out against the silence, flying against her and through her like the gasps of so many beasts. Anita felt lost—empty. The walls which she had once known had abandoned her to darkness and it seemed as if they were roaming endlessly. Each step she took felt as if she were passing through a great wall of stupor, like every moment she was endlessly falling, not truly moving, but drifting down, down, down, down on uneven wings past the world and everything she had known of it. She slumped and tripped and staggered. She could not tell if her eyes were open or closed—if she were dreaming or she had died, too—and as the nuns’ hands clawed for her in the darkness, every callous and wrinkle unrecognizable against her skin, Anita swayed back and forth between their weight, and knew that Carmen was among them.
“I can’t believe this could have happened.”
They sat in the abbess’s small room under the hollow white glare of the lights and waited. Anita thought her death ought to come as a great shock to her, an agonizing pain which would swallow her completely and not let her go. She’d expected something a bit more grandiose—the grief she had seen in paintings in school, the frozen, war-torn faces of women and men, stricken by a sorrow that she had not then known. But there was nothing. And as she looked at the abbess, laid bare upon her cot, her hand clutching her breast, the pale wrinkles of her skin stretching across her body like cracks in stone, she found herself drifting. The room had somehow never seemed so empty. It bustled with bodies here and there, the clatter of nuns’ shoes against the stone almost deafening, their black and white habits moving endlessly like leaves floating on a stream. She felt as if she were the only person still living, and she remembered Carmen, sheathed in darkness, the night it had been decided, the smile that had crept over her cheeks.
The abbess had been dead an hour, someone said, their voice falling dull against the clamor of the room, and they went about dressing her and washing her face, their tears falling to her bare skin in crystal pools. The nuns touched her so delicately, so frightenedly as though they feared they might wake her, and Anita watched their fingers as they brought the black woolen fabric of her habit around her body as if Anita could feel it—as if the abbess’s corpse were hers. They all stood there, looking to the abbess as the dark shade of night gave way to dawn, like she might rise again, speak to them—and Anita’s eyes fell to Carmen, rising up above their veiled heads, unthinkably still, unthinkably tall, and as she met Anita’s gaze, she saw a great blackness flood the space between them and felt as though her feet were placed firmly on earth again.
yesterday morning
Her death was decided in their sleep—howled to her from the mouth of the black dog—tucked there with them in the dark, slipping through their tangled legs, crawling over each woman’s face, and resting then, there, between their mouths. It was a death by accident, by mistake, a thought that bled into life as bold as a flame. Anita had kissed her. Anita had said good morning. She had gotten up from her bed and stood before the stained glass windows, her naked body the same as any soul. It was a silent agreement, a silent call, and as Carmen lay in bed, she looked at Anita, her hair loosed upon her shoulders, and Anita wanted suddenly to cry and scream. She had thought it, she had believed it, before the spark had even flown across Carmen’s mind, and she looked back at her, so tall, so out of place in that little white bed, her limbs sprawled out long and thick, her hair piled upon her head, her naked body free and new. Anita crossed herself.
“The abbess knows.”
“The abbess knows.”
yesterday
“Here.”
She caught up with her in a single step, and as she stood there, towering over her, the sun shining in her eyes, Anita remembered standing before the chapel for the first time, looking up at its dark stone—its steeple as it pierced the sky and the sun, drowning her in chastity.
“I want you to have this.”
Carmen stooped to take Anita’s hands and placed within them a simple gold chain, cold and heavy in her palm. It was delicate, small—but it caught the light coming in through an open window, and Anita thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world.
“Th—”
Carmen laid her hand upon Anita’s shoulder, and Anita could feel her pulse beat against her skin.
“Than—”
She had known her hands in dreams—had seen them come to her, touch her—every line and edge forming itself to her body, the rough calluses of her skin melting into her arms, her legs, her face.
“Thanks,” she managed, looking up at her.
She smiled as Carmen did. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said, and Anita watched her stride back down the hallway away from her, her habit blowing in the wind. She stood there frozen with the chain set flat in her palm, and saw Carmen as she met the abbess at the end of the corridor, some light igniting within her. She stooped as she had with Anita and the sun met her face—her mouth spreading into a smile as she took the abbess’s crepe hands. She had given her something, Anita knew, and Anita slipped the chain into her pocket, feeling each link as it connected to the other.
She caught up with her in a single step, and as she stood there, towering over her, the sun shining in her eyes, Anita remembered standing before the chapel for the first time, looking up at its dark stone—its steeple as it pierced the sky and the sun, drowning her in chastity.
“I want you to have this.”
Carmen stooped to take Anita’s hands and placed within them a simple gold chain, cold and heavy in her palm. It was delicate, small—but it caught the light coming in through an open window, and Anita thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world.
“Th—”
Carmen laid her hand upon Anita’s shoulder, and Anita could feel her pulse beat against her skin.
“Than—”
She had known her hands in dreams—had seen them come to her, touch her—every line and edge forming itself to her body, the rough calluses of her skin melting into her arms, her legs, her face.
“Thanks,” she managed, looking up at her.
She smiled as Carmen did. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said, and Anita watched her stride back down the hallway away from her, her habit blowing in the wind. She stood there frozen with the chain set flat in her palm, and saw Carmen as she met the abbess at the end of the corridor, some light igniting within her. She stooped as she had with Anita and the sun met her face—her mouth spreading into a smile as she took the abbess’s crepe hands. She had given her something, Anita knew, and Anita slipped the chain into her pocket, feeling each link as it connected to the other.
yesterday evening
The graves stood haphazard in the churchyard like a fallen army. She tried to feign shock as best she could and felt a true confusion when it came naturally to her. “She said this to you? That. . . that she’s leaving?”
“No. She didn’t. Not exactly.”
“What did she say to you then?”
“Only that she is having doubts.”
Anita bristled. She felt almost sick, and she seemed to realize the same moment as the abbess that this was the most she had spoken in many days.
“Doubt, I know, is a heavy word for you—for us all,” she added quickly. “But it is a thing we must all come to face.”
Anita nodded, trying to keep her pace steady with the abbess as they strolled slowly through the cemetery, the reddening leaves rustling overhead. “Why is it you’re telling me this?” she whispered madly, her head bowed toward the path. She felt a terrifying urge to run; to turn back to the convent, the rooms where the postulants slept; to fall at Carmen’s feet and praise her, kiss her.
The abbess eyed her, pebbles crunching beneath her small feet. “I worry for her is all. And I know you care for her, too.”
“I’ve hardly spoken to her.”
“I’ve seen you two together. Just this morning, I saw her coming out of your cell.”
A coldness sank into Anita’s bones.
“You seem close.”
Anita shook her head. “That. . . That is a word. . . I would not use.” She felt a heat flood her face and her fingers, and her chest grew heavy. She looked at the dull-gray headstones, the engravings diminished to but a whisper, and wondered after the feeling of being swallowed by the earth.
“I bring this up only because I want you to keep your distance from her,” the abbess said, stopping in her tracks. There was a coldness in her voice. “After all you’ve done to her, it’s the least you can do.” She was a small woman, plump and white as a peach plucked too early, and Anita towered over her. She tried to imagine how small Carmen might see her, the great distance which might fill the space between them, the insignificance. “It is important we all must be there for her—and the only way you can do that, the only way you can bring her back to God, is by staying away.” Anita nodded in agreement. She felt a frightening calm. She had always felt a great connection to the abbess—that, somewhere along the way, their ancestors had crossed paths, shaken hands, shared meals, or married. She felt akin to her, but could never tell if it was due to a feeling of dear friends or enemies. She had known women like her before, throughout her life, soaring up above everyone else like a tree, roots laid much deeper, head held much higher. She had had a professor in school, her hair blonde, her eyes brown, her face similarly split down the middle as though she were two souls in one body, and the abbess reminded Anita so much of her now. She had overlooked Anita’s papers, crossed out words as though putting out a fire—and watched over her shoulder whenever Anita sketched or painted, her breath on her neck, her voice a knife slicing into her. She had felt invariably connected to her—felt one was bound to squash the other. And when Anita dropped out, it was only because she had realized she was the other. She could not win.
“I will. I’ll keep away from her,” Anita said. She felt a strange calm. And she realized, she could do it right now if she wanted to—squash her.
The abbess stared up at her with those pale eyes. “Thank you,” she said indifferently—and Anita tried to smile, her gaze drifting to the forgotten graves behind the abbess’s head; the black dog slinking across the horizon. It raised its dark head, its teeth flashing in the sun. “I will take my leave then.” The abbess said, a soft tremor beneath her words, as she walked away, back to the church and convent, the graves crowding around her soles, Anita knew this time she was not the other. This time she would win.
“No. She didn’t. Not exactly.”
“What did she say to you then?”
“Only that she is having doubts.”
Anita bristled. She felt almost sick, and she seemed to realize the same moment as the abbess that this was the most she had spoken in many days.
“Doubt, I know, is a heavy word for you—for us all,” she added quickly. “But it is a thing we must all come to face.”
Anita nodded, trying to keep her pace steady with the abbess as they strolled slowly through the cemetery, the reddening leaves rustling overhead. “Why is it you’re telling me this?” she whispered madly, her head bowed toward the path. She felt a terrifying urge to run; to turn back to the convent, the rooms where the postulants slept; to fall at Carmen’s feet and praise her, kiss her.
The abbess eyed her, pebbles crunching beneath her small feet. “I worry for her is all. And I know you care for her, too.”
“I’ve hardly spoken to her.”
“I’ve seen you two together. Just this morning, I saw her coming out of your cell.”
A coldness sank into Anita’s bones.
“You seem close.”
Anita shook her head. “That. . . That is a word. . . I would not use.” She felt a heat flood her face and her fingers, and her chest grew heavy. She looked at the dull-gray headstones, the engravings diminished to but a whisper, and wondered after the feeling of being swallowed by the earth.
“I bring this up only because I want you to keep your distance from her,” the abbess said, stopping in her tracks. There was a coldness in her voice. “After all you’ve done to her, it’s the least you can do.” She was a small woman, plump and white as a peach plucked too early, and Anita towered over her. She tried to imagine how small Carmen might see her, the great distance which might fill the space between them, the insignificance. “It is important we all must be there for her—and the only way you can do that, the only way you can bring her back to God, is by staying away.” Anita nodded in agreement. She felt a frightening calm. She had always felt a great connection to the abbess—that, somewhere along the way, their ancestors had crossed paths, shaken hands, shared meals, or married. She felt akin to her, but could never tell if it was due to a feeling of dear friends or enemies. She had known women like her before, throughout her life, soaring up above everyone else like a tree, roots laid much deeper, head held much higher. She had had a professor in school, her hair blonde, her eyes brown, her face similarly split down the middle as though she were two souls in one body, and the abbess reminded Anita so much of her now. She had overlooked Anita’s papers, crossed out words as though putting out a fire—and watched over her shoulder whenever Anita sketched or painted, her breath on her neck, her voice a knife slicing into her. She had felt invariably connected to her—felt one was bound to squash the other. And when Anita dropped out, it was only because she had realized she was the other. She could not win.
“I will. I’ll keep away from her,” Anita said. She felt a strange calm. And she realized, she could do it right now if she wanted to—squash her.
The abbess stared up at her with those pale eyes. “Thank you,” she said indifferently—and Anita tried to smile, her gaze drifting to the forgotten graves behind the abbess’s head; the black dog slinking across the horizon. It raised its dark head, its teeth flashing in the sun. “I will take my leave then.” The abbess said, a soft tremor beneath her words, as she walked away, back to the church and convent, the graves crowding around her soles, Anita knew this time she was not the other. This time she would win.
Katie Lynn Johnston is a queer, non-binary creative writing graduate of Columbia College Chicago. They have been an editor for the Columbia Poetry Review, Mulberry Literary, and a production editor for Hair Trigger Magazine. Their work has appeared in Allium, Hoxie Gorge Review, Lavender Review, Hair Trigger, among others, and their essay, “The Barriers Faced by Female Writers,” was published on the Fountainhead Press website and won the Excellence Award at the Student Writers’ Showcase.