The Divine Economy of Salvation

by Priscila Uppal

  “Has she—”

  Rachel shook her head. “No. Esperanza’s never done it. She’s a virgin. Told me herself. She said Bella was stupid to give in before getting married. That she’d never made that mistake. Called her a stupid slut. Not in a mean way, just mad. Stupid slut. She says she’s only given in enough to get what she wants, but she’s never sacrificed that. Your virginity’s too sacred, she told me. Look where it gets you.”

  My heart was racing. We had judged Esperanza wrongly. Called her Witch and assumed she had delved into darker places than we had. Esperanza knew about men, not boys, and the difference was vast. Men could be bargained with. Boys took advantage because they didn’t know any better. Esperanza knew about the places in the city that you could go to “fix” things, a “mistake,” though Esperanza herself had never had the need. Esperanza would get married, be taken care of, might be able to stop working for good, though we had no idea who this man was and what he did for a living. Esperanza eluded us, was aware of all of our motions and actions but had never given a hint as to her own. I was the only one who knew about Mr. M. I was the only girl, I’m sure, whom she had kissed on the neck. I could hear her talking to Rachel, her mouth like a whip, scolding, the cleaning girl superior to those she cleaned for. The same mouth that kissed Mr. M. with a tenderness miles away from Rachel and Patrick’s messy act.

  “Do you believe her?”

  “Yeah. Esperanza wouldn’t lie about that. She doesn’t have to.”

  The bell rang to signal the end of lunch hour. One of the girls in a younger grade pushed past us on the steps to enter the school. Some of the parents had kept their children at home since Bella’s funeral, to help them get over their grief, so the school wasn’t in full attendance and classes were sporadic. The snowball fight was winding down, a few girls giggling, shaking out their hair before coming in.

  “I’m supposed to give you this,” Rachel said, and at first I thought she was handing me Patrick’s note, but she dug her hand into her pocket and produced a card in an envelope with my name on it. The handwriting wasn’t Rachel’s. There was a smudge on the side and the corner was creased from her coat.

  “It’s from my father,” she said.

  I opened the card. It had a butterfly on the cover, a yellow butterfly on top of a tulip, and if the block lettering hadn’t announced In Sympathy, I might have found it pretty and taped it up in my room. On the inside was Mr. M.’s large scrawl of a signature and Rachel’s name, also in Mr. M.’s handwriting. That Rachel hadn’t signed the card herself upset me. I felt betrayed. Abandoned by both of them. A fifty-dollar bill was taped inside. It was the most money I had ever held, and I had no idea what I was going to do with it. The money didn’t comfort me, but Mr. M., at least, had tried.

  Rachel and I got up from the steps and followed the other girls up to our residence rooms to get our books for History class with Mother Superior. Rachel unzipped her jacket pocket, scrunched Patrick’s note into a ball, and threw it in the snow. Our steps had grown sluggish. For once, we were in no hurry to get anywhere.

  THE TWO CONVENTS of our order in Ottawa are having their annual lunch, a social gathering meant to keep us up-to-date on the activities of our parishes and our work in the community at large. We alternate the hosting duties; this year it is at the Convent of the Sisters of U. instead of at ours. Although the platters are sufficiently modest in their offerings, the number of them is slightly decadent. The dining hall buffet tables are covered with breads and fruits, plates of sandwiches and bowls of soup, and a long dessert table at the end with five varieties of tarts and cakes. It is a day I try not to think of waste.

  Kim is our prize and she knows it. She hangs around the edges of the room like trimming, but the Sisters of the U. convent sniff her out at every turn. They are prodding her with questions, as my Sisters do, but to different purpose. They want to know if she’s happy with us, who she is closest to, what she’s managed to learn about our routines and activities. They are trying to get gossip, find out whether Kim’s opinions and impressions coincide with theirs.

  “Really,” I hear one of their Sisters say. “Sister Maria barely speaks when she comes here. Are you sure we’re talking about the same Sister?”

  I dislike the day. It means I will have to have a conversation with Sister Aline, who insists on having her dessert with me every year. When they dine with us next year, I will be compelled to return the favour. Although I chose to serve in the same city as St. X. School for Girls, I did not choose the same convent that many of the nuns there did once the school was converted into a tuition-free separate school. Most of the nuns joined new convents, either closer to family ties that had strained over the years, or in townships and other cities where the nuns’ teaching certificates were still valued. There were only two convents to choose from in Ottawa. I came to mine because I didn’t want much contact with the nuns of the school. When the school closed, Sister Marguerite moved to Halifax and Mother Superior moved to Hamilton. Surely other nuns from St. X. School for Girls had transferred to the Ottawa convents available to house them when the school closed, but Sister Aline is the only one alive today whom I recognize from that time. Periodically at these dinners faces have triggered a vague recollection in my mind, but never concrete enough to put a name to a face. If anyone besides Sister Aline remembers me as a girl, they have thankfully kept it to themselves.

  According to the usual routine, we get our soup and sandwiches, slices of melon or oranges, and pieces of leavened bread and sit in groups to discuss the various issues of the day. It is always the same. We begin optimistically, discussing the great advances we have made in our own convents and parishes, listing off the charitable functions and their successes to each other as if we were comparing grades in school. If that were the only story told, it would be one that included world peace and a glowing charity and economic boom for the poor of the city. It would tell the tale of a generation of men and women and children in healthy and happy homes, comforted by their faith and brought to God by Providence. The world would make perfect sense and everyone would live happily ever after.

  Soon, however, the conversation drifts towards doubt and despair. Neither of our parishes has been able to sustain the support we once experienced. Many of the parishioners are not interested in prayer meetings or socials. We speak tragically about the high divorce rate, the gay rights movement, the decline of youth’s respect for elders, of the fights in Eastern Europe and Africa over territory, of race wars and gang wars, of the decline in social services and education. We do not discuss the fact that many of us are here because we did not wish to be married or have families, because some of us are gay, or the fact that we know very little about life in Europe or Africa. Sister Maria told me that on her visit to the Sistine Chapel she learned that the votive candles were handled electronically now. You pay for your prayer and the candle only lights for a specified period of time before it is turned off. When I asked Christine, who had visited the Sistine Chapel herself on her honeymoon, about this, she said she had no interest in praying. She didn’t go near the votive candles. She wanted to see the architecture. The mood, regardless of our full bellies and social decorum, flips from optimism to pessimism. It depresses me; not much of our work seems worthwhile.

  Kim has chosen to sit with Sister Josie and Sister Sarah. I don’t blame her. There is safety in numbers. Not in the masses of women collected here but in those who show genuine interest in each other, as Sister Josie and Sister Sarah do. The Sisters have clothed Kim in a long beige knitted dress that reaches to her ankles. It has a solid seam that runs directly under her small breasts, barely the size of a grown woman’s let alone a pregnant one, accentuating the curve of her belly. Her burden is our badge, proof that we have been doing our duty for the unfortunate. A foreigner too, many like to think, although there is little to distinguish her as a foreigner except for her ancestral race. She was born here. She is Canadian. Sister Maria speaks worse English. Kim is more at h
ome in this city than the rest of us. But here she is conspicuous and an exotic element, like the breadfruit on the dessert table that one of their Barbadian parishioners offered for our feast.

  As I predicted, Sister Aline waves to me as we line up to select our desserts. She must be in her seventies now, but she has the fluid movements of a younger woman. Her smile is wide and her stride is confident, although she does ask for help carrying her tray back to my table. She will be singing later on, when we attend Mass. Her voice does not soar as it did when she was younger, it shakes at line ends like the tinkle of the bell the priest rings between prayers, but it moves me nonetheless. Perhaps because it is not perfect but almost so. There is a trace of the power she once held in each note, her eyes closed and her being unaware of those around her, the song taking precedence over the person.

  “We meet again,” she says, taking my arm affectionately as we move towards the table.

  “As usual,” I reply, placing our utensils out in front of us.

  “We have much to talk about.”

  I drop her spoon on the floor, struck by her words, unable to bend to pick it up. The Sister beside us obliges and returns to her conversation. Sister Aline’s eyes are upon me, seriously noting my composure. Her hand closes into a fist around her knife and she slices her piece in half. It occurs to me that I might have been wrong in thinking the candle holder has no connection to her. Sister Aline has been to our convent. She could easily have used Sister Irene’s typewriter. I tried asking Sister Irene the names of anyone who had been in her room, but to no avail. She can’t communicate. I feed her and read to her. She sleeps. She never taught at St. X. School for Girls. She can’t remember my name most of the time.

  “Sit, dear. Sit.” Sister Aline taps her knife on the table as she speaks. Her power over me is obscured by my fear, but an internal nudge lowers my body to the attached bench of our table.

  Sister Aline has a manner of eating that I’ve always found peculiar. Her face does not betray a single sign of chewing. The spoon or fork is brought to her mouth, her lips part, revealing tongue and teeth, the middle front two overlapped. The food is inserted and then it vanishes. The bottoms of her cheeks tremble, that is all. She must swallow her food whole, without tasting it.

  “Is something wrong?”

  I have not touched my plate. I must have been staring at her longer than I’d thought. The vanilla cake rests like a hat, intact and lordly. I decided against the breadfruit because I’ve always enjoyed the taste of icing. The more sugar the better. Sister Aline’s plate has only a few blobs of icing left, crumbs around the edge.

  “No. Not at all,” I reply and take up my fork with a vengeance, shoving half the cake into my mouth and chewing thoroughly to avoid choking.

  She wipes her lips with a paper napkin and then folds it in the middle of her plate. The sounds of chewing around me and in my own mouth make me aware of the activity surrounding us.

  “We have an anniversary to celebrate, don’t we?” Sister Aline says.

  My jaw freezes and I start to cough, draw my own napkin to my lips. The moment has come. Twenty-five years has been enough time in limbo. How could Sister Aline forget Bella, her prized student, the tragic end of her life? How could anyone possibly believe the rumours surrounding her death? I can’t hide myself forever, I think. Like anything deep in the ground, I too can be dug up.

  And yet Sister Aline does not seem confrontational. She’s concerned I may be choking and makes as if to rise. I wave my hand at her in a gesture indicating I will soon be fine, that I appear worse off than I actually am. My eyes are watering and my shoulders feel heavy. My body is trying to get out of here, break free from the past, from the person squirming inside of it.

  “It occurred to me today that we’ve now known each other for twenty-five years. Do you think I’m right?”

  Sister’s Aline’s tone is nostalgic, not alarmed. She regards me as an equal, someone who participated in a reality she too lived. The cake has finally turned to mush in my mouth, and I push it down my throat with my tongue.

  “I know you are . . .” I do not know how to proceed delicately. Luckily, Sister Aline does not ask me to elaborate. She shifts a little in her seat, pulls up a sleeve.

  “It’s a blessing to be around people who know you. Who live the way we live, isn’t it, Sister Angela?”

  Sister Aline is being sincere, I realize. She has not come to talk of Bella to me. She does not know. She wants us to celebrate our mutual acknowledgement of each other every year. The quiver in her voice is tender.

  “How have you been?” I finally reply.

  “I’m well. Not as young as I used to be, but who would want to be young again? I’ve got more peace in my mind now than I ever did before. With each day I get closer to God in age, I suppose. He must be lonely with no one to understand what it’s like to live and witness for centuries. But there’s still more work I want to do. Mother Superior jokes we’ll have plenty of time to rest when we’re dead. I somehow doubt it. There are more children being born, more people to worry about. I think there’ll always be more work to be done.”

  Sister Aline slaps the table with her hand, tilts her head backwards. Her smile is contagious. I find myself eating the rest of my cake as she describes the renovations in progress at their church: new windows in the rectory, revarnished pine pews, and a ceremonial vestment with gold trim for Father L. “A bit extravagant, I suppose,” she says, shrugging her shoulders, dismissing her own criticism as soon as it is uttered. Sister Aline knows nothing about me and I know nothing about her. Our age difference saddens me, the lines around her eyes and on her forehead foretelling an eventual separation. Ours may be the longest and truest friendship I have ever sustained.

  MR. M. TOOK RACHEL and me to buy graduation dresses. He said he had spoken to my father about it and that they’d worked out the details for the cost, but I knew he was lying. As far as I knew, he didn’t even know my father’s first name.

  Rachel kept aloof for weeks, making excuses about upcoming tests and finishing assignments for class to get away from Caroline and me after dinner. She was not cold to us, simply curtailing, her eyes wandering over us vacantly. While she shut herself up in her room in the evenings, I sought any kind of distraction, latching onto Caroline, who also desired the company. Our twosome, however, felt incomplete. We were as if disabled, moving in stops and starts, fumbling in the most routine pursuits, the safest conversations. The ability to relax had left us. We might walk and speak and eat and play, but essentially we were sentenced, brought together out of necessity rather than choice. I missed Rachel’s smile, her bold laughter, the way her curls bounced when she walked. I missed the colour of her eyes. I missed noticing the colour of her eyes.

  Mr. M. directed us to the dresses on the ladies’ rack at the entrance of the store. They had spaghetti straps and airy material, light to the touch. Attached were slips a shade darker than the dresses: a budgie yellow underneath a soft lemon, a burgundy under an apple red. The dresses had beads attached at the cuffs and on the hems, and I glanced at the price tags, which were considerable. I didn’t want to owe Mr. M. any more than I already did and was uncomfortable as the saleswoman discussed the upcoming graduation with him, the two like conspirators as Rachel and I shuffled between racks, fiddling with the fabrics, ignoring each other with our eyes but stone sure of the other’s presence on the opposite side. The store was one I knew my father couldn’t afford. The saleswoman wore enormous gold rings with blue gems on the middle finger of each hand. She waved them around as if they were inconsequential. I was careful not to leave fingerprints or smudges on the cloth.

  “Angel,” Mr. M. called.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir, sir . . . what’s wrong with you girls today? Rachel, come over here. The lady wants to measure you. I’m sure you’ve grown at least an inch since the last time.”

  Rachel emerged from the back of the store where she had been picking out socks. She had collect
ed three pairs in her hands, identically white.

  “Put those down,” Mr. M. said. “You can get socks any time.”

  “I’m the same height as I was last year. I’ve been the same height for two years now. I don’t need to be measured.”

  Rachel stacked the socks on the counter beside the cash register so they wouldn’t be left behind. The saleswoman smiled broadly as she bent over with her tape, a silver cap on one of her teeth.

  “Yes, we’ll get them. But the dresses, look at the dresses. Rachel, you might have grown in other places? Let the lady find out. Angela, what colour do you want to wear?”

  Rachel glared, emanating hostility. I leaned against Mr. M. as if for protection and he absently patted my hair. I missed her so much I thought I was going to cry. Rachel broke away from the saleswoman, who hadn’t finished measuring her bust, and grabbed the first dress in front of her, pulling the tape from under her armpits. The saleswoman sighed but tried to sustain a cheerful air, shrugging her shoulders casually for Mr. M.’s benefit.

  “I’ll take this one,” Rachel said to the saleswoman. She held up a dusty-blue dress that hung down to her calves and was obviously too large for her.

  “Rachel, that dress isn’t half as pretty as some of the others here. Look.” Mr. M. held up a purple satin dress with lace sleeves, a green flowered sash around the waist. “Now, this is a dress to dance in!”

  “What would you know about that?” Rachel muttered. Mr. M. took the saleswoman aside and whispered to her. Her face took on a sympathetic softness, a poignantly exaggerated commiseration. “The girl has cramps,” I heard him say.

  “Angela,” he called again. “Angel, I think you’d look best in red.”