All Due Respect Issue #1

by Chris F. Holm

  Laughed at nature’s idea of frightening.

  Every morning she woke to the sound of nuns at prayer, in her simple room, with its small bed, and a wooden desk with a candle and a bible on it.

  The routine of the sisters was easy to fall into. Wake at dawn, a rosary in the room. A hundred sisters prayed at the same time, soft, but together creating a communal, soothing buzz of Our Fathers and Hail Marys.

  Chores. Cows to be milked, gardens to be tended, breakfast to be prepared, children to be dressed and fed.

  Daily mass by a snow-bearded whiskey priest, Father Rodriguez. Father would nod off during the readings. The altar boys, orphans in white robes, would nudge him awake. When he read the gospel, his voice started brittle and cracked like the pages of some forgotten book, but then gained strength as he recognized the words. He would look out at the dim church, no longer needing to read the page, at Mother Superior alone in the front pew, the sisters in the rows behind her, the children behind them, most of their feet not reaching the floor.

  Father’s homilies were rambling, sentimental things, stories of his youth told like fairy tales, nothing to do with the readings. He would mutter until Mother Superior cleared her throat, then look around as if remembering where he was, who he was, an apology on his face, a bow, and he would launch into the Apostle’s Creed.

  After mass, he would listen to the confessions of the nuns. Perhaps it was this that had broken him. Had he thought it would be a litany of impure thoughts, the barely sins of young virgins? He had underestimated his sisters in Christ. Only the small sins of the orphans, the petty theft, the lustful thoughts, the Lord’s name in vain, gave him any relief. Maybe it was the sins of the sisters that drove him to the bottle. Only Mother Superior remembered what state he arrived to the convent in.

  He lived in a small stone house apart from the convent and he did not look the nuns in the eye when he passed them.

  When he gave Ernesta her penance, he had to choke back sobs.

  Once or twice a year, when the weather permitted, missionaries came. They brought food, clothes for the children, sometimes letters, news from the outside world. A world that with every passing year seemed farther and farther away to Ernesta.

  The missionaries often spent the night. Those nights, the name of God was spoken a bit louder in some of the sisters’ rooms, as they got down to the devil’s business. So new orphans were conceived. More sins to inflict on Father’s ears.

  At first glance, the man looked dead, heaped in front of the gates as though dropped by one of the gargoyles. His left hand was missing the smallest finger. This is what the first sisters reported to Mother Superior, but as the news crossed their lips, a hoarse scream arose from the dead man’s throat, a ghostly shout. One word, repeated, a name that rebounded through the halls of the mission, along the rocky cliffs of the Santa Maria Mountains.

  Ernesta.

  A voice from her dreams. From her past. The voice touched parts of her that made her blush, made the hair on the back of her neck rise. She ran toward it.

  Mother Superior looked at him with unforgiving hawk eyes. When she trained those eyes on Ernesta, the younger sister froze. The Abbess turned from one to the other. She motioned with her flowing sleeves for the nuns at her flank to bring the man to the infirmary. When Ernesta moved to follow, a sleeve flapped in her direction.

  “No.” Mother Superior’s voice low and clear. Her eyes quickly turned away, as if she couldn’t stand to look at Ernesta, or as if she knew what she would see, had already seen it, and was frightened by it. The second, “No,” was gentler. As gentle as anything Ernesta had ever heard her say. “Go to your room, Ernesta. Pray for him.”

  Ernesta prayed. Rosaries upon rosaries, the beads sped through her fingers like a rope she couldn’t hold, a rope hung above the flames of Hell. Hands locked together, she kissed the cross on the gold band around her finger, she begged Christ for mercy. She fell asleep on her knees, and woke up on the hard, cold floor. Then she went back to her position, elbows on her bed, knuckles white around the rosary.

  There had been something different about him, she remembered. A sense of tragedy. Icy blue eyes that never smiled, they’d seen too much. Eyes that knew, even as they met in secret, that their love was doomed. He would not tell her what happened to his finger.

  When she realized that she carried his child, he told her of a place, through the wilderness, at the foot of the mountains, where she and the child would be safe. Told her to head for the sun, until she reached the bridge, until she could hear the sisters at prayer. Later, if he could, he would come for her. He would not tell her how he knew these things.

  She did not leave her room to eat, so her fellow sisters brought her food, and news.

  The man, still mostly boy, had been very close to death. His left foot, snake bit, swollen to twice its size. The venom drove him delirious. He called for his mother or for Ernesta.

  Mother Superior herself injected the anti-venom. He would live. She never left his side, the sisters said.

  Ernesta’s prayers answered, she smiled. She ate.

  She stopped praying. Started hoping.

  Two nights later, her hopes were answered.

  The young man crept through the halls of the nunnery. They all heard his quiet, bare footsteps, the whisper of his altar boy’s robe on the floor. His heavy breaths. There are few places as quiet as a convent in the middle of the night. Any alien sound is quickly noticed.

  Ernesta’s door was open. He knew it would be. Candle light flickered, drew him like a moth. He limped on his still tender leg, wanted to run but controlled himself. The click of her door closing behind him like a gunshot in those silent halls.

  She lay in bed, eyes closed. The candle’s flame caressed her bare shoulder.

  “Ernesta, look at me.”

  “No. If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake.”

  She couldn’t see him grin. Couldn’t see him remove his robe, though she pictured it, his dark skin taught over his bulging arms, his flat chest.

  Her sisters pictured it too, as the floorboards, then the bed, then Ernesta groaned under his weight. The nuns lay stiff as corpses, eyes squeezed shut, listening for the slightest noise, a breath, a sigh. As the eloquent sounds of passion escaped their lips, a trembling passed through every sister, their ears greedy for more.

  Could Ernesta feel her sisters replace her body with their own? In their minds they stole his kisses, his touches, urged her to do what they wished they could, what they would if they traded places. And this young man. Could he feel the longing of the sisters reverberate? Hear the echo of Ernesta’s sighs in their throats?

  The lovers did not speak, two thirsty people finally drinking after too long in the desert. They feasted on each other, hands returned to old places, lips remembered forgotten tastes. A language of grasps and gropes and thrusts, as though he needed to unlock something deep inside her.

  He smelled the same, beneath the scent of the jungle, the stink of the city, sweet and dirty, still clung to him. A sinful treat.

  If this was a meal, they ate more than once. They stopped only when they were too weak to move.

  Then continued in their dreams.

  The sisters too.

  When she woke, he was gone. Maybe it was a dream.

  It was Sunday. The murmur of nuns at prayer pulled her to her knees. But she had nothing to pray for. In church, the sisters kept their eyes to the floor, too guilty to look at the cross.

  Father, perhaps sensing something in the air, was brief.

  The line for confession was long. The nuns waited in the hot church, perspired under their habits, slumped under the weight of their new sins.

  “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

  Over and over and over. The same deadly sin.

  “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

  “Yes, Ernesta, I know.”

  “Forgive me Father for I have sinned.”

  The old priest sighed, then
held up a hand and proceeded to tell the young man what he had come to confess. “But I fear your worst sins are yet to come.” The young man gaped as the priest told him of sins to come, evil that was locked inside the young man’s heart, thoughts the priest could not have known. Things the young man would not admit to himself. The priest had no penance for the young man. They both knew it would come soon, and did not involve prayers.

  Outside, the orphans played tag. One boy was faster than the others. How the girls liked to chase him. “Gabriel,” they cried.

  And the young man knew.

  He watched the boy, full of pride and shame, consumed by sadness.

  From a high window in the convent, Mother Superior watched the young man, full of pride and shame, consumed by sadness.

  Each night, when the moon rose above the mountains, he visited Ernesta. She never opened her eyes. Sometimes her dreams had already begun and he would simply lay next to her and bring the dream to life. The couple figured in the dreams of the sisters too. The young man a narcotic, Ernesta and the sisters addicts.

  She didn’t open her eyes until the morning, when he was gone. She crossed herself on her knees, leaned on her bed, muttered her prayers. The image of their bodies from the night before, the taste of his lips, his salty skin, her hands clasped together remembered the heat of his firm body, the smell of what had happened everywhere in the cramped, hot room. In her ears the sound of their moans lingered like the sound of the ocean in a seashell.

  Gabriel the young man spent his afternoons with Gabriel the boy. Football or hide and seek. The man showed the boy all the secret places from his childhood. The boy was an eager student. The man watched his son and sighed.

  He sighed often.

  One morning, before dawn, Ernesta and Gabriel were awakened by the sound of a throat clearing.

  Ernesta gasped when Mother Superior lit the candle in the room. The flickering light revealed her sad old face.

  “It is time to do what you came to do, my son.”

  Outside, the jungle prepared for dawn, the birds sang in anticipation. The night shift yawned, ready to shut its eyes at the first sign of the sun.

  The little flame’s reflection danced in the small sharp blade in Mother Superior’s hand.

  “I won’t do it,” Gabriel said. “I’ll stay here. We’ll run away.”

  The old nun shook her head. “Then your employer will send more men.”

  “I can’t do it. I love her. I love him.”

  A sly smile. “All that is required, is proof.”

  She set the dagger on the table next to the bed.

  “Proof,” he said.

  Ernesta’s hand touched his face, the light sought out the gold band on her finger. He touched it. Closed his eyes. When he opened them, the knife glowed.

  “It is time.” Mother Superior’s voice cracked like dry leaves under foot.

  In the end, he couldn’t do it. He wept. Ernesta took the blade and did it herself. One swift stab, the point struck just below the gold band. Mother Superior was ready with the candle to cauterize the wound, towels for the blood. So much blood.

  “We are not done,” she whispered. She left the room, took the blade.

  “No.” Ernesta tried to stand but she was weak and he held her tight.

  Their son’s screams were made of nightmares and razors and shock, a human siren meant to tear hearts open. She could not be held back. Her vision blurred, the world tilted as she followed the wails of young Gabriel calling for his mother. Then she was there, the boy in her arms. Mother Superior tended them until they fell asleep in the bed where Gabriel had been born. Then she wrapped their lopped off fingers together in a bundle with crushed flowers to hide the scent of blood from the jaguars that prowled the jungle outside. A red bow held the gruesome gift together.

  Gabriel took the package from her, a jar of anti-venom and enough food to last him the journey back. He moved to say goodbye to Ernesta and his son but his mother stopped him with a hand on his chest.

  “When it is time, the boy will find you.”

  He bowed his head.

  She embraced him, as she had years ago, when it was time for him to find his father. She kissed his cheek and turned her back on him.

  When she was well enough, Ernesta returned to her room, to the familiar rhythms of her daily routine. At Mass, she knelt, not listening but comforted by the old priest’s voice. She turned to Mother Superior, whose hands were clasped tight in front of her.

  Nine fingers. No ring.

  Ernesta looked right and left.

  A dozen more missing ring fingers. Their hands healed long ago, eyes that forgot nothing. Their voices joined and rose, the song of the sad sisters echoed until it was only a whisper, then a rumor, and finally a myth.

  * * *

  Mike Miner has novels forthcoming from Full Dark City Press and Gutter Books and a novella in stories to be published as an e-book by Solstice Literary Magazine. His stories can be found in various journals and anthologies. He received an MFA from the Solstice Program of Pine Manor College and currently lives and writes in Connecticut with his wife and daughters.

  CHICKEN:

  A WELLESPORT STORY

  WALTER CONLEY

  WHEN JACK ENTERED THE bedroom, Isaac was sitting in a chair by the window. Isaac’s legs were crossed. On his lap was a copy of Teen Vogue he’d found in the bathroom. He held it open with one hand, folded it back on itself. In the other hand was a chewed-up pen.

  Jack said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “A personality profile,” Isaac said. “You have to list your qualities. What you think are your qualities. Then have five other people each give you a quality about yourself. That’s the part I’m on now.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  Isaac shrugged. “It’s kind of interesting.”

  “To women at hair salons.”

  “Why don’t you give me a quality?” Isaac asked, tapping the butt of the pen on the questionnaire.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Alright,” Jack said. “You smell like diaper-rash cream.”

  Isaac’s eyelids drooped a fraction of an inch. “No. Not like that. A quality, you know?”

  “Tommy wants to see us. Downstairs. Now.”

  “Okay,” Isaac said. “Hey, I don’t really, do I?” Isaac asked, as Jack left the room. “Do I?”

  The house belonged to Earl, a recent addition to the crew. It was located on the outskirts of Wellesport along a sparsely-populated stretch of I-84, a quarter of a mile from the town’s industrial section.

  A dozen men and women hung in the living room. Henry Sloan said, “You guys done fucking already?”

  Isaac said “Ha,” and kicked the drink out of his hand.

  There was a smattering of applause.

  Tommy waited in the master bedroom. With him were Earl, perched on the edge of his bed, and Ray, who stood facing a corner.

  Ray didn’t seem to notice them and Isaac was glad. Ray wore a suit, had his hair and nails trimmed. He’d done time, a couple years upstate, but Isaac didn’t know why and didn’t plan to ask.

  Tommy sat in an armchair . His imposing bulk sank him into the cushions. He wore matching sweats and high-tops and was decked in gold-plated silver. His entire head bore a uniform stubble, flashed blonde to red as he nodded at Earl.

  Earl nodded back, got up and walked out, closing the door behind him. Isaac breathed easier. Earl was a younger, scruffier version of Isaac and Jack. He was nice enough, but hungrier than he let on.

  “Boys,” Tommy said.

  Jack sniffed and said, “What’s up?”

  “I need you guys to do something.” Tommy hoisted a briefcase that had been sitting by the armchair, tossed it onto the bed. It was imitation leather with brass fittings. “I need you to deliver this for me.”

  “Where to?” Jack said.

  “Across the street.”

  Isaac squinted at Tommy, confus
ed. Earl’s house was in a desolate area. There was nothing across the street but a lumberyard, down a little ways, that had gone bust. Tommy had been acting strange lately. He was always wired. He kept talking about putting things in order, taking care of loose ends—like he’d gotten word that he might die soon. Isaac wasn’t sure what to make of it yet.

  “What do you mean, across the street?” Jack said.

  “Means what I said. Across the street. To the lumberyard. Somebody’s going to be there at four o’clock. All you have to do is take the case over and give it to him.”

  Who is it? Isaac wanted to ask. What’s in the case? But you didn’t press about details like that. The less you asked, the less you knew. The less you knew, the less you could say to police or spill when you’d had one too many.

  “Piece of cake,” Isaac said.

  Tommy smiled at him. When he wasn’t smiling, he looked like a heavyweight bent on killing you in the first round. Now he looked like the best buddy you could ever have.

  “That’s it?” Jack said.

  “That’s it,” Tommy told him. “I’ll hook you up afterwards.”

  Ray looked at them from the corner. He dragged on a cigarette Isaac hadn’t seen him light, then opened his mouth, smoke sheathing his face like ectoplasm.

  Tommy rubbed his hands together. “The rest of us are taking off. I have to square something. We’ll be back in a while.”

  “I don’t like this,” Jack said.

  “Why not?” Isaac asked.

  “I just don’t.”

  Neither did Isaac, but he blamed it on pregame jitters. He always got antsy before a job.

  Everyone else had gone with Tommy. Once the cars had driven away, the two men were left alone, sitting in the living room. Isaac was in a recliner, Jack on the couch. Jack sat forward at the end of the couch farthest from Isaac, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, gazing at the floor. The briefcase lay at the near end, within Isaac’s reach.

  “What do you think’s in it?” he asked.