In the summer of 1917, Bella and her older sister, Esme, are two lovely but sheltered Creole sisters from the countryside entering the convent. Though best friends, Bella has always lived in Esme's shadow because of Esme's great beauty and intelligence. On their way to New Orleans, they encounter a dashing yet mysterious priest, Father Edward, and Bella is immediately enamored with him. Living in the harsh city of New Orleans finally forces the two sisters deal with discrimination, class differences, and even romance. Bella must confront her feelings towards Father Edward, who is also haunted by his own torturous past. The Reverend Mother and snobby, wealthy nuns take an immediate dislike to the free-spirited Bella. Will Bella remain in the convent? Can she resolve her feelings towards the brooding and aloof Father Edward?
Chapter 1 Leonville
Leonville, Lousiana, June, 1917
"Fait attention á la ville de Nouvelle-Orléans, ma chérie, Bella! C'est une lieu de l'avidité, du péché, et de la luxure!"
"Oui, Mère," I replied.
I had asked my mother what she remembered about her childhood in New Orleans, about a half-day's journey from where we lived. I had never been there, and had always been curious about The Crescent City. Her warning to beware of New Orleans, as it was "a place of greed, sin and lust," intrigued me.
Whenever Mère was gravely serious about something and wanted to nail her point down, she always said it en français. After all, French was her mother tongue. Unlike her children, she still spoke English with a strong accent.
Français symbolized the fading flower of our youth. Before the Civil War, the gentle sound of French flowed throughout the Louisiana Creole countryside, and flourished in our humble, little town of Leonville. In the same way a child clings to her favorite doll, we held onto the French language as long as we could. We hoped we could halt—or at least delay—the eventual conquest of English.
It was a lazy Friday afternoon. School was out for the summer and we had just finished our household chores. We were not as wealthy as other Creole families that owned vast acres of land or maintained various businesses in town, and thus, we could not afford Colored servants as they could. Our late father's affluent family had cut him off for marrying our mother, but we still managed to do pretty well for ourselves.
I had graduated from high school the year before, and my older sister and I were preparing to enter the convent together. Although we had already graduated, we still attended school daily and studied a rigorous course load, while aiding our wonderful instructors. I was in the middle of reading my science books when my ridiculously furry white cat, Gérard, brushed his chassis against my bare leg.
"Gérard, what will you do when I'm gone? You better keep Mama company!"
In my spare time, I devoured science books like sweet beignets, whereas my sister preferred tasting the tart French novels of Victor Hugo and Honoré de Balzac. In the past, I had tried reading Darwin but his writing and ideas confused and bored me to pieces. Instead, I discovered a textbook called Lions, Tigers, and House Cats: Understanding Feline Behavior, and had read it three times. I found it much more interesting and useful than anything Mr. Darwin had to say about finches, armadillos, and earthworms! And besides, evolution was a subject no proper Catholic girl, as I tried to be, should dare touch!
After I read my first handbook on felines, I gobbled up any book I could find about animal behavior, including those on primates, canines, birds, and horses. I avoided reading books about human behavior because humans bored me so with all their drama and problems! Animals were considerably easier to sympathize with and understand; after all, I believed everything I needed to know about humans could be gleaned from reading the Bible.
Few things excited me like learning something new. That day I had already learned that a cat's purr most likely signals a feeling of safety and comfort, and that whenever Gérard brought me a dead mouse, he was offering me a gift and trying to feed me!
"Now, I understand all the weird things you do, Daddy-o!" I said as I lifted Gerard up to my face.
"Meow," he replied.
I stashed all my animal behavior and science books far back underneath my bed so Mama would never find them. I was certain she would have a conniption if she knew I was studying biology—or anything other than the Bible. I never understood what the big deal was; I loved God and I loved science. For me, the two were totally compatible. I simply adored studying all of God's wonderful creations.
Suddenly, I heard somebody knocking on our front door. Who could it be? Rarely anyone came to visit us on a Friday. I peeped through the window and saw a dashing young Creole man dressed in an elegant suit, stunning hat, and shiny shoes.
"Bonjour, Madame Mélange," he greeted.
"Bonjour, Pierre," my mother replied.
Pierre was the eldest son of the Devereaux family—the wealthiest family in town and the largest landowners in Leonville. He had light eyes, a tall nose, and soft beige skin. He was in his early twenties, and had just graduated from Howard Law School in Washington D.C.
"How can I help you, Pierre?" Mother asked.
"I would like to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage," he said with confidence.
I held my breath as my heart beat like a wild drum. Finally, after all these years, a marriage proposal for me? I would politely decline it, of course!
"Is Esme available?" he asked.
Drat! I thought to myself. It's always Esme! Nobody ever wants me!
My sister, Esme, was a true doll that all the boys and desired. She was prettier than any debutante in town, and had a chassis, derriere, and a pair of stilts that caused men to stare like wolves at her. Compared to Esme, I was just an old pair of shoes buried in the back of the closet.
"Pardon, monsieur. Esme is off to serve the Lord as a nun," Mother answered.
Esme stood there next to Mère and nodded, and lowered her head. Pierre's face crumbled. He had known Esme and me since we were little, and would always stop by our home to play with us during breaks from his boarding school in New Orleans. Now, he stood there before us, tall, striking, and now, defeated. My heart sunk with his when I saw his handsome face turn pale.
"Well, I do not regret trying," he said, holding his head up high.
"Your timing is not wise, Pierre," said Esme, finally breaking her silence.
"Au revoir, Esme et Bella. Bon chance!" he said. "If you ever need anything, do not hesitate to ask. I will be working as an attorney in New Orleans at my uncle's law firm. And if you ever change your mind, I'll be waiting for you, Esme," he promised. He mounted his dazzling Arab stallion and rode off into the yonder.
When Esme, our brother Claude, and I were of school age, we attended St. Mary's Parish School, about two skips and a jump from home. There, two tender, aging White nuns taught us in a rustic one-room school. In Colored communities, schoolchildren were lucky if they were able to learn how to write their names and count to one hundred by the time they finished their schooling. God had blessed us Mélange children with two wonderful teachers who wanted us to succeed.
"Claude, Esme, and Bella, we see greatness in all of you," said Sister Helen. "Times are changing, and we think all three of you lads can rise very far in the church. Thus, you will receive an education even the most privileged White children of Louisiana will envy!"
Sisters Helen and Grace were university-educated—a rarity among nuns, and women in general. While other children our age struggled to read the newspaper, we read classic novels and wrote poetry. The sisters drilled us with French and Latin lessons, and we even studied philosophy, civics, and mathematics.
In our free time, Esme and I swallowed up any novel or book we could find in order to improve our composition and rhetoric skills. Even Father Gaston, who stopped by only on Sundays to conduct mass, would instruct us afterwards on the Liturgy and canon doctrine.
One's color and shade was everything in Louisiana. We Creoles of Color were stuck in purgatory while the Coloreds, the dark-skinned children of slavery, lived in hell. They were subjected to Les Codes Noir which restricted any semblance of dignity. White politicians blocked them from good schools, good jobs, and the good life. Meanwhile, wealthy Whites lived in heavenly bliss and exercised control over the rest of us. In purgatory, we lived next door to the Cajuns—the White, hillbilly underclass that everybody mocked. In Leonville, we Creoles of Color rarely dealt with any other groups of people, and that was the way we liked it.
A few years ago, Claude had ventured off to St. Joseph's seminary in the hopes of becoming a priest and the first Creole of Color to serve as a pastor in Louisiana. A Colored woman could rise to become the Reverend Mother of a convent, but woe to the naïve dark-skinned priest who yearned to ascend to the rank of pastor of some remote tiny parish in Louisiana. It was still the South; a Colored man could only rise so high, even within the walls of the church.
Claude's complexion resembled the swarthy skin tone of Mama. They were both the color of cinnamon, but Mère was never close with him. Instead, she gravitated towards her fairer-skinned daughters, because, as I suspected, we were all women and therefore, had more in common.
Papa's death hit Claude the hardest. In his workshop, Father taught Claude everything from writing poetry to making a chair from wood scraps to properly killing and plucking a chicken. Every night, Père would sing us French lullabies until we all fell asleep.
He loved holding and kissing Mère—even in front of us children! It was embarrassing, but it always made our usually serious mother smile. On some quiet, lonely nights, Papa's soft baritone voice enters my mind. I remember when he taught us our family history.
"Your great grandfather owned a large lumber mill, and your grandfather fought for the Union during the Civil War before taking over the family business. Two of your uncles left America for France because they wanted to be accepted as equals with Les Blancs. They took some of my poetry with them, and it impressed a French publisher who published them in a literary journal. I was supposed to join them in the cafés de Paris—that is, until I met ta Mère! I forsook gay Paris in order to raise a family with her. That angered your grandparents."
Mother's skin tone was too dark and her ancestry too common for my paternal grandparents' liking. Her mother was a runaway slave, and her father was a Cajun farmer. In contrast, my father's people descended from some of the first free families of color from before the American Revolution. They built New Orleans, established industries, fought the British for Independence, overthrew the Spanish, and fought in the Civil War to abolish slavery.
Papa's delicate, pale hue mirrored that of Esme—both could almost pass as White. I, however, was a shade darker, and resembled the color of café au lait. Mère loved bragging to our relatives and neighbors about her daughters' pillowy skin and light eyes. Of course, everyone always complimented Esme's beauty much more than mine.
"Esme, I wish I was keen as you," I occasionally pouted. "I wish I had your lighter skin and blue eyes!"
"Pourquoi, Bella? Ta peau e belle aussi!" I was happy to know she thought my skin was beautiful too, and grateful for a sister who always knew how to cheer me up. I could not have asked for a better sister.
Later in the day, Sisters Helen and Grace would be coming to our home with letters from various orders and convents to see which had accepted us. Esme and I had the opportunity to leave Leonville and enter the nunnery two years prior, when I was fifteen. However, we both had decided to stay home to keep Mama company after Father's unexpected death. Esme also refused to let me to enter the convent alone.
"Who's going to look after you in the convent if I am not around?" Esme chided.
"Esme, I can take care of myself!" I responded.
"Oh, no, you can't Bella! You will get yourself into mounds of trouble."
That was Mama's cue. "Why must both my darlings leave me all alone?" she asked. "You know how terribly I will miss you both! Bella, for the hundredth time, why do you want to become a nun?"
"I wish to serve the Lord, and make you proud of me," I replied.
"C'est bon! Je t'taime, ma fleur!" she said, telling me she loved me and likening me to a flower.
"Merci, Mère!" I said as I threw my arms around my petite mother. A tear rolled down from her soft brown eyes.
"My two little girls serving the Lord as nuns!" she cried. "I couldn't be any prouder!"
There I was at seventeen, preparing to lead a life of service and solitude, free of a husband. All my classmates and friends were being betrothed to successful and wealthy Creole suitors from all over Louisiana, Mississippi, and beyond. Meanwhile, Esme and I were already taking university-level courses. What a shame to waste my education in order to merely become a wealthy man's wife, mother for his children, and the mistress of his estate.
Marriage was not in the cards for me, for I had bigger plans. One day, I would rise up and become a Mother Superior, open a convent in Leonville, and build a much larger school for the children. Maybe, I would even author and publish my own books on faith and science!
In the distance, I spotted a single horse-drawn buggy approaching our home. I instantly recognized the occupants. Before being stationed in Leonville, neither Sister Helen nor Sister Grace had ever ridden a horse or driven a carriage. Father had a hilarious time teaching them how to do both! He almost lost his mind and sanity in the process of doing so.
"Esme," I called. "Sister Helen and Sister Grace are coming!"
"C'est bien. They come bearing wonderful news for us, Bella."
Sister Helen was a round, jovial woman from the state of Maine while the petite and reserved Sister Grace hailed from Boston. Southern culture both appalled and enthralled them when they arrived in Louisiana twelve years earlier. Esme and I sprinted out the front door to greet them and help them down from the carriage.
"Sister Helen and Sister Grace, what an honor to have you both in our home," Mama said.
"Bonjour, Renee. Comment ça va?" Sister Grace said. Both sisters spoke English and French with thick New England accents.
"What a lovely home," Sister Helen added.
"Please, have some tea and beignets," Mama offered.
"Merci."
The suspense was killing me. I was dying to know which of the religious orders had accepted us and where we would be spending the next few years, or even decades, of our lives.
I could wait no longer. "Sisters," I blurted, "did you receive any news from any of the orders we applied to?"
Mère glared at me. She had always lectured me on being more patient and tactful. Sometimes, I just can't help myself!
"I don't know to tell you this," Sister Helen began in a soft voice.
"I'm afraid I have some terrible news," Sister Grace chimed in.
Their smiles were quickly replaced with worrisome looks. Sister Helen began to cry.
"What's wrong, ma soeur?" Mama asked.
"None of the orders your daughters applied to accept Coloreds," stated Sister Helen.
Then, Sister Grace cried.
"Even the ones in the North?" Esme asked.
"Yes," they answered.
"No!" I screamed, snarling, and clenching my fists. I had never faced such rejection. "How can this be? We're not Coloreds—we're Creoles!" I was really working myself into a lather now!
"Bella! Calme-toi!" Mère warned. "There is so much in life you don't understand and you will have to learn one day."
"Girls," said a tearful Sister Grace. "I love you both as if you were my own daughters. I am so sorry, my children. We tried very hard and contacted all our fellow sisters in the orders you applied to."
Sister Helen sobbed while nodding her head. "We wrote them over and over. We wrote them many letters of recommendation and vouched for you both. We praised your intellect, commitment, and diligence."
"We wrote to the Carmelites," Sister Helen said. "and The Sisters of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Franciscans, the Dominicans, the Sisters of St. Joseph, and the Ursulines here in Louisiana. All refused our repeated humble requests to accept you into their orders."
"C'est terrible!" I cried.
"Be calm and steady, Bella," Esme said in a soothing voice. She put her arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. "The Lord must have other designs for us then."
"All is not lost," Sister Grace said. "My Mother Superior informed that only three orders in the whole country accept nuns of Color: The Handmaids of the Most Pure Heart in Georgia, the Oblates in Maryland, and The Sisters of the Holy Family. We contacted them, and after we wrote them letters on your behalf, all three orders agreed to accept you two."
"Yes!" I cheered. "We can still become nuns like Sister Grace and Sister Helen!"
"You see, Bella, God does have a master plan for us!" Esme smiled.
"The Sisters of the Holy Family?" Mother asked. "Are they not based in New Orleans?"
"Oui, Renee," the sisters replied.
"No, no, no!" Mama roared. "I do not want my girls living in such a depraved city—even if it is inside the hallowed walls of a convent! C'est horrible! New Orleans will surely ruin them!"
"S'il te plaît, Mère!" I begged.
"We don't want to go to Georgia or Maryland, and be far away from you, Mère," Esme pleaded.
Mother shut her eyes as we clung to both sides of her. She rocked back and forth steadily, breathing heavily. This continued for a long while.
Finally, she asked. "Is this what you really want my love?"
"Oui!" we both answered.
She sighed. "C'est bien. You have my blessing to venture off to New Orleans. But, promise me you will avoid all the devil's trappings out there. God be with you both."
I looked at Gérard who sat perched on our sofa. He frowned.
"I'm going to miss you too, Gérard," I whispered.
"Meow."
Chapter 2 The Train Ride
"Evitez Les Noirs et Les Blancs," Mother warned. "The Black and White people do not care about us and our plight, and they should be avoided. They are only out for themselves! Stick to your own kind when you are in New Orleans."
Mother's eyes pierced deep into ours. It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon in Opelousas; the summer heat and humidity had subsided for one day. The three of us walked on a train platform still wearing our church dresses and donning floral hats to deflect the sun. Everywhere we walked in the station, men of all colors, ages, and class standings snapped their heads to catch a glimpse of us! A few even whistled, which caused Mother to growl back in anger. So, is this what it feels like to be Esme? I can definitely get used to this level of attention!
Sisters Helen and Grace accompanied us from Leonville to the station in Opelousas, where a train would soon take us to New Orleans. They handed us our final grades for the school year. As usual, Esme scored an A+ in all of her classes, while I merely received an A. Oh, fiddlesticks! All her life, Esme had never earned anything lower than an A+, and I had never earned anything higher than an A. Just once, I wanted to match her excellence on tests and exams.
Esme turned to me, grabbed my hand, and squeezed it warmly, as if to apologize for always outperforming me and making me feel inferior about myself. We often held hands when we walked, and each time, it made me blush.
Then, the sisters presented us each a coin purse stuffed full of what felt like cash. When I opened it, I swore I had never seen so much cabbage before in my life!
"We took a collection at Sunday service just for you two," Sister Helen told us. "As I've always said, we nuns are required to take a vow of poverty, but this money will prevent you from starving or bail you out of an emergency. Do not surrender of any of these funds to your Reverend Mother. Hide it, so it's not confiscated!"
Finally, Sister Grace handed us each an enormous cigar box.
"Inside these boxes you will find no cigars, but instead many supplies and tools that will aid you during the next few years," Sister Grace said. "Hide this box as well, for it will help you survive and even thrive in the convent."
When Sister Grace handed me the cigar box, I nearly dropped it because it felt like it was made of lead. We dared not open it to see its contents for fear of being rude. Suddenly, the thought of leaving Mama and starting a life of piety in a strange new city gripped my mind. I wanted to sit down and breathe.
Before Mère and the two nuns could exit the train platform and return to the carriage, a familiar-looking bimbo ran up the stairs and approached us. He was in his late thirties, had a shaved head, and dressed like a wealthy, big game safari hunter. He was built like a baby grand piano with his thick arms and gorilla-like shoulders. He looked like a Creole who could not only kill an alligator with his bare hands, but also eat it all in one sitting.
"Monsieur Blanc, what brings you here?" Mother asked.
"Bonjour, Madame Melange. I'm sure you heard about my wife's passing a few years ago," he answered.
"Yes, I am so sorry for your loss. You left Leonville before I could pay you a visit. Your wife was very dear to me, and I had prepared a special care package for you."
"Since her passing, I've amassed a nice fortune from the hunting and trapping trade. I supply alligator meat to some of the finest restaurants on the Bayou, and alligator leather to the best shoemakers in New Orleans."
"Good for you, monsieur," Mother said. "I am pleased to hear about your success."
"Sadly," he went on. "I have two young children who need more love and attention than me and my hired nanny can offer. I would like to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."
What? A marriage proposal just as I am preparing to leave?
"Well, if she agrees, then you have my permission to wed her," Mama promised.
"Will you marry me, Esme?" Monsieur Blanc asked.
Oh, apple sauce! I screamed in my head. Nobody ever wants me!
Esme calmly turned towards the brawny hunter. "I am sorry, Monsieur Blanc," Esme began. "I have already agreed to serve God as a nun. I am entering the order with Bella, and I need to look out for my sister."
"Good for you, Esme!" cheered Sister Grace.
"Bushwa, Sister!" he said, and then regarded Esme. "Don't waste your life and your beauty by living behind the closed gates of a convent. Women like you deserve to wear the finest fashion, eat the most elegant meals, and sleep on the most comfortable beds. I can provide all those things for you."
"Monsieur Blanc, I am flattered by your offer but I must refuse," Esme answered.
"You are making a mistake," he shot back.
"Monsieur Blanc!" hollered Mère.
The hunter brushed off my mother's objection. "You and Bella should not be nuns. Don't squander your lives rotting inside the cramped confines of a nunnery! Nuns are old hags and shapeless spinsters who have nothing else to live for in life but praying endlessly!" He turned towards the sisters. "No offense."
"How did you know they wouldn't be offended?" I interjected sarcastically.
Just then, tiny Sister Grace swung her book bag with all her might at Monsieur Blanc's head. Boom! A loud thud echoed throughout the train platform. Monsieur Blanc stood there unfazed, unhurt, and unmoved, as if nothing had happened.
"Très bien, mesdemoiselles. Pardonez-moi." He said. "I apologize for my crass behavior and crude speech. Good day, ladies. Au revoir!"
The hunter then departed to rejoin the other wild animals in the swamp. Nearing four o'clock in the afternoon, our train was ready to depart for New Orleans.
"All aboard the next train for New Orleans!" the conductor hollered.
The five of us ambled to the conductor who stood at the entrance of two open doors of the train. Esme handed him her ticket and he promptly picked up her luggage and carried it through the train door on the right, towards the front. Through the windows, I could see elegant upholstered seats and hand-carved wood paneling. I could not wait to ride in such a ritzy train coach!
"What a beautiful young lass you are," he said to Esme. "Enjoy your ride."
"Merci, monsieur," she said.
Then, it was my turn. His eyes narrowed as he studied my face for some reason. He focused on my eyes, nose, and mouth, and then, stared at my complexion and hair. I squirmed. Then he licked his lips and smirked, which made me shudder.
"I'm sorry, mademoiselle," he said, "but you must enter the train door on the left, towards the back."
"Is there a problem, monsieur?" I asked.
"I can't allow you to sit with your friend in the same train car. You must sit with the other Creoles in the rear train cars."
"Excusez-moi! For your information, that girl is not my friend. She is my sister, and I must sit with her in the other train car!"
"But, you can't! Rules are rules! That compartment towards the front is for Whites only. You surely must be joking about that gorgeous dame being your sister. She's white and you're Creole!" Then, his voice softened, "However, I am attracted to your lovely café au lait skin, round derriere, and splendid pair of bubs. I live in New Orleans and I can show you around town. Maybe, we can meet up for supper, go down to a juice joint for some giggle water, and get a little bent. Then, you can stay at my house and we can have a little nookie together." He winked.
"Get away from my daughter, you pervert!" Mama protested.
"That's my sister!" Esme screamed. "Show some respect!"
The conductor laughed. "Oh, I get it—bank's closed! No worries," he said with a sneer, "I have a special key to get in!"
As he reached out his right hand to stroke my cheek, a young man, clad in a black robe charged in like a bull and grabbed the sleazy, young conductor by the lapels of his cheap, brown suit. Boom! The hero in black slammed the conductor against the side of the train. He pinned him there, and then, hoisted the much larger man up a few feet off the ground.
"Andrew," the young priest grunted. "I've warned you before about mistreating the female passengers on this train, haven't I?"
"Yes, Father!" the conductor replied, gasping for air as if he were drowning. "My mistake, I apologize! Father, please forgive me and let me down!"
The young priest's hands had already worked their way up to the conductor's neck and began constricting it. After a few seconds of contemplation, the young father released his grip, sending the contrite creep crashing down onto the platform. The dashing priest stood over the conductor, and, for a second, looked as if he was about to stomp him. Instead, he helped him up.
I watched the young cleric in admiration. His shoulder-length, silky hair was chestnut, his nose sharp, his jaw square, and his skin was tanned he as if he was from the Mediterranean. He was well over a foot taller than us and built like a straight razor, but with broad shoulders. He turned and snuck a quick glance at me. Before I could approach him, he vanished into the Whites Only train car without saying a word. I was dying to know his name and who he was!
"Pardonez-moi, madame et mesdemoiselles," the humbled conductor said. "I sincerely apologize for my offensive behavior. You are both welcome to enter the Whites Only car. Sorry for my confusion."
"No! We shall sit with the other Creoles and Coloreds," Esme countered. "Monsieur, if you even deserve to be called that, we know our place in Louisiana. Our people have been here as long as yours, and have fought for Louisiana's freedom as well as our own. We deserve respect, unlike hillbilly trash like you!"
"Esme," I pleaded, "let's sit with the priest who just defended me. We need to thank him for standing up for me."
"No, Bella. Anyways, he's a priest, so I'm sure we'll bump into him again somewhere in New Orleans."
"But, Esme!" I begged.
"Listen to your older sister, Bella. She always knows best," Mama said. "I tried sheltering you from all the ugliness of living amongst Les Blancs et Les Noirs, by keeping you far away in Leonville. More ills and dangers await you in New Orleans. You must protect each other. Remember, stick to your own kind!"
We kissed Mère and embraced the sisters for the last time before entering the train coach marked Coloreds Only. As we entered the train car, the sour stench of sweat stung our noses. In the first car we passed through, we saw dark-skinned, Colored laborers dressed in overalls on their way to pick cotton and chop sugar cane in the fields or lift cargo on the docks of New Orleans. They rolled dice and played dominoes, and told wild, profanity-laced stories loudly for all of Louisiana to hear.
The bench seats they sat on were chipped, the floor sticky, and the plain wood panels scratched. As we struggled to haul my elephantine suitcases, I hoped one of these strapping men would assist us. Nobody did. Instead, they merely stared at us as if we had just arrived from another planet. Thanks for nothing!
We walked through two more cars, until we noticed all the passengers looked like us. The coach was plain, but the floor was clean, the air smelled fresh, and the cushioned seats were in good condition. Everybody was dressed as if they had just stepped out of church. Like us, the women wore elegant dresses and flowery hats, and the men wore sharp suits.
"Bonjour, mesdemoiselles!" greeted a middle-aged, distinguished Creole man in a tailored suit. "My name is Vincent Dufay, and this is my wife, Claudette, and my dear friend, Jean-Paul. Allow us to assist you."
He stood up from his smiling wife, and grabbed my luggage while his burly friend, Jean-Paul, snatched Esme's suitcases. They both lifted them up high as if they were merely full of feathers. They placed them in the compartments above the open seats next to theirs. Finally, some chivalry!
"Merci, monsieur!"
"Je vous en prie, mesdemoiselles," he said. "It is my pleasure. Where are you ladies heading?"
"We're heading to New Orleans to become nuns with the order of The Sisters of the Holy Family," I told our new friends.
"C'est fantastique!" his wife said. "I am so proud of you both!"
"Where are you from?" Vincent asked.
"Leonville," I replied. "I am Bella, and this is my sister, Esme."
"The church needs more brothers and sisters like you in the priesthood and convent," Madame Dufay stated.
"Some Creoles of Color and many Coloreds are leaving the Catholic Church to join Protestant churches like the Baptists, AME, and Episcopalians," added Vincent. "The tide must be stemmed. Our culture, our people, and our faith are in danger."
"Really?" I asked.
"C'est horrible!" Esme said.
"Vincent Dufay," his wife chided. "Stop all that serious talk; you're scaring these poor country sisters!"
"Our brother, Claude, is already in the seminary studying to become a priest," said Esme, trying to change the subject. She seemed to always know what to say.
"When did you first hear the calling to become a nun, Bella?"
"When I was five years old, Madame," I answered. "When I first met the nuns at our school, I knew I wanted to be just like them. Since then, I've studied very hard, and completed several university courses through correspondence."
"Et toi, Esme?"
"Just in the last few years," she answered. "Ever since I realized how serious my sister was, I knew I had to join her."
"Esme, I'm sure you must have had many suitors asking you for your hand in marriage," said Madame Dufay.
"About twenty suitors have proposed marriage to me in the last couple of years."
"Twenty!" exclaimed Jean-Paul. "You're lucky I'm not younger and single, or I would have swept you off your feet myself!"
Madame Dufay turned her attention to me. "And, I'm sure you've been proposed to many times as well, Bella."
"Not really," I muttered, and then, I cringed. Although I had planned to enter the convent and never marry, it would have been nice to have received at least one marriage proposal. Every girl wants to be wanted. Maybe I should have styled my hair more like Esme's? Or maybe I should have worn a little rouge on my cheeks? As I stared at Esme's silky hair, I ran my fingers through my frizzy tresses, wishing they weren't so coarse. If only my eyes were the color of the sky and not of falling leaves. If only my curves weren't so pronounced, my derriere a little smaller, and my complexion lighter? Oh, well. Where I was heading, it wouldn't even matter.
As I gazed forward, I reflected on the heroic, young priest who sat in the Whites Only car a few cars in front of us. I wondered who he was and where he was going, and whether I would ever see him again. After being around priests who always older than fifty years of age, seeing a priest so young and dashing felt like spotting a unicorn in the forest. I thought about his lovely face, his menacing eyes, and his terrifying temper. By his skin tone, I pondered if he was Spanish or Italian or maybe even from South America. If he was sitting next to me now, I'd probably stutter my words so terribly that Esme would have to stick a sock in my mouth to spare me further embarrassment.
"Bella, you've never thought about marriage?" asked Madame Dufay.
"No, Madame," I swiftly answered.
"Et toi, Esme?"
"Oui, on occasion."
"What!" I shouted. This was news to me. Why hadn't she said anything before? My stomach turned. All this time, I had thought she was as committed and focused to becoming a nun as I was. Now, I felt uneasy.
"So why do you want to become a nun, Esme?" Madame prodded.
"I wish to serve the Lord," she answered, "but I also want to protect my little sister. She is my best friend and I love her."
Oh, no! I felt my cheeks and ears turn red as heat emanated from them. I wondered why I couldn't be as gracious and perfect as my sister. Noticing my red face, Esme turned and embraced me. I held her close, knowing we had to look out for each other in order to survive the concrete jungle of New Orleans we were about to enter.
I thought about how sheltered we had been in Leonville. We were raised with love and surrounded by those who cared for us. Moments ago on the train platform, I was almost assaulted by a redneck pervert. In the Colored section of the train, men stared at us and didn't bother to help us with our bags, which never would have happened in Leonville. I began to dread this new world we were about to enter.
"Why do the Coloreds stare at us and ignore us?" I asked.
"They're jealous that they're not us. They don't speak français and can't appreciate culture like we can," Vincent answered. "Don't bother with them; you'll be wasting your time!"
"That's what our mother taught us," Esme added.
"However, Vincent Dufay, we must look out for them. They are our brothers and sisters in Christ, too," Madame Dufay interjected. "They've had it much rougher than we have. Our destiny is tied to theirs—whether we like it or not."
"Really?" I asked. "How so?"
"Their standing is below ours," Madame Dufay said. "If their position in society rises, so will ours. No one is free until we are all free."
Maybe Madame Dufay was right and Mama was wrong? After all, we're all Coloreds in the eyes of many Whites in Louisiana—no matter how light or dark our shade. It didn't matter if you were one hundred percent Negro or one drop; we were still legally barred from doing many things. Contrary to Mama's orders, I decided I would try to make a Colored friend or two in the convent.
When the train finally arrived in New Orleans, Vincent and Jean-Paul grabbed our luggage and hauled it onto the train platform. They then called a horse-drawn buggy and insisted on paying for our fare to the convent. I scanned the platform hoping to catch a glimpse of the valiant young priest who had defended me. As he was exiting the Whites Only car, I screamed, "Father! Father! Please come! I want to thank you!"
He turned around to place the direction of the voice. When spotted me, he acted as though he had not heard or seen me. But, I know he had! He quickly climbed into an elegant carriage awaiting him, and scurried off before I could approach him.
I hoped our paths will cross again one day.
Chapter 3 Poverty, Chastity and Obedience
"Poverty, chastity and obedience," Mother Superior began in a solemn tone that echoed through the halls. "When ye hear the calling from God and choose the life a nun, ye pledge to uphold these three principles for the rest of thy ecclesiastical career, and for the rest of thy life."
She paused to give the dramatic effect she was going for, and then continued, "My name is Reverend Mother Moreau and this is my order. Ye shall not own or manage any property or wealth whilst a nun. If ye hath any possessions of great value, ye must relinquish thine goods unto me at this time."
A couple of the Creole girls surrendered small boxes full of cash and jewelry they had received from their parents and relatives. I recalled Sister Helen and Sister Grace's advice to hold onto my cigar box full of gifts, but at that moment it felt wrong to do so. I thought I was supposed to live a life of poverty. I briefly flirted with the idea of forfeiting my gifts from the sisters, but when I looked into Mother Superior's frightening eyes, I thought better of it.
Mother Superior Moreau was a hefty, middle-aged Creole of Color, about the same shade as me and a few inches taller. However, she carried herself as if she were ten feet tall. Her shoulders were broad like those of my father, and her face was pudgy and without expression. She reminded me of the photographs I had seen in the New Orleans Times-Picayune newspaper of chubby Italian gangsters.
Through the corners of my eyes, I glanced up and down the line of the ten young nuns entering the convent. We were all dark-skinned. Seven were Creoles and three were Coloreds. All the Creole girls were tall and slender with smooth skin; a few were as beautiful as Esme. Compared to the other Creole girls, my complexion, eyes, and figure did not stand out. As we stood in our elegant Sunday dresses, I once again felt like that old pair of shoes buried in the closet.
Mother Superior inhaled deeply and stared us down like a hawk. "As nuns, ye must be chaste and virtuous. During your time here, I pray ye doth not satisfy any carnal desires or even entertain such thoughts! This city of New Orleans was founded in sin, but with God's blessing and direction, it can repent and reform itself. In the Storyville section of the city, desperate women sell their precious bodies to vile packs of wolves!" Like an owl, Reverend Mother whipped her head around and stared right at me.
Why is she looking at me? I thought. I am not a hooker!
I turned my attention to the three Colored girls. I had never talked or mingled with any dark-skinned girls my age. In Leonville, I rarely saw any Coloreds unless they were older and working as servants and laborers. Two of the future nuns were short and round, while the other was very tall and so skinny I could see her bones. I wondered who they were and where they came from. Then, I remembered Mother's warning to not get close to them, but also Madame Dufay's conciliatory words about them.
"Don't adopt their bad ways and bad habits," Mother liked to say.
Mother was rarely wrong, but I believed in the goodness of all people no matter what color, shade, or creed they were. I even believed in the goodness of that no-good, White train conductor who propositioned me. And I especially believed in the goodness of the young priest who stood up for me but nearly strangled the conductor in the process. Was he stationed at a neighboring parish in New Orleans or visiting from far away? Would I ever see him again? Those questions had burned in my mind since the first time ever I saw his face. If only he stopped and chatted with me after the train ride. Maybe I was too forward and direct?
"Lastly, as nuns, ye must obey the rules of the order. Mine rules. If ye canst follow mine rules, get thee out and be on thy way!" Mother Superior thundered.
No one dared to move. "We are here to serve God, this parish, and this fallen city called New Orleans," she went on. "These are indeed difficult times for the Crescent City, the United States, and the world. Half a world away, a war on a scale none hath ever seen rages on in Europe. Lifeless bodies of young men lie on fields as far as the eye can see. America has just entered the war, and hopefully, it will be concluding shortly. More and more immigrants and country folks are crowding into our cities desperate for work—and work is scarce. Crime bosses and Mafiosi run wild on our streets, and the lawmen in charge of stopping them hunger more for bribes than they do for justice. These are indeed ripe times for the devil to work his magic! It closely resembles the end times as prophesized by Saint John in the book of Revelations."
The more she spoke, the more Reverend Mother's pudgy face grew dimmer and sterner. With each step she took, the hardwood floors underneath her feet creaked in agony. I wondered how long it had been since she last smiled or laughed. Probably decades, I decided. Then I wondered if I might transform into her if I stayed in the convent long enough, or once I became a Reverend Mother. The thought sent a chill down my spine.
"Ye art all postulants now," she said, pulling me from my thoughts. "The postulant period lasts two years. Upon successful completion of thy coursework, ye shall become novices, which lasts another year. After the novice period, ye will take thy final vows and become full-fledged nuns."
"We are not a cloistered convent, for we are not shut off from the rest of the world. We are a part of New Orleans, and we will spend a few hours each day in prayer and contemplation. This first thing we do every day is morning chores, starting at five o'clock. After that, we will pray for an hour, and then we shall have breakfast together. After breakfast, ye shall attend courses to be taught by our beloved pastor, Father Carlisle. Ye shall study the Liturgy, Latin, Church doctrine, and history."
"Will we also study literature and science?" I blurted out eagerly.
Esme whipped her head towards me, looked at me caustically, and raised her right index finger to her lips.
Sorry, Esme, I could not help myself.
"Of course not, ye little fool, Bella!" Mother Superior scolded. "We do not have time for such trivial matters like reading lusty novels and alchemy hocus pocus. Such study is dangerous for thy spiritual health and contrary to our mission of serving God and the needy of this community. Now, if there are no more idiotic questions or pointless interruptions, Sister Marie will hand out thy habits, wimples, veils, scapulas, stockings and shoes."
I raised my hand to ask Reverend Mother a question about our habits, but she refused to acknowledge me. Instead, she called upon another Creole girl, Rosalie, who smirked at me.
"Will I have to share a room with Bella?" asked Rosalie. "I really don't want to board with someone like her who can ruin my spiritual health with all her nonsense."
"Good question, Rosalie," Mother Superior said. "I would not want to board with her either."
Most of the Creole girls smiled in agreement.
"Why don't you go jump into Lake Pontchartrain, you little wench?" I whispered under my breath.
Mother Superior narrowed her eyes at me. "Dost thou sayeth something, Bella?"
"No, Mother Superior. I said not a word." Oh, heavens! I had already lied on the first day as a nun.
"Yes, she did!" said Alice, one of Rosalie's sidekicks.
At that moment, an elderly yet handsome priest entered the room followed by a much younger one. The older man smiled gleefully. Finally, a friendly face! His shirt and pants were wrinkled, and his hair was messy. He was White, and short in stature with a little pot belly.
"Father Carlisle," Mother Superior gushed, her sour face instantly transforming from a scowl into a loving visage of warmth. "You do us a great honor."
"Bonsoir, mes soeurs," he said warmly.
"Bonsoir, Père," we replied in unison.
"I cannot wait to begin instructing y'all," he said. "You have chosen the highest calling, and may God be with y'all."
He turned to introduce the young priest who had followed him into the room. Although the young man was lean, his shoulders were square and he stood a foot taller than his superior. He swaggered elegantly like an aristocrat at a cotillion, but kept his head down as if he were brooding. His smooth, auburn hair hovered above his shoulders, while a scant stubble decorated his chiseled face and granite jaw. Above his tall nose lurked a pair of dark, mysterious eyes.
Oh, my God! It was the priest from the train station who defended my honor against the lecherous train conductor! I squirmed in my seat, unable to believe he was right there in front of me.
"C'est Père Edward Beauchene," Father Carlisle said. "He is one of the finest and most intelligent priests you will find anywhere in the New World. Do not let his youthful looks fool you. He is a native son of the Bayou, but he attended a Swiss boarding school before being trained as priest at the most prestigious seminaries in France and Italy. He just served a four-year mission in France as a priest and school master."
I tried not to look at him, but all the other Creole girls fawned over him. Esme tried standing like a stone, but I could tell that she was wiggling on the inside as well. I spotted Rosalie and Alice licking their lips and winking at him. How dare they? I saw him first, you bunch of whores!
He raised his head briefly and quickly bowed it again. He kept his deep-set eyes pointed at the floor. Suddenly, he looked at me and our eyes collided for a split second.
"Bonsoir, Père," I whispered. Oops, I did it again! Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut?
He regarded me with what seemed to be disdain, and then scampered out of the room. Had he forgotten me already? But we just barely met this afternoon. I took heavy and deep breaths as I wondered what it would be like to stroke his lovely face with my fingers. Is he a good hugger and kisser? I wondered. Then I scolded myself. Stop it, Bella! Stop it with all these treacherous, sinful thoughts! Funny, I had never fostered such lustful thoughts and fantasies in Leonville.
"Before ye retire to thy quarters for the evening, may I remind ye about thine vows to poverty, obedience," Mother Superior said, and then turned towards me, "and chastity."
Chapter 4 Day One
"Réveillez-vous!" Sister Marie shouted from the hallway. "It's four o'clock. Rise and shine. It's time to wake up and begin your chores, postulants."
I writhed on my rock-hard mattress as Esme shook me like a nearly empty saltshaker. I struggled to open my eyes and my limbs were still too stiff for me for me to bend. Thankfully, Esme was my assigned roommate. If any of the other girls saw me in this catatonic state, they would no doubt laugh at me rather than assist me.
"Bella, will you wake up and get dressed, ma chérie?" Esme begged.
The ringing of the bell finally stung me into action. I opened my eyes and saw Esme already draped in her habit. Her veil covered all of her gorgeous hair, while her loose habit obscured her slender curves. I focused my eyes on her and saw a woman I barely recognized. In her ill-fitting outfit she looked ten years older and about twenty pounds heavier. I shuddered at the thought of how I would look in my habit.
"Bella, you look like you've just seen a ghost!"
"Is that you, Esme?" I asked.
"Of course, it's me, silly goose," she said through laughter. "Hurry and make your bed before we're late."
After I made my bed, I splashed some cold water on my face and brushed my hair. I stared at my black wool uniform, and dreaded how I was going to appear in it. Panic seized me.
"I'm going to look like a fat Creole witch in it," I gasped.
"Will you hurry and get dressed, Bella? You only have ten minutes!"
"Oui!" I replied.
I slid my arms into the sleeves and threw the rest of the habit over my body. I had hoped it would fit a little tighter than Esme's, but mine was even larger than hers. The sleeves extended to my knuckles and the bottom plopped onto the floor. While dressed in this horrid habit, I looked like I could be Mama's older sister. I could have been nine months pregnant in this miserable frock, and nobody would have noticed.
"Bushwa!" I moaned.
"Bella, watch your language!" Esme snapped.
"I don't look too keen in my new threads, do I?" I asked.
"We're not here to model," she said. "We're here to serve the Lord."
Esme was always right. I tied my sash around my waist, improving matters only slightly. Esme helped me with my veil and wimple, and then taught me how to do it myself. She could always figure out everything.
"Are you nervous, Esme?"
"Not really," she said. "Are you?"
I couldn't lie to my best friend and sister. "Yes!" I said.
She gave me a look of confusion. "But, you've wanted this your whole life," she countered.
She was right, of course. My stomach was in knots, even though I should have been as calm as a lake. Nothing ever came easy for me. It was the first day of the rest of my life—a chance for a new beginning as a postulant after last night's faux pas with Reverend Mother.
We walked outside our dorm room and saw everyone already dressed in black and lined up, waiting for Mother Superior to appear. I noticed Rosalie and her sidekicks, Alice and Mireille, looking quite elegant in their habits, as if a tailor had magically appeared in the middle of the night and hemmed their garments to fit them perfectly. Even the material of their outfits seemed finer and lighter than ours, so it seemed they were wearing fine silk and we were wearing cheap wool. I longed to look as stunning and bourgeois as they did, but instead I felt frumpy and common.
"Look at you, Bella. I've never seen an ox in a habit and veil before!" Rosalie cracked. All the other Creole girls roared with laughter.
"Eat it, you Dumb Dora!" I wanted to royally insult her, but she was prettier, wealthier and better dressed than I was.
"Harsh words coming from a Country Jane like yourself, Bella," added Alice.
"Better a Country Jane than a floozy from the city!" I shouted back.
All the girls gasped, unable to believe what I had said. Even I couldn't believe I said it!
"Now," Esme said and stamped her foot, "that's enough!" Just like in Leonville, whenever Esme spoke, everybody listened and followed. "This is a convent—not a beauty pageant. Either we all work together, or we quit now and go back to our families."
Just then, we heard those already familiar heavy steps echoing from the stairwell. Silence immediately fell upon us as we waited for our mistress to appear. She made her way in front of us and I felt like a convict awaiting a sentence from a judge. Reverend Mother cast her intense stare upon everyone, though seeming to take a special interest in me.
"Ye shall commence the day with morning chores," she said. "Esme and Mireille shall launder the habits of our older sisters at the neighboring parish. Thelma, Gladys, and Agnes shall prepare breakfast. Zoe and Chantal shall clean the hallway and bathroom. Bella, Rosalie, and Alice shall clean the chapel. We shall convene outside the chapel at six o'clock for morning prayers. All the necessary cleaning supplies are in the closet. Here are the instructions on how to properly clean everything. Be on thy way."
Drat! I was stuck with those two unlikable pills. And just how was I going to clean the chapel? I had enough problems keeping my own bedroom clean back home. Mama often called my room a pigsty and frequently complained about how I incorrectly swept, mopped and dusted. All right, Mère, I am in the order now, and I will take my time and do a thorough job of cleaning.
Before the three of us sauntered to the chapel with our brooms, dusters, rags and dustpans, Mother Superior handed me the key to the chapel. My hand quivered as I received it and slipped it into my pocket, wondering why she gave it to me.
"Do not lose this key," she instructed, seemingly staring into my soul. "It is the master key that opens every door on the church grounds."
When we arrived at the chapel, I opened the front door and we entered. Rosalie's insults still stung me, but as the Lord had said, "let us turn the other cheek." And so I did.
"Bella, you're from the countryside, aren't you?" asked Rosalie politely.
Great! She was finally making nice with me. Now, we could put our rocky start behind us and become friends.
"Yes," I answered. "I am from a small Creole community called Leonville, about half a day's journey away."
Alice laughed. "That explains it," she said.
"Explains what?" I asked.
"Why you're such a country bumpkin!" said Rosalie.
The two clowns giggled at my expense like a pair of five-year-olds. My face reddened and my eyes narrowed as I gripped my broom until my knuckles turned white. I was too tired to respond in our battle of verbal jabs, and I was determined to be kind and humble, so I said nothing.
"So, what do you think of Father Edward, Bella?" Rosalie asked.
I remained silent and continued sweeping. I closed my eyes and thought of his chiseled face, deep-set eyes, and flowing hair. I felt him holding me close and breathing heavily on my neck. I opened my eyes and whipped my head back sharply in order to cease these impure thoughts.
"Bonjour, Bella!" Alice shouted, snapping me out of my daydream. "Earth to Bella. Rosalie asked you a question."
"What was the question?" I asked, playing dumb, which made them giggle even more.
"What do you think of Father Edward?" Rosalie asked again.
"He seems very nice and," I paused, desperately searching for words that would show I was apathetic about him, and finally mumbled, "intelligent. And, um, I look forward to working with him."
It must have taken me an hour to eke out those two pathetic fragments.
"Liar, liar, your habit's on fire!" Rosalie squealed with glee.
"What?" I asked, playing dumb again.
"You're in love with him, aren't you?" Alice said while laughing.
"I am not!" I hollered back.
Rosalie continued to laugh and said, "Oui, oui mademoiselle. You're carrying a torch for him."
"I am a postulant," I protested, "and I have taken a vow of celibacy. I am not a hussy!"
"Relax, I'm sure we're all carrying torches for him," said Alice.
"May the best women win," Rosalie added. "Let it be me!"
I lowered my voice. "You'll never win," I promised her.
"Yes, but I suspect Bella's crush is much deeper," Rosalie said. "He seems a little hard boiled, don't you think?"
"This is not a proper manner for young postulant nuns to be talking in, especially about a clergyman," I said, seething. I wanted the conversation over.
"Relax, Bella," Rosalie said. "Stop being such a killjoy."
Alice chimed in, "Calm down, we're just razzing you."
"Why do your habits look so much nicer than mine?" I asked, hoping we would move on from talking about Father Edward.
"Our habits were tailored for us weeks ago by Pierre Bonhomme, the finest Creole tailor in New Orleans," Alice said.
"He uses the finest Egyptian cotton," she said, holding her head high. "Not the cheap domestic wool you're wearing."
"Well, my family can't afford a personal tailor," I protested.
"Have you ever kissed a boy before, Bella?" Alice asked, suddenly changing subjects.
"Of course, not," I answered truthfully. "Have you?"
"Only about six boys, that's all," Alice said.
"What?" I was shocked. "And you, Rosalie?"
She shrugged with an air of apathy. "At least nine," she said, "maybe ten. After a while I lost count. Any marriage proposals, Bella?"
"No."
"I bet Esme receives all the marriage proposals," said Rosalie. "She is gorgeous, keen and tight. Like us!"
The truthfulness of her words felt like a hard fist slamming into my gut. Visions of Esme's countless suitors showing up on Mama's front porch flooded my mind. There was Sebastian the banker, Remy the son of a textile factory owner, Adelbert the opera singer, Denis the aspiring politician, and numerous others.
"Have you received marriage proposals?" I asked Rosalie.
"Of course," she said cooly. "I had about seven during the week before I came here. A few came from older gentlemen who were widowers. My family is rich, so I don't need a Sugar Daddy-o!"
I wondered why the conversation was so important to me when I had no interest in ever getting married. My heartbeat quickened.
"Haven't you ever wanted to kiss a handsome sheik?" Rosalie asked.
"No." I said, confident it was the truth. All my life, I was never interested in hugging, kissing or holding hands with a man—no matter how handsome or dapper he was. All I ever wanted was to serve the Lord, read my books, pass the time with Mama, and play with my cat.
I gripped my broomstick tighter. "I think we should finish our duties before Mother Superior appears and discovers we have been yapping all this time instead of cleaning," I suggested.
"Very well, suit yourself," said Rosalie.
"Whatever you say," Alice added.
I had finished sweeping the entire chapel, but the two silly birds took their time wiping down the altar, so I sat in a pew to wait. I eyed the stone gargoyles and griffins staring down at me. On the stained glass windows, I studied the different images of Holy Week from the Crucifixion of Jesus to the Resurrection. Then, I gazed at the image of Virgin Mary holding her dead son.
Our chapel in Leonville seemed like an outhouse compared to this grand house of worship. My head bobbed while my eyelids became heavier and heavier; my body tired from the work and only five hours of sleep. I strained to keep them open, but then I saw Father Edward standing behind the pulpit in his exquisite priest's frock. He had been watching me. He then approached me, stood me up, placed his hands on my side, and nibbled my neck.
I tried telling him to stop, but I am unable to speak. No words or even sounds came from my mouth no matter how hard I tried. I tried repelling him but when I pushed him with all my might, but my arms went limp.
Bang, bang, bang! I woke up at the sound of somebody's heavy palm slamming against the wooden door of the chapel. I looked around and saw no trace of my cleaning partners. Where were they?
"Bella, art thou still in there?" Mother Superior hollered. "We're outside waiting for thy presence so we can commence our morning prayers! Hurry up and get thee out here, now!"
Oh, no! I had fallen asleep and those two wenches had left without awakening me. Curse them!
I ran to open the door, emerged, and quickly joined everyone else in line. The other postulants stared at the ground, except for Rosalie and Alice who smirked at me. Esme's face was layered with sad disappointment over my latest gaffe.
Mother Superior glared at me. "I'll deal with thee later."
I was sure my first day as a nun couldn't get any worse.
Chapter 5 Fourth of July Fireworks
"Bella, thou art not really praying! Bella, thou must do a better job wiping down the altar! Bella, tie thy sash tighter; thou looketh like a Creole Statue of Liberty!"
My first month as a nun went as smoothly as riding on a country dirt road after a rainstorm. Mother Superior had christened me her favorite whipping girl; an ignoble honor for which I unfortunately had no competition. I had let down Mama, the sisters, Esme, and most importantly, God. However, I refused to quit. Quitting was simply not an option for me, as becoming a nun was still my destiny. Besides, how would I ever be able to face Mama and the sisters again?
I'm sure Reverend Mother prayed that I would either quit the order or get struck by a bolt of lightning. Esme encouraged me to improve my behavior and to keep my mouth shut. With the exception of my sister, only Rosalie and her clique wanted me to stay in the order so they could always have somebody to insult.
The Fourth of July fell on a Saturday, and the night started off quietly as I lay in bed rubbing the beads of my rosary, chanting fifty Hail Mary's. After half an hour of prayer, I could no longer focus, even though I wanted to continue praying. Then, I tried forcing myself to sleep, and I couldn't even do that. I looked across to Esme, who lay asleep peacefully. On average, it seemed to take her five seconds to fall asleep every night. And, once asleep, not even a bomb could awaken her. All my life I had tried emulating her, and all my life I had always fallen short.
I decided to finally dig out the cigar box Sister Helen and Sister Grace had given me. I pulled it out from underneath my bed and opened it. I scoured through it and uncovered a pair of scissors, a needle, and spools of thread. God bless the sisters! I snatched my habit, tightened it around my waist, and hemmed the sleeves and length of it. The update made me look more like a nun and less like a ghost floating through the air.
"Blessed Virgin, grant me the strength and wisdom to succeed as a nun," I prayed. "Please bless Père et Mère, Sisters Helen and Grace, and Esme."
And then, the ruckus started. From my window, I heard revelers prancing up and down the French Quarter and Bourbon Street. The whole city, except for us postulant nuns, was celebrating our nation's birthday. Ships in the harbor fired pyrotechnic blasts that sent rivers of rainbow-colored light streaming across the sky.
A little later, I heard glass bottles of rum, whiskey and gin crash onto the streets and pavement as drunks tossed their bottles into the air and at each other, but failed to catch them. By the bushes, different zozzled men upchucked onto the ground whatever dirty, homemade spirits they had guzzled. Ridiculous women bickered over who wore the sassiest dress and largest hat, and whose jewelry shined the brightest. Men bickered over which dame to dance with, and which doll belonged to whom.
Of all the sounds that flowed out of the French Quarter that night, only the sweet sound of jazz pleasured my ears. The bass bobbed up and down, making my feet tap along. A wild trumpet clashed violently with his gentler brother, the saxophone. Their father, the trombone, tried to mediate between them. The three horns combined to blare out a sweet melody that gave partygoers something glorious to dance to. The drummer, meanwhile, kept everyone in line with his steady beat.
"Les bontemps roulez!" the crowd cheered. "Let the good times roll!"
In the distance, I saw the silhouette of a well-dressed man topped with a fedora. He stood next to an elegant young dame who wore her hair short and her skirt just the same, which fell at her knees. Scandalous! I wondered if she was one of those "flappers" I had read about in the newspaper. More and more young flocked to the city to work and take the place of all the young men leaving for the war. Some dressed inappropriately and sought out pleasures of the flesh.
"Bella, avoid such troublemakers and lowlife harlots!" Mama had warned me.
That particular dame danced wildly in front of the man and then placed her hands all over him. They made a keen couple. Soon, the flapper pulled her dapper young lion towards her and began necking him. Shameful! They were committing sin in public without anyone paying them any mind. Somebody should have scolded them!
I jerked my head away, not wanting to witness any more of the sinful hedonism. But then, something inside forced me to turn my head back and see what they would do next.
The hussy unbuttoned her paramour's shirt and felt his body up. I gasped. The more I watched, the heavier my breaths became. I could not believe it was happening in front of my eyes. Nothing like this would have ever occurred in Leonville. The young man drifted his hands onto her breasts as drunken party revelers continued to stream by.
I could no longer handle it. I jumped back into bed and shut my eyes. Before arriving in New Orleans, I had never longed for the touch of a man. Of our three vows, chastity had initially seemed much easier than poverty and obedience. All my life, I had only wanted to be a bride of Christ. I wanted to obey his commandments and be an example for other young women. Engaging in wanton, carnal activities like the two moral degenerates on the street violated God's commandments. Sexual intercourse was for the sole purpose of procreation. After all, God said unto Adam: "Be fruitful and increase in number and fill the earth."
A part of me wished I was still in Leonville. At least there I never fostered any impure thoughts, nor was I surrounded by such lust and sin. I knew better than to succumb to such temptation, for I did not want God to turn me into a pillar of salt like he did to Lot's wife after she turned around and gazed back at Sodom and Gomorrah.
"Oh!" I heard a male voice cry out in the night.
Who was that? A couple of the girls like Gladys and Thelma had deep, husky voices, but that had definitely been a man's voice. Where had it come from?
"Let me be!" he shouted. "Do not harm me anymore!"
I rose to my feet and peered out the window. I did not see anyone on the streets. I turned to Esme, hoping she heard the voice as well.
"Esme, somebody is crying for help. Did you hear it? What should I do?"
As usual, she was in such a deep slumber that not even a passing freight train would have awakened her. She continued to snooze despite me shaking her several times.
I opened the bedroom door to see if I could find the source of the misery. I crept up and down the hallway and didn't hear anything. It was so dark I could barely see past my button nose. Maybe Rosalie was playing a trick on me?
"Please don't shoot!" I heard him yell. "I surrender!"
That time I was sure the voice came from somewhere near the rectory where the priests resided. That weekend, Father Carlisle had been away on holiday at another parish. It had to be Father Edward who was crying for help!
"Ah! I can't take it anymore!" the voice cried.
Was Father Edward in danger? He sounded like he needed help. I grabbed a broomstick, my candle lamp, and the church master key Mother Superior had given me. I sprinted across the courtyard and headed straight for the rectory. Fireworks continued to explode and pop in the distance. Boom! Boom! Boom! Celebrants cheered and shouted with each detonation of pyrotechnics that decorated the night sky. The din pounded my brain.
I unlocked and opened the front door of the rectory and heard Father Edward moaning. A black cat crossed in front of me and shuffled down the hallway towards his room. He must be under attack from robbers or hoodlums! How in God's name was I—a feeble, petite girl—going to fight off an intruder the heroic and mighty Father Edward could not stave off himself?
I didn't want to enter the priests' quarters, but I had no choice. What else was I going to do: leave him to the mercy of miscreants? Maybe I could scare off the hoodlums without having to actually fight them, thus, giving us time to escape.
As I trotted down the hallway towards his room, I gripped my broomstick like Babe Ruth clutching a baseball bat, ready to swing at the head of any intruder. Father Edward's door was slightly ajar, so I tapped it with my broomstick to open it further. I tried breathing slowly but it became labored. I could hear only the rustling of bed sheets, and pillows slamming against the walls and floor. All my limbs quivered violently as I wiggled the broomstick around in my trembling hands.
"Help!" he cried again.
With my broomstick raised high above my head, I burst into his room, ready to decapitate the attackers. But there were no attackers! In fact, the young priest was by himself tossing and turning in his bed. I ran to his window and scanned the courtyard but saw no sign of intruders scrambling outside. The poor thing must have had a nightmare.
"Oh, God, please don't let me die," he said, his eyes closed.
With the bright light of the full moon streaming in through his window, I was able to locate a washcloth. I rinsed it in a bowl of cold water and sat down next to him. I gently dabbed his forehead, cheeks, and neck—all covered in sweat. As I wiped his chiseled face dry, he began breathing easier and slower. I unbuttoned his pajama top and wiped down his moist chest and stomach. I could not believe how lean and muscular his chassis was, just like the statue of David. As I glided the damp cloth along the ridges of his body, he tenderly caressed my arms with his fingertips. It was my turn to moan!
With his eyes still shut, I studied his face. It was my real first chance to really take a long, hard look at him. He finally ceased wiggling and fidgeting. By then the fireworks and canon blasts had finally subsided. If only I had a camera, I would have taken a photograph to help me remember him. Sitting so close to him, I could feel the warmth of his body radiating onto me; I wanted this moment to last forever. Then, I thought of Mother Superior and my vow of chastity.
Let's blouse, I thought.
I had to scram before Mother Superior stormed in and discovered me, for she would surely expel me from the order. But, something compelled me to stay and take care of the poor soul who seemed to be in such turmoil. I sat on the edge of his bed and planted my left hand by his waist to support myself from falling onto him.
"Calmez-vous, Père," I whispered. "Stay calm. I am here and I will take care of you."
"Merci, mademoiselle," he whispered back.
"God, please have mercy on this troubled soul who needs your love right now," I prayed. Whenever I didn't know what else to do, I prayed. "Please guide him away from whatever pain or torment that is causing this nightmare. Bless him, Father, for he is one of your flock. Amen."
Suddenly, Father Edward turned his body onto my hand, trapping it. His loins ensnared my hand and the weight of his rock hard bulge was crushing it. I needed to free my hand immediately, less I commit a sin of the flesh! I struggled, but I couldn't dislodge my hand no matter how hard I tried.
His manhood felt so heavy in my tiny hand and was double the width of it. I needed to free my hand and scram, but I was stuck! Then, it hit me—I had to try something drastic. I squeezed his pizzle with all my might, hoping he would ease off my hand. He groaned loudly and turned onto his back. Thank God. With my hand finally free, I pulled it back as he lay there peacefully.
"What have I done?" I shrieked. "I have sinned!"
I had never touched a man intimately, and I was sure I had violated my oath of chastity. I ran to the sink and washed my hand repeatedly in the water basin. How stupid had I been? I needed to flee his room before the devil tempted me into committing more sins.
Down the hall, I heard the hurried footsteps of a large person fast approaching. Tap, tap, tap. Oh, heavens! Mother Superior was coming! My only escape route was climbing through Father Edward's open window. As she neared, I crawled out the first story window into the rose garden. Before I dashed back towards the nun's quarters, I turned around and stared through the window. I should have already been sprinting to my room but instead, I gazed one last time at Father Edward, admiring his shirtless body as he lay peacefully on his bed. While clutching my brass candle holder, broomstick, and master key, I scrambled back to my bedroom just as Mother Superior entered his room.
Thank you for reading Sins of the Sister: Genesis. The complete novel is available on the Amazon Kindle Books, Smashwords, and eventually, Barnes & Noble Nook. Please like me, Elle Doan, on Facebook, and visit the Sins of the Sister Facebook page to leave a comment and receive the latest news on upcoming novels. At the end of the summer, I will be publishing my second romance novel called Yoga Mom.