Title: ANDANTE MA CON FUOCO (Slowly But With Fire)
Author:
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needled_ink_1975Fandom: Doubt (film)
Pairing: Sister James/Sister Aloysius
Rating: M/NC-17
Warnings: None
Word count: This is a series of vignettes, each with an individual word count
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to John Patrick Shanley. This is a work of fanfiction for the purposes of not-for-profit entertainment, and as such constitutes fair use.
A/N: I'm not Catholic, and if I've misinterpreted my research, kindly forgive me.
Title: Redefined (Prologue)
Word count: 371
"What would God say?"
"If I knew that," Aloysius drawls. "I'm sure I'd be a priest, not a nun."
Remarks like these are common and yet they continue to startle Sister James, even though not much should startle her by now. Sister Aloysius shifts on the small bed meant only for one. They make do with little all the time, and so it makes sense to them both that they don't mind only just enough room here. Sister James asks the question again, softly. They are nose-to-nose in the dark, but the moon is climbing higher and the curtains are not drawn at the window. They like to lie a space and look at the stars. The curtains stand back, also, in a gesture to God: they are not hiding from Him.
"Do you love me?" Aloysius whispers.
"Yes, very much," James says solemnly.
"And I love you so. And God, too. Just as I honor Him daily, I honor you. Let God say what He will; what else can He say, but that love is good—"
"And God is love," James remembers, reminds herself.
"Yes. Sleep." Sister Aloysius kisses Sister James tenderly, with the greatest care and respect. The moonlight creeps in more and more, and the silver of it shows Sister Aloysius that Sister James is almost asleep. She sweeps long gingery-brown hair off Sister James's milky white shoulder, and draws up the covers.
All of this had an accidental beginning– just a collision in a hallway, and a sort of grappling as each helped the other not to fall. Sister Aloysius allowed Sister James to turn it into a hug; only a hug. One hug multiplied into many, over weeks and months, and then they found themselves to be kissing. There has always been a simplicity and a guilelessness to it all: kisses and caresses, mouths and hands, and bodies. There is no taking, only giving and accepting and giving back again. Sister Aloysius, who was married once, knows the difference, but she didn't before she and Sister James found their way together.
Sex had once been fun. Now sex is a consecration, truly, and the term "making love" now has proper meaning for Sister Aloysius.
Title: Clinch
Word count: 424
A/N: The Latin quote is from the Lord's Prayer, "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors" – the literal translation. More commonly it is said, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."
She cannot think why she took the gloves to her room yesterday, after work in the garden. Her rubber boots and heavy apron– downstairs; the gloves– there, on the seat of her desk chair. It is summer and while children play, adults don't, mostly. The clear sky will not last today, and if she hopes to rid the last fifth of the vegetable patch of weeds, she must get on with it. Sister Aloysius snatches up the gloves.
Sister James is likewise in a hurry. The skirt of her habit is drenched, as are her stockings and shoes. If she gets her hands on that plumber—Dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Yes, Lord– forgive the plumber's bad job, and also Sister James's almost-wicked thought. She might have to confess this one. Right now her shoes squelch but the sound isn't half as bad as the feel of it. Sister James grimaces and looks down to aid a better grip on her skirt.
They collide, and heavily. Sister James's wet canvass sneakers slide and a strong hand comes, almost in slow motion, towards her. She is falling, and then she is not: the hand has her by the back of an elbow, and another has unceremoniously gotten a grip on the front of her habit. It might be a bar brawl, Sister Aloysius thinks, relating her grip to one readying a victim for a punch. Abruptly, this is funny. She laughs– a bark like a fox's, and she pulls and minds her own balance. Sister James flings her free arm out in search of solidity, and it curls around Sister Aloysius's neck. She is laughing, almost giggling, and Sister Aloysius might push her away, but she doesn't. She cannot bring herself to do it. It is a silly, awkward hug, with bonnets in the way, and a saturated habit, too, and Sister Aloysius's fist between them, holding on.
"So I deserve a hug– many would say no," Aloysius says dryly.
"I hold your hands in prayer," James says, as if this explains everything.
Sister Aloysius suspects that, for Sister James, such a simple statement, spoken with such honest caring, does indeed explain it all. They step apart and it isn't awkward. Sister James looks down and twitches at sodden gabardine.
"The far end faucet, the one the plumber replaced, came right off. We will have to water that end of the garden by watering can."
"No. Not for now," Aloysius says. "It's going to rain– God's going to water it for us."
Title: Vacillation
Word count: 432
A/N: Simply put, Vatican II amounted to a lot of changes in an effort to sort of make the Roman Catholic Church more 'user-friendly' towards parishioners (church-goers) and towards the clergy, various orders of nuns and sisters, and the lay-ministry. Nearly all service orders of women who were not cloistered (living in isolation from general society) were ordered to "quit the habit" and don regular clothes. They were not given a choice, and one can only imagine that for women who had worn that habit for twenty and more years, the entire idea had to have been at least a little frightening, as the habit itself is very much an identity. On the whole, Vatican II set out to make the Roman Catholic Church less of "an island unto itself," and words like "renewal" and "modernization" were used a lot. And "Sorry" was said a lot, too.
The changes to be brought about by Vatican II are troublesome to Sister Aloysius, but she knows that they may well bring more women into the Order. Sister James is a rarity– a young one. More often novitiates are in their mid to late thirties and come to the Order by way of tragedy. Sister Aloysius is a widow. It takes some effort to remember her given name, the one she was christened with. Margaret– Maggie or Madge to the people she hardly knew, but those once close to her, like her late husband, had called her Kate (her second name is Katherine). She doesn't know any of those people anymore, and he is gone. When the changes are implemented she will stick with Margaret; Sister Margaret Reilly.
"I've never asked your given name," Aloysius remarks to Sister James. They are topping and tailing French beans, and they will move on from those to peeling potatoes.
"Sarah," James says. "Sarah Carter. But I really like James."
"What they gave they now take away," Aloysius grunts. "Men can never make up their minds."
Sister James thinks that she will never get used to Sister Aloysius's disdain for the clergy, and more accurately, considering the vein of discussion, her disdain of the Holy Fathers in Rome– good gracious! Sister James imagines that Sister Aloysius might argue with the Pope himself, and the trouble is, she will probably win: the poor Pope is no match for Sister Aloysius, Sister James is sure. She's become used to the idea of Father Flynn's ejection at Sister Aloysius's hands. Sister James prefers simplicity but is possessed of an agile mind, one which questions and ponders and analyzes. Her analysis is, Sister Aloysius lied, but Father Flynn is guilty of a lot more than lies. Sister James gave him a hard stare three weeks ago; Father Flynn did not cross the street.
"But," Sister James says. "His holiness and the Vatican Council are trying to—"
"Yes– trying to fix the rules some other men made," Aloysius mutters. "Do they give us any choice, any options? No. None. Typical."
"We'll have fewer rules," James says under her breath. "That has to be good– they enforce the rules."
"Now see– that wasn't so hard, was it?" Aloysius says, eyes twinkling with mischief.
Sister James purses her lips and glares at Sister Aloysius, who internalizes a chuckle: she's a bad influence, in a good way.
"I don't think, really, that it's them against us," James says.
"It is," Aloysius says sadly. "It always is. You said it: they make the rules."
Title: Ritual
Word count: 405
A/N: The 'Offices' of prayer (times said, which prayers, et cetera) were changed after Vatican II. Cloistered orders of nuns and monks adhere strictly to highly ritualized prayer attendances and recitations, which are nearly always 'led' by a senior member of the order. It is important to note here that the Sisters of Charity were not and are not a cloistered order, and they are, in fact, not officially termed 'nuns'; they are called 'religious sisters.' Technically a nun is one who takes her vows once, for all her life, and she lives that life in seclusion, in prayer and meditation, and—sometimes—study– and that's the simple definition. The Sisters of Charity take very simple vows; they renew them every year, and they are free not to renew those vows, free to leave the order, actually, at any time, without questions asked, without reasons given.
No-one leads the Matins and Lauds prayers. The sisters rise at three a.m and at dawn for these two sessions which are held in the privacy of their chapel (originally the upstairs parlor on the first floor of this old house).
Sister James is already stationed at one of the six pews in two rows. Sister Aloysius descends to the kneeler beside the younger woman. Their shoulders and hips touch and brush, and presently their upper arms press together. Each kneels straight-backed, her hands clasped on the back of the pew in front, her fingers laced. Elsewhere there is the clicking of rosary beads, and some of the sisters are softly murmuring their prayers; overall there is peace.
Each sister keeps to her own routine during Matins and Lauds. Sister James loves Latin and mentally recites the Pater Noster (Lord's Prayer) to start, then the Symbolum Apostolorum (Apostle's Creed), the Spero Te (Act of Hope), the Regina Caeli (Queen of Heaven), Ave Maria, and she finishes with the Pater Noster again. She knows that Sister Aloysius prays to St. Michael the Archangel, a lot. The standard offering requests the Archangel to "aid us in battle" and it basically asks St. Michael to do some smiting, on our behalf. On Aloysius's behalf. And maybe she'd join him if she could. Sister James always finishes her prayers before Sister Aloysius, who favors the Benedictus Deus (Divine Praises) to end, which is a lot longer in Latin than in English. Sister James doesn't move. Usually they are the only two left in the chapel.
At last, Sister Aloysius crosses herself and rises from the kneeler. Sister James gets to her feet as well, and they make obeisance to the small altar and crucifix together. Then follows Sister Aloysius's usual explosive exhalation, and a deep breath in, and a covered yawn. Sister James smiles fondly at a pair of grey eyes which are abruptly sleepy again. It's almost as if Sister Aloysius has a post-Matins switch that readies her at once for another couple hours sleep. Aloysius smiles crookedly back, then fumbles and finds a small hand.
It is quiet, and their slippered feet make almost no noise as they walk hand-in-hand. Sister Aloysius's door comes first, and here is their small custom– a hug, and Sister Aloysius then stands and watches Sister James to her door.
They have begun to take longer to look away.
Title: Ambiguity
Word count: 388
A priest from another diocese is visiting at the rectory tonight. When the wind shifts it brings the sounds of over-loud conversation and laughter. Sister Aloysius mutters about "Men!" and also about "little boys" and how they are often one and the same. Except that little boys don't usually get drunk. The men next door will just confess the sin to each other and do it all again next time– the confession, too.
"Where's the contrition in that?" Aloysius spits.
At times like these Sister James struggles with anger. Actually, it's more like righteous indignation, which means that she needn't struggle: Jesus probably wasn't one bit sorry for whipping the tax collectors out of the Temple. Jesus wasn't a woman. Jesus didn't have to answer to the men of the clergy. Sister James tries not to, but she thinks of the Monsignor, and she knows he is as guilty as the four men in the rectory tonight. Even His Holiness the Pope—no. But yes, when he was younger. Even he.
Sister James wants very much to think of something else. She and Sister Aloysius are seated at the desk in the older woman's room– Sister James on a stool. She pats Sister Aloysius's hand, which turns over and catches and holds Sister James's, and presently they return to their discussion of aspects of the eighth grade syllabus. They move on to debate rather playfully whether Sister Aloysius's smoking habit is sinful. It's not a sin mentioned in the Bible.
"Neither is... Neither is driving drunk," James giggles.
"I'm sure there was some ancient law against inebriated handling of a cart," Aloysius drawls. When Sister James laughs (keeping it quiet: it's late), Sister Aloysius smiles indulgently. She is seated in the desk chair and Sister James is sprawled on her side on the bed. All this fun, and not so much as a drop of wine, Sister Aloysius thinks. She lights another cigarette. Sister James reaches over and plucks it from her hand. She looks Sister Aloysius in the eye and takes a pull on the filter. Inhale; exhale. She returns the cigarette and smiles naughtily, and her eyebrows flick up.
"You're shocked," James notes; she is amused.
"Not quite so innocent," Aloysius says thoughtfully.
"I gave it up for Lent once," James says with simple sincerity.
Title: Post
Word count: 412
Sister Veronica died yesterday. Her sister has left the order. Today it is Christmas and Sister James is far from Brooklyn. Her family doesn't really know what to do with her, and this house where she grew up is no longer her home. Even though it's Christmas Day, her brother (the big strong one who is father to three strapping sons) offers to drive her to the train station. It isn't sad to know that her family is relieved. So is Sister James, who wants to mourn and can't. Not here.
Her brother holds thumbs; Sister James prays; luck and God provide a seat on the train. At the window she waves at her brother, and then sits. There is no-one seated next to her and she is grateful for the space and privacy. Sister James smiles at her slight reflection in the glass: she is going home, and will be company for Sister Aloysius. Sister James hadn't wanted to leave her there alone. Her heart clenches and she fights tears– she'd been very fond of old Sister Veronica.
It's not far to walk from the station to Saint Nicholas's, but one of the parishioners and his family stop and offer her a ride. They, too, are back from a visit with family. Sister James doesn't say that her "visit" was there and back to Maryland in less than twenty-four hours. They are polite and don't ask too many questions.
The house is still, but for a faint crackling: the fire in the sitting room. Sister James sets down her small suitcase and removes her heavy cloak. She hangs it up and stops there at the rack a while, to thank God for her safe journey and blessed return home. That's God greeted and thanked.
She very much wants to see Sister Aloysius– very much. It is an urge in her suddenly, but not a new one. It's stronger now; it's been with her since she boarded the train to her old home town yesterday. When Sister Aloysius called about the death of Sister Veronica, Sister James had felt the urge peak: she had wanted to go home at once; just to go right to Sister Aloysius, whom she finds asleep on a couch.
"Hello," James says softly, on a knee next to the couch. She smiles at eyes that flutter open, and a mouth that smiles, and a hand that finds her own. "I'm home."
"Good," Aloysius sums it up.
Title: Wonted
Word count: 375
Over the last two days they have only been out of each other's sight to sleep and make ablutions. This is new. Sister Aloysius puts it down to the death of Sister Veronica and the loss of Sister Angelica who, really, is too old to return to a life of service. Also, they two are alone but together, and somehow this makes a bit more of the alone part. The house seems very big, seems bigger than when Sister Aloysius was here on her own. She'd missed Sister James but hadn't minded being by herself. Now she doesn't want to go to bed: alone.
They are seated before the fire, and the temptation is there to add another log and to find something else to talk about. Instead, Sister Aloysius calls it setting a good example when she gets up off the couch. Sister James stands, too, and here is as good a place as any: they take each other's hands and stand in silent prayer, heads bowed eyes closed. More often than not, they attend Compline, the prayer before sleep, in this way.
Sister James moves away from the prayer book and her Compline prayers are simple lists of things that she's grateful for. Sister Aloysius finds her mind blank tonight, and that's all right. She loves God, is sure He knows it, and a simple "Thank you" from Sister Aloysius will suffice. She is sure.
Upstairs they separate at Sister Aloysius's door. Their rooms aren't very warm. Sister Aloysius readies hurriedly for bed and practically dives under the covers. She's about to turn out the light when her door is cracked ajar.
"Yes?"
"No hug," James complains.
"Y'know, it's cold," Aloysius grumbles, but she gets up. Some months ago, she thinks wryly, she was a lot more sensible than this. But the hug is good; it is dear to her, as dear as is this girl she's holding. Sister Aloysius kisses Sister James's forehead, and James huddles closer. Sister Aloysius feels her heart pick up speed, and there is no thought, no check against it: her mouth is soft against a cheek, a chin. Their lips meet and linger, and she smiles and whispers against Sister James's mouth, "Hello."
"Don't stop," James murmurs.
Title: Revelations
Word count: 404
"Yes," James murmurs, and nods at Sister Aloysius's look of inquiry. Yes, she is sure. Sister James guides until guidance is no longer of any use. It's all up to Sister Aloysius, who is weeping as she seeks and finds and rends as gently as possible (how could her first man have thought so little of this?). Sister James hisses softly at pain but it's as brief as may be; it barely lingers while she is kissed and worshiped. She strokes her hand down Sister Aloysius's forearm to the wrist, and rests there, now doubly aware of it all, everything. Her voice is thick and rich when she says, "I love you."
Sister Aloysius is beyond words and can only nod. A tear tickles and she dips her head, wipes her cheek and jaw on the pillow. The warmth and wet surrounding her becomes tight, and tighter yet. She raises her head and watches and smiles. Sister James is arching her back in answer to the tension which is still building, and building. She throws her arms around Sister Aloysius and clings to her, bringing her down, taking her weight– more, even more: they kiss, and that proves enough. Sister Aloysius's mouth muffles a cry. It usually does, or else Sister James is the one who keeps Sister Aloysius quiet, which she expects quite soon.
"No. Not yet," Aloysius whispers. "I want to stay still; take it all in."
"Y'want to stay in, too?" James says playfully. "It's lovely, though."
Sister Aloysius knows. She holds Sister James inside, has done every time. She never expected Sister James to want this– "all of it," as Sister Aloysius terms it; she had thought that Sister James would want to keep it. She is shy—quite, quite shy when she asks the question. Oddly, Sister James is never shy. It's all thanks to reading her brother's medical textbooks.
"That's just a little membrane," James says, but she isn't flippant. "You haven't taken away anything, Katie– you've given me so much."
"All right," Aloysius says softly, relieved. "And is it all right, umm, if I... Well, there's more."
Sister James is well-versed in anatomy. She knows all the names of everything, including what most people don't speak of in 1964. As kisses travel lower than her breasts, as they wander even beyond her navel, Sister James learns a whole new vocabulary. It's all thanks to Sister Aloysius.
Title: Tolerance
Word count: 374
Sister Angelica and the late Sister Veronica have not been replaced. They had long since ceased to teach anyway. The only person who isn't of the Order, who is permitted in the house, is Mrs. Flannery the housekeeper. She is in and out from seven in the morning until five p.m. Everyone else knows.
It isn't spoken about and this is not simply because Sister Aloysius is both Sister Principal and the school principal. The truth is that she's hard but always fair, and she does a good job. There's more to it than that as well. But it is all very simple, on both sides of the fence, as it were. Sister James and Sister Aloysius are not making anyone's life a misery; everyone else is content simply not to interfere.
Sister James has always liked simplicity– with a capital S.
"And this is simplicity," Aloysius insists. "You and I are both adults– both. It's all right to look the other way. If it were another two, you and I would look the other way. I have– twice, but not in this house; not for two women. There are two men in this parish, both adults; both love God and that's plain. Saint Paul had a burr up his—He was very narrow-minded. Paul would damn us, Sarah. None of the sisters damn us or even talk about us, because this love has not changed who we are, and it won't hurt us. Or them."
"My elder brother once said to me that people fear homosexuals; that's why they hate them," James says thoughtfully. Her throat works, and then she says, "Why they hate us."
Sister Aloysius answers with a look and a gesture that is all well-there-you-have-it.
The next day is Saturday; a summer rain threatens in the afternoon. Sisters James and Aloysius are planting runner bean plants along a trellis, and Sister Gregory is helping them. Sister Aloysius heads off to the shed for baling wire and pliers, to fix part of the trellis, and Sister James's eyes follow her lover until the shed swallows her up.
"So damn sweet," says Sister Gregory, and she chortles. She laughs even harder at Sister James's instant blush. Then she explains: "Love sure is grand."
Title: Constancy
Word count: 398
It's rare that she has a free period but today she does, and she drops by Room Four-A-One where young Mrs. Phillips has apparently been having trouble. These were all Sister James's students last year; she is not happy with their behavior.
Sister James nods to Mrs. Phillips and walks to the back of the class. Of course, she isn't Sister Aloysius. The students look at her; they turn in their seats. Sister James does not smile. She makes eye-contact several times, and one-by-one the kids begin to settle again. They turn eyes-front; here and there comes a cough, but soon silence descends, and there is no fidgeting whatsoever. Mrs. Phillips nods to Sister James and resumes the lesson.
Every child in that class knows that somehow, in some way, Sister James is changed.
And she is. She still looks upon the world as might a child, with wonder and—often—fear, but she is changed. She knows herself as a woman now: all grown up. She takes quiet pride in it; not the sinful sort of pride (she probably is incapable of anything of the sort). What she feels is a fulness of being, a sense of completion. And above all, she knows her worth. She always did, before God, but never did Sister James feel herself to be an equal when in the company of other adults. This was the reason why her students used to slack and back-talk and generally misbehave. Sister James's eighth graders now pay her mind, and last year's students feel it's wise not to tangle with her, even vicariously.
Mrs. Phillips reports in three days that Sister James "fixed things"; she reports as much to Sister Aloysius (whom Mrs. Phillips fears. Of course). Sister Aloysius only nods and shrugs.
"But... But it's a big deal!" Mrs. Phillips insists. "With respect, it wouldn't be a big deal if you had fixed it. But Sister James? Good grief..."
"She grew up." Sister Aloysius allows the slightest smile to show. "A lot."
"Yeah. Nothing short of a miraculous advance," Mrs. Phillips mutters.
Sister Aloysius might agree if she weren't partially responsible for the "miraculous advance." As for things miraculous and wonderful and too beautiful to explain, Sister Aloysius knows all about them, both ways. Sister James is changed, but when Sister Aloysius looks deeply into her eyes that night:
"Still my girl," Aloysius whispers.
Title: Comprehension
Word count: 348
"You... You're crazy!" Sister James snaps. She says as much because today Sister Aloysius told the Monsignor—the Monsignor!—that he is no more valuable to God than she is. Sister James was not the only witness to the argument. "He won't let this slide, Kate. He will not. You are in trouble; big trouble."
"We'll see," Aloysius says, and she is not concerned. Sister James is unaware of the many sets-to that she has had with the Monsignor, just behind closed doors. They are old adversaries, but they are also allied and aligned: education is dear to them both. Besides, what she had said today is an incontrovertible fact. "He can't argue the point without insisting that he really is more valuable to God."
Sister James's retort dies stillborn. Her eyes go round and wide and her mouth falls open. Sister Gregory, sitting nearby, snorts a laugh and chortles while she continues with her knitting. She knows just how smart Sister Aloysius is; Sister James is still learning.
And in the end the Monsignor does indeed let it all slide. When next he and Sister Aloysius meet they grin at each other, and Sister James nearly faints. She is in love with the most outrageous woman in the world. Sister James's cheeks go pink when she realizes that she's aroused, and damn, if the Monsignor doesn't turn to her next.
"Sister James."
"Monsignor," Sister James squeaks and gulps, and her cheeks really flame.
"Still so shy, I see. Well, sisters. Enjoy the day: beautiful, isn't it?"
They make answer and he walks away to the rectory to visit with Father O'Mally who's ill. And it is a beautiful day, but busy and long– interminably long for Sister James.
"Outrageous... Impossible..." James mutters between hungry kisses. "Crazy... Stubborn..."
"Still so shy, I see," Aloysius chuckles.
Sister James giggles and merrily continues to be "shy."
When next she sees the Monsignor, Sister James looks him in the eye and greets him as an equal, because she's now convinced that he is no more valuable to God than one Sister James.
Title: Familiarity
Word count: 388
Sister Aloysius has begun to think that perhaps she has always been more inclined towards women than men, even though she's never looked at and thought about other women in the way that she looks at and thinks about Sister James. Still, it's a possibility.
She still misses her late husband, but not in a way that makes for a pang of loneliness. He was a good man: funny, kind, full of life. She had been devoted to him in the same selfless way that she's devoted herself to Sister James. Thing is, Sister James appreciates this on a level that her late husband did not. That wasn't his fault. His understanding of his wife was limited, quite imperfect. Sister James can read Aloysius's every expression.
Sister James, Sister James– Sarah. Sister Aloysius is so deeply in love that just about every thought somehow leads to thoughts of Sister James. Her head is clear of the headiness of love only when she prays. God is still Number One, Sister Aloysius thinks wryly of herself, but it's difficult to turn her attention fully to the sermon Father O'Mally is offering. And the man can deliver. It's a good one today, and she's been and gone and missed some of it. Oh, well. At least she pays attention now. At least she's got enough of a grip not to daydream in faculty meetings. She is fifty-two and feels more like those numbers in reverse order. Sister Aloysius smiles faintly, but smugly.
Sister James, Sister James—
"Sarah!" A whispered shout.
"Shhh!" James giggles. "More?"
"More might kill me," Aloysius pants. "But yes. More."
Sister James is in a very giving mood tonight; she often is. Sister Aloysius will be hard-pressed not to daydream in the faculty meeting tomorrow. And when at last the tables are turned, Sister James ends up desperately biting the pillow. Sister Aloysius kisses a shoulder blade and rests her cheek against it, and she knows by now to wait for a direction to the contrary: her hand is yet gently and generously and masterfully busy. Sister James lies still, absorbing as much of the pleasure as she can handle, but eventually she must reach back and still Sister Aloysius's wrist. She rolls over and cuddles up and they kiss.
"You know me so well," Sister James murmurs.
Title: Certainty (Epilogue)
Word Count: 423
When Sister James utters the word "chastity" during the renewal of her vows, she does so without a smidgeon of guilt: she holds the word as truth. Chastity, from the Latin castitas, in turn from castus: pure. Her focus while renewing her vows is on God alone. She has already asked Sister Aloysius what God might say– "Love is good," and God is love. They are harming no-one. Their love is deep and constant, and the physical expression of that love is not any of it sordid. There is respect, always, and gentleness and goodness. Moreover, Sister James is sure, quite positive, that if she isn't meant to respond as she does to Sister Aloysius's lightest caress or gentlest kiss (or even a particular sort of look), then her body simply would not react. As Sister Aloysius once told her, "It's as natural as breathing, and God intended both breathing and making love, or we wouldn't be able to do either."
And Sister Aloysius is, as always, Sister Aloysius. It's none of Father O'Mally's business at all, her vows, but she must speak them before him, so she does, while completely ignoring him. By now his prompts are expected; she knows them all by heart (yes, by heart: in her heart, with her heart, and not simply by rote), while he reads them (and thrice loses his place).
She makes her vows to God alone. He knows. They don't hide from Him. He knows, and Sister Aloysius is more than sure that something would have gone wrong by now if God objects.
Next year they will all renew their vows in clothing other than the habit. At dinner Sister Gregory, who's closer to seventy than sixty, is trying not to smile. It has nothing to do with Sister Aloysius's talk of habits and men who change things without any consideration for those who must accept the changes made. Sister Gregory's smile creeps through; laughter wants to follow it. Sister Aloysius gives her a pointed stare.
"Something funny?" she drawls. "Well, go on: share."
"They—" Sister Gregory points at a wall: beyond lies the rectory. "They think they know so much. You two gave 'em a new definition of 'chastity' today, didn't you?"
Chuckles and cackles and snorts of laughter and giggles fill the room. Sister Aloysius's smile is skew and a tad rueful. Sister James is blushing scarlet. When their eyes meet, the room seems to fade out.
"We're just good people," James says softly. Aloysius smiles and nods.
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