Cawood’s breath came in hot gulps-her heart raced… deliver the souls in Purgatory, especially those for whom we now pray… She could barely stand; her legs trembled so. Distantly she wondered if a person could die of shame. Her face and head throbbed like sunstroke-and her shoulders hung from a brittle spine. Cawood stood by the window in her Sunsight office. A still photo from the movie was in her hand. Processed quickly, the black and white image was unmistakable. The nun quickly saw that Raul had chosen the most damning of frames. It wouldn’t matter if the rest of the exchange were captured or not. The picture in her hand was the end of her life here. It showed her in relative close up, talking and smiling-it looked like she was talking. She had no idea what she had said but on either side of her face, throbbing and repulsive, was a male erection: one white, one black.
When she realized what she was looking at, it had been enough; the sick guilt drove her to the heavy-paned window-and since she had contemplated the worst… Was she prepared for Mortal sin? It would make her an enemy of God for eternity. No atonement. Was she ready to up the stakes of her self-destruction? Make it permanent.
There were other offices that had balconies. There were service hatches. The fall would kill her, and what came out of Blacktime would be utter damnation.
Or had she developed an unquenchable thirst for shame? It wasn’t self-preservation that stayed her had. Were the masochistic possibilities of disclosure so attractive? Punish me! Burn me at the stake! It didn’t matter what she was saying in the movie. Whatever profundity the blurred eyes attempted to expound was lost by the abject obscenity of the act. Her arms went slack, swung down, the picture staining the constant black of her dress.
What was she saying? Hurt me? Whatever the words were, she knew that the gist was: look at me. Hate me. Despise the whore. I am not worthy of the office I hold. Kill me! Let me go! Her stomach lurched. It was clear to her that regardless of the movie’s length, her life ended with the frame in her hand. Anything else was just dirt on her grave.
Was this proof of a split personality? She’d contemplated it before. Insane. She must be insane. She couldn’t be possessed. She didn’t share Able’s craving for action heroes. Her behavior suggested two personalities and that was mental illness. But could she claim such separation, for hadn’t she taken great pleasure from the lust in men’s eyes as they coveted her? When she thought of Juanita earlier-did she not wish to take the Mormon’s clothes off and lavish her body with kisses? It was too easy to blame a separate part of herself for sinning. As though someone else had enjoyed the night.
For her memories of the men, despite the depravity, gave her hot and carnal sensations- even now? Those men might have put something in her drink, but why was she there? Was she hoping someone would?
It was true she had left the church spiritually-but last night, the movie, that was something wrong. That was a sickness and the drugs. And if it was not drugs, then the film was not pornography so much as it was confession. Could it be that even in her sickest state, she had recognized her illness, and this movie was a cry for help? Run from sin!
That’s too easy! She wanted to rage. Her immortal soul was not something out of a psychology textbook! Her sins were not the cry for help that fit so comfortably in a sociological viewpoint. She had sinned! Damn it! And now, she had destroyed her life! Cawood looked at the sky-pellucid blue and promising. She raised a fist and hissed, “Why did you do this to me?” As the words left her, tears welled up in her eyes and she sank against the glass.
“Why did you leave me?” She mumbled, sliding down to gather in a heap beside the window. “I loved you…” And tears dripped from her eyes. “I gave my life to you.”
And the note with the picture said what? The men she’d sinned with knew she was the Sister-the other Tower Builder. She and Able had been minor celebrities near the end of its construction. She must have made that clear to them or they had recognized her. They wanted money for silence. The mere notion made her want to vomit again. Money? But she knew that whatever was paid would never be enough. It would start with the amount they quoted then increase. And she knew that ultimately, the movie would surface. It would be worth more to the newspapers and the media. And the kind of betrayal in it provoked revulsion even in the meanest of criminals. Such powerful hypocrisy would be hard to contain. That was the depth of her sin. Even criminal minds would find her abhorrent.
She and Able occasionally dealt with the press. They were called upon to attend charity functions, and speak at gatherings-they continued to raise money for the Tower, for the great works it underwrote. When would Sister Karen Cawood be brought down?
She began to wonder whether suicide was truly the greater sin. Her life was over anyway. How could she minimize the damage? She would have to leave. Maybe that was it. There was the mission at the New Mexican crater. She could talk to her superiors before this became public. That way it would diminish the impact. It wouldn’t hurt so many at the Tower if she were gone. She got to her feet.
With your bright and open heart forgive me for showing darkness to the light.
Cawood took two steps and froze. It was over, and somewhere inside her; she felt sadness but resolution. At least she wouldn’t hurt her friends anymore. Not after this last great convulsion she’d cause them. Then there’d be no more. She moved to her desk, opened the top drawer, put the picture in and shut it away. She didn’t bother with the key. Her hypocrisy needed stronger locks than that. It was too late.
She walked toward her office door, paused there a moment. Her nausea was gone. She no longer felt dizzy. The nun had been schooled in resignation if nothing else. The church had taught her how to take a beating. She would tell Able after she had contacted her superiors. She wouldn’t bother showing them the picture. There was no point to that. That would just be masochism, forcing herself to squirm while some church Father or Mother Superior viewed her sins. Then she relented. They’d have to see it. Better by her own hand. By now, she had traveled so far away from self-preservation that she didn’t care about the thoughts of peers she’d leave behind. I have sinned against you…
Worst was the problem with Able. How could she tell him? Cawood glanced at her watch. The day had slipped by as she faded in and out of her cloud of guilt. Able would still be in the Tower. He’d have to wait. She’d be better prepared for him later, after she had talked to her superiors. But tonight, at the latest, so she could avoid his ridiculous mission. She had to tell him the truth.