A Tale of Beauty Read online

“Oh, I see.” Michelle’s brow furrows, and she turns to Sue. “But ... you break up with them on purpose? Why?”

  Sue shrugs. “Because I can,” she says, as though this should be self-evident, and arches her back. “Why do I always sit on these cushions? There’s no damn back support.”

  “You wouldn’t notice it if you had better posture,” Diana says.

  “Oh, like yours is so good.”

  “It is.”

  Sue grins and turns to face her. “Prove it. Let’s switch for a bit.”

  “Ladies, please.” Belle taps her saucer with her teaspoon. “Whatever happens, Sue, I’m sure that you’ll share the details with us at our next meeting?”

  “Always do,” Sue says, and salutes.

  “Excellent,” Belle says. “That leaves Denise.” Everyone turns to me, and she takes a sip of tea before she says: “How are you doing?”

  “I can’t complain.” I pause, but Belle says nothing. “Work is tough, of course, but it’s been harder. Spent most of my free time recently trying to beat the final boss in that game I dug out of the bargain bin a few weeks back: it’s so cheap. He’s got this instant-kill sword slash, and ...” I realize that everyone is watching me with only polite interest, and remind myself that none of them have ever been interested in video games. “I think that’s about it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get through it. You usually do.” Belle shifts in her chair, turning her back to Michelle. “I’ve been doing some writing. Of course, it’s for school, so it’s far less interesting and far more stressful than the writing I do for pleasure, but I do like the way it’s coming together.”

  “What’s it about?” Michelle asks, and Belle turns to her abruptly, almost as though she’s surprised that she’s there.

  “Oh, it’s a historical fantasy set during the Inquisition.” Belle’s gaze moves from Michelle to Chastity, and she grins. “I apologize in advance, Chastity. I know how much you dislike having the Church’s dirty laundry aired out.”

  “Well, as long as you do it tastefully.” Chastity frowns. “I think it’s important that we remember our mistakes, but it’s just as important to forgive the people who made them. Perhaps you can cast it in that light, as a tragic mistake that, surely, the perpetrators must be very sorry for now?”

  “We’ll see how it turns out. A writer has surprisingly little control over the creative process.”

  Belle turns to me, and I force myself to smile at her. She and I initially bonded over our mutual love of writing, but that was a long time ago. I haven’t written a single word since I left college, and at this point I find Belle’s ramblings as uninteresting as she must find my gaming stories. No matter how many hints I’ve tried to give her, though, she still acts like writing is our little inside joke.

  “Alright, that’s all of us. Does anyone have anything to add?” Belle looks around, purposely avoiding Michelle. No one moves. “Okay, then. Meeting adjourned.”

  An hour and two pots of tea later, my Sisters are gone, and I curl up on the couch to relax. I always find hosting a meeting so draining, even when it’s not a rush job. There’s something about having other people in my home, which I’ve always thought of as my personal sanctuary, that I find upsetting. It’s easier with my Sisters, because I do love them and enjoy the time that we spend together, but I’d much sooner see them anywhere but here.

  Slowly, I collect the empty sandwich platter, half of which Michelle consumed on her own. Once that has been rinsed, dried, and replaced, I gather the teacups and repeat the process. When all that’s left is the teapot, I sit on the floor and examine it, looking for any taint that might have been left behind by Belle’s touch. I know it’s crazy, but I have to make sure before I can wash it and put it away.

  I came to the Sisterhood shortly after college. Belle and I took a creative writing course together, and she introduced me to Diana and Sue shortly thereafter. Chastity came along later: Belle met her while she was doing research on the similarities between Wiccan magic and Christian prayer meetings for another course. We’re all so different that, at first, we just stared at each other, but once Belle had teased enough revelations out of each of us, we started to see how much we had in common too.

  The Sisterhood has become as important to me as my own family, which may not be saying much. Like any family, they can be difficult sometimes, particularly Belle, who does have a very dominant personality and tends to get quite upset if things don’t go exactly the way she thinks they should. But everyone has their faults, and my Sisters are no exception. That doesn’t change the fact I love them. They’ve helped me through so many difficult times, and even though the meetings I have to host can cause anxiety, I’m happy to be part of the group. I suppose that’s all I can ask for.

  Chastity

  BY THE TIME I get out of the subway, it’s cold, and I pull my jacket closer around myself as I begin walking the seven blocks to my house. It’s somewhat uncomfortable, but I don’t mind. Pain is just another harsh reality, to be borne for the glory of God, who bore the greatest agony for our sake. What is the cold next to the Crucifixion? What is anything, next to God’s love?

  As soon as I turn onto our street, I see Matthew’s car parked in the driveway, and I gradually slow down until I’ve stopped entirely. It isn’t that I want to avoid him; I always appreciate an opportunity to see him, even though we don’t get along well and, when we do see each other, one or both of us usually leaves upset. I tried to explain this to Belle once, how I still want to see him even though it causes us both pain; she called it reflex, and she may have a point. I did spend my childhood running after him, and my teenage years idolizing him; I was so devastated when he moved out that I didn’t come out of my room for several days. I’ve always been very attached to him, and I think that’s what makes it so very hard to see him not only so intent on his dissolute lifestyle, but so resistant to my attempts to turn him away from it. Sometimes, I wonder whether it might not be smarter, even kinder, to give up on it and salvage what we can of our relationship, but what would that achieve? I’d only be abandoning him to the consequences of his actions, for the sake of nothing more than comfort and the illusion of harmony. Never. Pain is nothing.

  He’s in the living room with our mother when I come in, holding a glass of Coke that I’m sure must be laced with some sort of liquor. His shirt has a tear in the breast pocket, most likely from the cigarette packages that he insists on trying to fit into it, but it’s only barely visible under the very expensive leather jacket that he’s been wearing every time I’ve seen him since last Christmas. When I asked him where he got it, he told me that it was none of my business, which of course made me worry that he might have obtained it illegally. At this point, I’ve come to see it as a simple extravagance, which is bad enough for his soul but an improvement, at least, over the images of gang members and hold-ups. “Give me strength,” I whisper to the crucifix on the wall as I hang up my coat.

  The conversation stops when I walk in, and Matthew raises his glass to me. “There she is. I thought you’d never get back.” He smiles, and lowers his drink. “Can’t you can go to Hell for staying out too late?”

  I’m determined to be mature, though that should be his job, as my big brother. “I don’t think so.”

  “Wow, something that doesn’t lead to eternal damnation. Imagine that.”

  My mother ignores our bickering, as she has been doing since both Matthew and I were old enough to talk. “How was your visit, Chastity?” she asks.

  “It was all right.” Of course, it isn’t quite all right. I don’t enjoy the act of recounting Matthew’s sins, even among my Sisters, and seeing him here now, so obviously far from repentance, reminds me that I’ll probably be talking about it with them for years to come.

  “I’m glad,” my mother says as she gets up from the couch. “Would you like some hot chocolate? I was about to make some for myself and Matthew.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “She wasn’t
really going to make hot chocolate, you know,” Matthew says once she’s gone. “It’s just better than watching us argue.”

  “We don’t have to argue.”

  “No, I guess we could just stare at each other.” He downs half his drink. I know that he’s trying to provoke me; I also know that I should be above such things, but I still can’t stop myself from being offended.

  “It isn’t my fault that we can’t have a civilized conversation.” The words come out confrontationally, and I frown. He always brings this out in me, an urge to fight that persists despite all the hours I’ve spent praying for even a small portion of my mother’s patience.

  Matthew slouches down on the couch and props his foot against the edge of the coffee table. “Well, it’s kind of hard to have a conversation when I’ve got to watch everything I say. Not that it makes a difference: you usually find something wrong anyway.”

  “You don’t have to watch everything you say.” I realize that I’m glaring at him, and force myself to soften my expression. “If you would just make some effort to improve, instead of flaunting your sins, maybe I wouldn’t have to be so critical of you.”

  “See what I mean?”

  I look away from him. “I wouldn’t bother if I didn’t care about you so much.”

  “Ah, great. Here come the waterworks.”

  “I’m not crying.”

  “The hell you’re not.”

  “I’m not.” I look him in the eye so that he can see for himself.

  “Whatever.” He shakes his head. “Damn it, Chastity.”

  “What?”

  My mother chooses this moment to come back with the hot chocolate. “Is everything alright?” she asks.

  “Fine, ma,” Matthew says. “I should probably get going, though.” He looks down at the tray and takes his cup from it. “Right after this, that is.”

  We drink the hot chocolate in a silence broken only by my mother’s half-hearted attempts to start a conversation. I feel guilty for ruining her visit with him; he hardly ever comes by. More than that, though, I feel deficient. For all my faith, my devotion, and my good intentions, I’m still an absolute failure at my most important task.

  As soon as the hot chocolate is finished, Matthew says his goodbyes. I don’t know what to say to him, much less how to say it. “I’ll pray for you, Matthew,” is what I finally settle on as he unlocks the front door.

  He doesn’t turn around, but I hear him mutter: “Get a life, Chastity,” as the door closes behind him.

  I’ve always been Matthew’s Ugly Sister, but I never thought of it as such until I learned the term from Belle. It’s fitting: I’m more sheltered and less attractive than most girls, and infinitely more enlightened for it.

  Matthew was born four years before me, long enough to put distance between us but not quite long enough that we couldn’t have been close. Looking back, I guess that he must have found me annoying: I wanted to play soccer with his friends before I learned how to walk, and to read his chapter books before I had mastered the intricacies of The Cat in the Hat. It wasn’t the games or the books that were important to me, though; all I really wanted was to spend time with him, to be his friend as well as his sister. But most of the time, he didn’t want anything to do with me. That hasn’t changed much.

  Every week, my mother would take us to church.

  On holidays, my father would come too. I don’t know what made him continue coming when he obviously didn’t enjoy it, but whatever his reasons were, I’m glad he kept it up. Those mornings, when we sat together as a family in the eyes of God, are some of my most treasured memories.

  Matthew was the typical irreverent child. When he thought he could get away with it, he would pretend to be sick and spend the morning in front of the television with my father. Most weeks, though, he was forced to put on his rumpled dress shirt and black jeans and sit in the pew beside me. Throughout the service, he would whisper to me, and during those moments, while we shared secrets and jokes, I finally felt as though we were friends.

  Of course, this didn’t last beyond the dismissal rites. I recall one day in particular, when my mother had decided to stay behind and talk with some members of the Ladies’ Auxiliary, and I’d found Matthew standing by the small flower garden behind the church with some boys from school. I was excited, and I didn’t think: I just ran up to him, grabbed his arm, and leaned against his shoulder like I belonged there.

  Matthew tensed up immediately, and before I even had a chance to wonder what was wrong, one of the other boys sneered and said: “Who’s that?”

  “My stupid sister,” Matthew said, and shook me off. The boys laughed, and I ran back to my mother. I didn’t really blame him for it, but that was the last time that we said anything to each other during Mass.

  I came to my faith at fourteen, by which time Matthew had long since stopped coming to church. It was a very hard time for me, and I didn’t feel as though I had any support. My father would never have understood my feelings, the sudden sense that I no longer quite knew who I was or what I was supposed to be doing; my mother might have, but she would have given me some simple advice and expected that to be the end of it. Matthew was an even more hopeless case, having discovered girls, cars, and nightclubs, and I barely had any acquaintances, let alone close friends. Who was left but God?

  I don’t remember what I expected that first night, when I sat down on my bed with a Bible and the rosary that had been a confirmation gift from my mother. I was devastated by the careless cruelty that I had to deal with every day: the girls who pushed me into lockers, the boys who thought I was worth no more than rotten meat, and the teachers who either had no idea how to help or didn’t even want to try. “If you’re so great,” I remember saying, “why are you letting me suffer like this?”

  I waited until I started to fall asleep, but there was no answer. I didn’t really expect one; I must have understood even then that God speaks in His own way and His own time.

  That night, I had a dream so intense that the details remain vivid to this day. I was standing in the centre aisle of my church, admiring the way the sunlight coming through the stained glass windows struck the pews. I was about to reach out toward the nearest beam of sunlight when I realized I wasn’t alone: there was a woman kneeling at the steps leading up to the altar, wearing a black gown and veil. At first, I thought I should leave her alone, but I suddenly found myself moving toward her. As I got closer, I could see that her shoulders were shaking, but if she was crying, I couldn’t hear it. I wanted to ask her if she was alright, but I couldn’t get the words out. All I could do was watch, and the longer I did, the more I pitied her. I wondered who she was, and what had happened to her.

  “She was called, as all the faithful are called,” a voice said suddenly, and I looked up to see Jesus standing at the altar, directly beneath the crucifix. “She became the mother of God, and watched her son sacrificed to save the world that was so eager to murder him.”

  I looked down at the woman again, but she was gone. “In the service of the divine plan, suffering is often necessary.” He reached out his hands, and I flinched when I caught a glimpse of the holes in his palms. “You are called, Chastity, and that calling will sanctify your suffering, as it did hers.”

  I woke up then, to a stormy Wednesday morning. Ordinarily, bad weather on a school day would have upset me, but that morning, I couldn’t have felt better. I had a purpose; I had been chosen by God, and nothing else mattered, least of all the ordinary troubles of a teenage girl. If Mary could watch her son die, I could handle high school.

  I have done my best to fulfill my mission, to become a beacon of God’s light in the world, but I continue to struggle with a sense of superiority. As I grow stronger in my faith, I see the faults of others magnified, as God must: that girl is a liar, a whore, and a cheater; that man would sell his wedding band for the money to pay off his gambling debt. It’s become so bad that I sometimes believe most women are either weaklings who allowed m
en to take advantage of them or treacherous Delilahs, and most men are either tyrants like King Herod or pawns like King Ahab. I try to stay open to the possibility of a middle ground, but the more that I see of the world, the harder it is to believe in it.

  I’ve come to terms with the fact that only a few will be saved, and the rest thrown into the furnace. I’ve shed my tears for the pain of the ignorant ones, who may never understand why they are being punished. There’s only one among them that I cannot bear the thought of losing to the final judgment.

  I learned early on, however, that it was useless to discuss such things with him directly. Matthew treats religion as a joke, as though we believers are the ones who are delusional. In his mind, if the truth exists at all, it’s to be found in philosophy and science, not divine revelation, and the laws of God are just another obstacle to be overcome on the way to it. I’ve done my best to explain the error of his ways, even at the expense of the tolerance that I would once have given anything to win from him, but I’ve made no headway at all. Either his sin is too great for redemption, or I am too weak to offer it. I don’t believe that I could keep functioning if I believed that the former was true.

  Sue

  THE CLOCK SAYS 4 when I get home. Usually, I’m lucky to get home before 6 on Fridays, but I convinced the new guy to come in early enough to cover half of my shift. It didn’t take much: a lowered voice, a few compliments, and a hint or two about future rewards. Nowhere near challenging enough, and that’s too bad. I’ll need a new “boyfriend” after tonight.

  I drop my purse on the living room floor. It lands on top of a stack of bills that I’ve been meaning to put in the mail. Ah, the hell with it. They’ll get sent when they get sent.

  On my way to the bedroom, I pull off my top and throw it in the pile of clothes in front of the hamper, then kick off my shoes and peel off my jeans. In the bedroom, I turn to the half-open closet, and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the door mirror. No supermodel, but I get the job done.