Chapter Text
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--- 30th of March, 1959 ---
The last year of 50s decade was actually just like a mere year in each decade. The late March that brought with itself the late winter that has already died on the horizon, whereas the wee days of spring have already loomed by substituting the relentlessly chilly Boston winter that has assaulted within months the Bostonians with its blizzards, minus and unbearable temperatures. Even when the winter has already died in the limbo, the late March days were yet chilly as if the frosty season hasn’t utterly dissipated.
Nevertheless, today it was drizzling as if God’s mild, episodical weeps poured its crystal, beehive of rain drops. A mild early spring zephyr fanned every surrounding in Boston even the exposed fleshes and hairs like wind farms. The hoary and scarcely lucid sky was clouded by swarm of clouds that have outnumbered the sole sun, which could disperse its vibrant, scintillating sun rays by bathing in dim sun light below. Fortunately, no lighting bolts jolted the ground, shaking it and resulting the horrifying storm.
The elder nun, Mother Claudia has already gathered beehive of 5 nuns, who were sufficiently prominent to welcome the priest in the grand yard of St. Andrew’s church. The pious sisters of the church were sorted by their ages from the youngest to the oldest. The former licentious jazz nightclub singer was in the middle, subsequently reckoning her in between. Neither the youngest, nor the eldest.
All of a sudden, their eyes, fueled with sheer self-consciousness and inquisitiveness were transfixed on the midnight black cab which was parked by the young Monsignor as its car engine halted its recurring, monotonous buzzing in a choir. Sheer self-consciousness as they agitatingly wondered how the rendezvous with the British compatriot will pass, besides is he going to be as genial and polite as almost every priest they’ve encountered, regardless their back story and background. Donned in a conservatively, dark rigid cloth of chastity, concealing in an ebony shadows the sinful fragments of their impure thoughts, grim secrets of the past and the nubile, milky as vanilla fleshes that lead to the insatiable, fiendish sin. Inquisitiveness how the priest looked and how he will behave in front of the holy women.
Once the vehicle parked past the grandiose, alabaster statue with a couple of inches proximity, the car engine’s buzzing subdued in the background. In the meanwhile, the British compatriot, clothed in a charcoal black blazer, a dark, rigid sweater with partly exposed alabaster collar and dark trousers got from the vehicle by locking it. He looked so young. So fresh. So handsome. The horde of women of the cloth swallowed hard especially Jude and her protégé Mary Eunice, nibbling on the silken skin of her bottom plumpish lip pensively, idly. In the corner of their eyes they scanned each feature of his appearance and manners, scrutinizing him. His well-trimmed chestnut hair, capping his head. The light, milky as lily skin tone, sheening his handsome, youthful facial features like Christmas tree’s glimmering lights, adorning discerningly the holiday, prominent furniture.
“Sisters, that’s Father Howard! The new one.” The Mother Superior emphasized his ecclesiastical title by motioning his thin, elderly-like pale lips when the priest shared scarcely a couple of inches proximity with the much older woman. He was the center of the attention from Sister Mary Eunice up to Sister Agnes. The Bostonian was struck by his physical facial features’ magnetic, photogenic charisma, oozing of him like serpentine fatal venom, spat on the recent prey.
“Good day, Sisters! It’s enormous honor of Mother Claudia allowing me to introduce myself in front of you.” The honeyed, nonchalant monologue of the holy man commenced as Jude and Mary Eunice’s flimsy hearts violently drummed in their ribs cage, verging to spring up like a toy-out-of-the-box once if they had got their chances to meet in person Timothy, handshaking for a split second by moving on the next pious member of the clergy. Slight, sheepishly boyish smile parted his lips in a carving. “As the Mother Superior mentioned I’m a new to St. Andrews by having the ginormous pleasure to be part of this church and work together with the sisters even doing sacred missions together for the sake of the church and the people. I’m Father Timothy Howard.” In the interim, the Bostonian chewed on her lower lip girlishly, whilst she was listening attentively his monologue as her protégé exhaled sharply, catching her off guard.
“What bothers ya now, Mary Eunice?” Even if it’s been almost a year since the juvenile sister of the church joined the church at age 16, the uneasiness contoured her facial features along with Jude’s austere concern. Austere whisper caught off guard the docile young lady, turning to face her for awhile.
“Urm, nothing, sister!” Velvety, demure whisper lingered on the young nun’s tongue, biting unintentionally her wet, berry-coloured tongue.
“Then what’s the problem?” The both women of the cloth opted to diminish the decibels as much as possible without interrupting the introduction of Timothy.
“I’ve 2 homelands actually as I’m originating from a wealthy English family from London. And the reason why I’m a face of the church is to help the wretched souls, who’ve lost their path to God and to the light to find it again by making them happy.” Meantime, his chubby, well-defined cheeks tinted ruddily as sweltering heat crawled underneath the facial skin, chuckling wryly in low voice. “Isn’t that the church’s main goal, sisters, isn’t it?” All of a sudden, what it Jude struck first was that he switched from serious up to temporarily sarcastic with his rhetorical question, addressed to the swarm of nuns.
“Exactly, Father!” The pair of nuns exclaimed as one jubilantly, affirming his rhetorical question in strong agreement.
“Excellent! I’d like to express my gratitude to you, Mother Superior, for the introduction once again.”
Shortly afterwards the British aristocrat approached the horde of members of the church by starting with the youngest nun, Mary Eunice. The handshake with her was far from stern, unyielding and showing any signs of authority. They shook their hands as if it bear a semblance of mere strangers or rather Timothy played the role of the teacher, whereas the juvenile woman of the cloth literally the role of a new student who was arcanely self-conscious and uncertain in the new school atmosphere that encompassed her as if it’s her first day at school. Too meek, too coy and too soft handshake. It was a humongous minus for the Monsignor as he moved on the second nun, while the former sleazy nightclub singer scrutinized from closer the motion of their shook hands and his facial features. Even more her cheeks were already daubed in the brightest, dimmest incarnadine pigment, blooming its her abashed condition, contaminating her at the moment.
Unhealthily impure thoughts submerged her ocean of thoughts with its resurfacing icebergs. Even when she hasn’t peeled a single word with the younger man, she yearned more than anything to snake her yet drop-dead gorgeous, lean and long as tower legs around his mysteriously muscular waist, whilst their luscious lips are savoring heavenly nirvanic kisses, muffled moans and groans zinging like melodious tunes of pleasure. Breathlessly succumbing themselves under the spell of the sinning and sex. Rotating and grinding her hips on his. Their stark bodies’ pale as ghost skins contacting. Their essences amalgamating altogether in unison like yin yang as Jude was yin, while Timothy the yang. Bright contrasts. That was the art of fantasies or rather passive sinning.
“No, no, stupid old whore! What are those nasty fantasies crossing yar mind?” An inner voice echoed in her blizzard of thoughts unwelcomingly, biting her lip by faintly ducking her head humbly, meekly. “He’s a goddamn priest, not yar toy boy for one-night.” The same inner voice cautioned her lividly, attempting to get her out of the wrong track. Out of shadows’ sight. Out of demon’s mind. It was against her solemnly took vows and anything against the church and God. Against her a decade career as a member of the clergy. Against her solemnly took vows. Against the hallowed.
“Good day, sister! It’s Father Howard.” All of a sudden, she was snapped out of her train of thoughts, consequently dwelling in the reality realm haphazardly as she beheld the embarrassingly, howsoever, soothingly offered mammoth, veiny hand. She swallowed hard the budding lump in her throat, seconds before returning the handshake. Her heart raced momentarily.
“Good day, Father! I-I’m Sister Jude Martin!” In the meanwhile, the middle-aged lady introduced herself, shaking firmly, austerely with unavoidable authority his amusingly warm, alleviatingly smooth hand, molting in the skin contacts they established. Benevolently beaming, serene smiles smeared across their lips. What the holy woman longed more than anything was the handshake and his warm, smooth as silk skin to not ebb off and to be ethereally endless. She quickly became fond of him even if it’s been a few minutes since she saw him for first time and spoke to him for a split second. They looked up at one another’s porcelain, still youthful complexions. Drizzling vaguely drenched their conservative, dark wool attires of the church as their armors against the chilly early spring climate. Dew of moistness christened their solely exposed skins to the climate. Their faces, hands and partly their necks.
“Sister Jude!” The British aristocrat repeated in honeyed, British accent her clerical title and name in the same time in symphony. Contagious idiotic content grins flashed as jolting bolts their facial features as light, cheerful chuckles scratched their throats gutturally. Their cheeks throve its gardenias of noxious cerise paint, painting their pale profile prospects.
A quarter a minute later the last two nuns who shook their hands with the ambitious Monsignor were decent enough, although ablaze jealousy sketched the middle-aged woman’s face at the sight of Timothy being with another woman than him. When the introduction and handshakes have already progressed in meeting the new Monsignor, Mother Claudia cleared her throat tepidly, seconds before declaring the only woman of the cloth who’s going to take on a tour the British aristocrat in the tuberculosis, old hospital.
“And sisters, that’s not all! Father Howard is genuinely delighted to introduce himself to all of you. But keep in mind that there’s going to be only one sister, who’s going to tour him around the tuberculosis hospital.” She emphasized the last sentence, whereas Jude’s ogle was transfixed to Timothy until he returned the ogle as she averted promptly fearfully her ogle from him, chewing on his lower, plump lip. Sharp exhale heaved from the top of the Bostonian’s brittle lungs. “And she’s going to instruct him, educating him about the mental institution. And it’s going to be Sister,” Temporal pause silenced resiliently, cunningly each living soul as the sound of drizzling played rhythmically in the background. Every nun’s irises were darted to their mentor as they expected the punchline of the joke in no time, all ears listening. “Sister Jude!” Meanwhile, the elder nun declared triumphantly her name, earning promptly pair of jealous, frustrated looks, tattooed on the other women of the cloth’s complexions. The middle-aged woman’s heart violently throbbed in her constricted chest as its heart beats pulsated into her ears. Grotesquely disappointed frowns carved their lips.
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In the meanwhile, Jude and Timothy had a grave, nonetheless, somewhat sincere and personal metaphorically conversation as they entered in the facility, in order to tour it as Jude was the tour guide.
“This facility was built in 1910, the early twentieth century! Up to nowadays it’s serving as a tuberculosis ward, serving as the biggest one on the East Coast.” The both devotional members of the church have already stepped inside the old institution as Jude toured him on the first floor at first, wearing a girlish, coy smile, smeared as a natural make-up across her lips, incapable of wiping it off since she’s so fond of the new Monsignor. He didn’t peel a single word during her educational monologue, accentuating her grave professionality.
“So it’s almost 5 decades since this tuberculosis ward is situating yet?” The younger man quirked his thick eyebrow elegantly, glimpsing at Jude’s parchment, angelic complexion, opting to not admire her ethereal natural beauty, concealed in its miserable, tiresome cloth of the chastity. They were encompassed by galore of patients, who were conveyed to their impending destinations. Their wards for cure by sufficiently professional doctors. The reek of medicine, urine and disease waffled past their sensitive nostrils.
“Exactly, Father! Father, may I ask something?”
“Of course, Sister!”
“What made ya to join St. Andrew’s church today?”
“That’s a very good question, Sister!” All of a sudden, they stopped in the middle of hallway as they were all alone after one of the young doctors transmitted an old patient in a wheelchair to the other ward. At the moment, the former licentious jazz nightclub singer nibbled on her upper lip bashfully, looking up at his charming, young-looking face. “As I mentioned earlier today, I’m a priest with two homelands and it’s going to be a great opportunity for me to collaborate with the nuns in the holy missions and becoming the first Anglo-American Pope in the history. It’s going to be also a great opportunity to help the people to be happy as they find a path to God and the light without struggling.”
“I see. I’m sure it’s going to be a fantastic privilege to work with ya, Father!”
“Sister, can you just call me Timothy?” In the interval, she bobbed obediently her head in agreement, softening her facial features.
“Of course, Timothy! You can just call me Jude.”
“Jude!” He repeated once again the name she accepted after joining the church a decade ago to rescue herself from the somber, inescapable diabolic grip of the demons and shadows of her past such as the one-night stands, boozing insane quantity of sweet, mouth-watering liquor, singing in old, filthy nightclubs in a jazz band and the gloomy secrets of her past and back story. “And back to your words, I can’t disagree with you! I’m completely we’re going to be a brilliant team players.”
“For sure!”