“Father, forgive me for what I am about to do,” Claire found herself praying one night.
When she met Dominique, Claire had reservations. Taken at face value, the nun and the lithe dancer had nothing in common. Dominique was born in Paris, attended the finest schools, and once entertained the king with her breathtaking grace. In truth, Dominique was a stage name, as they all were. After hours in their tent one night, Maïté admitted to Claire that obligation would eventually call Dominique home, and their bosom friendship was sealed.
Two weeks later, Claire sat upright and alone in the dark after the late show. Dominique often stayed later than everyone else, receiving the compliments of this gentleman or that. Claire prayed with eyes closed, and sipped the tonic that would heal her mistakes. She had just decided not to wait for her tentmate when the flap suddenly flipped aside, revealing a woman’s silhouette.
“Claire!” It wasn’t Dominique’s perfectly lazy Parisienne accent, but Maïté’s choppy, Basque-inflected whisper scream. “Help me! I don’t know what to do!”
Familiar with the matins hour, Claire’s body knew how to move in darkness, her mind preparing itself for the unknowable. She slowly, deliberately, rose from her bed.
“I did it. Or maybe not. I didn’t mean to ... but it happened, just as you said!” Maïté stammered, shaking. “The body is outside.”