Harlotsville II: Altar Ego

"A-and who the bloody hell are you?" Betty shrieked, lost in her rage. "How did you get in here?! You're not the police!"

"We already told you, dear. We represent the Mercy Convent of Charlottesville. The mayor directly ordered us; no need for the police. You're just a woman, after all, not an armed brute," the bearded man said coming closer and staring Betty up and down with disgust.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," Betty said. Her fists were impotently balled and her posture stiff as she regarded these three broad-shouldered, white-clad men. "I want to speak to my boss. He's right upstairs--"

"Would that be the elderly coot you have tending bar? Oh, I don't believe you'll be seeing him anytime soon," the bearded man grimly intoned. "Let's just say that although we are not the police, there are more of us upstairs, and he has a bit of answering to do before his day is through."

"You're just another gang of thugs!" Betty yelled. She tried to storm past the men, but one of them reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her roughly towards him.

Before she could react, he had her trapped in a solid bear hug.

She pounded his collar with her fists, but at this proximity was unable to produce much force, and she found herself being hoisted by the ankles by a second pair of hands.

Her squirming, howling body was turned sideways and hauled swiftly up those long, dark stairs...

__________________________________________

"Remove the veil," a throaty, forceful voice boomed somewhere over her.

She felt fresh cool air on her face as the sackcloth was yanked off.

Blinking, she took in the sight: a large, high-arched chapel. The decor was unshowy, with none of the ornate reliefs, colored glass or elaborate frescoes she'd come to expect in such places. Instead, only the rows of bland oaken pews in front of her even suggested a house of the divine. Were it not for them, she might have assumed this were a gymnasium.

Those wooden seats were largely empty, save for the front row, where sat a dozen or so humorless clergymen. Motionless and grave, in their white uniforms, faces neither young nor old, they observed her coldly.

There was momentary relief; that mask had been just thick enough, and its ventilation holes thin enough, that it probably could've suffocated her in due time. Freed of it, she took in a desperate gasp. She was dismayed to find that even a fresh breath in this place was stale and stuffy.

"Miss Betty Ann Arbach," the voice continued in that same sonorous, condemnatory tone. She looked around, trying to find out who was speaking to her. It wasn't any of the men in those seats. But when she looked around, she saw no one else.

"What is this?!" she suddenly yelled, still riled up from being so roughly removed from her place of business.

"This is your last chance," the voice replied.

"Who are you!?" she cried.

"I am Bishop Langley of the Mercy Convent," the voice informed her. "Look, lost one. Raise your head as high as you can, and you shall see me."

Betty did as told, craning her neck from her kneeling position on the floor until her eye caught something she hadn't noticed before. Sitting alone on a high balcony overlooking the main hall was a small, withered face shrouded in willowy gray hair. She had nearly mistaken the man for a statue until now.

"Oh..." she let out, feeling deeply ashamed when she realized that not only she was familiar with the name, but she had actually seen this man before many years ago, somehow.

"I suppose there is a chance you remember me," the man intuited. "You were much younger. Still a child, yes. I hardly would have ever imagined..." The voice trailed off with a hint of remorse, only to resume with a damning tone.

"But for all that young promise, the devil has lead you far afield, Bethany. That much we all see. I knew your father. A pious man, he was. A true follower of the teachings of Christ, even a scholar. He donated generously to us...many times. For that we are indebted to your family, Ms. Arbach, even though you have chosen to defect from it."

"If you are indebted to the Arbachs, know that I am the only one of them left...so if you wish to waive your debt, simply leave me alone and all will be forgiven," Betty retorted bitterly, calling up a little bit of the insouciance she'd learned from her peers.

"Oh yes, we are quite aware of the untimely passing of your parents. And of the fact that, at least as far as legitimate heirs are concerned, you have yet produced no offspring to carry on your line. But that is not our concern, Ms. Arbach."

"Then what is?" she snarled, lips trembling.

"The debt we spoke of will be repaid to the memory of your father," Bishop Langley said. "We will do what he undoubtedly would wish us to do, and in this way the debt shall be repaid. We do believe he would want nothing more than for us to heal you, my poor lost one. To save you from your life of sin."

"I am no more living in sin than you," Betty said, flashing a defiant look at the old man perched high above her. "I provide a harmless service; if men choose to partake, God must have designed it to be so. For if He wished them to do otherwise, he would have created such men differently."

"A whore philosopher!" one of the men in the pews finally interjected, his voice dripping withcondescension. "Yes, old Epicurius is frying in hell with the rest of them, you sorry trollop. The lord does not care--"

"Enough of that, Tennyson," Bishop Langley reprimanded the man, whose subsequent beetle-browed consternation caused Betty to smirk. The subordinate man returned her look with a vengeful glare, which frightened her enough to erase that small expression of amusement on her porcelain face.

"You will have to excuse him," Bishop Langley told Betty in a slightly more apologetic voice. "While it is true that we are not moved by your rationalizations, this is because we have heard them all before. Even heartless murderers use such arguments, you know. They are not helpful here. All that matters is that you must be healed. And your healing begins today."

The man slowly stood up, his frail-looking body draped in a much looser-fitting white cloth than those below, and finally clasped his bony hands together.

"Take this lost one to the nunnery," he ordered his men. "Eastern Wing for the probationary period, overseen by Mother Haywood. Set her on her duties bright and early tomorrow morning."

"This is madness!" Betty shouted, finally rising to her feet. Although her hands and legs were free, there was no visible exit save for the front gate, which she could never reach in her current state...especially barefoot.

"Take her," the bishop simply intoned, turning away from the scene and walking out of view.

Three clergymen rose and surrounded Betty. She knew not to fight back; there was no point.

_______________________________

"Bull's eyes and targets, say the bells of St. Margret's. Brickbats and tiles, say the bells of St. Giles! Halfpence and farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's. Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's! Pancakes and fritters--"

"Margo! Will you please stop with that song?" Betty huffed.

It was bad enough being stuck in this penguin suit, being treated like a handmaid all day. Her partner's out-of-tune warbling made it almost unbearable.

"Oh, Betty dear, you need to lighten up!" Margo replied as she nearly pirouetted across the laundry room floor towards the basin. The spindly woman tossed another heavy load of white linens into the pool of soapy water and quickly spun around on her heels.

Margo had that same moonfaced grin on her face at almost all times. And with those few stray wisps of red hair peeking from under the hem of her coif, she reminded Betty of a Raggedy Ann doll.

All freckles and sunshine, this upbeat young woman might've made a suitable companion in Betty's previous life, but she'd tasted too much grime since then. Such mindless jollity, in such an oppressive place no less, only embittered the fallen noblewoman.

"You've enough light for us both," Betty told her wearily as she hoisted up a new pile of laundry.

"Hmm! I s'pose I do..." Margo replied, untouched by Betty's derisive tone. "But! It is an honor to do the lord's work! Always! So you mustn't sulk so, Betty. He has given us such a great opportunity--"

"A great opportunity?" Betty replied as she carried the wobbling stack of towels over to the tub and dumped them there. "You may be full of light, Margo, or you may be full of..."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

Damn it, Betty thought.

She'd done a good job of keeping her sour and occasionally blasphemous thoughts to herself until now, but something about her workmate's giddy, complacent nature had brought it out of her.

Margo's normally smiling face settled into a blank stare for a moment, then a look of caution.

"Betty..." she began, "You mustn't say such things in the house of the lord..."

"I know..." Betty admitted. "I am...sorry, Margo. Perhaps this new life is just not very easy for me," she added with some sincerity.

"Much easier than the alternative," was the response, the young girl's tone displaying a brief flash of censure.

"What's that mean?" Betty asked, suddenly defensive.

"Well, you did say you used to walk the streets..." Margo said slowly, shrugging as a new smile was already beginning to rise on her face. "Not that it's any of my business! Carry on!" She bent and lifted two armfuls of laundry under her perky bosom and then waddled over to the tub.

"You're right," Betty said, narrowing her eyes. "It is not your business."

"Mm hm! Apology accepted," Margo replied conclusively, carefully placing the linens in the bath and stirring them with her fingers until a lather began to build. Betty wanted to retaliate somehow, but she remembered herself, and the consequences. Not worth it.

Ah, the flaccid moralism of the church. She couldn't help but wonder: was a cloistered nun really more helpful to the world than a streetwalker? How different were the two stations, really? Was there not charity in the flesh, and--given its risks--requisite martyrdom as well?

Never mind the changing of hands; perhaps that is a misleading detail. What instead of those moments when, by the sheer force of lust, the transactional became the act itself? She considered the rare client who manages to transcend the title of "client" when he overwhelms his lay with a display of skill; in that moment, is not that union as sacred as any other?

And hell, that enigmatic mulatto she'd heard about could've very well compelled her to shell out some of her own cash for a taste of that dark, juicy, gloriously large...

"Betty?"

She looked up. Margo was at the door, her hands already dried.

"Huh?" she let out, realizing that she'd just gotten lost in thought. The image of an oversized, eggplant-shaped phallus evaporated from her mind, and with silent embarrassment she walked over to the counter to dry her fingers, which by now were soaked to pruning.

Margo waited for her with a curious look on her face, as if weakly aware of something unusual going on in Betty's mind, but she said nothing more for the moment, deciding to break back into song instead. The last task required no real conversation, anyway.

"Two sticks and an apple, say the bells at Whitechapel. Old Father Baldpate, say the slow bells at Aldgate! You owe me ten shillings, say the bells at St. Helen's. Pokers and tongs..."

"Ugh..." Betty let out as she did her best to ignore the girl's bothersome chirping. She joined her in the adjacent washroom.

The place was split into two aisles. It was a long, gray, dimly-lit space with a low ceiling and jagged tiling that spoke to a degree of disregard. This was merely part of the probationary nuns' barracks, modeled very intentionally after the architecture seen in a prison. A far cry from the public-facing side of the church.

Sponges, buckets and mops were drawn out of a locker. Margo got to cleaning the rightmost aisle, placing her out of sight with only her incessant humming and limerick-reciting there to remind Betty of her unique presence.

"Kettles and pans, say the bells at St. Ann's! When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey..."

Betty went about taking care of the leftmost aisle, some of her earlier thoughts still sat in her mind. Her attentions were shifted when she spotted some steel devices lined up along the far end of the aisle that she'd never seen before.

They looked rather clinical to her, with bulky desk-like bases and long slender poles which suspended rubber bags. She thought at first they might perhaps be used for blood transfusion, but that didn't seem quite right. She decided to engage Margo on the subject, figuring it would at least halt the singing for a moment.

"Hey, Margo," Betty called. "Have you any idea what these are?" She pointed at the devices clustered together and waited for a response.

Margo poked her head around the corner and squinted.

"Oh, those? Mother Haywood had them delivered recently. They are to be installed here in the washroom along with the showers..."

"What are they for?"

"For internal hydrotherapy," Margo said in a proud, singsong manner.

"Come again?" Betty said, slowly grasping the essential meaning but finding it quite incongruous with the site of a church washroom.

"You know, enemas," Margo innocently confirmed. "Mother Haywood met with a nutritionist named Kellogg earlier this year, you see. Have you heard of him?"

"No."

"Well, his investigations impressed her so much that she has sought to incorporate them into our regimen. Cleanliness is next to godliness, and that means inside and out!"

Betty's thick eyebrows raised in barely-concealed interest. "Is that so?" she asked.

"Why, yes. Interior ablutions are shown to be quite healthy, the doctors are saying. Normally these'd be too expensive for common folk like us, mayor Haden has been very generous with the church this year. Oh, such a wonderful man he is! So, soon we will incorporate them into our usual routine."

"Our...usual routine?" Betty asked, nodding casually.

"Why yes," Margo naively said with an enthusiastic nod. "You know, we shower our outsides, so why not the rest..."

"I see," Betty replied.

"Mm hm! We just had the clysters arrive today. The enemas should be fully installed by next week. I admit they seem a little uncomfortable, but Mother Haywood always knows what is best!"

"Perhaps she does..." Betty said quietly, her heartbeat accelerating at this peculiar news.

She could see that Margo had no inkling of anything potentially perverse about this. Likely Mother Haywood had none, either--that old hag certainly seemed straight-laced enough.

"Margo, how exactly does one operate one of these?" Betty asked, trying her best not to let on just how suddenly excited she'd become. Under her habit she could feel blood rush to those tender parts that had gone neglected for too many days.

"Oh! Well, let's see..." Margo placed her mop to rest against the wall and joined Betty. She eyed the equipment for a moment, placing her palms on the narrow cushioned surface. It was lined with wax paper that crackled beneath her fingers.

"I think you lay belly-down on this," she said, "much like the exam table at the doctor I s'ppose. And then, this thing is filled with room-temperature soap water with a dash of vegetable oil..." she said, pointing to the somewhat comical-looking red rubber bag affixed to one of the poles.

"Go on," Betty said, feeling her thick nipples tighten beneath that black veil.

"So then...once the bag is full, you attach the clyster to the nozzle like this....and then you...erm..."

Margo paused with the shiny silver syringe in her hand, its long affixed cord dangling low as jumprope from the machine's hooks, and looked for the first time slightly shy.

"What then?" Betty probed with that same unassuming tone.

"Oh. Well, then you have to...push this part into your, um, rear end, I s'pose..."

Betty paused and pretended to look shocked. This only stoked Margo's amorphous feeling of unease, as Betty had hoped.

"I'm sorry, I guess that sounds...not right! I mean, it is completely necessary, is all. There's simply no other way to access the, um, proper channel..."

Betty nodded and feigned further surprise, secretly reveling in Margo's confused look.

"And it is completely comfortable, you see, because the clyster also administers a lubricant, which..."

"I get it," Betty finally said mercifully.

"Oh. Yes. Well. That is...how it works, then," Margo said, putting the syringe back on its holster and stepping away.

"Well, I am pretty much done cleaning my aisle," Betty said, changing the subject. "Were you done with yours?"

"Oh! Yes! How silly, I had finished a few minutes ago but I had gotten so wrapped up in singing and so on..."

"You know Margo, you should be in a chorus line, not in a habit," Betty teased with a grin, her suddenly playful nature taking the girl aback slightly.

"Ah...that's funny! But I don't think they'd have me with my cat's mewl! A, uh, girl's got to know her place, yes?" Margo stuttered.

"We're in no danger of forgetting that around here," Betty said with wry detachment.

She disengaged the girl and walked swiftly out of the room, back up towards the east cloister with a wide smile. As she turned the corner, she heard a slight ripping sound, and then her progress was halted by a sudden jerk.

"Oh, bother..." she mumbled as she looked back to see that her robe was caught in the gargoyle's maw of a steel bannister.

Impatiently she grabbed the cloth and whipped it until it came loose, then continued on her way without bothering to asses the damage.

Whatever it was, it could be sewn up later. Besides, her mind was already racing towards her next plan.

_________________________________________

Mother Haywood was a humorless woman if there ever was one. Her face, bloodless and chapped, was almost perpetually pinched in an expression of mild dissatisfaction with the universe.

The only thing approaching a smile in her repertoire was the occasional raised eyebrow she would offer in those rare moments when she was pleasantly surprised. This was such the case on the particular Monday morning that Betty had come to visit her.

That the harlot-in-reform even thought to seek her council was surprise enough; up until that point, Betty had been nothing but a font of morose disinterest and flippancy in her eyes.

Mother Haywood's voice crackled with a subtle enthusiasm as she addressed Betty from across a colossal, neatly-arranged desk.

"Sister Arbach, perhaps there is more to you than we thought," she began before pausing to clear her throat in that same loud, phlegmatic way she always did. "Perhaps, perhaps..."

Betty did her best to conceal her displeasure with this casual condescension, choosing to smile with even more forcefulness.

Her cheeks were becoming tired of all this disingenuous beaming; she'd already had to smile her way through a preliminary interview with a pack of deaconesses just to win an opportunity to see Mother Haywood.

"Let me ask you. What specific interest do you have in colonic irrigation, specifically?" the woman asked, leaning forward in her seat and offering Betty an interrogative stare.

The suspicion in her voice was palpable; even if she didn't know the specifics of Betty's prior infamy, it was clear that she was on the lookout for any relapses of piety she might present.

This was of course the most important part of the meeting. If Betty could not build trust now, she never would. And without missing a beat, she cocked her head slightly and feigned pure innocence in response.