The Sanctity of Sloth Read online

  "I understand that, but there is a distinction."

  "The M.E. is here." Sylla's words were abrupt, as if she didn't agree. The determined crunch of her footsteps moved away from Abby's window.

  Sylla was right. This was a crime, officially and certainly, but Abby sympathized with the Director. There was a distinction between murder and other crimes. Just like some sins were venial and some were mortal. If this was murder, Abby would have to reveal herself, tell the police what she saw and heard. If it wasn't... Well, if it wasn't, she had to weigh the cost.

  It had taken her over a year and all her savings to put this plan into action. She'd begun formulating it when she read Mike Yankoski's book, Under the Overpass. Mike had left his middle-class existence for five long months to live with the homeless, without resources, wandering from city to city, sleeping on the streets. Then he wrote about it. The story moved Abby in a way few others had, and it provided the missing piece of her puzzle—how to approach the book she wanted to write.

  Two years ago, she'd read an article in the paper about the archaeological excavation of a medieval anchorhold in England. She hadn't known such a thing existed. She was fascinated. What kind of person would consign themselves to a small cell for the remainder of their lives?

  As she researched the men and women who became anchorites, her fascination turned to admiration. To walk away from the lure of society, to cease playing the game, that took strength of character. Did she have that strength?

  Abby knew she couldn't give up the entirety of her life, but could she do it for a time? A significant amount of time? Not a day or a week, but for forty days—the period of Lent? The challenge grew in her like the challenge of running a marathon grows in some people. She wanted to try. She wanted to hide in the midst of people. She wanted to observe life and resist the temptation to be a part of it.

  It was a wild idea, but it appealed to her. Ever since she graduated from the local junior college with an AA in English, she’d been seeking a career path. She’d always dreamed of becoming an author, but had no idea what to write about. Until she’d discovered anchorites, then it had taken her another year to figure out how to approach the project.

  If she exposed herself now, not only would her race be over before she reached the finish line, but she'd have a lot of explaining to do. The world would find out about her anchorhold one day, but she'd hoped it would be as part of a marketing plan for her new book. She planned to pay the Mission Foundation to forgive her trespass by donating a percentage of her royalties—an indulgence.

  If she came out of hiding now, with no literary agent, no publisher, she would be dismissed as an eccentric. A crazy woman. The Mission would probably press charges. Her father would lose his career.

  It had been quiet outside for too long. Curiosity brought Abby to her feet. She sidled over to her window, and peered out. Two men talked with Detective Sylla. They stood too far away for Abby to hear their conversation. When the huddle broke up, one of the men began unpacking a black bag. The other snapped shots of the area with a long-lensed camera.

  Sylla walked toward the squint where Grant still stood. Abby retreated into a dark corner. They couldn't see her. Abby and her father had tested the window several times in all different kinds of light. As long as there was no candle lit, no one could see in, but having people so close to her hiding place made her nervous nonetheless.

  "Three to four hours," Sylla said.

  "I can open after that?" Grant sounded relieved.

  "Yes."

  "Can I count on your discretion with the press? This month is the Swallows Fiesta. It's the height of tourist season."

  "I avoid the press whenever I can."

  "Good. I'll call the mayor."

  "Give him my best." Sylla's voice carried a tinge of sarcasm.

  Abby sat on her bedroll since she’d destroyed the chair. She'd take this time to pray through her devotions. She wasn't devout. Not like her father. But she tried to keep the Ancren Rule, the book of laws and prayers that guided the anchorites of the Middle Ages. She wanted to make this experience as real as possible. The prayers laid out in the book took close to four hours. It had taken her a week of practice just to stay awake for the process. Now she found it soothing. Like meditation.

  She would add prayers for the passage of the girl's soul to her list. She felt a responsibility, since she'd been the only one in attendance at her death. She'd also pray for wisdom about her current predicament. Should she, or shouldn't she, break her own vows, come out of her cell and tell the police what she knew? She hoped the answer would be made clear. She closed her eyes and began.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14, 1:00 PM

  CARLOS TURNED HIS truck onto Nellie Gail Road and felt his jaw tighten. This was the part of his job he hated most—collections. When he got the Basara account, he did a touchdown dance. Their house was in Nellie Gail Ranch—an expensive equestrian community right in the middle of the suburbs. The lots were big, and the average home price was close to two million. The people who lived there weren't the kind who mowed their own lawns and planted their own petunias.

  He'd been trying to get into Nellie Gail for the past two years. In his experience, the hardest client to get in any community was the first. Once in, he'd done his best to exceed the Basaras' expectations, hoping they'd put in a good word with the neighbors. He had the guys plant annuals, but didn't charge for them. He'd shaped and trimmed their trees at no extra cost. But it hadn't paid off.

  They hadn't given him one lead. As far as the rest of Nellie Gail knew, Rojo Landscaping didn't exist. Not only that, the Basaras always paid late. Until this month. This month they didn't pay at all, and they'd stopped answering their phone.

  He pulled up to the curb in front of the big house. Purple bougainvillea bloomed out front, a nice contrast to the cream stucco. A white Lexus SUV was parked in the driveway. Something twisted in his gut. It wasn't like they couldn't afford to pay him. If they could make this mortgage payment, a couple hundred dollars a month was nothing.

  As he walked up the path to the front door, he noticed that grass had filled in the bare patches of lawn that had been there when he'd bid the job. Impatiens, geraniums, and stalks of snapdragons, filled the flower beds with color. The shrubs were neatly trimmed. Rojo Landscaping had performed well.

  Carlos took over his father's business after graduating from Cal Poly San Luis Obisbo with a degree in horticulture. Before graduating he'd had other plans. He'd wanted to work for one of the big nurseries, climb the corporate ladder. He'd hoped to travel, see other areas of the country and the plants that thrived in their zones. But his dad received a death sentence that summer; lung cancer. When he’d died eight months later, Carlos was left with the company and the responsibility of his mother as well.

  Even though it wasn't plan A, he was proud of what he'd done in the past seven years. He'd inherited two trucks and a handful of employees. He now had six trucks, and fifteen guys working for him. He straightened, and rang the bell.

  Church bells chimed on the other side of the door, when they died away everything got quiet. No footsteps. Nothing. He pushed the button again and waited. Nada. He knocked, three times. Loud, because he was frustrated more than anything else. Either no one was home, even though there was a car in the driveway, or someone had decided to ignore him. The bright red Rojo truck was hard to miss.

  Carlos ran a hand through his hair. He looked through one of the beveled glass sidelights that framed the door. He could see a curved staircase, a gaudy crystal chandelier, and a black and white checked floor. But no person.

  A vase of dahlias sat on a table near the door. They looked fresh, not wilted. He felt relieved. Sometimes people moved without telling him. Over the years his teams had mowed and trimmed foreclosures, sometimes for weeks, before he found out the owners were gone.

  He wrote a note and attached it to an envelope with URGENT! printed in red ink. He slipped the pages halfwa
y under the front mat and got into his truck. Before pulling out, he checked his phone for messages. There were two. One from his office manager, Gab, and one from Rosie Ring, an interior designer he traded leads with. But there was still nothing from Abby. Where the hell was she?

  ***

  "Phone." Gab slid a wad of gum into one cheek. Carlos had just walked in the door, and phone call or not, his first stop was going to be the coffee pot. He couldn't think without a shot of caffeine. He'd been up since 4:30. He met with the crews first thing every morning to go over the day's agenda, which made for long afternoons.

  He walked to the rear of the building and into the small kitchen. The coffee pot was empty except for a stinking smudge of black tar. He'd told her six months ago when he hired her and almost every month since, he would like a fresh pot of coffee waiting for him when he was done with morning rounds. But Gab didn't like coffee.

  He thought about cleaning the pot and starting a fresh batch, but didn't. It might be faster to do it himself, but it was the principle of the thing. Instead, he walked to the lobby and set the disgusting carafe on her desk. "Could you make some coffee, please?"

  "There's Red Bull in the fridge." Gab popped her gum.

  He wasn't going to have this conversation again. "Wash it first this time."

  There was a pile of messages on neon pink sticky notes on the corner of her desk. Gab liked pink. He read the first note, unstuck it and taped it to his arm so he could read the one underneath. The color bothered him, but the adhesive drove him nuts.

  Her first month at the company, she'd lost a ton of phone messages. Sticky notes were her answer to the problem. He'd bought her one of those message pads that automatically makes a copy of the original note, but she wouldn't use it. "Who's on the phone?" he said.

  She adjusted one torn fishnet stocking so that the tear was front and center before answering. "Rosie."

  "Why didn't you say so?" Damn, he'd forgotten to return the call. He'd been so distracted by the Basara nonpayment, it had gone right out of his head.

  "I just did," Gab called after him.

  He closed the door, made sure it latched, but didn't know why he bothered. Gab could, and would, be sure she heard everything through the thin walls. Gabriela Gonzales Rojo was his cousin—which was the only reason he put up with her gum popping, sticky notes, goth clothes, and attitude. If he fired her his Tia Marie would have him thrown out of the family.

  His office was small, only big enough to hold a gray metal desk, two matching file cabinets, and a rolling chair with a ripped fake leather seat. If everything went as expected, he'd have the equipment loan he'd taken out for new mowers and blowers paid off in about six months. Then he'd get some new furniture.

  He'd thought he'd need the extra income for a wedding and an apartment and all the other expenses that come with marriage. But now everything with Abby was so uncertain.

  Maybe he'd move out of his mother's house anyway. Get his own place. He lived there more for her sake than for financial reasons. She didn't like to live alone. But he was restless. He needed a change.

  "Carlos," he said into the phone.

  "Hi, it's Rosie." She sounded cheerful.

  "Everything okay? The guys are doing a good job?"

  Rosie was his first client in her Laguna Niguel neighborhood. Carlos had worked on her property himself in those early days when he was short on employees and even shorter on cash. They'd become friends.

  "Everything is fine. I'm calling because I might have a job for you."

  Carlos sank into his chair, shoved a pile of paper aside, and put his feet on the desk. When Rosie had started her interior design business last year, he'd referred her to one of his customers. She'd returned the favor, and now they traded business regularly. "Where?"

  "San Juan Capistrano. In the old part of town."

  Carlos leaned forward and grabbed a pen, his afternoon fatigue slipping away.

  "I'm meeting with the homeowner tomorrow at five," Rosie said. "Want to rendezvous, and I'll introduce you? It's a great old farm house with a huge garden. It's a bit overgrown now, but it's still gorgeous."

  Rosie gave him the address. He knew the house. It was right next door to the one Abby grew up in. Her father, Paul Travers, still lived there. "I can do that," he said.

  They said goodbye, and hung up, but Carlos didn't move. He stared at the seed company wall calendar that hung across from his desk without seeing the purple and yellow pansies staring back at him. The call had been better than a shot of espresso. A new client in a new part of town, and a built-in excuse to stop by and see Paul. Maybe he could find out what was going on with Abby. Not knowing made it hard to work, hard to sleep, hard to do everything.

  He'd asked her to marry him. She’d said she wasn't ready. Maybe he should have suspected her answer, but the refusal was a slap to his ego, and he'd said some things he shouldn't have. He'd had a lot of time to think about it, a month precisely. He realized he should have known he was pushing her. But he wanted it. It was time. They’d been dating almost three years.

  He left her alone for four weeks. They both needed to cool off, and he'd wanted to show he respected her. But when he did call, she didn't answer. He'd left at least five messages by now. She hadn't answered any of them. She couldn't still be mad at him. Could she? He pushed away from the desk, suddenly too restless to do paper work.

  "You leaving already?" Gab said when he walked out of his office.

  "I'm going to check on the crews. Make sure the guys give you their time cards when they drop off the equipment, would you? Paychecks are due next week."

  She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. "I have a problem."

  He scratched the back of his neck. Impatience made him itch. "Getting everything to payroll is your job, so what's the problem?"

  "Armando is the problem."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I got a client complaint about him."

  "What happened?"

  "He wasn't, like, he wasn't thoughtful." Gab stared at her hands for a long moment before continuing, then said, "He didn't shut off the blower when she walked by. Her dog flipped out, tried to run, and she almost fell."

  "Was she hurt?"

  "No. But she could have been."

  "Who was it? Should I call her?"

  "Mrs. Fitzgerald. No, I handled it. I gave her one week free service and promised I'd talk to Armando."

  Carlos relaxed when he heard it was Mrs. Fitzgerald. She complained on average once per quarter. But Gab knew this and had handled her fine the last time it had happened. He wondered why she was bringing it up now. "Do you want me talk to Armando?"

  She tightened her lips and tried to look tough. It might have worked except for one cheek puffed out like a chipmunk's because of the wad of gum in her face. "I'll do it."

  It was Carlos's turn to pause. He'd asked Gab to handle the first tier of customer complaints. She generally only brought things to him if there were repeat offenses or there was the possibility of losing a client. On the surface, not noticing Mrs. Fitzgerald and her dog while the blower was on seemed harmless enough. He hadn't had any other complaints about Armando. But Gab seemed more upset than she should. "Okay. Let me know." He turned toward the door.

  "Hey, I'm gonna have to throw out that whole pot of coffee," she called after him.

  Whatever. Her coffee was terrible anyway. He loved the idea of a family business in theory, but the reality was a whole other brand of manure.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14, 7:15 PM

  In today's culture, we may not have the luxury, or the desire, to do as the medieval anchorites did and lock ourselves away for life, but we could do it for a time. How long is long enough? I'd like to make an argument for forty days.

  The number forty represents transition, change, and renewal. It rained for forty days during Noah's flood while the world was cleansed. Moses remained on Mount Sinai for forty days to receive the Ten Commandments.
Jesus fasted forty days in the wilderness while He was tested by the devil. Lent is forty days in length because of this.

  I decided to conduct an experiment, to live the life of an anchorite, separate from the world while still in it, observing while not participating. My goal was to fast from the world for Lent by hiding myself in the midst of others, to become a modern day anchorite for forty days. This book will record both the stories of the saints who've inspired this journey, and my own experiences in the anchorhold.

  From the first draft of She Watches - An Anchoress Perspective by Abigail Travers

  ***

  THE MID-MARCH DAYS were lengthening. Her father wouldn't come until after dark, and impatience drove Abby to pacing. She hadn't learned anything else. The M.E. and paramedics zipped the girl into a body bag, placed her on a gurney, and rolled her away. The crime scene techs had been the last to go. They completed their investigation, packed up the tools of their trade, gathered their evidence bags, removed the tape, and the Mission filled with blissfully ignorant tourists.

  Abby guessed the girl's death hadn't been violent, as Sylla had said, or the Sheriff's department wouldn't have released the scene. But she was no closer to knowing what had caused her death, or who she'd been. She'd have to wait until her father arrived with food and water. He'd have news. But the waiting was driving her to distraction.

  Paul Travers, Abby's father, managed the Mission's gift shop. Employees would be informed about the event, if for no other reason than to brief them on how to talk to tourists. But he had an added reason to find out everything he could since the body was left right outside Abby's hiding place. He must be worried about her. He and Grant Hawthorne were friends. She had no doubt her father would know everything Grant did by the end of the day.

  The end of the day. That was forever from now by her reckoning. The hardest part of this entire experiment had been the waiting. She'd never realized before what a hard taskmaster time was. Outside, distractions were everywhere. Her cell phone alone had made hours fly by like seconds. But inside time crept inch by slow moving inch across her cell in bands of light. She'd been in her anchorhold less than a month and was counting not just the days, but the hours and the minutes until her release.