Justine and the bones were at odds.

The skeleton sat primly on a barstool in the depths of the walk-in closet, fetid ochre hands resting calmly on the arch of parallel femurs, a white smile banded prettily across the unthinking skull. Justine sat on a chair just outside the closet door, waiting for the first sign of motion. She was a professional model by trade, and was blessed by nature with the face of a china doll and the body of a gymnast — at least that was how she appeared before she found the skeleton sitting beneath the instrumentation of slightly tarnished hangers. On the morning she moved into the condominium three weeks before — she thought the bright and airy rooms would only complement her glowing skin tone — she’d weighed one hundred and ten pounds and was the topliner of her modeling agency. Now, three weeks later, she weighed a mere one hundred pounds and was herself beginning to resemble the bones.

“Still nothing to say?” Justine asked the skeleton.

Her green eyes remained wide, searching for some animation along the skeletal jaw line.

The bones kept their silence.

Justine shifted uncomfortably in her chair, feeling that her hips were becoming decidedly bony. Her thighs were becoming bony, too; she rubbed them thoughtfully through her spandex tights. And her hands seemed thinner, too, now that she peeked at them as she massaged her legs.

This wasn’t going to be easy — the bones were as stubborn as Justine.

But she knew that she couldn’t eat until the skeleton spoke to her again. At least, that is what it told her — what she told her — in a dream Justine had the night of her discovery. It wasn’t the skeleton alone that spoke; some vague, ghostly flesh surrounded the skull, the humeri, the tibiae, as if some wispy spirit were draped over the skeleton, allowing it to move and speak. This may very well have been the spirit of the Earth Mother, or her fairy godmother, or something supernatural. In any case, it was very weird. And when the speaking was done, the bones collapsed like a marionette without strings—

You must not eat, the skeleton had said in her dream, until I return to you and bless you in the world.

But, why? Justine had said. Justine was a woman of few words. She had always thought that her beauty, and the admiration she received because of her beauty, was as powerful a statement as she could offer the world.

Because the beautiful are one species, the bones said. We exist to be beautiful and without purity there is no beauty.

And when you return you’ll make me pure?

Yes.

But when will you return?

But at the precise second that she’d asked this question the spirit vanished, and the bones tumbled.

Justine woke in the gray light of morning more than a little confused.

She sat before the vanity’s mirror in her lacy pink nightgown, studying her face, her hair, her body; she searched her reflection for purity, and finally admitted to herself that she couldn’t really see any. Actually, she had no idea of what form purity might assume. She did recognize some puffiness in her cheeks, and a subtle layer of fat beginning to encircle her arms. Certainly a professional model, even one without purity, couldn’t afford to succumb to puffiness or layers.

Justine accepted the dream as an omen, and vowed not to eat until the spirit returned.

Of course, three weeks later, as she sat uncomfortably on the chair, she was beginning to lose patience.

“I have as much will power as you do,” she said, though more in the way of bolstering her own resolve.

The skeleton leered at her — not unattractively — with fine, well-maintained teeth. Justine suspected that a few were caps, but she refused to defile the sanctity of the bones with a closer examination. She didn’t want to question the quality of an omen sent to provide her with an opportunity to attain purity.

And how many people in the world, even the most beautiful ones, could hope to possess any measure of purity?

“Fine,” she said. She rose from the chair and stretched. Then she bowed before the closet, somewhat reverently, as she had done every night since her observations began.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Justine had tried numerous things to encourage the apparition: she’d lit berry-scented candles (perhaps she should have used vanilla-scented candles), she’d made a shrine of artificial silk roses (perhaps she should have used actual roses), she’d burned her address book — the one with the entries of her richest boyfriends — on the silver tray on which she’d served her first hors d’oeuvres at her first solo party (perhaps she shouldn’t have first copied the numbers into her laptop). Certainly these heartfelt ablutions were enough to appease even the most sensitive spirit.

But the bones were steadfast.

Justine’s agent, Ms. Sterling, visited her the next morning.

Ms. Sterling was concerned that Justine hadn’t been to her offices in weeks, and as much told her as she stepped through the door.

“Love, what is this hermitage you’ve bought into?” she said, removing her hat. It was a wonderful hat, too, beige silk with only a suggestion of pearl trim. She held it carefully. “You haven’t even called.”

“I disconnected my telephone,” Justine said. “It was disturbing my concentration.”

Justine was dressed in pale white leotards beneath a terry robe. Her bare feet were buried in the tall shag carpet. Even so, Ms. Sterling seemed to recognize Justine’s dramatic weight loss, and her small, black eyes opened appreciably.

“My dear girl, have you been ill?”

Justine smiled. Her perfect teeth were still bright, since she didn’t believe that brushing her teeth violated the conditions for her impending purity. “Of course not,” she said, moving across the living room to the large sectional sofa. She sank into the huge cushions. “I feel better than I’ve felt in years.”

Ms. Sterling followed her, but remained standing. She studied Justine dubiously; she went so far as to find a pair of designer glasses from her imported leather bag, but Justine had always thought she wore these purely for effect.

“Well, if you’re feeling healthy then why on earth haven’t you called? We’re all very worried.”

Justine translated this appropriately — her employers were burdened with unfulfilled contracts.

She pulled her legs beneath her spindly rump and pulled her hand through her hair, which was still luminous, draping it attractively across her shoulder.

“I’ve had a religious experience, Joanna. I’ve never had one before. It’s fantastic!”

“Child, I don’t understand.”

Justine explained the circumstances as best she could (since she was not a talented spokeswoman, which may have accounted for her lack of success in the film industry), that she had found the skeleton sitting almost expectantly in the walk-in closet the day she moved in. It hadn’t been there before, of course, when the realtor had shown her the property — still, she simply assumed it was something the movers had included with her boxes by mistake and so let it occupy the closet without concern. She fully intended to call them the next morning to have it removed.

Then Justine recounted the dream with flowing motions of her arms, and newly acquired dramatic strength in her voice. She seemed most cinematic as she spoke, which would have pleased her if she’d recognized the depth of her performance. When her grand oration was done, she limberly unfolded herself from the sofa and guided Ms. Sterling by the hand.

Justine opened the closet door.

The bones sat in their glory, speechless.

Ms. Sterling eyed them suspiciously, leaning in as close as she dared.

“My child,” she said, after a few moments of careful study, “don’t you see what’s happened?”

“Yes,” Justine said. “A revelation, like my Nana used to say. She read the Bible a lot.”

“No, no. This is not a revelation. It’s a dreadful prank. Of a gentleman friend, perhaps. Or a spurned lover.”

“My relationships are very private.”

“My apologies. But this dream you’ve described was certainly only a dream. You’ve taken this much too seriously.”

“Don’t you believe in omens?”

“Not in ones so bizarre.”

“Or purity?”

Ms. Sterling touched Justine gently on the shoulder. She smiled, and her face became very motherly. This expression was the reason Justine chose her for her agent, though she later wondered if it wasn’t part of an expensive university education.

“Dear,” Ms. Sterling said, “purity is dream.”

“No. I think it must be a spiritual quality.”

“I don’t understand. Is this some new religion? Have you joined a cult?”

Justine shook her head. Her hair fluffed like golden cotton candy, a quality much appreciated my shampoo advertisers. “All my life I’ve needed reassurance. When I was a child, a teenager. When I became a professional model. Sure, all the men I dated told me that I was the most beautiful, but men say that to every woman they’re trying to seduce. I’ve been searching for this kind of certainty all my life.”

And now, with the appearance of the bones, Justine thought that she just might have found it.

“You’re overworked, sweet,” Ms. Sterling said.

“What is true beauty? Do you know?”

“Justine—”

“Purity is more than beauty. And I know the spirit will return to bring it to me.”

“I think this has become an unfortunate obsession for you,” Ms. Sterling said. “But I know a very discreet therapist, one versed in the concerns of young women afflicted by the strains of our demanding profession.”

“A psychologist?” Justine said. She crossed her arms and lowered her eyelids perceptibly. “You think I’m crazy.”

“I’m only concerned,” Ms. Sterling’s hand slipped from Justine’s shoulder. “What if this spirit never returns?”

“The spirit will return,” Justine said confidently. “It’s only a matter of time. After all, I have to achieve purity before she returns.”

“She?”

“Yes.” Justine smiled again. “The spirit is feminine, of course. What other kind of spirit would look after my purity?”

“Justine—”

But Justine refused to listen to Ms. Sterling’s protests any longer.

She ushered the woman to the door, slipped the chain once she managed to get her on the other side of it, and once again settled before the closet, gazing on the bones with certainty. She was still secretly at odds with them, because she knew they contained a spiritual certainty she had not herself attained. She once read, in a magazine in her cosmetic surgeon’s waiting room, an article on the benefits of fasting, and the cleansing properties people experienced after refusing to eat for extended periods of time. Days, weeks, even months.

She was prepared to wait.

Another week passed; the silence was peaceful.

Justine left her telephone disconnected. And disconnected her cable. And pulled the drapes.

She was down to ninety pounds and was beginning to wonder if the bones would ever speak. She drank plenty of spring water and slept a lot in the hope that the spirit would return in her dreams. She studied the fashion magazines she’d saved, the ones with her layouts, comparing these photographs to her reflection in the mirror. Was she becoming too thin? Her arms no longer suffered the insult of fatty layers, and her face was no longer puffy. In fact, it was fairly sculpted, like an Egyptian death-mask she remembered seeing once in a museum. After hours of scrutiny she came to the conclusion that the woman in the photographs was as impure as an industrial landfill.

Now Justine sat wrapped in a comforter. No matter how many clothes she wore, she always felt cold. She’d stopped taking showers — the water was never hot enough, and when she studied her naked body in the mirror, admiring the pronouncement of her ribcage, the thin, delicate lines of her legs, and the exotic cane of her neck, she was overcome with terrible chills.

Ms. Sterling came several more times to her door, insisting that, as her professional representation, Justine let her in for more consultation. But Justine, safely behind the chain on the door, refused. Ms. Sterling surely meant well, but she was decidedly interfering with the spiritual process.

Justine prayed.

She meditated.

She burned all the glossies in her portfolio, which, she thought, was profoundly valid proof of her commitment.

But the bones were resolute.

Finally, a week later, as Justine sat trembling before the skeleton on the bar stool, she thought she heard a voice. She was afraid that it might be delirium. But the voice persisted, and Justine lifted her bony face and brushed her dull, frazzled blonde hair from her eyes.

Justine, the skeleton seemed to say, though she detected no motion from the jaw, how do you feel?

For a moment, Justine was too surprised to reply.

“I feel a little weak,” she said, after taking a deep breath. “A little dizzy.”

Look deeply inside yourself, Justine, and tell me how you feel.

Justine closed her eyes, hoping that this would help her look deeper. She felt pretty much like herself, though her thoughts were swimming. She’d been experiencing some pretty wild hallucinations, but she was able to dismiss these for what they were while waiting for the spirit to return.

“I feel so marginal,” she said as she opened her eyes. “I feel as if I’m so very near to purity. Is this purity?”

Poor Justine. So close to purity, yet so far away. You’ve lived too long in an impure world. Your life has been too impure, your decisions, your career.

Justine felt tears in her eyes. She wondered if they were real, since she didn’t know if starving people could still cry. “But I’ve waited so patiently. I did as you asked me to do. Haven’t I?”

You would still have to wait so very long. I’m sorry, Justine, it wasn’t meant to be.

“It was meant to be,” Justine persisted. “The most beautiful have to be pure. Purity is truth. Truth is beauty, like the poet said. I’ve always wanted to be the most beautiful. I’ve always pursued my beauty. I took all those photographs, participated in all those fashion shows, just to display myself to the world. And the world called me beautiful for all those years.”

Worldly beauty is not enough.

“I must be pure,” Justine begged. She wiped her cheeks with her palms, feeling the sharp edges of her cheekbones against her skin. “I must be.”

But the bones were silent.

She waited, but they had nothing more to say.

Justine threw off her blankets, her comforter, and painstakingly removed her clothes. She stood naked before the skeleton, comparing her body to the quiescent tarsi, vertebrae and patellae; for a living human being she was morbidly thin, but for a skeleton she was ridiculously fat. She studied the bones intensely, trying to perceive their perfection, their hidden deity. She touched them, slid her fingers along their protuberances and hollows — their purity was sensual, unparalleled by soft organs and tender flesh.

When her inspection was complete, she wrapped herself again in a cocoon of blankets and sat quietly on the carpet, smiling through thin lips. She felt as if she had only now realized the potential of a new religion.

Justine sat in the silence of her brand new condominium — whose bright and airy nature was no longer complementary — staring respectfully at the skeleton, confident in her knowledge of true purity.

From time to time someone would ring the bell, or knock frustratedly on the door, but she was able to deflect these disturbances from her thoughts.

She was still at odds with them — the bones — but, like a long-distance runner finding a second wind, she could see her goal clearly and wasn’t going to surrender to the limitations of a poorly conditioned physique. Who knows? She might even become pure enough to break into the movies.

Justine was a determined woman.