Merry Sister Mary: Three Can Keep A Secret

1: Sister Mary, Miss Popular

 It would be considered quite suspect to see a nun alone on a bus with a jar of pickles in place of a rosary, but everything is quite suspect in New Orleans. Perhaps as it should be.

While I sat there feeling the swashing of vinegar water on my lap and the piercing gaze of judgmental onlookers, I glanced out the window at the world. There existed a place of its own, a city of pure freedom to be oneself. I saw an elderly man with soft white hair wisping in the wind trot down the street with a blue dress and handbag. Strapped to his back was a guitar case covered in rips and tears. His heels hit every grove and crack in the sidewalk causing him to stumble, but the poise in his neck and his determined eye kept him moving forward as though nothing were amiss. On the corner by a band of jazz musicians was a performer with his shirt off and a back covered in tattoos. He danced and flipped as coins and dollars slipped happily into his wayward shoes. The bus passed a woman walking her cat. Upon her head rested the biggest hat she could find. She paraded down the sidewalk with the belief she was the most beautiful woman in the world, cat included. And in my opinion, she was. To say New Orleans is without flair is to say their food is without spice. It's impossible and no one would dare change a good thing. Despite the city never being on my list of places to live, it called me, welcomed me, and let me thrive.

A month ago I saved my convent from falling apart and helped a family find peace and understanding. The papers published my accomplishment. I was the beloved nun of the Poor Clares who liked to step her toe in unknown waters. Never had any place felt more at home than here. So why was I suddenly so lost in my thoughts about what I was doing with my life?

"Sister Mary!"

A harsh voice rang through the bus waking me from my daydreaming. I jumped, nearly dropping my pickle jar and umbrella. I peeked over the seats to the front. Sticking her head through the bus's door was a nun with softball sized glasses, a neck so wrinkled it may be confused for a plucked turkey, and a glare so strong the devil would back off.

"Sister Mary, get off this bus," shrieked the nun. "You are wasting this poor bus driver's time."

"I'm coming, Mother Ariel," I said as the other remaining members of the bus looked back at me. An aura of impatience filled the air. "Hold your tits."

"Excuse me!" said Mother Ariel, a startled look betwixt her face.

"I said, 'that's cold grits'." I trudged down the aisle with my umbrella under my arm and the pickle jar pressed against my crotch.

"I heard something different," said Mother Ariel as she backed out of the entrance to let me pass.

"We all know your hearing is waning, mother. I told you to see that doctor you met at last Sunday mass."

Mother Ariel stomped her foot.

"Stop turning the conversation," she snarled. On a dime, Mother Ariel twisted towards the bus driver and waved. "Thank you for keeping our sisters safe. Have a blessed day." When the bus rolled away, Mother Ariel's tone and demeanor changed to that of a cold gargoyle plastered forever on the side of a church's steeple. "We sent you to get milk and eggs with the intention you would arrive back with milk and eggs. What is this I see? A jar of pickles. Just when I begin to trust you, you fall into your old ways. Mary, this–"

I quickly interrupted.

"Would you believe that I was threatened at the grocery store and could not for the life of me recall why I had come."

"Threatened?"

"Here." I dug in my pocket and pulled out the Ace of Spades.

"A playing card? Mary, seriously."