Sister Agatha

by Domhnall O'Donoghue

  “What would Saint Patrick have said if he were alive today?” she often thought to herself.

  On many occasions, Sister Agatha had been told that the day had caught the imagination of the rest of the world (they received cards annually from Sister Regina’s first cousin in Boston), but she had no idea to what degree. Waiting in line for a taxi to bring her into the city, she didn't know what to be more taken by—the soaring buildings in the distance, or the endless nods to the Emerald Isle both inside and outside the airport.

  While it was still a good few days shy of the seventeenth, a traffic notice on the window informed her that the parade was taking place today, Saturday, and by all accounts, the festivities planned promised to be a great lark—they even turned the river green!

  “Maybe I have been a little too hasty in my loathing of this much-loved day,” she mused.

  She then chastised herself for getting distracted by the occasion: her only interest should be Porter Williams and how best to ensure that this would be the last Saint Patrick's Day festival that he would ever celebrate.

  “Focus, Butsy! Focus!”

  As she stepped outside of the airport, Sister Agatha had a strong sense that the city of Chicago was going to be extremely kind to her—after all, didn’t she have the luck of the Irish on her side?

  Now completely spurred on, the new arrival didn’t think twice about skipping the long queue. She promptly hopped into the back of the next free taxi and made no apologies for her transgression—not that anyone was asking for one. After all, the one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old had long since cottoned on to the fact that few were going to deny an elderly nun a small bit of special attention. So if it aided her in completing her ambitious quest to become the oldest person in the world in such a limited timeframe, she might as well use and abuse such chivalry.

  Sister Agatha felt that her taxi driver was terribly friendly—full of ideas and suggestions about how best to make the most of her stay in the city (a stroll down the multi-faceted Navy Pier sounded right up her street, for example).

  “Unfortunately,” Sister Agatha informed her, “I am here for business, not pleasure, but should my busy schedule allow for it, I will be sure to follow your lovely recommendations.”

  “How long are you going to be with us, Sister?” she enquired—a question that Sister Agatha didn’t have an answer to at that moment.

  Flights out of the city were ten-a-penny so, ideally, job complete, she would be heading east once again before the Six-One News. However, if Porter was anything like that mischievous mouse who arrived unannounced at the convent at Christmas, getting her hands on the little scamp might prove somewhat difficult.

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about Porter Williams, do you?” she asked, as nonchalant as possible.

  “What a dude!” the driver exclaimed. “Everyone knows about him!”

  It turned out that, like Tayri, the next target was quite the local celebrity, thanks to his extraordinary longevity and gift for melody. But since his beloved wife’s passing, compounded by a body that was slowing down, Porter had made very few public appearances in recent times. However, following numerous requests from the city council, he had finally agreed to be the grand marshal for this year’s Saint Patrick’s Day Festival.

  This honorary role, according to her driver, required him to do little more than sit on top of a horse-drawn carriage, which was then going to be led through downtown Chicago in front of thousands of spectators. In a change to the traditional schedule, this year there were additional plans in place to make a pit-stop at the jazzy Jay Pritzker Pavillion where, all going well, Porter would perform for the first time in decades.

  “There’s life in the old guy still!” the driver joked.

  Not for much longer, Sister Agatha hoped.

  While she wasn’t one to turn her nose up at a musical recital, particularly if it involved the expertise of someone as celebrated as Porter Williams, it was the later disclosure about the afternoon drinks—due to take place in the Willis Tower—that really whetted Sister Agatha’s appetite.

  “It will be a party to remember!” the taxi woman vowed.

  Sister Agatha remembered reading in her guide book that this lofty skyscraper was once heralded as the world's tallest. In great detail, the well-researched author had documented the new additions to its hundred-and-third floor: a handful of glass balconies that extended about four feet from the facade. Called the Ledge, Sister Agatha thought that it was not only a tremendous feat of engineering but also the perfect setting for a murder.

  “Of course, it will be a private affair,” the driver added. “You’d want to have the luck of the Irish to bag an invite into that party.”

  “Funny you should say that,” she quipped.

  She hadn’t even reached the city, and Sister Agatha knew what had to be done: armed with a lashing of Irish luck, she would find some way of joining the parade, where she would then align herself with Porter Williams before accompanying him to that exclusive, sky-high event, where she would ensure the chap would come crashing down to earth with a bang and a wallop!

  Better again, all of this could be accomplished in time for her to make the evening flight that she had her eye on, meaning that there wouldn’t be a need to spend a single dollar on swanky hotels or even subsistence (although it would be nice if the Willis Towers provided some light refreshments).

  How proud the convent would be of her frugality.

  Prior to her mission kicking off two days earlier, Sister Agatha would have been described by those who knew her best as single-minded, tenacious, or focused. Luck, on the other hand, was not something she, or others, would have associated with her.

  The one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old was yet to win the Christmas raffle at the convent, for instance. She also still waited to be victorious at the Community Hall’s Tuesday Night Bingo Bonanza, despite having played there every week since Year Dot. And, to this day, every Hallowe’en had passed without ever having uncovered the ring in the barmbrack (although, when Sister Concepta had found it some months earlier, she realised it too late and spent the night in A&E after it got lodged in her throat. Therefore, the jury was still out on whether Sister Agatha could count being ring-less unlucky or otherwise).

  However, since reaching Dublin Airport two days earlier, she was surprised by how fortunate she had been. Even during tricky moments, chance had always won out, and now, as she stood on South Columbus Drive, squashed in the middle of an excited crowd of onlookers, she looked skyward and pleaded with those who resided there for that streak to continue.

  In case they had been distracted earlier in the day and were not up-to-speed with what she required of them, Sister Agatha closed her eyes and slowly and clearly repeated her objective for the afternoon.

  “To cosy up to Porter Williams and join him for a post-show beverage on the hundred-and-third floor of the Willis Towers, then find some way or other of shoving him off the building, thereby becoming the world's third oldest person. Does that sound feasible?”

  Yes, it was a somewhat taxing proposal, which is why she needed heaven to be on her side and to provide her with a little support.

  When she opened her eyes again, Sister Agatha wasn't expecting Moses to have parted the throngs of people to either side, thereby giving her a clear path to Porter who, with the assistance of a couple of fine-looking steeds, made his way towards her, but the poor gal thought she might have received some help or inspiration at the very least, no matter how small. Instead, what greeted her was some inebriated teenager who was unable to keep vertical and in desperate need of a strong cup of coffee or, better again, her bed.

  But when a member of the security team lifted the girl out of the crowd, over the barriers and onto the street—and in spitting distance of her target and the parade—an idea formed in Sister Agatha's mind.

  “If you can’t beat them, join them!” she decided.

  Following the time she had spent in the Sahara
desert, Sister Agatha was a dab hand at collapsing so, without delay, the poor nun threw herself onto the ground with a dramatic flourish. She did, however, make sure to keep her head upright otherwise she feared that she might get mistaken for a large black rock that could be mounted to afford the climber with a better view of the action.

  After a few unfortunate kicks to the legs, a charitable soul finally noticed the nun’s plight and, whether it was Moses' doing or not, the swarm of people moved away from her, allowing a strong, uniformed woman, who appeared to have enjoyed a few drops herself, to lift her up and bring her over the barriers.

  Sister Agatha was now only metres away from her prey.

  Conscious that the security guard was duty-bound to summon an ambulance to cart the patient off to the nearest hospital, Sister Agatha knew that even if she were to take her inspiration from that famed Phoenix and rise from the ashes, there was no way the guard was going to let her out of her sight.

  And that was when Lady Luck made a re-appearance.

  Just as the security guard was about to signal to the First Aid team to approach, the whiskey lover's phone rang and, within seconds, she had vanished.

  At that moment, the pain and anguish of having never won the Christmas raffle for over one hundred years faded away.

  * * *

  When Angela Lawrence was fifteen years old, she discovered Nirvana, an up-and-coming, cutting-edge band who seemed to encapsulate all the angst that wreaked havoc within her teenage mind. Just like the distinctive rockers, Angela also hailed from Aberdeen, Washington, which only endorsed her claim that they were all made from the same cloth.

  In the eighteen months since she had started high school, Angela was suspended seven times, having carried out almost every misdemeanor imaginable, most notably her favourite: truancy—an offence the school felt was best punished by forcing her to stay at home.

  Her parents couldn’t understand why their first-born had so much angst. She was beautiful (not a pimple in sight!), brilliantly bright (Kant was light reading for her) and had a legion of friends who hung on her every word (though they secretly cursed her perfect skin and thought her choice in literature was a little on the defeatist side). But Mr and Mrs Lawrence couldn’t see the cloud of melancholy that hovered over her head. Kurt Cobain could, which is why their daughter played his band’s music on repeat, full volume.

  The law of attraction is a powerful thing, Angela soon discovered. One summer’s afternoon, she sat by the Wishkah River, keeping herself entertained with a couple of cans of beer when she spotted someone in the distance that looked distinctly like her idol. Unsure whether it was the work of the hooch or not, Angela decided to shout out his name to see if she would get a response.

  “Kurt!”

  The person in question turned around and waved—it was Kurt! Angela jumped to her feet and raced over to the musician, not forgetting to bring a few cans with her as a token of her appreciation for providing the youngster with the soundtrack to her life.

  “You have no idea how much of a legend you are, man!” she gushed.

  From three o’clock in the afternoon until midnight, the two new friends drank, laughed and discussed all that was right and wrong with the world. Cut from the same cloth, Angela was adamant.

  On parting, Kurt took off his watch and handed it to his kind-hearted follower, a gesture that actually belied a great sense of humour (they had just been joking about the great “time” they had spent together).

  “See you around, Angie,” he said, as he kissed her on the cheek (that would not receive a washing for another five months).

  A little while later, when Nirvana released Smells like Teen Spirit and exploded onto the world stage, Angela told anybody who would listen about her brief encounter with their lead singer, convincing everyone, including herself, that Kurt had written the song about her.

  When Angela came of age, still fed up with her lot (despite being the supposed inspiration behind a bestselling hit), she decided to make herself scarce. By means of explanation, the teenager simply scrawled the word “Goodbye” across the back of an old Chinese takeaway menu and left it on top of her parents’ bed.

  Angela, her thumb, and Kurt’s watch took to the road and hitchhiked through Idaho, Wyoming, Nebraska and Iowa. When she got the opportunity to catch a lift to Chicago, she thought city living might offer the odd adventure or two, so accepted.

  But, metropolitan life can prove expensive, as she soon found out, and most places, no matter how big, have only a limited supply of couches upon which one could crash. And so, she was forced to take whatever odd job she could find. This lark continued for over twenty years, and even though this penniless drifter always chased her tail, Chicago had become her adopted home.

  More recently, the now thirty-nine-year-old was released from her duties as a postwoman due to her inability to actually place the letters safely in the letterbox (she merely copied the young, careless paperboys who flung their wares into the gardens, only for the dogs to then devour them). And so, Angela was left with no choice but to seek the assistance of an old buddy who worked in event management and oversaw the city’s Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations and, rather reluctantly, she accepted a position in the security department. (What could go wrong? her friend thought; all she had to do was ensure that nobody crossed the barriers or put any of the parade’s participants at risk.)

  The night before the big event, Angela remembered that she had a litre of Jameson whiskey lurking in the back of a cupboard, and seeing as it was only fitting that she should toast the greatness of Ireland given the week that was, she relieved the bottle of its contents.

  The following morning, Angela was due to report for duty at seven thirty; she woke up at eight. She promptly threw herself into the shower, attempting to wash away the remnants of the previous night’s excess.

  When Angela finally rocked up to the headquarters a full hour late, her friend and employer revealed that he had successfully proposed to his girlfriend the night before and, as a result, was immune to any of his team’s failings. Without so much as a slap on the wrist, Angela took her position on the street corner, but she must have still been drunk because she hadn’t realised that she’d forgotten her most beloved possession—Kurt’s watch—on top of the toilet until it was too late.

  As she was assisting an elderly nun who had become a little overpowered by the large amount of people in the crowd, Angela received a call from her flatmate who broke the bad news. His dog, who had been somewhat roused all morning for some reason, knocked the prized ticker into the toilet, something the flatmate had only realised whilst in the process of flushing it.

  Like the wind that taunted the city for centuries, Angela ran back to the apartment to do whatever it took to retrieve her priceless keepsake.

  As for the sick nun, didn’t she have God on her side?

  * * *

  Sister Agatha looked towards the parade that was now directly in front of her. Leading it was Porter, who happily sat in an elaborate carriage wearing a large, green cloak, topped off with an ill-fitting, woollen hat. He appeared to be in his element, waving at the adoring crowds. The popular Grand Marshal was being trailed by a small contingency on foot; their suited attire suggested to Sister Agatha that they were probably the mayor and a few other important officials.

  “Perfect company!” she thought, and as brazen as you like, the world’s biggest chancer got to her feet, dusted herself off, and fell in line with them.

  The ease in which she was accepted into the fold on account of her recognisable get-up led Sister Agatha to briefly contemplate branching out from being just a cold-blooded murderer; she wondered if she might make a successful thief as well. Her invaluable guidebook revealed that the Art Institute of Chicago Building, located near her present position, kept a watchful eye over celebrated works including Nighthawks and American Gothic—maybe they might look pretty in the convent’s reception area?

  But any thoughts of robberies and
interior design came to an abrupt end when a firm hand landed on her shoulder. She turned around, and following behind her was a stern-looking man who would be more at home in a boxing ring rather than in the middle of a Saint Patrick’s Day celebration. Sister Agatha was contemplating whether to throw in the towel or not, but when he removed his other hand from his pocket, it wasn’t a pair of handcuffs that he was holding aloft but, instead, a large clump of shamrocks.

  “You don’t seem to be wearing any, Sister—would you like some?”

  And so, armed with a touch of her beloved Ireland, Sister Agatha marched forward, and while she may not have received four-leaf clovers, she was one lucky gal, that much was certain.

  A short time later, the parade eventually made the slight diversion scheduled and marched through the multi-faceted and beautifully turned-out Millennium Park. Sister Agatha thought the giant bean—or Cloud Gate, to give it its official title—was rather amusing. In the convent, Sister Ursula had littered nearly every corner of the premises with similar attempts of modern art. Granted, the sculpture in front of her at that moment in time was far more successful than anything her wayward friend had ever achieved—her controversial version of Michelangelo’s La Pietà had been unveiled during the much-anticipated visit from the Archbishop of Armagh without notice, or approval, forcing the then Mother Superior to take to her bed for two full days.

  When the parade continued towards the Jay Pritzker Pavillion just a short distance farther, Sister Agatha was sure that if anyone would have appreciated its bold and unique design it would have been Sister Ursula (the bandshell’s steel headdress alone was quite the feat, and not dissimilar to the white cornette veils that some of her counterparts wore in other countries). Once again, she dismissed the idea of sending her dear friend a postcard, on the basis that it might give the game away, but Sister Agatha vowed to give her a blow-by-blow account of her adventures should she return to Irish shores.