Let's Scrooge

by R. L. Caulder

  Of course, this is a lie because I do not live at a nunnery—but I’m still an excellent advice giver if I do say so myself.

  “I'm going to meet my ex-husband at his house. It's his year to have Christmas with our son, and this is the first time that I'll meet his new wife. I guess that I'm just worried. . .”

  She trails off.

  “You worry that you're going to take him to a back room and boink him again?” I help.

  Her mouth falls open.

  Again.

  “N-n-no!” she stammers hastily.

  “Oh, good. That would be a very bad decision. Ex sex is the worst. You think that you want it but, then, you just feel so grody afterward.”

  The woman’s eyes keep getting larger and larger at my words.

  “Not that I would know from experience, per se. I'm just saying.”

  I forgot that nuns probably don’t know much about ex sex.

  “No, Mother—it’s really not that. I'm just worried that my son's not going to want me anymore. That he's going to like my husband's new wife more—he's already calling her mommy!”

  At this, my face softens.

  I can only imagine what this woman is going through. I take her hand and squeeze it in mine.

  “Listen, you will never be replaced—you're his mother. But, there's always enough love to go around. It cannot hurt that your son has someone else who loves him as much as you do, can it? But this doesn’t mean that she is your replacement.”

  The woman sits silently for a minute, processing my words.

  “I suppose it doesn't hurt that she is so good to him,” she eventually concedes.

  “Exactly!” I crow. “You don't want a Cinderella-type stepmother for your son, do you?”

  She chuckles.

  “No, I suppose I don't. Is it foolish that I'm jealous of her?”

  “Absolutely not,” I counter. “How you feel is how you feel. There's nothing wrong with that—it's just how you act upon it. Are you going to act from this jealousy or are you going to act from a place inside your heart?”

  The woman nods.

  “You're absolutely right. Thank you, Mother. God bless and Merry Christmas.”

  And just like that, she gets up and walks away.

  Hot damn.

  Not fifteen minutes back in the habit, and I'm freaking killing it again.

  Chapter 5

  Just Tits and Ass

  My flight to San Bernardino, California is uneventful—exactly how I like my flights. I forgot how much respect women in a habit are accorded. I even got some extra peanuts from the flight attendant—I told her that I would put in the good word with God for her.

  When I disembark the plane, I swiftly make my way through the airport and squeal with delight when I see Sister Mary-Frances waiting for me. I'm about to rush out but stop when a security attendant halts me and begins to pat me down.

  “Excuse me!” I snap.

  “Sorry, Sister—standard procedure for anyone who could be concealing goods, weapons, drugs, illegal aliens, and so forth.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” I explode. “How in the holy fuck am I supposed to be concealing a person under my habit?!”

  I feel my nostrils flare with my anger.

  Whoa—calm down, Evangeline.

  I take a cleansing breath and start over.

  “Firstly, sir—it’s Mother,” I correct snootily, “And, secondly, I'm not concealing anything but a pair of boobs and a vagina. So, are you done molesting me?”

  I screech the last part, my irritation getting the best of me. The man takes a hasty step back and puts his hands in the air.

  “Ma'am, I'm going to need you to lower your voice,” he requests.

  “Sir, I'm going to need you to quit coppin’ a feel,” I retort. “Isn’t there some protocol where you ask first?”

  I can see Sister Mary-Frances on the other side of the plexiglass divider shooting me a worried look. Doing the exact opposite of what this twathole asked, I raise my voice and shout out to her.

  “He thinks nuns are drug smugglers!”

  The normally placid sister’s face purples with rage. Sister Mary-Francis slams her hands on her hips and yells that she is no drug smuggler—she’s a devout bride of Christ! After her rant, I give the security attendant the stink eye.

  “See?. Now, you're pissing off God’s wife—and you know what they say: pissy wife, pissy life. God is going to makes yours a living Hell for sure now.”

  The man smooths the front of his shirt nervously.

  “Ma'am, we have to make sure that you are not hiding anything—it’s nothing personal, I swear!”

  “You want to see if I'm hiding anything under here?!” I demand. “Well, take a look!”

  I whip up my habit, and it catches in my wimple.

  Of course, I forget that I'm not wearing anything underneath—I really need to look into whether nuns wear stuff underneath their habits.

  The security guard’s eyes bulge.

  “I told you!” I cry triumphantly. “Just a pair of jublees and a vag that's been ravaged by pregnancy!”

  I abruptly stop because nuns probably aren't giving birth—unless they're widowed nuns. I suppose that I could be that. I decide to go down that avenue and announce that I’m a widowed nun in a sniffly manner. The man is now apologizing profusely.

  Nothing like making a nun cry and desecrate herself to make a man feel guilty.

  “Well, no one can judge but God,” I say as I lower my habit back in place, “But you're probably going to Hell for this, just saying.”

  I march out of the terminal with those parting words, never looking back at the guy.

  Sister Mary-Frances takes my hand and practically drags me out of the airport as she chokes on her laughter.

  “How could we have ever thought that you were actually a Mother?” she giggles.

  I look at her.

  “I am a mother,” I remind.

  She smiles.

  “How is my Godchild?”

  “Curious,” I respond dryly. “Gabe never stops asking questions.”

  “There's nothing wrong with curiosity,” Sister Mary-Frances defends.

  “No, but I'm usually the one who answers him; then, I get yelled at by my husbands.”

  Her laughter rings out around us again.

  “I can see that.”

  “So, what's going on at the convent?” I ask, turning the conversation as we get into her car.

  “Well, as you know, Mother Agnes is sick and has left to recover, and Sister Agatha went to visit her family for Christmas this year—we take turns every holiday. With both of them gone, we’re really understaffed for the Christmas charity. I just don't know how to do it on my own. Like, I said, Mother Agnes became ill before she planned anything. I remember when you were Mother that we had a potluck dinner—we raised so much money. I was hoping you could do that again for us.”

  I blanch.

  I kind of want to tell her that I brought in so much money because I hookered myself out and was stealing from the rich snobs who came to my potluck—not because the potluck was a community success.

  And I definitely can't do that again now that I’m married.

  For sure my husbands would frown upon that—hookering myself out, I mean. They probably would frown upon me stealing from other people, too. They are such lovable goody-goodies.

  But me?

  I was raised in the world of hard knocks.

  I had—have—no qualms taking from those who don’t want for anything, to give to those who do.

  “Why don’t you do what you did in the past?” I suggest.

  “We used to hold a toy charity run, but another parish is doing it this year because Mother Agnes became sick and forgot to organize it.

  “Ok, well, don’t worry. We’ll think of something—not a potluck—but something similar.”

  I look out my window as Sister Mary-Francis drives. San Bernardino hasn’t changed a bit, but I still drin
k in all the familiar sights of my old town—a town that I didn't really get to see very much of because I’d always been cooped up in Walker's hellhole.

  Everything reminds me of how appreciative I am for my freedom, for my life, for my husbands, for my son—for it all.

  When Sister Mary-Francis pulls up in front of the convent, a burst of joy blooms inside of me. I really have missed the sister so much—this is the place where I was accepted completely and without question for the first time in my life. It also led to me meeting my future husbands, and Father McMann.

  Lucky old goat—he’s off visiting his sister in Florida.

  But I guess I can't complain because I'm in California and the weather is gorgeous.

  Bright and sunny—exactly how Christmas should be—unlike up in Wyoming.

  “We’re here!” Sister Mary-Frances announces. “Why are you staring at the sun?”

  “I’m trying to remember its warmth. Everything back home is white and cold.”

  She chuckles.

  “Not a fan of snow?”

  “Nobody is a fan of snow. Surely it is something that the Devil made—evil bastard.”

  Sister Mary-Francis laughs again.

  “Tut tut, language, Mother!”

  I flash her a grin.

  I guess that I better watch my motherfucking mouth for a few days.

  Chapter 6

  When the Mother Is Away, the Nuns Will Play

  When I arrive at the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I grab my carry-on and quickly follow Sister Mary-Francis inside. It feels like coming home, seeing all the other sisters’ faces fill me with happiness. I practically tackle everyone into a bear hug as we greet one another. Everyone is here but Mother Agnes, and I cherish being with them after not visiting for so long.

  “So, how is everything going?” I finally ask once we’re settled into the common area.

  “We’re stressed,” Sister Bernadette gushes. “There’s so much on our plates to do!”

  All the other nuns agree, adding in how Christmas is a joyous—but busy—time of year. Each of them describes everything that must be done at the church and for the various activities planned for the season.

  “That’s a lot!” I exclaim when they finish. “You definitely need help. Don’t worry. Sister Mary-Francis has filled me in on the detail about the charity, and I’m thinking of. . . something. Let’s talk over dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Sister Rachel asks.

  “Yeah—don’t worry about making anything. I’ll cook tonight!”

  She gives me a delighted smile.

  “Thank you!”

  “Sister Mary-Francis, can I go to the grocery store?”

  “Of course, there’s one right around the corner. Here are the car keys.”

  I take them and head off. Just as sister said, the store is down the way a bit, and I pull into a spot for ‘expectant mothers’. A man gives me a look when I get out.

  “What? Just because I’m not showing doesn’t mean I’m not pregnant!” I snap in affront.

  He quickly rushes away before I remember I’m dressed as a nun.

  I laugh.

  I hope that guy doesn’t attend the sisters’ church.

  I walk in and decide to make tacos. Quick, delicious, and it’s Tuesday. I grab the meat, sour cream, shells, cheese, and other toppings. I also grab a couple bottle of tequila because. . . tacos.

  Can you eat tacos without drinks?!

  I place everything on the conveyer belt and pull out my wallet to pay.

  “May I see your i.d., please?” the cashier asks politer.

  “I’m a Mother, we don’t need any.”

  “Oh. . . um, of course,” he stammers uncertainly.

  I roll my eyes.

  “Here you go,” I smile.

  I love fucking with people when I’m nunning.

  I grab my bags and head back to the convent.

  “Lucies, I’m hooooooooome!” I sing when I get back.

  I hear the sisters’ chuckles as I go to the basement where the kitchen is. I start cooking the meat and getting everything ready. One by one, the sisters join me at the round table in the center of the room.

  “Mmmm, smells like my childhood,” Sister Patricia says appreciatively.

  “Let’s just hope it tastes as good as it smells,” I joke.

  When everyone is tucking in, I go back to the kitchen and pour everyone a shot of tequila. I come back out and present the small toxic beverage to all six sisters.

  “What’s this?” Sister Agatha wonders.

  “Liver tonic,” I deadpan.

  “Oh. . . ok,” she says, her nose crinkling at the smell.

  I watch in astonishment as she downs it in one drink.

  “Ugh!” she shudders. “That will definitely clean you out. Nasty stuff, but what medicine isn’t, right?”

  With wide eyes, I stare as the other nuns follow suit.

  Have they never drank before?

  Do they not know alcohol when they smell it?

  How are they just slurping this shit down?

  WHAT IS GOING ON?!

  “Are you all a bunch of day drinkers or what?” I finally screech.

  Sister Mary-Francis frowns.

  “I’ve never drunk anything but some wine during mass,” she mutters.

  The other sisters agree.

  “This. . . this is the first time you’ve had booze?” I stutter in amazement.

  “That was alcohol?!” she shrieks in dismay.

  All the other sisters follow suit.

  “Calm down!” I yell. “One shot isn’t going to kill you!”

  “Now we’re drunkards!” Sister Rachel wails.

  “I doubt you’re drunk,” I point out.

  She stands to wave a finger at me. . .

  And topples over.

  Whoops.

  My bad.

  And, suddenly, an idea pops into my head.

  Drunk nuns are a novelty.

  Naughty nuns an even bigger one.

  And society loves to exploit naughtiness—so why not use it for the charity to raise money?

  I just need the nuns to tell their deepest darkest secrets.

  Chapter 7

  Father Dickhead

  When I pitch my plan to the sisters, they're very reluctant.

  “We've never done anything naughty,” Sister Bernadette states.

  “And it would really reflect badly upon the church if we said anything,” another sister adds.

  All the other nuns nod nervously in agreement.

  “But that's just it!” I cry. “This will help you relate to everyone in your community! Tell them that nuns are humans too—that you make mistakes, that you can be naughty. Besides, what's the worst that you ladies could have done? Forgotten to say your prayers before bedtime?”

  A couple of the sisters twitter behind their rosaries.

  “Trust me—it's nothing compared to the rest of society. And. like I said, it's a great way to engage your parish. Come on. What do you say, sisters?”

  In the end, they all agree—albeit halfheartedly.

  I call a catering service and set everything up for the night of the charity. Like before, I make sure that there’s surf and turf—we want to bring in the big dogs. The upper crust community that Sacred Heart serves is bound to come right in. They want to know the dark and dirty secrets of the nuns.

  The idea is each plate cost a certain amount depending on what everyone wants to eat—surf and turf costs more than chicken, right? Then, once everybody is seated and enjoying their meals, they can pose a question to the nuns for a donation. All proceeds will go to the after-school counseling program that Sister Mary-Francis runs—with her degree—for abused children in the community.

  I figure if a bunch of nuns confessing their sins isn’t a good enough hook, abused children is—who says no to helping kids?

  Only assholes, am I right?

  Although, Jesus knows the world is full of them.

 
The following night, everything for the charity run is ready. We don our best habits and give up a Hail Mary in the hopes that the event runs smoothly.

  We literally say a Hail Mary—this time I got the prayer right.

  At a quarter to seven, the parishioners—and even those not affiliated with the Church—start arriving. As predicted, most are the upper crust of San Bernardino, intent on maintaining their ‘holy than thou’ image. They come in their fancy coats, with their fancy cars, and I try not to be too judgy—but I can’t help but raise a brow.

  These men and women hungry to grill a bunch of sweet innocent nuns when they more than likely have blood on their hands.

  I greet everybody at the door—as was decided since I’m perpetrating a Mother once more.

  “Good evening, sir—your tie is not straight. Madam, your dress is much too short. Excuse me, young man, your shirt is untucked but welcome. Welcome, all. Merry Christmas. Jesus is born—born to save you.”

  I keep up this litany as the masses stream in. I feel like I should get a cut for as much as I'm promoting God and His Church right now. At ten minutes past seven, I close the gate and go downstairs to the open area set up with tables for dining. I join the other sisters on the far side of the room, where we have a small dais and table placed for us to sit.

  The nuns are waiting nervously to start answering questions. We decided it would be best to answer while everyone's eating because chances are they're going to have their mouths so full they can't ask too many—it’s genius.

  I walk serenely to the middle of the table. To my left sits Sister Mary-Francis, Sister Agatha, and Sister Rachel. To my right is Sister María Concepción, Sister Bernadette, and Sister Patricia. I clap my hands to get everyone’s attention.

  “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for attending this charity event for children in need of counseling and more. The sisters and I hope that you enjoy this evening’s dinner, as well as our answers. Let’s begin. If you have a question, please stand up and address whichever sister you wish to ask. But—remember your manners! One at a time and nothing offensive. Now, do we have anyone who would like to ask a question first?”