And Then There Were Nuns (19 page)

In the kitchen, as I waited for the kettle to boil, I kept looking behind me because it felt like someone was watching me.

I took my tea into the sitting room and sat down at the table to read, facing into the room. The atmosphere continued to be inexplicably charged. It was a struggle to keep bad thoughts from invading my mind. Almost a week had passed since the incident with Wanker Man at Quarr.

I glanced up from the page of my book, and just then something crept into the room and scooted behind a chair.

Was I imagining things? No, I saw it as clear as day.

It was a creature, a bit more than a foot tall, with gray, leathery skin and a head slightly larger than its body. It was walking upright with muscled legs and cloven hooves, and its arms were short and clawlike. Its thin tail, covered with small scalelike protuberances, tapered into a triangular shape, and it flicked like a whip. The creature's face, half human half animal, had large eyes, small ears that looked like horns, and a mouth that was curled in an open smirk. It said nothing and did nothing while it positioned itself behind the chair out of my sight. But I knew it was there. I had not been drinking or ingesting legal or illegal substances, though at that moment I wished I had a crateful of something that would render me unconscious.

Had the devil sensed my fear and, like a wild animal, returned to stalk me? The Quarr Abbey incident began to replay itself in an endless loop in my mind like a made-for-
TV
movie, each version scarier than the previous one. I began to pray fervently, but the devil wasn't going anywhere. He had found me, weak and doubtful, cowering in the corner with my “invalid religion.”

I packed up my books and hurried out of the room, ignoring what was behind the chair. I got ready for bed and hopped in; the crinkling of the mattress cover sounded like I was slipping into a body bag. And there I lay, eyes wide open, heart pounding, with the lights on and the bed covers clutched to my chin. I said the Jesus Prayer aloud over and over:
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
I was scared out of my wits.

At three in the morning, the bedroom lights were still on and I was still shaking, too scared to sleep. By the time the gray February dawn leaked through the curtains, I was a complete wreck. I got out of bed, dressed, and headed to the ferry terminal to change my ticket. I was not going to stay any longer than I had to.

( 4:vi )

SISTER PRUDENCE
arrived for another visit. I was not sure how to broach the subject of my guest from the previous night or whether to tell her about it at all.

As we moved into the sitting room, I casually checked behind the chair to see if the devil had left a calling card.

“Did you read the catechism?” Sister Prudence asked, having assigned homework during her last visit.

Catechism, Schmaticism! What we need is an exorcism!!

Actually, I
had
scanned the catechism—at three in the morning while I was holding off Satan.

“Yes, some of it,” I replied. “The creeds of the Catholic and Anglican faiths are virtually identical.”

A pained expression appeared on her face, and she heaved a sigh of frustration.

I was getting mightily frustrated, too. Sister Prudence could never see my side of things. I wanted to tell her that all this baloney about apostolic succession was petty crap. That Jesus would be incensed by our preoccupation with such arcane silliness. As a progressive, creative thinker, He expected us to think and live outside the temporal box. But how do you argue with a nun, especially when you're sleep-deprived?

Sister Prudence soldiered on about the matrimonial obstacles to my salvation. She insisted that I not marry Colin but remain single and make God the center of my life.

I wanted to bang my head on the table.

“God
is
the center of my life,” I said with exasperation. “He is all I think about. That's why I want to be a nun.”

Honestly, it was like being waterboarded.

She gave me another pained and pitied look. I felt like Madeline being lectured by Miss Clavel (and then my mind, which tends to go off on tangents, wondered,
Why was Miss Clavel, who was clearly a nun, never referred to as Sister Clavel?
)

Back to Sister Prudence.

We were just not going to see eye to eye, so I changed the subject and asked Sister Prudence about her habit. When all else fails, you can usually level the playing field with a woman by talking about her clothes.

“Do you ever wear civvies?”

She looked as shocked as if I had asked her whether she wore a G-string.

“Certainly not!”

I was going to mention that most sisters of my acquaintance rarely wore their habit anymore, but then I remembered that most of those sisters were Anglican, and I could not bear to give Sister Prudence more anti-Anglican ammunition.

“This is the only outfit I have, aside from the shorter version, which is worn when we're doing chores. And the one we wear to bed.”

“You wear a habit to bed?”

“Of course.”

I wanted details. What does a night habit look like? Was it a stiff black shift, or a long, creamy diaphanous number? Nightgown? Flannel
PJ
s with an angel print on them? There was no time to ask, because Sister Prudence was controlling the conversation.

“I am adamant about wearing the habit,” she said defiantly. “We get ridiculed and hassled by people, usually kids, on occasion, but one must stand firm and not back down. After all, Our Lord endured worse persecution, and we need to stand in solidarity with Him.”

Our hour was up, and as she prepared to leave, she perused the stack of books I had taken from the Garth's bookshelves, including one on Merton.

“Merton,” she groaned, rolling her eyes.

It was not a surprising reaction. Merton challenged traditional Catholics, and many of them were dismissive of, if not openly outraged by, his ideas.

I did not tell Sister Prudence that the devil had dropped by the night before. Doing so might have prompted her to call a priest or a psychiatric hospital. I did tell her, however, that I was leaving earlier than planned. She offered to arrange a taxi.

That night, I headed straight to bed after supper. I got ready for bed and arranged several spiritual books around me like a fortress—the Bible, books by Merton, Vanier, Nouwen, a book of Psalms, Father Luke's book about Quarr Abbey, Shakespeare's sonnets. I scanned the bookshelves in vain for
Vatican II for Dummies.
I did find a weekend magazine from one of the national newspapers and it got added to the pile.

A crucifix hung on the wall behind the bed, so I figured I was well covered.

Gradually, the house descended into a gloom of ominous silence. Floor boards creaked, the tap in the kitchen dripped, the refrigerator shuddered as if it had been spooked.

As I picked up the weekend magazine, I could hear the devil sneer and rub his hands in satisfaction:
Yup, thirty seconds of that and her mind will stray from that religious nonsense and default to furniture arrangement and color swatches. When she reaches the fashion pages, she'll start thinking about what to buy to perk up her spring wardrobe, and the cosmetic ads will remind her that she left her brown eye pencil in Canada, and so she'll make a note to go to Boots and buy one. Ha! Ha! My work is done here.

I shook the devil out of my headspace. Leafing nonchalantly through the first few pages of the magazine, I was suddenly catapulted back to the land of glossy ads for cosmetic fillers, cranky columnists whining about their self-indulgent lives, fashion spreads, celebrity interviews, and catty restaurant reviews of places where meals cost fifteen times what I had spent on food that week. A quarter of the way through the magazine, the decorating ads got me musing about paint swatches and redecorating Colin's flat. The fashion pages prompted a hasty list of clothes—vibrant, joyful-looking clothes—to buy for spring:
Should I go for the jersey dress with a bright mini print? What about that leopard-print blouse and scarf, or would it make my top half look too big?
—and then I jotted a reminder to myself to drop into Boots in the morning and buy a brown eye pencil.

Feeling more secure, I dismantled the fortress of books, stacked them neatly on the floor beside the bed, turned out the light, and slipped into a blissful sleep.

( 4:vii )

I WENT
to Mass the next day. I don't know why, but I was glad I did. It was lovely—lots of candles, genuflection, beautiful priestly vestments, and enough incense to justify a health and safety warning. The sisters sang beautifully, the best I had heard them all week.

It was the Feast of St. Scholastica, a saint whom I admire for her pluck. She was born in 480 and died about sixty years later. Her twin brother was St. Benedict. Theologians like to bicker over which one of the twins was the first to embrace religious life.

Scholastica and Benedict were devoted to God and also to one another. Each year, they met midway between their respective religious houses to have a good old chin wag and while away the weekend worshipping and discussing religious texts. One year, brother and sister met as usual, but when Benedict made his move to leave, Scholastica threw a tantrum. They hadn't finished their discussion, she complained, and she insisted he stay one more night. He said no, that he had to get back to his monastery. Scholastica fell to her knees, and as she prayed, a ferocious storm kicked up.

“What have you done?” asked a frightened Benedict.

“I asked something of you, but you would not listen to me,” Scholastica pouted, “so I asked God for something and He listened to me. If you want to leave, go ahead.”

Benedict could not make his way in the storm, and it is surprising that he even tried. Really, you do not mess around when you are in the company of someone who has a direct pipeline to God.

When Benedict eventually reached his monastery, he saw a white dove circling outside his cell window. Moments later, word arrived that his beloved sister had died.

Despite the celebration for St. Scholastica, I stayed clear of the Communion rail.

Sweater Lady was in the congregation. I wanted to compliment her on her cardigan, which was the color of raspberry sorbet this time, but she kept casting mean church-lady looks at me. She read one of the Bible lessons during Mass in a beautiful soft, clear voice. As she read, I completely forgave her for how she had treated me. Like me, she was a child of God, full of imperfections yet striving for what she thought was right. Despite her penchant for colorful sweaters, perhaps all was not rosy in her life, and I felt a bit sad for her.

Having been denied Holy Communion for two weeks, I headed to a pub after Mass and ordered a bowl of tomato soup, bread, and a small glass of red wine (in honor of St. Scholastica). If I couldn't get Communion served to me in a Catholic church (and all the Anglican churches in Ryde were shuttered up tighter than a miser's purse), then I was going to do it
DIY
style. I did not intend to be sacrilegious, but it is frankly sacrilegious to withhold Communion from Christians who desire it.

And then I went out and bought a brown eye pencil.

( 4:viii )

TWELVE HOURS.

Ten hours.

Six hours.

I had been counting off the hours until my departure for two days, and now, finally, it was down to single digits. I couldn't wait to leave the Isle of Wight.

Father Luke said Mass that day. We chatted afterward, and I recounted my whole sorry adventure, including my scaly night visitor. I'm not sure what Father Luke made of it—or of me—but we hugged good-bye and promised to stay in touch.

I walked back to the Little Catholic House of Horrors and awaited Sister Prudence's final visit.

In a strange way I was going to miss her and her maddeningly blunt conversation, though I wished she had taken me more seriously.

“So, you are off up North?” Sister Prudence asked, settling into her regular chair in the sitting room and smoothing out the skirt of her habit.

“Yes,” I replied. “I'm going to an Anglican Order—the Order of the Holy Paraclete—for about three months.”

“You mean weeks. Three weeks.”

“No, months. Three. Months.”

“Months!?”

“Yes.” I tried to hide my irritation.

She stared at me as if I had turned into the burning bush.

“You think I'm crazy, don't you?” I finally said.

“I don't think you're crazy.” She lingered on the word “crazy,” as if trying to find a word that meant crazy but was more polite. “I'm just curious to see how all these strands of your life fit together.”

The heart of the conversation that day rested on whether I would tune myself to a life fully committed to God rather than heading into marriage number three. I knew which option Sister Prudence wanted me to choose.

“The problem here is that you're looking at marriage as a bad thing,” I said. “Both of these are good and positive options.”

“But don't you see that this relationship with your fiancé is an obstacle to God?” she countered.

“Obstacle? Or gift?” I replied. “Colin might have been sent as an anchor of stability. When I was walking the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in Spain several years ago, I had asked God to send me a good man, a man of quality, and He did. I ended up meeting Colin on the Camino.”

Sister Prudence was quiet for a moment.

“Haven't you ever been in love?” I blurted.

There was an awkward silence.

“I had an experience once,” she said eventually. She had fallen for a priest when she herself was a nun. She wanted it to be purely friendship, but as her feelings for the priest deepened, she realized that would not be possible. “I thought he was sent as a gift,” she said. “But I now see that he was sent as a test.”

“That must have been difficult for you, but in your case you had already taken your vows, as had he. That would be like a married woman falling for a married man. What you did, pulling away from the priest, was the right thing.”