Authors: Grady Hendrix
Sister Mary did not like television, but St. Clare was the patron saint of television and she was a Poor Clare and so it made sense that they had a set. And recently they had been compelled to purchase a complete DirecTV package after Sister Helen lost the use of her legs. While laid up in bed, barely able to move, Sister Helen had grown quite addicted to the wide variety of channels and new movie selections on DirecTV and now she felt that she could never return to basic cable. Sister Mary tried to find tolerance in her heart for Sister Helen’s dependency and, as usual, after a reflective moment, she did. She re-seated the cable and then tidily installed four new brackets.
Chores completed, a day of quiet contemplation and private prayer stretched ahead of Sister Mary. Previously, she had spent her time ministering to the sick and needy until about a year ago when Sister Barbara and Sister Helen came to her and pointed out that there were fewer and fewer sick and needy people all the time in this part of Minnesota and thus they needed less and less ministering. That made sense and so Sister Mary had devoted herself to doing odd jobs around their monastery, a split-level ranch-style home located way out in one of the remote subdivisions surrounding Minnetonka. In the past year, the single-story, four-bedroom house had become the first Northwestern monastery to receive LEED certification and be designated 100% “green.” It had also received th. “Teeny Tiny Carbon Footprint” Award, the “Low Impact I Heart Trees and Badgers” Certificate and the “Stewardship of the Earth” Medal. All of these awards were actually very easy to win since the monastery only housed three nuns. The population of the order of the Poor Clares of Minnesota had declined dramatically in the past decade and these days only Sister Mary, Sister Helen and Sister Barbara were left. And the way Sister Helen’s health was going, soon it would just be Sister Mary and Sister Barbara.
“Sister Mary,” Sister Barbara called up from the front yard. “May I speak with you?”
Sister Mary descended the ladder.
“Good morning, sister,” she said.
“Have you been praying for Sister Helen again?” Sister Barbara asked.
“Why, sister?”
“Because she’s gotten worse.”
“Then I must remember her in my prayers today.”
“Stop praying for Sister Helen,” Sister Barbara hissed, dropped all pretense of civility. “You’re killing her.”
“That is not true,” Sister Mary said.
“Listen, sister,” Sister Barbara said. “You prayed for Father Malony and he passed.”
“Father Malony had just had a triple bypass.”
“You prayed for my mother and she passed.”
“She was eighty-six years old and protesting the use of land mines in Cambodia. It was hardly an unexpected accident.”
“You prayed for Sister Pat and Sister Colleen and they both passed.”
“They died in a car accident.”
“They were having lunch at Wendy’s and a car drove through the front window.”
“It wasn’t my fault!”
“What about when you worked at Shadow Grove? Was that an accident, too?”
Sister Mary couldn’t speak. She’d heard what had been whispered about her during those dreadful six months at Shadow Grove Retirement Village. The orderlies had renamed it “Shallow Grave” after thirteen of the fifteen residents passed away during the brief time she spent doing prayer visitations there. If there had been a local paper it would have had a field day reporting o. “The Nun with the Death Touch Prayers.” As it was, Big Bob’s Pre-Owned Vehicles had run a full-page ad in the local PennySaver demanding the removal of Sister Mary from Shadow Grove. Big Bob’s mother, Little Tina, lived in Shadow Grove and he didn’t want his mama to die at the hands of the poisoned nun.
It was after Big Bob’s ad, but before Little Tina passed away from a rare tropical lung fungus, that Sister Helen and Sister Barbara had staged their intervention. Sister Mary had taken the news of her prayer ban stoically, and to their faces she had agreed that what they were saying made sense. But after they had left she curled up on her quilt and cried for hours. Sister Mary had never believed that people could be so cruel, especially other Poor Clares, but here she was, judged a killer by her own order, and all she had done was pray for others as Poor Clares were ordered to do by God. After that, she lost herself in an endless list of odd jobs and chores around the monastery, making repairs, earning environmental accolades and spending her time in quiet contemplation. But she had secretly felt like she was walking around with a scarlet PN (fo. “Poisoned Nun”) hanging around her neck.
“I’m sorry,” she said, bludgeoned into submission by the mere mention of Shadow Grove.
“Don’t be sorry,” Sister Barbara said. “Just stop praying for Sister Helen.”
“Yes, sister,” Sister Mary said. She had a feeling that she wouldn’t enjoy the rest of her morning.
“I have been on the telephone with Sister Susan. She met you at one of your construction conferences. You are going to go to Minneapolis to meet with her.”
“I don’t want to go to Minneapolis.”
“Remember your oath of obedience. You are called to Minneapolis, and you will go. Pack your bags, because after today you’re going to be their problem, not ours.”
“I’m being expelled?”
“That’s up to them. Did you repair the garage door?”
“I have to talk to Sister Helen,” Mary said suddenly, and she started for the front porch. Sister Barbara blocked her way.
“You still have chores to finish before you leave,” Sister Barbara said. “The garage door keeps sticking and the mailbox needs a new door.”
“I have to talk to Sister Helen,” Sister Mary said again.
“You have to finish your chores and go to Minneapolis.”
“But I’m pregnant,” Sister Mary said, and she pushed past the stunned Sister Barbara, and ran into the house.
Enar Chakara’s office at RG+E looked completely empty, like the waiting room in an aromatherapy clinic. There were no chairs, only seating surfaces. There were no decorations, only indirect lighting and neutral wood. Enar was sleek and anonymous, too. He had enormous biceps and a tuft of hair on his face that changed size, shape and location every time Satan visited. Right now it was nesting beneath his bottom lip. A tribal tattoo was smeared across the side of his neck. In other words, he looked like everyone in LA.
“Satan, my brother by another mother,” Enar said, putting his hands together and bowing his head in the traditional greeting. “Namaste.”
“Sure,” Satan said.
“What can I do you for? You want a water?”
“No.”
“Let me get you a water. We have it brought in from Tibet,” he said reaching into a hidden receptacle behind a wall panel. “Oh, wait. No, it’s just Evian. Still, you want one?”
“Thank you,” Satan said.
“We have other water if you’d prefer that.”
“I’m fine with this,” Satan said, taking the bottle. He’d never left a meeting with Enar without a bottle of water. Since he didn’t drink water he usually poured it into the plant by the elevator, and then dropped the bottle on the floor of the parking garage. He was Satan, after all. Littering was part of his whole MO.
“Alright, okay, zeroing in on why you’ve come to me today,” Enar said. “Let’s focus: Death. You’re thinking it. I said it. We need to talk about Death. The board is very concerned that you’re here.”
“Why?”
“Very, very concerned.”
“But why?”
“Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t coming from me, it’s just a general feeling in the air that you couldn’t even pin on any one person. Just a free-floating mood that’s no one’s fault. But it’s here and I have to say it. It’s a reality. Let’s face it. Everyone is very appreciative of what you’ve done for us over the years. Very appreciative. And I think that shows in our ceremonies. I hope it shows. Does it show?”
“I don’t know,” Satan said, getting uncomfortable.
“So that’s an
‘
it doesn’t show’?”
“No, it shows,” Satan said.
“Okay, because we feel it, truly, in our hearts, so it should show. But the board – not me, them – they wanted me to ask you that
...
if
...
see
...
wow, this is worse than when I came out to my fiancé’. Okay, what they want to know is
...
you’re not here for Leo, are you.”
“No,” Satan said.
“Because everything that kid touches these days turns to gold. Everything.”
“I’m not here for Leo,” Satan said. “I just need a new Death.”
“Who isn’t Leo?”
“Who isn’t Leo.”
“Okay, phew. That is a load off my mind. A huge load. Let me just pack that up in a box and drop it off the Memory Cliff and let’s move on down the road. New business. You need a Death, I am here to service your needs. I want you to picture this: Nic Cage.”
“I don’t want Nic Cage.”
“He’s up for another Oscar this year. Big buzz on Nic Cage.”
“No.”
“Give it a chance. Close your eyes. Visualize with me. You’re in the hospital, tubes running out your nose, your nearest and dearest draw close, dressed in widow’s weeds – if they’re widows, otherwise, business casual – each breath is harder than the one before, and then
...
cardiac arrest. You cross the threshold between life and death. The machine that beeps goes
beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
...
A great wailing goes up amongst your kith and kin, your vision fails, and with dimming eyes you look up and hovering over you in a hooded black cloak is Nicolas Cage.
‘
Come with me,’ he whispers.”
“I don’t see it,” Satan said.
“Do me a favor. Live with it. Give it a chance to grow on you. Nic and I have the same dietician, he’d eat this part up. Now what about a girl Death? Ellen Page? She’s hot right now. Lost all that
Juno
weight.”
“It’s not a starring role, Enar. It’s the personification of an abstract, metaphysical concept.”
“Ellen Page was in
Inception
. That was very metaphysical.”
“I don’t need a name, I just need someone who can do the job.”
“What about Morgan Freeman? He’s got gravitas.”
“I don’t want Morgan Freeman.”
“Did you see
Invictus
? He played Nelson Mandela in that one. So brave.”
“He’s a name. I don’t want a name.”
“So you’ll take anyone?”
“Who isn’t a name.”
“What about Sam Worthington? He was in
Avatar
and
Clash of the Titans
but no one can ever remember who he is. Forgettable face, great abs.”
“Again, he’s a name. Who do you have who isn’t a name?”
“Well, everyone we deal with is kind of a name,” Enar said. “I mean, thanks to you, all of our clients are big, big names with deep brand equity. If you want someone who isn’t a name, as far as our roster is concerned, you’ve only got two options: Michael Cera’s a little past his prime, so you could come back for him in two movies, or I could give you Kevin Spacey now, and you could just cross your fingers and hope he doesn’t do a John Travolta and make a comeback in a few years.”
“Those are names,” Satan said. “I can’t use any names.”
Satan felt so frustrated that he unscrewed the cap on his bottle of water and took a sip.
Enar watched Satan drink his Evian with a sinking feeling. In Hollywood terms, they were having a “Bottle Meeting” in which someone came in, you chatted, and they went away with an unopened bottle of water in their hand. It was mutually understood that in order to make that happen no one drank their water during the meeting. You could hold the bottle, you could roll the bottle between your palms, rearrange the bottle, place your hand on the neck of the bottle as if you were about to twist open the cap, but actually drinking the water in the bottle Was Not Done. It was freaking Enar right out.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said to Satan. “It’s way outside the box, but you’re a way-outside-the-box kind of guy with unique and distinctive needs.”
“What?” Satan said.
“Chance Morris.”
“Is he a name?”
“He’s my sister’s kid.”
“You can get him to sign the contract?”
“Essentially. I might have to change a few words here and there, take him out for a couple of drinks, but sure. He’ll sign. My sister’s been after me to get him a job.”
“Alright.”
“Alright?”
“Alright. I’ll take him.”
Enar tried to fist bump Satan, but Satan went for a handshake. Things got messy.
“I thought that today I’d be helping you out, but here you are helping
me
out. This is what’s known as a win-win.”
Enar gave Satan a hug.
“I love you man,” he said.
“Okay,” Satan said, trying to disentangle himself.
“Um, Satan?” Enar said. “Do you still have my soul?”
“I do.”
“Do you think I could come see it sometime?”
“I’m sorry, Enar. You know that’s not how it works.”
Enar nodded, sadly. Satan patted him on the shoulder.
“I’ll be looking for my new Death by the end of the week.”
And he left. It was only after he was gone that Enar noticed he’d left his half-finished bottle of water on the seating surface. That was a bad sign. He’d have to burn some sage before his next meeting.
“Sister Helen?”
Sister Mary rapped lightly on the closed bedroom door.
“Sister Helen?”
Inside she heard someone rustle and then Sister Helen’s strong, calm voice.
“Enter.”
Sister Helen was watching television. Sister Mary avoided television whenever possible, just as she avoided motion pictures, caffeinated beverages, popular music, tobacco products and refined sugar. Sister Mary was very careful to avoid all stimulants, both mental and physical. But she forgave Sister Helen her television watching because Sister Helen was the first nun who had welcomed her into this community and because she felt very guilty about Sister Helen’s legs. She had merely wanted to make a small footbridge across the drainage ditch that divided their property from the road. She thought that it would be so much more convenient for Sister Helen to walk over the ditch rather than having to go around it, and she thought that she could repay Sister Helen’s kindness by saving her a few seconds every day. Sister Helen had not liked the look of the footbridge, but Sister Mary’s heart was so set on her using it that she finally gave it a try.