Merry Sister Mary: Two Can Play That Game

6: Sister Mary Receives a Coded Invitation

I awoke to the jarring screech of a blue jay outside my window. Groaning and scooting, I rolled my hefty self to the edge of my bed. The hole in my ceiling cast a beam of morning light upon the floor highlighting the dust. I tapped my injured foot testing to see if today it had the strength to carry my weight. Thankfully, the ankle felt good as new for God's heavenly kiss had made it all better. I took one look at the lousy crutches leaning against the wall and jumped with delight. My feet skidded across the room towards the window and that horrible screeching bird. To my surprise a black cat perched on a tree limb dangerously close to where two blue jays had called home. Raising my arms and poking my torso beyond the window sill, I screamed into the urban jungle.

"Thank the Lord! The crippled have been healed!"

The cat leapt up; the hairs on its body standing on end. The angry swirling of the bluejay dive bombed the tenacious feline as it dug its claws into the wood, fleeing the tree. People passing by on the streets stopped their daily commute so to watch me, an undressed nun twirl her head in sweeping circles and jiggle her breasts. I am positively sure one or two breakfasts were lost to the sight of my virgin beauty.

The door to my bedroom fiercely opened and the loud bark of Mother Ariel quickly put me in my place.

"Sister Mary, come from that window this instant!"

I retreated inside with unnatural speed and agility, slamming the window shut and causing the birds to flutter about a second fit of unbridled aggression.

"Oh my, Abbess," I said, clutching my chest. "How dare you startle me so?"

The old woman brought her hands together and raised a stiff upper lip.

"I might ask the same for the public you just exposed yourself to." She stepped into the room and ran her finger across the dusty surface of my desk. Rubbing her fingers together in a displeased glare she sighed. "I had hoped by giving you this smaller room you might find ways to tidy it quicker. Instead I see you have done nothing in the two weeks you have been here to make it your own space. We Poor Clares pride ourselves on cleanliness." She paused taking a look at the book on my desk showing an Agatha Christie novel. "As well as the adoption of a hobby." Her sullen face turned me. "You have all the tools necessary to learn to sew like Sister Sophia, or make tiny models of buildings like Sister Beth, or hand painted ornaments like Sister Aster, yet I hear you sneaking out at night to raid my library of mystery books."

"Just harmless fiction," I said, batting my eyes.

"Harmless to most, but you, it troubles me." Mother Ariel guided her hand to the bed and began to make it. "As I am sure you have seen, we have a gift shop downstairs. It helps fund our cause and give back to the community in an artistic way, something we are known for in addition to our devotion to the sick, the sad, and the hungry. And seeing that you are well have performed your duties admirably as of late, I would like for you to contribute an artistic piece of your own. So in an act of good faith and a reward, I am allowing you the next week of freedom to explore this lovely city and find your own hobby. It will hopefully calm and distract you from other thoughts."

"Oh that's wonderful!" I cried, clapping my hands. "I have so wanted to see the city up close."

"Please do not take my generosity likely."

"No offense, Abbess, but your generosity has given me a leaky roof. Perhaps I can request another room." I pointed up. Mother Ariel followed my finger to the hole above.

"No," she said.

"But why?"

"Humility," snapped Mother Ariel. "Something you desperately lack, and I pray that by having a lack of something precious it may make you rethink your life. Sure, I could have offered you a larger room with better accommodations, but what would you have learned from it. Nothing. This whole experience, Sister Mary, is a test. I have given you a roof over your head, but like the reason that brought you here, it needs serious repair. Consider it a metaphor. Agatha Christie's writing is full of them."