Behind the desk, fat Sister Georgia clears her throat loudly.
I sit next to Christopher. “Do your thing, Clive.”
Clive bows to us. In our chairs, we bow. Clive gallops around the office. He yee-haws, he hitch-kicks, he yippie-skiddly-doos. He hurls his lasso to every corner of the room. When it is time for the leaning tower, Christopher can barely contain himself. Inside the whistling column of rope he claps and screams. Even fat Sister Georgia is moved. Over her paperwork, a smirk. When it is over, Christopher throws his arms around Clive’s knees. In the convent office that day, a private rodeo show for a bad little boy.
…
“You gave him the wrong message,” Sister Charlene says. It is after dismissal and I am being disciplined. We sit on beanbag chairs. Pinned to our blouses, construction paper hearts say Charlene! and Ruby! “You rewarded him for being bad.”
“I certainly understand,” I say, “how you could see it that way.”
…
Sister Helena and I order Chinese and eat in the kitchen. The other sisters are sleeping, reading, or praying. We are lit by a single track of lights and sit with the wide counter between us, passing containers of shrimp fried rice and corn soup back and forth. I tell her about Christopher’s Valentine’s Day. I reach the part when he realized he would not be passing out his valentines when my throat closes and I am unable to breathe. I put my fork down.
“Sister,” I say, “I am going to cry.”
She touches her silverware lightly with her fingertips and nods.
I have big eyes that don’t produce tears often. When they do, they are prizewinning bulbs. Elephant tears. The first two smash against my collarbones.
We continue to eat. The soup is salty and warm.
I don’t want to cry in front of Sister Helena. My eyes twitch with effort; my throat fills with sorrowful carbonation. Sister Helena does not seem uncomfortable as she eats her fried rice.
I croak key words — Christopher, robot, why. “He has trouble printing. You know how long it probably took him to write his name on fourteen valentines? One lowercase h alone takes him five minutes.”
Remembering the curved handle of his Spider-Man umbrella, I find it impossible impossible to continue. I cover my eyelids with my thumb and forefinger and shake the worst of it out. Sister Helena watches, giving me permission in her quiet, reverent way.
“I’m almost finished,” I squeak.
She moves on to her bowl of corn soup.
Finally my crying subsides. I resume eating a forkful of shrimp. I say, “You tell me this: If God created everything, why did he create the brain I have that holds these thoughts? If he wanted us to think of nothing but sweet peas, why not engineer our brains so we can think of nothing but sweet peas?”
“What makes you different makes you special,” she says. “Don’t wish it away.”
She doles soup into my bowl.
“There is a word for these kinds of mushrooms,” she says. “The ones that look like houses.” She pins one with a fork and holds it out to me. “Shis-stack?”
“Shiitake,” I say.
…
In March we plant the new garden. The sisters of Saint Joseph stand in the courtyard and say intentions as I walk by with a bucket of seeds.
“Go, tomato plants, go,” says Sister Helena.
“I am picturing you big and strong,” says Sister Charlene.
And so on, until we get to fat Sister Georgia, who looks away and tsks. “This is stupid, talking to seeds.”
I cover the bucket with my hands so they can’t hear. “Say an intention.”
“Come on, Georgia.” Sister Helena calls from the back of the line. The other sisters urge her until finally she says something in German.
I narrow my eyes. “Tell me what you said.”
She grins. “It’s between me and the tomato plants.”
“Georgia, if they grow up lopsided, you and I are going to have a come-to-Jesus.”
Her face contorts. She makes short barking sounds.
“What’s she doing?” I say.
Sister Charlene squints. “She’s laughing.”
Dear apple-juice Lord Tuscaloosa softball wonderful.
I kneel on the ground to say my own intention in private. I take a few of the seeds in my hand. No one knows what’s going on down here, guys, so just do your best. Try to be miracles. Be impetuous and stubborn. I will be here for you every day.
I straighten up and realize what I have done is made a promise to be around.
“Fuck,” I say. “I have to quit smoking.”
…
Tonight, the sisters of Saint Joseph and I are going to the Slaughterhouse Bar. I have four rolls of quarters and we are going to dance until there’s blood in our slippers. It’s June and the last day of Sunday school at Saint Teresa. It’s barely 10 A.M., and Christopher is already on yellow. I’m proud of him; this year he has not learned a blessed thing.
Today the kids will place a year of Sunday school art projects into brown bags decorated with pipe cleaners. They will sit on the carpet and sing. Sister Charlene will walk around the circle and place bookmarks in front of them. The four kids with rainbow stickers will be allowed to pull out of the candy bin all their hands can hold.
The other kids can, essentially, suck it.
This lottery still infuriates me, but Sister Helena says my mind is on overload due to nicotine withdrawal.
Each time I want a cigarette, I eat an apple. If I have already eaten an apple, I start a hobby. Or I talk to the tomato plants. Or I sing a song with fat Sister Georgia, who it turns out has a voice not unlike a cement mixer. This is surprisingly not unpleasant. If I have already done all that, I think of ways to mess with Sister Charlene. For example, today I was in charge of placing rainbow stickers on four bookmarks.
These kids will grow up. Some of the boys will never feel tall enough. Some of the girls will look great in pictures but in real life will be dull and forgettable, the girls on the bench at the mall you ask to move so you can throw out your soda. Some of them will never be able to find their keys. Some will triumph. One day a person they love will say I do not love you. One day every one of them will die.
Today is not that day.
I think when we die, Jesus or Peter or whoever will wheel in a VCR like they did in grade school to show us whatever we want from our life. We can rewind, fast-forward, watch the good parts over and over. Life is shit mostly, but everyone has moments. Even me. Times when the clouds part and I am able to summon up a little hero.
Since Miss Ruby was in charge of placing the rainbow stickers on the bookmarks, today everyone gets one.
Today everyone is lucky.
PERMISSIONS
The following stories originally appeared in the journals noted: “Free Ham,” North American Review; “Sometimes You Break Their Hearts, Sometimes They Break Yours,” Indiana Review; “North Of,” Mississippi Review and subsequently Pushcart XXXIII, then again recently in Mississippi Review’s 30, an anthology of thirty years; “This Is Your Will to Live,” Inkwell; “Safe as Houses,” West Branch; “Carry Me Home, Sisters of Saint Joseph,” American Short Fiction; “Great, Wondrous” on the Five Chapters website.