No Good Deed
Thursday, January 26, 2012 at 9:25AM I am hard at work revising The Book of Jer3miah, which is due to the publisher next Tuesday! This means I haven't had time to come up with new blog posts for you. To tide you over until I get back, here's a short story I wrote a couple of weeks ago. Oh--and it's based very closely on a true story. There is only one fictional detail (other than the names); I'll let you guess what it is.
"No Good Deed"
by Luisa Perkins
Worst visiting teaching moment ever? Absolutely.
Julie Parker bites the insides of her cheeks in an effort to stave off tears. Gripping the steering wheel, she relives her humiliation.
Taking Sister Green’s cat to the vet had seemed like a concrete way to help. But the hissing, snarling thing refused to get into its carrier, finally raking open Julie’s forearm from wrist to elbow. She let a choice swear word fly, making Sister Green’s watery eyes go wide behind her bifocals. Julie pressed a dishtowel to her bleeding arm and called Dr. Baxter.
“Let’s reschedule,” the vet advised. “And next time you try to get Tux into his carrier, wear welding gloves.”
Right, Julie responds mentally as she drives north. Because I have a pair of those just lying around. And assuming there is a next time.
Sister Green had probably been excited when Bishop Parker’s wife was first assigned to her, but Julie is willing to bet that the octogenarian convert will call the Relief Society President today and ask for someone else. She fumes as she imagines the conversation.
Behind her, Faith sits in her car seat happily chewing on her Eeyore rattle. At least Julie hadn’t sprung for a babysitter. As it is, she resents that her morning has been wasted. She feels like a Pharisee, but it irritates her to realize that there is no way she can salvage today by counting it as a proper visit on her report. No spiritual message, no prayer. She didn’t even bring a treat, since Sister Green is diabetic.
“What was the point, huh, Faith?”
Julie passes Greymoor, which means she’s seven minutes from home. As always, the crucified Christ marking the Franciscan abbey’s entrance looks anguished, even though festive potted Easter lilies surround it. Driving by all winter long, Julie has fought the bizarre impulse to stop and cover the statue with a blanket. Poor Jesus always looks so cold, even now that spring has come to New York.
Just before the turnoff for Route 403, a tiny figure in black hobbles up the side of the road. Why would anyone walk up Route 9 except in case of emergency? It’s far too busy for casual strolls.
A semi-trailer several cars ahead speeds past the person, and the wind of the truck’s wake nearly knocks her over. It’s a “she,” Julie realizes—a nun. A tiny, ancient nun in the traditional long habit; she looks like a child dressed up for Halloween.
The nun stops to examine a tree, heedless of the fast-moving traffic that threatens to blow her off her feet. Innocent wonder suffuses her weathered face as she gazes up at the gaudy new foliage. She stumbles as a second truck blows by her, then she almost falls into the path of another car as she rights herself. No one stops or even slows down.
Concern washes over Julie. After passing the woman slowly, she makes a U-turn and parks on the shoulder on the other side of the road.
“Be right back, Faith,” she mutters. She turns on her hazard lights and gets out of the car.
The nun notices Julie, her face lighting up as if she recognizes an old friend.
Julie waves. “Stay there, please!” she calls out, afraid the woman will cross without looking both ways. She waits for a break in traffic and runs across the asphalt to the nun’s side.
“Do you need help…” Mother? Sister? Julie doesn’t know how to address a nun. “…ma’am?” she finishes lamely.
“Oh, no, bless you.” She has a brogue as thick as Irish butter. “I’m headed home from my morning walk, thank you, dear.”
That can’t be right. “Where’s home?”
“I live at Greymoor.” The nun gestures up Route 9 in the opposite direction of the abbey.
Julie doesn’t want to embarrass the woman by pointing out the obvious. “May I give you a ride back, then?”
“Oh, yes, please!” The nun takes Julie’s arm with both of her own.
Julie holds onto her tightly as they cross together, then boosts the frail woman into the SUV and buckles her seatbelt for her. She’s probably too small to ride in the front safely, but they only have to drive a mile.
“I’m Julie,” she says as she gets into the driver’s seat and starts the car.
“Sister Bridget!” announces the nun.
Faith giggles, and Sister Bridget looks back and laughs along with the baby. The sound is contagious; Julie smiles, too.
“Is she your first?” asks Sister Bridget, still beaming at Faith.
“No, our sixth.”
The nun gasps, but not with the usual horror. “What a blessing!” she exclaims, patting Julie’s arm. At her touch, something within Julie shifts, as if an obscure burden has been lifted.
Julie glances at the crucifix as they enter Greymoor’s driveway. Up close, Christ’s gaunt face radiates agony. Sister Bridget crosses herself, her twisted, arthritic fingers mirroring the Savior’s tortured limbs.
“I’ve never been here before,” Julie says. “Where shall I leave you? At the office?” She nods at a dignified building surrounded by immaculately groomed shrubbery and swaths of sprouting daffodils.
Alarm furrows Sister Bridget’s brow, and it hits Julie that perhaps the nun’s “morning walk” was against abbey rules. Sister Bridget’s a bit of a rebel. The incongruity tickles Julie—though she hopes her passenger won’t get into any trouble.
The nun’s voice trembles. “If ye wouldn’t mind, my dormitory is just up the hill.”
“No problem.”
They pass a pretty little chapel, its gardens dotted with statues of saints. The road ends at a modest brick structure nestled underneath tall pines.
“Perfect!” chirps Sister Bridget, clapping her hands. Julie parks and helps the nun out of the car.
Safely on the sidewalk, the nun beams up at Julie once more. “Yer an angel,” she proclaims, throwing her arms around Julie’s waist. Julie hugs her back.
“No, I think you are,” she murmurs, the deep, throbbing scratches on her arm almost forgotten.
