If I Said Yes…

“Was I drunk?” I ask.

A woman wearing a cowl which is keeping her face in permanent shadow stands ramrod straight at the door; the only movement is the glittering of her eyes as they rove over me, judging, finding me guilty and passing sentence over me, all at the same time.

“Pardon me,” she says with all the righteous indignation only those who are guilty, or have taken holy orders, can muster.

“If I said yes I must have been drunk,” I explain, using my squeaky, speaking-to-a-very-young-child voice. “Or I had a head injury, or I may have been recovering from meningitis. Although I don’t remember having either. Of course that would explain the memory loss, wouldn’t it?” I say happily.

She seems to grow taller. And darker. I feel as if I am watching the evil version of Gandalf when he gets all affronted on Bilbo’s ass.

“You see I certainly don’t do Sunday School, and most definitely would not volunteer to spend my days off around children.” I manage to make the word children come out sounding as if I was describing something icky that got stuck to my shoe.

She gapes at me. Actually gapes. Mouth open, eyes wide, a living, breathing caricature of outrage paints her murky features. I wish I had my camera, I think. This would SO be a great picture for an internet meme. “Well,I never…” she begins but her words get rammed together in her esophagus and lodge there.

“Well if you never, how the hell do you figure I will?” I ask.

Sputtering a few more incomprehensible sounds she spins around on the stoop, lifts her long black skirts, then pounds down the steps. I watch her stomp across the garden path and out the gate, which she manages to slam with a loud clang.

“Who was at the door?” my sister asks when I wander back into the kitchen.

“Some nun on crack,” I tell her. “She was trying to rope me into teaching Sunday School. I told her to get lost,” I say shaking my head.

My sister’s hand goes to her mouth and she does a pretty good impression of gaping herself. “You never did,” she says.

I look at her a little bewildered; she has exactly the same expression on her face as when Father caught us raiding Mrs. Jarman’s garden when we were twelve, assumption of guilt through association. “Of course I did. Had I actually agreed to teach kids it would have been about the merits of catching frogs, or how to make crazy cool mud pies.”

Two small red circles appear on Sandy’s cheeks. Oh, oh, I think. “You’re either being obtuse on purpose, or you have lost your mind,” she says in a low, dangerous voice. “This is MY house. That nun was coming to see ME. And now I have to go and kiss her ASS and suck up to her.”

“Oooooh,” I say, “that makes more sense. Oh well,” I shrug, and then smile to myself as I walk away. Only day two of my visit and already things are getting interesting.

Image Credit

Photo from ClipArt

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