Merry Sister Mary and the One and Only Killer

7: Sister Mary Jokes About Cock

So far I had met three of the four Stanton children. Each one a clever mix of emotions and maturity. Michael was still my favorite, perhaps since I had a crush on him. Gloria seemed rather to herself, a rebel looking for excitement in this dull town. And Pearl, my lord in heaven, needed an exorcism fast. Yet, though my interaction with Pearl was short, I could see a lot of my younger self reflected in her.

Not many people know my past. Probably since it was not a happy one to tell. I was born in Stratford, London. Orphaned as a baby, I was left on the church steps in the midst of a terrible rainstorm. The nuns took me in and raised me much to their later regret. My mother was the superior of them, Mother Henrietta, a charming old skeleton with a nose longer than her forearm. She was strict but kind and always wanted the best for me even though I found ways of disappointing her on every occasion.

I admit I was not the easiest child to control. One time I sneaked toads into church underneath my robes. During the moment of silent prayer they started croaking. Then when everyone was adequately curious I released them like a plague of Egypt. "A plague of frogs!" I screamed as the toads leapt out of the folds of my dress and under the pews. I learned that many sisters of the cloth did not enjoy animals, and having little slimy amphibians brush pass their tight pantyhose made Jesus very upset. Oh, the carnage. Nuns crawled over nuns and danced on pews, screaming for retribution and reaching out for divine salvation. "God have mercy," They hollered. "Save me, Lord!" My fun ended when I saw Mother Henrietta shake her head in disapproving silence, scoop up the toads, and toss them out the church doors. She scolded me, spanked me, and the next time I entered church, I had to sit by her side and recite my rosary on repeat for hours until blisters formed on my fingertips.

Though she was rough, Mother Henrietta was everything to me. She kept me in line. A mother to many but for me, the only mother I ever knew. One might say, I did such ornery things just to get her attention as she was so busy with helping others. I found it odd that she never referred to me as a daughter, only a sister. Sometimes I felt like I would never make her proud until one day when I became an official nun. Sadly Mother Henrietta was on her death bed and wasn't able to attend the ceremony. I went to her room gown and all, and for the first time she addressed me as her daughter. It was the happiest moment of my life. She presented me with her umbrella as a gift, her most prized possession. I remember rubbing my fingers across the carved letters and asking what they stood for.

"What does DT stand for?" I asked as Mother Henrietta reached over to hold my hand.

"It stands for a very special person. A very special man."

"Well, it must not be Jesus Christ," I said chuckling.

"No," said Henrietta smiling. "It stands for Doubting Thomas. The one person in the bible that needed to see with his own eyes the resurrected Christ. He would not believe without seeing."

"And why would that make him so special. Seems kinda like a terrible apostle to me."

"Because, Mary, I was that Doubting Thomas. I did not believe you would ever become anything worthwhile, nonetheless a nun. Now that I see you before me as living proof of that doubt, I understand how wrong I was for not believing in you. You have taught an old nun a lesson she would have never learned on her own. A lesson only a mother can learn. Don't ever doubt anything, my daughter. Believe in everything and everyone. Always."

Mother Henrietta died that afternoon with a smile on her face and a rosary on her heart. For the funeral the next morning, it started off with sunny skies, but while we stood there saying our last goodbyes, it began to rain. All the sisters got wet and ran off. I was the only one with an umbrella, and there I stayed all through the storm in dry clothes but with rain on my cheeks.