ask in case it might be rude. Her headpiece was too wide to fit through our front door, so I stepped out on the stone front steps to talk to her.
“Thank you for thinking of me,” I said. “But I couldn’t possibly touch your work.”
She smiled a beautiful smile and I wished she weren’t a nun because then maybe she could be my mother. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “It’s a storage tank.”
“But I’m not a painter.”
A gust of wind caught her rosary beads and she smiled again. “We’ll give you a metal paintbrush and metal paint, and you’ll be just fine.”
“But I’m afraid.”
“Of course you’re afraid. We’re all afraid. There are only two choices: afraid and boring.”
“Really?” I said. “I didn’t know that.”
“That’s okay. If you knew it, I would have asked someone else.” She reached into the pocket of her habit and pulled out a child’s eight-color watercolor paint set.
I held out one hand and she placed it on my palm. It was lighter than air. “That’s it? That’s all I need?”
She was starting to levitate. “Yes, there’s a metal ladder built onto the side of the tank, so hold on tight and just don’t look down. And make sure you get Ho Chi Minh’s nose right. It’s the blue one.”
My heart did a double beat and the baby elephant sat down on my chest. “But I’m afraid of heights. I can’t even drive over a bridge. And how am I going to get to the tank anyway? It’s right on the edge of a highway .”
Corita Kent was fully airborne now, and for the first time I realized that Sister Bertrille from The Flying Nun had been up in the sky waiting for her all along.
“Boring,” they both yelled. And then they giggled and flew off together.
When The Flying Nun came out, my sister, Marion, and I watched it religiously every Thursday night at eight. We even talked our mother into cutting our bangs so we’d look like Sally Field.
It was all fun and games until Marion decided to make mefly. She was four years older so she should have known better, but one day she wrapped me in a sheet and helped me climb up and stand on my bed. It was an iron cottage bed that had belonged to some old dead relative, and it was painted a shiny white. Marion stood on the bed and gave me ten fingers to stand on the slippery footboard, which seemed a hundred feet high.
I was trying really hard not to cry. “I don’t think I can fly,” I whispered. I twisted around to keep from falling forward and ended up mostly on the bed. My head hit the edge of the metal frame. When Marion dabbed at my face with a corner of the sheet, it turned really, really red.
“Don’t tell Mom,” she hissed, so I started to scream. Then Marion started to scream as if she were the one bleeding, so I screamed louder. When our mother came running in, she screamed, too, then ordered us both out to the car. My mother hated blood and she hated to drive and money didn’t grow on trees. By the time we found the hospital, the six stitches and one lollipop I got from the doctor was practically the best part of the day.
I ran one finger along the tiny raised scar near the top of my forehead. It had started out just above my eyebrow, but as my face grew it had moved up, just like the doctor promised.
In honor of my dream I was watching an episode of The Flying Nun that I’d found on my laptop and sent to the family room TV via the wireless thingee Trevor and Troy had configured for us last Christmas. I was stretched out in Kurt’s former recliner that I’d sprayed with Febreze so it wouldn’t smell like him.
The episode was called “The Candid Commercial.” The gist of it seemed to be that the convent washing machine breaks down, forcing Sister Bertrille to take all the nuns’ laundry to a Laundromat.In a pretty big coincidence, a producer and cameraman just happen to be there filming a candid commercial for a laundry detergent called Delight.
I sighed. Back when Kurt and I were living in
“Thank you for thinking of me,” I said. “But I couldn’t possibly touch your work.”
She smiled a beautiful smile and I wished she weren’t a nun because then maybe she could be my mother. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “It’s a storage tank.”
“But I’m not a painter.”
A gust of wind caught her rosary beads and she smiled again. “We’ll give you a metal paintbrush and metal paint, and you’ll be just fine.”
“But I’m afraid.”
“Of course you’re afraid. We’re all afraid. There are only two choices: afraid and boring.”
“Really?” I said. “I didn’t know that.”
“That’s okay. If you knew it, I would have asked someone else.” She reached into the pocket of her habit and pulled out a child’s eight-color watercolor paint set.
I held out one hand and she placed it on my palm. It was lighter than air. “That’s it? That’s all I need?”
She was starting to levitate. “Yes, there’s a metal ladder built onto the side of the tank, so hold on tight and just don’t look down. And make sure you get Ho Chi Minh’s nose right. It’s the blue one.”
My heart did a double beat and the baby elephant sat down on my chest. “But I’m afraid of heights. I can’t even drive over a bridge. And how am I going to get to the tank anyway? It’s right on the edge of a highway .”
Corita Kent was fully airborne now, and for the first time I realized that Sister Bertrille from The Flying Nun had been up in the sky waiting for her all along.
“Boring,” they both yelled. And then they giggled and flew off together.
When The Flying Nun came out, my sister, Marion, and I watched it religiously every Thursday night at eight. We even talked our mother into cutting our bangs so we’d look like Sally Field.
It was all fun and games until Marion decided to make mefly. She was four years older so she should have known better, but one day she wrapped me in a sheet and helped me climb up and stand on my bed. It was an iron cottage bed that had belonged to some old dead relative, and it was painted a shiny white. Marion stood on the bed and gave me ten fingers to stand on the slippery footboard, which seemed a hundred feet high.
I was trying really hard not to cry. “I don’t think I can fly,” I whispered. I twisted around to keep from falling forward and ended up mostly on the bed. My head hit the edge of the metal frame. When Marion dabbed at my face with a corner of the sheet, it turned really, really red.
“Don’t tell Mom,” she hissed, so I started to scream. Then Marion started to scream as if she were the one bleeding, so I screamed louder. When our mother came running in, she screamed, too, then ordered us both out to the car. My mother hated blood and she hated to drive and money didn’t grow on trees. By the time we found the hospital, the six stitches and one lollipop I got from the doctor was practically the best part of the day.
I ran one finger along the tiny raised scar near the top of my forehead. It had started out just above my eyebrow, but as my face grew it had moved up, just like the doctor promised.
In honor of my dream I was watching an episode of The Flying Nun that I’d found on my laptop and sent to the family room TV via the wireless thingee Trevor and Troy had configured for us last Christmas. I was stretched out in Kurt’s former recliner that I’d sprayed with Febreze so it wouldn’t smell like him.
The episode was called “The Candid Commercial.” The gist of it seemed to be that the convent washing machine breaks down, forcing Sister Bertrille to take all the nuns’ laundry to a Laundromat.In a pretty big coincidence, a producer and cameraman just happen to be there filming a candid commercial for a laundry detergent called Delight.
I sighed. Back when Kurt and I were living in
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