All of the good men are either gay or the sons of gods with martyr complexes. I swear, we heterosexual women are a doomed lot.
“You collect the stories of strangers?” I say.
“Why, certainly. Everyone’s story is precious.”
I can tell this woman is a little nuts, but she seems kind, and kindness goes a long way at a time like this. “Okay, then. But remember. You asked for it.”
As we taxi, I tell her everything, slurring away.
I say the word wang several times and describe Ken’s tiny penis at great length before I think better of using such vivid sexual imagery while conversing with a nun, but she seems fascinated—riveted.
She squints and smiles when I say the word, maybe in spite of herself and her religious convictions.
Wang.
Hilarious!
Like I’m tickling the old woman with dirty words.
“Do you remember that song ‘Everybody Have Fun Tonight’? No, of course not,” I say. “Everybody Wang Chung tonight,” I sing. “You really don’t know it?”
“Oh, my,” she keeps saying, and then she suddenly pushes the button above us.
I have a paranoid thought: What if this nun is going to report my drunkenness and try to have me removed from the plane?
My fists clench.
The flight attendant appears in the aisle.
Maeve holds up two pink wrinkly fingers and says, “My friend here has had an awful day. Simply awful. We need vodka and some rocks immediately. If you have any of the citrus flavors, we’ll take those. Any citrus flavor will do.”
“Beverage service hasn’t begun yet, Sister,” the flight attendant says.
“Oh, I’m very sorry to ask, but this is a bit of an emergency,” Maeve says. “I can hold you up in my prayers if you oblige us. The whole sister house will pray for you”—she squints at the flight attendant’s name tag—“Stephanie.”
“Okay, Sister,” the flight attendant says, smiling now. “I’ll take that deal.”
“People will do anything for nun prayers. Even atheists!” Sister Maeve whispers to me as Stephanie walks away. “Between us girls only. One of the perks of sisterhood.”
“Are you the type of nun who goes around saying you’re married to Jesus?” I ask.
“I don’t know if I ‘go around saying’ that. But, yes. I am married to Jesus.”
“If all nuns are married to Jesus, that would mean he currently has thousands of wives and has had maybe millions over the past two thousand years, right?”
“Well, I guess so.”
“You’re okay with Jesus having multiple wives? Jesus the polygamist.”
“You can’t think of it that way—it’s not sexual, or anything like that. He’s not your Ken, after all.”
Ha! Funny old nun. Still sharp as a razor blade in a Halloween apple.
“You would totally have sex with Jesus. Admit it,” I say. “He has an amazing body.”
Maeve shakes her head, laughs, and looks up. “Oh, Lord, what have you sent me this time?”
“You talk to Jesus?”
“Every waking hour of every day.”
“Right now. You can talk to him here?”
“Certainly.”
“What does Jesus say about me? Ask him.”
“He says you need more vodka,” Maeve says.
The flight attendant returns on cue with glasses of ice, which she hands us before bending down and pulling the mini bottles out of her pocket and slipping them to my nun friend with a wink.
“Enjoy your flight, Sister,” she says and then proudly strides away down the aisle like she’s just done a good deed.
As if Sister Maeve makes such sneaky deals every day, she simply pours two glasses. “To new beginnings.” She hands me mine. We tap plastic and begin sipping citrus-flavored alcohol.
“So you’ve never had sex?” I wonder if that would have been a good decision for me—complete and utter abstinence.
“Do you always handle pain like this?” she says. “By trying to make others uncomfortable?”
“Pfft.” I wave her words away with my hand.
We sit in silence for a time.
“I just want to be a good feminist,” I say out of the blue as the plane takes off and we begin to fly. “I really do. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Nuns are the opposite of good feminists, wouldn’t you say? Submitting to men is sort of your thing, right?”
Sister Maeve smiles and nods, and then she even chuckles.
“Have you read Gloria Steinem?” I ask.
“No, I have not.”
“‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle,’ she said—Gloria Steinem. I wonder if she’d include Jesus as a man.”
“Wouldn’t know.” Sister Maeve’s voice seems tired and distant now.
I’ve already worn her down with my flippant and obnoxious comments—I’m very good at wearing people down whenever I’m upset, although I’m not proud of this.
I wish I had been nicer to Sister Maeve, but what can I do about that now? I can’t go back in time and start over. And I’m having a bad day. When you catch your husband screwing a girl half your age, you are permitted to be bitchy, even when talking to adorable nuns on airplanes—nuns who buy you vodka, even.
Right?
No.
I’m a terrible person.
I’m sorry, I think I say, but I’m not sure if I’ve actually moved my mouth and tongue, which is when I realize I’m fantastically drunk.