Nun

Agnes walked across the desert carrying a bucket of apples to throw in the winter lake that was still full despite the warming air.  As the lake evaporated the seeds would sprout from the rotted flesh of the apples and an orchard would grow giving fruit for the picking, bringing more rain and more lakes and more trees.  Agnes loved the long, slow, drawn-out passage of apple to seed to tree to apple, how it circled through their lives, giving slowly, rotting quietly, making sense of time.  She walked on, and the low city of sandstone houses grew distant behind her.  The lake shone, its surface rippled in the soft wind.  As she threw in the first apple, a flash of light caught her eye and something fell out of the sky; she felt the impact as it hit the ground and saw a plume of dust.  Dropping the bucket she ran towards it, by the time she reached it the dust had settled on a disc that lay tipped on one side.  At the centre was a dome.  It opened and a person in a long black and white robe stepped out.  The nun straightened her habit and tidied her hair under the white band that fixed the black cloth over her head.  From the cockpit she got out a clipboard.

“Name.”  The nun’s hand hovered over her board, she held a pencil attached by string to the clip.

“Agnes.”

The nun looked her up and down.  “Funny name for a boy. Parents?”

“A what?” Agnes didn’t like the nun’s tone.

“Child, what are your parents’ names,” said the nun sounding exasperated.

“Tom and Dolores,” replied Agnes, trying hard to get it right.

The nun sighed.  “We’d better start at the beginning.  Have you heard of the Holy Bible?” 

“Is it anything like the Sanctity of the Sacred Word or the Goblet of Enlightenment?” said Agnes.  She let the nun take her arm and together they set off at a pace toward the city. Agnes led the nun to her house. 

“You must be Tom,” said the nun looking slightly shocked.

“Dolores,” said Agnes’ father standing up and holding out her hand. 

“May I sit down?” said the nun.

Dolores gave the nun a chair. 

“This is most irregular,” said the nun looking upset.  “It’s exactly the kind of problem I expected.”

“Can I get you some tea?” said Dolores, twisting her hair into a bun.

While her father went into the kitchen, Agnes watched the nun.  She guessed she wasn’t very old, maybe thirty-five at most.  Her lips would have been quite full if she didn’t keep pressing them together.  Her eyes were blue but her face was tight as if the strain of such a colour was too much.  Her wrists were thin, her body beneath the robe appeared to take up little space.  With the clipboard balanced on her knee, the pencil hanging on its string, she sat still and upright, her hands clasped before her. Dolores returned with a tray.  She poured the tea and handed the nun a cup.  The nun took a sip, put her cup on the table beside her, picked up her pencil and said, “and your children?  How many girls and how many boys?”

At that moment Agnes’ mother walked in.  Tom put down his axe and smiled at the nun.  “I see we have company.  Agnes, Dolores, why haven’t you got out the best plates?”

Because they’d had visits like this before, thought Agnes; a person in robes with a clipboard and the person always ended up smashing something. 

“Never mind,” said Tom, collapsing on the sofa.  “I’m exhausted.”  He yawned and closed his eyes.

Dolores leaned toward the nun.  “Listen,” she said, “You’re asking the wrong question.”

“I am not,” said the nun, checking her clipboard, her cheeks pink.

Dolores spoke gently.  “It’s not the kind of question we can answer.”

“I should have thought it the simplest question in the world,” replied the nun, accepting a slice of lemon drizzle.

“Your world, maybe,” said Tom from the sofa.  “But not ours.”

“I’m afraid you’re confused.” said the nun, taking a bite. She licked a crumb from her lip.

“No need to be scared,” replied Dolores.  “We just don’t think you’re listening.”

“Listening to what?” said the nun.  “You haven’t told me anything.”

“We’ve told you our names,” said Agnes.

“Watch your manners,” said Dolores.

“Lay it out for her,” said Tom from the sofa.

Dolores sighed.  “We can’t tell you how many boys and girls we have because we’re not interested in this thing called ‘gender’: boy, girl, man, woman; those words are spurious. They don’t interest us.”

“‘Spurious’ is putting it kindly,” said Tom.

“We acknowledge the feminine-masculine principles and acknowledge them as fluid.  We leave it at that,” said Dolores.

“For goodness sake,” said the nun.

“We don’t find it relevant,” continued Dolores.  “I mean, if the roof’s leaking or the dinner needs cooking or there’s a public discussion on health care, what does it matter what lies between your legs or in your heart or how you dress or who you sleep with?  It would be like debating someone’s shoes while Rome burns.  Isn’t that a phrase you have on your planet?  While Rome burns.  I’ve always liked it.”

“You’re getting off the point,” said Tom.

“All right, all right,” said Dolores, and to the nun she said, “I’m sure you understand.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t,” said Agnes.

“I am naked before God,” said the nun.

“Good lord,” said Tom.

“I mean I have no secrets from God,” said the nun, her eyes wide.

“These aren’t secrets,” said Dolores.

“We don’t hide it,” said Agnes.

“It’s all out in the open,” said Tom.  “Dolores was mostly masculine with only a bit of feminine before I met her, and then she became more feminine when we got together, and I was Jennifer until Agnes was born.”

“Then you decided to be Tom,” said Dolores.

“I’d always felt rather Tom-ish,” said Tom.

“I was Angus for a while,” said Agnes.

“I’ve been trying out Dolores,” she pointed her right foot.  Her diamante sandal dropped to the floor.  She kicked off the other one.  “For some it’s more fixed, for others it flows about all over the place. I’m very changeable.” 

“I think you’re over doing the make-up,” said Tom.

“You always say that,” said Dolores.

“But this is outrageous,” said the nun, standing up.  “You can’t go about dressing up as anything you like.  Women are women and men are men.  There’s no ‘swapping’ about it.”

“I’m not dressing up as anything.  I’m Dolores. This is what Dolores wears.”

“But you’re not Dolores,” the nun stamped her foot.  “You are who you were born as.”

“Were you born a nun?” said Agnes.

“I’m not talking about what you do.” the nun looked like she had something stuck in her throat.

“So you ‘do’ nunning?” said Agnes.

“Agnes,” said both her parents together.

“I’m talking about sex,” said the nun, choking slightly.

“Steady,” said Dolores, and Tom laughed.   

The nun sat down, pursed her lips, breathed in through her nose and said, “there are only two kinds of person.  Being a nun has nothing to do with it.  God decides what you are.”

“Which god?” said Tom.

“I hope it’s the one she’s naked in front of,” said Agnes.

“You’re either a boy or a girl,” said the nun.  “You must be one and you can’t be both.”

“What do you call people who perceive gender as a patriarchal construct and recuse themselves from it completely?” asked Agnes.

“An aberration!” cried the nun, banging her hand on her clipboard and sending the pencil flying.

Tom sat up, rubbed his face then ran his hand through his auburn hair.  “Who does it help to know these things?  Who does it benefit?  So you can put us on a chart?  Who’s helped by that?  Does it make us kinder, funnier, better at sport or maths or painting, more compassionate, more able to build community and live peaceably together?  Does it solve world hunger or rising tides?  Will it make people drop their weapons?  At best it’s meaningless, at worst it’s unhelpful.” 

“But you use the language,” said the nun, raising her voice. “He, She, I’ve heard you.”

“It doesn’t imply anything other than itself.”

“It’s easier,” added Dolores.

“And it’s really hard to tell stories without them,” said Agnes.

“But there are only men and women,” cried the nun.

“Really?” said Tom and Dolores together.

“Adam and Eve,” said the nun. 

“What sex was the apple?” said Agnes.

Wisps of hair escaped the white band on the nun’s black head, her narrow blue eyes strained to get out against the tight pinch of her skin. “Don’t you care who you are,” she dropped to her knees and grabbed Agnes’ hands in her own. The clipboard went clattering to the floor.  “It can’t go on.  You must save yourself. This man you call your father, he’s dressed as a woman, he wears make up.”

“I told you it was too much,” said Tom.

“His toenails,” cried the nun. “What will become of you?”

“If she doesn’t change that colour?” said Agnes.

“I’m not talking about the colour,” shouted the nun, getting to her feet.  “You people, you’re an aberration.”

“You’ve already said that,” said Agnes curling up beside her mother.  The nun shrank into her habit like a defence, her face white.  She looked from one to the other as if she was falling backwards.  “You’re damned,” she cried. “You’re all damned.”

“Why don’t I put the supper on,” said Tom.

“I don’t feel well,” said the nun, dragging the cloth from her head.  Blond hair fell about her face.

Agnes laid the table, Tom brought in a pot of stew.  They ate in silence until the nun said, wiping her brow with a napkin, “you can’t exist like this.”

“But we do,” said Tom.  “We still argue and fight and have sex and fall in love, we still pay the bills and fix the roads and get our hearts broken and meet new friends and lose them and find them again.  Life carries on.”

“It’s just one of those things,” said Dolores.  “Like hair colour or shoe size.  It’s not relevant unless you’re thinking of changing your hair or buying new shoes.” 

The nun looked very pale.  “And it’s all right?”

“The sky hasn’t fallen in yet,” said Tom.

“What about God?” said the nun.

“I’m sure she doesn’t mind either,” said Dolores.

They laid her on the sofa and she slept for thirteen hours.  When she woke light streamed in through the open window and the air was fresh from an overnight storm. 

“Where am I?”  She sat up.

“You were talking in your sleep,” said Agnes, handing her a cup of coffee.

“Was I?”  The nun put her hands around the heat and raised the cup to her mouth.

“You kept saying Georgina.”

The nun spat coffee all over Agnes’ sleeve. “I’m sure I didn’t.”

Agnes handed her a cloth.  “I’m sure you did.  Georgina, Georgina.”

The nun stared into space.  “I couldn’t love her.”

“It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks,” said Agnes.

“She loved me,” said the nun, her face exhausted.

Agnes got up quietly and went into the kitchen.  She made porridge and served it in large earthenware bowls, a spiral of honey in the centre of each.  The nun was collapsed on the sofa like a soft doll, her eyes open to the ceiling. 

Agnes held out a bowl.

“God hates me,” said the nun.

“But Georgina doesn’t,” said Agnes. 

Her hands flew to her face and the bowl tipped.  She jumped to her feet, freeing herself of the flying pottery, the crash and splat, the sudden chaos on the floor. 

Agnes skipped over it and reached for the nun’s arm but the nun was off, searching for the door as if she were blind or it was dark, as if in this vast and cavernous world of no gender and no rules coming after lay an endless possibility of yes.  “Where is it?”

“Over there,” said Agnes, pointing three feet across the floor. 

The nun’s habit became tangled in her feet, she tripped and it tore, a rip up the side, a leg, a hint of camisole knicker.

“It opens inward,” said Agnes.

The nun fell out into the glare, her hands to her face.

“Shall I walk you back?” said Agnes.

“That won’t be necessary,” cried the nun setting off at a run, slipping on a stone and nearly going over.  She’d forgotten her clipboard and headdress - her hair shone tangled and long.

Agnes followed her down the dirt path to the road and out of the city to the desert.  The nun ran on but Agnes stopped at the bucket of apples and winter lake.  She stood on the shore throwing them in one by one, seeds for the orchard which would grow, and watched the glint of sun on the disc as it righted itself and lifted off into the air.