Batter off Dead

18

On the way back to the i

Once I found her hanging by her knees from a trapeze in her living room. She said she’d read somewhere that Australians were the smartest people on the planet, and that since their brains were “upside down,” she wanted hers to be oriented that way as well. I told her that made sense, and then I sat down and waited until her knees gave out-all of two minutes later. Fortunately, my reactions were quick that day and I was able to catch her before she broke her neck.

When our parents died, squished as they were between the milk tanker and the semitrailer carrying state-of-the-art ru

The answer is twofold: first, Susa

A little circumspect debauchery might even be a necessary requirement for maintaining one’s sanity for those folks who live in Foxcroft, our only, and incongruously, named subdivision. There the houses are cookie-cutter images of one another, the paint colors vary only slightly, and the foundation shrubs differ only in the amounts of foliage their respective owners elect to leave before they tire of playing with their electric shears. It is understandable, then-just not excusable-if a little spanky along with the hanky-panky is seen as a morale booster. This, of course, brings me back to poor Susa

They say that water seeks its own level; therefore, I should not have been surprised when a nun with a very morose expression opened Susa

“Yes,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Uh-isn’t this 907 Red Fox Lane?”

“It is.”

“I’m here to see Susa

“She isn’t receiving visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor; I’m her sister.”

“Ah, so you must be the bossy one they call Magdalena.”

“Indeed I am-Wait a minute! Bossy? Says who?”

“Says me.” The nun started to close the door, and might have gotten away with it had I not noticed that beneath her surplice there was a surplus of activity. In fact, to the uninitiated it might have appeared as if the nun’s bosoms were ru

“You’re not a nun,” I said calmly. “You’re Susa

“No, I’m not.”

At this point the leaping, snarling bosom emitted an odor so foul that its origin was incontestable. “Calm down, Shnookums,” my sister cooed as she peered down into the recesses of her habit. “It’s only your auntie-poo.”

“I’m not that thing’s auntie, dear,” I said, “and I’m certainly nobody’s poo.” I gently pushed my way inside. A second later I wished I’d kept on driving. “Susa

“Really, Mags, you know good wordsmiths eschew the word stuff.”

“Stuff and nonsense! All your things, for crying out loud! Where is your furniture-although you’d think that would take a plural verb-and the rest of your bric-a-brac?”

“Which is just a fancy word for crap.”

“Susa

My sister’s high-pitched laugh set the mutt in her Maidenform to howling, which in turn set my teeth on edge. I have nothing against dogs, but the rat-size pooch that prowls her bra is undeserving of the moniker. Should I ever find myself alone in a room with him, and me with a frying pan in one hand, I’d conk myself up the side of the head to put myself out of my misery until help could arrive.

“Please,” I begged.

“Oh, all right.”

She reached down her habit and withdrew a two-pound beast, half of which was sphincter, the other half teeth. “Now, run along, sweetie, to your beddy-bye and take your morning nappypoo. Mommy will be there in a minute to tuck you in.”

The hideous thing snarled and snapped at me for good measure and then trotted off, nails clicking on hardwood floors, as bid, into Susa

“How old is that thing?”

“Mags, I keep telling you, he’s not a thing; he’s a pure-blooded, prize-wi

Endeavoring always to be kind, I tried not to smile. “So what’s he got left-two, maybe three more years? I mean, what a shame.”

“More like eight or nine. Usually the smaller the dog, the longer they live.”

“Like I said, what a shame.” I swallowed hard; disappointment can be as difficult to get down as Gra

“I sold everything. You’re kinda stingy, Mags, and I wanted a new vehicle.”

“A vehicle? What exactly does that mean?”

“It’s an old school bus. I’m having it painted black with white lettering. It will be delivered tomorrow.”

“What lettering?”

“The name of my order.” She fingered a cross that appeared to be carved from a bar of soap and which hung from her neck on a length of white cotton clothesline.

I felt the need to sit down. “Do you still have kitchen furniture?”

She shook her head, causing her wimple to rustle. “We can sit on my bed. It’s the only thing left.”

I pictured the college band doing more than sitting on Susa

“It’s a religious order, silly-only it’s not exactly religious on account of I’m not religious. I’m calling it Sisters of Perpetual Apathy-SOPA is the acronym. That’s why I’m wearing this cross. Our motto is ‘We care about nothing, so leave us the heck alone.’ I might leave off that last part, though, because it could be a turnoff to potential postulants. Then again, why should I care?”

I had a short-lived vision of me slapping Susa

In the meantime, however, a sister has a right to know a few things. “Susa

“You see just how little you believe in me?”

I shrugged. “Why should that matter?”

“For your information, Mrs. Mayor, Mrs. I’ve-Got-a-Doctor-for-a-Husband, Mrs. I’ve-Got-the-Perfect-Baby, there are fifteen other nuns in my order. There’s Sister Despair, Sister Disgruntled, Sister Disenchanted, Sister Disingenuous-”