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Theresa had been sitting out in the courtyard for several minutes, catching her breath. The sun was moving slowly behind the stone and tile roof of the convent. She'd parked her wheelchair by a purple rhododendron, half lit up in sun, almost too beautiful to be real. She thought about Nurse Jackson and how much she'd wanted that baby—which did, after all, have her name on its birth certificate. Why shouldn't the nurse have the baby, anyway? If she loved it so much. No one else would ever love it that much.

"Hello, Theresa," said Jenny, coming up behind her. "I thought I saw you out here."

Theresa turned her head as far as she could.

"Hello."

"Do you remember me?"

"You're Miss Lemke. Sister Mary Sebastian said you were coming."

"Call me Jenny." Jenny picked her way carefully over woodchips and stepped in front of Theresa, smiling. She couldn't quite stand up straight in the pumps. Her knees bent slightly, looking knobby under her short white skirt. "Boy," she said, feeling self-conscious. "Look at you in that get-up. A real sister."

"Almost." Theresa sniffed and rubbed her nose, embarrassed.

"I haven't seen you in such a long time," Jenny said. "Do you remember the last time?"

"No."

"Oh, obviously not. It was when I came to pick up my little boy. He's all grown now. You were just four or five."

"I see."

"His name was David. Do you remember him?"

"I didn't spend much time with the other kids."

Jenny nodded, feeling more awkward every second. She was happy to see that Theresa had acquired a certain exotic prettiness as she grew up. As a little girl she'd been hard to look at, with half her face already wrinkled like an old woman's. Now, the scar only set her apart: it was like a giant fingerprint, the fingerprint of God.

"You know," said Jenny, "I nearly became a nun once, myself. Before you were born."

"You did?" Theresa couldn't help smiling.

"And what's so funny about that?"

"Nothing."

"You think I'm too flashy. But I hear so many good things about you. We're very proud of you, everybody who's watched you grow up."

"Thank you."

"How are you, anyway, Theresa? You look pale."

"It's just all this … I'm tired."

"Is it the novitiate? Are they working you hard?"

"No, I hardly have to do anything. I'd like to help at the school, but they tell me to read and study."

"And you don't like your studies?"

"I like them. Some of them. I'm taking some courses, but I can't decide what to do. I haven't figured out my purpose in life, yet. I mean other than this." Theresa looked down at her robes. "I don't know what I want to do with myself."

Jenny laughed.

"Well, that's common. You're only human."

"Yes."

"It's just that your life is such a gift. I know you hear that so often, but it's true."

Theresa felt a prickle across her neck. She looked up at the strange, thin woman staring down and didn't know what to say to her. The woman might as well just climb up on her shoulder, her one strong shoulder and stand there in those high heels, pressing her down into the yellow-green grass. They could all just climb up and stand there on her shoulder, piled up like acrobats. They were always looking at her like this, expecting something. She didn't want them to.

* * *

A scratchy radio blared in the cab of an old truck that had pulled over for gas along a state highway in Arkansas. The radio was tuned to a local AM station, though the particular show came from a network affiliate somewhere else. A rusty-voiced oldtimer was talking about the week's breaking entertainment story.

"What's a Golden Globe Award? What's the Critics Circle? Nothing next to Oscar. An Academy Award is an American institution: it guarantees its recipient a kind of immortality, a place in the history books. In just four days, America will find out who's made history this time around. And count on it, folks, excitement is running high in Tinsel Town.

"The big news, though, is that one of the presenters, one of the lucky few chosen to place little Oscar in the hands of his new owners, has … disappeared. Stannie Colfax, columnist and critic for Tops Magazine, nephew of Senator Jim Colfax, occasional late night TV guest and frequent drinking buddy of some of Hollywood's best-known leading men, left his family home in Seaborough, Florida, on Saturday and has not been seen since.

"Police were alerted to Colfax's disappearance after he failed to return a rental car on schedule in Washington, D.C. The car was eventually recovered south of the city, with the keys and an unpublished column, three days after Colfax left Florida. But no one, and I repeat, no one, has any idea what has happened to the driver. Could there be foul play involved? It's too early to say.

"Coincidentally—or is it?—the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences had chosen Stannie Colfax to replace actor Brad Peel as a presenter: Mr. Peel is, of course, undergoing treatment for liver cancer, and our sincere prayers go out for your recovery, Brad. However, it's rumored—remember, only a rumor, folks—that teen singing idol Brett Bordley-Young had refused to present with Mr. Colfax. She'd even petitioned late last week for the withdrawal of his invitation, based on what some in Hollywood consider the offensively sexist and racist tone of his writings. Makes you wonder who's she holding out for: Bob Dole?

"The Academy did not wish to comment on Colfax's disappearance, other than to extend best wishes for his safe and immediate return—"

Stannie jerked the gas pump out of the tank and climbed inside the cab of the truck, smiling. He turned the radio off, stubbed out a cigar, and pulled back on the highway. The world looked different from in here, filtered through dead bugs and bird crap, rain spots the color of tobacco spit. He put another cigar in his mouth, lit it, and sucked at it like mother's milk.

He planned to take the truck to a mechanic before he crossed Texas, just to get the hoses checked. Something was so right about all this spontaneity, but he wasn't stupid and he didn't want to get stuck on the road in a piece of shit truck, either. He needed to make it all the way to Los Angeles before he broke down. He'd repaired the engine belt right after buying the truck out of the towing lot. He'd have the tires checked next, and the brakes.

He laughed and ran his fingers back and forth across the grey steering wheel. It was like a toy, hard and shiny and thin. You could probably snap it right off the dashboard with your bare hands, but in an accident it'd go right through your jaw or your ribcage.

He had to pee. He pulled over to the side of the road, got out, and went in the mud. Back in the truck, he stretched out on the seat for a minute, placing his tennis shoes up flat against the ceiling. The shoes were still so white after three days of sleeping in dirty places. They looked kind of stupid, actually, like hightops on Stephen Hawking. He had his hat on, but his head was starting to itch underneath it. His mouth tasted sour, like he'd been drinking his own piss.

A picture of Rose flashed through his mind. He felt some stirring in his body. Yeah, he wanted her, but he hated her, too. Face it. Stop being a hypocrite. And he hated his mother—not the redneck mother, but the other one. It was really unoriginal to hate your mother. So Eminem, so Manchurian Candidate, so not worth the time. Stannie tried to think of one person in the world that he actually liked, but suddenly he couldn't think of a single one. In Washington? In Hollywood? He began to laugh. He'd never felt so free in his life. He started to sing out loud the words to one of Brett Bordley-Young's big hits, which he'd been listening to earlier on a portable CD player.

Takin' time, baby, to get inside your world,
Takin' time, baby, and studyin' how to be your girl.
Now you know I'm tired of dreaming,
and I'd like to kiss you, don't you see,
but how'm I gonna tell you
I really want you next to me.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
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