Let's Scrooge

by R. L. Caulder

  A man in the back stands up and slaps the table hard, laying out a thousand dollars.

  “I want to know which one of you isn’t a virgin,” he demands.

  All the sisters gasp in shock, but I just roll my eyes.

  Even though I called for ‘nothing offensive’, of course, it’s going to be all sex and drugs.

  “We are all maidens!” Sister Patricia cries in outrage.

  “Yeah—they're all maidens,” I defend, hitching a thumb at my fellow nuns.

  The guy who asked the question looks at me.

  “And you're not?”

  I shrug in acknowledgement.

  “You caught me. Next question.”

  “Ha, I knew it!” the guy crows in delight.

  Again, I roll my eyes.

  “Sir, just go put your donation in the gift basket. Thank you. Next question, please.”

  A timid lady raises her hand.

  “Do any of you drink?” she asks after a beat.

  Sister Bernadette blushes when she confesses, “I tried alcohol for the first time last—year.”

  I muffle a laugh at her hesitation and use of ‘year’ instead of ‘night’.

  “Did you like it?” the woman wonders.

  “It was. . . liberating to try something I’d always consider taboo,” Bernadette admits.

  The other woman nods in understanding.

  “I. . . I. . .I think that I have an alcohol problem,” she finally manages to stammer.

  We all look at her sympathetically.

  “I can assist you in getting the help that you need,” Sister Mary-Francis offers.

  “Thank you for being so honest and for the help. It makes me feel better about myself. I will reach out after the holidays. Merry Christmas.” she murmurs.

  With that, the woman stands up, her plate of food untouched, and leaves. She slips money into the donation bin on the way out and quietly walks away—I don't know whether this night is trending toward success or failure.

  Thankfully, the next three questions are fun in nature—wondering if the nuns missed prayers, fell asleep at mass, or skipped penance after confession. Of course, all the nuns are scandalized by these queries, but a couple fess up to falling asleep while praying before bed. I love how these kind wonderful women really think that they’ve sinned.

  “All right, we have time for one more question,” I wrap up the evening. “Anyone, anyone?”

  I'm really hoping that they're all too busy scarfing down the delicious dessert to ask anything when suddenly a voice from the back cries out.

  “I have a question! Are any of you nuns married?”

  I nearly choke at this and quickly look up— lo and behold, there stands my husband, Mark.

  Correction: Father Mark—he’s dressed in his priest robes.

  “Mark! I mean Father, er Brother,” I blunder. “What are you doing here?”

  “Are you going to answer the question, Mother Evangeline?” he taunts slyly.

  “Quit being a dickhead!” I snap, and everyone in the room gasps.

  Oops.

  I suppose Mothers don’t call Brothers ‘dickheads’.

  Mark, though, just throws back his head and laughs.

  “Don't worry about answering, Mother,” the little instigator winks.

  He then goes over to the donation basket and throws God knows how much money into it.

  “That's the last question. Thank you all for coming and have a blessed Christmas,” Mark announces in his deep, priestly voice.

  And, as if the man waved a magic wand, everyone finishes their dessert, thanks the nuns, and leaves.

  I stand there, staring in a stupor at my commanding husband.

  “What are you doing here?!” I finally screech.

  Mark shrugs and gives me a boyish grin.

  “I wanted to see what you were up to. No good,” he decides, wagging his finger at me.

  “Not true!” I defend. “I was helping my fellow nunners raise oodles of Christmas charity money!”

  “And, boy, did she!” Sister Agatha cries. “There’s over ten thousand dollars here!”

  All the other sisters’ mouths drop open.

  “That triple anything we’ve ever made—except for the time you did the potluck!” Sister Mary-Francis mutters.

  “Please come back every Christmas and be our Mother!” Sister Maria-Concepcion begs, and I laugh.

  “We’ll see—I’m needed at my home,” I gently remind.

  “Of course—maybe we can do something earlier in December so it’s not so close to Christmas,” Sister Mary-Francis suggests.

  “An excellent plan,” Mark agrees. “Now, I will take this duplicitous abbess and make her confess all her sins.”

  All the nuns giggle.

  “That will take all night!” Sister Rachel jokes.

  “Hey!” I shout in mock-affront.

  “Then, we better get going,” Mark says solemnly.

  “Ugh, let’s go,” I direct my husband, walking off the dais and over to him.

  I take his hand to lead him away.

  “Night, sisters!” I call out.

  “Good-night, Mother,” they respond.

  “Oh—and try to keep it down,” Sister Bernadette adds.

  God bless these sweet smartass sisters.

  Chapter 8

  Baptized in Baby Batter

  The next morning, Mark and I pack our bags and go downstairs to help the sisters.

  “Did you have a good night?” Sister Mary-Frances teases.

  “You're going to want to clean the sheets,” I blurt out like a ninny; Mark groans. “I mean, yes, we had a wonderful night. Thank you.”

  The sisters give us knowing looks. I glare at Mark for making me an idiot and tell him this.

  “I make you act like an idiot?” he asks incredulously.

  “Well, yes, because you make me crazy,” I stutter.

  Mark chuckles.

  “Ditto,” he purrs in his deep priest-voice that makes my pussy sing his praises.

  Before Sister Mary-Francis drives us to the airport, we help the nuns clean up from the night before. As we all pick up, I see the cross and the cleaning closet where the floor buffer is stored. I look over at Mark and notice that he's watching me—he gives me a wink.

  Clearly, he remembers my time with it.

  “I'm going to go take the trash out,” Mark says. “Can I trust you not to get drunk off wine again?”

  I flip him the middle finger.

  Of course, he would remind me that I got drunk off of communal wine and masturbated to the thought of four almost-priests. But damn if that moment of my life won’t live in my memory forever. I take a quick peek at Mark’s sweatpants and catch the glimpse of a boner outline. I raise a teasing brow at him, and Mark scowls.

  “Behave, we’re around a bunch of sisters.”

  “Of course—I would never do anything!” I protest innocently.

  But I swipe my hand sneakily across his dick as he walks by and he stumbles a bit. I giggle immaturely.

  Mother Evangeline’s still got it.

  While Mark is out, I get a call from Jay; he's sitting there with Gabe, and I'm so glad to see my little man—I miss him so much. The sisters gather around so that they can facetime and talk with him, too. Gabe tells them what's he's doing for Christmas, and they all say a few prayers together.

  It's so cute and sweet.

  And sad—it's sad when a four-year-old knows the prayers better than you.

  “Are you coming home to us, Vangy?” Jay asks.

  I glower at his ridiculous nickname for Evangeline.

  “Ew, don't call me that. And, yes, I'm coming home. I miss you all, but I had so much fun here—well, until Mark showed.”

  Jay snickers.

  “You didn’t have any fun with Father Mark?!” he mocks, and I stick my tongue out at him. “We miss you here, too, don't we Gabers?”

  “Uh-huh. Will you be home soon?” my son wonders.

>   “You bet! The sisters are going to drive daddy and me to the airport, and we’ll be home this afternoon.”

  “Yes!” he cheers in delight. “Then we get to go to night-night mass!”

  I laugh.

  “Midnight mass,” I correct.

  There’s a flurry of blown kisses and air hugs between Gabe and the nuns before I can finally hang up.

  Mark returns and says that he called a cab. It’s on the way to pick us up now.

  “Oh,” Sister Mary-Francis frowns. “We could have driven you!”

  Mark takes her hand.

  “No, need, Sister. It’s Christmas Eve, and I know you have much to do here at the Immaculate Heart but thank you.”

  The sweet nun blushes at his words—my husband has the effect on women.

  I say my good-byes with tears in my eyes and promise not to wait so long to visit—and to bring Gabe and my other husbands. Two beeps of a horn heralds the arrival of the cab, and Mark tugs my hand to pull me away from some of my best friends. I clamber into the taxi and wave until I can’t see the nuns or convent anymore.

  “I’m going to miss them so much,” I whisper to Mark.

  He kisses the side of my head.

  “We’ll visit after Easter; how’s that?”

  “I fucking love you, Mr. Brothers,” I announce, making the cabbie snort.

  “Same, Mrs. Brothers,” he smirks, refusing to swear.

  “Pussy,” I taunt.

  He merely raises an eyebrow—Mark can many things without saying a single word—and I’m quivering in anticipation from what that look means.

  I’m in trouble—the good kind.

  Just as we are in line to board our flight, I lean into him and say, “You wanna join the Mile High Club?”

  Mark glances at me askance and back at the sports magazine that he’s holding.

  “Already have,” he announces blandly.

  I gasp before I realize that he’s teasing. I chuck my empty coffee cup at him.

  “Jerk!”

  Mark chuckles.

  “We'll see,” is all he says.

  “You’re such a crucifix in the mud,” I mutter childishly, but Mark just ignores me and my poor attempt at religious analogies. We take our seats on the plane and the first twenty minutes of our flight is spent in peaceful silence. To my surprise, the cabin is full—there are so many last minute travelers flying to see their families, it would seem.

  When we’re so many feet in the air, I hear the familiar ding of the seatbelt sign announcing that it can be taken off, Mark’s sitting on the outside seat by the aisle, and I'm sitting near the window. When I get up, I make sure to brush my ass across his lap,

  “I have to go to the restroom,” I tell him with a wink.

  Mark just swats my behind.

  “Then get going, Mother,” he teases.

  I quickly get into the restroom and wait.

  And wait.

  AND WAIT—but nothing happens.

  Disappointed that he’s not game for sky-high shenanigans, I actually use the restroom and wash my hands—while pouting at my reflection. Just as I'm about to exit, Mark suddenly walks into the ridiculously small space.

  What was I thinking?

  Airplane bathrooms are barely comfortable to pee in—let alone screw in!

  “ Hello, Mother,” Mark growls. I hear you’ve been a bad nun.”

  “Yes,” I breathe, immediately falling into our familiar role-play. “Please give my penance and absolve me of my sins—wash away my iniquity with your baby batter.

  Mark snorts, dropping out of character.

  “Baby batter? Really?”

  I just bat my eyelashes at him.

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Turn around,” he orders gruffly. “Put you hands on the mirror and look at me through it.”

  I immediately do as he directs, my pussy tingly in anticipation. Keeping my eyes firmly locked with his, I feel Mark’s right hand snake around the front of my body and slip inside my pants. He fingers find me wet and ready. His thumb circles my clit, and I shudder in pleasure.

  “You’re so. . . moist,” he whispers.

  I whip around to glare at him.

  “Moist? REALLY?” I parrot.

  He knows that I hate that word, but he just grins evilly at me. I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when, suddenly, there's a loud bang on the door.

  “I'm going to have to ask you to finish and please take your seat,” one of the flight attendants says urgently. “We have to land and do a layover because the weather conditions at our destination are not flyable in.”

  I shoot Mark a worried look and quickly open the door before I can think. The flight attendant just stares at us. and I sheepishly look over my shoulder. Mark is looking everywhere but at the flight attendant, who scowls.

  “Please, take your seats,” he says admonishingly.

  We quickly exit to the aisle and avoiding all eye contact. Within thirty minutes, we land in Ogden, Utah. As soon as Mark and I disembark, we scramble to find a gate attendant to help us. It turns out that the storm of the century is hitting our town and no incoming flights will be able to fly there—for days.

  Meaning—Mark and I will miss Christmas.

  “What about Gabe?” I say, practically in tears at the thought of being home with him and my other hubbies.

  Mark just gets a determined look on his face.

  “We've got this.”

  He grabs our carry-on bags and, instead of heading to where they directed us to get a hotel, he goes to car rentals instead.

  “Mark, I don't know. . .” I trail off.

  I sure as heck don't want to miss Christmas, but I don't want to spend the holidays dead a là Clark Griswold. But Mark doesn’t seem worried. In just a bit, he has the keys to some kind of car that—according to him—can drive through anything. I don’t speak car and driver, so I have no clue. I just hope the damn thing delivers.

  Come Hell or high snow—we’re making it home this Christmas.

  Chapter 9

  Guardian Angels Can Plow, too

  With every passing hour, it seems less and less likely that Mark and I will be able to make it to our home in Wilson, Wyoming. Stone’s Throw Estate is secluded and, when it rains, it pours—or, in this case, when it snows, it blizzards.

  By six o'clock, I'm ready to cry. It's Christmas Eve, and all I want to do is be home with my husbands and hold my sweet baby boy. Mark is playing Christmas music and keeps turning it up louder and louder—a futile attempt to keep our spirits high.

  But I can tell that he's losing hope as well.

  Mark quits singing, and I look over to see his mouth moving imperceptibly. I know that he's praying. I wonder if I should pray, too. Even though I'm married to four almost-priests—and I live a much better lifestyle—faith isn’t something that I’ve found easy to come across. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Jay all have this innate sense of spirituality to them, and I'm so glad that Gabe has it as well.

  Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to have come to me as naturally, and I strive a lot harder to find peace in it. So, I do my best when I send out a Hail Mary to the Heavens.

  Hail Mary, full of grace, I think, I hope you're not driving through this shit, too. I would really appreciate it if you could somehow get me out of the snowstorm so that I could be home with my boys for Christmas. Thank you and amen. Oh, and praise Jesus.

  When nothing happens, I decide to attempt another prayer—this time directly to God.

  Our father, who does art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Listen, I'm going to take you away from your painting for a sec—say ‘hi’ to Bob Ross for me—but I really need to get home. Can you please help us get there safely? I decide that I need to amend it. Please, help us get safely home tonight?

  When nothing outwardly happens again, I decide to call on the big dogs.

  Yo, Gabriel. . . I really don't know any prayers for you, but I think you're my son's guardian angel. I kind of think you're
my guardian angel, too, and I was wondering if you could help me. I know God and Mary are pretty busy tonight—probably doing birthing Jesus reenactments that I'm sure you've got an important part in, too—but I could really use your help. I'd like to go home and see my son. It's Christmas. Christmas means family. I really appreciate it. Thank you. Oh, and tell Jesus ‘happy b-day’ for me.

  I hear mark hiss a swear word, and I’m instantly alert.

  “I'm going to have to pull over,” he says as he slows down. “These roads are becoming undrivable. There hasn't been a plow.”

  Now, I'm not only concerned that we're not going to get home in time for Christmas, but for Mark’s and my actual safety. We shouldn't be out in this weather. Together, the two of us sit in the silence of the evening. It’s a cloudless starry night, and the sky is lit with a full moon that shines on the whitened world around us. It's enchanting and beautiful—I just wish that I were with my family to share it. Mark takes my hand.

  “It's magical,” I whisper.

  Mark leans over and smiles at me.

  “It’s a winter wonderland. I don't know who else I'd want to share this moment with other than you.”

  I give his hand a squeeze at this.

  Suddenly, it's like somebody turned off a switch—the howling wind stops and the snow begins to settle.

  We stare at our surroundings in awe as it glitters and sparkles in the moonlight.

  “Mark, I have something I need to tell you—” I start, but my words are cut off by the flashing lights of a plow.

  It drives by, and the bells on the wreath on the grill jingling merrily—a herald that we can follow.

  “Hold on, babe,” Mark cries as he quickly puts the car in drive and follows the plow.

  By some miracle of God, it drives us directly to our town!

  We follow the plow, and it keeps driving straight to the church.

  It's eleven forty-five—fifteen minutes until midnight mass. Mark already called Matt and my guys are waiting at the church doors. I jump out of the vehicle and rush into their arms—so thankful that we made it.

  Behind us, the plow is doing a loop in the church parking lot. Mark gives a wave of thanks, but my brow furrows in confusion. I try to get the driver to pull over but he doesn't stop. Instead, he goes to exit the parking lot. Just as he's about to turn out, the light of the streetlamp streams into the plow cab. I catch a glimpse of the driver, and the familiar face of the painting in my living room looks back at me and winks.