The Open Secret

                                           THE OPEN SECRET                                

                                                   

   The woman never should have been standing in the entrance to the bar. Not Clair, a Sister of the Sacred Blood Religious Order. But as she stood in the entrance to The Lost Weekend, smelling the ripe, rich aroma of spilled drinks and stale beer, she was hooked.  As she walked through that doorway, Clair felt that it looked remotely familiar. How she could possibly be acquainted with such a place, she wondered. She peeked into the darkened bar, sure she did not recognize any of the faces inside. Still hesitant, wearing a dark blue Chanel suit with matching purse and heels, Clair unsnapped her purse and gently placed her hand on the silver Smith and Wesson at the bottom of her handbag.

   Out of her habit and in her street clothes, Clair resembled a modern executive killing time before her next meeting. To a neutral onlooker, her appearance gave every indication of a woman who would soon be off to the suburbs, her kids, and an equally powerful husband.  However, for Clair there was no house, or husband or kids. No, for her there were thirty-two other women who, for reasons known only to themselves and God, had forsaken the pleasures of this life for the promise of a passionate intimacy with Christ in the next.

   Tucking her white blouse, slightly frayed around the collar, inside her skirt, then standing stiff and straight as she gathered the courage to enter, Clair discovered another persona as she moved though The Lost Weekend with the grace and fluidity of a princess. Sister Clair, walking a poised, finishing-school walk with her heels barely touching the well-worn finish on the floor beneath her. Chin slightly elevated and her arm floating out from her body, Clair bore the countenance of royalty—certainly not of a cloistered nun. Like a new student entering late for class looked nervously around and taking tentative steps, quickly located the safest and darkest booth in the place. Only four other patrons sat inside the gloomy Weekend, five if you included Sammy, the burly bartender. Scanning the room to be sure no one was looking at her, she tugged and pulled on her coat, making sure it was not bunched up anyplace. For Clair, looking toward the bar, then down at her bargain-priced Timex and back to the bar again, each tick of the second hand seemed to produce a greater and more intense need.  

   On the Formica tabletop, peeled away in spots exposing the dirt and grime below, Sister Clair's fingernails began to tap faster and faster. Placing her index finger on her jugular, she felt her heart beginning to race. Taking in a deep breath and holding it, then letting it out slowly, she did her best to calm herself. One more deep breath again until, like a deep-sea diver under far too long, lungs ready to burst, Clair was in need of that first gulp of something pure and clean, but it wasn't air. No, Sister Clair Ignatius Harrington, a servant of Christ for almost thirty-seven years, needed a drink! Her hands were trembling when she finally rose and walked over and faced the barman.  

  “Please,” she said in a low, trebling voice, her eyes never meeting Sammy’s, “may I have a triple Yukon Jack, no ice?” The sentence came out in one, continuous, verbal exhale, speeding to the end without pause. 

Sammy immediately froze, a half-dried tumbler in his hand. He flipped the white towel over his shoulder and leaned into the diminutive nun.

“Are you sure?” Sammy asked. He wore a frozen expression of disbelief.  “Mind me asking something?” Sammy didn't wait for a reply, but leaned forward, concerned. “Are you OK? I ain’t much in the brain department, ya know, but are you sure you really want a triple? You’re a little drink of water, and all that booze might affect ya, make ya sorta silly, ya know? You want to take a minute?” 

Clair stared at Sammy, then down at the bar and then directly back into Sammy’s chubby baby face. Brazen and disrespectful, she thought.

“Yes, young man, I do not want to take a minute.  I am quite sure!” Clair answered in a curt, clipped voice. She then counted out and placed five one dollar bills on the counter.

   Turning, she looked back and shot Sammy an icy look of teacher’s disapproval. Head held high, she strode across the room to the security of a nearby booth. Sliding along the worn and ripped Naugahyde of the stained cushion, The nun studied Sammy as he readied her drink. Once she was certain he was not looking in her direction, she squeezed her pocketbook tightly, just to be sure the object on the bottom was still there. Claire was still gazing in the direction of the bar when one of the other patrons opened the front door to leave, creating a wind-flow as he slammed the door shut. The airstream sent the hanging wine goblets above the bar swaying, tinkling as they clashed, sending shimmers of white light across the bar. 

   She had seen it, that sparkle, many times before, coming from the priest’s chalice held high at Mass. The dazzling beam drew her back to times when she and the other Sisters would rise at 4:00 am, drop to their knees on the cold tile floor, their breath steaming in the cold air as they recited an Act of Contrition, asking Him to forgive their many shortcomings. In those days, her denial of self, along with the sheer intensity of life inside the walls of St. Monica’s, oddly enough left Clair feeling triumphant, an exultant notion of herself that was born from alcohol before but not reality.

    From her first day behind the walls as a Novice, dressed in the virginal white habit, she recognized the resonance of a clear and precise direction to her life; one she had never been aware of before. Her uniform, really her white, floor-length habit with a black headdress and veil, Clair’s very own scapular and cincture, told the outside world that she was consecrated to God. Clair had discovered the meaning of her being alive, namely, service to Him. Now, leaning back against the cushions at The Lost Weekend, still lost in thought, she barely noticed Sammy delivering the drink and placing a single dollar in front of the nun. It was only when Sammy picked up and then placed the tumbler onto the Formica a second time that Clair noticed the large barman standing next to her.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t hear you coming,” muttered Clair, now apologetic and sheepish as she picked up the dollar bill. “What’s this?” she asked, in a tone that indicated her alarm and weakness at that moment.

“Same as always. You paid too much,” the barman kindly reminded Clair.  

   Sister Clair’s forehead furrowed into a look of genuine puzzlement as she glared, stunned by Sammy’s words.  That phrase he used, “Same as always,” distressed and unnerved her.  The tremors in her hands returned, more intense than before. Grabbing hold of her right hand with her left, she felt the shaking travel down her arms and into her legs, too. To make matters worse, the three remaining customers, one going to the bathroom, one buying cigarettes, and one retrieving some dropped coins, found a reason to inch closer to Sister Clair.  For life inside The Lost Weekend was, sadly, nothing more than a parade of the usual suspects throughout the day, week, and month. Very little changed at the Weekend from day to day, so the regulars were excited to witness some drama that was not their making or fault. The late morning regulars, Vinnie the Vet, who was drunk on beer by 11 am; Bambi, a rotund Asian woman who rarely changed her clothes and always sat, hid really, at the very end of the bar in the semi-darkness; and the Prophet, a balding middle aged man, room temperature IQ, who was obsessed with making predictions about anything and everything. Each tried not to be conspicuous while they leered over at Clair, who was doing her best to string words into a sentence. But no words came. She tried again, and on the second try, the words finally arrived.

“That’s fine. Thank you. How honest. You don’t find many of our kind these days now, do you? And to save you the walk, I’ll have another as soon as you’re ready.”

   Sammy hesitated and glanced back over his shoulder before ambling back to the bar followed by the eyes of all the other patrons. The moment Sammy turned away and Claire believed she was safe, she tossed back the drink in one smooth motion. Instantly, she felt the liquid heat coating her stomach and giving her the momentary relief she’d so anticipated. Stretching her long legs out under the table, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Exhaling and feeling even more relaxed now, Sister Clair retraced the events of her morning. First, there was the bank deposit made for the monastery at the Bank of America. That was always a simple task. Mother Superior always had the deposit counted out and the bank deposit slip filled in full. Next, the outstanding balance at Gleason’s Grocery & Pharmacy. This required some attention and focus on Clair’s part, as the pharmacy bill was always a mutable, fluctuating number, and Mother Superior did not like owing anyone money, especially someone who was as good to the monastery as Mr. Gleason had been over the years. 

“Kind Mr. Gleason is not a social agency,” Mother Superior was often heard saying, as Sister Clair gathered her lists and purse for the monthly drive into town. “No, we do not have much, but we pay on time for what we use. Remember that, Sisters,” Mother Superior always reminded the other nuns during Lent.  

Feeling the effect and full impact of that first drink, a flash of redness to her face and a warm sensatioin throughout her body, Claire felt even more relaxed now. Folding her hands across the top of her head and slouching farther away from the back of the booth, she allowed a smile to spread across her face.

Yep, that’s me. Money in and money out, Claire mused to herself.  Then, Deposit to the Bank of America and the balance paid at Gleason’s Grocery & Pharmacy. Oh God, I may just rest here for a while. Suddenly, as if someone had poured ice water all over her, Claire sat up vertically in in her booth. 

“Oh Jesus,” Claire called out so loudly that all heads turned in her direction. “I forgot the appointment with Dr. McLaughlin!”

Sister Clair dreaded the appointment at Dr. McLaughlin each month. Visiting the nice doctor had her in a panic for days before. No matter how calm and placid Clair tried to appear on the outside, she knew it was impossible to camouflage the results of the blood panels. At her last visit, the doctor read to her the data from her latest blood panel: an elevated enzyme level, the likes Dr. McLaughlin had not seen since medical school.

   Unfortunately, the doctor told her during Claire’s last visit, “…and that reading was from the liver of a cadaver, Sister.” Clair now displayed the indisputable markers of advanced alcoholism and liver disease.

   Like a ghost, Sammy appeared from nowhere with the second tumbler of Yukon Jack. Startled by his appearance, Clair instantly reached for her purse. Holding it away from Sammy’s line of sight, she fumbled though a jumble of keys, numerous slips of paper, a small package of Kleenex, an old hair brush, a tampon, and a rosary until, at last she located a wad of rolled-up dollar bills.  Holding the purse even farther to the side, she looked down at the concealed gun, still neatly wrapped in a finely embroidered handkerchief. Removing the clump, she counted out four single bills and placed them on the table.

   “Keep the change,” she said. “And since I have such a full afternoon still, let’s make this another triple, shall we? And I'd like full measures this time, if you don’t mind. Yes, a 'Hat Trick of Jack' should help end this week on a high note, shall we say?” With the alcohol level now reaching its saturation peak swirling through Sister Clair’s blood, changed her tone again and now spoke to Sammy in an, innocent, little girlish voice. Her smiling face and bright, open eyes was a far cry from the Sister Claire from moments before. Clair’s sudden switch from a businesswoman persona and into a Betty Davis “Baby Jane” caricature, was something Sammy had only seen at the movies, never in person. The transformation into sudden kindness was too miraculous for Sammy’s liking. Her change was just enough to motivate him to act. Collecting the singles from the table, he thanked Clair for her generosity. After the encounter, Sammy knew precisely what he needed to try and do.

   Shoulders folded in and slouching, completely relaxed now, Clair played with the cubes in her glass, moving them as if caught in a centrifuge. The pain of the last years seemed to follow her everywhere. She recalled with great acuity her very first day inside the walls of St. Monica’s. There was the tonsuring—the ceremonial cutting of the hair—and the “inspection” of all personal items brought into St. Monica’s. When located in a novice’s compact or just a small mirror brought inside by mistake, mirrors were “held” in Mother Superior’s office. The mirrors were taken away so no novice would ever be tempted by their own vanity. The monastery, well hidden in the foothills of Santa Barbra, was a spiritual oasis she’d dreamed of for months before entering.  With each new Entrance Class the traditional rituals were followed: tonsuring, mirrors, and the final symbolic gesture of rebirth, the confession of a Novice’s deepest held secrets. 

  Inside the airy chapel, amid walls crafted from beautiful Italian marble and stained glass, Claire rose from her pew and stepped into the darkness of the confessional box. In front of her, almost invisible in the darkened confessional, from memory Clair knows that a gloomy piece of cloth hiding a wooden sliding door was inches from her face. Clair blessed herself as the wooden divider was pulled back. Through the purple cheese cloth, she could barely make out the silhouette of the priest—an older man wearing what she knew must be a purple stole draped around his neck, a sign of the Seal of Confession. For a novice, times like this, a test in God’s house to see just how honest and worthy they are, were stressful. It was almost impossible to know what to say, and Clair wished that, just this one time, she had prepared her first few sentences. 

“Take your time,” Father Pomis, began.  

Clair took a deep breath, and then, with the palms of her hands sweaty, -she closed her eyes and wanted to blurt out what she was thinking, but couldn’t. Giving it a second try, all that came from her lips was a high-pitched chirp, a squeal really. On her third attempt, and Clair thought that if this one failed, so too had she in her vocation, she finally blurted out what she felt was her most shameful sin. “Almost four months ago, Father, a boy in my high school class, Steve, a football player, kissed me.”

“My child, God intended for us to understand the wonders of the body. Is it not, after all, the same body that He created in His own image? You shouldn’t be ashamed for kissing the young man. No, unless, of course, there is more you are not telling me?”

Lowering her face and blushing scarlet, she continued. “As he was kissing me my body went all loose and limp...And he touched my breast.”

“Sometimes, my child, the truth is delivered in small doses. It is only when we weigh those small portions in their entirety that the fullness of honesty becomes clear to self and others. Now, I am sure the boy touched you quite by accident,” the Priest, wearing a half-smile, answered from the other side.

There was an uneasy silence in the moments that followed, as Clair decided that the genuineness of her vocation, no, her entire life, depended on her ability to be honest at this crucial moment. Feeling exposed by her latest revelation, Claire unconsciously shifted her weight from one knee to the other. “No Father, I moved his hand and allowed him to place it under my sweater.”

“I see. And did it stop there?”

“I didn’t want it to. Each time he moved his hand away, I put it back. I am a whore, aren’t I, Father?  That’s me, isn’t it? A prostitute, a whore, a slut. Yes, I admit it, I enjoyed the feeling of his hand on my breast, caressing it and playing with my hardened nip…I am ashamed, but Father there is more.”

“I understand your distress…”

“His face came closer to my exposed breast. I was excited, gulping air, panting. Then Father, he partly took off my bra; lips began to suckle my bosom, like a newborn. I was euphoric! I did not stop him! His hand then began to caress my other breast. I was delirious. Oh, God forgive me! I felt something, in my...below my...below my skirt, that place between my...my... oh God, my legs. I wanted him to touch there, too.  He tried and I stood up. I pulled my bra and sweater back down. Here is the most sinful part father: I couldn’t stop thinking about him for days afterward. When I was alone, I touched myself. Inappropriately, I mean. And I so enjoyed that, too!”

   With that Clair burst into a fit of crying, the likes of which she expected good Father Pomis had never before heard. Clair’s moan, more of a shriek really, bounced off the marble walls throughout the cavernous church and seemingly to God Himself. The elderly priest quickly blessed himself and exited his side of the confessional. Opening the two half doors that hid Claire on the other side, he found her quivering on the floor, her head resting on the kneeler.  Heaving more with each new lament, her entire body kept perfect tempo, moving to the next intense cry from the young novice.

“Oh, my dear child, Our Lord never asked for pain such as this from you. Let me help you. Now up you, up you go.”  As she stood, with the help of Fr. Pomis guiding Claire by the arm, they faced one another, the forgiver and the forgiven. His gentle eyes coaxed the slightest smile from her, and she wiped the tears from her cheeks. The priest placed his hands onto Claire’s shoulders in an effort to stress his words. Then, with his purple stole still around his neck, Father Pomis raised his right hand as he spoke the words Claire so passionately desired to hear.

“Remittitur tibi peccata tua” or, your sins are forgiven.

Still with his left arm across Claire’s shoulder, Fr Pomis wore a wonderfully disarming expression.

 “You, my dear, cannot serve Our Lord, Our Lord that brought you to this noviciate, from the floor, now can you?”

   Yet, no matter what the understanding Father Pomis offered in the way of counsel, Clair continued to be obsessed with her memory of Steve, and at the same time feel tainted for enjoying the touch of a man and wanting more of that pleasure. On the very last page of her Bible, Claire kept a picture of the football player she had cut from her yearbook. Feeling obsessed with the having to know the picture was still in her Bible, it was the first thing Clair checked upon rising in the morning. In her mind, she was a slut, a whore, and completely unworthy of the love of Jesus. However, in the days, then weeks and ultimately months following the encounter with the football player, Clair found herself drinking, first just a glass of wine in the evening first, then a tot of brandy before bed. With each additional drink came a fresh wave of sensual feelings of the boy-man.

    Closing her eyes, Clair was transported back to that encounter with Steve, her breathing irregular and in brief gasps, her nipples hard, and her position unsteady. By July 25th, one month before entrance day for Clair’s novice class, she celebrated her twenty-first birthday. Drinking only at night and in the privacy of her bedroom, the petite woman was consuming a tall bottle of Baileys Irish Cream before it was lights out. Neither mother nor father suspected the Greek tragedy played out each night under their roof. The day her mother and father drove her to the front gate of Mt. Monica’s Monastery Clair was a full-blown and seemingly unstoppable alcoholic.

    Those first few weeks inside St. Monica’s had been problematic for Clair. Detoxifying her body and soul would have easily broken any other young woman; however, for the determined Clair, it was the love of Jesus Christ htat took her through some hellish nights in absolute silence. Taking away something that her body and mind had partnered secretly and intensely—a highly elevated blood-alcohol content—made rising at 4:00 AM for prayer even more brutal. Determined and controlled in her focus, she was able to purify herself without arousing the suspicion of the other women. This was accomplished over several days of constant, sweating, then vomiting, followed by more sickness and more perspiring. Resting whenever she could, and always keeping a cold, wet compress as close to her as possible, the first seventy-two hours were the worst.   

   Sleep was elusive, at best, for Claire in those first days. In the middle of the night, it seemed, Clair could count on some total and absolute urge to quit, go home, and have a drink. Mother Superior, who had noticed Clair’s unsteadiness, was eventually convinced it was nothing more than a bad case of the flu. Fearful that if seen by a doctor she would be found out and sent home, Clair, not wanting to lie, allowed Mother to guess flu. Clair just didn’t correct her. Cleverly, she hid in plain sight, blending in from the background with all the normal excitement associated with entering a religious life. While everyone else was giddy to learn the new routines, as well as learning the faces and names of those with whom the other novices was sharing this important moment in time, Clair was focused on the nearest bathroom and that damp cloth.

   Remembering an article she once read in Woman’s Day magazine, telling the story of a suburbanite who, rather than be sent off to a hospital, successfully detoxified herself without detection from her skeptical husband, Claire, waking several minutes before the rest of the novices, her undergarments soaked with perspiration, made her way to the bathroom. Once there, safely locked behind the door, she quickly drank a full quart of water tainted with several drops of dishwashing detergent. Immediately nauseous, the hoped-to-be nun vomited violently, over and over until she felt her system was cleansed—for the moment, at least. Finally, once the nausea subsided, she drank sugar water that was supposed to help with tremors and shaking during the day. It was, by any standard, a brutal way to begin the day. However, Claire understood that if she was to be a cloistered sister, taking her vows with the other women in her entrance class, she simply could not sustain the level of drinking she’d grown accustomed to.  It was a sacrifice, her penance for the many vices for which she felt responsible. After five days of this early morning ritual, the old Clair began to emerge and she quickly regained the self-reliance she had once known. Her life was simple again and she loved it that way.

   The regular routine of the monastery was a welcome change for Claire. Returning to a consistent period cycle once again, and eating well for the first time in months, Clair quickly added some needed weight producing a glow and even the occasional smile. Rising each morning before the first light, Novice Clair dressed and prayed, then met the other Sisters in the chapel for Mass. After a light breakfast, orphans from around the city were escorted inside the monastery and to a specially designed series of classrooms. These little scholars were disfigured and discarded, the offspring no one else wanted.  It was the one thing Clair loved most in the word these days, namely, helping those that the world clearly seemed to despise and hate.

   After a full day of teaching letters and sounds, she was, on most days, able to find some time, fifteen to twenty minutes, alone for herself. From her second-floor room, outfitted with only a bed, sink, and a small dresser, Clair gazed down upon rows of beautiful roses in the courtyard and, feeling her entire body begin to relax, a sense of wellbeing spread through her muscles. From her safe perch, Clair felt drawn to her diary, and back to old memories.  She would daydream sometimes, about her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and also, Steve, the football player now long gone, except for the picture in her Bible.

  The garden below, she believed, was the true barometer of how she felt about the world, Christ, her vocation, the Sisters in the monastery, and her weakness for the occasional drink, or three. Every encounter had a season, her vocation with its ups and downs, her like or the perceived passive-aggressive behavior from another nun, and even when the urge to drink or not, as the temptation would ebb and flow through her. This respite in her room, the mental imagery brought on by the absolute beauty below, offered Clair a momentary escape from the walls of St. Monica’s that seemed to hold her more tightly in place these days. Retrieving the leather-bound notebook in which she noted her deepest feelings and thoughts, Claire rummaged through the pages stopping at times to reread what she had written.

January 29, Thursday: “In the dead of winter the sunlight is all too brief. These days are difficult for me in so many ways. Nothing, it seems, brings any happiness to me, even the thought of Our Lord and Savior Jesus. I feel the bottomless loneliness and isolation of my vocation.

 April 17, Friday: It is the fullness of spring now. I feel my step is lighter and my heart filled with hope as I go about performing my chores and duties inside St. Monica’s. Thank God for the change. I am not sure I can tolerate one more winter here. 

June 24, Sunday: As the summer, with all its many delights, has now arrived and the days have grown longer and warmer, I can feel the growth in myself of a holy life lived. This pure posture is necessary, I believe with all my heart, to be a worthy spouse to the Lord. Sleep is difficult in these long days. I spend more and more time alone in garden. Mother Superior has reminded me once again that I should not dwell on my time alone, but should consider myself one of many within these walls.

September 16, Wednesday: Fall has arrived. The leaves have begun to turn, but still, no matter how hard I try to purge the thoughts from my mind, it is the reality of Death that haunts me. I understand now better than ever that, the desolation and emptiness of my yesterdays far overwhelms the enthusiasm and hope of my tomorrows. With the clink of the bell calling everyone to evening prayers, Claire slowly closed the book and held it close to her heart.    

   The jingle and noise of Sammy opening the cash register returned Clair to the darkened bar.   Fixing her stare on Sammy, Clair focused on the bartender’s every move and turn. Her eyes went up as Sammy replaced clean pint glasses to the top shelf, then down as he moved fresh kegs of beer below the bar. He looked up and locked eyes with her. For the first time in Sammy’s experience with the drunken Nun, there was something in her eyes that frightened the burly barman. Never taking his eyes off of her, Sammy walked down to the end of the bar and bent low, pretending to move something around. Removing the phone from its cradle, Sammy thumbed through a small, red address book and, finding the number he needed, began to dial. Hearing the voice on the other end, soft and concerned, gave him a feeling of immediate support. Across the room, Clair, opening her purse, removed the cotton layers covering the gun and shimmied out of the cubical. With her finger wrapped tightly around the trigger, she approached the bar with an eerie look of calm and composure. Standing, his back to Clair, the barman continued on with his call.

“Thanks for taking the call, Mother Superior,” Sammy whispered into the receiver. “I’m sorry I have to bother you, but I thought you’d like to know that Sister Clair has shown up here again.  I ain’t no doctor, Mother, but I’ll bet season tickets that Sister Clair did not come in sober, if you know what I mean. The good news is that she doesn’t seem to remember a thing from the last time and the brouhaha with them two women. I’m guessin’ here, but I’d call it one of them blackouts—a stupor. Soft as a grape she is right now.”

   “Thank you for calling, Samuel,” the delicate voice of Mother Superior answered back. 

“Please Samuel, do me a favor. Keep her there until we arrive. And remember, Samuel, Sister Clair is a very sick woman.” 

Looking up Sammy suddenly found himself eye-to-eye from Clair, only inches away. Maintaining his composure, Sammy continued his conversation.

   “Sure thing. Don’t worry about nothing on this end. The place is slow now, but we’ll certainly keep our end of the bargain.” Unhurriedly, Sammy placed the old black phone receiver back into its cradle.

   “Can I help you with something, Clair?” Sammy asked, with a slight clumsiness in his voice.

“How is it you know my name, Sir?” Claire asked, enunciating each word of her question.

“I, um, I—I don’t really know,” he answered. “I can’t seem to remember where I heard it. I hope I haven’t offended you.”  

   Still eye to eye with Claire, Sammy looked into a face, grotesquely frozen by in place by rage, as drool seeped from her mouth and down her chin.  Her gaze burning with anger and disgust brought to mind the eyes of some demon.  Clair slowly raised the gun and pointed it directly at Sammy. Stunned by the sudden turn of events, the barman could neither breathe nor move. 

  “I am very sorry to be the one to call Perdition down upon this Den of Inequity, but you are an evil man. It is men like you, sin vendors, drink and poison sellers, who peddle your demonic wares to innocent people like me,” Claire pronounced slowly and clearly.

    “You bring forth daily, hourly, and by the minute those heinous liquids behind you. You are Beelzebub himself, the Wicked One. You tempt children and women with your intoxicating substances! You know that already, don’t you, Mr. Barman? But you continue to sin, don’t you? The scum of this Earth—and you must be stopped, now!”

   The front of Sammy’s shirt was now soaked with perspiration, and rivulets of sweat rolled down from his hairline in a steady stream of moisture. Never, in his long history with the bar had a gun been pulled Sammy. Now, hands and legs, in perfect unison, quivered as he closed his eyes and silently prayed the Our Father.

   Behind the barman, reflecting off the bottles and, a single beam of sunlight made its way through the frosted window from across the room. Claire took notice of the light and glanced in the direction of its source. Outside it was nearing dusk, casting an irregular light on the maple trees lining the street. Only a few of the trees retained its summer colors. It was that time of year that Clair hated the most, the fall.

“I cannot judge your soul, and only our Lord Jesus has the capacity to know your heart. Nonetheless, you are a repulsive creature,” Clair continued moving closer to Sammy, as his uncontrolled trembling and shaking became more and more pronounced with each step Clair took.

“The world will be a better place without you,” Sister Clair pronounced as she moved the gun barrel closer and closer to his head.

 Sweat, tears, some fecal incontinence and urine all demanded attention from Sammy before leaving its mark on his clothing and the floor. Samuel Alfredo DeScloreto, “Sammy D” to his friends, in the bar business from the age of nineteen, owner of The Lost Weekend from the age of thirty-three, and a loving and faithful husband to Gina, and now a father of four girls, shuddered as if ready to convulse.

“Yes, you’re immoral and evil, but—but I am sicker and worse than you! I am The Slut of Heaven, the Whore of Hell. May God have absolute mercy on our souls!” 

   With those words, Clair moved the barrel of the gun away from Sammy and placed the opening just below her chin.

“Clicks, one after another,” the tallest of the three remaining patrons reported.

“Goodbye” is what the three other patrons in The Lost Weekend heard.

   Others entering the bar a short time afterward saw only the lifeless body of a woman on the floor. At that very moment time froze inside The Lost Weekend. Not a sound could be heard from anywhere, neither in the bar or outside, the ticking clock ceased its clamor, and even the birds outside, so busy and noisy before, seemed to wait quietly for the resolution of the drama being played out.

   Sister Clair never made it so see Dr.  McLaughlin that afternoon. Had she seen the doctor, he would have explained that Sister Clair suffered from a condition called vasovagal syncope, a heart disorder that causes fainting under stress. 

   However, it seems that Sister Xavier Clair Harrington, that Faithful Servant of Christ, could clearly recall the names and amount of alcohol in each and every drink she ordered and consumed that day—but not the bullets for the gun! Clair's gun, like the life of this poor nun, was empty.

                                                     THE END