Tracy Haught

Habits: The Almost Sisterhood of Sister “Mustang” Marie

Officer Scott Langley hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by not cuffing Sister Marie. She reminded him so much of his cousin Lori: the similar delicate nose, big inquisitive brown eyes, and innocent smile. He wondered if the hair hidden under her veil was also brown. Sister Marie was not like any of the nuns he’d seen on TV. He didn’t know such a thing existed—a young, attractive nun—being a nun seemed like something only unattractive, grumpy old women would volunteer to do.  

“Am I in a lot of trouble?” Sister Marie asked from the backseat.

“You were going ninety in a thirty.” Officer Langley cleared his throat. “And there’s the issue of the marijuana.”

“It was just a tiny bit, just a roach.” Sister Marie pointed out.

If he’d been facing her, she would’ve seen the look of exasperation on his face as he rolled his eyes. “You were under the influence and street racing in a residential neighborhood.”

Sister Marie’s heart pounded painfully fast and hard, there was that familiar stabbing, like a needle piercing her heart, just like it used to when her parents would scream at each other. She regretted that she hadn’t finished the remainder of the joint instead of trying to be responsibly moderate. She didn’t smoke pot that often, and not in large amounts, but she liked that it helped her sleep, and she loved to smoke a little before street racing, before walking in the woods, before dinner, or before taking her evening shower. She knew it was illegal, but she believed that was man’s law, not God’s. God gave us free will for a reason, she believed, and as long as you weren’t hurting anyone, what did it matter if you liked to take a toke every now and then? Amazingly, up to then, she’d never been caught.

As she thought about what the other nuns and Mother Superior might say, the corner of her lips and cheek lifted into a slight smile even though her insides were trembling. She could try to plead her case, explain to the officer that she’d made sure it was late enough that nobody was on the street. How she’d never do anything to hurt anyone. Her new friends were badasses, but the kindhearted kind; they’d taught her how to drive fast but stay in control. The weed helped. Unlike Leila, who got tired and cranky, weed made Sister Marie highly alert, like she was in one of those arcade games she used to play, the driving ones where she’d grind on the edge of the seat, breathing hard, focused, alive. 

The police car smelled like popcorn. Not buttery, but a bit salty and slightly burned. The good kind of burned, like when you find a half-popped blackened kernel and it crunches perfectly, satisfyingly, in your mouth. She eyed Officer Langley’s hands as he guided the steering wheel into a turn; her eyes watered at the thought of Sylvia sitting on that dark street. Leila and Chelsea had laughed at her when she’d named her, saying Sylvia was a name for an old English grandmother. When she informed them that she was naming her after Sylvia Plath, Leila immediately nodded her approval and Chelsea smiled and said, “Ohhhhh,” like she got it.

Imagining Sylvia being taken to impound made the tears start to flow. She wiped her nose on the arm of her habit; then she rubbed her sleeve against the soft seat in front of her until the mucus blended and disappeared. Chelsea had tried to talk her into a Honda, said the best cars for street racing in her price range were Hondas. Leila argued for a Nissan because they were sexier. There would be no Honda or Nissan for Sister Marie. For as long as she could remember she’d yearned for three things: to get far, far away from her parents, to kiss a girl, and to own a Mustang. So, that’s what she bought, a 2009 silver Ford Mustang with a black racing stripe along the side with the wild mustang logo just above it. Sylvia was the kind of gorgeousness that made her shiver; when she looked at her, something within her stirred. 

The first time she got behind the wheel for a test drive, she cried out loud she was so overcome. The sales guy watched from the passenger seat as she bounced up and down, smiling with wide wild eyes, caressing the steering wheel, tracing her finger around the silver mustang in the middle; mute, he looked slightly afraid. She’d seen that same look in her parents’ eyes for years. 

It isn’t natural, her parents had told her, to want to do all those boy things, to dress so boyishly. It sure felt natural to Marie. Who were her parents to judge? Two people who hated each other and had been sleeping in separate rooms since she was in grade school, but still they stayed married—for what? Certainly not for her.

For years she’d watched her father flirt with her teachers, babysitters, even her high school friends. His infidelity was confirmed when she picked up the phone one night and heard him on the other line with a heavy-breathing woman, the woman talking in a little-girl voice about what she wanted to do to him. Her mom wasn’t much better. Day after day, for as long as she could remember, her stay-at-home mom was sauced on wine by the time Marie got home from school, usually passing out in front of the TV. There was always a reason for her mom’s drinking: her book club, a bad day, boredom, her unhappy marriage, a PTO fundraiser, and her wine glass was always magically full, as if it were just that one glass.

**

“You know they’ll probably be a whole lot easier on you if you give me the names of your friends.” The officer turned to look at her as he came to a stop at a red light. “I saw another car. It’ll be in the report.”

Sister Marie held her breath and thought about what the Bible said about lying. Then she thought about all those other things that didn’t make sense in the Bible, and how nobody could ever give her a good answer when she asked questions.

“You saw another car?” She blinked rapidly.

He looked back at the road ahead. “I’m pretty sure that red Honda was the car you were racing. That’s what it looked like to me.” Officer Langley glanced up at the rear-view mirror so he could see her, but her eyes were all shadow. “I’m curious—what made you want to be a nun?”

Sister Marie was asked this often. She laughed a small, imperceptible laugh, just a slight vibration in her chest. Chelsea and Leila hadn’t believed that she was really a nun, they thought she was dressed up, in character for a play. You’re waaayyyy too hot to be a nun, Chelsea had told her. 

“Oh, I’m not actually a nun yet. I’m a novitiate—a newbie.” The thought occurred to her that she could be disqualified and expelled from her nun journey, a fact that, surprisingly, didn’t upset her at all. She sighed heavily. “I love God and driving fast more than anything,” she told the officer flatly, her tone sounding like she couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t get that. “But my ideas about God keep changing, ya know?”

Officer Langley knew. He’d grown up being forced to go to Sunday school and mid-week Bible studies every week until he was sixteen. What he was taught didn’t mesh with what the people of his church, his so-called “church family,” practiced. After years of hypocrisy, abuse, and cruelty, he’d come to see that “God” had nothing to do with church or the Bible. 

More bothersome to Sister Marie than being expelled was a thought that hadn’t occurred to her before—and it made her feel nauseous—that she might have to go to jail. Sister Marie tried to make her voice sound sexy, speaking in a deep but airy way, trying to emulate her first crush, the goddess Helena Bonham Carter. 

“If I promise to never ever drive over the speed limit again, would you let me off the hook?” After considering what she’d said, she added, “Okay, so, I can’t promise, but I can try really hard not to. I’ve been good my whole life—I just wanted to have a little fun.”

Officer Langley pulled off into a nearby parking lot. He wasn’t sure what to make of the young woman in the backseat. The voice change was a bit disturbing. Could she be mentally unstable? He turned to look at Sister Marie and she smiled a big, child-like smile at him, hands in her lap, raising her eyebrows in an unsettling way. Suddenly, he imagined the nun putting him in a headlock and taking his gun, him being the laughingstock of the precinct for the rest of his life. He’d already dodged daily ridicule and worse, for what his mother referred to as his sweet, sensitive nature. 

Becoming a police officer was a way for him to protect himself and pay the bills but being a clothing designer was what he’d longed to do since he was four, which had led to him being beaten up and harassed throughout middle and high school. The kids he knew who went to church were the cruelest. And, when he’d come home with a black eye or a broken rib, rather than come to his son’s defense, his dad would mutter his disappointment and shame, barely able to look at him; he even went so far as to blame his son for his own need to drink so much. 

When he was fifteen, his dad discovered the women’s clothing he’d bought at the Salvation Army. He’d transformed the garments into his own personal masterpieces, an entire clothing line, working late into the night in the damp and cold basement. That was the night his father decided to beat the girliness out of him. 

Shortly after his sixteenth birthday, his parents sent him to a month-long residential program at a Christian reform center. He’d never even said that he was gay, not once to anyone. Wasn’t even sure that he was. The truth was, he’d felt an attraction to both girls and guys but he’d worried that the pastors would think that was even worse, so he lied, saying he liked girls, not guys, and tried to explain that he was an artist, that he liked to design things. He would’ve told them just about anything to get out of there.

After his second suicide attempt, his parents finally left him alone. Silence became his best and only friend. And then he became someone else, telling himself it was temporary. He learned to lower his voice, feign interest in sports, and most importantly, ignore his inner voice and desires. Officer Langley learned how to survive; if he wanted to live long enough to save up enough money to make it out of the conservative prison he’d grown up in, he’d have to hide his true self.

“Ma’am, I mean, Sister. I’m going to come around and let you out of the car for a minute so I can put handcuffs on you. It’s protocol—I should’ve done it earlier—I could get in a lot of trouble if I don’t.”

Sister Marie was about to respond but was distracted by a red car that was idling nearby. 

Officer Langley opened the door for her and took a step back, wary of his passenger’s mental health. As he reached around for the handcuffs on the back of his belt, two women grabbed his arms from behind, struggling to hold him. One of them grabbed the handcuffs and placed them around his wrists.

The two young women smiled; one of them had huge gauges in her ears, a lip ring, and a hot-pink mohawk, and the other looked like she’d just stepped off the set of Little House on the Prairie in her peasant dress, brown hair parted in the middle, hanging all the way down to her waist. The one with the mohawk was filming him with her phone.

“Sir,” the one with the really long hair said, trying to sound polite but insistent, “we know you must be feeling quite emasculated right now, and we’re sorry about that...”

“I’m not sorry,” Leila muttered.

“...And for breaking the law,” Chelsea said, raising her voice, “but we’d very much like to take our friend here with us.” She winked at Sister Marie. “Hey, babe.” 

Sister Marie smiled, unbelievably aroused. She half-heartedly apologized to the officer but continued to stare at Chelsea in awe. She thought about the day she went to Chelsea’s apartment for the first time to watch Dirty Dancing, how they sat side by side on the floor, their heads resting on the same beanbag. Chelsea had laughed, after, saying it couldn’t be a sin because Sister Marie had kept her jeans on. Sister Marie always wore jeans under her habit. She would never give up her jeans. She had eight pairs of the exact same kind of jeans, but in two different sizes. One size roomy enough for her legs and stomach to feel comfortable when driving or doing chores, and the other size smaller, snug in all the right places so that when she walked or sat, she felt a nice rubbing sensation. 

Remembering how Chelsea had blown hot breath through the crotch of her jeans—how it had warmed the whole of her, making her dig her heels and toes into the carpet—how Chelsea’s tongue had pressed against the denim, creating a warm dampness within and without—how her body shook, her brain and nerves spitting pleasure like hot static rippling through her body—how they’d held each other—how she’d never felt happier—standing there in the street, the air light and warm, Sister Marie’s body came alive, a rush of tingling, goosebumps all over her skin, she gasped out loud, her cheeks hot. 

Chelsea looked back at the officer with a more serious look. “We promise not to ever tell anyone about this, not to post any videos or anything, if you’ll just forget that any of this happened. I mean, really, there are much better things you could be doing with your time other than arresting nuns who like to drive fast, aren’t there?” 

“If you let me out of these handcuffs, I’ll consider it,” Officer Langley said.

“Now, if you didn’t have that scary gun right there, we totally would,” Chelsea said, pushing her hair behind her ear. “But we watch the news. Cops shoot people all the time for doing nothing at all.”

“Seriously. All. The. Time. You guys are scary as shit. And right now you probably really want to shoot us,” Leila added, smacking her gum.

Sister Marie moved closer so she could see the handcuffs; they were made of thin plastic; she felt the urge to touch them. “Do you have any scissors in your car?” she asked in a raspy voice. “You could let us leave—then you could cut yourself free—once we’re gone?”

Officer Langley stared at Sister Marie, thinking, again, how much she looked like his cousin—remembering all those Saturday mornings when they were little—eating cereal and watching cartoons, how they’d played together—how she always wanted to be the Indian Chief or the Bad Guy, and he always wanted to be a horse or the faithful dog that led the way. How she was the only person who’d ever made him feel truly loveable. And then, just like that, Lori was gone at the mere age of twelve after a short, horrific battle with Leukemia. 

Looking down at his ugly black shoes, he shifted his weight. Their bravery was inspiring, contagious. When he looked back up at them there were tears in his eyes; a lightness was trying to push its way into existence, into his very soul—like the feeling of hope and possibility and freedom that was erupting inside of him. Scott waited until they’d driven away to take the scissors and cut himself free.

Tracy Haught holds an MFA in Writing & Publishing from the Vermont College of Fine Arts, and is the managing & fiction editor for Isele Magazine. A poet and writer exploring themes of addiction, sexuality, women’s issues, mental illness, and homelessness, Tracy's work has appeared in: Awakened Voices, The Montpelier Bridge, Cybersoleil, Magnapoets, Helix Magazine, Hunger Mountain Literary Journal, The Lumiere Review, The Oklahoma Review, Poetry for the Masses, Polyphony, Prime Mincer, SLAB Lit Mag, Sugar Mule, and others. You can read more at tracyhaught.wordpress.com. Find her on Twitter: @haught_tracy