Nun Story #3

Seventh grade was in the new part of the building.  The classroom door had one big, square window in it.  Being that Mother Superior was the Mother SUPERIOR, often she was called away for meetings, consultations, whatever, and she'd have to leave the room.

But she always left someone in charge.  Someone whose job it was to maintain order in her absence.  The requirements were simple.  "Write down the names of anyone who talks while I'm gone . . ."  She'd pick someone to be "monitor," usually one of the girls, issue her instructions and she'd leave.

But she always left the door open at a forty-five degree angle. 

And everybody always talked.

When she came back, she'd ask for the list of people who talked, read out their names, and mete out punishment.  Write twenty-five times, "I will not talk when Mother Superior is out of the classroom."

Then she'd ask, "is there anybody whose name should be on this list that isn't?" 

If you confessed, you got the same punishment as the people that the monitor caught.  Then the miracle would happen.  She had another list.  She'd open it up and look at it, and ask, "Are you sure there's no one else whose name should be on the list?"

When no one responded, she'd say things like "Bruce.  Didn't you hand a note to George at 1:29?"  and of course, I had.  And when I confessed, then George would be in trouble too.  There'd always be two or three that failed to confess when they had the chance and got busted by the uncanny accuracy of that second list.  Then we'd have to write fifty copies of "I will not talk when Mother Superior is out of the room."

We were convinced that it was God, acting through her, to put us on the straight and narrow. 

So I stopped talking when she was out of the room.  I ignored everyone who tried to talk to me, because I was a terrible liar. And I was already so familiar with hell that I didn't need to go there any more often than was absolutely necessary.  And besides, even if the monitor didn't catch me, she always knew . . .

Until one day, when I had something incredibly important to tell George about.  Important enough to risk the wrath of God.  I looked up from my book to whisper to him, and straight past him, I saw Mother Superior!  Except she wasn't in the room, she was out in the hall.  I was seeing her reflection in the big, square window!  She had her pen out, and was writing down names!

To this day, I don't know that she saw me see her in the window.  But when I failed to confess for the magic list, for once she didn't press the issue.  And I'm not saying I never talked again while she was out of the room, but I never got caught again by anyone but the monitor . . .