Sister Tawny Goes Again

It was the sharp, red welts the pointed heel of her shoe had stabbed into Chuck’s face that convinced Sister Mary Katherine to give her life to Christ. It was in the way they opened on his perfect skin and stretched across his cheek in the shape of a cross. All of Sister Mary Katherine’s friends said she was crazy, that it was the cocaine rattling through her system, but that was the thing—Sister Mary Katherine was dried-up sober that night. That was what propelled her into assaulting Chuck, what had made her rip her high heel off and swing it into his face: he had flushed her entire supply down the toilet. Those cross-shaped cuts had to be a sign. Sister Mary Katherine’s lawyer was pleased with this development; reaching a plea bargain was easy when his client had decided to join a nunnery. Sister Mary Katherine (or “Tawny” as she went by back then) and Chuck were quickly divorced. He took their daughters, and she packed her things for St. Joachim’s.

The Church wasn’t as much of an adjustment as Sister Mary Katherine expected. At first, the early mornings and long days of prayer were hard work, but the Lord revealed their soothing nature to Sister Mary Katherine when she was ready. The withdrawals were the biggest hurdle in Sister Mary Katherine’s new life. Vivid nightmares often left her shaking during morning prayer, sometimes depleting her of the energy to rise to her feet when they ended, but the Lord—as in all things—helped her through it. Soon, Sister Mary Katherine could hardly believe those fuzzy memories of drunk driving, guitar licks, and revolving door rehab centers were hers. The years knitted together blissfully. Both of her daughters married, Sister Mary Katherine’s hair grayed, she started teaching Sunday School, and her troublesome breast implants were removed. The weight had quite literally been taken off of her chest, and Sister Mary Katherine was content in the knowledge that she was to live out the rest of her life as a devout Bride of Christ.

Until the Masdit family joined their flock.

They were a pasty group from Minnesota made of three children, two plump parents, and a bald grandfather. Sister Mary Katherine met the children first. She welcomed them into her Sunday School group and was immediately taken in by their northern brogue. Her eyes followed their downy heads down the aisle as they rejoined church service. The towheaded family was easy to find once mass ended. The parents were kind and grateful for their new community’s welcoming nature, but Sister Mary Katherine was put off by the way the grandfather wordlessly squinted at her. He’s an old man, she thought as the Masdit mother described the travails of moving three children to Southern California. He probably can’t see very well . . .

“Are you Tawny Kitaen?”

“Dad!” Mrs. Masdit gasped.

“No, she is! I’m sure—I spent all of 1987 staring at you in that Whitesnake video.”

Mrs. Masdit was horrified, apologizing furiously as Sister Mary Katherine blushed. Sister Mary Katherine forgave the grandfather and excused herself from the Masdit family, pulling the sides of her habit close together as she scurried away. It had been so long since anyone had called her “Tawny,” so long that Sister Mary Katherine thought being recognized as her was no longer a possibility. She hardly looked like the girl in the “Here I Go Again” video anymore, and that was where Sister Mary Katherine longed for Tawny to remain: doing cartwheels across the hoods of two shiny, black and white Jaguars in a Whitesnake music video.

Shaken, Sister Mary Katherine stepped inside the church and took a seat close to the altar. She kneeled, folded her hands in prayer, and stared up at the figure of Christ hanging above the pulpit, nailed to a crucifix so like the heel she had stabbed into Chuck’s cheek. Sister Mary Katherine shuddered. She hadn’t thought about the assault in years. She hadn’t thought about the music video in years. She hadn’t thought about Tawny in years.

Soon, Sister Mary Katherine was thinking about Tawny too often, humming the tune of “Here I Go Again” to herself as she walked through the garden or dressed for bed. At first, she became unsettled whenever her mind wandered back to those sinful days of sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll, but Sister Mary Katherine was comforted once she realized her heart wasn’t longing for the sex or cocaine, only the thrill of the Whitesnake video. Reading Bible stories to children was enjoyable, but Sister Mary Katherine never had more fun than making those Jaguars bounce with her dance moves. And she’d never felt more beautiful than she did shooting the video’s driving scenes. It may have just been a wind machine blowing at their stationary car, but the raging air was seductive, pulling Tawny completely outside the window to pose and wrap her bare leg around the windshield. Pretend driving in the other seat, David Coverdale couldn’t keep his eyes on the imaginary road. Whitesnake’s lead singer’s eyes were filled with absolute passion, and all for her.

Was it a sin to dwell on memories? Sister Mary Katherine hesitated to ask the mother superior, fearful of what the answer might be. For weeks, Sister Mary Katherine prayed so this lust for the Jaguars and the wind machine might be taken from her heart, but the Lord would not relieve her of it. It was only when Sister Mary Katherine looked over the pulpit and saw David Coverdale hanging, handsome and taut, where Christ should have been did she realize what it was she needed to do.

Tawny’s old confidence brought Sister Mary Katherine downtown late at night. A year ago, a distraught mother had dragged her delinquent daughter to St. Joachim’s and asked the nuns to “fix” her, and it was from the daughter that Sister Mary Katherine knew where to go. She even thought she recognized the daughter and her distinctive pink hair at the “race track,” eyeing the nun. The street racers were not wary of Sister Mary Katherine as they might have been wary of a police officer, but their curiosity bordered on suspicion. It took some time to explain that she was not there to spread the word of God, that she only wanted to ride along with them and feel the wind rustle her habit.

A muscled kid in a tight shirt was the first to speak up over his friends’ confusion. “Even if you’re for real, you’d just slow me down!”

His friends agreed. Drag racing was all about speed, timing, and featherlight weight. All three were qualities Sister Mary Katherine, an eighty-year-old nun, didn’t possess. She was about to apologize for bothering the kids when the girl with the pink hair pushed forward, making the muscular kid stumble. “Jesus Christ, Damián, I’ll take the hit. She’s just a sweet ol’ nun.” The pink-haired girl turned toward Sister Mary Katherine, a recognition on her face of a different ilk than that of the Masdit grandfather’s.

“Thank you. I’m Sister Mary Katherine.”

“I know,” the girl said, pulling a ring of keys from her pants pocket. “I’m Mo.” She flicked her head in the direction of her car, asking Sister Mary Katherine to follow.

Mo’s car was waiting in the road. Large, pointed, white, and patient like a dog. It looked old and had a cherry red interior that screamed 1980s. Sister Mary Katherine spread her hands over the car’s hood; the width of it was large enough to do a split on like she had done in the Whitesnake video. “Is this a Jaguar?” she asked.

“No, it’s a Camaro,” Mo said, opening the enormous passenger door for her. Sister Mary Katherine nodded like she understood the distinction between the automobiles and got in.

Mo slung herself behind the steering wheel and buckled in. She waited for Sister Mary Katherine to do the same, cocking a surprised eyebrow but not saying anything when the nun didn’t follow suit. A rumbling car pulled up alongside Mo, and she rolled the driver’s side window down. Sister Mary Katherine listened to Mo shouting negotiations with the other driver until the countdown began.

“Three . . .” Mo revved the engine, and Sister Mary Katherine felt the car’s floor rumble underneath her feet.

“Two—” The car punched forward prematurely, and Mo cackled as the other driver pursued in the rearview mirror. Sister Mary Katherine’s hands gripped the passenger seat firmly, holding on to the upholstery until she felt her middle adjust to Mo’s speed. The streets were empty; Sister Mary Katherine rolled down her window and stuck her hand into the roaring air. She smiled, and the force of Mo’s driving pushed her hand backward. Sister Mary Katherine thought of the wind machine, of hoisting herself through the Jaguar’s window and caressing David Coverdale with her toes. Her bottom wasn’t slim enough to do such a thing now, the car door would groan under her weight, but Sister Mary Katherine could lean her head out the window.

Mo did a double take. “Are you crazy?!”

“Here I Go Again” started to play somewhere, the opening notes chiming in Sister Mary Katherine’s ear. She started singing the song into the night, Mo’s growling engine and her habit ruffling in the wind.

“Oh Lord, I pray you give me strength to carry on! ‘Cause I know what it means to walk along the lonely street of dreams!”

They sped past streams of light and neon, Sister Mary Katherine clutching her habit against the force of air threatening to tear it from her. In the forty-eight seconds Sister Mary Katherine spent riding in Mo’s car, there was a small moment where she ceased to simply think about the Whitesnake video but instead felt she was living it again. The road before them turned into a soundstage and her heavy garb into the silky green dress she had worn for the shoot. Mo’s pink hair was replaced by David Coverdale’s thick golden mane, his small British face pouting with adoration. Was it a sin to be Tawny again, even for a second or two?

Blue and red lights flashed behind the Camaro. Mo swore, adjusting the rear view mirror to study the distance between them and the police vehicles trailing them. “What do you say, Sister?” Mo asked, leaning over the center console to speak to Sister Mary Katherine. “Think we can outrun them?”

Sister Mary Katherine, clutching the car’s roof, looked backward. There had been two cop cars, but one had circled around to stop the other drag racer, and the extra set of flashing lights disappeared as Mo sped onward, faster and faster. The other cop car’s nose was on their ass, the mustachioed policeman shouting at them, volumeless, from behind his windshield. Sister Mary Katherine thought, briefly, about the mother superior—what she would have to say about this, what obscure piece of scripture she would pull to chastise Sister Mary Katherine as punitively and specifically as possible. But “Here I Go Again” was still pounding in her heart, louder and more inspiring than the mother superior.