I was visiting my parents after my first year in the Army when I heard the news: Mary was about to join a convent.
I had mixed feelings. Hmmm, Mary—a nun!
I knew Mary since we were both six years old. Her family lived next door. We were frequent playmates and were in the same class through the eighth grade. One day on the way home we took refuge from a sudden downpour in the phone booth down the street; one of those old dark boxes with the folding door and the awkward seat in the corner designed for people with triangular butts. While waiting for the squall to pass we talked about what we wanted to do when we grew up. I’d just seen Alan Ladd in “Shane” and wanted to be a cowboy. Mary was inspired by Ingrid Bergman in “Going My Way” and dreamed of becoming a nun. For years after that, on rainy days, Mary and I would lock ourselves into the phone booth and have our little talks.
She was always one of the more serious kids, so no one was surprised that now, at the age of 19, she would deliver on her childhood dream. Neither was I, but since Mary had developed into quite a hot number in recent years, I considered it a terrible waste to have her nubile perfection shrouded in a nun’s habit until she would be old and broken. So for me it was a disappointment.
All day I kept shaking my head. Damn; tomorrow Mary will be a nun.
So when she called later that evening and said she wanted to meet me at the phone booth, I was surprised. We haven’t seen each other in over a year, and I was pleased that she’d take time out on her last night at home to see me. I wanted to see her too, and wish her the best. Riding my bike down to the booth I thought of the bittersweet symbolism of seeing her for the last time at the place where we’d spent so many hours.
When I got to the booth Mary was already there. We stepped inside and pulled the accordion door shut, locking ourselves into our private little cocoon as we had so many times as little children. Except this time there seemed to be much less room than there was before. I liked that.
“Just like old times,” I said, “isn’t it?”
“No,” Mary said, “it’s nothing like old times.”
“Then what is it?”
"I have a secret I need to share,” she said, “and I want to be completely honest with you.”
“Well, share.”
She took a deep breath. The booth seemed to get smaller.
“I’ve never...you know...” she pressed herself closer to me, her voice but a mere whisper. “Have you?”
I wanted to be honest with her too, but the way her warmth pressed against me it seemed like telling her the truth would be counter-productive. So I lied.
“Me neither.”
She believed me.
“I want to be your first,” she said, her breath hot against my neck; “and I want you to be my first—and last, because tomorrow I shall commit myself to a life of purity… and that leaves only tonight… or else I’d never know what I missed.”
I thought she presented an excellent argument, and I was unable to come up with a single counterpoint—not that I tried.
She pulled me close.
Suddenly there was a tap on the door. “Joe, you in there?”
It was my father’s voice. Siht! He must have seen my bike leaning against the booth.
The door opened. He looked at us, his eyes shifting back and forth.
“What the…”
We parted about as far as an embracing couple in a phone booth could; obviously not far enough to deny anything. We were disheveled and somewhat unbuttoned. I was breathing hard and Mary’s blush was about as subtle as a forest fire.
My father was an old-fashioned guy. But old fashioned doesn’t mean stupid, so he knew precisely what was going on, and he was just taking his time to choose the right words. In the end, displaying the wisdom that comes only with age, he spoke with the discretion of someone who’d seen nothing.
“So, Mary… I hear you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Yes sir, I am.” Mary said sheepishly.
“It’s quite late,” my father said, “shouldn’t you be at home, packing?”
“Yes, sir.” Mary smoothed her hair into place, then cleared her throat and said, “May we have a moment, please?”
My father nodded and stepped back.
Mary closed the door. I could see her big brown eyes fill with tears.
”I guess it wasn’t meant to be,” she said; “but I’ll always think of you as my one and only.”
We kissed. It started out as a brief goodbye kiss; an innocent brush of lips that had been talking to each other for many years. But then it turned into a much longer kiss—painfully long because I knew that this time the kiss would lead to nothing else. While this was clear to me from the neck up, certain parts of my southern region refused to go along with this change of plans. To quell the rising passion of this dissident rebellion, I tried desperately to think of something other than her willing body pressed against me: things like who invented martinizing and why do we need it in one hour, why do kamikaze pilots wear helmets, and my Timex keep on ticking after taking a licking, but none of that helped.
Thankfully, Mary unlocked her lips from mine and withdrew from my arms. She smiled a sad little smile, opened the door and was gone. I watched with deepening regret as her supple figure faded into the dark of the street.
Looking after her my father said, “You do know that in a few hours she’ll be a nun, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said with resignation.
“So you do understand why I had to spoil what you were trying to do in there.”
“Yes, Dad.”
We started walking.
“So just for the record,” he said with a conspiring grin, “how far did you get?”
“I just kissed her … once.”
“Then there is no harm done,” my father said after a while. “It’s OK to kiss a nun once—as long as you don’t get into the habit.”
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