The taxi ignored the curb and went up on two wheels. Sister Mary Margaret stared at the second 'o' in the neon sign, "Scooter's," as it failed to flicker to life.

"Are you sure this is where you wish to go?" the concerned Taxi driver asked.

It was a good question, one she had ignored until now. What else was she supposed to do? Tell all of the others that the woman they have known for decades is a liar? She followed the instructions as well as she could understand them, and did so with no thought.

It wasn't a choice. As for what she wanted? No one could know. Whatever needed to be done to ensure that was her only desire.

She reached into her cavernous bag and handed the nice young man named Muhammed a fifty from the bank stack.

He held it to the dome light. "I think I've seen one of these old bills once, when I was a child. Is it unpatriotic to say they're a little ugly?"

"Not at all," she replied. "I do enjoy how the old paper feels in my hands, but it never had it in the looks department."

She handed him a second one. He looked at the meter. "Ma'am, or Sister, this is far too much for your fare."

"I'm buying advice off of you."

"What advice?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

“What do you do when you’ve spent every night begging for forgiveness, certain that you’ve been heard, only to have everything you thought you knew blown to dust? Do you give up? Do you just go through the motions?”

“I—“

“Do you get out of the car? What if is this the final exam and you’re a complete fraud? Or, what if the proof you’ve been dreading your whole life is just inside there, and the demons are just licking their chops to rub your face in it?”

Muhammad returned the second fifty. “I’ll pray for you.”

"Fair enough," She opened her door. The air greeted her with a low rumbling bass melody seeping out from Scooters and that humid summer air that made her habit stick everywhere.

"Keep the change, dear. Sorry if you get a strange look from it. I don't get out often."

Scooters appeared to be a store from the outside. Boxy, well lit. She wondered what else used to be here, which in of itself was an odd thing to think about.

Bars did not look like this a lifetime ago, before the vows when she was just a girl looking for a drink and a good time. They looked elegant and ornate, or themed and tacky, but in that fun uncle kind of way. They were places you would be happy to be seen in, and not something that required a wait out with the June bugs.

The line wasn't much to get angry at - about a dozen half dressed girls waited their turn - but was it really like it used to be? Did they wait with the same anticipation as she and her friends decades ago, or was this just one stop on one of those marathon binges kids went on these days?

She began the annoying sticky walk to the end of the que when one of the girls called out to her "if you're going in, you can go in front of us."

She smiled. The penguin outfit makes kids just as uncomfortable now as it ever has. Good to know.

There were whispers as she walked to the entrance. There always were when one of her kind was allowed to roam free.

Sister Mary Margaret handed her ID to a hairy guy covered in sweat and tattoos. He reminded her of the kids she saw walking by the basilica on their way to that awful skate park. Tough looking, but figety. He looked at the photo of her, then to her, and then to the plastic again.

"Try not to cause any trouble," he said as she went inside.

The noise enveloped her as she gazed on the polished concrete floos that reflected the Edison style lightbulbs. It turned from sheik to eerie with that warm glow. She was told he would be easy to find. Look for a guy in a wheelchair getting wasted. Scooter's was at capacity, with most of the patrons staring at her. Except for one fella right between the wall and the bar.

There was only one empty seat barside, the one Sister Mary Margaert sat on next to her new friend, Rodger.

A girl wearing a green dress sitting on the other side got up.

This was the first tavern Sister Mary Margaret had occipied in a half-century, but she had the impression that it was too nice for the homeless looking handicapped man. The boys, while foul mouthed as ever and bathed in vile amounts of cologne, looked presentable for the times, as did the ladies.

"I came a long way to see you," she said to him.

The man gave her an odd look. "God don't make house calls. I learned that the hard way."

"Oh? What section of your home are we in now? I didn't know they let people live in bars these days."

"Lady, this place will do whatever the fuck it can to make a dime off of you. I'm sure if I offered them enough money, they'd roll out the red carpet and change my towels and everything.”

"Fat chance at that, Rodger." The bartender said as he came over, a young husky kid chaffed at the neck from rubbing on the collar of his black polo. "Causing problems agian?"

"Just enjoying my constitutional right to be here," Rodger replied.

"Uh, good evening, Sister. Sorry about him. I have the unfortunate luck of working at the closest handicap acessible bar to his house. We try or best to keep him reigned in."

"Well, ain't you sweet," she said. "Do I look like I'm in trouble or something?"

"It's just that we don't normally get members of the clergy here, and this one has a tendency to stir the pot."

She looked around. "That's a shame. Hard to think of anyhwere I've been more in need to be the place where the Rabbi and Priest walk into."

"I'm sorry, I'm just a little slow. I'm assuming you don't want a drink, so what can I help you with?"

"What makes you think I wouldn't want a drink? You ain't never heard the one about the Nun who walks into a bar and drinks a whole bottle of single barrel bourbon?"

"They don't have anything that nice," Rodger said. "There's all of these fancy lights but the drinks are sweet, mixed, and overpriced to hell."

"I figured as much, but a girl can dream. I'm from Kentucky. My daddy had very specific drinking laws that I was raised on. Those went out the window a long time ago. I never thought he was a drunk, odd that's who I'm thinking about right now. But, I guess if you're going to sin, don't settle for less than top shelf."

The man in the wheelchair raised his glass. "Llyod's got something hidden. For the locals, not these rich Canadian brats. Small batch corn whiskey made by the Natives on the reservation. The goddamn definition of fire water, but if you want something that was meticulously made by one person illegally in the woods with constant risk of explosion, there's no finer hooch on this side of the border."

The bartender - Llyod apparently - slammed his hand on the bar. "Why don't you just announce it to the Goddamn world?"

"I'd love one if you'll serve me," she said and slid Muhammed's unwanted fifty dollar bill across the sticky wood. "Keep the change. No, I'm not a cop. I just need to talk to this gentleman for a moment."

Llyod's anger switched to a fake smile as the cash went into his pocket. "I'll be right back with your craft cocktail, ma'am."

"The fuck do you want to talk to me about?" the man asked as Lloyd walked away.

Sister Mary Margaret reached her arm into her giant beige purse and set a pistol on the bar, blocked from the rest of the patrons by the bag.

"This just keeps getting better and better."

"Shut up. I'm here to deliver a message."

"A message? From who? I don't know anybody anymore."

"I don't know, and it's not important to me," she leaned in. "Your daughter needs your help."

"That's how I know you're full of shit," the man said. "That girl has never needed anyone - let alone me - in her entire life."

She laughed. "Yeah. I was warned you thought you raised the ultimate little wunderkid. There's a lot you don't know about her."

"I don't know anything about her. That's the point. I've been out of her life longer than I was ever in it. Only good thing that has ever come out of me and it's because I stayed away."

"I need you to understand something," she started spinning the gun around in circles on the table.

"Aren't you worried someone is going to see you playing with firearms like a child?"

"People are terrified of Nuns. Younger ones especially. I go weeks without anyone making eye contact with me, and no one wants to call 911 on one."

She leaned in close to Rodger. "I've devoted my life to the Lord as restitution for my sins. Sins which I have confessed to. I too have lived my life in a far different situation than what I was born into for much longer than the life I once lived. Even for someone like me, who has suffered and toiled daily for forgiveness, the past doesn't go away. The world isn't designed like that, sweetie. For someone like you, however, well, the debt collectors have been wanting their pound of flesh."

She slid the gun to him.

"Devil's Hole State Park. This is your chance. Don't squander it."

"Do I look like I hike?"

"Do I look like I care?"

He shook his head. "You're not getting it. She doesn't need me. All me coming back will do is fuck with her mind, and that girl has already been through enough misery."

Llyod returned with the drink and the man pulled the weapon into his shirt. Whether he wanted it or not, it was his problem now. Llyod smiled as he slid the glass with a single rock to her. It smelled like rubbing alchol took a tour of a popcorn factory. She closed her eyes and let the moonshine run down her thoat, taking the entire drink in one prolonged gulp. The sacrament involved wine, but that cheap shit had nothing on the alchol content in this. She didn't wince. She wouldn't let either of them see that.

"Llyod, in future, don't assume old ladies want ice. If I wanted a pussy drink I would have ordered something pink."

His face flushed, a few of the others at the bar who heard her laughed. Lloyd cowered to the other side of the room for an order and Sister Mary Margaret leaned in close to Rodger.

"The women I have lived with for the last fifty years are the most strong, passionate people I have ever had the grace of knowing. There isn't a single one of them, including me, who didn't have their world's shattered when their daddies died. It's just a strange bond. I couldn't imagine how I would feel, even now at seventy years of age, if my father stopped talking to me and was just out there somewhere, living a chosen life without me. You're right, I don't know Julie, but I know how she feels about you because we all feel that way."

She stood.

"What am I even looking for?"

"Figure it out," she said over her shoulder.