I pressed my nose against the glass. The air outside the car got colder with each ray of sunlight that faded over the horizon. Watching the many beautiful glittering dresses walk by a small part of me as a woman envied wearing those gowns, while the rambunctious nature that encompassed most of my being was thankful I could throw on the same thing every day and not worry about expensive attire. There was a joy in simplicity.

The anticipation had grown too strong. I couldn't wait any longer. My fingers gripped the door handle ready to push.

"Leblanc, could you be a dear, and park the car while I secure our place in line?"

"I don't think leaving you on your own is a great idea. There is a parking area nearby if you have a moment to–"

"No time like the present, Sergeant," I interrupted. "Besides, if something terrible were to occur, one would be wise to scope out the scene." I snatched my ticket off the dashboard. "See you inside."

Leblanc waved his hand in defeat. He knew best not to dissuade me when my mind was made up.

"Then be careful and in a few minutes look for me."

"I'll keep your seat warm," I said with a wink.

"I'd rather you didn't," he said with a laugh.

I slammed the car door forcefully causing Leblanc to stick his head through the window with a loud shout. I blew him a quick kiss and mouthed my apologies, but nowhere did my legs stop pressing forward. This nun was on a mission.

My feet wobbled on the cracked sidewalk. One thing I'd come to learn about this fair city was its historic charms and the qualities of such that come from the wares of time. In essence, the streets were full of holes.

"Good God," I yelped, avoiding a large hole where a brick should have been, only to find my stubby heels smushed in some fairly recent horse manure. Left behind probably by some horse drawn carriage or a saddled police officer, the soft feces dusted with flies tickled my nose and ruffled the edges of my gown. Disgust crossed my face just as a beautiful young couple crossed my path. We exchanged a glance. From their perspective, a wayward nun stood ankle deep in shit while her face contorted in desperate efforts to hold back her dinner. Their pace quickened. From my perspective, the warmth of steaming fresh horse pies insulated the base of my heels from the growing cold. The feeling of the calm toastiness that comes from moving out of the cold and into a warm room mixed with the feeling of disgust permeated my facial expressions.

"Ugh," I belched. I lifted my feet to dryer grounds and through prayer I managed the strength I needed to scrape the crud off my shoes. I painted the nearby concrete stoop in a way reflecting the works of Jackson Pollock. Stepping back I gave the canvas a nod of approval. Abstract art could be a new talent I never knew I possessed.

Unable to fully leave the scene with clean shoes, I continued on. The smell should mellow out in time. Scooting down the sidewalk I soon arrived at the entrance. A line of people in lavish garbs paraded two by two. I planted myself at the end of the line behind two gentlemen with sparkling red shoes. The line moved quickly enough. My eyes wandered around the facade landing on the giant marquee displaying in bold letters, MACBETH.

I may not look it, being my obvious career pursuit, but all nuns are allowed some dark deviltry behind closed doors. Like Sister Beth's floor stash of communion wine, or Sister Sophia's ant farm she keeps hidden despite dropping the box into the trash during breakfast or how Sister Nora sizes up the cucumbers at the supermarket but never uses them in a salad. We may never know such sins, but having one or two toes in forbidden waters keeps us grounded with the rest of the sinners. As for me, I loved to read about everything dark from murder stories to true crime to a horrid obsession of Shakespeare.

It all began at the impressionable age of eight when one begins to develop into their own person. I had always been the child to wander from the group, pick up dead things to look at despite the horrors of the Sisters, or ask those really hard uncomfortable questions that would leave the Sisters baffled.

"Why don't I have a penis?" my young self would ask.

Yet, my upbringing brought new and different avenues that other children never got. This one was at the convent I lived in England long before I was sent to the Americas. My childhood consisted of an old chapel with a dorm adjacent to a widely popular theater. I could hear their elevated voices echo through the hollowed places between wood and stone to rattle my ears at night. It was like being read a bedtime story by a ghost, one full of epic and wild tales.

Soon the tempting, trumpeting tones became far too hard to ignore. At the time the nuns had provided me my own room with rules of cleanliness and order to be maintained and no unauthorized items. It wasn't long before I realized that the sound was strongest behind my dresser. For a time I could not budge it, but I learned emptying the interior made it much easier to move. And there I found it, my window into a new discovery, a small missing panel from the wall just wide enough for me to crawl inside.

Thankfully my fear of spiders and all those creepy crawly things was minimal or else I would have never made it inside past my knees. The chase for discovery fueled me to continue. This hollow crawl space between the structures looked to be a path to an old attic sealed off years ago only big enough to crouch in. Dusty nick knacks and furniture filled the room, but what intrigued me the most was the crack in the floor that allowed a single beam of light to penetrate the darkness.

It was there I watched the plays. Elevated above the stage I could see what the actors could see and all the props hidden behind. While I observed the plays as a reverse audience, I imagined the sets I couldn't see. Still my young mind was enthralled with my secret place, those haunting tales, and my storyteller, Shakespeare.

My beautiful secret soon became my tragic end. Being that I was a rambunctious child, the nuns needed one last reason to send me off to the Americas. I was fifteen now, almost sixteen, and my body was changing. My hips had gotten wider over the years, making the crawl space smaller and smaller. Upon my last attempt I got stuck half way and my secret was exposed.

Too lost in thought I failed to realize how far I had stepped. My foot brushed the back of one of the gentleman's sparkling red shoes.

"Oh my," cried the gentleman, twisting quickly behind to check his shoe.

"My sincere apologies," I curtseyed, spreading out the folds of my robe. The gentleman's partner turned around and gave me a huge smile.

"Bob," he said, nudging his partner. "It's her."

Bob looked up from his shoes at me. His face turned instantly from frustration to joy.

"Well grab my pearls, is this the Sister Mary?"

"Shh," I joked with a finger to my lips. "Don't say that too loud, I'm undercover."

"We are big fans," said Bob. "My partner, Samuel, and I have read about both of your cases. We own a successful restaurant in the French Quarter. We would love to treat you and your sisters to a wonderful dinner. I don't mean to brag but we have the best fried fish. See Samuel here had an amazing idea to put dill in the batter–"

"Bob, I don't think Sister Mary is hard pressed to hear about our exploits," said Samuel, extending his hand. "Let me formally greet you, Sister Mary. Samuel Hebert."

"Robert Delahoussaye."

"Charmed I am by such handsome gentlemen." I looked down. "And with such beautiful shoes. Off to OZ might we be?"

"Somewhere over the rainbow," responded Bob with a chuckle. "So what brings a nun to a showing of Macbeth?"

"Murder," I said. "I have good reason to believe that someone here tonight will make a sudden stage left exit."

"Well the play is all about murder."

Both men shrugged. The line shifted more forward. By now we were almost to the counter.

"Whatever the outcome of tonight, have a pleasant evening, Sister Mary." Bob handed me a business card. "And I'm serious about that dinner."

As I reached the ticket counter and the gentlemen had moved on, I shoved my ticket through the hole in the window. The worker studied the ticket for a moment before punching a hole in the middle.

"Sister Mary, is it?"

"Yes," I responded.

"You are our honored guest today, anything you may need is covered on your ticket."

"I am truly blessed, thank you, good sir."

"Shall I take your umbrella?"

"No, sir. I carry my umbrella with me, always."

"Then enjoy the production."

A bolt of excitement surged through my body. I was the honored guest, the First Lady, the Baroness, the Grand Duchess of New Orleans. I may not be wearing high heels but, boy, did I feel tall. My hand clasped the door handle. In my mind I envisioned a row of men in tuxedos awaiting my entrance. There to ravish me with adoration and bouquets of flowers. I stomped past the open door and into the lit lobby feeling on top of the world. Yet, to my disappointment, the lobby was mostly empty. A young boy messing with his jacket glanced up.

"Ah," he said. "Ticket, miss." He glanced at the ticket. "Your seat is front orchestra right. Enjoy." The young boy then shifted his attention to the next person who entered. "Ticket, sir."

The ceiling decorated with ornate octagons boarded with gold leaf patterned from one end to the other. Shifting from carpet to title, the floor sank slightly forward. I twirled across the room taking note of every person I saw. Everything seemed rather normal.

I sauntered past the final doorway into a large two level auditorium. Red velvet seats covered also in gold leaf trim angled towards a grand stage. Flowing red curtains and a false Venetian facade fanned out from both sides of the stage while a curved ceiling painted a deep blue twinkled with many tiny lights. I paused for a moment. It felt as though I had stepped outside the theater into the courtyard of an old Italian villa.

Spying up and down the rows I saw people finding their seats while others chatted in the aisles. As I approached my row I noticed a rather peculiar woman seated quietly by herself. She was wearing dark glasses followed up with a black gown and deep auburn hair full of crow feathers. I double checked my ticket and by chance, my seat was next to this woman.

My large rump squeezed through the narrow path; my frame formed to each curve and groove. Reaching my seat, I smiled at the woman and sat with a heavy drop.

"Ugh," I moaned, unable to fit comfortably in the old seat. "They make these seats so small." I twisted to the woman next to me. "Good evening, Miss. I hope you are excited to see the play as I am."

"I am excited," she chuckled. "But I doubt I will see anything."

"Oh my," I suddenly realized. "Forgive me, Miss, I did not know you were blind."

"Impaired is the more correct term," she corrected. "I used to be able to see clearly, but in time my sight has become mostly shadows." She turned to me and grinned. "Don't you worry. You did not offend me. My name is Marlene Constance."

"Sister Mary," I responded.

"Sister?" Marlene looked off distantly and smiled. "So you must be a nun?"

"I am indeed."

"My sister was a nun," said Marlene. "She used to be with the Ursuline nuns until ten months ago an incident changed her and she passed away. We, sisters, took care of each other. When my sight began to wane, she gave me eyes to the world, kept me away from those who might take advantage of me. You see, Mary. People treat you differently when you lack one of the senses. Like you are less than human. And while I may have a helper, I still demand independence. You honor my sister tonight." I felt the woman's hand wander until it touched the back of my wrist. She squeezed it tightly. "Thank you, Sister Mary, for picking a seat next to mine."