Satan Loves You

Enar Chakara’s office at RG+E looked completely empty, like the waiting room in an aromatherapy clinic. There were no chairs, only seating surfaces. There were no decorations, only indirect lighting and neutral wood. Enar was sleek and anonymous, too. He had enormous biceps and a tuft of hair on his face that changed size, shape and location every time Satan visited. Right now it was nesting beneath his bottom lip. A tribal tattoo was smeared across the side of his neck. In other words, he looked like everyone in LA.

“Satan, my brother by another mother,” Enar said, putting his hands together and bowing his head in the traditional greeting. “Namaste.”

“Sure,” Satan said.

“What can I do you for? You want a water?”

“No.”

“Let me get you a water. We have it brought in from Tibet,” he said reaching into a hidden receptacle behind a wall panel. “Oh, wait. No, it’s just Evian. Still, you want one?”

“Thank you,” Satan said.

“We have other water if you’d prefer that.”

“I’m fine with this,” Satan said, taking the bottle. He’d never left a meeting with Enar without a bottle of water. Since he didn’t drink water he usually poured it into the plant by the elevator, and then dropped the bottle on the floor of the parking garage. He was Satan, after all. Littering was part of his whole MO.

“Alright, okay, zeroing in on why you’ve come to me today,” Enar said. “Let’s focus: Death. You’re thinking it. I said it. We need to talk about Death. The board is very concerned that you’re here.”

“Why?”

“Very, very concerned.”

“But why?”

“Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t coming from me, it’s just a general feeling in the air that you couldn’t even pin on any one person. Just a free-floating mood that’s no one’s fault. But it’s here and I have to say it. It’s a reality. Let’s face it. Everyone is very appreciative of what you’ve done for us over the years. Very appreciative. And I think that shows in our ceremonies. I hope it shows. Does it show?”

“I don’t know,” Satan said, getting uncomfortable.

“So that’s an ‘it doesn’t show’?”

“No, it shows,” Satan said.

“Okay, because we feel it, truly, in our hearts, so it should show. But the board – not me, them – they wanted me to ask you that...if...see...wow, this is worse than when I came out to my fiancé’. Okay, what they want to know is...you’re not here for Leo, are you.”

“No,” Satan said.

“Because everything that kid touches these days turns to gold. Everything.”

“I’m not here for Leo,” Satan said. “I just need a new Death.”

“Who isn’t Leo?”

“Who isn’t Leo.”

“Okay, phew. That is a load off my mind. A huge load. Let me just pack that up in a box and drop it off the Memory Cliff and let’s move on down the road. New business. You need a Death, I am here to service your needs. I want you to picture this: Nic Cage.”

“I don’t want Nic Cage.”

“He’s up for another Oscar this year. Big buzz on Nic Cage.”

“No.”

“Give it a chance. Close your eyes. Visualize with me. You’re in the hospital, tubes running out your nose, your nearest and dearest draw close, dressed in widow’s weeds – if they’re widows, otherwise, business casual – each breath is harder than the one before, and then...cardiac arrest. You cross the threshold between life and death. The machine that beeps goes beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee... A great wailing goes up amongst your kith and kin, your vision fails, and with dimming eyes you look up and hovering over you in a hooded black cloak is Nicolas Cage. ‘Come with me,’ he whispers.”

“I don’t see it,” Satan said.

“Do me a favor. Live with it. Give it a chance to grow on you. Nic and I have the same dietician, he’d eat this part up. Now what about a girl Death? Ellen Page? She’s hot right now. Lost all that Juno weight.”

“It’s not a starring role, Enar. It’s the personification of an abstract, metaphysical concept.”

“Ellen Page was in Inception. That was very metaphysical.”

“I don’t need a name, I just need someone who can do the job.”

“What about Morgan Freeman? He’s got gravitas.”

“I don’t want Morgan Freeman.”

“Did you see Invictus? He played Nelson Mandela in that one. So brave.”

“He’s a name. I don’t want a name.”

“So you’ll take anyone?”

“Who isn’t a name.”

“What about Sam Worthington? He was in Avatar and Clash of the Titans but no one can ever remember who he is. Forgettable face, great abs.”

“Again, he’s a name. Who do you have who isn’t a name?”

“Well, everyone we deal with is kind of a name,” Enar said. “I mean, thanks to you, all of our clients are big, big names with deep brand equity. If you want someone who isn’t a name, as far as our roster is concerned, you’ve only got two options: Michael Cera’s a little past his prime, so you could come back for him in two movies, or I could give you Kevin Spacey now, and you could just cross your fingers and hope he doesn’t do a John Travolta and make a comeback in a few years.”

“Those are names,” Satan said. “I can’t use any names.”

Satan felt so frustrated that he unscrewed the cap on his bottle of water and took a sip.

Enar watched Satan drink his Evian with a sinking feeling. In Hollywood terms, they were having a “Bottle Meeting” in which someone came in, you chatted, and they went away with an unopened bottle of water in their hand. It was mutually understood that in order to make that happen no one drank their water during the meeting. You could hold the bottle, you could roll the bottle between your palms, rearrange the bottle, place your hand on the neck of the bottle as if you were about to twist open the cap, but actually drinking the water in the bottle Was Not Done. It was freaking Enar right out.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said to Satan. “It’s way outside the box, but you’re a way-outside-the-box kind of guy with unique and distinctive needs.”

“What?” Satan said.

“Chance Morris.”

“Is he a name?”

“He’s my sister’s kid.”

“You can get him to sign the contract?”

“Essentially. I might have to change a few words here and there, take him out for a couple of drinks, but sure. He’ll sign. My sister’s been after me to get him a job.”

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright. I’ll take him.”

Enar tried to fist bump Satan, but Satan went for a handshake. Things got messy.

“I thought that today I’d be helping you out, but here you are helping me out. This is what’s known as a win-win.”

Enar gave Satan a hug.

“I love you man,” he said.

“Okay,” Satan said, trying to disentangle himself.

“Um, Satan?” Enar said. “Do you still have my soul?”

“I do.”

“Do you think I could come see it sometime?”

“I’m sorry, Enar. You know that’s not how it works.”

Enar nodded, sadly. Satan patted him on the shoulder.

“I’ll be looking for my new Death by the end of the week.”

And he left. It was only after he was gone that Enar noticed he’d left his half-finished bottle of water on the seating surface. That was a bad sign. He’d have to burn some sage before his next meeting.

“Sister Helen?”

Sister Mary rapped lightly on the closed bedroom door.

“Sister Helen?”

Inside she heard someone rustle and then Sister Helen’s strong, calm voice.

“Enter.”

Sister Helen was watching television. Sister Mary avoided television whenever possible, just as she avoided motion pictures, caffeinated beverages, popular music, tobacco products and refined sugar. Sister Mary was very careful to avoid all stimulants, both mental and physical. But she forgave Sister Helen her television watching because Sister Helen was the first nun who had welcomed her into this community and because she felt very guilty about Sister Helen’s legs. She had merely wanted to make a small footbridge across the drainage ditch that divided their property from the road. She thought that it would be so much more convenient for Sister Helen to walk over the ditch rather than having to go around it, and she thought that she could repay Sister Helen’s kindness by saving her a few seconds every day. Sister Helen had not liked the look of the footbridge, but Sister Mary’s heart was so set on her using it that she finally gave it a try.

The doctors said there was no permanent damage to Sister Helen's spine, but she had, nevertheless, lost the use of her legs. It still amazed Sister Mary that a three-foot fall could paralyze Sister Helen from mid-thigh down, but the doctors had pointed out that she had landed funny. Now Sister Helen lay in bed most days, watching the DirecTV that Sister Mary had gotten installed for her by way of penance and, over time, she had found that she was actually enjoying herself for the first time in her life.

“What are you watching?” Sister Mary asked.

“These young women claim to have had children with these young men, who are denying it,” Sister Helen said. “The young men claim to have had children only with the young women they are currently in relationships with. Maury is doing DNA tests and revealing the results on air.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“One woman has already torn off another woman’s weave. Oh, no. Look at that. Claudius’s baby isn’t his.”

Sister Mary looked at the screen where a young man was weeping while a woman walked around him shaking her finger and screaming things that were bleeped out. Sister Mary couldn’t follow any of it.

“Sister,” she said. “Are you comfortable?”

“Mm-hm,” Sister Helen said, opening a bag of Hydrox cookies. She had been eating a lot of them since losing the use of her legs.

“Something has happened to me,” Sister Mary said. “And I need to talk with you about it.”

Sister Helen froze, and looked at her with horror.

“You haven’t been...praying for me, have you?”

Sister Mary felt her heart clench into a fist as she realized that she was now and always would be a Prayer Leper to her Sisters. She tried to find acceptance in her heart. Instead, she found an unexpected fragment of cruelty.

“Would you like me to pray for you?” she asked.

“No!” Sister Helen said, recoiling. And then, more calmly, “Save your prayers for when they are truly needed.”

“But you still don’t have the use of your legs.”

“The feeling is coming back. I’ll be up and around by next week,” Sister Helen said.

“Then I won’t pray for you,” Sister Mary said.

“Good,” Sister Helen said.

“Sister, I’ve come because something is disturbing me.”

“What is it?” Sister Helen said, her attention wandering back to the TV.

“This,” Sister Mary said and she put an Early Pregnancy Test wand on Sister Helen’s TV tray. There was a blue plus sign in the middle of it.

“Ah!” Sister Helen recoiled. “That has someone’s urine on it, sister.”

“It doesn’t have someone’s urine on it,” Sister Mary said.

“It does have someone’s urine on it, because it’s giving a positive reading,” Sister Helen said. “You may not know how these things work – ”

“It doesn’t have someone’s urine on it,” Sister Mary repeated. “Because it has my urine on it.”

Sister Helen turned pale, but she quickly got a hold of herself. If there was one things nuns understood it was unwanted pregnancies.

“Obviously, it’s an inaccurate test. A false positive. According to Maury they happen all the time.”

Wordlessly, Sister Mary put a second EPT wand on Sister Helen’s TV tray. It, too, displayed a blue cross.

“Those tests sometimes pick up things like poppy seeds, and egg salad,” Sister Helen said.

Sister Mary put a third EPT wand next to the first two. By now, Sister Helen’s face was turning red and splotchy.

“Stop putting your urine on my cookies!”

“Sister, I’m pregnant.”

As Sister Mary had suspected, saying it out loud just made her feel worse. She slid out of her chair and onto her knees and tried to bury her face in Sister Helen’s lap. “Please, sister,” she cried. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Who was it?” Sister Helen demanded.

“No one!” Sister Mary cried. “I’m a virgin!”

“No,” Sister Mary said. “Someone must have gotten you pregnant. Was it a homeless? Was it Randy Funkers or his unemployed father? Who was it?”

“No one,” Sister Mary cried out in despair. “Please! I swear, Sister, I am a virgin.”

With her head buried in Sister Helen’s lap, she didn’t notice the sister’s bright red face, or the cold sweat that had broken out across her forehead, or her shallow and labored breathing. She felt Sister Helen stroking her hair and that just made her cry harder. Actually, Sister Helen was trying to punch her in the head, but the pain shooting down Sister Helen’s left arm was making her feeble.

Sister Helen was crushed. She saw everything she had worked for at the Poor Clares reduced to a farcical community theater production of Agnes of God with Sister Mary’s overly sensitive womb in the lead role. She tried harder to punch the young nun, to tell her to get out of town, to take a long bus ride to Texas or Mexico and to change her name and never come back and maybe be accidentally killed by human traffickers along the way. She wanted to say all of this but blood vessels were bursting in her brain like fireworks and all she could manage was a weak: “Hoo, hoo.”

“Oh,” she thought to herself. “I always knew Sister Mary would be the death of me.”

There was a perfunctory knock at the door and Sister Barbara entered. In one quick glance she took in the still-warm corpse of Sister Helen, the sobbing Sister Mary on her knees, the EPT wands on the TV tray and Maury on the television. Utterly beside herself, she picked up a copy of TV Guide, rolled it into a tube and began to beat Sister Mary with it like a bad dog.

“Oh, sister,” she cried out in despair. “Oh, sister, you’ve done it again. You’ve done it again!”