Holly Jolly

A Christmas story.

Amid the holiday bustle of an outdoor shopping center, Sister Agnes stares up. Layers of interlocking metal shopping carts forming the shape of a Christmas tree tower above the busy shoppers. The weighty monument commands the otherwise stark space.

“That’s disturbing,” Sister Agnes adjusts her veil as she nudges the sister next to her.

Sister Faith gazes at the work of art for a moment and then agrees, “Yeah, that thing could come toppling down on us at any moment.”

Sister Agnes laughs. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sister Faith pauses. “Oh . . . I see what you mean.”

Several other sisters exit a nearby ice cream store, cones in hand. They join the two sisters gazing up at the metal tower. Everyone else quietly concentrates on their ice cream. Some take pictures of their perfectly sculpted ice cream scoops for social media until their ice cream melts over on their fingers.

Sister Edith points upward at the garish Christmas tree sculpture.

Several sisters look up and grimace at the stacked, shackled metal carts pointing heavenward.

Sister Edith frowns, then laughs.

A stream of raucous laughter escapes from the briefly-opened doors of a nearby bar. Several sisters turn their heads. Nearby shoppers look curiously at the group of young sisters, their habits a shock of blue amid the gray stores around them.

The bar door slams again, but it does not quash the laughter this time. A group of men in muscle shirts and the glitter of gold on their necks noisily makes their way down a ramp into the common area. The sisters are now debating whether mint chocolate chip is better than birthday cake ice cream. The men eventually regard the women with a cool, silent stare. Then they huddle together. After some whispered discussion, one of them begins to remove his shirt. He is short and muscular, his chest covered with tattoos.

The man springs toward the sisters and crouches down behind them. Inches away from Sister Edith, the half-naked man grins viciously. In his hand he holds a stiff, half-circle fan of hundred-dollar bills. The air in the shopping plaza sparks with tension. A few bystanders sitting on benches nearby no longer conceal their interest. While “Holly Jolly Christmas” crackles over the loudspeakers, all eyes rivet on the crass unfolding scene. The man notices the attention and physically deflates for a moment but then raises his chest, avoiding the sisters’ expressions. “Come on, take the picture,” he shouts to one of his friends. The man’s friend laughs uncomfortably as he frames the scene. The group of sisters look stunned and upright like tapers in a candelabra.

Then Sister Agnes shoves her chair back and roars, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The half-naked man blinks several times. He is still crouching, gripping the stiff green pieces of paper. Avoiding Sister Agnes’ eyes, he yells insistently to his friend taking the picture, “Come on, man!”

Sister Agnes turns and scowls at the photographer and the group of men behind her. They look away and then down at the ground. Her face shining like a Christmas star, Sister Agnes walks toward the crouching man.

“Okay, man, I got it,” the friend with the camera yells anxiously.

Satisfied, the shirtless man tucks the bills in his pocket and begins to walk back to the group of men. Hunched over again, he mutters something beneath his breath.

Sr. Edith remembers how her mother used to arrange the shepherds and wise men in a huddle in their family nativity, as if they were whispering secrets to one another. Sister Agnes’ cheeks are flushed red like two Christmas baubles. The metal shopping cart tree glistens behind them like an intricate altarpiece.