A Storyby Sharon Sheehe Stark
As it turned out, what I would remember most clearly about the year of my fall (or flight) from grace was Old Zach tunneling under Nichols Street to the Gunderpopp brewery. I am certain, for instance, that on the first day of Advent she pronounced the project behind schedule due to snags involving city steam heat lines. She said that solemnly, fingering her beads, pausing then to set her mouth aslant in that look of mock dismay that dared us, just dared us to smile.
By then we knew better, had, in fact, come to relish our complicity in her outrageous charade; a response of any kind could be tricky, but she didn’t much mind about the Old Zach part.
She called herself Old Zach, claimed she had put in a request for Sister Anasthesia at first vows.