Nona

No one had ever questioned Nona's faith, even a little bit. According to the saints of Good Evening Baptist Church, she was a good Christian woman, faithful in attendance, modest in dress, prudent of tongue. For that matter, they would tell you that the only tongue Nona ever spoke was that ululated in the frenzy of the Spirit raining down on her from above. Never known to backbite, to complain, to harbor ill-will against those who had done her wrong, she accepted her lot in life, blind Black woman, nearing middle-age, living on her dead husband's pension and what little disability her former employer allotted. After all, Burling Pencil Factory had been in several OSHA violations when one of their milling machines exploded in her face, spewing wood chips into her eyes. Splinters had cut through her retinas, taking away her sight forever. Burling had seen fit after that to chalk up money and do the requisite repairs, and to promise her a healthy stipend in exchange for her waiving her right to sue. Nona had dutifully complied. She showed the piety and complaisance that her Lord required.

But then the change had come. Not the change of life, as would be expected for a woman nearing middle age, but something more visceral, something wild even, as though she had become possessed. And now the saints didn't know what to make of Nona.

"Nona, what's come over you?" Mother Thomas asks after Wednesday night Bible class. The old woman's clouded eyes look owlish behind thick spectacles, her wrinkled brown skin dry like parchment. The woman represents thirty years of holiness, of self-denial, of righteous piety. And Nona looks at her with cleared eyes and sees what she herself is fast becoming - and doesn't like it. And because of what she sees, she does not see fit to share her secret: that she can see. She doesn't testify about this miracle that came to her almost three weeks ago. Because this miracle came from something other than God and she does not want to give it up. So she just smiles meekly and answers,

"Nothing Mother Thomas. 'Though, I admit I haven't been myself lately." All the while, Nona is smirking inside. All the while she keeps her eyes trained steadily, as though seeing nothing, as though her eyes don't see the transformation as the old woman's features become gnomelike, as her "saintly" soul takes form and overlaps her visible self. The gnome is ugly, mean, jealous.

The old woman seems satisfied with Nona's admission, knowing that saints should confess when they have fallen. So she inquires further,

"You looking different dear. I can't quite put my finger to it, but you're just not the same anymore." Then Mother Thomas comes closer and whispers, "You haven't backslid now have ya? A man, maybe?" The gnome mask leers, eager for the word, something to take it out of its hobbling existence.

But Nona just shakes her head. She is lying. She doesn't want to share the man with Mother Thomas, who has never been known to hold a secret. Mother Thomas' tongue is a sieve through which secrets and untruths pour out to waiting, sinful ears that sit on virtuous faces.

Pastor James picks this moment to walk up. Obviously, he has heard something of the question, because he's looking Nona up and down, trying to determine what is different about the blind woman. Nona can see him from her periphery.