SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue Two - Journal - Page 94
SINE QUA NON
my time. Sol put a sticky note on my door that said, “I’m glad you’re the one we get to keep.”
Roy stopped by to confirm that I was keeping both cats. He knew my new husband did not
like animals. You can always tell.
Steve was at the spa when Jolene texted me. Jolene is the features editor at the Central
Jersey Citizen. Jolene is a diplomat who speaks softly to my prose when it needs a haircut.
Jolene edits with a laser but adores irresponsibly in all directions. This is because her mother
named her for the only woman more beautiful than Dolly Parton. This is also because Jolene
married Kenny.
Kenny comes to the office of the Central Jersey Citizen twice a year, under cover of
darkness. He has not had an immune system since before I was born.
Jolene did not see Kenny coming. When she turned thirty-five, Jolene went to a men’s
barber shop and asked for the “full Sinead.” She bought champagne and toasted her ship. It
was not coming in. Words would be lover enough.
Then Kenny Wetzel submitted an article about the Lyrid meteor shower. He came in
for his honorarium and gave her a stress ball shaped like the moon. They were only married
eighteen months when his blood filled with lymphocytes. A stranger in Germany donated
bone marrow so he could have two more years. The price was his immune system.
It was worth every penny. They would stay home. The Central Jersey Citizen gave Jolene
an L-shaped desk and permission. She ordered calico beans in bulk. She picked up perishables
the first hour the store opened, a grocery ninja. She stripped and sanitized in the foyer before
reuniting with Kenny. Kenny greeted her in Klingon masks or sometimes nothing at all.
Jolene sent Kenny my column about Type 1 diabetes. She thought we might enjoy
each other’s company through correspondence. We had some sturdy things in common. My
immune system had picked off my beta cells when I turned ten. I was “brittle,” though they
didn’t use that word anymore. Every snack called for choreography. Kenny’s immune system
had retired just when he got happy. He didn’t underestimate opportunities to get happy. Also,
we were both bonkers for The Lord of the Rings.
Kenny told me he despised the designation “warrior” and preferred “insurgent.” We
were under no obligation to be an inspiration. I told him there was no comparison between
his submarine and my paddleboat. He said we are all just bones and stories. He mailed me
science fiction novels with a garish overrepresentation of cats.
I met Kenny and Jolene at the county animal shelter one night by special permission,
air-kissing yards apart. They left with a dumpling in orange stripes. The kitten had survived
frostbite. Her ears had not. Kenny called her a marmalade miscreant. He could not touch the
cat or her accoutrements. He named her Mercy. He did not know what her fur felt like, but
there were only three beings he had ever loved more.
Kenny took to calling me when geopolitical events got zesty. He demanded an appropriate
Psalm. Jolene had spilled my beans that I was never supposed to be a writer. I was supposed to
be a minister. I got the full ninety credit Master of Divinity, a title better suited to a fantasy
movie than a pulpit. A pastor who called himself my “spiritual father” once told me I was not
healthy enough to serve. If you are called to ministry, you will be in the church every time the
door is open. I pulled up my cowl and started typing. I remembered chapters and verses. The
Central Jersey Citizen wanted articles on caring for aging parents or planning your itinerary
for the zoo. I kept an index card on my desk with Emily Dickinson’s charge to “tell it slant.”
I had Psalms for Kenny. I could not answer why Jesus only healed a few dozen folks, or
if Moses knew it was hilarious when Moses wrote that Moses was the humblest man who ever
lived. We agreed that Gandalf, Aragorn, Galadriel, and all four Hobbits were Christ figures.
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