Greta Willis is a tall woman. She sat in the pew at church that morning and her knees hit the back of the pew in front of her. Her knees were covered in scars from repeated banging against the pews.
Greta sat in the second row from the front, as the front row was always reserved. She sat as close as she could to the front of the church because she thought the closer she sat to the priest the closer she could be to God.
She listened attentively to the sermon, sitting when told to sit, kneeling when told to kneel, and singing strongly when required to sing. This too she believed brought her closer to God.
Greta gently greeted others when the mass ended. She made her way slowly through the web of people. She dipped her finger in the holy water on her way out and made the sign of the cross.
She walked to her car, an old Volkswagen Station Wagon and gently took her seat behind the wheel. She started the vehicle, waved to the priest who was standing outside of the church greeting people as they left mass, and pulled out of her parking spot.
Greta pulled up to parking lot exit, and as she pulled out she glanced back in her rear-view mirror, certain she saw something, or more importantly someone from her past, her sister.
In that second two things happened. First, a vehicle struck Greta’s car on the driver’s side. Secondly, Greta was instantly killed.
Four days later the church was reserved for Greta’s funeral.
On the day of the funeral only one woman entered the church to see Greta off. A tall elderly woman, wearing all black. She sat in the second to the front row, as Greta used to sit. Her knees banging into the row in front of her.
The priest gave the sermon, and then went to speak with the woman. “Did you know Greta well?” he asked.
The woman looked up at him with dry eyes, “Greta was my twin sister.”
“I am so sorry for your loss, Miss…”
“Call me Marge, please.” The elder woman folded her hands in her lap, looking down at them.
“Marge.”
Marge looked up at the priest, “Greta was an intolerable woman. Don’t be sorry.” Surprise crossed the priest’s face, and before he had time to respond, Marge continued in a hushed voice, “Greta was a prude!” She stressed the last word, watching the priest expectantly for his reaction. The priest was shocked into silence. He could do no more than stare open mouthed at Marge. Greta had been the picture of grace itself in church, she attended every Sunday mass, and was sociable with all the other guests. He did not consider her a prude.
“Why have you come, if you disliked her?” The priest finally mustered up a response.
“To see that Greta was good and dead, of course. Greta loved no man, nor woman, only herself.” The last words were drawn out, meant to shock the priest further. He noticed the bag that she carried at her side had the name of St. John’s Mental Institution on the side of it, and appeared to hold some of her belongings.
The priest thought about this, disgusted by Marge’s response, but felt it was his civic duty to respond. “Greta was a kind woman from what I knew of her.”
“Oh, she was, for a time, but she changed, became selfish. She didn’t like me, so she had me sent to a mental institution where she convinced them I was crazy. She was wrong. I am not crazy.” Marge giggled.
“I am so sorry.” The priest responded quietly, shaking his head and looking at the floor feeling uncomfortable with the conversation.
Marge giggled. She had an odd look about her. Her hands twisted in her lap, grasping the handles of the bag she carried.
The priest decided it was best to end the conversation soon. “I’m sorry for your family’s loss, Marge.” He said with finality.
Marge giggled again, this time the giggling grew louder, more hysterical. Marge reached into her bag and pulled a gun from inside her purse, pointing it at the priest. “I’m Greta now.” She said and fired the pistol.
