I shut the passenger door and walk back to the convent entrance. The falling snow melts into my collar. If no one’s looking for you, Kim, I think, you’re luckier than you know.
ESPERANZA’S ROOM WAS LOCATED on the ground floor of the dormitory beside the furnace room. She said she liked it, bragged her room was the warmest of all, although we knew that wasn’t the case. Her room was even smaller than ours were, barely housing her bed and the end table she used as a dresser. She had no closet; her clothes were hung on the inside doorknob and her uniforms in the staff room, where she was allocated a locker. Her underwear and socks and other personal items were kept in a nylon suitcase that was never closed, because she required these things on a daily basis. Once, Rachel told me, Esperanza had asked for a room in the dormitory with the older girls, but the nuns had refused, told her she needed to keep her distance. No matter. Esperanza still managed to keep abreast of what happened in the school. And not from eavesdropping or by any special power the girls sometimes accused her of possessing, a dark mysterious ability bred in generations of women in her Spanish family. No, she learned a great deal from access to our rooms and the washrooms; she learned the rest from Rachel.
Rachel met Esperanza immediately. Mr. M. had arrived with Rachel in tow the day she’d been admitted to the school, three years before I was enrolled there. Esperanza had just completed the minimum amount of required education before accepting the job, and Rachel needed an ally. Esperanza knew Rachel’s father was rich and held sway with the nuns. It was a simple exchange on both parts. Rachel had always been a curious girl, and Esperanza’s age and experience appealed to her. Esperanza made sure Rachel was happy. She waited on her especially, bringing her treats and ensuring she was well looked after by the nuns when her father wasn’t around. She handled any of her requests through the delivery boy, and as to any indiscretions occurring in Rachel’s room, any breaking of the school and boarding rules, Esperanza kept quiet. In exchange, Rachel gave her gifts and money, and ensured her job by speaking well of her to the nuns on occasion. Although Rachel did not encourage Esperanza to have any contact with her father when he came to take the girls out for cake or to the movies, Esperanza still benefited from Mr. M.’s generosity.
The day I caught Esperanza and Mr. M. together, we were suiting up for a skating expedition on the canal. The ice froze early that year, and city officials opened the canal to the public a month ahead of schedule. Many of the local merchants who set up booths on the ice were pleased. The canal remained frozen for four full months before spring arrived to melt it. A big band played on the night of its opening. We could hear the music from our dormitory rooms, leaning out our windows, breathing into our hands for warmth, trombones and saxophones belting into the night sky. We gathered for a Sisterhood meeting the Friday before, and instead of our usual games we decided to dance in Rachel’s room, pretending we were with the skaters on the canal. Caroline claimed her sister was dancing there for real as we listened. Earlier that day we had witnessed a troupe of women with picket signs marching down the street to the Parliament Buildings. They wanted the crowd heading to the opening of the canal to join their protest. A women’s group, fighting for equal pay for equal work. They marched in front of our school, chanting to us girls as we watched them through the iron gates. The women, dressed warmly, held aloft cardboard signs that read “Women Are People Too” and “Feminists Unite” and “Working to Live and Living to Work.” A skinny woman who stepped out of line for a moment to scan us girls pushed her sign against the iron gate: “I Am NOT a Baby Factory.” The overlooking nuns did not return the chants or acknowledge the picketers, but they didn’t actively disapprove of them either. The nuns worked for a living; they had no children themselves. They let us watch without reproach.
Rachel got fired up by the excitement and the anomaly of the experience, throwing her own arms into the air when the nuns’ backs were turned to demonstrate her support for the women on their way up the hill.
“That’s what I’m going to be,” she said. “A feminist.”
“Aimée says ‘feminist’ is just another word for an ugly woman,” Caroline jeered, pointing to a couple of unattractive picketers in snow pants and one in denim overalls whose hair was completely tied back, revealing pimples on her face. “See?”
“You’re being stupid,” said Francine, who didn’t seem to want to join the women, but didn’t want Rachel to be proven wrong. “There’s plenty of pretty women who are feminists.”
“What does your sister know?” Rachel asked Caroline. “You know, I’ve only ever seen her come visit you once. When does she tell you all these things?”
Caroline frowned. “Aimée and I are very close! She knows more than you do! She knows all about this stuff!” Her usually white face turned completely red, and she bounced a bit on her toes, bending her calf as if threatening to kick Rachel if she was further provoked.
“Aimée has to say that. She works in a bar. She makes less than Esperanza, I’ll bet.” Rachel then turned, dismissing Caroline, who was fuming, trying to rally me to her side by pulling on my jacket. I’d never seen Caroline angry with Rachel before.
“It’s not how much money you make,” she said, her jaw shaking. “It’s not.”
“Tell that to them,” Rachel replied, indicating the last of the protesters hoisting their signs in the cold.
Caroline said she was going back inside to get a drink of water. But she was definitely upset. By the time our Sisterhood meeting convened, she had calmed down, and Rachel handed out pink candy hearts from Woolworth’s as if nothing had happened. Rachel always won. There was no way to break her confidence in what she believed. At that stage in our lives there was nothing contradictory in needing boys to find you attractive, desiring foremost a husband and children, and thinking of yourself as a feminist. Rachel wanted the world at her feet. And she generally got it that way. Caroline was content to inform Rachel that her sister was skating on the canal while we were cooped up inside the school, and Rachel had to admit she would like to trade places with Aimée for the night at least.
The next day Mr. M. came to take us to the canal with him.
“We’ll skate the entire afternoon,” he said. “So make sure you have a good lunch. You’ll need your energy.” He patted his pockets to indicate his usual rolls of coins. “And if you’re all good, I think there might be some surprises in your future.”
Rachel and I ran down to the cafeteria, but we could barely eat, the excitement affecting our appetites. Although Rachel went every opening weekend to skate on the canal, and her father had bought her white skates with tight laces and small picks in the front like the ones figure skaters wore, she acted as if she had never been.
“I’m going to get a huge hot chocolate with tons of whipped cream,” she blurted. “And a Beaver Tail. A cinnamon one with lemon. Mmmmm.”
I could almost taste it myself as Rachel described the French-Canadian pastry sold from makeshift wood cabins on the sides of the canal, along with steaming beverages that warmed up numbing limbs, and hot dogs and hamburgers grilled right there on the ice. At first I worried I wouldn’t be able to go because I had no skates of my own, but Mr. M. assured me there were rentals available and we would find a pair in my size.
“You can rent skates for the day?” I had guessed skates weren’t the kind of thing people would reuse or lend out to others. They seemed to me items of luxury, not of necessity, so I had nearly accepted an afternoon of sliding along the ice in my winter boots while Rachel spun gracefully in circles or skated backwards out of my reach.
“Sure, you can rent just about anything you need,” Mr. M. said, nudging my shoulder. Rachel poked him back. She never mentioned the day she found me in her father’s arms, so I didn’t mention it either. Mr. M. treated me with the same kindness as before, but I wondered if he thought of me buried in his chest, my tears hot against his skin, like I did. If one day he would tell me how much it meant to him to protect me.
&n
bsp; “Do you think there’ll be music?” I asked Rachel.
“No bands today. I asked already. But they play music over loudspeakers in some sections of the canal. Last year there were races.”
As my excitement grew, I was reminded of my mother stuck at home on her cot with her jug of water and rosary beads. I wanted to bring her along to experience the twinkling lights strung along the railings and the restaurants where people unlaced their skates and walked up stairs for dinner or a nightcap at a table with a view of the canal below. My mother would have appreciated the tall pine trees, trimmed with ornaments, tinsel, and glittering Christmas lights, and the red velvet bows tied around the necks of the street lamps. She would have loved to see the families skating, parents teaching the younger ones how to balance on the ice, the falls that would inevitably occur, the laughter at running smack into a snowbank along the edge of the canal; the large Parliament Buildings, their tops green as the trees, standing watch over all, the clock the tallest point in the city. Before my mother was confined to the house, advised by her doctor not to venture outside unless absolutely necessary and then only after wrapping every inch of her body in numerous layers of clothing and covering up her mouth with a scarf, her eyes with rose-coloured glasses, Christine and I had watched her dance in a restaurant on her wedding anniversary. My mother made a little fuss about leaving us girls alone at the table, but my father convinced her we could handle being quiet and eating the complimentary slices of bread and butter. They held each other close. Mother’s arms around Father’s waist, her cheek against his, and they rarely strayed from that position or from a box-sized four-tile area at the side of the floor. And yet they were quite appealing to the other patrons, who turned away from their dinners to watch; it was obvious my parents were still taken with each other, found joy in holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. My father brought her back to the table a bit exhausted but in good spirits, and he made a toast to the grace of being joined with her for life. How she would have loved a celebration on the canal.
As we girls gathered together after lunch, zipping up snow pants, pulling on thick sweaters over long-sleeved shirts and mittens with tiny packets tucked inside (supposed to react to body heat and keep our fingers warm), and stringing long knit scarves around our necks, Mr. M. was nowhere to be found. The Sisterhood convened in Rachel’s room. Francine was having trouble with the zipper on her jacket. Rachel, frustrated, tugged at it and eventually ripped the zipper pull right off. As Francine struggled to contain her dismay, Rachel offered to lend her one of her own autumn jackets, suggesting she wear another sweater underneath. Esperanza could fix the zipper later, she told her. Because I was already dressed and ready to go, Rachel sent me down with Francine’s jacket to Esperanza’s room. I was to meet up with them in the school lobby shortly afterwards.
Esperanza and I had rarely spoken, and not since she had taken my stained nightgown to be cleaned. Whenever our paths crossed, she gave me the impression she found my existence amusing, her lip curling up into a half-smirk. If she spoke to Rachel, and I happened to be there, she treated me as if I were a plant or a picture frame, part of the banal decor of the hallways, not worth a second glance. Rachel said Esperanza took time to get used to and not to worry about it. I thought Esperanza was just biding her time before circulating rumours about what had gone on in Room 313 the night before I asked for her help in the washroom. She wouldn’t do anything to harm Rachel or her reputation, but I figured she couldn’t care less about me. My parents hadn’t bothered to show up since my arrival, and I had no clout with the nuns. I didn’t want to approach Esperanza or risk bothering her. But I also didn’t want to explain my predicament to Rachel. She would tease me if she knew what Esperanza thought happened that night. She might even tell Patrick.
Esperanza’s door was closed, and none of us had doors that locked. I didn’t knock. I turned the door handle expecting to find her room empty. Instead I found Mr. M. sitting on the edge of her bed, his shoes placed apart on the floor, his back slightly arched and his eyes closed. Esperanza knelt in front of him. His belt buckle was unfastened and the zipper on his suit pants was open. I watched, frozen, from the crack in the open door. Esperanza’s black hair, let loose of its net, shielded her face and hung over Mr. M.’s knees. He bent to kiss her scalp where the hair parted in the middle, his hands on her uniform, rubbing her breasts together. She moaned, breathing heavily. He coughed in her hair, grabbing her ears and pulling her face towards his lap. She brushed some strands away from her mouth and moaned again. Her eyes closed. If she had been alone, I would have thought she was singing. Or praying.
Mr. M. was sweating and his forehead and cheeks were flushed. He was catching his breath as if he had run a long distance and had now collapsed, needing water. Esperanza’s hands, wrinkled by the soap and water she was constantly dipping them into, were firmly clasped around his knees. This was different from what Rachel and Patrick had done. Esperanza didn’t seem self-conscious or in pain. Mr. M. hadn’t removed a stitch of clothing from Esperanza, her white apron with a blue and yellow stain on it sweeping the floor, but I could tell what was going on between them was as intimate as if they were both naked. She was kissing his lap and he was kissing her hair. Mr. M. and Esperanza moved together as if part of the same body. They had no need of candles, blankets, or witnesses. Heat welled up inside me. I was an intruder. And like an intruder, I wanted to do them some harm, but I knew I would end up on the other side of the door.
I backed away and closed the door, hooking the brown rabbit fur collar on Francine’s jacket to the outside doorknob, and stumbled to the lobby. Rachel and Caroline and a couple of other Leftovers were waiting. When her father visited, Rachel was nice to girls she normally wouldn’t give the time of day to. He liked to treat as many girls as possible. When Rachel insisted only her close friends be invited, sometimes he would relent, but other times he would resist. “How would you feel, sweetheart, if you were left out?” he’d say.
Francine was changing her clothes because the new jacket didn’t match her snow pants. Rachel had told her no one who mattered would see her anyway, but Francine ignored her.
“She thinks romance will bloom between her and some guy in charge of the skate rentals,” Rachel said, crooking her hands underneath her chin in coy imitation and fluttering her eyelashes.
“Does she?” I asked, fiddling with my scarf.
Rachel was sharing a tin of shortbread cookies with the girls around her; when she offered me the tin, I didn’t take any. She broke hers into smaller sections and ate them one by one. “I’m just joking. What’s wrong with you?”
“I got my period,” I blurted.
“Really?” Rachel whispered. I hadn’t told her why her father had been comforting me that day. I just told her I’d not been feeling well. I’m not sure why I didn’t tell her, as I should have been relieved to prove I was now like the other girls, but I wasn’t. I was too embarrassed to explain that Rachel’s father knew before anyone else, before my own mother. I didn’t feel proud of the blood.
“Yep. I got it this morning. I’m worried people will know.”
Rachel motioned for me to turn around. I spun in a slow circle as she inspected the snow pants I was wearing, navy blue with white stripes, which Rachel teased must have been bought at the same store the nuns shopped at, because they resembled our uniforms.
“Can’t tell a thing,” she said.
“Good.”
“So you’re no longer a little girl,” she proclaimed, grabbing my arm and smiling broadly. “Have a cookie.”
I took one.
“What about Francine’s jacket?”
“Esperanza wasn’t there, so I left the jacket,” I said, trying to appear casual. I thought talking about my period might have made her forget where I’d been.
“It’s ugly anyway,” Rachel said, picking crumbs from her palm, then licking it with her tongue.
“Yeah,” I replied, taking another from the tin. �
��Ugly as Esperanza.”
Rachel laughed, smacking my mittened hand, and my cookie fell to the floor. I crunched it with my boot and Rachel swept the crumbs under one of the chairs in the lobby by using her boot as a broom. Finally Francine arrived. She had managed to find a brown sweater that matched her jacket, if not her snow pants. The top of the sweater curled out over the end of the zipper. Rachel stood, rubbing the soles of her boots on the floor, and spoke to some of the other girls. I stood aloof; I could not get Esperanza and Mr. M. out of my head. When their breath rose in front of me, I couldn’t bear to watch any longer for the release they seemed to be searching for. They appeared to want to become each other, to get outside of themselves. With Rachel and Patrick it had been only Patrick who had needed release, but here there were two. What went on inside a woman, I had no idea. I imagined it was the thought of being loved, protected and cared for, but Esperanza did not love Mr. M.; she didn’t know him. Nor could I accept that Mr. M. might love Esperanza. I remembered over and over his lips near my hair, me up against his chest, him telling me Rachel didn’t understand loneliness. The scent. Musk on my cheek. I couldn’t tell Rachel what I had seen. And if the nuns found out, Mr. M. and Esperanza would be punished, I was sure. Rachel might even have to leave the school, notwithstanding the large donations Mr. M. made. I wished for numbness, instead of the confused stirring within me that wouldn’t let go. I wrapped my scarf around my neck. It was tighter than it needed to be.
“Now we just need to wait for Daddy,” Rachel said cheerfully.
Rumours spread easily in a house of women. No underground system is necessary. Doubting Thomas, a man, needed proof of Jesus’ Resurrection. At the foot of the cross, and at Christ’s well-guarded tomb, it was the women who believed he had not died, that he would not abandon them. They told each other so. Men, like Peter, looked out for themselves, forsook their Saviour to save their own skins. And Jesus appeared first to Mary Magdalene, a woman, knowing she would tell, not able to keep the news to herself. Her faith unshakeable, she ran around the village to inform the men of the truth. They didn’t believe her. Men need proof beyond the shadow of a doubt. Women talk to make things unseen heard. It has been this way for centuries.
The Divine Economy of Salvation Page 11