by Suzzy Roche
Shortly, Sister Clare Veronica, who was not known for cheerful enthusiasm, burst through the door, holding a devil’s tail and two horns that she’d fashioned out of some industrial red rubber kitchen gloves.
“Look what I’ve done!” she said.
“Marvelous,” said Sister Ann, her voice like a squeak. “I wouldn’t mind some horns of my own.” She laughed at her own joke as she unrolled the bolt of fabric on the other end of the dining room table. Under the blunt instruction of Sister John the Baptist, who corrected her every move with her long-nailed forefinger, Sister Ann drew pant legs onto the fabric with white chalk.
Felix watched them from on top of the table, while Lil stood off to the side without a task.
When the costume pieces were cut out, attention turned to Sister Rita Joseph as she crouched over the sewing machine, straining to make sense of the knobs and clearly unable to see well enough to thread the needle. Slapping her hands to her lap, she called out to no one in particular, “It’s been too long. I don’t know how the darn thing works anymore.”
The operation came to a halt.
Sister Clare Veronica, all too aware of the punishments of age, put a comforting hand on Sister Rita Joseph’s back. The nuns glanced around the room at each other.
“Well, don’t look at me,” said Sister John the Baptist. “I couldn’t sew a button on.”
It wasn’t right to blame the old nun, but the women weren’t accustomed to failure, and their spirits fell in a swoop.
Sister A., putting her fists to her waist said, “Nobody in this whole outfit knows how to sew a pair of pants?”
Lil heard herself speak. “I can sew.” The nuns turned to acknowledge her presence.
It was one thing to take a child in, but there had been some grumbling about Sister Annunciata allowing Lil O’Brien to stay in the Jesus room. Aware of the grumbling, Sister A. had assembled them all in the kitchen before dinner, reminding them that any visitor in the convent was really Jesus in disguise, and they should put their petty grievances to rest.
Turning to Lil with surprise, Sister Annunciata said, “Well, good. Have a seat, then, and let’s get this costume sewn.”
Sister Rita Joseph was led away and seated in the corner. It was only natural to forget things, someone said.
Lil took her place at the sewing machine.
She remembered that the last time she’d sat at a sewing machine was when she’d made a dress for Alice, before her troubles had begun. They’d pinned the pattern on the fabric together, then cut it out with pinking shears. Alice had been still and somber as Lil fitted the dress and made adjustments. The most difficult parts had been attaching the collar and, of course, the dreaded buttonholes. But somehow it came together, and when Alice stood before the mirror in the simple blue dress with the perfectly accomplished collar, she’d said, “Mom, do you think I’m pretty enough to wear this dress?”
Now Lil was nervous. All the sisters’ eyes were on her, and it seemed absurd to be making a devil’s suit for Felix Spoon while she had no idea what her own daughter was going to be for Halloween. Felix was the one who’d been accused of hurting Alice. What was she doing?
For fear of breaking down, she didn’t look up. Instead she checked that the bobbin was properly wound and that the thread was secure on the spool pin. She adjusted the stitch length and the tension, threaded the needle, and then, laying the fabric under the presser foot, she began to turn the wheel, carefully. When she felt the soft puncture of the needle into the fabric, she put her foot on the pedal and slowly pressed down. The whir of the old machine was a relief to everyone as the first seam was sewn under Lil’s trembling fingers.
The nuns formed a semicircle behind her as she worked. Felix climbed down from the table and stood beside Sister Annunciata. When Lil finished with the pants, having pulled the elastic into the waist casing, she held them up to inspect them and the nuns approved.
“All right, hand over the pants, and I’ll sew on the tail,” said Sister Clare Veronica.
Lil set to work on the shirt, which proved to be trickier. Sleeves had always been difficult, and then there was the zipper down the back, which required extra concentration. But the costume took shape.
And when it was sewn, a sleepy Felix Spoon stepped out of his clothes, too tired and excited to be self-conscious about undressing in front of a bunch of nuns.
Once Felix was fully suited, complete with horns and a tail, Sister Agnes lifted him back up onto the table. True, there’d been miscalculations in some of the measurements, and adjustments had to be made, but they’d successfully made a devil’s costume. Sister John the Baptist had donated her red sleeping cap, having hand sewn the horns onto either side of it, and, though it was odd, everyone agreed that, when Felix’s face was properly painted, he’d look less like he was wearing a sleeping cap and more like a devil.
“Well,” said Sister John the Baptist, “It’s not bad.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Sister Ann.
“It’s a good devil,” Sister Rita Joseph piped in, having recovered from her failure at the sewing machine.
Felix examined his arms and legs, and felt for the horns and the rubber tail, but he couldn’t conceal his disappointment.
Sister A. said, “What’s the matter, Felix? You don’t like it?”
Cupping his hands to his mouth as if he could speak privately to Lil, he said, “It’s not realistic unless I have a pitchfork.”
The boy had a point; a devil should have a pitchfork. It suddenly seemed obvious, and the sisters were sorry that they hadn’t thought of it. Now it seemed like a major oversight. They couldn’t help it; they wanted a chance at the prize, because, as Sister A. had said many times, nuns were people too.
TWENTY-TWO
AFTER THE COSTUME was made, Lil went back to her quarters and sat on the small bed, mad as hell in the Jesus room.
The fuss about Felix Spoon—getting the tail to pin on just right, the horns and cap to fit his spoiled little head—and in the end, all he could say was, “Where’s the pitchfork?”
She should be home with Alice.
And yet the Jesus room was perfect, even its scary name, and it had the most delicate white lace curtains that she had ever seen. A vase of straw flowers had been placed on the dresser. She ran her palm across the smooth cotton bedspread. Everything was just right, down to a simple wooden chair that faced out from the opposite corner. Aside from the crucifix, even the walls were unspoiled, bare and blue.
And someone—who?—had carefully tended to the bed, folding the thin blanket back to expose the lip of a clean white sheet. Her pillow had been puffed and placed against the headboard and a square of chocolate had mysteriously appeared on the bedside table. It was meant to be an honor to stay in this room, but they should have put the little devil in there. Lil felt more suited to the broom closet.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes, hello?” said Lil. The door swung open.
Sister A. stood with her arms folded into her sleeves. She looked to Lil like a large black tombstone.
“Thank you for helping with the costume,” she said.
Lil buried her face in her hands.
“What?” said Sister A.
“You told me I should come to the convent. You invited me. And now I’m here, and you’ve ignored me all day, only to put me to work making a costume for that boy. What is it about little boys? Didn’t I tell you what the women are saying about him? What about Alice? Doesn’t she count?”
Sister A. paused ever so slightly, reaching into her pocket for her hankie. “I’ve been busy; I’m sorry, I should have told you. I spoke to Felix, as I promised I would, and the incident in the cafeteria turned out to be my fault.” Sister A. blew her nose and went over to the dresser to straighten the doily under the vase of flowers. “Straw flowers,” she muttered, and then turning to Lil, she said, “Here’s what happened. I gave the boy a gift, something to make him feel better af
ter he’d gotten into trouble, and he wanted to show it to Alice. It was all innocent. Remember innocence?” She smiled widely, exposing her golden tooth. “He’s trying to be her friend, that’s all. Rumors fly in Hanzloo; I’m sure you’ve noticed that by now. There was no hurt, no harm done.”
“What makes you think he’d tell the truth? That boy seems to get his way. His father, too. I saw you on the convent steps last night.”
The slightest ripple of worry crossed Sister A.’s brow. “Well, there’s a rumor that could catch. I guess you’ve figured out we’re having a wild affair?”
It took a moment for Lil to understand that Sister A. had told a joke. But in that moment, truth and logic fell apart. “Of course, it’s not my business, Sister. I wasn’t meant to see, but I just happened to be there.”
“I tried to tell you in the church the other day that I’m a person, too. There are people in my life. The boy needs a place to stay. His father has business in New York.”
“Of course,” said Lil. The nun’s directness was disarming, but there was peace in her expression, an offering; an invitation that Lil was not sure she could accept.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here,” said Sister A., idly rolling her fingers over her rosary beads.
“Things have spiraled out of control. People are talking about me. If the priests find out, they may call child services. Clarisse McCarthy told me that, and I believe her. I’m afraid I’ll lose my daughter if I don’t straighten myself out.”
“Slow down,” said Sister A.
“I’ve done bad things, and to my husband, too. I can’t seem to fix any of it.”
“One doesn’t get through life without screwing up.”
“Please don’t tell the priests. Can I confess to you? I can’t confess to them.”
Sister A. moved over to the window and looked out at the sky. “I don’t believe in sin,” said Sister A.
“You don’t believe in sin?”
“It’s not the way I see it.” Sister A. sat in the wooden chair and faced Lil. “Let’s not talk theology. I’m not an authority figure, Lil. Who cares? It can never be figured out. What are you going to do about your problems?”
“I don’t know. I hope I can speak frankly. I seriously wonder if I’m meant to be a wife. It seems unnatural. My husband, sometimes I don’t even like him, much less love him. He’s done nothing to deserve that. And then, to be a mother, it’s a blessing, I know, but now I’ve failed at it. It’s probably hard for you to understand.”
Sister A. looked down at the floor and clasped her hands in her lap. She rubbed her thumbnail with her other thumb. “Not so,” she said, after a while. “This may come as a surprise. How can I say it? I’m old, and you may not be able to imagine me another way, but I am a mother, too.”
“What?” said Lil.
“Yes.” Sister A. looked at Lil, her one eye a smooth window of gray glass. “This is not something I speak about. It’s difficult. One confides as an act of faith.
“Yes, I have a daughter. So, I do know what it’s like. I won’t go deeper into my story, but I will tell you that my daughter is a grown woman now, and she despises me. I’m only telling you because I want you to know that I understand what it’s like to have a child, and to lose one, and believe me, you don’t want to let that happen if you can help it. You have to try to get your ducks in a row, Lil. You have to try. And try again. Maybe pray? There must be something … something out in the world that can help you.”
“You may not believe in sin, but I don’t believe in God,” said Lil.
“Maybe life would be easier if you did, but I understand that,” said Sister A., pushing her hands on her knees to stand. “Faith comes and goes. I don’t know what you should do, I don’t know what anyone should do, but you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.” Sister A. looked around the room. “Forgive yourself here. You don’t have to be perfect, even this room has straw flowers.”
As the nun turned toward the door, Lil could not stop herself. “But, were you married once, Sister?”
Sister A. turned back. Her eyes narrowed, and she shook her head. “No, Lil. And it wasn’t the Immaculate Conception, either. I was forced. I was raped. And that’s that. End of story. Let’s not speak of it again.”
The nun left the room, gently closing the door behind her.
TWENTY-THREE
AS THE DAYS stretched into a week, Clarisse McCarthy was more and more amazed. Sometimes she had to laugh out loud. Had she really gone to Luke Spoon’s house and skaaaaroooed him? Truly it was a dream, a thick, gooey dream. A gargantuan secret, too, nothing she could ever discuss with anyone, even Steph.
She found herself letting the phone ring and ring. Steph would just have to wait until Clarisse could think up some excuse for what she’d been up to. Right now, the risk of revealing any detail of her escapade with Luke Spoon was too great. This was serious, and Clarisse worried that sex was written all over her face.
She replayed the scene with her lover—she liked that word, she really did. Over and over, she recaptured the moments of delight. Remembering how he cupped her knees or fingered her earlobe could set off a rush of pleasure so deep that she caught herself uttering audible sighs in the middle of the A&P. She got aroused just thinking about anything having to do with him. Even picturing the front door to his house could do it.
She’d managed to reinterpret his remarks. Those words—fast fuck—at first she thought it was an insult, but wasn’t it kind of a raw, sexy thing to say? She chalked it up to the grittiness of his passion, or to his fear of her. Maybe he was overwhelmed by the experience. It was intense and so completely out of the blue, even cool Luke Spoon might have been thrown off his game. She had triumphed. She’d been ballsy, and it paid off big-time.
All day long, she was a wet sexy flower. Sometimes she’d put her finger in her mouth, twirl it around, then trace the outline of her lips, remembering his kisses. She was sexy everywhere: in the drugstore, at the schoolyard, even in church. Her body was alive with desire. Two nights ago, she’d crawled on top of Frank, hot and ready—Frank had said, “Hold on honey, I’m exhausted.” He’d rolled over, and, in moments, the start and stop of his snores made her think of a farm animal. Poor Frank. It was funny how she loved him more now. Her capacity for loving everyone and everything seemed infinite. Wide awake, Clarisse lay conjuring her memories of Luke Spoon and his long, sensitive fingers, his salty, sweet breath, and his hard, steady … what else could you call it … but a cock. In her mind, she heard herself repeat the word. Oh, the ways she could make herself laugh.
Normal, everyday, annoying tasks became carefree. Since her visit to Luke Spoon’s she’d stopped worrying so much about Alice O’Brien being in the house. Alice had settled into their routine; she didn’t cause trouble and her crying jags had ceased. Clarisse wondered how long she’d be expected to keep Alice, but there wasn’t any hurry. She intended to call Jim and see how things were going, but for the moment, Alice was easy enough.
Halloween and the party at the convent were sneaking up, and though she usually felt pressure to come up with sensational costumes, this year she allowed the girls to decide for themselves what they wanted to be. They’d chosen characters based on the old maid card game.
Fawn chose Fifi Fluff, who wore a mink stole and walked with a poodle, and Dawn picked Ballet Betty, which was easy enough; all Clarisse had to do was find a pink leotard, slippers, and a ballerina skirt.
The twins had jumped up and down insisting that Alice be the old maid, and Alice stood there staring at the wall, twirling a strand of hair, clearly not pleased. Clarisse patiently bent down on one knee and told her that the costume would be fun, as it required a gray wig and spectacles, and she’d fish out some old-lady shoes from Goodwill and stuff them with tissue paper. Alice wrinkled her nose and confided that she’d rather be Flirtina Fairytoe, but when the twins got wind of that they started screaming No! Not fair! And Alice eventually acquiesced.
> Honestly, Clarisse couldn’t care less, and instead of agonizing over the costumes as she drove down Route 16 to the Farrow’s Corner five-and-dime, she found herself lost in thoughts of Luke Spoon while humming along with Patsy Cline on the radio—Crazy.
Once inside the store, Clarisse stopped at the makeup counter and tested some rouge to add color to her cheeks. She examined herself in the small round mirror, puckering her lips and turning her face from side to side. The woman behind the counter offered her a sample perfume. She put some on her index finger and dabbed it behind her ears. Who cares, who cares?
She’d carried the three old maid cards in her purse so she could refer to them while shopping for the costumes, and she waltzed through the aisles of the five-and-dime picking up little things here and there—a pink bow for Ballet Betty, a hat for Fifi Fluff. She tossed her items into the basket and was in such a good mood that she toyed with the idea of making a costume for herself.
While walking back to her car, off on a side street, she discovered an antique shop that she had never noticed before. In the window, on big cardboard cutouts, hanging side by side, were the most wonderful Marilyn Monroe and JFK costumes. The Marilyn costume was a replica of the famous white dress that blew up around her legs in the movie The Seven Year Itch. Clarisse stopped short when she saw the costumes. People had often remarked that she looked like Marilyn. She’d have to do some convincing to get Frank to wear a costume, but it would be a riot, and he always appreciated a good joke. Clarisse marched into the shop and bought both costumes without even trying hers on.
As she left the store with her hands full of shopping bags, she wondered if Luke Spoon would be at the party. She fantasized about going with Luke. What if? Wild, wild scenarios. Suppose she married him. What if she and the twins and that boy and Luke were a … what? What if Frank … What if Frank what? There was just no way that any of this could come to pass, but in her private musings, her longing had become an ache that would not quit, and she flip-flopped between elation and despair.