Despite the nasty weather, all of Uncle Alfred’s students except for Paul Lewes had shown up that day, and the plastic money pouch with the bank emblem on it was chubby with the loose change and bills Iris stashed away after each payment, with all the heads of Washington and Lincoln facing the front. Uncle Alfred didn’t like taking money from people; he said it was filthy, and Iris figured he certainly wouldn’t want to contaminate his guitar with all those germs. Uncle Alfred washed his hands a lot, even without soap and water, like when he was standing around talking and rubbing one hand over the other, instead of toying with coins in his pocket like some men did.
Iris wasn’t crazy about touching the money either, especially if the coins were sweaty or the currency crumpled, but sometimes she did like to hold the pouch to her nose and smell the money. Today, she was particularly attracted to the pouch, and had taken several sniffs. She had also counted the money obsessively before each student, and after each student. Between Trial Plan proceeds and lesson money, there was a total of forty-five dollars and fifty cents. She was just sticking her nose in the pouch when Alexander left, making her jump in her seat and shove the pouch back in the drawer as he breezed past her without a word, his shoulder-length hair billowing behind him. Iris had fished all the caramels out of the canister and sucked so much butterscotch candy that the roof of her mouth was raw. By now, the waiting room was devoid of waiters, and the phone had fallen silent. Uncle Alfred’s last student was playing “Crocodile Rock” on the bass and kept falling behind tempo. The guitar-shaped wall clock ticked like a time bomb. Her cheeks grew hot, her heartbeat accelerated, and an unfamiliar tension in her loins made her legs shake.
Iris slid the desk drawer open again, unable to resist checking the pouch one more time. Feeling its weight in her hands, she was proud of herself for cashing in all the Trial Plan money today. Uncle Alfred would be surprised when she told him. If she told him. She was thinking about how Uncle Alfred never bothered asking who had paid the T.P. fee and who hadn’t, though he always knew exactly how much money to expect from his lessons. If she erased the (T.P.) designation next to four of the students’ names, and took that money, all her problems would be solved. But that would be stealing, wouldn’t it? Maybe not; maybe she deserved it, maybe she could consider it a bonus for doing such a good job collecting the money. Iris zipped opened the pouch. She’d just take one more sniff. The grubby smell of the cash made that weird feeling between her legs get worse. There was another aspect she hadn’t considered before, but now that she thought about it, she realized Uncle Alfred was more than happy to let the students use his guitars. Whether or not they paid the T.P., he had already purchased the instruments, and they would just be sitting there in the bathroom gathering dust if no one were renting them.
Aaay-aya-yaya-yaay, aya-yaya-yaay, aya-yaya-yaay. Iris heard the beat pick up for the final chorus of “Crocodile Rock.” The kid had finally gotten the hang of it. His lesson would be over soon.
Iris jiggled in her chair, and tapped her feet with the music, watching a hand slip into the pouch and come back out with five one-dollar bills clutched between its fingers.
12. Lily
“OK class,” said Miss Dalton. “Put your books away and let’s line up by the door for recess.” It was a command she never had to repeat. The children had been squirming in their seats all morning, tormented by the blue skies and sunshine dangling on the other side of thick transom windows, just out of reach. On the heels of another treacherous New York winter, they were anxious to swing on the monkey bars and fly down the slide, parched to taste these first luscious drops of spring.
“Billy Armstrong, you are leader today. Please stop by the water fountain so everyone can get a drink before we leave the building – and remember class, no one will be permitted to reenter the building until recess is over, so drink up!”
Lily couldn’t slam her book closed fast enough. She didn’t have any specific plans for recess, but anything was better than sitting in class. Anything. Whenever a classmate came down with the latest cold or flu bug, Lily secretly hoped she would catch it, so she could stay home and avoid this whole business of school altogether. And if she didn’t catch whatever was going around, she would sometimes invent an illness and get excused to go sit in the nurse’s office. Complaining of a stomachache was usually a good bet. After all, no one could prove that you didn’t have a stomachache, and the last thing anyone wanted was to have a student puking in class. Except maybe for Mr. Schuler, the janitor. He probably liked it because then he could come down with his bag of sawdust and sprinkle it all over the puke, and all the children and teachers would really appreciate him for scooping it up and taking it away.
“Hello, Mrs. Capotosti?” the nurse would say. “This is Nurse Bickley from Fairview Elementary school.” Nurse Bickley would look over at Lily. “Yes, I’m afraid she is – she’s right here in the office, lying down on the cot.”
That would be Lily’s cue to come up with a simple groan, perhaps rolling to her side, drawing her knees up, and placing her hands over her belly.
“Yes, it seems to be a bad one this time,” Nurse Bickley would say, with the hint of a grin on her lips. “All right then, Mrs. Capotosti, we’ll see how it goes, and I’ll call you back and let you know… You’re very welcome... You too. Bye-bye now.”
“Well, Miss Lily, what do you think? Do you want to stay here for a bit and see if you think you might feel better in a little while?”
“OK,” Lily would mumble.
Then the nurse would take Lily’s temperature, and invariably she would announce, “Ninety-eight point six!”
Lily knew the drill. Once the phone call was made and the temperature taken, she would have about half an hour on the cot and then she would have to decide if she wanted to go back to class, or if she wanted the nurse to call her mother to come and pick her up. This decision was predicated on several factors, including what time of day it was (the later in the day, the more likely she would be willing to go back to class, saving a “go home” for a more dire situation), whether she had remembered to pack an extra apple or graham cracker so she would have something to eat at snack time, and which classes were scheduled - with art, recess, and music all reasons to consider sticking it out for the day.
But it wasn’t as though she was “faking it” as her brothers would accuse her of when they arrived home to find her in her pajamas watching The Andy Griffith Show in the middle of the day. School really did give her a stomachache, and some days she simply could not bear to sit in that chair one moment longer. It was especially hard now that Iris had gotten off the waiting list and was going to Sacred Family. Lily had to walk to school alone, eat lunch alone, and there wasn’t one person she trusted to sit on the other end of the teeter-totter at recess.
Lily couldn’t understand why school was so easy for the other children, all of whom happily got up, sat down, came in and went out on command. She learned very early on in her elementary career that phrases such as “Why do I have to?” and “But I don’t want to” were not acceptable responses to the requests of teachers, bus drivers, and lunch ladies. In fact, there were no acceptable responses except to just obey. It made her feel trapped not to have choices. Sometimes she didn’t like sitting in a circle and sometimes she didn’t feel like practicing her penmanship, but at school what she wanted was even less important than it was at home. Getting bossed around all the time really did give her a stomachache, even if it wasn’t the kind that made you throw up all over the place.
A request to line up for recess was always welcome, however, if only because it meant freedom from sitting in a chair, in a row of desks, in a room of rows, in a school of rooms, and where your success in passing to the next grade landed you in another seat just the like the one you already hated, for yet another dreadfully interminable year. So Lily eagerly took a place in the line. Once all the children were single-filed by the door, Miss Dalton gave the word, and Billy Armstrong led them down the hal
lway.
The children all stood against the wall, which was comprised of concrete blocks painted with a thick coat of beige that had been slapped on with such nonchalance that drips of paint were still frozen in place, like permanent latex-based tears of all the children who had ever been confined there. The line inched along as each child took his or her turn at the drinking fountain. Lily surveyed the faces behind her and spotted Claudia Johnson. She hadn’t gotten Claudia yet, so when Lily’s turn came to drink, she let the other children go ahead of her, one by one, until Claudia ended up right behind her.
Lily stepped up to the fountain, and turned the handle with her right hand, placing the fingers of her left directly into the spouting water. Then she turned to Claudia and flicked her fingertips, spraying Claudia’s face with water.
“Lily!” shouted Claudia. “What did you do that for?! Ow, ow, ow! You got it in my eye!” Claudia started to cry.
Miss Dalton bolted into the hallway. “Claudia, what’s the matter?” she called.
“It’s Lily!” said Claudia. “She splashed water in my eyes!”
Lily stood, covering her face with her hands.
“Again, Lily?” said Miss Dalton. She pulled Lily out of line. “Stop mumbling and take your hands away from your face. We’ve talked about this antisocial behavior of yours before. I’m afraid we need to take a little visit to Mr. Davenport’s office. Billy – you wait until everyone has had a drink, and then you lead the class out to the playground. I will be along presently.” She turned to Lily. “You, young lady – come with me.” She wriggled her bent forefinger at Lily. It was like a tiny hook – a miniature version of the one they used on The Ed Sullivan Show when your act was so bad they didn’t even want you to finish.
The walk to the Principal's office seemed to go on forever, with Miss Dalton not saying even one word. She didn’t hold Lily’s hand the way she always did when she walked her to the nurse’s office, and she didn’t ask Lily, “How is your mother?” or “What do you want for Christmas?” or any of the other nice questions that friends ask one another. Miss Dalton wore her shiny brown hair in a flip, and she always had on white frosted lipstick – she was almost as pretty as Violet – and while she was usually very nice, Lily knew that she was really angry this time. But it didn’t matter; it wouldn’t have mattered. What mattered most was that she got Claudia Johnson. Getting in trouble with the Principal was the least of her worries; there were still at least ten more children left to get.
Mrs. Basso was a stout, quiet woman with short gray hair and pink diamonds in her eyeglass frames. She always kept a box of black licorice Smith Brothers cough drops on her desk, and sometimes if you coughed enough, she would offer you one. Lily liked the cherry flavored Smith Brothers much more, but even a black one was better than no cough drop at all. She coughed once, twice, three times, but Mrs. Basso never even looked up from her typewriter. Clickety-clickety-click. So Lily coughed louder. Nothing. Clickety-clickety-click-ding! Lily supposed that being brought to Mr. Davenport’s office for actual antisocial behavior disqualified her from the kind of compassionate treatment she received when she had a stomachache. Being sick was definitely better than getting in trouble.
Miss Dalton emerged from Mr. Davenport’s office, leaving the door open behind her.
“Come on in and have a seat, Miss Capotosti,” called Mr. Davenport. “And close the door behind you.” Mr. Davenport sat behind a mammoth wooden desk, the surface of which was littered with individual sheets of notepaper, a stapler, a cup filled with a dozen sharpened yellow pencils, a Rolodex, and one manila folder marked “Capotosti, Lily.”
Lily sat in the chair directly across from Mr. Davenport with her feet dangling several inches from the floor. The chair was upholstered in a deep burgundy leather, adorned with a row of brass tacks along the edges. Lily counted the tacks as she ran her fingers along each arm of the chair. There were sixteen. You never did know when that kind of information might come in handy. Like on Truth or Consequences, or Let’s Make a Deal - people won money and cars and trips to Bermuda for knowing things all the time. Lily’s concentration was broken only by the sounds of recess in the yard outside the window. She craned her neck to see who was chasing whom, and whether the puddle at the bottom of the slide had dried up yet.
“All eyes forward, please,” announced Mr. Davenport. “I would think that you would be more interested in what is going in here, Miss Capotosti. Do you remember what I told you the last time we had this problem?’
“Yes sir,” said Lily.
“What did I tell you?”
“You said that the next time there was a incident you were going to call my parents.”
“And now here we are,” he said, folding his hands on the desktop in front of him. “So what do you suggest I do?”
“I dunno,” said Lily. “Call my parents?”
“If that is an attempt at humor, Miss Capotosti, then I strongly advise you against further attempts at this point in time.”
Lily couldn’t understand why grownups asked such obvious questions and then got mad at you when you answered them. Like that one day when Lily was writing a secret note to Charlot in class. Miss Dalton stopped in the middle of her reading aloud and asked, “Lily, do you have something you want to share with the class?” To which Lily answered, “No thank you - this is a secret note to Charlot.” Answering that question earned Lily fifteen minutes in the corner.
Mr. Davenport continued, “What I don’t understand is that you are always such a nice young lady, except that you seem to have this propensity.”
Lily shrugged her shoulders and looked down at the floor. In addition to all of her other problems, now she had a propensity to deal with. She wondered who was the patron saint of propensities and if there was a special prayer she could say.
“Do you have an explanation to offer?”
“No sir,” said Lily. Lily wondered if she would have the courage to get Mr. Davenport if he ever happened to be in line behind her at the drinking fountain.
Every week in catechism class, Sister Jerome told stories about the days when the courage of the faithful was tested all the time, when it was against the law to be Catholic and the people had to hide down in the catacombs to keep from being burned alive, or from having their skin peeled from their bodies, or being sent to the lion’s den. Sister cradled a large book in her left hand, balancing its spine in her palm. She gesticulated fiercely with her right arm, passionately recounting the agony of it all like a mad one-armed conductor alone in an empty concert hall.
“Believers were considered criminals,” Sister had said breathlessly. “They were not allowed to read the Bible, or hold a Rosary, or wear a crucifix around their necks. Soldiers would burst into homes and if they found any evidence that you believed in Our Lord Jesus Christ or the Blessed Virgin Mother, they would throw you in jail - or worse.”
Lily raised her hand. “But you don’t really need to hold a rosary to say the rosary,” she said. “After all,” she added, “No one can see what you’re doing inside your own mind. Those persecuted believers should have just prayed in their minds, and not made such a big deal out of it. That way, they could be safe, and still say their prayers and everything.”
At first, Sister Jerome just stared, with an expression that Lily interpreted as amazement, as though no one had ever considered such an elegant solution to this age-old problem that had threatened to cause the extinction of Catholics everywhere.
In a single motion, Sister Jerome slammed the book closed and tucked it under her left arm. She addressed Lily in a low, somber voice as though even the act of Lily’s having the thought revealed the presence of an evil spirit that must immediately be exorcised.
“Because, Miss Capotosti,” she spat, “We don’t hide our faith to save ourselves. It is our suffering for our convictions that leads us to everlasting hope.” As she accentuated the final “p” on hope, her mouth blossomed into a wide ghoulish grin - one whose sole purpose seemed
to be to reveal the presence of teeth and not to express any sense of joy at the ideas of undying conviction and eternal bliss.
It didn’t make much sense to Lily that safely praying without a rosary was in some way an offense to God, while flaunting a rosary and getting killed or locked up led to heavenly rewards. After all, you could have a rosary in your hand and not say even one Hail Mary. This basic lack of logic frightened Lily, especially because if God loved us, wouldn’t He rather we hide the rosary and save ourselves? It was clear that if Lily had been an early believer, she would have been a rosary hider, and would probably still be in purgatory, paying for her lack of conviction.
Even now, if God asked her to get Mr. Davenport at the fountain she wasn’t sure she could do it, and she dreaded the thought. In her heart she secretly wished she would never have to face such an awful choice, because surely she would be too afraid and her lack of devotion would be revealed. Dear God, she thought, I’m sorry I’m so weak. She made a note to say an extra five Our Fathers the next time she said her penance - just in case.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Davenport, “I’m afraid you leave me no choice.” He opened the manila folder, picked up the receiver and dialed the phone.
Lily’s mother entered the school office briskly, the faint scent of cleanser and vanilla extract in her wake. Lily was placed back into the waiting room while Mr. Davenport and Lily’s mother talked. Between Mrs. Basso’s clickety-clicking and the other children now on their way down to the cafeteria for lunch, Lily could only hear muffled conversation until the door opened and her mother’s voice spilled out.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Davenport. I appreciate the call. We certainly will have a talk with her.” Lily’s mother shook the Principal’s hand, which she then extended toward Lily. “Come along, Lily,” she said curtly. “You’re being sent home for the day.”
The Complete Series Page 19