“And those sandals,” Bridget said. “You can’t wear them with socks. No other father I know would do that.”
“You two are very opinionated today,” Charlie said as he got to his feet, peeling off the black socks.
The three of them ran toward the waves. The sounds of the amusement park were carried toward them on the wind—the tinkling music of the rides, the gleeful screams from the roller coaster.
She watched as Charlie splashed the children, the two of them screaming, laughing.
Togs.
Nora’s children took for granted what was once nearly unbelievable to her. They were being raised as Americans, but not by Americans.
She had accepted that this was home. Charlie never had. Ever since he arrived in Boston, he talked about how he would one day return to Ireland. He told tall tales about the good old days. To listen to him, you’d never know how they struggled.
Charlie refused to cultivate an interest in baseball, even though John and Bridget were obsessed. At Little League games, other fathers would be shouting at their sons from the bleachers, frenzied, red faced. Charlie would be asleep. Nora cooked spaghetti and tuna noodle casserole and American chop suey from recipes she clipped out of Good Housekeeping. Her husband wouldn’t eat them. He went to ceilidhs twice a month, dancing to the old Irish tunes with long lines of elderly ladies. He came home humming “The Stack of Barley.” “The Siege of Ennis.” He insisted that Bridget do Irish step dance when she was young, though she barely lasted a year.
Their new neighbors, Eileen Delaney and Betty Joyce and Dot McGuire, whose families had been in America for two or three generations, talked about being Irish more than anyone she had ever met. They collected Belleek china painted with shamrocks. They wore claddagh rings. They played the Clancy Brothers at parties. As actual Irish people, Nora and Charlie were like celebrities to them. Charlie reveled in this, but it embarrassed Nora.
When she left Ireland, she hadn’t thought it would be forever. It hurt so much to recall all that was lost. Her father and grandmother had died without her ever seeing them again. They had only ever gotten to know her as a timid girl. Nora had lied to them to protect Theresa and, she supposed, herself. Without meaning to, she built a wall between the family she had made and the one from which she came.
Her brother was still home on the farm. He never married. Martin was nineteen when she left. Now he was almost forty. It seemed impossible. He sent her a photograph and Nora cried to see that he was bald. She sent him one back, of the whole family on Easter morning. When her brother replied, he said he couldn’t wait to see them all. Nora stared at the words, doubting he ever would.
She sometimes yearned for Miltown Malbay, for the smell of the air, the views from the cliffs off Spanish Point. They had so much space in the country. She could go days without seeing anyone besides her family. Now, there were people crammed in everywhere she looked.
Certain cousins, having made as much money as they wanted or needed in America, had moved back for good. Others they knew had been to Ireland for visits. After Kitty came into her money, she went, and kept going. Babs said Kitty only went home to brag. She wore a mink coat when her brother met her at the airport in Shannon and refused to take it off the entire trip.
Oona Donnelly wrote to Nora about it.
I saw a woman dressed to the nines in the square last night. I said to the children, would you look at that. Then I realized it was Kitty Rafferty, your sister-in-law. Didn’t she look just like a film star!
Charlie said he would like to go, and Nora replied that it was too expensive. They couldn’t leave the children. She could come up with a hundred reasons why now wasn’t the time, why home was not a place one went for a visit.
—
They left the beach at four o’clock, the children pink cheeked, freckles spreading across their faces. She had learned to keep a basin of water on the back porch, where they each took a turn dipping sandy feet. Nora opened the back door that led into the kitchen. There was Patrick, drinking a beer at the table.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said.
“Toasting the Fourth of July,” he replied. He tipped the chair backward onto two legs. Nora had never known a child like him. A boy with no fear.
“You’re seventeen,” she said.
Unbelievable that when she came to this country, she was only a few years older than he was now. Theresa was his age exactly. Patrick wanted so badly to be a man, but he was a child in every sense.
“Let him have one,” Charlie said. He raised a finger at Patrick. “Hear me? One.”
Charlie went upstairs to take a shower. Brian reached out for Patrick and Patrick took him from Nora’s arms.
He loved the baby and so she knew that he was good.
“We’ll grill dinner outside tonight,” Nora said now. “And then we’re going into Boston for the fireworks. Will you come with us?”
Patrick shook his head. “Ma. I have plans.”
“Boys from school?”
She held her breath while she waited for his response.
“Nah, I’m going to Castle Island. Fergie and some other guys are gonna hang out and watch the fireworks from there. I’ll ride in town with you. Get the Ashmont line to Fields Corner.”
“I want you home right after.”
“We were going to go to Lucky Strike.”
“Bowling?”
“Yeah.”
He could lie like that, right to her face. But what could she say? If she forbade him, Patrick would only go ahead and do it anyway.
“I don’t want to hear about any trouble,” Nora said. “I want you to be careful.”
Brian had fallen asleep on Patrick’s shoulder. She took the baby from him and went upstairs to put him in his crib.
She needed a miracle for that boy. She thought of her sister’s silly medal.
I believe in its powers, Theresa had written in the letter she sent him.
Nora didn’t quite, yet she had never been able to throw it away.
She went into her room, opened her jewelry box. She found the medal where she had left it a year ago, hidden in a small satin bag, stuffed with cotton. She found an old chain and threaded it through the loop at the top.
Nora returned to the kitchen, where Patrick sat alone.
“I don’t ask you for much, do I?” she said.
He smiled, uneasy. “No.”
“I need you to do something for me. If you think it’s silly, that doesn’t matter. You’ll be a good boy and humor your mother.”
“All right,” he said, just before she draped the chain around his neck.
“You have to promise me that you will wear this always.”
He laughed.
“Patrick, promise,” she said in her sternest voice, which still had never been enough to reach him.
But now he looked up at her. He looked her in the eye.
“I promise,” he said.
18
MOTHER CECILIA SET a bud vase on the end table. The head of a fat white peony lolled at the top. She adjusted the stem right, then left, then straight up and down. When she pulled her hand away, the flower fell back to its original position.
She cocked her head, regarded it. Then she heard the door to the guesthouse open and the sound of several pairs of feet in the front hall.
The Sisters of Saint Joseph came on retreat for one weekend each summer. It had always been her job to make sure their rooms were tidy, their beds made up, the windows thrown open to the sweet smell of the grass outside. She had placed a tray of just-baked muffins on the table for them, and a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator. She made sure the kitchen was stocked with the abbey’s finest offerings—raw milk and cheese, jam and several loaves of fresh bread.
She had been prioress for more than a year now, second in command after the abbess. She knew she ought to pass this task along to one of the postulants, but she enjoyed it too much. Their friends in active orders got worn down by
the world. Their communities were shrinking, they had elderly sisters to care for. All of it weighed on their minds. They came here to refuel, to breathe the fresh country air, to reflect on what a year had brought. She saw it as her duty to revive them.
She went to the door to greet them, hugging and kissing them all. They didn’t wear habits anymore. They wore plain skirts and jackets now, or dungarees with a smart silk blouse. It was eighty degrees outside. Mother Cecilia swore she would try not to envy them as she sweated away in her robes.
Sister Evangeline, the most outspoken of them all, held forth a tiny American flag.
“For the prioress,” she said.
As she took it, Mother Cecilia must have made a face that conveyed her confusion.
Sister Evangeline laughed. “It’s the Fourth of July.”
“Is it?”
The noontime bells rang.
“I’m off,” Mother Cecilia said. “Get yourselves settled. I’m so happy to see you all again.”
“We’ll see you over there,” Sister Evangeline said.
Mother Cecilia went to join the others in the chapel, still holding the flag in her hand. She had no time to set it down. She hid it inside her sleeve and took her position.
They chanted gloriously for their fellow sisters. She looked out and smiled at the visiting nuns, lined up in the first pew on the other side of the gate.
—
The nuns from the abbey ate lunch in the enclosure. They had prepared a beautiful meal for the Sisters of Saint Joseph to have in the refectory. The usual two hours of silence followed, but later that afternoon, Mother Placid invited the sisters to have tea with the two of them in her private living room. Just before they arrived, she and Mother Cecilia set out cookies, milk, sugar cubes.
The last abbess, in office for forty-two years, had kept the room dark, with heavy drapes and velvet furniture, enormous couches and chairs that swallowed a person when she sat. Mother Placid lightened it up. She pulled down the drapes. The sun shone in now, onto oatmeal-colored sofas and a pair of bright blue wingback chairs. She had gotten throw pillows, a floral rug. The first time Mother Cecilia saw it, she thought of Mother Placid’s old apartment in Queens. Even there in that cold, blank building, she had created warmth, home.
“Just a reminder,” Mother Cecilia said. “We have to be aware of what we say to them. Our positions now demand it.”
“We, huh?”Mother Placid said.
“All right. You, Mother Abbess.”
The Sisters of Saint Joseph spoke more frankly to them than most people would. Mother Placid had a tendency to get swept up in it, to say things she might later regret.
Her friend smiled as the others knocked at the door.
“Come in, come in,” they said.
They talked about the year gone by. About world affairs and family matters. About the fund-raising efforts they had started for their retirement. They were heroic nurses who served the poor in Philadelphia. In the spring, they had lost the building their order had lived in for a century. Now the nuns lived in apartments, spread all over the city.
“It’s different,” Sister Emily said, sipping her tea.
“It’s awful,” Sister Evangeline said. “It’s not what we signed up for at all. We’ve lost our community. At the hospital, it’s a new battle every day. The bishops make it impossible for us to do our work.”
The others looked down, quiet for a minute.
“Should we open a bottle of wine?” Mother Placid said, and they all cheered.
Mother Cecilia shook her head.
Two winters back, when Mother Placid had just been named abbess, there was a blizzard, power out to half the state. A homeless shelter in Manchester asked if the abbey might be able to take in three or four children for a week. Bishop Dolan, speaking on behalf of the pope, said it was impossible, not what the abbey was there for. He said to tell the shelter that they would pray for the children.
“The bishop says we cannot take three or four,” Mother Placid said into the telephone, as Mother Cecilia looked on. “He was very clear that we must not do that. So! We will take ten or twelve.”
“Tell us,” Mother Placid said now, to the nuns.
Sister Evangeline looked at the others.
“Go ahead,” said Sister Rebecca. “We all know you have plenty to say.”
“We’re in trouble. A few of us specifically, myself included. They’re after us for telling some female patients that they should be using birth control. Telling them that it’s not a sin, and though they can’t get it from us, we can tell them where to get it.”
“Oh, this again,” Mother Placid said. She was on her feet, pulling glasses from the hutch in the corner, handing them around.
Mother Cecilia tensed up.
“You can’t imagine coming face-to-face with a woman who can’t feed the children she already has and having to tell her that God insists she have more,” Sister Evangeline said. “The bishops have never been in that room.”
“But we have to do what the church dictates,” Sister Emily said.
“Our gift to the church is to be with the people on the margins, people who are suffering. We can’t afford to see things in black and white,” Sister Evangeline said. “It’s 1976. Abortion is not the only ill. War and hunger are also right-to-life issues.”
“We know how it is,” Mother Placid said. “We understand.” She filled Sister Evangeline’s glass.
“For this, they call us radicals. Heretics.”
“What nonsense,” Mother Placid said. “But! We need look no further than our history books for reassurance. Nuns have triumphed over a delinquent leadership before. It’s a common enough mistake to believe that one’s own time is the most progressive, the most advanced. That human nature only improves upon itself. But in fact, things move in cycles—good to bad and back again.”
Mother Cecilia gave her a pleading look. The bishop had said they could not be seen as supporting nuns like these in their efforts, even though they did support them. It was one thing to listen, and even that was a danger. But Mother Placid had no business getting into a conversation.
Even in this company—maybe especially so—they had to be mindful of whom they served. They could speak freely only to one another.
Fourteen years ago now, Pope John XXIII had told the clergy to open the windows of the church, but there had been little more guidance than that. Members were meant to revisit their founders’ intentions, to revise their constitutions, to modernize. Nuns on the outside went back to their given names, they stopped wearing the habit. Inside the cloister, they were supposed to be more obedient, more conservative than ever.
“I envy you,” Sister Evangeline said. “You don’t have to deal with any of this. The politics of it all.”
“There are people who think we’re not doing much up here, just praying all day,” Mother Placid said, a hint of defensiveness in her tone. “We don’t have a hospital or a school, but we have our doors open and we greet the world there.”
“I know,” Sister Evangeline said. “I didn’t mean—”
“You’ve had all these young people running around here for the last few years,” one of the others said. “Surely it comes up when they talk to you. Maybe by being so traditional, by escaping notice, this is the only place where anything truly radical can happen.”
Mother Cecilia smiled, betraying nothing.
“Whatever it is, it’s worked,” Sister Emily said. “You’ve brought in so many young recruits. It’s a real success story, and all thanks to you two. You must be the youngest prioress and abbess in the country.”
They were thirty-six and forty-two, respectively. Sometimes Mother Cecilia thought a thirty-six-year-old had no place being in a role of such importance. She nearly said so, but then Sister Evangeline said, “You deserved to be elected. You saved this place.”
—
In the early seventies, they had nearly lost the abbey. After the deaths of several senior nuns, their numb
ers were shrinking. Their cash reserves were low. The roof leaked. One of the barns was ready to collapse. They didn’t have the funds to repair it. They kept the heat and the lights in the church turned off, even during Mass. In winter, they wore coats over their habits. They could see their breath as they sang. Their meals, which had once been ample, became simple, sparse. They had to sell whatever they could get out of the dairy. They lived off of clear soups and vegetables and bread. Everyone lost weight. Without the gardens, they might have starved.
But then they were visited by an intervention of the Spirit.
They had four hundred acres. From time to time, outsiders staked their claim on far-off corners of the property. The nuns mostly let them alone. But when groups of young people started camping on the land, pitching tents, staying for weeks, they debated whether to tell them to leave.
In the dormitory at midnight, they could hear guitars, laughter from across the fields. On a cool autumn evening, the nuns might smell a campfire as they walked to the chapel for Vespers. The young people seemed to think they were hiding. When a nun caught sight of them—the girls in their skimpy skirts, their flowing dresses, the boys loud and long-haired—they would freeze a moment, like deer, and then run off. Finally, Mother Placid approached them and said they could stay, but they had to work, and they had to talk. That’s how it began.
They were mostly college students or recent graduates. Intrigued by Daniel Berrigan and the notion of priests burning draft files. Repulsed by the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, and later, by Kent State. They were weary. The abbey provided a refuge.
They were the youngest people the nuns had seen in years. Their spirits enlivened the place. Soon they came by the dozens, men and women alike. They hungered for peace and community; they wanted to give more to the land than they took. They wanted to learn about communal living, and who better to teach them?
The boys painted the buildings, repaired the roof. It was an odd sight—handsome young men in blue jeans and T-shirts where there were usually no men at all. Some of the nuns prayed for the strength to resist temptation. The girls worked alongside the nuns, in the dairy and the gardens. Mother Placid had a gift with them. Most weren’t much older than the children they had taught back in Queens. They were not particularly interested in God at the start. None of them came intending to stay. But several of them did. They represented a new generation at the abbey, a repopulation.
Saints for All Occasions Page 28