Recently, after Vida’s Uncle Apolinaras left for work in New York, Mrs. Gudauskas returned to keep house for Vida’s father. I was angry that Mrs. Gudauskas had bought her daughter, Milda, the prettiest dress, yet had managed to find the ugliest one for Vida. When I told my mother about it, she clucked her tongue, frowning, and the next day she bought a delicate lace collar you could tuck into the neckline. She sewed pearls on it by hand. I took it over for Vida to try. She bravely put it on and smiled, even though it only helped a little.
On Easter morning, my mother woke me to prepare for Sunrise Mass. I quickly dressed, and we walked to church in the dark. The girls lined up in their Communion dresses, our starched and scratchy crinoline slips chafing as we entered carrying calla lilies or baskets of white rose petals. As the sky began to lighten, Father Paulius, our regal pastor in his gold vestments, entered the vestibule. He waited until the first glints of the sun came up over the horizon, and then Al Vitkus, his altar boy, rang the bells, as the priest carried the monstrance into the church. Priests followed sprinkling holy water while altar boys waved censors, sending up clouds of incense. Finally, we girl brides entered, dropping rose petals on the marble floor, followed by the boys in their blue suits, marching solemnly. Even though the church was dark, I could see it was packed with people wearing their Easter best. As we entered, the pastor lit the large Paschal candle at the altar, a signal for the whole church to slowly light up until it blazed like the risen sun. The organ swelled as the choir sang out in full voice, “Alleluia, Alleluia, Christ is risen.”
All the pomp and ceremony made my head swoon—the choir, the pageantry, the smell of incense, and flowers. Tears threatened as I looked up at the cross and realized that Christ had finally risen to heaven after all of his sufferings. He was always in such agony on that cross. Our class had walked the Stations of the Cross on our knees on Good Friday, picturing every step of his torment and death. During Lent, we gave up candy and anything sweet so that we could add our little suffering to his great suffering. And now he was risen. Alleluia. I only hoped to be worthy of receiving him for the first time during my First Holy Communion in May.
But before our First Communion, we had to make our First Confession. The Monday after Easter, Sister Margaret rolled up her gigantic sleeves and quieted the clacking crucifix that hung on her stiff white bib. We could see that she meant business today. She called me up to the front of the class and gave me a stack of booklets to pass out to each row. Inside were long lists of sins with places to mark how many times we had committed each sin. After all, we were now seven, the age of reason, old enough to know what sin was. We memorized the seven deadly sins of gluttony, sloth, envy, lust, pride, wrath, and greed. Then Sister Margaret explained the difference between a mortal sin and a venial sin. A mortal sin sent you straight to hell while a venial sin sent you to purgatory—that muffled gray zone that was neither heaven nor hell. My homework for the rest of April was to scour my conscience for remembered sins. If we scrupulously confessed them all, we would be forgiven, making our souls as white as our Communion veils. Then we would be worthy of receiving the Blessed Sacrament.
After school, I went over to Vida’s house as I often did and found that Mrs. Gudauskas, who usually gave us sugar cookies while we played Old Maid, was sick that week. We were on our own, so we practiced kneeling gracefully, lifting our faces, and sticking out our tongues for the host, hoping we looked holy rather than goofy during our First Communion. Piling books on the floor to use as the kneeler, we took turns being the priest, imagining the cookies were the host. As I was putting a cookie on Vida’s tongue, Mr. George, their boarder, came out of his room wearing an undershirt tucked into his suit pants. He had moved back into Vida’s house after her Uncle Apolinaras left. Mr. George’s brown hair was sticking up on one side of his head. It was the first time I had ever seen him without his shirt and bow tie. We had had several boarders living at our house, too, who came and went. When we first bought a house, it seemed like the whole world moved in with us. My mother said they helped us pay for the house. I was always curious about what these boarders did in their rooms all day. My favorite boarder was Mr. Antanas, whose wife and four children got left behind in Lithuania. He was sad and sometimes drank too much, but he was sweet and quiet, so I always felt sorry for him. Mr. George, on the other hand, was an old bachelor, who was neither quiet nor sweet, and I could see by the look in Vida’s large, gray eyes that she didn’t like him one bit.
“What are you girls up to?” he asked, carrying a smelly plate with fish bones to the kitchen.
“Practicing for our First Communion,” said Vida, very solemnly.
“No kidding.” He padded over to watch us, scratching his hair back into place. “Hey, let me be the priest, OK? I always wanted to know what it felt like.” He put his plate down on the cocktail table.
Vida frowned. “No, we can do it ourselves.”
Mr. George paid no attention. “Oh Vida, don’t be such a spoilsport.” He smiled, showing his small teeth, his pug nose wrinkling. “This will be fun. Now, you girls kneel down here.” He took the plate of cookies away from me and began to mumble as he made the sign of the cross.
I knelt down, closed my eyes and stuck out my tongue, waiting as he whispered something and put a vanilla wafer on my tongue. I could smell smoked fish on his fingers, and it made me slightly nauseated. Holding my breath, I blessed myself and stood up, returning to my pew, which was the couch.
“Well done, girls. You’ll be the best in your class on Communion day.” We practiced two more times until all the cookies were gone. Mr. George looked disappointed. “Do you both have Communion dresses?” His small yellow teeth peeked out of one side of his mouth like a row of corn kernels.
After I had described my dress, I ran to get Vida’s dress and put the lace collar over it. Vida didn’t say anything, curled up like a tight shell in the corner of the sofa, so I had to do all the talking.
Mr. George said that Vida’s dress looked exactly like his mother’s Communion dress. He told us how he treasured his mother’s First Communion photo because she looked so innocent. He asked if we wanted to see it.
Vida shot up. “No, we need to do some homework,” she said quickly, pulling at my arm.
I thought she was rude, so I protested. “Wait, Vida, let’s see the photo first.”
“No, I don’t want to see it,” she snapped back. “Let’s go, Irene.” Vida looked surprisingly upset. She was usually such a quiet mouse.
Mr. George smiled at me. “It’s all right. Let Vida start her homework.” He took my hand. “Come with me, dear, I’ll show you the photo.”
Vida tried to stop me. “Don’t go, Irene,” she pleaded.
Mr. George laughed as he pulled me into his room. He turned to Vida and bowed. “Don’t worry, your little friend will be right back, as soon as I’ve shown her the funny old photos, including one of me in a sailor suit.”
When I turned to look at Vida and saw her anguished face, distant alarm bells sounded.
Mr. George pushed the door closed with his back. “That little girl is too serious, don’t you think?”
The small room had an old-fashioned bed and a matching bureau. Even though there was one window opened just a crack, with nylon curtains billowing in the breeze, the room smelled stuffy, as though it needed a good cleaning. There was a chair with some white shirts draped over it, and a pair of old brown lace-up shoes trying to hide under the bed. I noticed that Mr. George was wearing worn brown slippers with lumpy toes. He told me to sit down on his bed while he rummaged through a drawer of photos. The springs creaked as I climbed up and sat stiffly on the very edge, on the nubby green bedspread that was half off the bed.
He pulled out an old leather album and sat down next to me. “I finally found it. Let’s see,” he said, flipping the black pages. He showed me a yellowed photo of a serious boy with the same pug nose wearing a sailor su
it. “That’s me, can you believe it?” He laughed and showed another photo of his older sister, who lived in Australia. “Poor Vera never married.” He patted me on the arm. “How could a woman with such a mean face find a husband, eh? She scared them all away.” He laughed. “Not like you. You have such a sweet, pretty face. All the boys will want to marry you.” He caressed my cheek, and I blushed, feeling uncomfortable.
“Come sit on my lap, will you? So we can both see these old photos better.” Before I could protest, he pulled me up on his lap and put the album on my knees. “Let’s find that communion photo. You turn the pages, and I’ll tell you when to stop.” I began to turn the pages filled with black-and-white photos, each held in place with little white corner holders. There were photos of people from long ago, some sitting stiffly in dark suits and long dresses, staring at me from the past. He talked into my ear, telling me stories of his grandmother, who was a servant for a rich family in Warsaw; his aunt, who owned a clothing store in Kaunas; and his grandfather, who once saw the Tsar in St. Petersburg. All the while his breath was a fish cloud surrounding us. And then he finally found his mother’s photo in her Communion dress, which was even plainer than Vida’s. Her hair was braided and curled like two snakes around her ears. She was holding a lily as she looked at the camera warily. “Isn’t she lovely?” asked Mr. George. His breath, though still fishy, was now hot, and it tickled my ear. I wanted to get down and run out of the room, but one hand held me firmly, while the other hand slowly crept under my uniform skirt, sliding between my legs until I gasped in shock. When I turned to look at him, I saw he had his eyes closed. “It’s OK,” he cooed. “You’re a good girl. There now, that’s good, isn’t it?”
I squirmed, trying to get off his lap, but his grip on me tightened. “Oh, you can’t go yet.” He kept touching me. Finally, I pushed his hand away, so embarrassed I couldn’t even look at him. I shoved the photo album off my lap, and it landed on the floor with a thud, some of the photos slipping out. But just as I slid off and my feet thumped on the floor, he grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward him.
“Let me go,” I pleaded, my panic rising.
“You don’t need to go yet,” he said as he put my hand on the swelling in his brown pinstriped pants, and I could feel something subterranean moving underneath the material. I pulled my hand away quickly, as if burned.
“I’ve got to go,” I screeched, pushing him, desperate to get away.
“What’s your hurry?” he said soothingly. “We’re just starting to have some fun.” He grabbed my hand again and smiled with those ugly little teeth.
“Please.” I pleaded and tugged, but Mr. George held on tightly, hurting my hand.
“You won’t tell, will you? I’ll let you go if you promise not to tell.” His smile now seemed cruel.
My chin quivered, and tears threatened like an approaching storm, but choked with fear, I couldn’t say another word.
“If you promise not to say anything, then I won’t tell anyone about the sin you just committed.” He still smiled, but his eyes threatened.
I nodded, tugging with all my might until he finally released my hand. Wrenching open the door, I lurched out of the room, desperate to escape. Too ashamed to look at Vida, I fled and didn’t stop until I got to my house and found Magda waiting for me on the front stoop. I told her I couldn’t play and ran up the stairs, ignoring her hurt look. To avoid my parents, I rushed to my room and closed the door, crawling into my bed, still trembling with fear. Every time I thought of Mr. George, I shuddered, feeling spoiled and dirty. Pulling the covers over my head, I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping the memory would vanish.
Later, when my mother called me to dinner, I said my stomach hurt, so she brought me tea and a hot-water bottle and felt my forehead. I shifted my gaze, my face burning with shame. With all my heart, I wanted to tell her, but I was too ashamed. After she left, I hugged the hot-water bottle for comfort throughout the night. Each time I fell asleep, calamitous monsters and beasts chased me in nightmares. Flailing and tossing, I hardly slept all night. In the morning, my mother noticed that I was exhausted and haunted. Touching my forehead, she checked for fever, wanting to know if my throat hurt. I shook my head. In the end, she looked out the window at the gray, drizzly day and decided I should stay home from school. I covered my head with my quilt and finally slept. When I awoke that afternoon, the whole world seemed to have changed. Nothing seemed safe or happy anymore. There was something dark in the world that spoiled everything.
The next day I walked to school, feeling burdened with hot shame. Though I sat in my same seat, I couldn’t look at Vida or Sister Margaret. Usually, I was so eager to raise my hand to answer questions or volunteer for some task, but today I kept my eyes lowered, and my hands folded, trying to hide behind Allen Braun’s big head. Sister Margaret went through penmanship, arithmetic, and spelling, and then it was time to get out our catalog of sins to see if we had anything new to add to our list. With our pencils, we marked each time we had lied to our parents, stolen, cursed, or had impure thoughts. I felt sick to my stomach. The bowels of hell were going to open and grab me for one of their own. I turned crimson and kept my eyes down, with the booklet covering my face, hoping the nun didn’t notice my blushing.
Sister Margaret repeated her little speech about Confession wiping our slates clean of any evil stains on our souls. All would be forgiven by the priest in the confessional so long as we confessed all of our sins.
That sounded so soothing. Could it be true? I could be forgiven, and my soul would be cleansed and pure again. The shame would continue, but my soul would be saved. I held on to that thought with all of my being until a new worry started. How would I find the words to describe this sin if Sister hadn’t even mentioned it? Searching through the entire catalog of sins, I couldn’t find it anywhere. There were no words for it. Now it seemed as if, everywhere I looked, sins were lurking like cockroaches ready to scurry the minute you turned on the light.
During recess, I sat on a bench at the far end of the playground, hoping to be left alone, but Vida came and sat down next to me, looking anxious and uncomfortable. “Irene, are you OK?”
I couldn’t look at her, but I nodded my head and mumbled, “Yeah.”
“You know something, I don’t like Mr. George. Do you?” she asked very softly. “He’s a bad man.”
In that instant, I realized that she knew what had happened in that room, though I also hoped we would never speak of it. And just as suddenly, a new possibility arose. I wondered if it had happened to her as well, though I couldn’t bear to ask her. “No,” I spit out, my anger suddenly rising. “I hate him.”
“Me too. From now on we’ll go to your house after school.” Vida scratched her knee and sniffed loudly. We watched Al Vitkus run by, chasing a ball, followed by Paul, who nimbly jumped over the rope that the girls were getting ready to twirl.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “My house from now on.” And the subject was closed. Neither of us could bear to talk about it, both buried under boulders of guilt.
The days plodded on mercilessly until the Saturday before May Day. Our First Holy Communion would be tomorrow, but today was our First Confession. The class lined up in rows in front of the confessional with our lists of sins in hand. I stood watching as each of my classmates stepped inside the wooden booth—a torture chamber. Struggling to find the words, I fidgeted and squirmed, wondering what would make this sin seem less huge. Over and over, I searched to find the words, but nothing came. Al, who stood in front of me, slipped into the other side of the confessional. I could hardly breathe. Milda came out of the near side, leaving the door wide open, waiting for me, but I was paralyzed and couldn’t move. I could only stare at the empty cubicle with a cold heart. Sister Margaret came by and gave me a slight shove toward the door. I took three faltering steps on wobbly legs and knelt down, folding my hands. As I waited for the priest’s little window to slide open,
I felt sick. Struggling for the right words, I braced myself. On the other side of the confessional, I could hear the priest absolving Al, giving him penance—five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers. I was sweating so hard my scalp itched and my heart banged a rhythm in my ears. Let this be over with quickly. I prayed to Saint Jude to help me with this hopeless cause. But what if the priest was horrified by my sin? What if he started to yell at me, and the rest of the class heard? What if Sister Margaret found out and kicked me out of school? What would my parents think?
Suddenly, I flinched as the little door slid open, and I heard Father Paulius mumble something. Through the confessional screen, I could smell the priest’s shaving lotion. I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession,” I said in a quivering voice, swallowing the tears that threatened. “I lied to my mother ten times and to my father eight times.” I started my confession with the easy sins—stealing change from the hall table and envying Milda’s communion dress. I wrestled with my conscience right up to the very end of my confession. Then it was time to tell him the big one. I hesitated when the priest asked me if that was all. My face turned a moist red. I stammered and hemmed and stammered some more. “There is one more thing,” I started.
“Well, get on with it,” the priest whispered forcefully. “Others are waiting, my child.”
I was holding my breath. “All right,” I said as if I were diving off the high board. “I went over to my friend’s house after school, and we were practicing for our communion…”
“I don’t have time for the whole story, just tell me the sin.” His whispers were getting louder with impatience. “Oh,” I said, gulping down my panic. “Yes, well, it happened so quickly that I didn’t realize…” I trailed off, not knowing what to say next. I was feeling light-headed. I wanted forgiveness, but no matter how much I wanted it, I just couldn’t spit it out. I simply couldn’t. My dry mouth was open, but nothing came out. The priest finally asked me if I was finished. I whispered a defeated, “Yes” and tears welled up. He absolved me and gave me the same five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers that Al Vitkus got. In shock, I stood up, opened the door of the confessional, and stepped out like a robot, to return to my pew. I knelt down and glanced up at the cross where Christ looked up to heaven with those sorrowful eyes. I was a doomed sinner—all alone with my huge sin. If God didn’t strike me dead on the spot, then surely the Pope would excommunicate me. No mea culpa could help me. I was damned for all eternity. I said my penance, but I knew I was unforgiven.
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