Gail Godwin

by Unfinished Desires (v5)

  Mother Ravenel had noticed that Mother Malloy was always one of the first in the choir stalls for the final office of the day. After the younger nun’s disclosure about tending to fall asleep, Mother Ravenel suspected that she might use Compline to get a head start on her examen.

  As was her custom, the headmistress dispensed first with the institutional loose ends.

  For the third time since the opening of school, the toilet in stall number two of the dormitory bathroom was clogged. George from Lombardo’s Plumbing would have to be summoned back at his hefty hourly rate to swivel his snake contraption down through the pipes until he brought up the dripping obstruction and, this time, whether he thought it seemly of her or not, she intended to stand right beside him wearing rubber gloves and examine the evidence herself. She felt certain the culprit was either Marta or Gilda. The Cuban girls had to have it drummed into them over and over again, with threat of punishment, what must not be thrown where when there was not a battery of servants to clean up the mess without a peep. Moreover, she was fairly sure she would be able to tell by the condition of the sanitary pad whether it had been Marta’s or Gilda’s. Gilda was the bleeder, she did everything in a big way; Marta was the withholder, and she had plenty to withhold.

  Mother Ravenel knew Marta’s secret, though the girls did not know she knew it, and this had its leverage. Marta’s story had been tacitly conveyed by her father with his diplomat’s gift for imparting things best left unspoken. Consul Andreu had flown down to Mountain City from New York last spring to look over the school and take Mother Ravenel’s measure. During their confidential stroll around the grounds, the consul and the headmistress quickly assessed each other. The daughter of his best friend, Jorge Gomez, seemed to be flourishing at Mount St. Gabriel’s, Consul Andreu said, and he thought it might be just the place for his daughter, who had known Gilda since childhood. The two families knew everything worth knowing about each other. The girls might room together. Marta trusted Gilda, and Gilda could help Marta’s English—which, the consul confessed to Mother Ravenel, was very poor. Marta was two years older than Gilda, but they would both be going into the ninth grade.

  His daughter, the consul explained, had been held back in school in Havana for not applying herself, and during her year of shame at having to repeat a grade had formed an unsuitable attachment. Subsequently she had been sent off to Spain to spend a year with a great-aunt in Andalusia. Meanwhile, he and his wife had been surprised late in life by a baby, a little girl, whom Marta adored and had insisted on naming Angel. Perhaps if the school were agreeable to Marta, the child, who would be ready for first grade in a few years, might follow her big sister to Mount St. Gabriel’s.

  If it were left to Marta, he told Mother Ravenel, she would prefer to stay in Havana, living with her mother, and being “a little mother” to Angel. But there were priorities here, and Marta must finish her education first.

  Mother Ravenel explained her policy about not letting foreign students from the same country room together; contrary to what the consul might think, their English would not improve as rapidly, because they would always be whispering in their native language as soon as the door was shut.

  “Ah, now, that is too bad,” the consul had countered sadly with a forewarning side glance, which the headmistress turned to meet eye to eye. By then they had reached the new athletic field, where the lower-grade girls were practicing for field day. “Because, you see, Mother Ravenel, our families are very close. Marta trusts Gilda. Trust is very important to Marta at this time. And to Señora Andreu and myself. We want Marta to—to—empezar de nuevo—how shall I put it, Mother? We feel it is important for our daughter to begin on a completely fresh page.”

  Before they reached the leafy embrace of the grotto, she had decided to risk it. He was a man with influence who would send other wellborn Cuban daughters her way. Nothing really had been said; that was the beauty, and they both knew it. Sweeping ahead of him up the steep stone steps, she lightly tossed back her concession: “Consul, you went straight to my heart. I can never resist the promise of a new beginning for a girl. I began on a fresh page myself when I came to Mount St. Gabriel’s as a seventh-grade boarder. But the girls have to understand that if your daughter’s English doesn’t improve, I will have to separate them and put Marta in with an American boarder. Our little arrangement must be regarded as an experiment.”

  It had taken the out-of-shape father a few moments to reply. Having regained his breath, he stood beside the Red Nun, whose story he would shortly be told, and thanked Mother Ravenel for her generosity and great understanding. He assured her that he and his friend Jorge Gomez would impress upon both girls the importance of making this experiment a success: “Because Marta would not feel comfortable sharing intimate quarters with a strange girl. I will urge Jorge to emphasize this proviso of yours to Gilda.”

  Before leaving the grounds, Consul Andreu wrote a check for Marta’s full first-year tuition plus the nonrefundable boarding fee.

  Whoever’s sanitary pad it was would be assigned to wipe down the bathroom stalls and fixtures with Pine-Sol every evening for a week. (Not the toilet bowls themselves; that would insult the dignity of a Cuban father.)

  And— Elated, Mother Ravenel committed a further inspiration to her yellow pad: that girl would have to thoroughly research and make a legible diagram of the inner workings of a modern toilet.

  Now for the day’s larger loose ends beyond the institutional ones: those young souls in formation, the “works in progress” under her care.

  It was Tildy who waited for her, Tildy’s struggles that were uppermost in her mind. “She is not an easy girl,” she had told Mother Malloy. “They are not an easy family.” By which she had meant, of course, the women in the family: first her own classmates, the Tilden twins, Cornelia and Antonia; and then the Stratton girls, Madeline and, now, Tildy.

  It galled her, the way Cornelia continued to rebuff her, after all this time. (“Won’t you stop by my office for a little chat, Cornelia, after you’ve had your conference with Tildy’s teacher?” She wished she had not chosen the word “chat.” Even as it had passed her lips she’d seen Cornelia snatch at it for the centerpiece of her acid turndown. “Oh, Mother, how sweet. But running a business all by myself excludes such cozy treats as chats. And here I’m already tardy for the remarkable Mother Malloy.”)

  Cornelia’s “Mother” had “Suzanne” oozing around its edges; and “cozy treats” was just flagrantly patronizing. Yes, I, too, am running a business, she might have replied, with the wry assurance of a headmistress in charge of a first-rate school in which Cornelia’s younger daughter was barely making it. But Antonia’s unforgiving sister was clicking down the hallway in her pumps, already “tardy” for Tildy’s “remarkable” teacher, whom Cornelia had the respect to call by her proper name.

  “Tildy’s mother was in a hurry with me, too,” Mother Malloy had reported. But she had gone on to add that Cornelia had been pleased that Tildy was making progress, pleased that Mother Malloy had recognized Tildy’s special qualities.

  And what were these special qualities?

  Leadership qualities, according to Mother Malloy, that hadn’t found proper outlets yet. Tildy liked to think up things for others to do, “the remarkable” Mother Malloy had said.

  The wall clock gave seven minutes until Compline, for which no bell was rung, because the younger boarders were supposed to be asleep.

  Well, who better than I can identify with those qualities, thought Mother Ravenel, rising from her father’s old desk and shaking out her skirts prior to making the rounds to shut down her sanctum. (She blew out the votive candle in front of Our Lady of Solitude and clipped the wick.) I was that way myself. I liked to think up things for others to do. When I was Tildy’s age, I started writing a play during study hall for our freshman class to perform. The Red Nun just poured out of me. I heard the voices and already knew who was going to play all the parts. God’s voice speaking the prologue was
as easy as taking dictation. I knew exactly the kind of eerie music I wanted Francine Barfoot to compose on her flute for the opening ghost chorus.

  The most recent production of The Red Nun had been in 1947, staged by last year’s graduating class when they were freshmen. That class was notable for its school spirit. The girls came to me as a delegation and asked for the honor of doing it; there hadn’t been a performance since 1940. It was a very respectful production. Nothing new was added. In some ways, it had the mood of a memorial service. The whole thing needed a bonfire set under it, I privately thought, but it was very well received. The newspaper covered it and there was a little sidebar on me, how my school play from 1931 had turned into a tradition at Mount St. Gabriel’s. People just were so glad to be doing normal, traditional things after the war. How can five years have gone by already? Or, it will be five if I decide to let this ninth grade do it in the spring.

  Now (turning off the green-shaded study lamp on Father’s desk), where do I find a relatively clean script? They get so marked up over the years. Maybe I’ll type out a new one, with some carbons.

  First I will sound Tildy out. Ask her if she thinks she is director material. And, of course, she must realize this would be a gift and a privilege as well as a challenge.

  I just hope (feeling a fresh surge of stamina as she clicked off the floor lamp behind the Queen Anne wing chair where the ninth-grade teacher had propped her weary bones)—I just hope Mother Malloy won’t think I am out to compete with her or triumph over her in the shaping of Tildy, or anything like that.

  PART TWO

  Inside the girlhood fortress

  That once ensheltered me

  I dreamed a wondrous dream

  Of the person I wanted to be.

  But in Your almighty design

  You sealed me in red rock instead.

  “Take this for your cloister, daughter of mine:

  Be a fortress for others,” You said.

  —Caroline DuPree’s ghost aria in Suzanne Ravenel’s The Red Nun

  CHAPTER 16

  The Christmas Critic

  First Saturday of Christmas break 1951

  Downtown Mountain City

  MADELINE, WEARING HER father’s raccoon cap atop a silk scarf loosely draped about her shoulders, Arab kaffiyeh–style, to conceal her rag curlers for the club’s Christmas dance that night, was chauffeuring her mother and her mother’s cameras through a loaded afternoon of shootings. Tildy was at the Ice Capades matinee, with Chloe and that patient paragon of unclehood, Henry Vick. Daddy and John were out at the cabin, hosting Daddy’s open house for those families who had trucks and liked to drive out to the Swag and cut their own free Christmas trees from Daddy’s woods. John went along and pointed out the five- to ten-foot firs ready for harvesting, while back at the cabin Flavia stirred the mulled cider and set out the plates of hot sausages and fresh-baked cookies and Daddy stoked the fire and sampled his latest batch of eggnog.

  Cornelia Stratton, having just uttered the closing bars of her working woman’s lament (“Nobody in this town understands my schedule and nobody wants to understand it. …”) was now dealing a few mortal slashes to the modern concept of “Christmas,” with all its bad taste and impositions.

  Madeline was enjoying herself. She liked being behind the wheel of Cornelia’s stealthy, powerful automobile, with its roomy leather interior—Daddy traded in his and Mama’s Packards every other year, so Mama’s cars always smelled new, signed with whiffs of Ma Griffe in summer and Jicky in winter. Daddy’s new cars, which Madeline seldom rode in anymore, soon reeked of gun rags and tobacco smoke and the little nips from the bottle in the bag that John kept for him in the glove compartment.

  “It gets worse every year. Buy, buy, buy—guilt, guilt, guilt—please come and take a picture of me giving something to the widows and orphans. And why all these shoppers choose to dress up in Santa red to go out and buy further Santa-red articles of clothing for one another that nobody will wear after the New Year is beyond me.” Cornelia glared out the passenger window at a family in Santa-red parkas heading on foot toward Sears. Her next shoot was the Christmas party for orphans at the Shriners’ temple. “Who’s being honored here? To my knowledge, Santa red wasn’t even a color back in Our Lord’s day. Their reds were more of a clayey or winey red. You’re coming in with me to the Shriners, aren’t you?”

  “If you aren’t embarrassed by this getup.”

  “Maddy, you could wear a washtub on your head and look exotic and smashing. Tell me again how Creighton Rivers happens to be taking you to the club dance. His parents aren’t members.”

  “I don’t think you asked me before, Mama, but I invited him.”

  “You wrote him at college?”

  “No, I called his dorm and asked him if he would be my date.”

  “And this was when?”

  “Back in September. I wanted to have it settled so I could turn down other invitations.”

  Cornelia whipped out her compact, freshened her lipstick, uttered a stern “hmff” of approval, and dropped the items back in her purse. “I take it those other invitations were forthcoming. From your”—she mirthfully snorted—“Hershey’s Kisses brigade.”

  “Yes, and I was able to reply truthfully, ‘Oh, thank you, Hershey One, Two, and Three, but I already promised someone back in September.’”

  “Three! Oh, Madeline. And you don’t even care. You’re not in love with Creighton or anything, are you?”

  “He’s tall, good-looking, ambitious, and poor. He’s premed at Emory and a fabulous dancer. And he’s sweet and patient with children—he taught Tildy to dive beautifully. Also, I prefer older men. But no, I’m not in love with him, and he knows I’m not. That’s why I could pick up the phone and ask him.”

  “But he must have been surprised.”

  “He laughed. He said he’d be honored to escort me but he didn’t own a tux. I said, Is that a ‘Yes, but I’ll rent one’ answer or an excuse for a ‘No’? He said, ‘Yes, but I’ll rent one,’ and then he asked how his best girl was, the Tantalizing Tildy, and I came close to loving him for that.”

  “I do worry about Tildy, and we haven’t even gotten her to the Hershey-brigade stage yet. Will even one boy invite her to the dance?, that’s what worries me. She’s not easy and above it all, like you.”

  “I’m not above it all, Mama. I want things as badly as everybody else. Though lately I do seem to be going through a stage where there’s just not very much on my horizon to want.”

  “She’s just such a strange little person,” Cornelia went on about Tildy, either ignoring or choosing to pass over Madeline’s slender plea for some motherly wisdom. Cornelia preferred her older daughter to stay in the role of “sisterly” backup and mainstay: a sort of extension of the lost Antonia. “The child is such an enigma. First this reading thing—I refuse to believe she’s been faking it all these years. If you want to know my opinion, though nobody has bothered to ask my opinion, she was just sitting back and letting Maud play chauffeur—like your father sits back and lets John get them where they’re going, even though your father could drive himself if he wished to. But then Maud comes back from Palm Beach all hoity-toity with her new connections, and poor little Chloe is anointed Tildy’s new favorite, and all of a sudden my child’s grades go through the floor. What am I to make of this? I’ll tell you, though it may sound unreasonable and a tad malicious: I think Maud enjoyed her power over Tildy and encouraged her to lapse—now, Madeline, hear me out—”

  “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting, Mama.” When Cornelia warned you she was about to sound unreasonable and a tad malicious, it was admittedly titillating to give her free rein and see how far she’d go.

  “Yes, I think Maud encouraged her to let slide, so she could have the upper hand and feel superior. That Pine Cone Lodge ménage gives Maud plenty to feel inferior about. Lily Norton, if she ever really was Norton, was recently spotted cuddling at the movies with that fancy-foods salesman who boar
ds with them. What I think is, it gave Maud power to watch Tildy grow dependent on her and deterioriate. It would be like—not that John would ever think of such a thing—if John were to say, Now, Mr. Stratton, you don’t need to bother your head about renewing your driver’s license. I’m here to take you wherever you need to go. You just sit back and look out the window and enjoy your bounty. What I’m saying, Maddy, is Maud knew that this reading thing was a way to equal things out and revenge herself on our bounty. Just look at this disgusting traffic in front of the Shriners’ temple. But we’re supposed to pull around in back and use the potentate’s parking slot. Well, a mother is entitled to her opinion, though perhaps I go too far.”

  Though deploring Cornelia’s ascribing of such invidious motives to a fourteen-year-old girl, Madeline hastened to reassure her. “Well, Mama, whatever it was, the cloud is lifting. Tildy has a true champion in Mother Malloy. They’re working on Tildy’s Dickens paper in French. Just one simple sentence after another. ‘Uriah Heep, c’est un homme de grande humilité. Il est très humble. Mais qu’est-ce que c’est que cette humilité?’ Tildy spouts out the words and Mother Malloy, God love her, ‘takes dictation.’ Then Tildy brings Mother Malloy’s dictation home and copies it, and the next session they translate it into English, Tildy speaking the words and Mother Malloy writing it down, and then Tildy copies that. Isn’t that an inspired way to get someone to write a paper? Next time I get stuck, I plan to try it.”

  “I like Mother Malloy,” said Cornelia, admiring her narrow snake-skin pumps as she stepped out of the car. “She’s reserved and modest and acts like a proper nun. She’s quite lovely to look at behind that veil. When I was with her, I kept thinking of Antonia. Antonia would have looked beautiful in that same habit.”

  Madeline lugged the cameras and the canvas bag with film from the trunk. The two women walked together across the parking lot. From inside the temple rose the jovial baritones of the Shriners leading the high timid voices of the orphans: “Dashing through the snow …”