by Jane Trahey
“But, Mother, Elinore Stanton’s father would give us the movies, he’s in that business.”
“How much do they cost?” Mother quizzed us.
“A good one is about five hundred bucks.”
“Dollars!”
“Dollars.”
“Ridiculous! What a foolish way to spend money.”
We tried to tell her about all the improvements since the magic lantern, but Mother couldn’t be sold. “Imagine five hundred dollars for something like that when St. Marks needs so many things. A statue of St. Mark for the main hall, or another set of encyclopedias, a globe for the library.” Obviously, Mother considered a movie projector about one hundred down on the list of good buys for St. Marks.
“Couldn’t the Mother’s Club—” Mary tried to finish the sentence, but Mother clipped it off like a nail.
“The Mother’s Club has just been asked to provide costumes for the band.” This was complete news to us. Now we really felt left out Band costumes, green capes and overseas caps to match. How glorious. I made up my mind to get one, come hell or high water.
As the concert time grew nearer, St. Marks in full voice sounded like the tune-up of the Ponca City Orchestra. In our hearts, Mary and I felt that St. Marks wouldn’t have a chance pitted against schools that had had bands for years.
The morning of the concert, which was to be held in town, was complete chaos. Each girl was scrubbed and polished and starched into her uniform, the green capes carefully folded into three large cartons, the instruments piled into cases and into the bus. The non-musical side of the school Would go on the next bus trip with Mother Superior. Mary sat on her one side and I sat on the other.
“One trick from either of you and you’ll answer to me.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Don’t “yes Mother” me, all I want from the two of you is perfection.”
We responded with silence. When she was in this frame of mind, it was the only acceptable behavior.
She kept fiddling with her beads, and we presumed that she was now laying down the law to God.
The bus dropped us at the corner of the City High School block. Each school in this area, about ten in all, was eligible to participate in this contest. Mary and I decided to give Mother the slip when she went back to check up on the band. We headed for the first row in the auditorium. It was occupied but Mary made it clear to two smaller girls that we wanted to sit there. We felt that if we remained quiet and scrunched down, Mother would never find us in this sea of brown bobbing heads.
Mary surveyed the program. “Look, we’re sixth.”
“One chance out of ten; that’s not even good odds.”
Our greatest rival would be St. Mary’s. St. Mary’s was a brand new school in town that had taken a good bit of Mother Superior’s business in the last two years. It would do no harm to beat them.
The auditorium grew hushed and the concerts .began. The first three schools sounded just as bad as our band did. The next band was St. Mary’s and in our opinion, humble as it was, beat the devil out of our band.
“Mother Superior is going to have a fit.”
After St. Mary’s, another few terrible bands, and then St. Marks.
“What does it sound like?” Mary kept saying. She had taken this tone-deaf business seriously, and now considered herself totally deaf to all music
When the final piece had been played, the judges rose and went to the table. They had been sitting in the middle of the auditorium as the acoustics were not ideal. Mary and I remained in our seats and waved and made faces for our various friends on the stage just above us.
St. Marks and St. Mary’s had tied and a play-off would take place. The piece would be “Stars and Stripes.”
St. Marks played first. I wouldn’t go on record as saying it was good or bad. Mary leaned over and went through her coat pockets. She produced three lemons and knife.
“What have you got?” I whispered, my salivary glands working instantly.
“Look, when St. Mary’s files out on the stage, get their attention as best you can without getting caught and suck this lemon. See if you can get the clarinet section, and I’ll try the trombones.” Kathryn Murphy had joined us in the front row, and she took the third lemon and concentrated on the saxes.
Of course, the band thought it was very amusing. We sat there sucking and peeling the sour things. There was no stinting on our parts in our loyalty to St. Marks.
We didn’t completely hit home, but their over-supply of saliva was enough to ruin their rendition of the prize-winning number. St. Marks won first place. We all climbed into the bus and sat smugly in our reserved places. Mother Superior was completely enchanted, and on the way home she even smiled at me. “See what hard work accomplishes?”
We were all a bit flushed and tired, but Mother Superior held us a minute after dinner in the refectory.
“When you see the new globe in the library, you will know that you earned it. I’m proud of each and every one of you.”
And she was proud, too, until the band of St. Mary’s complained to the judges that three of us sat in the front row eating lemons.
St. Mary’s was shocked. The judges were shocked. St. Marks was shocked. Mother Superior saw us, not in her office, but in the front parlor. This was the closest she could come to throwing us out before she knew the facts.
“Did you or did you not have lemons?”
“We did not,” Mary said. She spoke with a hurt tone.
Had we been on the carpet for anything else we wouldn’t have stood a chance, as Mother was never convinced of our innocence. This time, however, the globe was at stake.
“Not a one of you is what I would call an ideal student. I might expect it of you two,” she said, peering at Mary and me, “but not you, Kathryn.”
Kathryn ducked the issue. “I think St. Mary’s are a pack of poor sports,” she answered.
Mother said, “That will be all.”
The Mother Superior at St. Mary’s felt that to pursue it any further would make them look like bad sports. The judges agreed that it was too far-fetched to believe and St. Marks was awarded the prize. The Sentinel came and took a picture of the band in then-capes and Mr. Gettinger in his tuxedo. When the reporter asked Mother what she was going to do with the money, she said that under the circumstances she felt the money should go to a worthy cause. The new Home for Wayward Girls seemed, in her opinion, to be the most deserving.
Chapter Six: Days of Wrath
I was insanely jealous of Mary. She had been expelled early in December of our second year at St. Marks and she had been expelled without me. There is nothing that can achieve the hushed respect and awe of the student body like one of its members being sent home. The fact that I had helped her do the definitive act never got me out for a day. Mother Superior simply called for Mary and that was that. I couldn’t very well go in and say, “Me too”—although I certainly wanted to. Mary had brought back from summer vacation some super-fine bath salts and we had spent an hilarious prayer session substituting bath salts for sugar in the Sisters’ kitchen. Mary, unfortunately, owned the secret ingredient and out she went, decanter and all. She was gone for two weeks. Then her mother and father came and pleaded with Mother Superior: Mary would turn into a person and not a prisoner only if Mother Superior agreed to take her back. They won and Mary returned meekly to St Marks.
The day she returned Mother summoned us both to her office and told us in no uncertain terms that our behavior pattern was not to her liking. It was the first time she had ever pounded on the desk. The desk clock actually shuddered with every whack, and the lamp that lit her darkened den made vibrating metallic sounds.
She had, she said, put up with us because last year we were babies. This year, however, babies were more mature by far than either of us. The words came crisply from between her clenched teeth.
“I am personally taking on the job of seeing that you both grow up or you’re both going out. The Sisters have al
ready indicated their preference. And,” she fixed me with her black eyes, “if either of you, together as your usual team, or individually, gets out of line one inch, I will post demerits here in my office.” She pointed to a bare wall. I could see the marks on it, like notch marks for shooting down enemy planes. “When you have three together or separately you will be finished at St Marks.” It was a strange incentive plan for all of us.
We managed until January 14th, which was Foundation Day, to stay within the letter of her law. This was not easy, as Mother’s ideal day went somewhat like this: awake on time, get up quietly, pray, study, pray, study, pray, study. One only crammed in a few moments to eat and sleep.
Foundation Day marked the first holiday after Christmas and was St. Marks’ answer to George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. Of course, we did not go home for just one day. Instead, we celebrated our leisure by arising at the same time, attending a Solemn High Mass, and substituting a heavy schedule of tribal ceremonies for classes. This day was set aside to honor the founder of the Order of St. Marks and the courageous little nun who came to this country to set up the convent on the wild Indian shores of Lake Ontario. Her life with the Indians made Joan of Arc look like Beth in Little Women. Her life was re-enacted by the senior class and the great excitement was seeing some of the seniors dressed as nuns.
For a special, special added attraction each table at dinner got one of the faculty for a dinner partner. Our table got old Sister Helene, who was as embarrassed as we were. Mary didn’t fare as well. She got Mother Superior and when Mother sat down, there was a burst of nervous coughing and a few giggles. It made us terribly uncomfortable to have a nun for dinner. Mary accepted her royal supervision with boredom. Mother sat at the head of the table and tried not to watch the table manners. The idea was for each group to discuss world affairs, books, music, art, or whatever one could think of with their Sister. The menu of the day began with grapefruit. I watched Mary dig into hers with gusto. I suppose that in the rush of our glorious holiday no one had segmented the fruit, and Mary hit the rind with such energy it flew right off her plate, slid across the table and landed in Mother Superior’s lap. No one laughed; the few who saw it were in shock. Mary couldn’t leave well enough alone and pretended she had dropped her napkin. From under the table she tried to sneak into Mother’s lap and pull it down while Mother tried to get it up off her lap. That, of course, started me laughing. They had quite a tug of war and Mary looked quite ridiculous on her knees under Mother’s great skirts. They both left the dining hall and luncheon progressed. It was one demerit down for Mary and two to go.
I didn’t see Mary all afternoon, and when I bumped into her she signaled toward the bathroom. We crowded into one of the stalls. We were at no time supposed to talk in the bathroom, and in order to have any talks that were not tapped, Mary would climb on the seat and I would stand up.
“Where have you been?”
“On my knees in Mother’s office.”
“Gosh, the whole afternoon?”
“Well, it wasn’t too bad. I read the records.”
The following Sunday was a “Silent Sunday.” We had them every three months. It was a day of enforced silence. The nuns simply wanted peace and quiet, and Silent Sunday was the by-product I couldn’t bear those days and looked forward to them like a trip to the dentist. This time I prepared for the day by binding three good novels with religious covers. The Imitation of Christ was really fair Stood the Wind for France. Bleak House was the Bible, and I had a very authentic St. Thomas Aquinas cover on a smuggled copy of Gone with the Wind. I decided to work on St. Thomas for Silent Sunday, and after Mass we retired to the library for religious reading. I never heard Mother Superior come in. Rhett had just slapped Scarlett when Mother Superior slapped me. She shook me up out of my seat, secreted the book under her cape and, without a command, I followed her.
“You are a disgrace,” she said, “a disgrace.”
I didn’t say anything. This was the sort of thing you either got by with or didn’t. I knew that getting by was out of the question. Left to Sister Librarian’s watchful eye I could have read the Talmud, but Mother Superior was too sharp.
“I don’t know whether to send you home now or tomorrow. What do you think?” she asked pointedly.
“Oh, Mother Superior, I can’t go home.”
“Well, I have little faith in you or your future materially, but I have prayed that spiritually something could be done about you. I have lost faith.”
“I’ll try to be good,” I said.
“Try and convince me by deeds, not words.” And I did until the week before Easter.
Lent seemed longer than usual that year. And there were certain extra deprivations that we added to our schedule, like saying the rosary on our knees on the floor of the dormitory before we went to bed (and it was a cold wooden floor). Also, the candy shop was shut tight, which reduced our supplementary diets considerably and, even though we didn’t have to fast officially, Mother Superior did her best to get us ready for the plunge. Instead of a recreation period we had Benediction every evening. Instead of one Silent Sunday we had all Silent Sundays. On one Silent Sunday, Mary poked me and whispered, “I have simply got to have a smoke.”
“Like where—in Mother’s office?”
“No, I’ve got an idea where they’ll never find us.”
“Where?”
“When they all go to the library, meet me in the movie projection booth.”
In the library, it was easy to ditch Sister Miriam (whom we called “The Mouse”). I merely excused myself by climbing over Lillian Quigley and heading for the bathroom. The Mouse looked up only momentarily. I didn’t think she would miss me, as she could barely see.
The door to the projection-room was up a dark, single flight of stairs. It went nowhere but to the projection-room, and I didn’t dare turn the light on. I stealthily opened the door. The room smelled musty and unused. It was seldom in action, as Mother didn’t believe in movies and we had no equipment. The only movie we had had that year had been borrowed from St Giles, where the boys had one a month. We had seen A Tale of Two Cities in February and no one had been in the projection-room since. Mary joined me and we opened the tiny windows to get some air. It was pitch black. We smoked up a storm. I loved Twenty Grands and so did the janitor. Mary stole at least two a month, which we smoked somewhere in St. Marks. So far, we had not been caught.
I didn’t even hear the door open, and I had become so used to the dark that I was shocked when the light snapped on and there were The Mouse and the janitor. We had never counted on the large clouds of un-inhaled smoke that billowed from the projection room windows, or the fire vigilante they might attract. “Out,” piped The Mouse. “Out! Out! Out!” Roger looked sympathetic He took our cigarettes and stamped them out. He also recognized them, and at last knew where his supply was going. “Disgraceful, disgraceful, disgraceful.” Mary and I left the projection-room and went down the stairs to Mother Superior’s office. She had been briefed by The Mouse and she looked at neither one of us.
“You can both go upstairs and pack your suitcases. I’ll have your letters ready when you come back. I’ll phone both your families and tell them you are on your way home.”
There was no point in trying to coax or cajole Mother this time. We went quietly to the dormitory and started packing. I wished now that I had just tried to be a little better. “Mama is going to hit the ceiling,” I called to Mary.
“My mother’s already been there this year.”
“What did your mother do last time?” I asked her.
“She merely locked me in my room and I spent two weeks there.”
“I was going to three parties on the holiday,” I said sadly, “but that’s all over now.”
Mother Superior handed us both our letters and said our families were expecting us, and she doubted if she would ever see us again. She made it quite clear that this cast no shadow of sadness on either her or St. Marks.
Mama met me and we had a silent understanding. By silent understanding, I was not to open my mouth, and Mama would do all the talking necessary.
“You are just no good. No good,” she emphasized. “I try to do nice things for you, but you’re an ungrateful child . . . a terrible child. I can’t understand you. What possible pleasure do you get from these pranks? You take after your father’s side of the family—they’re no good either. Well, what will become of you when I’m gone, God knows! And from the way I feel, I won’t be here long. I doubt if your father will care what you do. He’ll probably find some young woman and you’ll just be out on a limb. Well, that’s all I can expect. Mark my words, young lady, you’ll get nothing here in the way of fun. You can just clean the house every day, and do all the dishes, and stay in your room, and when you’re old enough you can go to work. Obviously, you don’t appreciate a good education—so why try? I’m tired of trying.”
The record went on and on and on. And then my father’s record began. “It cost a hell of a lot of money to send you to that place, and dammit, you could just as well make a fool of yourself at the public school as you could do in that expensive place. I work too damned hard for my money to just pour it down the drain on the likes of you. Your mother has always let you get away with murder, and now this lax treatment is beginning to show.” And this record went on and on.
But I guess that in spite of myself some of St. Marks had rubbed off on me and I was not only good, I was angelic. I did not speak until spoken to. I called my father “sir” and Mama “ma’am.” I actually folded my clothes and combed my hair. It reached such a point that I think my father felt that if I were a saint, St. Marks would be missing a good bet not to have me. Very solemnly he asked me if I would like to go back and very solemnly I answered, “Yes, sir.”
I knew that I would not be able to keep up the pose much longer at home and, after all, they did know what I was like at St. Marks. And so, the day before vacation ended, my father told me that he and Mama had discussed the matter. Maybe the nuns were too strict and had misjudged me, and there wasn’t much point in my going to the public school when all my friends were at St. Marks.