by Jane Trahey
After the dresses were fitted and made ready to be sent to the school in time for last-minute details, the next step began. Mother Superior briefed us on all the various college scholarship exams open to St. Marks girls, for none of which I qualified. These exams were open to the top intellectual ten, or to the most religious, or to the most athletic, or to the most artistic. I could qualify for little except for the student who was most troublesome. However, there was one exception, and I read about it in the local paper. I seemed to have all the qualifications. I was a girl, I was between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, and it looked as if I would complete high school. The only catch, and it was one I qualified for, you had to be a Camp Fire Girl. I had been a Camp Fire Girl—and once a Camp Fire Girl, always a Camp Fire Girl. Granted, I hadn’t lit a fire since I had been at home and in grammar school, but I had been a fully qualified marshmallow roaster and I had tied knots in everyone’s shoes from the time I joined.
I wrote off asking for the application blank. When it came in, I noticed that Mother Superior hadn’t even opened my letter. I suppose she thought it was a game or a contest I had sent for, and she was fairly used to my trys at winning a jackpot. The application called for the usual information, troop number, etc., which I faithfully filled in on a typewriter. My penmanship was so terrible that my Palmer certificate had never been issued. Even though I could copy anything and make the most authentic circles and fine-line ups and downs exemplified in the Palmer book, I simply could not write a line that was legible.
In a few weeks I got my notice, again unopened, notifying me of the place and time the contest would be held in our little city. Mother Superior usually opened only mother and father letters—simply to see if we had said anything that was completely untrue. It was her way of keeping tabs on the happy family.
The thought of asking permission to go to town on a Saturday in March wasn’t going to be easy and the exam began at ten o’clock in the morning. There didn’t seem to be any real reason for my not being allowed to go. It merely meant that I would have to ask Mother Superior and probably tell her why, and then she would put her foot down and insist that I certainly wasn’t the ideal person she would like to see represent St. Marks; there would be other Camp Fire Girls at St. Marks that were.
I kept thinking and thinking and then I got a brilliant idea. I would write home and have them get me out. There was no other way. Then, it seemed to me that this would get me nowhere, as Mama wouldn’t think of letting me go off to town by myself if Mother Superior didn’t think it was right. So I wrote Daddy a special letter and asked him to please take a sheet of Mama’s special green stationery and, without getting it dirty, send it to me as I was going to do a very special Spiritual Bouquet for her for Easter, and I thought it would be nicer on her very own stationery. My father was not only gullible, he probably cried a bit over my dear thought and sent me, neatly wrapped inside his own letter, two sheets of Mama’s special monogrammed stationery. I now could complete the first step and I could even make one mistake.
I took several of Mama’s past letters which I kept, and, by Palmer Method and a bit of tracing, I was able to simulate a letter that looked exactly like Mama’s. I merely wrote a letter that said, in effect, that Sister Lucy was going to be home in Chicago for, three days and if Mother Superior thought it was all right, Mama would like me to come home on Friday. I then wrote to Mama and told her we were going to have a Saturday in the city to go to the stacks of the Public Library for research. I mailed this one myself by stealing one stamp out of Mother Superior’s desk drawer and walking a half mile to the mailbox. Anything was really possible at St. Marks if you used your head.
My next strategic step was to get the mail before Mother Superior did. Sister Portress was going to be my unknowing accomplice. My mother wrote once a week. She wrote on Sunday, my father mailed it on Monday, and her letter arrived on Tuesday. I would have to get my hands on the Tuesday mail. The whole affair, which had me sleepless for nights, was simply too easy. I hung around the main gate looking for botany samples, I said—as if there was anything but dead leaves and snow. I was frozen, but it had to be—time was running short. The mailman arrived and I slipped out the gate. I suppose I must have looked authentic as I said, “Sister Portress is sick and I’m to take the mail.”
Since he was human and cold too, I felt a sense of sympathy go out to me.
“Poor little orphan,” he said.
I looked tearful and he handed me a tied package and drove off.
The moment to me seemed precious, much as a jewel robber must feel when the safe opens at the first try. I merely tucked the packet into my coat and headed for my room. I prayed that Mama had not failed me, as getting to the mail truck on just any old morning was not easy. As it was, I would have some explaining to do for missing my library period.
I put the mail packet under my pillow and hurried off to Sister Nurse.
“Well, and what’s the matter with you?” She looked sympathetic, since my nose was running and my eyes were bleary with the cold. This plus a distinct flush of victory made me feverish.
“Feel terrible,” I mumbled, anxious only for her to record my emotions so Sister Library would not go beyond Sister Nurse’s check.
“Come here, I’ll take your temperature.” I was eager to please so that I could get back to the mail.
My temperature seemed high to her and she gave me two aspirins and told me to go lie down. It was all according to plan.
I took the mail packet from under my pillow and went to the toilet to comfortably peruse the mail. It was the only place I knew, in the whole convent, where no one was ever interrupted.
Sure enough, there was Mama’s stationery. I put the rest of the mail in my lap and picked out the letter. It was not hard to open the envelope. I did it from the side, taking out her letter and substituting the forged version.
I quietly slid down the stairs of the cloister (since. I knew no one would be about), past the refectory, the recreation room and the guest parlors. I could-hear Sister Portress on the phone. This would not do. I slipped into one of the, parlors and waited. Before long, I heard her go down the hall toward the kitchen. I quickly sped out to her desk, which was at the front door, and left the packet of mail. By the time I got back to my bed, I was exhausted and perspiring. Sister Nurse came by and made me get in bed.
“But I feel all right, Sister, honestly I do.”
“Into bed. You’re feverish and perspiring.”
I spent the morning reading, and at lunchtime Sister Nurse brought me some soup and Jell-O. I was starved. It was simply the price I had to pay for robbing the mail.
Mother Superior brought the mail herself and was very solicitous. It was the first time in four years that any ache or pain of mine had been recognized.
“Well, so you have the pip?” she asked, feeling my forehead.
“No, really, Mother, I’m all right.”
“Well, Sister Nurse recommended the day in bed, and that’s where you’ll stay. I didn’t know you had an aunt who was a nun,” she said softly. Her voice was considerably more gentle than usual.
“Oh, yes, indeed.” I had an aunt who was a nun, like she had a brother who was a rabbi.
“Where is she stationed?”
I was speechless. “I don’t know, Mother Superior, I think she’s been in China.”
If Mother Superior had had any doubts about letting me out, they were dispelled now.
“Well, your family would like to have you home on Saturday, March tenth. I think you can write them and tell them you’ll be able to come.”
The day in bed was pleasant. I had outwitted Mother Superior, and that wasn’t easy. Perhaps, I was getting older, or perhaps she was getting older.
The morning train left at seven and there were three girls going to the city that day as well as two nuns. We rode silently in the bus to the station.
I wondered what the exam would be like and hoped the train would be on time.
/> “Is your family meeting you?” Sister Elsa asked as the train came bumbling into the station.
“No, I have cab fare,” I said and flashed a dollar bill at her. I hoped against hope that the place where the exam was to be held would be near the city, as I only had two dollars to throw around. The taxi took me to a large school building where at least two thousand little Camp Fire Girls were burning lights, in hopes that they would win one of the prizes.
I filled in the necessary papers, presented my admittance card, and was assigned to a room number. A tall, white-haired lady gave me a book of tests and I retired to one of the window seats so that I could be cooler. I was used to being in rooms where the temperature never rose above 65, and the boiler of this building was keeping the room much too warm for my veins.
It was one of those tests that I liked. My favorite problems were all there—the kind that said, “If it takes three men twenty days to lay three miles of track, how many days would it take ten men to lay twenty miles of track?” Thanks to Sister Liguori and her racing track, I had learned the trick of thinking that one out. There were twenty-five variations of this question.
The vocabulary looked as if it had been aimed at the lower classes. Other than Civics questions, at which I just took guesses, I finished my book by noon.
The white-haired lady said, “You have another hour, if you want to go over anything,” but I knew from experience that once I began to change things, I went sour. I was much luckier with my first hunch.
I left. It was blowing and snowing and raining—I was hungry. I thought I knew about where I was, so, instead of taking a taxi, I took the bus. With a little economy, I might be able to have lunch and see a movie. The driver told me where to change for downtown, and as I stood on the corner, wind blowing through my hair (which was held down by our school hats, resembling the type worn by visiting nurses), I must have seemed a sorry specimen.
The Oriental was showing Kitty Foyle with Ginger Rogers. This was to be my choice. I decided to go to Harding’s Cafeteria and have just what I pleased for lunch. My favorite meal that year was mashed potatoes with gravy and chocolate milk. I had two helpings. Then I cried through the entire movie, including the credits.
Just the two Sisters were on the train back. They paid little attention to me, as they both seemed to prefer their prayerbooks to my company. The snow seemed to be in earnest now and our train was a good hour late. Roger met us—he must have warmed his heart with bourbon while he waited. It was quite a ride back. I was totally exhausted. Sister Cook fixed me some soup and sandwiches and I was delighted to turn in.
Mother Superior did want to know all about my aunt and I told her she was going right back to China. As far as I was concerned, she should. I didn’t need her any more.
In fact, I almost forgot about the whole Saturday, what with the Laetare Sunday, Founder’s Day, and the other exotic events that St. Marks held for us. It wasn’t until the middle of May that I was called to Mother Superior’s office.
“Sit down,” she said, not looking up from a letter she was reading.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Do you know about this?” she handed me the letter.
I wondered what on earth kind of a complaint this was.
“Read it,” she said sternly.
I started. It said briefly that the Camp Fire Girls) were delighted to announce that I was “one of the ten winners of scholarships to a college of my choice.”
I handed the letter back to Mother. I might have made one of my usual smart remarks, but I learned over the years that it was better to let her cue you in than vice versa.
“And would you mind telling me just how you won that scholarship?”
“I took a test.”
“Where?”
“In town.”
“In this town?”
“No, in the city.”
“When.”
“On March tenth.”
“The day you went home to see your aunt.”
Now I knew the worst would come, but evidently Mother simply couldn’t believe that I could create a missionary aunt for myself.
“The test was the same day?”
“Oh, yes,” I breathed, grateful for this break.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think I’d win,” I said.
Mother Superior gave me one of her long, calculating looks.
“I wish I could say I was proud of you, but I’m not.”
I had had the same conversation with Mother so many times before, it was like a recording.
“You are not what I would call the girl I’d like most to represent St. Marks, but what is done is done.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Does your family know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I assume they will be just as surprised as I am. What kind of a test was it?”
“Easy.”
“I do wish, young lady, that I could feel you won this with honor.”
“I didn’t cheat,” I said defensively.
“That’s not what I mean. It’s the very secretive methods you employ with everything you do.”
There was nothing to say.
Ramona had already made headlines by winning a $4,000-a-year scholarship anywhere in the world. Florence had won a two-year scholarship, Lillian had won a one-year scholarship, which went to the next highest since Lillian had announced her firm intentions to go into the convent the next year. To join my name, with those of the honor students was like sleeping out of holy wedlock. It just simply stuck in Mother’s craw, but there was little she could do about it Where the triumphant triumvirate had competed in local events, I had won a National Scholarship. Consequently, I began to get national publicity. It was simply too much for Mother when a handsome lady, who led the Camp Fire Girls in the nation, appeared to have her photo taken with me. Mother Superior was supposed to be in the picture, but she took refuge in ancient rules and said she really couldn’t. Truth was, she really wouldn’t. The thought of looking happy with me in a permanent photograph was more than she could bear.
Mama and Daddy were so shocked, they wrote to the national road company of Camp Fire Girls to be absolutely sure they had not made a mistake. This, plus Mother’s letter, must have seemed as if I was not the ideal Camp Fire Girl, but they received very nice notes saying that I was definitely in the Top Ten. I was delighted. After all my contests over the years, at last I had hit the jackpot.
Chapter Sixteen: Cum Diploma
What was left of the year seemed to race by. Spring arrived wet and green and we acted like olive-sided fly catchers about to leave the nest. Ginger announced her engagement, the first one, and everyone began to make plans for the summer and for life. Most of our classes dawdled by, most of our free time was spent practicing for Graduation.
The ceremony was to be held on the convent grounds. A large canopy was erected to cover the speaker and the guests. We sat on a platform to the side of the speaker. I was to sit in my regular place and then return to a special chair for the reading of awards, honors, and scholarships. I fitted in with this crowd like a bum at Ascot. They simply couldn’t believe it.
I gave Lillian a shove as she modestly sat down. She already walked and talked and cast her eyes piously downward like a nun.
She shoved me back. I was delighted that Mother Superior saw only her elbow fly and not mine. I looked hurt.
“Lillian Quigley,” Mother said, shocked, “please stop shoving her.”
Lillian practically fell to the grass in abject remorse. It had been the only time in four years that a nun had spoken to her crossly.
She glared at me. I smiled back.
I missed sitting near Mary and waved over to her. She just hadn’t been herself lately. I couldn’t figure out if she was unhappy with my winning the scholarship, or because I hadn’t told her about it, or whether she was sorry to leave St. Marks. She seemed remote and quiet.
Mother got us al
l into place and we ran through our paces twice. She played the Bishop, Sister Portress played the helping Father.
“Now, girls, under no circumstances are you to look to the right or to the left. If the girl next to you on the platform faints, you keep your eyes straight ahead. If the girl behind you falls off the platform; you keep your eyes straight ahead.” I’m sure that if the platform collapsed, the fire department would find twenty-five girls with their eyes staring straight ahead.
Lillian was to be Valedictorian and Ramona was to give the Introduction. Florence was to give the Welcome and I was to keep my mouth closed. So went the instructions.
After practice was over, I looked for Mary. She had gone off with Sister Polycarp. Sister Polycarp was our special Sister that year. She worried with you if you were sick, spoke to you if you were behind, and looked after our religious and temperal welfare. She was a peppery nun and we all rather liked her. But Mary seemed to spend an unnecessary amount of time with her.
“What are you hanging around Poly for?” I asked Mary at lunch.
“Shut up,” she answered.
“You know what will happen to you if you don’t watch out. She’ll rope you.” I laughed. The thought of Mary being roped killed me—only people like Lillian ended up in the convent.
One day, I casually announced to Mother Superior that I thought I would join the convent. She looked amused and said, “If you do, I leave.” I assumed she felt this way about Mary, too.
Graduation breakfast was not a joyous event at all. We all toyed nervously with our food and Mother Superior was nowhere in sight. She was running to and from her office, greeting the Bishop, getting him his coffee (he would have probably vastly preferred a stiff drink), and making our parents and relatives comfortable. Graduation was scheduled for 11 a.m.
We got into our Renaissance outfits—Sister Polycarp gave us our final instructions.
“Fix your hair, Florence.”
“Straighten your hat.”
“Stand up straight.”