Nolan Trilogy

by Selena Kitt

  “I know the nuns like to talk about mortal sins and forgiveness and the whore of Babylon and Jezebels, but I’m not Catholic. I’m Baptist. And a social worker. We have other names for girls like you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Deviant. Neurotic.” The ghoul used her cigarette to light another, stabbing the old one out in the ashtray. “You’re sick. You’re all sick in the head. You got pregnant because you wanted attention. That’s disturbed, abnormal behavior. And any girl who would do so is unfit to raise a child.”

  Leah blinked at her in disbelief. “Are we done?”

  “I need to know the father of your baby,” the ghoul insisted, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth.

  “Why? What does it matter?”

  “It matters a great deal!”

  “Okay fine I’ll tell you.” Leah smiled, milking the moment, hesitating, waiting for that expectant gleam of triumph in the ghoul’s eyes. “The father of my baby is… Howdy Doodie.”

  The ghoul scowled, writing again in her file. “This isn’t a joke.”

  “I’m not joking.” Leah kept her face deadpan. “Okay, okay. The father of my baby is...”

  The ghoul waited, smoking and tapping her pen.

  Leah took a deep breath and blurted, “President Eisenhower.”

  “Okay, never mind.” The ghoul closed the file and stood, slapping it on her desk.

  “The Pope,” Leah went on as the ghoul crossed over to the door, opening it.

  “We’re done,” she announced, waving Leah through with the hand still holding her cigarette.

  “Jesus!” Leah exclaimed, grinning as she swept out of the room, glancing back over her shoulder to whisper, “It was an immaculate conception.”

  Father Michael came to hear their confessions once a week, but there was no confessional at Magdalene House, so he used the “correction closet,” where the nuns put them in a sort of solitary confinement, a place to pray and think about their sins. Everyone had been in the correction closet at least once. Leah had ended up there for stealing a roll at dinner and putting it in her dress pocket.

  Really, aside from being locked in, the correction closet wasn’t too bad. It was roomy enough, about five paces across each way. There was a shelf with pictures of Jesus, a crucifix, some votive candles and a book of matches. (Nice of the nuns to leave something we can light a cigarette with, Marty said). There was a beanbag cushion in the corner and a comfortable, padded chair. There was a light, but it was the kind used in darkrooms and it glowed red.

  It reminded Leah so much of Rob, and those memories were like walking on shards of glass.

  This setup wasn’t ideal for confession, but somehow it worked. Father Michael brought in a wooden chair, and while the confessor usually sat in the bean bag, some of the more pregnant girls who had problems getting up and down would use the chair. Leah was still using the bean bag, not big enough to worry about mobility yet, and she leaned back and confessed her sins—swearing, stealing food, thinking uncharitable thoughts, talking back to Sister Benedict—although it felt more like a psychiatrist’s couch than confession.

  He gave her twelve acts of contrition and blessed her, but before she got up to go, he asked something that nearly stopped her heart.

  “Mrs. Goulden tells me you don’t want to talk about the father of your baby.”

  When Leah didn’t answer, sitting there in the red glow of the darkroom light— the crimson, painful memory of Rob—Father Michael went on.

  “Leah, they really need to know.” He was the only one who still called her by her Christian name, and only here, in confession. It brought back so much, being called by her real name. It made her remember how Rob had whispered her name, holding her close in his arms.

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. For one, they need to know the family medical history. Secondly, they like to tell adoptive parents what the baby’s biological parents were like. All those questions Mrs. Goulden asked you about your likes and dislikes, those will be given to the adoptive parents.”

  “Oh.” She pretended to contemplate this.

  “So will you tell her, Leah?”

  “No.”

  Father Michael sighed. “Leah...”

  “Father, I can’t!”

  “Will you tell me?” he asked, cocking his head and looking at her. He had an endearing way about him, an inner calm, as if he were in empty vessel waiting to be filled. There was no storm cloud in Father Michael’s eyes. He was safe harbor.

  “You can’t tell her anything that happens here,” Leah reminded him. “This is confession!”

  “I know that, Leah. I take my vows very seriously. I just thought, if you told me, it might make it easier for you to tell Mrs. Goulden...”

  Leah wrung her hands, looking at the floor. “I’m afraid.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  Leah moaned, rocking side to side, like an animal in pain.

  “Leah, you can tell me anything. It won’t go anywhere beyond these walls, I promise you.”

  “You promise?” She sat straight up, looking him in the eye. Was she really going to do it? Could she trust him? For God’s sake, the man was a priest. Of course she could trust him!

  “I do.”

  “My baby’s father is...” The weight of her secret sat like an anvil on her chest.

  “Go on, Leah,” Father Michael urged. “It will feel much better after you unburden yourself.”

  “Mr. Nolan.” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Robert Nolan? The photographer? Erica’s father?”

  She nodded miserably, still not looking at him. “He’s not just Erica’s father… he’s mine too.”

  “What?” Father Michael sounded shocked, just as shocked as Leah had been to find out the truth.

  When she looked up at him, she saw the horror in his eyes. She remembered seeing Marty’s face when Lizzie told them the truth about her baby’s father, that she had been raped, repeatedly, by her own father since she was ten years old. At least, Leah thought, Mr. Nolan and I were like Adam and Eve, innocent of our sin.

  “We didn’t know...” Leah took a deep breath, and confessed. She told him about the secret her mother had kept from them, bringing it forth only when faced with the disastrous, incestuous love that had been kindled between Leah and Robert Nolan. Her mother had lied to all of them for years, and probably would have continued to lie, if Leah had never fallen in love with Rob.

  “Oh, Leah...” Father Michael comforted her, as Leah crawled over and put her head in his lap. He stroked her hair and wiped her tears. “What a horrible burden for you to have to bear.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” She clutched his robe in her fists, whispering the words, over and over. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Are you sure, child?” Father Michael lifted her chin.

  “What?” Leah looked at him, confused. “That he’s the father? Of course! He’s the only one I’ve ever...”

  “That he’s your father.”

  Leah blinked, contemplating this. “No. I don’t know. I hadn’t… why would she say it if it wasn’t true?”

  Father Michael shrugged, brushing hair out of her eyes. “Who knows why people lie? I’m not accusing her, I’m just wondering. Because I can think of one very good reason she might tell Mr. Nolan he was your father.”

  “Why?” she whispered, but she knew. Some part of her had always known.

  Father Michael stated the obvious. “Because she didn’t want him to marry her daughter.”

  “Oh,” Leah breathed. She remembered that morning, overhearing them through the heating grate, an argument. Rob had insisted on marrying Leah, he wasn’t going to be cajoled or talked out of it. She loved him so much in that moment, she remembered it with her whole body. Then, he’d said, “Give me one good reason...”

  And she had. Leah’s mother had given him the only reason she could possibly think of that would keep him from marrying her.


  Leah had never thought to doubt the veracity of her mother’s claim. To her knowledge, her mother had never lied to her before, but the secret revealed in that moment negated that history, didn’t it? Her mother had lied.

  “How about I do a little research?” Father Michael offered.

  “You can’t tell my mother you know!” Leah begged. “No one knows...”

  “I promise you, I won’t tell anyone anything,” he assured her.

  Leah looked up at him, hopeful for the first time in months. What if it wasn’t true? What if Robert Nolan wasn’t her father?

  “Do you think you can find out the truth?”

  “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Leah grasped his hands in hers. “Thank you so much.”

  “Now cheer up.” He squeezed her hands. “The sisters have given me permission to take all of you to the movies tonight.”

  “Really?” Leah sprang to her feet, laughing. “What are we going to see? Oh, I don’t care! I can’t wait!”

  She gave him a quick, one armed hug, before running out of the confessional, feeling lighter than she had in months, light as a feather, light as the air.

  Outings were restricted, privileges the nuns could take away whenever they liked. But if they were good girls, and they did all their chores, said their prayers, repented every night of their sins, and didn’t get caught disobeying the rules, they were allowed to go into town as a group once every two weeks. Many girls never saw the light of day at Magdalene House. Leah both loved and hated trips to town in the big bus the nuns had painted white. There was no marking on the side. They didn’t want people to know the white bus carried the sins of Magdalene House. But everyone in the town knew anyway.

  The town had nicknames for Magdalene House—Naughty House, Wicked House, and Leah’s favorite, House of the Damned. The latter made it sound as if they were evil incarnate, demons or sirens who devoured men’s souls, when really they were just a bunch of very young, very scared teenage girls who had fallen from grace. Nevertheless, they were pariahs whenever they entered the neighborhood. People would actually cross the street and walk on the other side when they saw the girls coming. It was mortifying, and it was obviously meant to be. But in spite of the ostracizing they received, they couldn’t help loving the freedom, stopping into Montgomery Ward’s for malteds and going to the movies.

  Of course, they had no money. Some girls had family who would send money, but it always disappeared between the time the nuns opened their mail and the girls received it. They were each given a dollar to spend on trips if they had been good. Some girls only got the fifty cents required for a movie ticket, depending on whether or not they’d gotten caught smoking or swearing or stealing food.

  October was cold, and their broadcloth dresses were now wool. These had little bits of white lace at the collar, a nice touch, and Leah found the little bit of femininity made all the difference in her mood as winter approached. The nuns also gave them one pair of boots each and a long wool coat. Their names—their fake names—were sewn in of course

  The strangest thing about outings at Magdalene House was the wedding rings. The nuns kept a bag full of silver and gold wedding rings. Leah didn’t want to know where they got them, although she wondered. Had they been donated? Regardless, each girl had to find a ring that fit, and slip it on to her ring finger, next to the pinky, on her left hand, signifying she was a married woman. This ruse was ridiculous because the entire town knew they weren’t married, and in fact their unwed state was the reason there was a Magdalene House in the first place.

  But the girls would’ve done anything to get out of the house so they chose their wedding rings, put a smile on their faces, and hopped on the bus. Father Michael would accompany them on occasion, like this one, bringing along his guitar, and playing sing-along church songs while the driver steered the old white bus down gravel roads through one stoplight towns, until they reached the movie theater. Mason was the largest town for three counties, and it wasn’t very large it all. It had one movie theater, a Montgomery Ward’s, a hardware store, a drugstore, and a McDonald’s.

  It was no booming metropolis like the one Leah had grown up in, but it had all sorts of amenities they didn’t get at Magdalene House, and more importantly there were no nuns looking over their shoulders, especially when Father Michael chaperoned, because the nuns felt sure they were safe in his care.

  Father Michael let them choose the movie, and of course all the girls wanted to see Jailhouse Rock starring the King of all Kings, Elvis Presley. She thought Father Michael would object, but he didn’t. They bought their tickets and went in, thirty girls— Nancy from downstairs had gotten in trouble for smoking and had been left behind, and Sandy, the paper shaker down the hall, had gone into labor—standing at the concession stand asking for Milk Duds and licorice and Raisenettes and popcorn. It was a madhouse.

  Leah and Marty shared a popcorn, laughing when Leah put it on her belly and the baby kicked it, hard. Marty grabbed the tub just in time before it tumbled to the floor. They watched the newsreel and the previews and Leah grew quiet, remembering the last time she’d been to a movie. They had seen this preview, a preview of Jailhouse Rock, and she remembered how much her best friend, Erica, wanted to see it. Had she gone to the movies to see it yet? Leah wondered. She missed Erica. She missed her like a sister, gone but not forgotten. She missed their late nights giggling and talking, she missed playing records with her, she missed Erica’s mischievous smile and the spark in her eyes whenever she found something interesting to pursue.

  “Hey,” Marty whispered, nudging Leah with her elbow. “What’s the matter?”

  Leah shook her head, blinking back tears. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Liar.” Marty put her hand over Leah’s, squeezing gently. That was all, but that one, sweet gesture of comfort made Leah’s throat close up and her eyes well.

  Leah couldn’t have told you what the movie was really about, but Elvis was a dream, as usual, and the girls all screamed whenever he sang or danced or blinked or moved. Father Michael actually put his hands over his ears at one point because the girls were so loud. She spent the whole movie thinking about Rob and Erica, about the last film they’d seen together. Rob had taken her to one of the pay toilets, they’d been so hot for each other, neither of them could stand it. He had bent her over the sink and taken her right there. Her cheeks flushed with the memory, and her body responded. It had been so long, too long.

  Did he think about her? Did he miss her? Was he, even now, looking for her? She was trapped here, no way to communicate, no phone, no letters, no way to reach out and touch him. She’d known the moment they pulled up in front of Magdalene House that whatever mistake she had made with Rob, this was a bigger one. But there was nothing she could do about it now. There was no home to go to. Her mother had made it very clear it was Magdalene House or no house at all. And Rob, poor Rob, caught in the middle of it all. He’d been just as much a victim as she had, betrayed by Leah’s mother’s lies.

  “Earth to Lily. Come in.” Marty waved her hand in front of Leah’s face, laughing. “Are you in there?”

  Leah smiled self-consciously. “I’m sorry. I was daydreaming.”

  “About Elvis?” Lizzie leaned forward in her seat as the house lights came up. “Isn’t he a dreamboat?”

  “He’s way too old for you, pipsqueak.” Frannie took Lizzie’s hand as they started shuffling their way out to the aisle. They all rallied around Lizzie, treating her like their littlest sister.

  “What did you girls think of the movie?” Father Michael asked as they walked through the lobby. Everyone was talking at once, exclaiming over Elvis and his indescribable appeal, and no one noticed the group of people standing at the entrance as they opened the front doors. No one except Leah, but she spoke too late, reacted to slowly.

  “Sluts!”

  “Whores!”

  “Tramps!”

  The crowd peppe
red the girls with words, calling out their pet names for Magdalene House, naughty, wicked, house of the damned. The girls immediately clamped up, hurrying toward the bus waiting at the curb. The driver had the engine running already. He knew the drill. Leah held Marty’s hand, and Frannie’s in the other. Lizzie had grabbed hold of Jean. She was staring at the crowd, confused, eyes welling up with hurt. Someone had shoved her, hard.

  Father Michael shepherded them on board, shielding them with his body as best he could, but he couldn’t stop the onslaught of hurtful words hurled their way.

  Finally, Father Michael turned to the crowd, raising his hands, and in his best Sunday sermon voice, he boomed, “He who is without sin cast the first stone!”