Even one of them would have outnumbered me.
Suddenly two tiny fifth-grade she-demons charged to my rescue, kicking, clawing, screaming. My two assailants were then outnumbered—not counting me.
“Where did you guys learn those words?” I demanded.
“From listening to boys,” Peg answered, breathless but triumphant.
“Boys like you, Chucky Ducky,” Rosie added, her face crimson with the light of battle.
They then, without my knowledge, went to the rectory and enlisted John Raven’s support. The two rowdies were put to work sweeping the parish hall, as Father Raven put it, “till the day before the Last Judgment.”
Rosie was, or at least claimed to be, broken-hearted at her demotion by the War Admiral, much to my surprise, since I scarcely thought of her as devout. “I feel so sorry for Peg,” she told me. “It’s not fair to her.”
“It’s not fair to you,” Peg snapped. “Is it, Chucky?”
“My position on Sister Mary War Admiral,” I observed, “is well known.”
Mom intervened. “Stop talking to the girls. We must settle this silly business tonight.”
So we sallied forth into the gentle May night, an ill-matched pair of warriors if ever there were such.
“Now please don’t try to be funny.” Mom tried to sound severe, always a difficult task with her husband or her first-born son.
“I’ll be just like Dad.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The war in Europe was over. Churchill’s “long night of barbarism” in Europe had ended. Some men were being released from the service. Dad expected an early discharge. We were destroying Japanese cities with firebomb raids. The Japanese were wreaking havoc on our ships with their kamikaze attacks. We had lost thirteen thousand men in the battle for Okinawa Jima. Mom was worried that I would be drafted when I graduated next year and would have to fight in the invasion of Japan, despite my plans to be a jet pilot. (A legitimate worry as it turned out. If it had not been for the atomic bomb, I would surely have ended up in the infantry. They didn’t need pilots.) The cruiser Indianapolis was about to sail for Tinian (and its own eventual destruction) with the first atomic bomb. Bing Crosby was singing that he wanted to “ride to the ridge where the west commences and gaze at the moon till I lose my senses,” so long as we undertook not to attempt to fence him in.
A battle over a May crowning surely did not compare to the major events which were about to shape the new, more affluent, and more dangerous world.
But it was our battle.
The O’Malleys were “active” Catholics as naturally as they breathed the air or played their musical instruments. Mom had been president of the Altar Guild. Dad was an usher, even in uniform. Jane had been vice-president of the High Club. I was sometime photographer in residence, and the always available altar boy to “take” sudden funerals, unexpected wartime weddings, periods of adoration during “forty hours,” and six o’clock Mass on Sundays. When our finances improved—Dad’s military pay and Mom’s wages from the factory—we discussed together increasing our Sunday contribution.
We voted, over my objections, to quadruple the amount we gave. Dad insisted that the Sunday gift be anonymous because he didn’t believe in the envelope system or the published list of contributions.
“Why give if we don’t get credit?” I demanded, at least partially serious.
“Chucky!” the other five responded in dismay.
Despite the anonymity of our gifts, we were still prominent members of the parish. Even Monsignor Meany almost came to our house for supper one night. So Sister Mary War Admiral must have known she was in for a fight.
I whistled “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition” as we walked up the steps to the convent.
“Hush,” Mom whispered, and then joined in with “All aboard, we’re not a-going fishin’.”
“Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition and we’ll all stay free,” we sang in presentable harmony as the light turned on above the convent steps.
“You’re worse than your father,” Mom informed me when she managed to stop laughing.
There was a long delay before the door opened—it is an unwritten rule of the Catholic Church (as yet unrepealed) that no convent or rectory door can be opened without a maddening wait being imposed on the one who has disturbed ecclesiastical peace by ringing the bell.
Sister Mary Admiral did not answer the door, of course. Mothers superior did not do that sort of thing. The nun who did answer, new since my day in grammar school, kept her eyes averted as she showed us into the parlor, furnished in the heavy green style of pre–World War I, with three popes, looking appallingly feminine, watching us with pious simpers.
The nameless nun scurried back with a platter on which she had arrayed butter cookies, fudge, two small tumblers, and a pitcher of lemonade.
“Don’t eat them all, Chucky,” Mom warned me as we waited for Mother Superior to descend upon us.
“I won’t,” I lied.
The convent cookies and fudge—reserved for visitors of special importance—were beyond reproach. I will confess, however, that I was the one responsible for the story about the lemonade being sent for analysis to a chemist, who had reported with great regret that our poor horse was dying of incurable kidney disease.
“April, dear, how wonderful to see you!” The War Admiral came in swinging. “You look wonderful. Painting airplanes certainly agrees with you.” She hugged Mom. “And Charles … my, how you’ve grown!”
I hadn’t. But I did not reply because the last bit of fudge had followed the final cookie into my digestive tract.
The War Admiral hated my guts. She resented my endless presence with camera and flashbulb. She suspected, quite correctly, that I had coined her nickname. She also suspected, again correctly, that I had been responsible for pouring the curate’s wine into the monsignor’s wine bottle. Finally she suspected, with monumental unfairness (and inaccuracy), that I had consumed most of the monsignor’s wine and thus was responsible for the necessity of filling the bottle with lesser wine.
“You look wonderful, too, Sister.” Although Mom had blushed at the compliment, she was too cagey to be taken in by it. “My husband is at the War Department this week, so my son has come with me.”
Actually Sister Mary Admirabilis looked terrible, as she always did. Like the late pastor, she was tiny and seemed deceptively frail. Her eyes darted nervously and her fingers twisted back and forth, perhaps because she did not bring to the parlor the little hand bell which she always carried “on duty”—the kind of bell you used to ring on the counter of a hotel reception desk.
Most of the other nuns also carried little hand bells, on which they pounded anxiously when the natives became restless.
War Admiral launched her campaign quickly, hook nose almost bouncing against jutting chin as she spat out her carefully prepared lines. “I’m so sorry about this little misunderstanding. Your precious Margaret Mary should be the one to crown the Blessed Mother. She is such a darling, so good and virtuous and popular. I often worry about her friendship with the Clancy child. I’m afraid that she’s a bad influence. I hope you don’t regret their friendship someday.”
You praise the daughter, you hint at the danger of the friend, you stir up a little guilt—classical Mother Superior maneuvers. And how did my mother, soft, gentle, kindly April Cronin O’Malley, react?
April Mae Cronin O’Malley.
“Oh, Sister, I would be so unhappy if Peg did not graduate from St. Ursula next month, just as Jane and Chuck … uh, Charles here did.”
Oh, boy.
“But there’s no question of that.…”
Mom ignored her. “The sisters out at Trinity did tell me that they’ll accept her as a freshman with a music scholarship even if she doesn’t graduate.”
“But…”
“And, as sad as it would to be break my husband’s heart”—Mom seemed close to tears—I’ll have to withdraw Peg from S
t. Ursula if she is put in this impossible situation.”
“She wouldn’t come back to school anyway,” I added helpfully, licking the last trace of fudge from my lips.
“Shush, darling,” Mom murmured.
“Please yourself.” The Admiral took off her velvet gloves. “If Margaret does not choose to accept the honor to which she has been appointed, we simply won’t have a May crowning.”
“Please yourself, Sister.” Mom smiled sadly. “My family will have no part of this unjust humiliation of Rosemary.”
I began to hum mentally “Let’s Remember Pearl Harbor As We Did the Alamo.” This was a preliminary scrimmage. Mom was touching a base before cornering Monsignor Mugsy.
“My dear”—the Admiral’s voice was sweet and oily—“we really can’t let the Clancy girl crown Our Blessed Lady. Her father is a criminal and her mother … well, as I’m sure you know”—her voice sank to a whisper—“she drinks!”
“All the more reason to be charitable to Rosemary.”
“Like Jesus to Mary Magdalen,” I added helpfully.
“Shush, darling.”
“Monsignor Meany established very firm rules for this honor.”
“Monsignor Meany is dead, God be good to him.”
“Cold in his grave,” I observed.
“His rules will remain in force as long as I am Superior.”
“Time for a change, I guess,” I murmured.
“You give me no choice but to visit Monsignor Branigan.”
“Please yourself.”
The warm night had turned frigid.
“I shall.”
“Don’t say anything, dear,” Mom said as we walked down Menard Avenue to the front door of the rectory. “Not a word.”
“Who, me?”
After the routine wait for the bell to be answered, we were admitted to a tiny office littered with baptismal books. Monsignor Branigan, in black clerical suit, appeared almost at once, medium height, thick glasses, red face, and broad smile.
“April Cronin!” he exclaimed, embracing her; unheard-of behavior from a priest in those days. “Greetings and salutations! You look more beautiful than ever!”
“April Mae Cronin,” I observed.
They knew each other, did they? Sure they did. All south-side Irish knew one another.
I considered my mother—whom I had always thought of as pretty—a tall, thin, nearsighted refugee countess. Monsignor Mugsy was right. Without my having noticed it, she had, as she passed her fortieth birthday, become beautiful. The worry and the poverty of the Depression were over. She no longer had to send me to Liska’s Meat Market to purchase twenty-eight cents of beef stew ground from which to make supper for six of us. Her husband was safe at Fort Sheridan. The war would soon be over. Her children were growing up. She was earning more money than she would have ever dreamed possible. She had put on enough weight so that curves had appeared under her gray suit. A distinguished countess now.
I glance at pictures I took of her at that time. Yes, indeed, Monsignor Mugsy was right.
“Is this galoot yours?” He nodded at me.
“Sometimes she’s not sure,” I responded.
“Vangie, uh, John is in Washington,” Mom explained.
“What grade are you in, son?”
“I’m a junior at Fenwick.”
“Do you play football?”
“Quarterback.”
“What string?”
“Fourth.”
“I thought there were only three strings.” Monsignor Mugsy and I were hitting it off just fine.
“For me they made an exception.” I was not about to tell him that I was more mascot than player.
“Where are you going to college?”
“I’ve seen Knute Rockne—All American. Win one for the Gipper!”
“Great,” the monsignor exclaimed. “Now, April, what’s on your mind?”
Mom told him.
“Dear God,” he breathed out, and reclined in his swivel chair. “How can we do things like this to people? Someday we’re going to have to pay a terrible price.”
“Mary Magdalen…” I began.
“Shush, darling.”
“I hear that Old Man Clancy is something of a crook.” The monsignor drummed his stubby fingers on the desk.
“A big crook,” I said.
“You two are willing to vouch for the poor little tyke?”
“Certainly.” Mom nodded vigorously. “She’s a lovely child.”
“You bet.” I perjured myself because I thought my life might depend on it.
“Well, that settles that … ah, Jack, don’t try to sneak by. I suppose you know the O’Malleys?”
“I think so.” John Raven, golf clubs on his shoulder, grinned. “The kid has a reputation for switching wine bottles; watch him.”
“Calumny.”
“I hear,” the pastor said, peering shrewdly over his thick bifocals, “we have some trouble with the May crowning. Why don’t you talk to Sister, Jack, and…”
Father Raven leaned against the door jamb. “The smallest first-grader has more clout with the War Admiral than a curate has.” He chuckled. “It’s your fight, Mugsy.”
“And your parish,” I said.
Everyone ignored me.
The monsignor threw up his hands. “See what’s happening to the Church, April? Curates won’t do the pastor’s dirty work for him anymore. Well, go home and tell Peggy—I know which one she is, she looks like you did when you crowned the Blessed Mother at St. Gabe’s—that her friend will do the honors next week.”
When we arrived back at our tiny apartment three blocks south of the rectory on Menard, Peg hugged me enthusiastically. “Oh Chucky Ducky, you’re wonderful.”
Rosie, her face crimson, considered doing the same thing but wisely judged from the expression on my face not to try. Instead, tears in her vast eyes, she said, “Thank you.”
“It was all the good April,” I replied modestly. “I just carried her bowling shoes.”
Parish reaction to Monsignor Branigan’s intervention was mostly positive. The Clancy kid was too pretty for her own good and a little fast besides. However, it was time someone put Sister Mary Admirabilis in her place.
Was there any complaint that April O’Malley had gone to the new pastor to overrule Mother Superior?
Certainly not. If you are April O’Malley, by definition, you can do no wrong.
The Sunday afternoon of the May crowning, in the basement gym which had been Meany Meany’s bequest to the parish, the blue and white plaster statue (pseudo-Italian Renaissance ugly) of the Mother of Jesus was surrounded by a circle of six early-pubescent girls dressed as though they were a wedding party and one pint-sized red-haired photographer clutching his Argus C-3 and flash attachment.
The ceremony had begun with a “living rosary” in the gravel-coated schoolyard next to the church. The student body was arranged in the form of a rosary, six children in each bead. At the head of the cross stood the May crowning party, Rosie in a white bridal dress, her four attendants in baby blue, and two of the tiniest First Communion tots in their veils carrying Rosie’s train.
The recitation of the Rosary moved from bead to bead, the kids in the bead saying the first part of the Pater or the Ave and the rest of the school responding, accompanied with not too much enthusiasm by parents who had come to the ceremony with about as much cheerfulness as that which marked their attendance at school music recitals.
I lurked on the fringes of the “living rosary,” automatically reciting the prayers and capturing with my camera the most comic expressions I could find. It wasn’t hard to discover funny faces, especially when a warning breeze stirred the humid air and the bright sky turned dull gray.
The voices of the seventh and eighth grade hinted at the possibility of adolescent bass. The younger kids chanted in a singsong which might have been just right in a Tibetan monastery. The little kids piped like tiny squeaking birds.
The spectacle was
silly, phony, artificial, and oddly, at the same time devout, impressive, and memorable.
As we moved from the “Fourth Glorious Mystery, the Assumption of Mary into Heaven” to the verses of the Lourdes Hymn, which would introduce the “Fifth Glorious Mystery, the Crowning of Mary as Queen of Heaven,” the first faint drops of rain fell on the crowded schoolyard. The voices of mothers gasped in protest.
It was decision time. John Raven drifted over to the War Admiral, nodded toward the sky, and then towards the church. Fingers caressing her hand bell, she shook her head firmly. We would finish the Rosary. God would not permit it to rain.
Father Raven raised an eyebrow at Mugsy, resplendent in the full choir robes of a domestic prelate.
“Looks as pretty,” my father had remarked of the robes, “as doctoral robes from Harvard.”
Mugsy peered at the sky through his thick glasses, as if he really couldn’t see that far, and nodded.
John Raven shrugged. You’re the pastor, pastor.
Mugsy stepped to the primitive public-address microphone and said, “I think God wants us to go inside.”
Obediently the altar boys in white cassocks and red capes—cross bearer and two acolytes with candles long since extinguished by the stiffening wind—began to process toward the church. The girls in the crowning party fell in behind.
The War Admiral’s bell rang out in protest. Several other bells responded. A couple of nuns rushed forward and pushed the kids in the first decade of the rosary into line behind the altar boys; the rosary would unlink itself into a straight processional line with the crowning party at the very end, like it was supposed to be, instead of at the beginning.
In which position it was most likely to be drenched, since the rain clouds were closing in on us.
I snapped a wonderful shot of the War Admiral twisting a little girl’s shoulder so that the child resumed her place in line and another of her shoving Peg to a dead halt as my sister challenged the ringing of the bells and began to cut in front of the procession and dodge the raindrops, which were even now falling rapidly.
Irresistible force met immovable object.
All About Women Page 21