Sophomores

by Sean Desmond

  Broken, battered, and headed back toward Dallas, now home.

  [ SEPTEMBER 26 ]

  Anne Malone looked up from her copy of The Thorn Birds as Courtney McDermott coughed in her sleep; stirred, then settled; and returned to slow, uneasy snoring. Sitting beside her in the girl’s bedroom, Anne studied Courtney for a brief moment—her blond hair combed and curled like out of a fairy tale. Outside the window, a mockingbird trilled and flitted along the branches of a mimosa tree. It was late afternoon, and Courtney’s cheek, then her forehead, twitched. She was deep in dreams.

  Anne was part of a rotation of St. Rita’s mothers who were helping the McDermott family care for their daughter. Courtney should have started college that fall, but in her senior year at Ursuline she had gone to Padre Island for spring break with her girlfriends. How much drinking or drugs were involved was unclear, but on the ride back to Dallas Courtney was at the wheel. Highway 77 out of Harlingen. No one wearing seat belts. The two other girls in the car—one in the passenger seat and one in the back—were killed on impact when the car swerved into the guardrail. Courtney was thrown from the car and hit her head on the ground. The paramedics brought her back, but she had already lain on the road losing blood and oxygen to her brain for seventeen minutes. That was over six months ago. She was now in a coma, and everyone was hoping against hope for Courtney to wake up.

  Anne mouthed a quick Hail Mary and returned to Father Ralph de Bricassart talking Meggie through her first period.

  “You’re only doing what all women do, Meggie. Once a month for several days you’ll pass blood . . . Do you know what ‘mature’ means?”

  “Of course, Father! I read! It means grown up.”

  Meggie is no Jane Eyre, Anne thought, but with these men in her life . . .

  “The bleeding is a part of the cycle of procreation. In the days before the Fall, it is said Eve didn’t menstruate . . . But when Adam and Eve fell, God punished the woman more than He did the man, because it was really her fault they fell.”

  Anne spat a muted “bleh.” She liked the wry humor of Andrew Greeley better. Anne looked up from the book and watched the Saturday afternoon light ease across the far wall and dapple down the girl’s vanity. The mockingbird had left the brown pods of the mimosa, and the room was silent. Anne stood and moved closer toward Courtney’s bed. Anne closed her eyes and listened to the girl breathe. Wake up, dear. I’m praying for you. When she opened her eyes, she half expected Courtney to open hers; it almost felt as if the poor girl had heard her. That there was an answer to her prayers.

  * * *

  A half hour later, Courtney’s mother, Vera, returned from shopping and chauffeuring her youngest, Brian, to soccer, and her middle, Jessica, to dance team. Anne noticed Vera had a tough time coming into the bedroom right away, and so she kissed Courtney on her forehead and came down the hall to the kitchen. Like anyone stuck in the full undertow of grief, Vera was exhausted. Anne felt awful for her, and from a cruel, disconsolate part of her mind she heard: You can’t let a girl run off like that, she was too young. She wasn’t trying to think like that, but she couldn’t help herself. Now she stood there listening to Vera go on about the doctors and what her husband, Raymond, thought, and the whole time feeling worse and worse for being judgmental. Christ, how as a parent could you forgive yourself? But she smiled and hugged Vera, and they walked out of the house together to the curb and Anne’s car, and smiled and hugged again. Vera was lost in it, and in a different way, so was Anne. How can anyone handle any of this? She was relieved to close the silver door to her Mercury Zephyr but felt a terrible despair for what was ostensibly a good deed. Mysterious ways, Anne mulled, and then realized that wasn’t even a line from the Bible. She needed to clear her head. It was a quarter to five, and she was just down the street from St. Monica’s. If she hurried, she could make evening Mass.

  * * *

  St. Monica’s had a much prettier church than the Malones’ parish, St. Rita’s, which had the feel of a converted gym. St. Monica’s was a version of Texas midcentury modern that actually worked: built in the round with white plaster archways and floor-to-ceiling stained glass and a rose window raised to an oculus above a mosaic altar tessellated with a pale pink Ascension. A minute before five, Anne settled into a back pew on the far left of the altar near the organ and knelt to pray.

  Growing up in Sts. Peter and Paul Parish in the South Bronx, Anne had her faith inculcated in the normal severe and thetic manner. And while bridled by uncertainty—and a suspicion she was overlooked and underestimated—she became a novice with the Sisters of Charity after graduating from Cathedral High School. Her mother, Mary, was pleased and proud, but her father, Billy Mulligan, wanting grandsons, brooded with dissent.

  Anne frowned as she saw Father Ronald B. Timmerman pacing in the narthex. A diocesan priest in his late thirties, Timmerman was now pastor for Monica’s. She had heard him speak before to a volunteer retreat group at Montserrat up near Lake Dallas, and was left unimpressed. He was certainly sure of himself, Anne thought. He also drove a black Corvette. Which is wrong for all sorts of reasons, even if he didn’t take a vow of poverty. He had a holier-than-thou routine she objected to—prostrating before the cross, creepily groping the Gospel with his eyes closed and kissing it, his long . . . solemn . . . pauses . . . between . . . prayers. He was overly pious—Like some sort of Pharisee.

  At Cathedral, Anne had been a star student, and her mentor, Sister Elizabeth, had not-so-subtly pushed her into vocation. During discernment Anne had doubts but was told all do, that was normal, and so she sheared her long brown hair and took the habit. The convent was on the campus of Mount St. Vincent’s, and the order would send her to college to become a teacher. Those classes were the only inflection of the twentieth century on her daily life. The residence required upkeep, endless chores. Seniority bullied, and the novices were quite literally indentured. Mopping and waxing the dark hallways, weeding the prayer garden, polishing the shrines to Our Lady and Elizabeth Seton, and of course long afternoons peeling, chopping, mixing, boiling, stewing, and serving meals after vespers. She was bone-tired, with little time for prayer or study, and it was unclear how any of this brought her closer to God. She didn’t mind the discipline, but there was a devious architecture of rules designed just to catch mistakes, to bludgeon the ego before the order, and what did that have to do with the life of Mary?

  Timmerman appeared on the altar, and the Mass began. He sped through the opening prayers and through the Liturgy of the Word, the gospel from Matthew 21:

  “A man had two sons. He went and said to the first, ‘My boy, go and work in the vineyard today.’

  “He answered, ‘I will not go,’ but afterwards thought better of it and went.

  “The man then went and said the same thing to the second, who answered, ‘Certainly, sir,’ but did not go.

  “Which of the two did the father’s will?” They said, “The first.” Jesus said to them, “In truth I tell you, tax collectors and prostitutes are making their way into the kingdom of God before you.”

  This is the word of the Lord.

  The homily that followed confirmed all of Anne’s suspicions. This priest is running for messiah of North Dallas. As he began, Timmerman gripped the lectern and stuck up his chin, peering intently over the sparse attendance. So theatric, like Charlton Heston from the set of Mount Sinai.

  “When I was in seminary, we studied this passage with an old priest, Father Fontenot, who had spent many years of his life at a parish called St. Maurice’s near Storyville, the famous red-light ward of New Orleans. Father Fontenot had endless St. Mo stories from his years there. His faithful were the gamblers, the loan sharks, the bums, the druggies, the prostitutes, and their pimps—all of these folks would show up for his evening Mass at St. Maurice’s.

  “And Father Fontenot thought nothing of it: because as the Gospel tells us Jesus ministered most to the sinne
rs in this world. And so what this parable touches on, and what Father Fontenot saw in real life, is that good-intentioned hypocrisy of those who practice faith as a get-out-of-jail-free card for their sins. A lot of Father Fontenot’s stories involved Nellie Flower, an infamous madam of her day. Nellie knew and liked the young Father Fontenot, and she would insist that all of her girls go to him once a week . . . for confession.”

  Timmerman cocked an eyebrow and looked out at the first set of pews in front of him. A couple chuckles filled his pause. With this mild encouragement, he went forth.

  “Now, Father Fontenot was not a prurient man who got into details, but let’s just say he became quite familiar with how precisely these women tabulated their sins.”

  A few more laughs—and Timmerman grinned. Anne was unamused. This is what he thinks of us: sinners counting sins.

  “And in the Gospel there are many women of ill repute that Jesus tries to save. These women come to Him, but our Lord does not judge them. Instead He offers a new covenant with God based on forgiveness.”

  Anne bit her upper lip. And women are known for only one thing, huh, Father?

  “And what Jesus is careful to remind us about is that there is good in people of all stations, even the women of the oldest profession. And we as a Christian society believe in this idea. Think about all the movies that feature the hooker with the heart of gold. Take for instance Gone With the Wind—my mother’s favorite novel. There’s the character of Belle Watling, who runs the brothel and covers for Rhett when he is accused of killing the Yankee soldiers. She saves his life with her alibi, but the scandalized women of Atlanta won’t speak to her.”

  Oh yes, if only this Church treated women like it were the nineteenth century . . .

  “And whether it’s Atlanta during the Civil War or in Judea two thousand years ago or a house of ill repute on Rampart Street, there are women, sinners though they are, who show faith and are more likely than the second son of the vineyard owner to enter into the kingdom of heaven . . .”

  At this point Anne had tuned out, and she stared down at the cover of the missalette, which depicted the Deposition, Jesus’s descent from the cross and lamentation. It was by an old Italian master, and Anne counted the three Marys there—the Mother of God, Mary Salome, and Mary Magdalene. Anne sucked on her cheek. Even here. When all the men are gone, when a mother’s son is dead and deserted. Even here they have to make their point: don’t forget what women really are.

  Timmerman droned on for a few more minutes, and when he was finished, he returned to his chair, where he sat for another unnecessarily long pause. What in God’s name is he meditating about now? Anne wondered. Finally Timmerman stood up, the organ bellowed, the basket came, and then the gifts. Anne left right after communion, her obligation fulfilled.

  * * *

  Taking Merrell Road, Anne drove home, past the Episcopal School of Dallas and then winding down Rosser, shooting across six lanes at Royal, past the field of high-tension power lines, to the turn at Northaven Park. Her thoughts spiraled back again to her novitiate, her frustrations and loneliness. She had written to Sister Elizabeth, who tried to root her on: life as a bride of Christ only got better; her faith would awaken, deepen.

  And then prayers were answered and Anne was assigned to Father Sacramoni’s daily Mass. Vincent Sacramoni had been born in Jersey City and taken his orders with the Christian Brothers at De La Salle. He was a handsome man in his thirties, with a shock of early gray hair; his summers pastoring on the Jersey shore had kept him tan and healthy. He was also chaplain to all the teams at Manhattan College and was often seen on the quad trying to corral some boys into following him to the basketball courts.

  Anne obeyed the speak-only-when-spoken-to order, but Father Sacramoni had plenty to say while getting ready for Mass. They argued Yankees/Dodgers and Harriman/Stevenson in equal measure, and each afternoon, Anne found herself rushing to chapel earlier, preparing for Mass quicker, and leaving as much time as possible in that cramped sacristy for this chatty priest. Father Sacramoni heard confession for all the sisters at Mount St. Vincent’s. He could recognize the sound of Anne’s voice through the screen, so she stuck to a rehearsed list of venial sins about concentrating on prayer and heeding the sisters. Father Sacramoni would chuckle slightly and then ask in his clipped, rhotic accent: “Is that all, dear? If so, I’ll put you up for sainthood.”

  “That’s all I can think of, Father.”

  “No impure thoughts?” he asked casually. Anne, kneeling, leaned back in the confessional.

  “I’m sure I’ve had some, Father, but to recall them . . .”

  “You’re right, Anne, don’t dwell there. For penance I want you to . . .”

  And at that brief suggestion, the impure thoughts came and Anne couldn’t help but dwell there.

  On Palm Sunday, she sensed Father Sacramoni’s move coming when she was turned around in that dark, cool sacristy. He was supposed to be getting dressed, but there was his hand on her back, the other at her hip.

  “Listen,” he said softly.

  Anne went blank. She moved away from him, but not so fast. A nervous smile became a kiss.

  * * *

  The soccer fields were empty as Anne drove over the drainage creek that connected this neighborhood with her own. Almost six thirty, and she’d be walking in on two hungry Malones. She sped down Cox Lane, determined not to stop at Tom Thumb for dinner. Something quick. Hot dogs for Dan and what for Pat? Pulling onto Crown Shore, she was overcome with déjà vu. Whether it was Timmerman’s droning hocus-pocus or the repeated pattern of ranch houses, Anne wasn’t sure, but she came up the driveway in a shimmer of recall. This is your house, now turn off the car. So very familiar, like every thought and movement prescribed. This is where you are the mother and the wife. And that’s all that you have to say for yourself. That’s not going to change. She got out of the car. Even if you got a new house, you would still just be in a driveway somewhere, looking at a house that is yours and not yours. You don’t own this. Pat’s name is on the mortgage.

  And then the déjà vu, bland as it was, slipped away. She went inside. My house. My living room. My dining room, where I put down my purse and my keys. She looked around. My cabinet, my hutch, my glassware. It was like her ruminations were trying to reconcile how the past had brought her here, and the more she thought about these things, the more alien she felt. It all seemed so unnecessary now. Just the accretion of a thousand pieces of crap that didn’t matter but nonetheless clung to Anne’s static ball of unresolvable self-doubt, worry, and regret. Forget it. Stop. Stop rehashing it.

  She couldn’t help but recall then the stern, beady expression on the face of her mother superior, Sister Angeline, when Anne came clean about Father Sacramoni. In the past year, the community had lost one novice to pregnancy, another for breaking curfew, smoking grass, and Lord knew what other kinds of carrying on. Sister Angeline was not about to lose a third. She had to come down hard. So she nodded impatiently and stretched her fat fingers across the desk as Anne tried to couch things in such a way that no one would get upset or hurt.

  “Father Sacramoni is a handsome man, is he not?” Sister Angeline interrupted.

  Anne took a panicked breath.

  “And you are attracted to Father Sacramoni, correct?”

  “No, Mother Superior, it’s not—”

  “But you like working in that sacristy, no?”

  “I serve as best I can.”

  “And you have had thoughts of him like that, have you not?”

  Anne couldn’t even conceive of this reaction. She shook her head frantically, but lying about it didn’t matter.

  “You must conduct yourself as a sister of this order at all times. Do not smile and flirt. Do not ask him questions or talk more than necessary. Never turn your back to him. Don’t you see? All of these things are a way of giving him permission. You can’t lead h
im on. And you must cleanse yourself of thoughts about him. Is that clear?”

  “He touched me. I didn’t—”

  Sister Angeline opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of brown leather.

  “You have to be mindful, Anne, that the body is a corruption of the spirit. That you haven’t developed control over your body in a way that will not bring notice to it.” She stood menacingly. “It’s good that you came to me this early.”

  “Sister Angeline—”

  “We have to control ourselves. Otherwise we abandon the Lord, and this”—she pointed at her own buxomness and paunch—“will do the work of sin. Please kneel before the desk.” She raised her hand, coiling one end of the leather strop around her palm. With tears streaming down, Anne could think of nothing to say.

  * * *

  Anne gathered the mail that had been pitched through the slot in the front door. Below the normal crap and coupons, there was a letter from the city addressed to Ann Malone. My name misspelled, the other not really my name. It was a summons.

  Jury duty. Christ.

  “Mooooooom . . .”

  No hello, no how are you. Just Dan doll eyed in front of the computer in his room yelling out.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  The way Dan whined the question, Anne refused to reply.

  Jury duty. I hope it’s for some defeated housewife who turned on her unfeeling husband and child.

  And with that sad joke of a thought, the déjà vu kicked in once more. As she checked the pantry for hot dog buns, the whole pattern was set in motion again—the sound of the TV from the den, Pat’s shake of the ice in his glass, and Anne’s immediate thought: how long had he been at that, drinking alone? That worry followed by the next, and it was overwhelming, and she couldn’t step out of it.