I typed the letter in Sister Irene’s room while she nodded off in her regular drug-induced sleep, snoring with huge gasps. I used to panic when she’d fall asleep, her chest rising and falling with an energetic frequency she can no longer display while awake, and call for Sister Ursula. Then I’d stay an extra hour, checking her pulse, putting my finger against her nose to see if I could readjust her breathing, laying my head against her chest to make sure the heartbeat sounded healthy. Now I know this is just what her body does and it is easy to ignore. On the day I typed my letter, Sister Irene received a double dose of her sleeping pills.
I mailed the form letter to each person on my list and included a self-addressed stamped return envelope. The letter stated we were searching for donations for our Catholic Convent-sponsored charities. It described some of the causes we have supported over the years, including the diabetes foundation, cancer research, drug and addiction counselling, homeless shelters, and our local humane society. Also enclosed was a donation card with a list of possible amounts under the headings Gold, Silver, and Bronze sponsorship, plus a blank amount for a lower donation under the title Friendship Sponsor. My name typed and signed was at the bottom of both the letter and card as the Head of the Donation Committee for the convent. Even though there is free use of the photocopier at the church, donated by one of our parishioners to help with the costs of making a newsletter and posters for upcoming events, I decided not to take my chances there. I used the photocopier at a corner store run by an elderly Polish couple and their adolescent grandchildren. How I would explain what I was doing to Mother Superior or Father B., I didn’t know. I figured if someone was searching for me, this was the only way to offer myself up to them in surrender; they’d know I’d received the silver candle holder and was asking for my accuser to present herself. I also secretly hoped listing the good works that I’d been involved in might work in my favour for mercy. But I didn’t expect to receive any real donations. Perhaps I’ve grown too cynical. I didn’t expect anyone to care about our convent. I wasn’t thinking ahead.
With my first returned envelope in front of me, it is difficult not to let my mind race with fear as I get up the nerve to slice it open, even though I know the chances are slim that the addresses have proven to be the correct ones. The donation card is filled out at the Silver level. A cheque is included and a note: My address has changed. I just happened to be visiting my mother for the weekend. Your causes are very worthwhile and I applaud the church for sponsoring them. I work with deaf children myself. I ask you kindly for a receipt for tax purposes. Send it to the address indicated on the cheque. Best Wishes, Francine L.
She didn’t recognize my name, but I can cross her off my list. I recognize hers.
THE VIRGIN MARY WAS a silent role. I got the part. Sister Aline was pleased I wouldn’t be singing a single note through the entire Christmas pageant, I’m sure. Honestly, so was I. My voice was nothing less than a disgrace. After endlessly tormenting me by striking the organ keys and then asking me to mimic the sound emitted, Sister Aline soon advised me to hum bars instead of singing them, and eventually to simply mouth the words. The thought of humiliating myself in front of the nuns and students’ parents, or opening myself up to endless taunting and teasing from the girls themselves as I croaked lines of music wearing makeshift wings or a wise man’s robe was enough to make me sigh with relief as Sister Aline announced I would be playing the Virgin Mary and I realized I wouldn’t have to sing at all. What I didn’t think about in that instant was how I would be tormented in another fashion until the play was over. Now I was The Virgin of the school. Named and fitted for the costume. A blue and white frock made out of felt and a tablecloth. The girls laughed as Sister Aline squealed that the powder-blue robe and white veil were a perfect fit from last year’s pageant. I cringed under the mark of The Virgin, although her role in the Bible had intrigued me; Mary was a teenager herself, ostracized by her own family and community. Who could believe her strange story? The news of her pregnancy both a blessing and a curse. Who was the man who had come for her in the middle of the night and left her pregnant? An angel? How could she stand the ridicule of those who were sure she had tricked her dense husband and made him the fool of the town? And now I was named after her, and the nickname stuck until the winter term, until the catastrophe. I couldn’t shake it off as easily as the light snow falling to blanket the outside world.
Bella was Gabriel, the part with the most singing. She would be present in nearly every scene, joining the choir in their hymns of praise and providing the solos when Gabriel flies in through Mary’s window to tell her the sacred news and when Jesus Christ is born. She practised a version of “O Holy Night” that gave the girls chills and brought tears to Sister Aline’s eyes. Even Mother Superior, at the back of the church, stood mesmerized upon hearing Bella’s voice. She said she needed to speak to Sister Aline in private and to continue on with our practice, but she had really come to check on the pageant’s progress, making sure that her paying parents and patrons would be thoroughly pleased with the education their daughters and the daughters of the community were receiving. When Bella sang, we were directed to watch, to appreciate her carriage as well as her voice, how she projected by bringing the air in through her nose and out through her mouth. Sister Aline used her as one might use a textbook in class, to demonstrate how the songs ought to be sung, how we might strive to be like her. It was the same way my father sometimes spoke of my mother to Christine and me. “Look at the way she accepts all life with grace,” he said once as she bent over in our garden to admire a nest of ants. “Look at her face, children. It is the face of someone absolutely blessed by life.” Bella’s face radiated when she sang; she accepted her gift with the same humility with which my mother accepted my father’s compliments. “Grace can be learned,” my mother said. “You’re not born with it.” But it was difficult to see how Bella might have learned so much more quickly than the rest of us; we were sure her singing voice had been given to her, and sure that there was nothing we could do about it either.
We knew the pageant was important. The school wasn’t as popular as it had been in the past. Most girls went to public school and to the co-ed separate schools. A private school, taught mostly by nuns in a convent, was a dying breed, and we sensed this, even if we were not acutely aware of it. Rachel said if it weren’t for her father, the school would have closed long ago. But that was a lie, or at least an exaggeration. His money wasn’t enough to cover the expenses. The school was in massive debt, although the nuns tried not to show it. Mother Superior acted as if the school would be under her jurisdiction for another fifty years, rallying us with the claim that one day we would be proud to send our own children there. But Sister Marguerite slipped one day as she supervised recess. She took a long, forlorn look at the entrance of the school building and said, “I’ll regret the day the gates close for good.” It was only a matter of time.
“If there are angels,” Sister Aline stated proudly at the bottom of the altar steps while Bella let out a final high note until the organ went silent, “she is certainly one of them here on earth.”
Mother Superior applauded. The rest of us were aware that we were merely earth dwellers, Bella’s celestial graces out of common reach. Bella didn’t need us to convince her she was worthy or special. Her mother and father picked her up every Friday, her father speaking briefly to the nuns, who always commented on Bella’s studious nature, excellent grades, and singing talent. Her mother, who spoke almost no English, had Bella translate to her in Portuguese. In pride, her mother would flatten her hands against Bella’s cheeks, then place a kiss inside her palm and bestow it upon Bella as they left the school. At the end of practice, Bella’s mother came to collect her. They crossed themselves at the holy water as they left. That was the moment I knew I hated her. Bella was Gabriel delivering a great message. All I could do, as a mortal, was step out of her way.
On the day of the pageant, what we called “Opening Nig
ht” although there would only be one performance, Sister Aline rallied us around her like an athletic coach—the girls in costume, jittery about performing in front of their parents and friends—to recite the Our Father prayer. Rachel tugged on my blue tunic. When I turned around to greet her, the other girls’ chins bent to their chests, Rachel, her eyes sparkling with mischief above her silly fake beard and moustache, opened her wise-man robe and flashed me. She was wearing the red bra I had stolen from the department store, her breasts cupped in its delicate lace and satin. I felt myself blush, and she had to shoot me a stern look to stop me from gawking at her newly re-covered bosom and return to the prayer. Virgin, she mouthed, shoving out her chest as if it weren’t hidden in a formless yellow and navy blue blanket turned cloak for the night. We’re too old for this, I thought. Dressing up in costumes and makeup, pretending to be religious characters riding into cities on donkeys to pay our taxes, the wise men with breasts bunching up their robes. Still, I couldn’t believe Rachel’s nerve in flaunting her contempt for the whole affair. Her shamelessness.
Stripped of all its regular ornaments for the pageant, the altar now held a wooden manger with a naked male doll hidden inside it underneath a dishtowel. Barrels of hay had been shipped in from the outskirts of the city and spread across the floor. Sister Aline was already miffed at the amount of work it would take to clean it up. She had allergies, she told us, but the pageant was an important event, and she’d simply have to suffer. She kept a handkerchief in her right hand and brought it out regularly, like a good luck charm, covering her nose to ward off the smell. Christmas lights were strung along the pews where the choir stood. When the night scenes were staged, all the church lights would be turned off and the tiny yellow bulbs would twinkle in the distance. The angels wore white dresses and cardboard wings attached to their shoulders by bent clothes hangers. Instead of real animals, we used a few sheep from the church Nativity set, plastic and easy to lift, and a couple of deer placed towards the back, painted brown to disguise their previous incarnation as Christmas lawn decorations. There was debate as to whether deer in Bethlehem would be historically accurate, but Mother Superior put her foot down, saying the audience would want other animals in the play besides sheep, and we would make do with what we had. Francine, who played Joseph, wore a shirt and pants cut out of a potato sack. She itched throughout the performance. When Mother Superior went backstage at the intermission, Francine was told to stop scratching or she’d be sent home early for the holidays. This comment put Francine practically in tears, which worked well with the play, a few parents commenting afterwards on the budding actress in the bunch; when Joseph returned to the stage for the manger scene, he seemed genuinely upset that he could do no better for the holy child.
The parents, teachers, and nuns sat in the pews as if we were performing in a theatre. Lights were kept on at the church entrances and on the stage only. Father McC. was our priest; he delivered Mass on Mondays when all the girls were in attendance, and also on Sundays for the Leftovers, and provided us with confessional services every two months, although we had no confessionals. He’d seat two chairs opposite each other, back to back, and we were supposed to pretend he didn’t know who we were and we didn’t know who he was. He enjoyed delivering his repentance instructions in Latin, then waiting for us to ask him for the translation, admonishing us to study languages other than English and French in order to be good Catholics. For the pageant he sat in the front pew with Mother Superior, both with their backs straight and staring ahead, without speaking to each other. Mother Superior took a Bible from the back of the pew in front of her and read. Father McC. counted something on his hands.
The collection plate would be passed three times: once at the beginning, again during intermission, and finally after the performance was over. Sister Aline told us this so we could warn our parents to bring more money or divide the money they planned to give. We would all remain onstage at the end of the pageant to sing a final hymn, the hymn of the school, “Our Eyes to Heaven,” a translation of a Greek Orthodox hymn altered by one of the founding nuns to reflect the motto of the school. Sister Aline taught us the hymn with as much vigour as she taught the rest of the songs, but she hated it. In four-four time and with forced rhymes between words such as “school” and “adore,” “heaven” and “stepping,” the hymn, she believed, was not a sound translation. One day, in her disgust, Sister Aline muttered that she was sure it must have been a drinking song. As usual, however, she acquiesced under Mother Superior’s authority and added it to our repertoire.
Before the performance, we were herded into the hallway behind the choir section, and before our group prayer, Sister Aline kept sneaking peeks through the doorway to judge how many people had arrived and found themselves seats. “Yvonne, your parents and your brother are here,” she chimed. “Patricia, I think your grandmother made it.” I wanted to ask if she spotted a woman in rose-coloured glasses holding onto a tall man’s arm, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. The odds were not in my favour that my parents would be attending. When I mentioned it to my father on the phone, he replied that a couple of hours would be an awful long time for my mother to sit on such uncomfortable seats. “Is it really important?” he asked. I said no, but hoped against hope that they might not have been able to keep themselves away, that they might not want to miss their oldest daughter perform in a pageant, that they might feel proud.
With only a few minutes left before curtain, Sister Aline, her handkerchief tucked into her fist, asked us to hold hands. She couldn’t lose any opportunity to broaden our religious instruction. She’d told us once in class that when she was our age, the nuns didn’t explain theology, and how you could love something you could not understand was beyond her. She wanted us to love our religion, not because we were born into it, but because we would choose it. Because of this decision she anticipated us all having to make, we did not sing a single song in the choir without listening to an exegesis of the lyrics in excruciating detail. She had such a gentle disposition, though, that we didn’t resist her. We merely humoured her.
“Christmas is the day the prophecy begins to be fulfilled,” she said, choking a bit on her words in her excitement or because of her stuffy nose and scratchy throat.
“You are made in God’s image. And like God’s image, there are complements in all things.” She pointed to her own body to demonstrate. “We have two eyes, two hands, two legs. We are symmetrical. The same on both sides.”
“Two breasts,” added Francine under her breath, a row of girls in front of her, enough to ensure Sister Aline did not hear. I wondered if Francine had been privy to Rachel’s bra showing as well and had made the joke for our benefit, but I kept quiet and concentrated on Sister Aline’s sermon, hoping she might impart a few words to save me from disaster in front of the school. It was the birthing scene I was dreading, pretending to give birth to a child in front of all those people, regardless of whether the child represented the Son of God. A stupid plastic doll, without the features of a boy, but called a boy because it was bald and girl dolls were always sold with hair, reeked of mockery. I didn’t want to hold that hollow boy child in my hands and rock it in my arms.
“This is why there are two parts in the Bible. The Old Testament and the New Testament. There are those who think you can disregard one or the other, but you can’t. They lose their meaning. The Old Testament is the prophecy, and the New Testament is the prophecy fulfilled. The birth of Christ begins the miracle of Christ’s fulfilment. Begins the process of complementing the past with the future. So remember when you are out there, you are making the prophecy come to life! God will be watching you.”
I think she added the latter statement to comfort us, but it made me even more nervous to think of God sitting in one of the pews, like Caroline’s mother or Rachel’s father, assessing which of the children could sing best or deliver their lines most clearly and passionately, silently admonishing those who might fall short of their cues
or forget their lines under the lights. If not God, we were acutely aware that Mother Superior was watching, and she was scarier than He was by a mile. Mother Superior would let you know if you’d failed her. She would call you into her office and then dismiss you from her presence. She would inform your parents.
When the lights were dimmed, Sister Aline escorted the choir onto the stage, and those of us in the play stepped out onto the church floor while the rest took their places in a row of pews to the left and waited their turn to join us in the final hymn. Father McC., though he was smiling up at us, was fidgety once the play began, shifting around in his pew, as if uncomfortable being seated with the rest of the crowd when he was accustomed to the lead role. He frowned. Mother Superior held the Bible against her chest.
When it came time for me to deliver baby Jesus, I did it exactly as I was instructed to: miraculously, without pain or discomfort. Hidden underneath the dishtowel in the manger, the baby rose fully formed into my hands; the shortest labour in the history of womanhood. Sister Aline had directed me for this climactic scene, and had insisted that Mary did not suffer from childbirth pain in the least, as she was free from sin. She said it was the simplest birth in the world. I doubted her, but at least I wasn’t asked to scream or moan or hold onto the bundles of hay with my fists and yell at Joseph to fetch water, as we had seen in the movies. My labour was a fake. The pillow strapped to my stomach was removed by my own hands while the choir gathered in front of the altar in a straight line to shield me. As the force of the singing grew, Bella’s voice leading the way, the singers parted and I was revealed, slim and smiling. The hell of being in front of everyone was nearly over.
The Divine Economy of Salvation Page 13
