by Tom Murphy
Bertha sniffed. She brushed the vagrant hair out of her eye and sat up quite properly and looked at Lily Malone. “I never had a friend,” said Bertha shyly, looking away with the cringing attitude of a small animal who thinks it may be beaten, “not ever a one.”
“If you let me, I’ll try to be your friend.”
“Would you? Truly?”
“Really and truly. Just like Frances.”
Lily looked at Bertha solemnly as she said those words, thinking that God was going to strike her dead for a liar, and he might as well get it over with here and now. So this was martyrdom! This was how it felt when they tied you to the stake and piled up the faggots, just like Joan of Arc in the history book Sister Claudia read to them. It seemed to Lily that she could smell the smoke and feel the flames singeing her toes.
“You’d try, then?”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
“Shall I tell ye a secret?”
Lily wasn’t sure she wanted to know Bertha’s secrets. From what the matron had said, they might be truly terrible ones. “Sure.”
“Do ye remember the first day you came here, and I threw your dolly out the window?”
“Yes?”
“I never had a dolly. Not one. Not ever.”
“Would you like one now?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Well, we’ll make you one. It isn’t hard. I’ll get Frances to show me, and even Sister Mary Agnes.”
Bertha looked at Lily doubtfully, thinking it might be a joke.
“Ye’d truly do that?”
“If I say a thing, Bertha, I will do it, may the good Lord let me.”
Lily looked at the object of her penance. Being a martyr isn’t going to be easy. When God was giving out graces, he surely forgot poor Dolan. It fair to hurts your eyes just looking at her, and wouldn’t I hate to have been hanging since the last time she took a bath. Still, Lily took a deep breath and plunged in: she walked around Bertha trying to think of ways to improve the girl’s looks. A bath was definitely in order, and when Lily suggested it, she was surprised at how readily Dolan agreed. Then the church bells chimed four and Lily realized she was behind in her work.
“Well, now,” said Lily briskly, “I’ve got to get back to my sewing. But I’ll speak to Frances this very day, Bertha, and we’ll be making you the finest doll in all of St. Paddy’s.”
There was a pause while this sank in. Then a slow, gentle smile came flowing across Bertha Dolan’s face and for the first time Lily could remember, the girl looked almost pleasant. “I thank ye.”
That was all Bertha could say, but for Lily it was more than enough. A human response from Dreadful Dolan! There were truly more wonders in the world than anyone could imagine. Lily smiled as she walked half the length of the big dormitory to her own cot. Maybe the little snake had magic in him, maybe he was a manifestation! Maybe it was preordained that Lily go out into the world and save people, helping the helpless, the hope and inspiration of people even worse than Bertha Dolan. To cure the sick, the lame, and the halt! If the smallest kindness could start such a change in Bertha, who was to say what more effort could achieve in worse cases? She would become a nun, and more than a nun, and more even than Matron. Maybe a saint! It was possible. All kinds of girls of humble origin became saints. Sister Claudia was filled with their stories, and she often told them to the girls. There was St. Valerie, patron saint of Limoges. She had been a poor girl. And St. Theresa of Avila, Not to mention the Blessed Mother herself.
Lily took up her sewing in a transcendent haze of spiritual renewal. She saw herself wearing not the tough cotton twill of the orphanage uniform, but gauzy, floating veils that made long graceful trails in the breeze as she, St. Lillian of Mulberry Street, was wafted ever higher and higher upon a raft of the softest pink clouds, and the rays of the golden sun made a special glow around her head as she smiled down on all the poor unfortunate unloved and unwanted wretches whose lives she had changed with her kindness, and the angels themselves wept at the glory of it all.
It was only when Lily jabbed herself in the thumb with her needle that her mystic vision cleared up a bit. But still and all, she was a girl with a mission, and she would not rest until the complete and total salvation of Dreadful Dolan had been effected.
At first Frances O’Farrelley was less than enthusiastic. “Get on with you, Lil, she’s hopeless. I say more snakes in ’er bed, or maybe a mouse or two.”
Lily looked at her best friend and smiled a gentle, saintly smile. She would put in a good word for Frances when she, St. Lillian, was on more intimate terms with God and all the other saints.
“There is,” she said softly, “some good in everyone, Frances, and God has put us here to find it.”
“What you say may be true, Lily,” said Frances with a laugh, “but with someone like Dreadful, we could wear out many a shovel in the diggin’, and don’t tell me that ain’t the truth.”
“The harder the task, the greater the reward,” said St. Lillian, making light of it, “and what’s more, the matron will have my head if I don’t do some good with poor Bertha. So come on, Fran, help me with the damned dolly.”
St. Lillian had not completely abandoned her sense of humor. They made the doll, and Bertha was a changed girl once she saw that Lily’s promise had been a sincere one. Frances and Lily and Sister Claudia made a project of Bertha Dolan’s renaissance, and soon the other girls were helping too. Bertha got more attention in the next few weeks than she had ever received in her short life. And once she realized she was not being made the object of mockery, as had so often been the case, she truly became a better girl. Bertha would never be beautiful to look at, but she kept herself neater now, and bathed more often, and washed her hair, which proved to be quite beautiful, a glossy dark chestnut. Sister Claudia brought Bertha a blue ribbon for her hair, and the girl was as touched as if it had been a rare jewel. Bertha would never be a scholar or a wit, but she gradually began to direct the energy that had once been wasted in rage to more productive efforts. She asked to help in the kitchen and proved to have a talent for cooking. Soon the whole orphanage was sampling Bertha’s pound cake and Bertha’s rice puddings. Sister Cathleen was delighted with all this and told Lily so. And even when the first urgency of Bertha’s salvation had passed, Lily recalled her promise to Matron, and was kind to the lonely girl. Bertha would never be as close to Lily as was Frances, yet they remained friends of a kind for as long as Bertha remained at St. Paddy’s.
The routine at the orphanage seemed to flow on with the steady, unruffled force of some wide and mighty river. Lily never thought about such questions as happiness, but worked steadily and learned what she could and took her fun as it came—seldom and innocently.
The core and focus of Lily’s life was Fergy, and her fears for his future and her own, should he leave her. And in this she felt a terrible helplessness, for how could you keep a lad like Fergy in chains when even his mind couldn’t stay in the room with you for five consecutive minutes, but rather was always flying about the great world outside like some mad thing filled with half-formed dreams and promises? It wasn’t fair of Ma to make me promise! ’Tis Fergy who should be looking after me, not the other way around.
Her concern for Fergy filled much of Lily’s small world, but there were now other concerns to speculate on.
There was, for instance, the deepening mystery of Sister Claudia.
5
Of all the nuns in St. Patrick’s, Sister Claudia was Lily’s favorite. Matron was fine, but Matron operated on a higher plane and had little part in the day-to-day routine. Sister Mary Agnes, who taught them sewing, was a good person but rather dry; Sister Hilda was a bully and had warts; Sister Sophia had such a high opinion of herself that whenever possible she spoke only to God and his bishop.
But Sister Claudia was perfection. Young she was, just in her early twenties, young enough to still have a girl’s spirit in her, and pretty too, fair as morning, and with blue eyes that knew how to sm
ile.
“And,” Fran had summed her up, “she is decidedly a lady.”
When I grow up, if I could be even a little bit like her, what a grand thing that would be, and wouldn’t I be happy?
Nun though she was, it took no wild imagination to see Sister Claudia as the object of a man’s desire. And Sister Claudia, Lily was sure, had a lover.
Lily knew this because she had seen the young man with her own eyes, met him, even.
It was the Sunday after Fergy and Sam Dougherty had been caught raiding the kitchen larder and sentenced to two hours’ extra work time every day for a month. Lily had hated the thought of confronting her brother with yet another of his silly escapades, yet who else was there to do it? The memory of that promise she had made to her mother was never far from Lily’s consciousness, and futile as it might seem, she would not stop trying to change Fergy’s wild ways. He was silent as he walked into the room. Lily greeted him with a kiss, and he turned away from her, waiting, she knew, for the inevitable questions.
“And was it fun, Fergy? Was it worth a month’s extra chores, and disgracing yourself again?”
“Ah, Lil, for the Lord’s love, don’t you be tormenting me too. We just did it for larks.”
“Stealing is a lark, then?”
“I was hungry.”
“And you asked, and they’d give you nothing? That’s hard to believe, Fergy.”
“Why are you always picking on me, anyway? You’re just like the rest of them, after me like rats after cheese.”
“And you such a picture of innocence, the victim of the world’s injustice? You should see yourself, Fergus Malone, and think before you get into more such foolishness.”
“You don’t understand me, Lil, no one does, but you’ll see, I can swear to that, and soon. They’ll all see!” Raging still, he ran from the room.
Lily was shaken to her toes, for in her indignation she had done the thing she most feared, driven him from her. She reached for the nearest piece of furniture, a big stiff armchair, and pulled herself into its shadowy recesses. I should have said it different, or not at all, for sure it is I’ve only provoked him more, and what good will that do, to him or me? She felt the hot tears welling up in her and fought them back in silence.
She didn’t hear them until they were in the room.
Sister Claudia spoke first. Lily would have known that sweet voice anywhere, yet now she trembled to hear it. Suppose Sister Claudia thought she was spying?
“Ah, Gerry, glad as I am to see you, can’t anything I say make a difference?”
So there was a man! Lily detected an underlying tension in the well-known voice, usually so light and warm and filled with joy. There was a sadness in it now: Sister Claudia’s voice was shaded darker, tinged with regret.
And a strange man answered: “No, Claudia. Not then, not now, not ever.”
Lily stirred in her chair.
She knew they thought they were alone, and the idea of being uncovered as an eavesdropper terrified her. She must do something!
Gathering every last atom of courage into one small tight lump, Lily coughed loudly and got to her feet. There followed an instant of silence that seemed to Lily to last for hours.
Then the nun spoke: “Why, Lily! This is a surprise. Have you been visiting with your brother?”
“Yes, Sister,” said Lily quietly, wishing that the carpet would open and swallow her up right then and there, “and he had to leave early.”
“Gerald,” said Sister Claudia too brightly, “meet one of my best pupils. Mr. Gerald St. Clair, Miss Lillian Malone.”
Trembling, Lily curtsied as Sister Claudia had taught her, hoping and praying she was doing it properly. Her eyes were on the deep red of the flower-patterned carpet. Slowly, then, she raised them.
The young man was tall and dark-complexioned and beautifully dressed. He had a thin face, almost an eagle’s face, with big dark eyes and a prominent nose. Lily did not find him beautiful to look at, but surely those great eyes were big enough to hold a tragedy. He smiled.
“I am pleased to meet you, Lillian.”
“Good afternoon, sir, good afternoon, Sister Claudia. I must be going now.”
“Good afternoon, then, Lily.”
Sister Claudia smiled, but it was a pale imitation of her usual good cheer. And how hard it must be to smile when you have a broken heart. For here, Lily was sure, must be the ardent lover she had left behind when she Took the Vow, still in hot pursuit in defiance of all the laws of God and man! Lily somehow got herself out of the reception room without fainting, then raced back to the dormitory. She ran to the window facing out onto Prince Street. There was a sleek new cabriolet glittering with bright paint and polished brass, two matched bays jingling their harness brasses in the crisp March afternoon breeze. Suppose Sister Claudia let herself be persuaded! Lily saw the empty carriage, imagined the lovers running out of St. Paddy’s and leaping into it and galloping off into a life of passion and wickedness.
Of course, people who did things like that came to a bad end, there was no denying it and a bad end was quite the opposite of what Lily wished for Sister Claudia. Yet what an adventure! Suddenly Lily’s narrow world was crowded with possibilities, all of them romantic.
But in a few minutes she saw the tall figure of Gerald St. Clair walk slowly down the path to his carriage, where he turned and smiled an infinitely sad smile and waved at his beloved before climbing up onto his elegant little runabout and clattering off around the corner, past the cathedral, and on up Mott Street.
Lily stayed in the window after he had gone. She imagined Gerald St. Clair at elegant dinner parties and balls, alone in the glittering crowd, desired by all the women but saving himself for A Love That Could Never Be.
Lily and Fran knew about Loves That Could Never Be, for these were the themes of so many popular songs and poems that from time to time Lily wondered if a love ever happened that could be.
Sister Claudia kept her secret well, and never mentioned Gerald to Lily or anyone else. It was as though his visit had never happened, but Lily knew otherwise, and this great event provided her and Fran hours of thrilling speculation. They were secretly married! He was ill with a fatal disease, and needed her to comfort his dying hours.
Now Lily watched Sister Claudia with avid expectation, and read the most significant things into the young nun’s smallest gesture. If Sister Claudia was cheerful, it was merely a ruse to mask her bottomless sorrow. If she was pensive, she must be fighting for control, struggling with unmentionable passions. It was partly a game for Lily, this spinning fantasies about the nun, but it was also the first time in her young life that Lily had come to ponder the many shifting shapes of a grown-up’s happiness.
Meanwhile, life in St. Paddy’s went on. Lily knew how much the orphanage had grown even in the two years she and Fergy had been there; the bishop himself had announced it proudly one day from the pulpit in St. Paddy’s, as though it was a fine thing for a parish to be growing orphans at such a productive rate, and not stopping, as Lily thought he should have, to consider what sadness made an orphan and what shame they felt to be thrown homeless and helpless into St. Paddy’s. But that would not have been in the fine spirit of progress that Lily detected throughout St. Patrick’s. Indeed, and weren’t they busy even now with plans for a grand new orphanage up on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-first Street for the boys only?
If such plans made Matron and Father Gregory happy, then that was fine by Lily. But no new orphanage could dislodge her interest in the romantic life of Sister Claudia, or her concern about Fergy.
One afternoon Lily was summoned to Sister Cathleen’s office again.
She wondered, knocking on the matron’s office door, what new mischief Fergy might have gotten into this time. The familiar voice asked her to come in. Lily opened the heavy door. Sister Cathleen looked tired. Something about the nun’s habits made them look almost ageless to Lily. But this afternoon, and for the first time, Lily could see signs of age o
n the matron’s thin birdlike face. Matron looked tired, Lily thought, and more than a little sad. Fergy must have really put his foot in it this time. Matron smiled and gestured to the chair. Lily sat down, wishing that Matron’s smile had more spark to it. Maybe she was sick.
“I’m afraid I have sad news for you, Lily, dear.”
Lily, dear. My God in heaven. Fergy was dead! Lily blinked, gulped, said nothing. She waited for the ax to fall.
“Your brother…”
Killed someone. Stole the chalice from St. Paddy’s. Lily’s mind was a dark tangle of possibilities, all of them terrible.
“…has run away, Lily. I am very sorry, for I know how much you love him. He left you this.”
Sister Cathleen handed Lily a folded sheet of paper. Lily took it, then sat back in her chair and unfolded it. Slowly, biting her tongue to keep back the tears, she read the crudely printed note as though it were her own death warrant.
Dear Lil,
By the time you get this I will be at sea. Pleas do not worrie, Lil, for yr. Fergy will be alrite. Soon I’l have gold to spare & will send for you, my sister. I’1 write agin from our first port. I must seeke my fortun, Lily, else I’l go mad in this place. Pray for yr. loving brother
Fergy.
6
Lily sat absolutely still as the certain knowledge of Fergy’s betrayal burned into her brain. His note was such a repellent thing to her that she could hardly bear to hold it. His crudely formed words seemed to vibrate on the page as she read them and reread them. The letters wavered as though they were written on water, and Lily realized that her eyes were filled with unshed tears. “Save your tears, child, for one day you may truly need them.”
There was a moment of silence that seemed to extend through all the long days of her future. The window of Matron’s office was open to the bright spring day. One of the gardener’s boys was raking a gravel path, scratch, scratch, scratch. A raucous bird cawed.
Lily thought that if she started crying she might never stop. I will not cry for you, Fergy. She tried to think of something to say, but it was too great an effort. So now he’s left me too, they’ve all left me, and now I am completely alone.
