“What? What?” they clamored.
“Shhhh,” I whispered, “It’s a secret!” We traipsed past the laundry room where Mother was doing her seventh load of the day, and gathered in the dark shed with the flashlight, elbowing each other for a good view. It was hard to believe, but there were photographs of a skinny blonde man in an Army uniform with our very beautiful Mother. The name under her picture was not our mother’s name. It was Adamson. Mrs. Katherine McLellan Adamson. We looked at each other right in the eyeballs, letting it sink in. Our mother was married before Daddy? We were so shocked we didn’t hear anything, not the sound of Daddy’s car pulling softly into the garage, not the sound of his door slamming. Not even Sparky nosing the door open with his snout.
•••
After the lights went out that night, we lay on our backs in the dark staring at the ceiling. I still had welts on my bottom, so at first, I was frozen still in my bed, listening for Daddy’s voice at the door. Usually he made the rounds, his voice springing up out of nowhere, startling us out of a drifting sleep, his stern, “Pipe down kids!” resonating down the hall. Jeannie (#7), Rosie (#9), and I shared one of the two big upstairs rooms. We could hear the sounds of Mother knocking about in the kitchen, finishing up the dishes below us. The uneven voices of John-the-Blimp (#3) and Bartholomew (#5) were muffled behind their closed door across the hall. Clara (#2) in her single room at the front of the house was already fast asleep, her throat making a soft rattling sound in the distance. Madcap’s room, at the other end by the stairs, was not a proper bedroom, just a small rectangle under a skylight. She was probably reading a book with a flashlight. The light in the hallway flicked on. I imagined Paul (#1) sitting under its glow on the wooden storage box as he spoke softly into the telephone receiver. Usually we tried to stay awake long enough to hear the embarrassing “I love you” at the end. Every night we had to hear it to believe it. It was impossible to imagine Paul, with the exploding temper of a thousand mad Irishmen, sounding so gentle.
I was thinking about the expression on Daddy’s face as he stood in the shed, looking at that picture of Mother in the embrace of the handsome soldier. We were hiding behind the boxes, peering up at him from the darkness. Rosie was breathing too loudly in my ear. And Daddy’s face got this look on it—curiosity, maybe? A softness, staring at it for so long. And then he discovered us. He looked right into my eyes as Rosie squealed.
So tonight we girls had to talk about Mother’s secret.
“That’s why she gets migraines and has to take naps,” Rosie offered. Rosie was just seven-years-old, but she had her theories. “She’s still sad.”
“Yeah,” said Jeannie, “maybe that’s why she’s moody all the time.” Then Rosie’s little voice came out of the dark in the corner again. “Do you think she really loves Daddy?”
“I think she does,” I answered. “Hey! You know the picture of Mom and Dad in the corner of the den? Their wedding picture?”
“Yeah,” said Jeannie. “Mother wasn’t wearing a white wedding dress! She was wearing a pink suit with flowers on the lapel.”
“That’s why! Her first wedding used up the chance for a proper veil!” Right, I thought, I’ve got to see them: the real white wedding pictures were probably still in the trunk.
“If the soldier didn’t get killed, would you love him as our dad?” Rosie asked.
“We wouldn’t even be born if he didn’t get killed,” I said. “We’re half Dad and half Mom,” I said. You have to slow down for little kids like Rosie when topics of this magnitude are discussed.
“I’m not half of anybody,” she said defiantly, “I’m me!”
Then Jeannie said, “I think that’s why Mom stays after Mass every Sunday.”
“So she can be alone with her prayers for her first husband,” I added.
“I bet she still misses him,” Rosie said quietly.
How could you miss someone after they were dead for so long? I wondered. The soldier had been dead for longer than we were even alive. But it was true: when everyone else clears out of the church, Mom kneels in the pew reading her prayer book full of holy cards. (Gold-edged, decorated on the front with Renaissance Blessed Mothers or scenarios of famous martyrs being shot up with arrows or burned at the stake).
“Maybe that’s why she’s so devoted to the Blessed Mother,” Jeannie suggested. I hated to admit it, but I thought Jeannie was right.
The Blessed Mary was Mother’s pet saint, even though she wasn’t technically a saint. As we all knew, the Blessed Mother is well above the angels and saints. Chosen to be the mother of God, Mary managed to get pregnant without going through any of the usual channels. Even though we didn’t understand what it meant, we believed in The Immaculate Conception, the Virgin Birth, the Holy Ghost--and were ready to be martyrs for it all.
I used to imagine the lot of us rounded up around a boiling pot of water in the jungle while pygmies gathered ‘round trying to get us to chicken out of our Catholic beliefs. They’d be standing on their short legs, shifting their weight from foot to foot in anticipation, hands on their spears staked in the ground next to them, grinning like we do in front of our fried chicken dinner. I couldn’t picture what would happen at the critical moment, when all the darkies, silent and salivating, waited for my response to, You! #6! Articulate deception? Denounce it or we’re going to eat you! Would I stride confidently up to the steaming vat? Would I have the courage, knowing I’d be triumphant in correcting their pronunciation, but still ignorant of what Immaculate Conception or Special Dispensation, or any of it, really meant exactly? At the critical moment, would it boost my bravery knowing I’d be canonized a saint? That the drama of my scalding would ultimately be reduced to a routine martyr scene, printed on gold-edged holy cards and tucked inside my mother’s prayer book?
No! The Blessed Mother would come to the rescue! Of course she would. (I would give up the golden image of my martyrdom on the holy card if she’d miraculously pull me out of the pygmy clutches at the last second.)
I was counting on it. She had a special mission in life: to intervene on our behalf, to whisper things into God’s ear that would put us into His special favor or remind Him to show a little mercy. (God, being so perfect and capital “G,” was somehow excused for doing dramatic and frightening things only He could be responsible for, like wars, disease, tidal waves, earthquakes, and having shrimpy Africans boil little children alive just to prove their loyalty to Him).
It was easy to see how even God Almighty could get carried away with all that raw power. Clearly He needed someone to hold him back, so as a practical consideration, He created the gentler Blessed Mother. And we prayed to her, just in case we ever found ourselves surrounded by pygmies.
Out of thirteen children born to her, Mother named eight after Mary, the mother of God. Something must have happened; either some heavenly panic visited her or a secret holy pact was struck with the Blessed Mother because five of my brothers were given the middle name of Mary. Mostly the kids in the second half of the family got it. As if Mother was just too darn tired after the seventh birth or the ninth birth or the twelfth to dream up a second name.
The next day I caught Mother in the bathroom. I had been tracking her around the house so she would notice me. Last week I hid behind the coats then casually appeared wherever she was, pretending to be doing something. I found out that she took a nap every afternoon once the little kids were down. The rest of the time, if she wasn’t sterilizing baby bottles or changing diapers, it was dishes or laundry. Or she helped the kids find things, saying “Dear St. Anthony, please come around, something is lost and can’t be found.” Sometimes she helped Clara (#2) or Madcap (#4) with their sewing when they got frustrated. She had these thick veins in her legs, and she wore beige stockings and thick shoes. I could tell when she was tired: she would sigh. And if she didn’t take her nap every afternoon, she would get migraines.
But, there was only one place where I could always find Mother with no kids around: the bathroom. So I
camped outside that bathroom door. Sometimes I asked her questions. Sometimes I just said, “Hi, Mom” and read a book.
Today, I sat down on the floor and leaned against the door. I got my pencil and started doing my homework assignment.
Life is not fair, I started, reading over what I had already written. Wanda only has one measly little brother. Sally has two. How long is it going to take for them to write a paper on their family? Am I being punished? I’ve got eight brothers and four sisters.
#1. Paul is also known as Big Cheese, because his feet are big and he wears the same socks five days in a row, until they’re stiff. And they stink! He’s eighteen-years-old.
#2. Clara is seventeen-years-old and super bossy, but a very cool teenager (with boobs) and really nice when she’s in a good mood.
#3. John-the-Blimp is sixteen-years-old. When we’re mad at him, we call him Fatso Freshy. He deserves it.
#4. Margaret is Madcap because she’s eccentric. She comes home late from school without a good explanation, cuts classes, and hides things in her lunch bag. Even though she gets good grades and looks beautiful, she smokes cigarettes and dresses immodestly in short skirts and black stockings. She’s fifteen-years-old.
#5. Bartholomew is fourteen-years-old. We call him Bart the fart ‘cause whatever he eats makes him toot.
My hand was getting stiff from writing.
“Mom?” I called to her over the the transom window.
“Yes, Annie.”
“Why did you name me Annie?”
“I named you Mary. Your father wanted to call you Annie. Saint Anne is the mother of Mary and the grandmother of Jesus.”
I started writing again.
I’m #6. Sometimes I’m known as Skinny Milink the Graveyard Dancer because I’m spindly like a bag of bones at the graveyard. Mother wanted to name me Mary, but Daddy won on that one and everyone calls me Annie. When Mother is mad at me she says, “Mary Ann!” I like Annie Shea, it has a ring to it. I’m glad they don’t call me anything having to do with my red hair. I turned 12 on January 8th.
“Ok, Mom, why did you want to name me Mary?” I called through the bathroom door. There aren’t many stories about me, but I wanted to hear one. And I was the first Mary, even though it’s my middle name.
“It’s Blessed Mother’s name,” she said, over the sound of the toilet flushing.
“I know Mom! So you named me after the Blessed Mother?” I had to yell so she could hear me. “Why? Was there something special about me?” I was setting myself up for a compliment.
“If I gave you that name, I thought maybe Mary could always watch over you in a special way.” Now I could hear the water running in the sink.
“What about the boys? Why’d you give Mary as a middle name to the boys?”
“It works the same way for the boys,” she said. “The Blessed Mother can take care of them, too.”
“Mary is not a boy’s name.”
“There are boys who have Mary as a middle name.” Her hand was on the door handle.
“Oh, really?” I said as she opened the door.
“Really,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Pray tell,” I said, but she didn’t answer. So then I looked back at my list.
#7. Holy Moley. Mother loves everything Jeannie does and she can do no wrong. (Jeannie is eleven). If it wasn’t a mortal sin to hate someone, I would hate her.
#8. Dominic Vo Biscum. When Mother told us his name was Dominic, John-the-Blimp said, “Vo Biscum” We said “Et cum spiri tu tu oh,” and it stuck. Dominic is nine-years-old.
#9. Rosie is short and sweet, and we can’t help but love her. She’s named after Saint Rose of Lima. Mother usually dresses her in the color rose. She’s seven-years-old.
#10. Luke is Buddy. He’s six. He was named after the apostle St. Luke, the patron saint of artists, doctors, students, and butchers. (Butchers?)
#11 & 12. The twins, Matthew and Mark are four-years-old. They’re named after the apostles. Darling.
#13. Jude is just one-and-a-half-years-old. He’s named after St. Jude, the patron saint of desperate cases.
I finished the assignment. Daddy wasn’t scheduled to be home for another two hours. I put my homework down and went out to the shed. I heard voices in the front yard; the boys were folding their newspapers for their paper routes. I listened for Daddy’s car up the driveway. The coast was clear.
The shed, a drooping building made of dry, splintery wood that smelled like stale oil and grime, was attached to the back of the house. The door creaked. Inside, bursting sunshine lit the darkness as it poured through the doorway in a single line. I closed the door behind me and waited for my eyes to adjust. Then I knelt down in front of the box. Now what? It would be just my luck that Daddy would come home unexpectedly and accidentally lock me in the shed.
The book with the photographs of Mother’s wedding sat on top, where we had tossed it just as Daddy discovered us. I opened it and stood in the glow of sunshine coming through the slat. Our mother’s face was so plump and smooth. She wore a white satin dress down to the floor with a veil to her waist and a big bouquet of flowers wrapped in a shiny satin ribbon. Her soldier wore the khaki uniform of the United States Army. He had a young face, too, was much taller than she was, and quite thin. He looked pleased with himself. His hand on her white dress gently touched our mother’s waist. Her eyes sparkled. It was hard to imagine that the flowers she held had wilted and gone mushy and that the man whose face I saw was just a skeleton in some grave. I read the clippings.
Katherine Alice McLellan married Clifford Mary Adamson on my birthday! In 1943, on January 8th in Milwaukee, Wisconsin at the chapel in the Old Soldiers’ Home. I was feeling really special about my birthday and my middle name when something white fell from the pile of photographs.
I held up the square white envelope in the beam of sunlight streaming through the darkness. Mother’s familiar handwriting said Feb. 2, 1944 on the outside. Tucked inside was a makeshift wax paper envelope holding a thin clump of soft, blonde hair. Then I spied a hospital identification bracelet in the white envelope. Every one of us has one of these from our own birth, given to us by Mother for our First Holy Communion. I recognized it instantly. This one was made of blue glass beads with white beads etched in black letters, spelling “baby boy Adamson.” I touched it, feeling the love that put it there so reverently.
Suddenly, I had a thousand questions.
Chapter 3
bride(s) of christ
June 6 – Dear Diary, Now I am the keeper of a very big family secret. It’s not enough that Mother was married to someone we just found out about. I think she had a baby, too! If there is a secret baby, I feel like I have loved it for a long time. Even though it would be older than me by now. I don’t want to tell anyone. It’s my secret.
Yesterday I was home with a really bad cold. After school, Wanda called and said the teacher read my mystery story “The Bleeding Crucifix and the Next Pope” out loud in class. She said it was really good and everyone liked it. The only thing I got wrong, Sister Everista said, was that Christ is not “magic.” He’s God. Everyone was talking about our family friend, Cardinal Stefanucci, being a candidate for The First American Pope. I smiled a lot and got tons of attention. If this is God’s will, then let it be done!
It almost went without saying that once he got elected Pope, Father Stefanucci would have to visit us. I wanted to be on the altar with him, to hold the incense and cross my hands over the heads of the faithful. Because I was a girl, being a nun was the closest I could get.
Mother gave me a wish book of all the orders of Sisters. I flipped through the pages, looking keenly at the uniforms. The Franciscans, the Dominicans, the Sisters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I couldn’t decide. The nuns at our school were the Sisters of The Holy Name. I didn’t like their uniforms, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with them. Their mystique had been depleted by daily contact.
At first I imagined myse
lf in the various habits. The Daughters of St. Vincent de Paul wore long black wool dresses, white bibs, and starched white hats folded into huge wings. I thought that would be cool, balancing that thing on my head and caring for the poor. Everyone in the family would be beam at the sight of me in one of those contraptions, and best of all, my red hair would be invisible! But I was shopping, no commitments yet, and the Carmelites started to look pretty good. Theirs was a chocolate brown habit with a street-length sleeveless chasuble over their plain dress. The round, white capes were set off by the dark brown and framed their faces. A rope belt at the waist and a huge dangling cross completed the look. This outfit made them look more like monks. Bonus! I was sold. Secretly, I just wanted to be one of the guys.
In preparation for my vocation, I knew I was supposed to behave like a saint, which for a girl, meant to keep my head down, silently cross myself randomly, and never get irritated at anyone. So I developed this nibbling mouth gesture, like I was praying under my breath, that I adopted in case someone was looking at me. I directed it at the numerous paintings and portraits of God and the saints hanging on all the walls of our home, making a point of stopping at each statue and doing a mini-genuflect. Sometimes I imagined we were all having a party: The Sacred Heart, St. Patrick, St. Anthony, and St. Therese of the Little Flower, standing on the mantle around the chalice, interrupted by the clock chiming every fifteen minutes. I noticed for the first time that there wasn’t a single room where some face of heaven wasn’t looking out at us. Even in the bathroom. I felt the pressure of all of them, watching me and adding it all up. Sin? Devotion? Vanity?
But the vows. I felt a little constricted by the vows I’d have to take: Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience. I was tired of being the poor family on the block. I didn’t understand the need for Chastity. (What is it really?) Obedience was another thing. According to Mother, I was always being “willfully disobedient.” Maybe I could sow my wild oats like St. Paul did. (Not sure what “sow my wild oats” really meant, but I knew I could probably do it!) I could go back to the nun’s life after I had something to be sorry for.
A Theory of Expanded Love Page 2
