On the other hand, I was kind of lured by the idea that I would be the bride of Christ. What little girl doesn’t like to think of herself as a bride? Or a princess?
I began to conjure the wedding scene.
A white flowing gown, tight to my bodice and cinched at the waist (very grown up), a veil covering up my strawberry blonde hair, and tiny white flowers around my head. Red roses across my arm. Gloves up to my elbows.
All thirteen of us, from Paul to Jude, plus Wanda, Sister Everista, Monsignor Boyle, and the nuns fill the pews. Families dressed in Sunday best stuff the church to overflowing. I catch a glance from Teresa Feeney. She’s steaming jealous, but I forgive her, because Why Not? Jesus is my fiancé; she’ll never do better than that.
Daddy stands with me at the back of the church wearing his Navy Summer Dress Whites, which I love - the hat and gold bands on his shoulders and across his chest. He’s a Commander and when you see him in the outfit, you just want to salute.
Maria Callas gently rolls out the soft notes of “Ave Maria.” I can tell by the back of her head that Mother has tears in her eyes at this very second!
Martin Caslow and Zeke Brody lead the boys’ choir up the middle in white surplices over their cassocks, forming a semi-circle at the altar facing the congregation. All the boys who throw spit- balls in class and get smacked by the nuns look angelic up there. Two altar boys swing the incense --there’s so much of it that grey clouds rise to the dome.
This is Stefanucci’s first duty as the new Pope, and he’s next in the procession. Decked out in gold vestments, huge glittery gloves and the tall Pope Crown tottering on his head. “Here Comes the Bride” begins to play on the organ. I’m getting goose bumps. A bunch of officers (friends of Daddy’s) stiff and tall in white Navy uniforms walk up on either side of the pews and face each other. You can hear their shoes clicking on the marble floor. They pull out long swords and touch the tips to form an arbor. All eyes are on me as I go up the center aisle, walking under the swords on Daddy’s arm.
I can’t believe it. Jesus (in his best sandals, beige cassock and gold-edged chasuble) is waiting for me.
Jesus Christ!
The most famous man in the world. More famous than Shakespeare! He’s so tan (!) from all that time in the desert, his blue eyes twinkle at me affectionately, and his beard is freshly shaved around the edges. His teeth are so white he looks like a toothpaste commercial. He has that Christ glow around His head, so you know for sure it’s Him.
I pass by His family in the pew, God the Father, God the Holy Ghost, the Blessed Mother, her cousin Elizabeth, her husband Joseph, the whole gang. And they’re all hoping that Jesus has finally made the right choice : “Two thousand years, and He picks this cute little red-head Annie Shea to be his bride. Yeah, she’s feisty, we like her.” His mother, The Blessed Mother, is so happy she’s glowing, like you see around the head of Our Lady of Guadalupe. She glances over at my mother who has been staring at her. They exchange an inspired look of destiny and pride across the aisle. Daddy is now at the front; he gives me a kiss on the cheek and then, Jesus Christ, the bridegroom, reaches out for my hand. It’s shaking.
Of course, Father Stefanucci, now the Pope, says Mass. When He asks for the ring, Jesus just snaps his fingers and it springs from the pillow and appears in his hands. It’s kind of a surprise for the little kids, who are staring at the pillow when the ring disappears. Jesus is right there next to me, his arm around my waist, but he takes the white wafer on his tongue like it’s perfectly normal to eat your own body and blood. Everyone is holding their breath for the moment when the Pope says, “I now pronounce you Husband and Wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I’ve never been kissed before, but lately I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve been sitting crossed-legged in the closet kissing my two fingers like they were lips and I’ve practiced to where I’m pretty good now. When you kiss a guy you have to lift your face and look into his eyes. Then, just before he leans in and brushes his lips against yours, you close your eyes…
So that’s what I do. I close my eyes and lean in…
But then… “Brides of Christ.” Hey! That’s plural.
Just then, I look around and see a line-up of brides behind me out the church and a mile long into the street, waiting their turn to seal it with a kiss. Agggh! I hadn’t thought of that! They say “Bride of Christ” to any girl who wants to be a nun. That means that all the nuns of the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and beyond are already married to Him! Plus the modern ones. Think about it! The situation is pretty convenient for Him to have thousands and thousands of brides; He can read your thoughts and actions all the time, but you can’t see anything He’s doing. As a nun, you understand this going in. You turn a blind eye to all the other relationships that Jesus has with the other nuns. Right?
You act as if the idea is perfectly normal.
It’s gross. Some of the nuns aren’t even that good-looking. Even though their outfits cover up everything but their faces, I can tell. A big nose is a big nose. Ugly is ugly.
Okay, maybe that’s the point: that Christ loves even the ugly ones. But… married to them? The whole thing is creepy. Why would He set up something so sleazy as that? As a nun, I’m just another girl in a black wool dress and a white bib with wings on her head who has to bow and scrape to the priests, the monsignors, and the archbishops. I have to admit that things being what they are, I’ll never be good enough to even be an altar boy, never mind getting to step behind the white gates up on the altar and dangle incense with the priest. I certainly wouldn’t be the chosen one! I would just be one of his many nuns, all covered up in strange headgear. Besides, I want to be the center of the universe. I want to be Number One, I want God to love me the most.
No, no, no, this nun thing is definitely not for me.
Chapter 4
him’s got
June 7 – Dear Diary, I wore my new dress today. Wanda and Carole asked me when I was going to Africa as a nun. I said there was a delay. Luckily I brought the nun book, and we looked at the habits. Wanda wants to wear the white wings on her head. Carole is a Doubting Thomas. BY THE WAY. Today I will sacrifice my diary in the service of Father Stefanucci becoming the Pope at the end of June. Instead of saying, “Dear Diary,” I will say, “Dear Jesus” and write letters and prayers to God. This is, from now on, a prayer book instead of a diary.
The day was as gorgeous as it could be. No smog, the sun squinty bright like it is at the Rose Parade, only hot, and I should have been excited at the sight of the waves. We were on a sandy beach that stretched for miles. But there was dread and danger everywhere. Scary music played in the background, the kind that makes you know something bad is going to happen. Mother and I were barefoot; I could feel the sand between my toes. I wanted to run, but nothing in my body worked like it usually does; I couldn’t even move a finger. The iron pot was as round as a witch’s and as big as the backyard swimming pool at Clarkie Franklin’s house next door. The water wasn’t hot enough yet, but the fire burned under it. I was first in line! In my mind, I read the headline: Youngest Nun ever to be sacrificed. Then I felt something tugging at my foot. Through sleep mud, I heard Daddy’s voice.
“Annie, do you want to get up with me this morning? It’s time to get dressed.” The fear at the pit of my stomach evaporated as I understood that I was in my own bed, that Jeannie and Rosie were dark lumps in theirs.
Yes! Yes I’d love to go with you to Mass this morning! I thought right away. And you can bet I’ll be saying a special thank you prayer to the Blessed Mother. I was out of my pajamas in one second. I felt the warmth sitting in the pile of them and the cold in the room.
“This is a special day, Annie,” Daddy said as we backed out of the driveway. “You’ll pray for me, won’t you?”
It always feels special so early in the morning when there’s a little bit of chill and no one on the road. You can hear the tires rolling over the asphalt. Cars parked in front of the houses sweat with condens
ation as the first light of day creeps up. When we pass our neighbors, I imagine them stirring in their beds, still sleepy and exhaling bad breath clouds. In winter, the street lamps fade one after another as the sun rises all around us. The smell of fresh manure wafts up from the manicured lawns on Orange Grove Boulevard and tiny blades of recently sown grass poke up through the soil in early spring. A calm euphoria, the feeling of promise and a comfortable goodness, fills the air. I love these mornings. Especially when I’m the only one who gets up for 6:30 Mass. Because on those mornings, it’s just me and Daddy.
Today is Friday. Mass on the first Friday of each month for nine consecutive months guarantees the “grace of a happy death.” If you do the novena, the deal is, God will make sure you won’t die in your sleep or get killed in a car crash without first saying you’re sorry. At the very least you have the chance to clean the slate since your last confession. You won’t go to hell. That’s the guarantee. It’s like buying an insurance policy without having to pay anything. The only thing you sacrifice is your sleep. I had five more Fridays to go.
Today, he said, was his last day at work for the United States Navy. It was the last day he was going to have to work for idiots who bossed him around just because they were above him and had a higher rank.
“But Commander, that’s a high rank, isn’t it, Daddy? Don’t you have people you can boss around?”
“I’ve been in the Navy 21 years, Annie,” he confided.
That’s what I liked about Daddy – he told you things that were on his mind, like he forgot that you were only twelve going on thirteen. And when he told you, it’s like he was giving you this responsibility to take his side. And you didn’t want to let him down.
“In the beginning, I rose quite quickly, during the war,” he said. “At Pearl Harbor I was a boot ensign, but by the time I met your mother I was already a lieutenant.” We were at the corner of the majestic Arroyo Seco Bridge and the road to downtown. The sun was glowing on the horizon. The air was warming up; there were more cars on the road. Pasadena was waking up to her day.
“In the Navy, there’s a whole social aspect to getting ahead,” Daddy confided. “But with so many kids, it became impossible for your mother. People have their expectations, but it’s a different reality when there are five children at home under the age of seven. You can’t just drop everything and get gussied up for a dinner party. Don’t ever tell her this,” he paused. He looked over to me as if deciding whether or not his secret would be safe with me. He smiled, a bit sadly. “She wasn’t cut out for it. It’s a disappointment. But what could I do? I love your mother.”
So Mother wasn’t inclined to playing Navy wife to Hoity Toitys? I had to agree with him there. I couldn’t imagine her dressed up. There’s no way she would wear high heels. For one, her bunions were as big as her toes from standing on her feet all day.
That’s the problem with Dad, you can get going on a topic, but sooner or later it always comes back to the same thing: how the kids slowed him down, or used up all his money, or took away his golf time. It made me feel guilty and sad. Now he was resigning from the Navy because he didn’t get promoted. And he didn’t get promoted because Mom and us kids were hanging off his neck, relying on him to get bargains on massive amounts of food and keeping him from important cocktail parties. I couldn’t help thinking about the photograph of Mother in the hospital with that mystery baby on her lap. Daddy acted like it never existed. If I had a baby that disappeared, I might not think impressing other Navy wives was an important thing to do either.
“But Dad,” I said, “didn’t God want you to have so many kids? If it’s the kids’ fault, or if it’s Mother’s fault for having so many kids, it’s really God’s fault, isn’t it?”
“God is never at fault, honey. And it’s not your Mother’s fault, either. It’s just a disappointment, that’s all.”
We got to the church doors just in time. The priest was already up on the altar. Mr. Sanchez, who attended Mass every morning since his wife died two years ago, gave Daddy a stiff salute.
“Good morning, Commander. Any news of the Conclave in Rome?” he asked, holding the huge wooden door open for us.
“Nothing yet, Sanchez.” We stepped into the cool church and hushed our voices. “God’s will be done, whatever it is.”
When we got home the house pulsed with the sounds of morning: coffee percolating on the sideboard, the screen door slamming as Bartholomew (#5) put stuff in the VW bus, steam hissing from the iron as Madcap pressed her dress. I melted butter on my steaming bowl of Cream of Wheat, excited at the prospect of an adventure: we were all going to play hooky from school and drive to China Lake with Daddy for his last day in the United States Navy.
We filled the whole front row of the main conference room at the Naval Ordnance Test Station while a bunch of guys in uniforms gave speeches about our dad. Luckily we had training about how to sit still from having to go to Mass every Sunday. Mother had to take Jude to the doorway and put him down so he could toddle around. I love how babies are disobedient, how you can’t always get them to do what you want. They just need what they need. Jude didn’t want to be cooped up in a room with a bunch of boring old Navy officers, and because he was still a baby, all he had to do was wiggle to get a little bit of freedom. But once they learn how to talk, you can control them by telling them stories. They’ll believe anything.
Anyway, the admirals and officers gave Daddy a plaque and he got up to the microphone.
“It’s not so bad that I’m retiring,” he quipped, motioning to the lot of us, “I’ve got my own private mess hall here, in case I get homesick for you guys. Heh, heh, heh.” Everyone laughed with Dad. “Once a year on April 15th, I thank the Lord for these kids. I never pay taxes ‘cause I’ve got so many deductions.” Laughter again. Maybe Daddy was retiring to become a stand-up comedian. He was saying things like, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” as the punch line, or “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!” As Jude ran through the aisles with Mother chasing after him, everyone was laughing, like they do on TV when Phyllis Diller tells a joke. Then Rosie (#8) called out from the front row, “Don’t give up the ship, Dad!” The crowd roared.
There were a couple of cakes with seven-minute frosting (my favorite) and they had to cut really small slices so all the kids could get a piece. All the commanders and captains were standing around the cake table having coffee, patting Daddy on the back, and bending over and shaking the hands of the little kids. There was one guy who’d survived the war standing on one good leg. The other leg was just a folded pant leg. He had a cane and was dressed in a long khaki coat, so you didn’t really notice it, unless you were short. But I could see that Matthew (#11) was trying to figure it out.
“Him’s got only one leg!” he blurted. The room went silent as all faces turned towards little Matthew, age four, and his big voice. A smile escaped from Daddy, and then he suppressed it. Hopefully no one else saw. We all felt sorry for the guy with only one leg.
After that, we stretched out in a line in front of the enormous metal anchor out in front of the building, in birth order. Paul, aka Big Cheese (#1) at one end, and Mother holding Jude (#13) at the other next to Daddy in his Navy dress whites. We squinted into the sun as the photographer snapped a picture.
As soon as the car doors were shut, the windows were rolled up and we rolled out of the parking lot, Daddy led the charge. “Him’s only got one leg!” he said laughing heartily, egging us on. “Him’s only got one leg!” The carload of us were killing ourselves with laughter, barreling down the highway towards Pasadena.
Dear Jesus, The big surprise was, John-the-Blimp announced that he had decided to join the seminary! No offense to you, but John-the-Blimp is not priest material! He just wants some of that residual glory going around about Father Stefanucci possibly becoming the Pope. Surely you know this, and you’re just letting him work it out on his own. Right? Right?!
Chapter 5
jeannie over the l
ine
June 8 – Dear Jesus, Things are out of control all over again, and it’s making me feel twitchy. First of all, they’ve got some weapons called Titan nuclear missiles near Tucson, Arizona. Daddy is up in arms about them; he’s going ballistic even though he thinks they’re a good idea. Do we really need these? This nuclear bomb talk is scarring me for life, not to mention all the children in my class who are bruising themselves as they fly under their desks in a panic whenever that siren starts to blow. And now Mother is prejudiced against me. She sticks on Jeannie’s side whenever we disagree. I don’t mean to quarrel, but I try to keep myself from living in a pig sty! Jeannie immediately tattles: “Mother! Annie took my Peds off the fan and did something with them!” So Mother calls me in. I haven’t the slightest about her Peds!!! And then, she tries to chop me low by telling EVERYONE in a loud voice WHAT I AM DOING AND WHERE I AM DOING IT. SO YOU SEE, HARDLY ANYTHING IS PRIVATE. EVEN MY WRITING IN THIS DIARY. I AM YELLING!
Now that Daddy didn’t have to work at the U.S. Navy anymore, we were all recruited into helping him get customers. First of all, he decided to quit smoking his pipes because the American Heart Association said smoking is bad. But the important thing is, while he was quitting smoking and deciding to retire, he bought an American Motors dealership. Therefore, we had to help him send out “Under New Management” announcements. He didn’t own the dealership yet—they were waiting for the paperwork to go through—but Daddy said it would be a good time to introduce himself. So Daddy and Mom and the older kids sat around the dining room table on a Saturday afternoon, putting cards in envelopes—hundreds of envelopes —boxes of envelopes—for Daddy’s new job.
There was all this sickening talk about John-the-Blimp’s unexpected “vocation” and how glad God in heaven must be. I sat there, forced to listen to it while my hands quickly moved over the post cards. You could tell Mother and Daddy were just bursting with pride, and John-the-Blimp wallowed in it like a sparrow in a birdbath on a hot day. He had just turned sixteen, and with this announcement he’d get to be up on the altar for all the special Masses and holidays, with everyone whispering and smiling approvingly. He was even allowed to take his cassock home.
A Theory of Expanded Love Page 3
