Once we got out of the city, nearer to Ventura and driving next to the water, the air smelled like salt and dead fish. We drove past little houses at the base of the mountains, small towns, really, nothing like the bustling, smoggy city of Pasadena. The blue water sparkled on the left, white caps on top of the waves rolling in and in and in. Little Surfer, little one, make my heart come all undone, do you love me, do you surfer girl?
As we passed California Street, Aaron Solomon said, “I’ll drive you up to the Mission, but I want you to see how easy it is to get back here to California Street. We call it C Street Beach. You just take Main Street to California Street. Turn down towards the beach.”
He dropped us off at the Mission. We pulled up next to the heavy wood front door, a white stucco building with a tower and a cross on top. I stepped onto the pavement and stretched my legs while Madcap gathered her purse on her lap.
“See you later?” He asked Madcap from the driver’s seat.
“Maybe,” she said, hopping down. “If Clara wants to.”
“Clara!” He called to me. “Don’t cha want to see me surf?” Now he had that flirty look on his face, and he was directing it at me.
“I’m not Clara, I’m Annie. Clara is the one we’re visiting.”
“Thanks for the ride!” Madcap said, waving.
“My pleasure.” He was leaning down from the steering wheel looking at Madcap with those big blue eyes. “If you don’t make it to California Street today, how can I reach you?”
“You live in South Pasadena?” Madcap asked.
“That’s the story,” he said, smiling that big smile again.
“My Dad’s name is Martin and we’re in the book. Martin Shea. We live on Madeline Drive, across the street from Westridge School.”
“Westridge! I know Westridge,” he said, elated.
“You can call me.”
“I’ll call,” he said, and blew her a kiss.
Chapter 18
sisters of saint isabella
Dear Blessed Mother, You gave me all the signs, and I was too stupid to notice a single one. You’ve really got to help us here.
“There’s Clara!” I practically shouted. I was so excited to see her. I could tell it was her by the little flip of her duck tail down the back of her short hairdo. She stood up from a chair and turned around to greet us as we entered the living room at the convent. I took one look.
“Clara!” I said. “Are you pregnant?”
“I am,” she said, holding her hands on her belly. My jaw dropped. Clara opened her arms up for a hug. Madcap ran up to her and embraced her. I stood off to the side and grabbed her hand, then squeezed. Her breasts were huge, like melons.
What the heck? I thought. Clara is pregnant?
No wonder our parents sent her up here; they didn’t want anyone in the parish to know! That would definitely affect our rank at St. Andrew’s. It was as unbelievable as it was scandalous. No wonder Daddy was talking about confession! Clara had been naked with some guy already!
She put her private parts together with him. Oh, my God! Oh, my God!
But I didn’t have the heart to tell Clara what she already knew, namely that she was a mortal sinner, casting a black mark on a perfectly upstanding Catholic family. And if she hasn’t already gone to confession, she’s in real danger right now. She could cross the street and get hit by a motorcycle, wham! And end up in the fiery inferno with the devil. I felt so sorry for her. She was overly glad to see us; her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Happy tears, she said. “Thank you, thank you guys so much for coming up here. I’ve been so lonely. I’ve just been unbelievably lonely.”
“We met this guy,” Madcap said, unable to hide her excitement.
“I miss everybody,” Clara wailed. “Jude must be getting big.”
“Yeah, but I see him everyday, so I can’t tell how much he’s grown.
Then Madcap said, “How long before your baby is born?”
“They say I’m due at the end of November. Did you get my letters?” She looked at both of us eagerly.
“I did, Clara,” I said. “But you didn’t tell me.”
“That’s why we’re here, Clara,” said Madcap.
“How could I tell you, Skinny Milink? You wouldn’t have come.”
“We hitchhiked!” Madcap could barely contain herself. “After that letter, I knew I had to do something drastic.”
I was standing next to Clara, and she seemed warm. Warm and moist, almost as if we were in a sauna and little steam clouds were rising all around her.
“We hitchhiked with this really cute guy,” Madcap gushed.
“He wasn’t a murderer,” I added. We’re in so much trouble. How are we going to get home?
“Watch out for the guys,” Clara said. “You’ll end up here, trapped with no communication to the outside world. You won’t be able to use the phone. Daddy will come up once a week to lecture you.”
“He lectures us anyway,” Madcap said.
Clara led us down the hall to her room. It was simple and neat, two beds with barely an aisle between them. Hardly any stuff, just a white bedspread, a pillow and a crucifix on the bare stucco wall, and a one-bulb lamp next to the bed.
“This used to be a nun’s room,” Clara said. I took a breath, trying to comprehend the implications for Clara. A musty smell and the cool stillness of the bare room made my heart race, the same kind of panic I felt thinking Clara was gone forever from our lives. I noticed a small window framed by a simple piece of wood high up on the wall, but you couldn’t see the sky outside. Just some wood beams, probably on the archway in the courtyard. The sun was blasting outside, but it was all shadows in Clara’s room. I looked at Madcap whose eyes darted around like a trapped animal. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and back again. She pushed against me like she does when she wants to go to the restroom and we’re at the Cal Tech movies together.
“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered to me.
“My roommate, Bee Bee, left the day before yesterday, to have her baby at the hospital,” Clara said. “I don’t even know what happened.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What happens when a person has a baby?”
“I mean I don’t know what she did with her baby. If it was a boy or girl.” This was completely new territory for me. What she did with her baby? Why is that a question? Mothers cuddle their babies and change their diapers. But I hadn’t thought about it in terms of Clara. I assumed we would bring the baby home and Clara would have it all to herself. But then, everyone would know. She was here because they were trying to hide the fact that she was pregnant.
“Hey, can we see the inside of the chapel?” I asked. I was wondering if she had thought about going to confession. Seeing the confessional might remind her and save her from the jaws of hell. Just in case. You never know what second you’re going to go.
The cool ambience of the interior was so familiar. This one had a Spanish feeling. Blue and red votive lights under a large wooden statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Statues standing on shelves at eye level, looking down on the faithful. Instead of marble, it was stucco walls and terra cotta tiles on the floor. The church itself was a long hall, with wooden pews stretching on either side of the central aisle. The altar at the front had a small, golden fort-like building in the middle of it, where they put the Eucharist. Silver candlesticks framed the gold box. The whole thing just took you over, with its musty wood smell, its statues and chandeliers and Stations of the Cross up and down the walls, framed in gold wood frames with a small crucifix atop each one. Dark, thick wood beams stretched across the ceiling. Two of the statues had real clothes on them. There was an American flag at the front. The confessionals stood at the back, dark wooden cubicles. It looked like the doors probably creaked. We sat down in one of the pews.
“They make us do the chores,” Clara whispered. A nun sat in a pew near the front, muttering to herself. I tried to get a look at the habit, but all I could see
was the veil, reaching halfway down her back.
“Laundry, dishes, sinks, and toilets,” Clara complained, all wound up. “At least I get to do my homework. The nuns—all they do all day is pray. Apparently the namesake of this order of nuns, St. Isabella, was going to be married off to a prince of Germany and she refused. She wanted to be a virgin for Christ.” Clara recounted this story sarcastically, sounding scandalized that anyone would want to waste her life as a virgin. I was shocked, too, but only because we didn’t exactly use the word virgin in casual conversation, except in reference to the Blessed Mother.
Just then, Clara grabbed my hand and held it under her rib. A fish swam around under her skin. You could see it poking through.
“She’s kicking!”
“How do you know it’s a girl?”
“I just know. I had a dream.”
“Who’s the dad?” Madcap turned around and faced us. “Can I ask?”
“I haven’t told Daddy or Mother. They just pass judgment. And I’d never be able to see him again.”
You want to see this guy again?
“Todd Zimmerman?” Madcap knew all the names in Clara’s world.
“You’ll never guess.”
“Steve MacDonald?”
“We went to the prom together. No, not him. He’s a good Catholic boy. He’s shy.”
“Someone you like?”
“You gotta like someone to let him take your clothes off.”
“Oh. Who, then?”
“You can’t ever tell.” Clara looked at me. I just shrugged. This was way over my head. I mean, when were they ever alone together long enough to get their clothes off?
Madcap turned to me. She gave me the look.
“I promise!” I said.
“You gotta cross your heart, and hope to die.”
“Cross my heart,” I said.
“Hope to die,” Madcap said.
“Cross my heart and hope to die!”
Clara opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.
“You can tell us,” Madcap said.
“You want to!” I blurted. There was a silence. Madcap got serious.
“Who was it, Clara?” She put her arm around Clara’s shoulder. Clara started crying again.
“Christopher Feeney.”
“Christopher Feeney!” We both said in unison. A bit too loudly. The nun turned around.
“Shhhhhh!” Clara said. But I kept thinking, Christopher Feeney? Christopher Feeney?
“He gave me his choir pin. He said he wanted me to be his girl.”
“Christopher Feeney is pretty cute, but I would never think he could get you pregnant,” I said.
“It doesn’t take much,” Clara replied instantly. I wilted with shame, thinking about even taking off my training bra in front of a boy. Clara had breasts. How much more excruciating could it be with real breasts?
“I have your pin,” I said, unfastening it from my collar. Clara helped me take it off. Her belly bumped me as she looked at the pin longingly, as her hands reached across under my chin. I was glad to get rid of it, now that I knew.
“I’m pretty sure he’s a cad,” she said. “He doesn’t know about the baby. If I told him, he would for sure drop me like a hot potato.”
“Are you sure Christopher Feeney doesn’t want to marry you?” I asked
“Don’t even say his name. You promised.”
“Sorry.” How old is he anyway? How old do you have to be to be a daddy to a baby?
“Of course he doesn’t want to marry me. Christopher Feeney is too cool. Having a baby is not cool.”
Clara’s words fell out of her mouth, like the last leaves on a barebones tree just before winter. I could feel the leaves settling on the cold ground, but I didn’t know why I was so sad all of a sudden. It felt like a desertion, like we were the last two people on earth. Or maybe the last one. I kept thinking how we are all so entranced whenever Mother brings a new baby into the house. Clara, especially, gets really sweet when the new baby is so little and its tiny hands can only curl up, and it’s little mouth moves like it’s tasting air. It’s a time that feels like we’re in a fairy tale with whimsical drawings; the baby still smells so good you can put your nose right up to its scalp, and there’s a softness that makes you want to keep coming back and sniffing. You kiss the baby a lot and it lets you. But Clara’s words ruined that moment like a rainstorm can wreck a new dress. As if everyone was home having supper and we were walking in the downpour, listening to the silverware and glasses clink and the happy chatter inside walls where we were not welcome.
Why not just bring the baby home? We could all raise her. What’s one more mouth to feed? In the beginning, it’s a tiny mouth, and Clara could nurse it on the cheap. But I didn’t say anything. Obviously, everyone would know if Clara brought home another baby. I kept bumping up against that fact. And there was another thing here that no one talked about, but it was bigger than Clara’s baby belly. It was shame. I think I was trying to protect Clara from all the shame that we found here when we opened the door and walked in. When we realized why everyone was here: to hide. Why should a woman feel embarrassed for something like this? She can’t help it that she’s the one the new baby sticks to and not the dad.
“It’s selfish of me to even imagine I can keep her. That’s what they tell me.”
“What do you mean?” Madcap said. “It’s your baby.”
“What are my options?” Clara asked, hopeful. Madcap shrugged.
•••
We walked outside into the sunshine, into a courtyard, the buildings covered with red Spanish-style roofing. The convent was surrounded by a brick wall on all sides, mossy in some places, flowers in others. Little statues of the Blessed Mother and Saint Isabella perched in tiny arched shelves in the wall. Short palm trees and tall cactus plants sat in the dry-earth gardens. I wondered where the nuns were. Madcap walked slightly ahead of us, touching her fingers on the walls as we passed.
It was the weekend, so visitors mingled with the other pregnant girls who waddled around with their big, small, and medium-sized bellies out in front of them. A few strolled with someone else. Obviously, their parents. Pent-up was a word that came to mind, with all the bellies. I imagined the little babies crouched up and sucking their thumbs inside their young mamas and wondered if they were feeling steamy and sad, like I was.
I sat on the edge of a flat bench under the shadow of an oak tree, holding a folded page in my hand in Clara’s handwriting. It was notebook paper, lined in blue.
“I am growing this baby for the family that could not have children,” said her handwriting. This was the side of the page that said all the things she could give to her baby who was in her stomach, if she gave her baby up to a complete stranger for adoption.
“I am giving her love and my best wishes for a great life with parents who can afford to bring her up.”
“I am heartbroken to give her away, but there is not much I can do. How can I raise her?”
The paper was wrinkled from dried tears.
“Let’s go to the beach,” Madcap pressed.
“I can’t leave here. But I really want to.”
“You can, Clara! What’s stopping you? Look over there. It’s not locked.” Madcap pointed to the gate. Parents came in and out of the very gate since we arrived.
“I’ll get demerits.”
“There’s only so much laundry. And once it’s done, it’s done.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“At some point,” I said, “don’t you get time off for being pregnant?”
“We’re all sinners, here. We have to do our penance, is the idea.”
“Let’s go, Clara! What are they going to do?” Madcap said, pulling her by the hand towards the gate. “They won’t even know you’re missing!”
“How can I go like this? I’m an embarrassment!”
“You’re pregnant. No one knows you’re out of wedlock.”
“Could we pretend I’m mar
ried?”
“We could!”
Chapter 19
surfin’ usa
Dear Blessed Mother, I’m counting on you. I just made one bad decision: to go with Madcap. The rest of what is going to happen can’t be my fault.
We escaped from the courtyard one at a time, playing Nonchalant. It was a game that Jeannie and I had practiced to perfection when we were posing as twins in the front yard to passing cars during Camp Holy Hill. Cats do it all the time, especially when they’re protecting their territory. Maybe they have a growly fight, their paws flying and scratching, and then one cat just walks away, very stealthily, if you can move and be still at the same time. “Oh, I’ll just sit here and lick my right shoulder,” he says with his body language, just before the bigger cat pounces. “There’s something really engaging about my paw, now that you mention it.” The big cat crouches, but Nonchalant cat pretends he’s not the least bit afraid. That’s the secret of Nonchalant. It takes bravado, but has to look natural.
All three of us stood preening by the gate, somewhat hidden by a big cactus. Madcap said I should go first while she stood on the lookout for nuns. I opened the wooden gate and waited outside. Cars whooshed past me on the neat, one-way street. Neat, meaning it looked like it had been swept the night before by the shoe elves. No oil stains or cigarette butts. The rusty latch lifted behind me and a couple of parents walked out. I stared down at my feet, like the cat suddenly interested in his paws. When the couple was ahead of me, I looked up. The mother held a purse around her with both arms, like she was hugging it. She couldn’t really keep up with her husband, whose strides were very long, while hers were very short. Actually she made me think of a chihuahua, her steps were so short, chasing after a greyhound.
Whenever I see grown-ups in a couple, I always marvel at how the man is an acceptable number of inches taller than the woman. How does it happen that of all the men in the world a woman meets this one man who is an acceptable number of inches taller? They fall in love and then they get married. You look at every couple and the story is exactly the same. He’s 6’ and she’s 5’6”. Or he’s 5’6” and she’s 5’2”. It’s seems extraordinarily coincidental to me. This couple broke that rule, in favor of him being exceptionally taller, like he was on stilts. She was tiny, diminutive, as Mother would say, small bones and short steps in high heels, trying to keep up with him. The top of her head came up to his chest. She looked like a reporter rushing after a basketball player for an interview.
A Theory of Expanded Love Page 14
