“Please bring Clara home safely,” Daddy added at the end.
Then, like the starting line at the races, we opened our mouths and filled them with turkey, breadcrumb and sausage stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce, and mashed potatoes at a shoveling pace.
This was the beginning of the Thanksgiving weekend. With the clanging of the silverware and the breathing sound of fifteen people wolfing down food, with the warmth and the light, with the idea that other families were also gathered around a steaming table giving thanks to the Lord, we could only feel happy being so large and familiar and altogether. Everyone was safe, everyone was here (except for Clara), and we had a very special, top-notch guest. We had our rituals, and we had the weekend. We had a visit to Long Beach to go Christmas shopping for our Kris Kringle on Friday. We had four nights with no homework. Four nights to gather around the Advent wreath and watch the candles melt the darkness around them. Four nights with all our voices reciting the rosary as we pictured the magic of the shepherds on a crisp night full of stars, and the wonder of the special baby being born.
Amidst the cacophony of voices and silverware against hard plastic plates, Daddy tried to make a big story out of our Kris Kringle ritual. Probably to distract the Cardinal. I kept feeling the silence of that cover-up moment about Clara. Then Daddy said, “At some point, with all the kids underfoot, Katherine and I decided that Kris Kringle would simplify things at Christmas. We write each child’s name on small pieces of paper and put them into a hat. We pass the hat. Everyone picks a name out of the hat. And that person is their Kris Kringle.” Daddy smiled at the Cardinal.
“Do you want to participate?”
“Wait, first tell him what he has to do,” John blurted out.
“You have to be nice to your Kris,” I said immediately. “You have to keep their name a secret.”
Jeannie added, “Your Kris is your special person. All through Advent, you’re responsible for them.”
“Yeah!” Dominic yelled from the far end of the table. “You have to do things for them!”
“Clandestine and mysterious things, sometimes,” Bartholomew added.
“Like you make the bed for your Kris and leave a scribbled note with only the letters ‘PX’ written on it,” Rosie said, swaying back and forth on her chair.
“Or we send anonymous cards in the mail, or leave a piece of candy under their pillow,” I said.
“Sometimes we arrange for someone at school to hand them a note with hints,” Jeannie said.
“Hints?” Cardinal Stefanucci looked at Jeannie.
“Hints as to who you are,” I answered before she had the chance.
“Ah,” he said. “Hints.”
“On Christmas morning, everything is revealed,” Daddy concluded.
“If small prayers qualify as ‘things,’ then I’ll participate,” Father Stefanucci said.
“You have to get them one present for Christmas,” Rosie said. “At Long Beach.”
“Just one present,” Daddy said. “That’s the point of it. But you could get it anywhere you want.”
So, the Cardinal said, scratching his awning eyebrows, “count me in.”
The hat was Daddy’s Navy Commander hat, the white one with gold braid. All the torn, folded pieces of paper were bunched up together in the well of the upturned hat. Daddy started with Father Stefanucci, who tucked the paper into his pocket once he read it. Then Paul.
“By the way,” said Paul. “If you pick your own name, you have to put it back.”
Clara was next and Mother picked for her. Daddy held his hat above each person’s head as they reached up. The twins and Jude couldn’t read, so Mother helped them, taking the paper out of their fist and then whispering in their ear. When it got to me, I felt all the papers before choosing one.
“C’mon, Annie,” Daddy said. “Pick one.”
I dropped that one back in and fumbled for another. I opened it up.
Clara, the paper said. My heart sank. How was I going to be a good Kris for Clara? Mom would never let me go to Ventura to visit again.
Jeannie was next, #7. Her eyes widened and she said a quiet, “Oh!” So she probably got Father Stefanucci. I could tell because right away she started serving him the first piece of apple pie. Then she really gave it away when she said, “If someone had you as PX, where would she send letters to?”
Then things got ridiculous. It was as if Jeannie’s question gave all the little kids permission to ask the Cardinal anything. Buddy, who had been unusually quiet piped up:
“Father Nuchie, can you be the Pope if you don’t have the hat?” A hearty laugh from Father Stefanucci.
“Of course you can, my son. That hat is a Papal tiara and it celebrates the tradition of the papacy. But it doesn’t affect God’s intention in choosing someone to represent His church.”
Just then Dominic came in with a couple of towels draping down his back and a rosary around his neck. His hands were folded. Because he didn’t have the cassock, and his legs were spindly, I thought he was trying to be a Catholic Superman.
“Ah yes, the cape,” the Cardinal said. “I should have worn my vestments.”
“If you’re Pope, are you still infallible if you’re not wearing the pointy hat?” I asked.
“Annie!” Daddy remonstrated. “The hat has nothing to do with being infallible.”
“The Pope is God’s representative on this earth,” our friend Cardinal Stef began. At that moment, Rosie became unusually bold, blurting out this excellent question, “If you stand in the threshold of the Jewish Church, would God bring the lightning?”
I used to have these lightning thoughts myself. At my First Holy Communion, I wondered if God would zap me if I touched the Holy Eucharist even a smidgen with my finger. I was so curious on the day of my First Communion that I snuck my finger into my mouth after I received the wafer on my tongue. I put my head down like I was praying, hoping that God and everybody else would be distracted by all us little girls in our white dresses and bridal veils and white socks and white shoes. Nothing happened whatsoever. It’s just a matter of time for Rosie before she understands that God doesn’t go around electrocuting Catholics whose curiosity gets the better of them.
Rosie mispronounced the word, but what she meant was, would God strike you dead if you put your toe onto the threshold of a synagogue? I wanted to know the answer to that myself. I looked over at Madcap. Suddenly she was paying attention. I think I know why. Aaron Solomon is Jewish, and I’m pretty sure Madcap wants to be carried over the threshold by Aaron Solomon. Although she’s kind of young to get married. But a threshold is a threshold, and a girl’s ears perk up whenever that word is mentioned.
“I don’t think you’ll get any lightning if you stand in the doorway of another place of worship,” our friend Cardinal Stef laughed. “Unless there’s a thunderstorm in the neighborhood.”
“So what about the people who stepped through the doorway when it was a mortal sin to step over?” I asked. “What if they died without going to confession? They’re in hell now for all eternity. Then the Pope just changes his mind and makes it not a sin. Is that right? So now people can step over willy-nilly and it’s not even a sin?”
“We do have to acknowledge that people of other faiths can be good people who worship God in their own way,” he answered, scratching the shelf of his eyebrow. “That’s the message of the Pope’s ruling.”
But my head was spinning. I couldn’t keep up with it all. Then Rosie turned the whole thing on its head with a real gasser.
“You should get the Pope to try out for the Rose Parade. Cause it looks like he’s got a pretty good wave from the balcony!”
That one really cut us up. Leave it to Rosie to ask a question about the Rose Parade. We all started imagining the Pope in all his gold lamé outfits cruising along Orange Grove Boulevard at the front of the St. Andrew’s float, waving at all of us on New Year’s Day. I closed my eyes, imagining myself in a sparkly gown, God’s princess, dramatica
lly throwing roses out to the adoring crowds.
Then we had to help clear the table. Paul didn’t have to help because he works at Shea Motors and as long as he has a job, he doesn’t have to do chores. Madcap and Jeannie got off because they helped in the kitchen before dinner. It was me, John-the-Blimp, and Bart who got stuck with the disgusting leftovers. As I stacked the dishes in soapy hot water, I noticed again a white plastic plaque hanging by a string on a nail over the sink, splattered by numerous meals. “Thank God for dirty dishes, they have a tale to tell. While others may go hungry, we’re eating very well. With home and health and happiness, I shouldn’t want to fuss, for by this stack of evidence, God’s been good to us.”
Cardinal Stef sat in the living room, reading Green Eggs and Ham to the twins before their bedtime. We all knew this book by heart. Our lips moved as his pulpit voice boomed the rhyming words; the twins kicked out their legs up and down against the couch, like they couldn’t wait to read the next line. I was looking forward to the rosary; it would give me time to figure out a strategy for when someone in my class asked about the phone calls from the Vatican and the embossed letters to Daddy. In school, after the Thanksgiving break, they were going to ask those questions, and I had to be prepared. But the Cardinal excused himself, saying he was just now feeling a bit under the weather, and could Daddy drive him home? Okay, I said to myself. It’s Thanksgiving weekend. Tomorrow’s Friday.
I have until Monday to hatch a plan.
Chapter 27
the base
November 30 – Dear Blessed Mother, Can you see what’s going on here? The Hands are still after me! Shouldn’t you be putting this on God’s radar? It’s embarrassing enough to say anything and have Mother act annoyed, like I was making it up. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to stay awake so I can see who it is coming into my room, but I got really tired. So I brought my pillow down onto the floor on the other side of my bed, to hide. A sound woke me up and I could see some feet from where I was under the bed, but I couldn’t tell who it was. I think he got scared when I wasn’t in my bed, because he just hurried out of the room. I heard him trying to sneak up the stairs, but that third step creaked like it usually does. So it IS one of the big boys! There aren’t many things you can really call your own in this family, but before this, I would have said my bed was really mine. My very own bed. Mine! Obviously even that is up for grabs. Maybe Madcap would know what to do. If I could say something to her.
“Whooooaoaaaaa!” Mother took a curve around South Pasadena Freeway. I scrunched into the turn, squishing Rosie and Jeannie against the window. We passed a VW bug chugging along in the slow lane.
“I’m squished!” Jeannie called for mercy. But when Mother swerved the bus the other way, Jeannie leaned into us. On my right was Dominic and on his right, Buddy. Flat pancakes, all.
“Whoooooohhhha!” We all said, laughing. Everyone was in a good mood, except for Mother at the wheel. She was all eyes and ears on the road. The day was crisp and sunny, leaves floating on the occasional breeze.
It was Friday after Thanksgiving, one of the most exciting days of the year. Christmas was coming, we had a little bit of money in our pockets, and school was out. I had saved my babysitting earnings for the Commissary at the Navy base in Long Beach. During the year, Daddy shopped there for groceries because it was cheaper there, a perk for being a retired commander in the U.S. Navy.
But today we were going Christmas shopping. It was an annual family outing. I could feel all the energy bouncing around inside our vehicle.
Normally, all thirteen kids could fit into the V-duby yew, with room for Mom and Dad. This year, Daddy drove the Rambler with Paul to store the groceries and to hide all the presents we bought for each other, so the proper secrecy around Christmas could be maintained. The rest of us took the bus with Mother. Since Clara wasn’t there either, it seemed like there was lots of room.
Jeannie and I clapped our hands and smacked them together in a game I learned in the first grade:
“Myyyy boyfriend’s name is Able
He used to set the table
Now he works in the stable
Down on the Bingo farm.”
“Okay, that’s enough, kids,” Mother said.
What’s the deal with Mom? I thought. Other than when she has her migraines, usually she’s a pretty good sport, and I can tell when she’s enjoying herself. Today, though, she didn’t get us singing, “I Love to Go a Wandering” by just starting it up with her beautiful voice. She didn’t ask us things like, “Who lived in the Emerald City? Buffalo Bill?” To which we’d all say in unison,
“Noooo!”
“Saint Peter?”
To which we’d all shout a resounding, “Noooooo!”
“The Wizard of Oz?” To which we’d all say,
“Yeaaassss!” Then we’d start singing, “We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz. He really is a whiz of a whiz because of the things he does…” It was a favorite way we had of starting up a trip in the car.
Maybe Mom was worried about Clara. When was the baby going to come? Did Clara sign the papers? I didn’t want to think about it, even though it was all I could think about.
Finally we were there. Mother downshifted, and we slowed to the grinding sound of the engine as we approached the gate. I loved the feeling of being admitted past the lifting arm, like we really belonged to this place. I even had a picture ID that said I was a “dependent” of the U.S. Navy, in case anybody asked. Daddy was ahead of us and I could see him as he slowed down at the booth. The guard looked at the sticker on the windshield, and then he put his white, gloved hand up to his forehead in a crisp salute to our Dad. I could see through the windshield that Daddy handed the guard a small card, probably his “Shea Family Motors, We mean business about family” card. Nowadays, he was handing these out to everyone he met, even in the grocery stores. But the base was Daddy’s territory; I didn’t have to feel embarrassed here when he did that. The guard looked at the card and smiled. The long arm with red and white stripes lifted and his Rambler inched forward. The bus was next, this time the guard saluted to Mom. Once the bumper of the bus got in front of the arm and it went down again behind us, we all broke into applause and yelled, Yeaaaaaaaay! Whoo! Whoo!”
“Pipe down kids!” Mother tried to shout, but it wasn’t nearly as threatening as when Daddy said it.
As we drove through the base towards the commissary, sailors fresh with new haircuts walked in twos and threes in their Navy blue uniforms. Giant striped candy canes painted in red, white, and green covered up the windows on the huge stores that faced the parking lot. Outside, evergreen and flocked-white Christmas trees huddled in two groups, instant forests on the asphalt under the fall California sun.
Out on the dock a huge ship stretched from end to end with the number 135 on the bow. Two huge stacks of three turrets with about ten or eleven guns sticking out on each side pointed into the sky. The shimmering water stretched beyond it.
“That’s what’s called a heavy cruiser,” Daddy said. “The USS Los Angeles. It was just decommissioned on November 15th.”
“What is decommissioned?” asked Rosie.
“It’s done its duty, and they’re going to mothball it to San Diego.”
The ship was massive. It was hard to imagine the force of the blast that would come out of the enormous guns. The sound alone—the sudden ear-piercing blast along with the earthquake feeling of the ground shaking beneath you. When we were on Whidbey Island we heard jets flying low all the time, roaring up, droning overhead and fading into a faraway sky. Sometimes I woke from dreams of them, the hot, sudden sound piercing the world, shattering my eardrums, shaking my body to alertness in instant fear.
“The sound of freedom,” Daddy would always say. He and Paul walked towards the ship. Everybody knew that Paul wanted to enlist. Daddy discouraged it. “Go to college first,” he’d say, “then you can join as an officer.” Looking at them stroll towards the floating hulk that s
eemed to stretch a few city blocks, as they were dwarfed into the size of plastic toy soldiers, I felt proud. Proud and protected. Daddy was right, no one was going to destroy our way of life as long as the Navy was around. Not even the Communists in Cuba.
We split up, once again. Daddy went shopping for groceries and everyone else paired off to go to the store with all the toys. We were to meet back at the cafeteria at noon. I was in charge of Rosie, meaning I had to help her find a gift for her PX with the allowance that Mother gave her this morning. And I had to find a present for Clara. Inside the grocery store, “Deck the Halls” and “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas,” added to our excitement. Even though we were in California, we wished for snow every year. We ached for it, and the song made it especially poignant. Even though there would never be a white Christmas in Pasadena; even though none of us had never even seen a snowflake. When the song came on, we sang along, like we were missing the good old days.
Rosie had Jude as her PX, so getting a present would be easy.
“Here’s $2 for Rosie,” Mother had said, digging in her big bag for the bills. “I’m sure you can find something for that.”
She grabbed my hand and put the bills into my palm and closed my hand around the bills. I hugged up to her because it seemed like she could use a hug, but she pushed me away. At times like this, it’s like I, Annie, am not even there. I’m just the person doing the errand. She had so much else to think about. Oh, well. It’s great to have a phrase you can just pull out for times like this. She must be under the weather, I thought.
We walked along the rows of toys. I steered Rosie away from the dolls, ‘cause I knew she wanted a Chatty Cathy and it would really wreck it up if Rosie saw her PX carrying that doll to the cash register. She would know it was for her, since she’s really the only one left who’s of an age to get a doll. Actually, I wanted a baby doll myself. I should have been growing out of wanting a doll, but there it was.
A Theory of Expanded Love Page 20
