A Theory of Expanded Love

by Hicks, Caitlin;

  I was seriously tempted to drop the entire glue bucket on them from above. Really. What kind of girl am I turning into? I imagined the noise it would make, and the bouncing glue bucket and everyone looking up at me, but unable to find me as I’d be hiding behind the ball. Wanda is also helping on the queen’s float. And by the way, she saw the glop, and looked up at me. I stared back. We’re still officially not speaking. She wants to get back with me. She’s dropped Teresa Feeney because now she understands that Teresa is just hiding behind Christopher’s lie about Clara being a slut.

  Clara has gone back to school, and she’s getting “A’s” again. We all chip in with Emma if she needs her diapers changed or when she’s hungry. Mother puts the glass bottles with formula in the pot of boiling water on the stove; then she squirts the milk out of the nipple onto the inside of her wrist to see if it’s too hot. But when Clara gets home, she and Emma have this kissing reunion, with Clara doing all of the kissing behind Emma’s ears.

  She wants to be a doctor, someone who delivers babies, but Daddy keeps telling her she can much more easily become a secretary. “You’re smart enough already,” he says, “administrative secretaries make a good living.” He tells all of us girls we should be secretaries. Clara ignores him. But I looked it up. Secretary means “keeper of secrets.” I certainly don’t want to be a secretary, and I don’t want to keep any more secrets. Eventually, because of that, and also because it was bothering me, I had to tell Clara my secret, namely that I blabbed to Christopher Feeney about how he’s the father.

  She surprised me. She said she didn’t care what anyone thought of her, including Christopher Feeney. She didn’t care whether or not anyone said she was a sinner, or if she was sponging off Daddy and Mother by living at home. Or even that she had a child out of wedlock. She said she’s really happy that Emma is growing up surrounded by uncles and aunts as if she were the youngest in the family because she’ll have lots of people who love her and can teach her things. She’s thankful to Mother for going against Daddy and bringing Emma home.

  I am going to try to be as truthful as possible in 1964. It’s hard to realize how much lying goes on with nearly everyone. Especially those people who tell you that lying is a sin. Also I’m not sure why it’s a sin if everyone does it. Now I just expect it. It’s an ordinary, rampant thing that can’t be controlled by the fear of fire in the afterlife. On the other hand, I hate calling anyone a sinner because there but for the grace of God go I.

  •••

  My favorite song on the radio is “I’m Leavin’ it Up to You” by Dale and Grace. Whenever it comes on, we all sing along from all the tops of the scaffolds, rocking and swaying to the beat, even though it’s rickety and scary up there.

  Aaron Solomon is the float supervisor. Madcap and I are his slaves. Well, we’re volunteers and it’s fun. He has a lot of responsibility; he runs around all day ordering flowers and telling students what to do and talking with the float owners, but still, he takes a break with us and we sit together huddled around a bologna sandwich on white bread with mayonnaise near the space heater in the warm room. Madcap is so lucky he’s her boyfriend, and I always see her hand on his knee.

  Speaking of lies. I’m sure the priests and nuns didn’t even know the truth about Emma. Once Christmas came and went, she just became a fact, #14. Otherwise, would the nuns have allowed Emma to be baptized at St. Andrew’s Church on Christmas Eve with Sister Maria Dolora’s fourth grade class singing Christmas carols as they poured the water over Emma’s big forehead? Would they have used a baby born out of wedlock as the Baby Jesus in the crèche? They would not have, but they did. For some people they might require a birth certificate, but when Mother arranged the baptism, would it even occur to them to ask her for proof of parentage? It did not occur to them. Everyone in our parish seems to be making an assumption that Mother is the mother of Emma. I’m not sure how I could tell them all. You can’t tell somebody else’s truth. I’m not keeping the secret of Emma, and I’m not the watchdog of the truth of Emma, either.

  But the Christmas crèche was Emma’s first acting job, and she was pretty good. She was the first red-headed Jesus ever. And I’m pretty sure, the first female Jesus. So what? If they have so many versions of the Blessed Mother, surely Jesus can have whatever color hair He wants. Of course, the Baby Jesus was a boy and probably an ordinary baby in all other respects, and I remember being on diaper duty while Emma was in the crèche. Teresa Feeney and her brother Christopher were in the church, and I caught them both just baldly staring at the baby as I picked her up. They didn’t even look away when my eyes met theirs. I stared them down; Christopher looked away first, more confused than I had ever seen him. Teresa’s eyes were wide open, her mouth ajar.

  I’m glad that nobody “really” knows. Emma is ours. Otherwise, Christopher Feeney might try to claim her. That family has enough beauty and talent and brains, and worst of all, grace. They had their chance and besides He who hesitates, is lost. I’ve seen Christopher wondering about her in church for unbroken moments, as if no one could see that he, a handsome B.M.O.C. (Big Man On Campus), has an abnormal fascination for a small baby girl.

  Mother made it official, took away all our doubts, one night at the dinner table when she said, after the Bless Us Oh Lord… “And take special care of our youngest, Emma.” After that we tacked her name on the end of The List (Paul, Clara, John, Madcap, Bartholomew, Annie, Jeannie, Dominic, Rosie, Luke, Matthew, Mark, Jude — Emma ) and never bothered to mention to anyone that our youngest was our niece, not our sister. Clara goes along. She is a mother. Her baby has to survive.

  More news. John-the-Blimp now has a girlfriend. They met at a dance. Her name is Barbara and she’s in Madcap’s class. The chaperone separated them while slow dancing to “Hey, Hey Paula,” with his hand right on her dress, exactly where her breast is. So much for him being a priest. Everybody thought he wanted to be holy. But it was so obvious. He wants to enlist as a sailor. Now I can call him a “deck ape.”

  Wanda just knocked on my scaffold from below with the end of her brush, and I looked down to see her face smiling up at me. She pointed to her heel, reminding me that I dropped the glop of glue onto the Rose Princess’s heel. Then she bent backwards with her hands on her waist like Felix the Cat, like the laughing was killing her. A thing we do. “C’mon down, Annie!” She called up to me. “Take a break!” She apologized already for what she said the day we had that fight, but it’s hard to trust her again. Although I probably will. It takes a lot of energy to stay mad at someone who, underneath it all, cares about you.

  So maybe I shouldn’t stay mad at Daddy. But I am giving up 6:30 Mass. I’ll miss the early morning air, the stillness of it and the lights on Orange Grove Boulevard fading away as the sun comes up. And being in the car with him. That’s over, now that I’m almost practically a teenager. He’s still my dad. It’s weird how he prays so much, and he still can’t listen to anyone but himself.

  One thing is for sure: I’m going to keep writing. I’ve already started with this diary. It’s a place where I can say what I see—not just what they want me to see. And when I notice things that everyone can see but nobody admits? I’m going to write them down, too. I’m going to write everyday, so I don’t forget that what is in my heart is just as important.

  Oh and the “tip” for the first automobile sale at Shea Family Motors? Paul finally noticed the money missing. No one suspects me, and I’m not going to say anything. There’s no proof. I’m not even going to confession for it. I’m going to save the money plus my babysitting earnings, in case I need it. Just in case I have to fight for something important and Daddy disowns me for it. The actual $25? I’ll just keep it in my… well I won’t say where, in case anyone reads this. Wait, I’m going to scratch that out.

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed Annie Shea’s adventures in A Theory of Expanded Love. I really enjoyed writing it and am thrilled to share my work with readers like you.

  I
was also born into a very large Catholic family, and I wrote the book to answer a question for myself. I won’t tell you the question I sought the answer to, but I invite you to try to figure it out.

  While a playwright and performer, my audiences gave me so much with their energy that the work was lifted to another level altogether. One of the best things about feedback from an audience is the surprise of finding things in my work that I hadn’t understood were there. I loved how the collective experience of the work gave some people validation and power to deal with their own issues. The whole process is ongoing, unexpected, and alive; as a writer I just begin the discussion.

  Having said that, may I ask you a favor? I’d love to hear from you. Please write me directly and tell me what you liked, what you loved, what didn’t appeal to you, and why. And keeping in mind that you, the reader, have so much power to make or break a book, I’d really appreciate it if you could put your review on Goodreads, Amazon, or your favorite online bookseller so others can share your thoughts.

  Thank you so much for reading A Theory of Expanded Love and for spending time with me––and Annie Shea.

  Blessings,

  Caitlin Hicks

  P.S. For more on my journey creating A Theory of Expanded Love, please visit me online at caitlinhicks.com

  Acknowledgments

  I am lucky to have generous and curious friends who encouraged me greatly from the most vulnerable beginning when I had only a few pages; you listened, you laughed, you loved Annie, you cheered us both on.

  To JoAnne Bennison for your frequent and spontaneous laughter, your time to hear me read out loud and consider every paragraph and word in this book. To Ben Low, Kim Lyon, Mary Pinniger, Gary Gronlund, Dolores Houghton and Lis Dixon, for the suppers we shared with friends who eagerly awaited the next installation of the adventures of Annie. To my avid-reader fan, Aggie Sanders, your generous comments from across the continent made me feel I had a best seller from the first few chapters. To Anne Simonet for weighing in on Annie’s behalf when disputed words and phrases rang true for you. To John McDougall Goulet for the Prologue. To Sally Simpson, Lolly de Jonge, and Jeannine Fitzsimmons for your generosity, support, and encouragement.

  To Rosa Reid, George Payerle, Tracy Stefanucci and Shelley Harrison Rae, for editing support and encouragement. To readers and early reviewers, Sydney Avey, D. Lynn Chapman, Linda Szabados, Lis Dixon, and Lance Mason, for generously agreeing to read my book and to give me honest feedback. To Erin Niumata, for sharing your spontaneous gut-response to Annie—when I finally put the book into the world, you were my first test.

  To Jaz Halloran, for your professional input on the question of book design. To my sister Mary; you’ve been an inspiration to me since I was a child; thank you for your “I love you” just before you hang up the phone, for sharing this story, for being alongside.

  To Elizabeth Turnbull for your voice over the miles, your diplomacy and excellent suggestions that only served to strengthen this work.

  The Author

  Caitlin Hicks is an author, international playwright, and acclaimed performer in British Columbia, Canada. Monologues from several of her plays were featured in Smith & Kraus’ series Best Women’s Stage Monologues (New York). She also wrote the play, later adapted for the screen, Singing the Bones, which debuted at the Montreal World Film Festival to stellar reviews and has screened around the world. While A Theory of Expanded Love is her debut novel, she has published several short stories, including That Rescue Feeling, which was shortlisted for the John Spencer Hill Fiction Award. She worked as a writer for CBS and NBC radio and has performed her fiction and non-fiction for CBC national radio. In print, her writing has been published in The San Francisco Chronicle, The Vancouver Sun, The Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel, Fiddlehead Magazine, Knight Literary Journal and other publications. Hicks was raised in a large, Catholic family in Pasadena, California. You can connect with Caitlin online at caitlinhicks.com, @CateHicks on Twitter, and facebook.com/CaitlinHicksTheWritingLife.

  An author interview and reader’s guide

  are available online at:

  lightmessages.com/caitlin-hicks

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