by Jane Trahey
Chapter Four: The Contest
There were very few things that the Sisters left to Our discretion—but Mother Superior, being of rather avant-educational tendencies, left the choice of Home Economics or Civics up to us. It was a tough decision for a fourteen-year-old to make. We knew that the Civics class had five mornings away from St Marks to explore such fascinating governmental installations as City Hall, the Governor’s home, the bank, a typical voting booth. And last but not least, someone from one of the hundreds of similar schools had a chance to be mayor or mayoress of the city for the day.
This certainly was nothing to be overlooked lightly. The temptation of Civics—and it seemed to me a pretty boring subject—hinged on the brief periods of being away from school. Home Economics, on the other hand, promised much more temporal offerings—like baking cakes and sewing up chic little numbers to wear right then. Besides, Home Economics had a lay teacher and this in itself was an inducement. Miss McBride was a tall, willowy, white-haired lady in her early forties. . . . Her first name was Evangeline and she had a lisp. From the first moment in her baking class we recited her own prayer, “Dear Lord, help uth to utilithze well evewy moment thpent here.” We immediately adapted her very own lisp and used it to disthinct advantage.
Our first hour each morning (it was a twice-a-week event on Tuesday and Thursday) was devoted to cooking. I purposely paid as much attention to this course as I could, until I realized that her cooking formulas were just as dismal as Mama’s. I had had something much more French in mind, like soufflés and canard a l’orange. Miss McBride, however, wanted to ready us for motherhood and spent most of her time on new ideas on Jell-O. She was, at the moment, involved in a Jell-O contest and we did everything but burn it to achieve new effects.
The first hour I found bearable, as anything I could learn in the kitchen would help improve the food at home, but the second hour for me was a nightmare. The second hour was spent with Butterick patterns learning to sew. I really had no desire in the world to learn to make my own bloomers. Miss McBride called them “panthies.” Our first project—Project Bloomers-called for one yard of thirty-six-inch peach pure silk, one half yard of ecru lace, and matching peach thread for basting. These “panthies” were the first and the last pair of home-sculpted bloomers I ever owned. The whole idea was a leftover from Mother Superior’s dowry, when nice young ladies made their own trousseaus. Miss McBride promised that when we finished our panties we would graduate to slips, and when we finished slips we would make a dress. What an incentive plan—it was certainly working from the bottom up. My peach silk and ecru lace arrived from Marshall Field and I immediately lashed into my pattern. Miss McBride arrived just at the moment I zipped in with the pinking shears.
“Pleathe, Mith Twahey, contwol. . . or our panthies will not come out the way we want them to. . .”
Miss McBride identified herself completely with the editorial “we.”
“My pattern looks all right. There are only two pieces—look.”
Miss McBride studied it and explained that I could save a whole piece of peach silk were I to lay it out a different way.
“What will I do with it?”
“There ith no excuthe for waitht.” It was a difficult sentence at best.
Finally I got my front and back basted together. They were the kind of panties show dolls on beds wore. The crotch hit somewhere near my knee cap, but that was the way the pattern went.
“I’ll trip over them.”
“There ith no need for vulgarity, my dear,” said Evangeline.
It was with my boudoir doll pants I learned to do the French knot, the slip stitch, and baste. And, I learned to rip out all that Miss McBride didn’t like. By the end of the month, my peach silk panties were getting worn and tattletale gray from handling. I didn’t think they would ever be worn, let alone finished. Each stitch had to be perfect or out it came, but finally one morning Miss McBride let me get my lace out of the locker. Each of us had her own tiny little locker which Miss McBride called lovingly “our thewing kits.” I neatly applied the lace, with my famous slip stitch, to the waist, and one leg, then Miss McBride neatly ripped it off the leg. Meanwhile, the class had graduated to slips and some of the group were already laying out handsome silk prints for blouses. I remained edging and lacing my pants.
I suppose the contest really did it. It roused me from my pantargy and lethargy. I adored contests and I was convinced that whether it was an award of dog food for naming the puppy, or a prize for twenty-five words or less on why I loved Clorox, I was certainly going to get first prize, and perhaps I’d settle for second prize. The thought that I would win a trip for two to some far distant land intrigued me. Would Mother Superior take Sister Agatha and be gone according to my wishes, or would Mary and I go to Incaland, then on to the jungle? I had once been awarded a case of dog food as one of the ten thousand who had won the thousand prizes of a case of dog food. Sister Ligliori’s dog, Buttons, would have no truck with canned chow—since he ate nothing but Hershey chocolate—still and all, it provoked a change from our boring existence; and Mother Superior, not too keen about announcements on my contests, did say that she would certainly have liked to see my twenty-five words.
The sewing contest was held by one of the lesser magazines in the galaxy of fashion books and it was open to anyone between the ages of twelve and eighteen—I thought I had a fair chance, since there wouldn’t be any boys competing—boys always outspelled me and outthought me—well, at least they wouldn’t out-stitch me. The contest forms were put in a container on Miss McBride’s table and as I slipped up on her platform to take mine, she almost fainted.
“I do hope, Mith Twahey, that you are not going to thend in your panthies.” This was the needle, of course, and it went right to my ego.
“I’m going to finish them this morning and get right on to my blouse.”
“And what about your thlip?”
“Oh, Miss McBride, I don’t want a slip. Can’t I start on my blouse?”
Miss McBride, anxious to have me off her platform and back to my sewing machine, agreed’ that she thought I’d had enough of the peach silk, and I was off on my bumblebee-print blouse. Actually, it wasn’t difficult to do the blouse, as I bought the simplest pattern I could find—the most that could be said for it was that I applied my thimble fingers and my un-nimble brain and for that week, at least, Miss McBride had peace. I had to finish the blouse, make the dress and win that contest Even Mother Superior was placated by my behavior and remarked one evening that she was certainly surprised at my diligence in sewing.
“Miss McBride says that you have made quite nice progress in sewing. Perhaps you might apply yourself to equal advantage in all of your other subjects.”
“I’m going to start in on the dress next week—as soon as I finish my blouse.” I was running light-years behind the class in the contest. I sewed and sewed and sewed and then I got the green light to buy my dress fabric Unfortunately, it was Friday night when Miss McBride said, “Forge on,” and the contest closed at midnight on Monday—how on earth would I ever get it finished? I rushed to the store on Saturday morning and bought my pattern. It was a pleated skirt, long sleeve ascot-tied middy top. I fell in love with it completely. I searched for an hour for the right fabric; even Mary who was taking Civics instead of sewing tried to help.
“Maybe I could help you cut it up,” she offered.
“Look, Mary, just look at this linen.” It was a wild plaid, basically gold and red and brown on white. I thought it was smashing. I could see it on the cover of Vogue—a chic model leaning against a whitewashed building. I could see me in it accepting the prize. Perhaps instead of being an explorer, I’d be a designer. It was all very exciting indeed.
On Saturday, the sewing room was deserted except for a few of the farther-advanced contestants who were putting finishing touches and wrapping up their entries in colored tissue—which Miss McBride had provided. The tissue was shocking pink, which I didn’
t think had too much to offer for my plaid. I unwrapped my six yards of plaid and laid it out on the cutting table. It was absolutely scrumptious and Mary agreed that even though the saleslady had done her best to tout me off the plaid, the plaid alone would certainly attract a good bit of attention.
It took me a good hour to get the pattern pieces laid out, and Mary tried pinning them down, but her hands sweated so she was ruining the pattern; that paper just didn’t take to heavy perspiration. At noon, Evangeline poked her head in and couldn’t believe her eyes. Was it possible the unholy two could be so lawfully engaged and so quiet? Mary held the fabric down while I cut it. Finally, we had all the pieces and I began to frantically pin the pleats in.
“Oh, God, why did I get a pleated skirt?”
“Well, it looks like more work.”
“It is more work.”
As the sun slowly crossed the room and silently began to set, I had the skirt done—it really was a chore, as all the lines in the plaid had to miter. Now it was time to get the top basted. We heard the nuns go off to prayers and I frantically raced against the dinner bell.
“I’ve had enough of this place,” Mary said.
“Go get a book and at least stay here and read.”
“Wish I could help you, but I get everything so soaked.”
I had to stop for supper.
“How is your dress coming along?” Mother Superior asked. It was simply too much to ask her to believe that I was really trying to do something right.
“It’s going to be extremely beautiful,” I answered proudly.
“Well, I’m sure with your artistic flair that you will have an extremely beautiful dress to wear home for Easter.”
“Come see it,” I offered magnanimously. It wasn’t often Mother and I had such civilities between us.
Poor Mother really didn’t know what to say and for a moment she just stared at my dress. I was slip-stitching the hem and pressing in the pleats each time.
“How did you do it?” she asked bluntly.
“Do what?”
“How did you ever get each piece cut in a different plaid?”
She was irritating me now. “I don’t have each piece cut in a different plaid. It’s all the same.”
Mother held up the dress by the shoulders and studied it carefully and then studied me.
“Didn’t you have any idea that the pattern on a plaid must be laid out a different way?”
Inured as I was to her sarcasm, tears of fatigue welled in my eyes. “I think it’s pretty.”
“Do you have any fabric left at all?” she asked, picking up my shears.
“A few pieces,” I mumbled.
Before I could take a deep breath, Mother had the pattern pieces out and I went to work at what I did best—ripping. The night bell rang and the convent noises subsided into peaceful communion with the night. Mother sewed like a dream.
“I used to work in a dress house,” she offered, “in France. . . . My, this is a pretty plaid.” Mother hummed and whistled and sang. I could not believe that this was our ogress.
It was only a few hours before my dress was pressed and packed. Mother didn’t see the pink tissue as an asset to my plaid either and offered to give me some white tissue.
Miss McBride couldn’t believe that I had won honorable mention and ten dollars, with the additional bonus of a lifetime membership in the Coats and Clarke Thread Company and a pair of pinking shears. I was completely carried away and immediately made plans for the wild spending spree I planned to go on with my ten dollars. Then Mother Superior made an alternative suggestion.
“I really think Miss McBride would love to have the pinking shears for the class, so why don’t you give them to her, and the ten dollars I thought would just make our quota to the missions—but I do feel you ought to keep the thread for your very own.”
Chapter Five: The Sour Note
I was not the only one who looked forward to Mother Superior’s semiannual trip to an education convention in Chicago. I had the distinct impression that the entire faculty was just as delighted as we were to see her tall, imposing figure climb into the convent bus with her companion. By leaving town she unintentionally announced a holiday. The whole kit and convent of us responded to the festive mood. It was an emotional release for all of us, and, if Mother Superior found it stimulating to leave, we found it more refreshing to have her gone. Oh, we still had classes and prayers and the usual convent chores, but by and large, they were done with humor and a wee bit of sloppiness on everyone’s part. It never entered our heads for a moment that Mother Superior might have been experiencing the exact same emotion. In the years I spent in the convent, Mother Superior spent about six days a year away from us. Three days each semester. It was perfect timing. We had one day to get used to the idea of her being gone, one day to enjoy it, and one day to get ready for her return. And each time she came back, she came back enriched and endowed with the distinct idea that we were anything but model students. This might be divided into any of the various categories, depending on the convention. Once it was science. We were in no way prepared to face a life of scientific experimentation, and if faced with a dividing cell, we would probably flounder and fall. Yet from that moment on, Science would occupy Mother’s mind and spirit, and all of us were expected to fling ourselves into the mood of Louis Pasteur or Madame Curie. But then the next convention might be on a more cultural level and Mother would make up her mind that St. Marks was not giving us proper balance in the form of art or music, and to bring up a generation of scientists would be dismal, at best. After all, what was life without a bit of music in it?
Up till this particular convention, we had been spared the necessity of music appreciation. It all worked out rather well in the basic plan. None of the Sisters had any particular talent, and there was no orchestra leader material, God knows, in my class. And that was how Mr. Orman Gettinger came into our lives. Needless to say, the convent had little peace and quiet after his arrival.
Mother Superior made it quite clear from the start, to the Mothers’ Club, to Mr. Gettinger, and to all of us, that she not only expected St. Marks to have a band, but she expected this band to be a prize-winning band. And then we all knew Mother Superior had what we called a “superior” motive. First prize in the American Music High School Band Contest was $500, to be used any way the school saw fit. Mother had already spent the money. She was determined to buy a great world globe for the library. Not that any of us were particularly impressed with the world at our age, but Mother Superior ruled what we knew of it, and she wanted the rest of it at her finger tips.
Mr. Gettinger was really the first close-at-hand Neanderthal man I had ever seen. He had a hairline that never seemed to end, long dangling arms—an asset for a bandleader—huge lips, rather remote eyes, and a barrel chest. Despite this rather forbidding appearance, he was really quite sweet and patient. A necessary ingredient to cope with either his band material or his sponsor. The first thing he did was call auditions. Since I played the violin, I was automatically excluded from the band. Mother Superior sat through the entire hour-long audition. Her hands folded under her cape, her foot imaginatively tapping out some unheard Sousa march. Looking at me in one of her rare kind moods, she said, “Why can’t she play her violin, Mr. Gettinger?”
I was amazed at Mother’s attitude. This was the first time she had ever openly encouraged my being a part of anything.
Mr. Gettinger tried to explain to her that a band was an all-wind instrument group, and a violin was definitely out of order.
“Well, I just thought that there would be strength in numbers,” Mother added, quite unconvinced.
Mr. Gettinger had his pride, too, and even if St. Marks was not the Marine Band, he had too much in his work to take a band with a fiddle in it on the road.
“Mother, if we put a violin in, regardless of her talent”—he was being sarcastic now—”we will not be able to qualify for the contest.”
On that note, Mot
her Superior withdrew. It was only the first of several major battles.
Mary Clancey, who played the clarinet on her own, was disqualified also. Mr. Gettinger said she was the only completely tone-deaf person he had ever met. Mary was rather put out, as she had her heart set on writing Benny Goodman about her new and original beat. It was at this point that Mary and I began to notice that we were usually bystanders in all school productions. We sat through most of them on either side of Mother Superior. Not exactly the most desirable seats in the house, I might add.
However, Mother Superior consoled us this time. “There are quite a few things you can help me with while the band practices.” And when I say they practiced, they practiced. At eight o’clock every morning, after mass, one could hear any of the major marches being solidly but consistently butchered.
At three-thirty every afternoon, Mr. Gettinger arrived again for special cornet practice or drum practice, or French horn practice. And on Saturday morning they went at it again, whole hog. Yet, after six months, it still sounded like a record on the wrong speed. Mother was livid. The time barrier for the contest was edging up a good deal faster than the sound barrier.
Mary and I, more out of boredom than anything else, one day asked Mother if it would ever be possible to get a movie projector. Since we never got to town, the reward for a month’s good behavior, we thought it might help us considerably if the town came to us. Mother showed absolutely no interest in our proposition.
