by Jane Trahey
“And what are you going to do this summer, love?” Sister Constance asked Kathryn Murphy as she tidied up her books and cleaned out the drawers of her desk. We were all washing the blackboards for her. As far as we were concerned the “maxims” that were printed on the blackboards of the entire school could rot before we’d offer to take them off, but Sister Constance’s room was washed by noon that day.
“I’m going to Europe, Sister.”
“How wonderful, Katie. You must keep a diary for everyone to read next year.” Kathryn, who had been to Europe three times already, was so lazy she would never even send us a card, agreed completely.
“And you, Mary, what about you?” Mary was perched on the window sill, her legs dangling to and fro.
“I’m going to read and get a sun tan that won’t quit.”
“Oh yes, you’d be good with a tan, and you must not let me forget that list of books for you.”
It was my turn. “What about you, pet?”
“I don’t know, Sister, I don’t know what I want to do. I never do, in the summer.”
“Well, your sister is home, isn’t she? Can’t you pal with her?”
“She’s no fun, she’s always in love.”
Sister Constance was delighted. “Well, what’s so bad about being in love? You just wait till it happens to you, then see how happy you can be.”
“Were you ever in love?” I asked innocently, and then felt terribly embarrassed that I had dared pose the question. Mary blushed. Katie looked away.
Sister Constance leaned over her desk and her eyes sparkled violets. She pretended to shut her eyes and think.
“Let me think,” she said; “let me see—was I ever in love?”
We cringed with embarrassment on the one hand and were thrilled to pieces on the other. Perhaps we’d know her secret now.
“At least a dozen times.”
“Then why are you a nun?” Mary asked.
“Well, my little dears, because this is where I’m happiest.”
“How do you know that if you didn’t get married?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I guess you just know in your heart what’s best for you. I did.”
“Is being a nun any fun at all?” Mary wondered out loud.
“It’s quite the nicest thing that could ever happen to you.” She picked up her skirts and literally whirled out of the room.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Katie breathed. “Just wonderful!”
We all raced to the door to shout good-byes.
Sister Constance shouted back, “Have fun, have fun!”
“See you next year,” we called back. It was the white hope of our senior year that we would have Sister Constance for our homeroom teacher. It had been rumored around that she would be here at least another year before returning to China.
We all looked lonely after Sister Constance slipped into the cloister.
“Isn’t she a peach?”
“The best nun here.”
“What train are you going to catch?” I asked Mary.
“The four. My father will meet me on his way home from work. Otherwise it’s another two hours by bus.”
I could have left at noon since my house was near the train, but I decided to wait for Mary. I would leave my luggage at the station and Papa could get it that evening.
Kathryn and Mary and I lolled back to the dormitory and Katie packed in earnest. She had to catch a one o’clock train but it went in the opposite direction.
“Well, I’m off,” she said, and looking at us seriously, she said in a wailing Mother Superior voice, “and come back spiritually recharged, my dears, spiritually recharged.”
We watched her run for her taxi. Most of the students had gone as soon as Mother Superior dismissed us. Especially the ones that lived close by, as either an aunt or uncle or cousin or friend had picked them up. A few stragglers like Mary and me were left but the school had already taken on a vacation sound. An occasional footstep could be heard going up the hall or the familiar sound of the Sisters’ beads splashing back and forth, but most of the rooms had been closed up now, the windows carefully locked with the poles, and some of the Sisters had gone on to other cities that very day.
Mary and I decided to prowl about a bit after lunch. We climbed to the very top floor where there were all the old music practice rooms and the storage closets for trunks. And where all the insane nuns were supposedly kept. We knew better, but it was always a good story for the freshmen.
Mary was looking for some old sheet music to keep her reed from getting rusty. She had decided to play her clarinet an hour a day all summer and if she didn’t have something besides the clarinet part of the John Phillip Sousa Marches she would drive her father mad.
“If just once,” he had said, “I could identify a melody instead of that toot-tooting she does.”
So Mary had decided to get sheet music for “Whispering Hope” and “Just a Song at Twilight.” Most of the rooms were locked but I remembered where Sister Portress kept the keys. So I had climbed the stairs again plus the additional flight to the turret and I was dead.
Mary opened the big practice room and peered in. “Look here,” she whispered, “someone’s giving a party.”
“I’m too tired to look now, let me get my breath.”
She went into the room. And in a split second came running out. “Sister Constance is leaving. Sister Constance is leaving!”
“I heard you the first time,” I added breathlessly. “What do you mean, she’s leaving? She would have told us.”
“Come see. It’s a farewell party for her.”
I poked in the room with Mary. There must have been seven or eight tables with four places at each table. There were red-and-white-checked cloths and a pretty bouquet at each table. The windows were open and the summer breeze flopped the tablecloths and kept the room cool and pleasant. The view from here was the prettiest in the school. It overlooked the whole valley which was now green and splendid in the afternoon sun.
Occasionally, the mothers’ club or the band would have a party up here but they never looked like this. Then I noticed the stage with a large banner strung across it that Mary kept pointing at It spelled out our doom in large gold letters: “Good-bye Sister Constance.” A huge poster with faces of young women made a bouquet—the heads were the flowers and obviously Sister Angela had put the stems on with her inimitable modern Cubist touch. The faces all looked familiar to us, and then Mary whispered, “Do you know who these faces belong to?”
“No, who? And what are you whispering for?”
Mary seemed to feel that anywhere we were not allowed was whispering territory.
She whispered back, “They’re the nuns.”
“What nuns?”
“Our nuns. See, that’s Mother Superior.”
I peered at the sleek dark face of Mother Superior—it could have been a picture made by Cecil Beaton—very posed and handsome.
“That one is Sister Helene, and this is Mary William.”
I couldn’t believe it. The bottom fell out of my stomach. It was like discovering two people kissing or reading other people’s mail.
“Dear God,” Mary said, “this beats all. Look, here’s their real names.” And she began to chant. “Teresa Wrigley, Ann Stone, Patricia O’Brien, Geraldine Smith; Mother Superior is Teresa Wrigley. Can you beat it?”
“Yes, and I’m going to.” I finally summoned the courage to put my feet down on the ground and start running.
“Oh, come back, you coward, this is marvelous.” But I had already started down the steps. The picture of Sister Helene with all her hair was more than my psyche could bear. I heard Mary locking the door and I waited at the next landing.
“What’s the matter with you, it’s a riot!”
“I don’t know.” Now that we weren’t in proximity of the hideous truth that nuns were people, I could breathe again. In a funny way I would have liked to go back and study all the faces and names but I simply couldn’
t.
“Well, I have to pack,” I lied to Mary, “it’s getting late.”
But no one ever lied to Mary. “You’re chicken,” she said, “just chicken.”
“I’m not. I just don’t think it’s any of our business.”
“Well, if it isn’t Miss Goody One Shoe.”
I didn’t care whether I just sat at the station and stared—I wanted to get out of St. Marks. The thought of never seeing Sister Constance again was unbearable and the weight of knowing all those names was more than I could carry.
I packed as quickly as I could and threw books and my clock and bits and pieces on the top of my clothes and raced down the stairs, Mary after me.
“You’re mad,” she wailed.
“No, I’m not!” I shouted back and practically fell into Sister Constance who was coming in through the side door as we were going out.
“Why don’t you get Roger to carry those cases? They’re too heavy.”
“We’re late,” I shouted, “terribly late.” I raced on. I simply couldn’t look her in the eye. She held the door open for us and as we both flew through she called after us. “Have a wonderful summer and keep safe.”
I turned around for just one glance. I couldn’t keep the tears back. How could she be so casual with us when we’d never see her again, and I couldn’t ask her without admitting what we had done.
“You too,” I wailed at her, “you too.”
Mary waved to the cab we’d called and, as we drove away, I turned back to wave at Sister Constance who stood on the porch and smiled that beautiful smile at us for the very last time.
Chapter Thirteen: The Death of Abraham Lincoln
Of the three faculty members who were non-nuns at St. Marks, Miss Toumey had the most glamorous department. She headed the Drama Department and represented “The Theatre.” Even though the lay teachers had all the necessary degrees to handle the student body in the definitive posts of Drama, Home Economics and Gymnasium, Mother Superior liked to think that behind every lay teacher there was a religious one watching over us. In the case of the theatre, it was Sister Blanche. She was the choice. Not that her garb was any different from the other Sisters’, but she had a distinct flair. She enun-ci-ated ev-er-ee word.
Miss Toumey and Sister Blanche were no Rodgers and Hammerstein. They differed on every single subject. A two-fisted, red-haired Irish woman, Miss Toumey was given to nerves. Sister Blanche made Miss Toumey nervous, and that made Miss Toumey reach into her orange leather sack every ten minutes and take out her Frances Denney orange lipstick and apply it jerkily without a mirror. Sister Blanche despised lipstick, so within seconds Miss Tourney was applying and Sister Blanche was defying—the problem with the lipstick was that we never knew if Miss Tourney was smiling at us or if it was Frances Denney. Their differences extended to the all important selection of material.
Miss Tourney liked epic drama like Don Quixote, that called for an almost all-male cast, whereas Sister Blanche leaned more toward the romantic musicals like The Chocolate Soldier or Naughty Marietta. But, as long as it lasted from 8:30 to 10:30 and could accommodate the entire senior class in some form or other, the material was incidental. Over and above that, Miss Tourney changed the plot so many times and the title (to avoid paying the royalty fee), that one could only say that all our class plays were reminiscent of George Bernard Shaw or Louisa May Alcott.
Theatre as an art, was restricted to seniors. Theatre, as a money-producing scheme, was of course open to all. For the first three years, you sold tickets to the show. For the fourth year, you were allowed, along with your twenty-seven competitive chums, to be in it. Of course, there were other dramatic incidents that Sister Blanche designed. For example, I did learn to use a baton in California Here We Come. Our batons were broomsticks sawed in half, thrust into a sponge ball and dipped in gold glitter paint. Laurentia lost her ball in the middle of our trickiest twirl—I believe it hit Mr. Gallagher. But, other than that, the Glee Club did well with the showers and bowers that bloom in the spring, and Sister Blanche, who had a melancholic streak, offered the services of the entire senior class in Sunday uniforms, to attend Armistice Day services at the cemetery. But even that could not detract from the Big Event.
Our classic for the year 1940 was The Death of Abraham Lincoln. I never for a moment thought that I would land one of the truly exciting speaking parts, since I was not popular with Miss Tourney, and Sister Blanche had been collecting a dossier on me since I was a freshman. I got the part of Lisha, the colored girl slave. I was the only one willing to blacken my face with shoe polish and cork. I had three lines to memorize, one that I recited in each act, and I took a rather upper-handed attitude towards Mary, Ginger and Laurentia, none of whom had speaking roles. Mary was a soldier who was dragged across the entire stage, which was about fifty feet; and, as rehearsals progressed, she suffered a good bit from splinters. Ginger and Laurentia were old hags who shouted down “No” and “Save us all” along with the other untalented seniors. Of the quartet, I had certainly come up with the best part. Of course, we didn’t even envy Abe, who was Roberta Pierce. I am sure that playing the role of Abraham Lincoln left lasting scars on her libido, since we were in character more that spring than we were out of it. I still have the blackheads to remind me of Lisha.
From three o’clock on till six, if Miss Tourney felt like it, we rehearsed in the darkened auditorium. As April approached and the trees began to bud green and flower, Sister Blanche started calling Saturday rehearsals and even an occasional Sunday one—although Mother Superior frowned on this. The school took on the same kind of nervous beat a Broadway production suffers as the calendar silently creeps towards the New Haven opening. Sister Blanche was all for pushing the performance up, but the date was firm since the sequence of exciting events that would follow were all on schedule—the Operetta, the Band Concert, Baccalaureate Sunday, and finally, Graduation. The entire faculty should have been sent to Menninger’s for the summer following a typical St. Marks year. But they thrived on it. A nun’s work is never done, if she can just have time to schedule some more.
After rehearsals began, the first commercial step had to be taken and that was selling space in the program. I tackled the Gallagher Bottling Plant, as they provided the pop and soft drinks all year. It was my job to see if Mr. Gallagher wouldn’t up his $10 space for an eighth of a page to a $15 space for a fourth. The scale of space was a secret with Sister Geraldine, the treasurer, who has long since left this world taking her clues with her. It was my idea, as a parting gift to St. Marks, to help Sister Geraldine with the program. She should have been suspicious, since I had never offered my services to anything, but she was delighted to put me in charge of proofreading the program. Thus we had several one-eighth pages that read “Compliments of a Fiend.” I was delighted at that time with my sense of humor, which I considered just one notch below Benchley.
After the pages were all sold to vendors who sold us, and to parents who had some money left over, we started all over with the same people to sell them tickets. I approached Mr. Gallagher with my fist full of first-night or second-night seats, and got a chilly reception.
“I really don’t think I can go and I know the missus doesn’t want to.”
“Mr. Gallagher, I think this is one of the very best shows we’ve ever done at St. Marks.”
“Well, I’m sure it is, my dear, but I don’t think I can make it.”
“I’m in it . . . I have three lines . . . ‘Massuh, save me’ . . . ‘Help, help, please don’t whip me’ . . . and ‘We will never forget you, Abe Lincoln.’”
Mr. Gallagher sat with his head cupped in his hand, his elbow propped on a Seven-Up display, and stared at me. “Isn’t it enough that I’ve sent all my children to St. Marks, my son is a priest, and I took an eighth page in the program?”
“I don’t see how you can miss this,” I added.
The poor man knew if he didn’t take them, I wouldn’t leave, or I’d go back to Sister Geraldine
and tell her the truth and he wouldn’t be delivering all that soda to the school, so he said resignedly, “Okay, two. . . .”
“Just two?” We had been trained for this chore.
“Just two.”
I had my face blackened and I was ready for the stage at 6 p.m., even though my appearance was not until the middle of the first act, and I couldn’t go near anyone for fear that I’d rub off. By 6:35 I was so nervous that I was dripping brown rivulets onto my white slave costume. Sister Blanche cued everyone onto the stage so heartily and loudly that most of everyone’s first lines were completely lost to the audience and they heard instead, “Anna Marie Flaherty on stage.” It was quite a drama. Lincoln had already made his/her appearance and had brought down the house—the makeup job was so authentic. Actually, Roberta looked a little like Lincoln, so it wasn’t so difficult. The only problem was she didn’t sound like Lincoln and she’d practiced booming her husky voice so much, she was pretty hoarse the first night The second night, her stand-by, a short blond girl, did the part and she got just as much of a hand for makeup. It has a lot to do with the audience.
The play was building up nicely when Sister Blanche shouted for me—my mouth was completely dry and I tried to get a drink at the fountain before I hit the stage. Sister Blanche went right to pieces when I didn’t appear the instant she called; and when I did appear, she grabbed me and literally threw me onto the stage. Granted, my being a minute late had left Abe with nothing to do but pace up and down. And, instead of my ingratiating creeping approach to “Massuh, save me . . .”, I literally flew through the air and landed practically in Abe’s arms. Roberta went to pieces. Seeing her thus, I promptly said, “We will never forget you, Abe Lincoln.” The cast of players were so well trained that they immediately picked up their third-act lines and killed Abe.
Before Sister Blanche could prompt us from the side curtain, we had completed the third act and the curtain came down. Needless to say, there was as much chaos on the audience side of the curtain as there was on the actors’ side. Sister Blanche was beside herself. The entire performance had taken twenty-three minutes. It was the quickest death Lincoln had ever had.
