by Jane Trahey
Sister Blanche and Miss Tourney held a meeting and tried to figure out how they could start the play over with Lincoln already getting stiff. And, a lot of parents were pretty peeved, since anyone who was in the second or third act exclusively simply was out of luck.
Then Mother Superior rose to the occasion, marched up the steps of the stage and spoke to the audience. “One of our actresses,” she said, “in the fervor of her first major part, delivered her third act line instead of her first. We are certain you wouldn’t want to miss the next two acts so we will proceed from where Lisha, the slave girl, crept in.”
The piano broke into “John Brown’s body lies a’mouldering in the grave. . . .” Abe picked himself/herself up, and as the curtain rose, I crawled toward Roberta muttering, “Massuh, save me.”
Chapter Fourteen: Fever in the Blood
When I was twelve, Mama finally told me there was no Santa Claus. When I was fourteen, Mary told me that we did not originate in the cabbage patch. And when I was sixteen and a senior, Mother Superior told us about sex. It was not a subject she waxed warmly over. In fact, she handled it quite a bit like my family would have, had they had the opportunity. Mama’s only expression when the word “sex” popped up was, “That is kitchen talk. If you want to pursue this kind of filth, you go in the kitchen.”
Mother Superior spoke about the sanctity of married life once a week. At the same time, the young men at St. Giles were being taught the responsibilities of being a Catholic father. The results in both camps were about the same. When we finally met to do battle, we stood and stared at each other, speechless. In our Sunday uniforms, which made us look like Polish refugees, plus our acne (a direct result of Sister Rose Marie’s insistent bake sales for the Missions), plus our liberal sex education, we turned into the most unattractive mates the boys could possibly desire.
It was from Sister Mary William and Sister Blanche that we really got our scare. Sister Mary William gave us strict instructions on how to behave if and when we were ever forced (God forbid) to sit on a boy’s lap. She looked down from her platform, peering out glassy-eyed at the lot of us.
“Never sit on a boy’s lap.”
We sat spellbound.
“And, if you do have to, if the car is crowded, if your cousins take you riding, if there is no other way out except sitting on the floor of a sedan, just sit on a phone book.” Of course, even then, dumb as we were, we knew it was not always the handiest thing to have in your hands.
“And if you don’t have a phone book,” Sister Blanche said, “take a Good Housekeeping with you.”
We all agreed to never go out without a magazine to sit on.
To plan the material side of our worldly education (as well as the spiritual side), St. Giles and St. Marks had four reciprocal tea dances—for seniors only. These were held at three o’clock and the torture lasted until five o’clock. Two of these balls were held in our gym, with pink balloons; two were held in the boys’ gym, with red balloons. This was actually done against the inner wishes of the Sisters and the Fathers, who, in their hearts, hoped that we would never leave the nest. But realistically, they knew that we had to. So, with their catholic (in the universal sense) wisdom, they agreed that if we had to meet someone, we might as well meet each other.
Stephen O’Riley was the first boy I ever really talked to. He was a Skeezix sort of boy with unruly hair, a tiny chin, lots of teeth and wicked blue eyes. He looked somewhat like a young, old man. His high-and-low husky, dusty cracking voice fascinated me. I would never have had the courage to talk to Stephen if I hadn’t sat next to Oona O’Riley, his sister, for three years. Oona had suggested that she introduce me to Stephen when the first tea dance was scheduled.
“Stephen’s funny, I think you’ll like him . . . and he says he can dance.”
I agreed, and on the scheduled afternoon, at three o’clock (promptly at three o’clock) the boys’ bus arrived with the Fathers in charge. There was one Father for every three boys. With a similar ratio at St. Marks, you can well imagine the conviviality of the whole affair.
Boys with a sister, and vice-versa, fared better than the lonely ones. It wasn’t a question of family or brotherly love, it was simply a defense mechanism on the part of the boys not to have to meet some girl-even a sister was preferable. The family relationship was bad enough, but to have to speak to a strange girl was sickening.
Oona brought Stephen over to me and did the usual introductions. I thought he was enchanting from the first sentence he spoke. He said, “Ain’t this a drag?”
“You’ll never know,” I said staring at the floor.
“You sick or something?”
“No,” I whispered, “no.” I dragged my eyes up.
“You wanna skate?”
“Skate?” I was puzzled. “Skate?”
“Dance, you drone, dance.”
“I don’t know how, except with Mrs. Phipps.”
Stephen looked at me with wide unbelieving eyes.
“You been dating her?”
“Oh, don’t be silly, she’s our dancing teacher and I haven’t ever danced with anyone else.”
“Well, do your or don’t your?”
“I door.”
This last bit of smashing comedy on my part seemed to amuse Stephen and we began.
The orchestra (if it could be called an orchestra) consisted of four young boys from the local Catholic college, who worked their way through Music Other than at the tea dances, I don’t believe they ever saw each other. They played “Deep Purple,” “Hold Tight” and one of the most horrendous versions of “Harbor Lights” I have ever heard.
When I got out on the floor and moving with Stephen, I realized that Mrs. Phipps had not done badly by me. At least I knew which sneaker to move. Of course, we weren’t wearing sneakers at the tea dance, which in itself took a bit of getting used to. I had the feeling, though, that Brother Simon had not been as successful with his charges.
Whatever it was that Stephen did, made sense up to a point—it was the point that amazed me. I think he created his dashing dip, which was a combination of a czardas and a rhumba, out of pure boredom with the two-step.
“What are you doing?” I panted at him breathlessly.
“It’s not what I’m doing,” he sneered, “it’s what you’re supposed to do.”
I tried to master the dip. As we sped by Mother Superior, dipping directly in front of her, I noticed that she seemed overcome by a cough. In fact, she kept her handkerchief up in front of her face most of the afternoon.
“I never learned this step,” I said defensively.
“Well, master it now,” he shouted. I hated him for a moment, but then I rather liked the idea of someone outshouting me. I dipped.
Mary had found a tall, red-headed boy who seemed quite debonair and at ease with tea dancing. She was quite fussy about friends, and I was interested to see that her young man didn’t seem to mind the large white handkerchief she put between his hand and hers to keep her sweating palms dry.
In between dance sections, when the orchestra switched music (and instruments, I think), punch was served with tiny little cookies made of corn flakes and soap. The punch tasted like orange juice mixed with Absorbine Jr. It was served in cut-glass cups that probably belonged to some member of one of the Sister’s families. When we got our punch we all retired to our separate corners, the boys to the bays’ side and the girls to the girls’ side.
“You act like an idiot,” Mary said to me. She seemed cross because I liked Stephen O’Riley and had been laughing with him.
“He’s marvelous,” I said proudly. “He’s very bad in deportment.”
“He’s a creep and you know it.”
“He’s not a creep and he’s different from most boys.”
“How?”
“Well, he’s funny and he makes me laugh.”
“Some laughs.”
“Well, how about you and Leroy?” I bantered back.
“Leroy will go places
, and I hope soon.”
But little did Mary know how persistent Leroy was. He fell in love with Mary because she didn’t care a whit about him, and I fell in love with Stephen for precisely the same reason. It was life, to be precise.
During the alternate tea-dancing bouts with each other, we were being prepared for the big event—a championship tournament: the Senior Prom.
This was to be held in May, and not in the school. For the first time in our young lives we were to be exposed to a hotel ballroom, a decent orchestra, and long dresses. We were to pick the dresses out during the Easter holidays and bring them back to the school, or have them fitted, or made, or what have you, but they had to be approved by the twenty-fifth of May.
It was a trial and tribulation for the student, the parents, and the faculty. We worried about what color it was, the parent worried about how expensive it was, and the faculty worried about how bare it was. We had been duly warned about modesty and carried a letter home describing the ideal dress.
The ideal dress would have had a turtle neck, long sleeves, be made of mail, and would undoubtedly be pale pink, pale blue, or white. The fact that Marshall Field did not carry this posed many problems.
My mother, in a distinct rut created by other nuns in another generation, found just the perfect dress. There would be no need for any of the nuns to tuck handkerchiefs in my bosom to cover up a décolletage. My dress was white net over white taffeta. It had puffed sleeves, a boat neckline, a cinched waist line and no style.
My father took one look and said, “She looks like something out of The Moonstone.”
“Do you think it needs some color?” Mama asked plaintively.
“Either the dress does or she does,” Papa answered. He had a nice sense of taste, and this all-white child of his did not please his aesthetic sense.
“Do you think she looks well, Dave?” Mama queried, a sense of lets-share-the-responsibility in her voice.
“She looks fine—it’s that shroud that makes her look like she’s been doused in flour.”
Ann Landers would be hard put to take care of the broken psyches caused by that generation of outspoken parents.
I was puzzled by this parental outburst and I finally got enough courage to ask my mother the most pertinent question.
“Mama, am I pretty?”
My mother studied me, much as a producer does an actress or an agency a model.
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “you have nice clear eyes.”
It was the most tactful and evasive answer I have ever heard, but it did for me precisely what I wanted it to. I thought I had the most beautiful clear eyes in the whole world.
Mama remedied the dress by pinning a series of fuchsia bows on it. It wasn’t Chanel but it took the curse off it.
I asked Stephen to my dance and after a good bit of pressure on my part, he finally asked me to his.
Mary didn’t want to ask Leroy to the dance at all, and she was deluged with notes and flowers and a five-dollar size of Whitman’s Sampler until she did.
I was furious and I was determined to do one thing.
“I’m going to kiss Stephen,” I said boldly one afternoon to Mary and Oona and Kathryn. “I’m going to kiss him hard.”
“You are disgusting,” Mary said.
“I’m going to tell Mother Superior,” Oona said, worried over the morals of her brother.
“I don’t care what you do, I want to kiss him.”
Somehow the word got out that I was madly and passionately in love with Mr. O’Riley. Everyone knew but Stephen.
Before the night of the big dance, Mother Superior gave us a final plea.
“Just take my word for it, you’ll feel cleaner and nicer and prouder of yourself if you act like a St. Marks girl. No matter what ‘he’ says, stick to your honor, your godliness. Just tell him St. Marks girls don’t kiss.” She said “kiss” with a disgusted accent.
The more she lectured us on purity, the more determined I became to grasp Stephen to my bosom and kiss him.
Mother Superior gave me a long and lasting look before we left.
“Do be good,” she said, “and make St. Marks proud of you.”
She really had nothing to worry about. None of us knew anything about kissing. We all waited impatiently for the school bus to pick us up. For the first time in our lives, we looked at the dirty thing and became fussy. The seats that ordinarily were leathery and comfortable suddenly looked dirty and ill-kempt.
I had my first pair of pumps on. They were fuchsia-colored and a special present from my father, who seemed intent on brightening up the family ghost.
I kept thinking of those few moments when the Sisters, Brothers, and all the keepers of our world would be gone from our life, and I thought of how nice it would be to be close to Stephen.
The Hotel Madison Ballroom, which was usually occupied by the Kiwanis and Rotary, had been cleared. Potted palms had been shoved into appropriate corners. The soft-drink stand had been set up at one end of the room and the orchestra at the other. When we arrived, the boys were herded into the lobby. They wore white jackets and most of them sported a dark red carnation in their buttonholes. I spotted Leroy first. He didn’t even recognize me.
“Ye gads,” he said, “your hair is fluffed.”
“It’s not fluffed, it’s teased.”
I had had my hair up in curlers for three days and the effect was, to say the least, hair-raising. All the day of the dance I had brushed it, but to no avail. Finally, in desperation, I got it all wet and it was like soaked bread—it swelled.
“Where’s Stephen?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “He wasn’t feeling well earlier today. Where is Mary?”
Mary finally stood up when Leroy prodded her and they danced out of my sight. I sat waiting for Stephen.
Mother Superior, who had accompanied the bus, was now ready to turn us over to the chaperones. The chaperones were trapped fathers of the sons of St. Giles and the daughters of St. Marks, who, with their wives, sat through the dance till midnight feeling old and tired. They looked benign and put upon.
Before Mother Superior left, she leaned over and said to me, “Have you seen Stephen?”
“No,” I answered, worried, “didn’t he come?”
“Oh, he’s here all right, just getting up nerve to find you.”
I tried to pursue Mother Superior, but she was on her way—and once she started, no one stopped her.
And then I spied my true love. His hair stood Up as it always did. He wore his white jacket, just as everyone did, and a red carnation budded from his lapel. It was his face that held fast my stare.
“My heavens, Stephen, what’s that you’re wearing on your face?” I asked, fascinated.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. There stood my dream, my fabulous Stephen, wearing a great metal mask over his nose and mouth; it strapped on the back of his head, like a gas mask. His watery pink-shot eyes stared mournfully at me. He lifted up his iron mask just long enough to try and speak to me; instead, he sneezed. He slapped it back down.
He tried again to explain. Nasally, he spewed out these words: “I have hhhhhay fever and rrrrrose fever and I hhhhhave to wwwwear this in May.” He had been out too long and the hundreds of little nosegays the school wore didn’t help. He snapped his mask and looked sad.
“Oh, Stephen,” I said, “and tonight I was going to fall in love with you.”
He looked miserable and pointed to the dance floor. We danced and dipped and dipped, but Stephen obviously was under the weather. Over his mask, his eyes flowed with rose tears and finally, out of sheer empathy, I suggested we just go home.
Mother Superior met me at the door and sympathized with Stephen, who left for his school immediately in the taxi he’d hired. Home to his inhaler and medications. I sat on the steps and watched my new love, my true love go, too sick to even wave. Mother Superior, delighted to see that the duckling who was out to capture the drake was home safe and sound, protected so
magnificently by modern science, said, “Well, don’t you worry, he’ll probably be fit as a fiddle when the flowers are gone.”
Chapter Fifteen: Jackpot
Graduation time was certainly not restricted to the month of June. In fact, from the day we returned from Christmas holidays, everything was aimed, more or less, at our official departure from St. Marks. It took three meetings to decide what exotic garb we would wear for the big event. The Mothers’ Club favored caps and gowns, but Mother Superior, a sentimentalist, felt strongly about long dresses with large white garden hats. This had undoubtedly been what she had graduated in, and this was to be what we would wear.
The dress, apparently designed by Charlie Chaplin, was of a striped organza. It had several synthetic ruffles that were really not sleeves, but merely a device dreamed up by Mother Superior to cover our upper appendages. Under no circumstances would St. Marks girls ever be seen publicly with the full arm showing. The effect was a pale watered-down Carmen Miranda dress and, for most of us still firmly entrenched in adolescence, we looked like frilled toothpicks that are used on hors d’oeuvres. The dress was sashed with a satin tie and we wore white shoes and our first nylons. My father said, “Oh, my God, not another white dress! This time she looks like she’s fallen in a bucket of white paint.”
“Well, that’s what Mother Superior wants.”
“Does she pay for it?”
It was a fairly typical conversation, completely pointless, since they both had had enough experience in four years to know that what Mother Superior wanted, Mother Superior got.
“Well, maybe she can dye it and wear it next year to a dance.”
“What, Halloween?”
“All right, Dave, that’s enough.”
It wasn’t until I put the hat on that Daddy really went to pieces.
“She looks like Irene Castle.”
Deanna Durbin might have carried it off, but on me it was unbelievable. I took on the complete personality of someone in a nut house. The closest I could come to describing my look was a young Edith Sitwell.
