by Jane Trahey
When the orchestra began to play the March, we knew that our life at St. Marks was on its last leg. The orchestra sounded much this way too.
Under no circumstances were we to recognize our family. We marched in, eyes straight ahead, looking like twenty-five Jeanette MacDonalds under the influence of hypnosis.
We all took our seats. Florence rose and stumbled her way to the platform. With a quivering voice, she welcomed all. She shook so much, she had to hang onto the lectern. The Bishop nodded kindly and settled down into his chair, it was not the kind of chair one could ever get comfortable in, but he too stared straight ahead. After attending a hundred of these events, he had undoubtedly learned to tune out the voice and leave the picture.
Florence stumbled her way back to her chair and Ramona stood up and confidently headed toward the lectern. I’m convinced she is probably standing some where just like it today. She gave a very concise, well thought-out introduction and introduced Lillian.
I wondered how well she would do. I had taken a quick look at her typewritten speech just before we filed in. When Lillian had made a final trip to the bathroom, all I did was take two pages out. This left her with four rather unrelated ideas. She read the first page beautifully and sailed right into the second. The odd transition didn’t seem to bother the audience too much—if they were at all like my father, they were undoubtedly not listening. However, I did watch the Bishop cock his head as she sprung into the third page., I thought she might notice that the ideas which she was promoting didn’t make too much sense, but she was simply intent on delivering the written words. By luck, we left her with the last page and she finished thanking the good Sisters for all they had done for us.
Tears came to her large brown eyes as she said:
“And so we bid St. Marks good-bye, but good-bye only in the physical sense. Each of us,” she tearfully pledged, “will be here always, and St. Marks will always be with us.”
The audience gave her a very warm hand, which she accepted as her just due. I wondered when it would dawn on her that she had read only two-thirds of her speech. As I figured, no one but the religious side of our life had noticed it. I didn’t dare look at Mary.
Then, the Bishop gave one of his rambling “Life is like a ship going out to sea” speeches, which could have done with the same kind of editing.
My father, who had attended my sister’s graduation, said it was the same speech, he had merely put a different year on it. When he finished, there was a general stir. People didn’t clap for the Bishop. He retired to his place and his assistant got up and said, “We will now hand out the diplomas,” and he proceeded to read the names in alphabetical order, while each girl went up to the Bishop to receive it.
The dance step went like this. We left our seats, our eyes straight ahead. We marched to the middle of the platform where we made a very complicated dipping bow; we then turned to the Bishop and made another one, only this bow was much trickier, as we were to kiss his ring on the way down. The idea was to kiss his hand without getting the ring clanked in your teeth. You then rose, took your diploma from his holy hands, retired to the middle of the stage and bowed again. This time the bow was directed toward the nuns. You then returned to your chair. It took about one minute per student to do this dance. It was not easy, however, with a good gusty wind blowing up, to do the dip, keep your organdy garden hat from sailing off, get your diploma and get back—especially, keeping your eyes at West Point attention.
When they got to the T’s I got ready. When they hit Teresa Tiernan, I adjusted my dress so I wouldn’t step on it. When they called Marguerite Webb, I thought I had fainted and missed out on my name. They had simply skipped me. What on earth had happened? In the second allotted, I tried to see, out of the corner of my organdy hat, if Marguerite Webb was as startled as I was. She was. She nudged me to get going and I made my way up to the front of the platform, where I curtsied and headed for the Bishop.
Marguerite Webb was to be the last one to get her diploma and the Bishop did some tricky calculating to realize that he had one diploma too many—mine. I dipped in front of him and kissed his ring and reached for the diploma. I suppose the only people who knew, or cared about the difference between Marguerite Webb and myself, were my family and the Webbs. There was a general stir in the audience and my father got out his glasses to take a look at me.
I tugged at my diploma and the Bishop tugged back. The diploma-pulling contest continued another full second, then the Bishop turned to the assistant and asked, “Who is this?”
“Marguerite Webb,” he answered.
I wanted so much to say, “I’m not Marguerite Webb,” but I tried to think of Mother Superior, and how she would feel if I ruined Graduation, too. I kept my eyes straight ahead.
The Bishop didn’t get to be Bishop for nothing and he leaned over, still hanging on to the diploma, and said:
“Are you Marguerite Webb?”
I shook my head. “No, your Highness.”
This last accolade was too much for him. He laughed and turned to the assistant. “Read the name before Webb.”
“There’s been some mistake,” said the handsome young priest. “This is Jane Trahey, not Marguerite Webb.”
The Bishop let go of my diploma so suddenly, I almost fell. But I quickly got back to my final curtsy. The applause was rewarding for both Marguerite Webb and myself.
After this, the Scholarship Awards were read and, even though Mother Superior had been cool up till now on the subject, she applauded when they read mine.
To climax the whole event, Mother Superior made a little announcement about the prizes she considered the most valuable.
“Prizes, scholarships and honors are all well and good,” she said, “but with them, of course, goes the responsibility to live up to the great expectations.” But there were other honors in life that were not material. These were bestowed on the fortunate few and it was the gift of a religious vocation. She said, “I am delighted to tell you that three graduates from this very class will join our Order here next September.”
Three. . . . I knew about Lillian and Rosemary Lenahen, but who could the third one be?
“Lillian Quigley,” she said, “one of our best students, a Scholarship winner, a four-year honor student; Rosemary Lenahen, ranking in the top five in grades, captain of our winning basketball team; and Mary Clancey, one of our most high-spirited students, fun-loving and top debater.”
It was as if someone had socked me. I could not believe my ears. Mary, my friend, my pal, my right arm, my accomplice, going in the awful nunnery. It was too much. I gave up the eyes front and stared at her.
She stared back.
The orchestra began the school song and we all stood up and sang “Faithful Forever St. Marks,” and then we began to march, two by two, for the last time, down the stone walk toward the Main Building.
Mother Superior was mingling with the parents, and when I saw her heading for mine I joined them. I was still speechless from the announcement and I steered clear of Mary and her parents.
Mother Superior was saying how proud she was of all of us. This was her evasive way of saying not one word about me.
“That was some Valedictorian speech,” my father said.
I hopelessly tried to shut him up.
“She must have gotten her papers mixed up.”
Mother Superior glared at me and said, “Yes, it looked to me as though she had misplaced one or two pages, but all in all, I thought it was the most beautiful graduation we’ve ever had.”
Father continued in his usual blundering way, “And what did you think of this one winning a scholarship?”
“Very surprising, indeed,” Mother Superior admitted.
“It was either the easiest test ever given, or she was under a lucky star that day.”
No one ever gave me a credit line.
“By the way,” Mother Superior queried, “how is your sister in China?”
I could have fainted as I watc
hed my father’s face turn toward her.
Someone tapped Mother Superior on the shoulder and she turned away. She was needed, so she excused herself with an, “I’ll be back, I want to hear all about her.”
“She must have the wrong family,” Papa said to Mama. “A sister of mine in China!”
I moved off with Mother Superior and headed toward the school. We were to change our clothes and gather our stuff together, then say good-bye to one and all. I felt depressed, not only over leaving St. Marks, but mostly over Mary’s turning traitor on me. How could she do such a thing? Well, she wasn’t my friend any longer. I was crushed.
On the way down to the car I met Mother Superior. She grabbed me and pulled me into her office.
“Have you spoken to Mary yet?” she asked. Mother knew us so well, there was no need for preliminaries.
“No, there’s no need.”
“There is every need. She’s quite upset that you haven’t spoken to her.”
“I should have known,” I muttered, “they’d rope her.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” she said; “you know better.”
“I don’t care about Lillian and Rosemary, but Mary’s my friend.”
“Well, you are going to do just what you want to do, shouldn’t Mary have the same opportunity?”
“She’s too young.” I stubbornly pulled out every chestnut I had ever heard about girls going in the convent.
“Well, is Ginger too young to get married?”
“No, not if she wants to.”
“Is Lillian too young?”
“Lillian was never young.”
Mother Superior laughed. “If people don’t fit your special pattern, they just won’t do, will they?”
“No,” I said, “it’s just that she should have told me.” I was verging on tears.
“Yes, I think she should have, too. I suppose she was shy about what you’d say. You know you would have teased her.”
Tears splashed down my face. It was the first time I had ever cried at St. Marks.
Mother Superior reached out and held me in her sergey arms. “Now, now,” she said, “it’s not the end of the world. Do me a favor, go and tell Mary you’re happy for her.”
I shook my head.
“I’ve never asked you for a favor, and I think you owe me quite a few. Will you?”
I mopped my face with her handkerchief. It smelled of lavender.
“Okay,” I cried, “okay, I’ll go tell her how happy I am.”
I slowly got control of myself and Mother Superior herded me out to the hall. I spied Mary down at the end of it.
“But I’ll never understand why,” I said tearfully to Mother Superior. “I’ll just never understand.”
“You will, when you grow up,” she whispered.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Foreword
Chapter One: Bad Day for Black Sock
Chapter Two: The Secrets of the Cloister
Chapter Three: Water Babies
Chapter Four: The Contest
Chapter Five: The Sour Note
Chapter Six: Days of Wrath
Chapter Seven: Sister Mary William
Chapter Eight: The Merry Month of . . .
Chapter Nine: Sister Liguori
Chapter Ten: Marvel Ann
Chapter Eleven: The Birth of Aurora
Chapter Twelve: Who’s Who
Chapter Thirteen: The Death of Abraham Lincoln
Chapter Fourteen: Fever in the Blood
Chapter Fifteen: Jackpot
Chapter Sixteen: Cum Diploma
