Saint Training (18 page)

I
t’s for you again,” Anne said, stretching the phone cord across the kitchen to reach Mary Clare at the sink.

Since the party a week earlier, kids had been calling in a steady stream to say thank you or to ask when The Seminarians were going to practice again. And now everybody knew about Sister Charlotte leaving since Father Dwyer announced it at Mass last Sunday. He hadn’t said that she was leaving the convent, of course. Just that her time had ended at Saint Maria Goretti parish. And Mary Clare had kept Sister’s confidence as the kids all hugged each other and cried in the vestibule of the church after Mass. She’d also remained silent about her mother replacing Sister.

“I can’t say anything either,” Mom had said. “It’s Father Dwyer’s place to make the announcement.”

Typically the end of August meant long days and nights in the kitchen canning bushels of tomatoes and cooking and freezing corn they’d buy from local farmers. But this year Mom was determined to stock up on freezer-friendly meals. “That way we can thaw something out in the morning and we’ll just stick it in the oven when we all come home after school,” she had assured Mary Clare.

Mary Clare had never seen her mother so excited and energetic. In preparation for working full-time, Mom’s attention and energy were completely on the family right now. Her attention on the family felt like the sun was beaming throughout the home, making everybody shine through. Right now she had everybody working in a flurry of activity. Anne’s job was to gather all the uniforms to see which fit one of the girls and which required mending or alterations. Gabby and Martha were cleaning out their drawers and the older boys were in charge of cleaning out the garage. Mom wanted everything ship-shape before school started again.

Mary Clare sighed. She wanted her mother to be this happy doing housework every single day, but she knew better. What made her mother shine today was the knowledge that she would be doing something more than housework and childcare tomorrow. What made her brighten the family today was the realization that in a week she’d have a career as a teacher. Housework, cooking, changing diapers, and wiping noses would only be a part of her life from now on.

This was why so many of Mom and Dad’s friends were turning against her. They all knew she’d be working soon. They just didn’t know she’d be taking Sister Charlotte’s place. Even Mary Clare’s friends said hurtful things, pretending that they were simply repeating what their parents had said.

“My mom thinks that women are supposed to stay at home and take care of their kids,” Kelly had said when they were walking home from the park. “It’s how God wants it.”

“My dad said he’d never tolerate a wife who worked. He said you kids will be neglected,” Joannie said.

Mary Clare had wanted to lash out at them and say mean things back about their parents. Instead she bit her lip to avoid committing another sin and ran ahead towards the stream that
cut through the park. She had squatted and stared into the water, pretending to look for fish and frogs and unusual stones. But the words of her friends still stung. Maybe they were right. Maybe Mom was a bad mother. Maybe she was being cheated having to work so hard.

“Don’t just stand there, Mary Clare, hop to,” Mom said now. “You can wash this pan and use it to start the water boiling for the pasta.”

Mary Clare stopped remembering and accepted the dirty kettle her mother held in front of her. She couldn’t help smiling when she broke out in song while browning the hamburger on the stove.

“How are things in Glaca Mora? Is the little brook still sleeping there?” Mom sang.

Mary Clare remembered the song from the musical
Brigadoon
that the community theatre had put on last year. By the second verse Mary Clare couldn’t help joining in.

She knew that Kelly and Joannie were probably long done with their measly chores—picking up their rooms and taking out the garbage. They were probably free right now to have fun. But she couldn’t help wondering if they ever had this kind of special time with their own moms.

On Sunday Mary Clare dreaded going to Mass. Surely Father would have to make the announcement today that Mom would be taking Sister Charlotte’s place. And when he did people were going to react. Some people might support her, but it would surely be controversial. Mary Clare thought her mother was brave. She just wasn’t sure that she was as brave as her mother.

Sure enough, Father Dwyer made the announcement right after the final blessing.

“As you know, Sister Charlotte’s departure left a position to fill at St. Maria Goretti School. When classes begin on
September four, Mrs. Paul O’Brian will join our staff as the sixth grade teacher.” There were a few gasps. “She will replace Sister Charlotte.” Many more gasps followed. Father raised a hand, signaling silence. “We want to extend a warm welcome to Mrs. O’Brian.”

Mary Clare could feel shock waves ripple through the church. There were whispers behind her but she couldn’t make out the words. Her mother sat stiff and stared straight ahead.

She glanced down the pew. Every family member was present today. Mom had returned to Sunday Masses just after she lost the baby. Dad bent his head and continued mouthing the words to the rosary he held, as if he’d heard none of Father’s words. Mary Clare knew he had heard everything.

In the vestibule, Mom smiled as people congratulated her. Several commented on how amazing it was that she could hold a job outside the home with so many children. The bite in their words was so close to the surface of their sweetness that it stung right through. Others walked right by without saying a word. Mary Clare heard one woman ask if anyone knew what parish Sister Charlotte would be teaching in. Mary Clare was grateful for the assumption that she had merely been transferred.

“What I can’t understand,” Mary Clare heard Mr. Carney say to his wife, “is why Father is replacing a nun with a lay teacher.”

“I know,” Mrs. Carney said. “Why not just get another nun?”

Mary Clare caught Matthew rolling his eyes. He bent down and whispered to her, “People don’t realize that nuns are leaving the convent in droves.”

“That wasn’t so bad,” Mom said when they were all in the car and on the way out of the parking lot.

“I guess not,” Dad said. “But I think a lot of people are wondering why I can’t support my family myself.”

“No, they don’t,” Mom said. “I’m just glad it’s over with. In a few weeks everyone will have adjusted and it will all be fine.”

“I won’t adjust,” Gabby said. She hated the idea of having her mother at her school.

“I’ll adjust,” Anne said, poking Gabby in the side.

“Me too,” Martha said.

“Me three,” Margaret said.

That made Dad smile.

O
n the first day of seventh grade, Mary Clare watched more than listened to Sister Georgette, their new teacher. She and Sister Agony were the last of the nuns to wear the old habit. Sister Georgette was stocky, with a big red nose that she nursed constantly. A long white handkerchief would magically appear from her sleeve, and then she’d use it on her nose and return it. Yuck. When Sister Georgette was nervous, which was often, her entire face turned red to match her nose. Students called her “Sister Sniffles” behind her back. Mary Clare hoped that Sister had been spared knowing about this insult. She couldn’t imagine going through a whole year with someone as blah as Sister Georgette, especially remembering how Sister Charlotte had lit up the classroom.

The shrill sound of the intercom interrupted Mary Clare’s thoughts. Sister Agony began her litany of messages:

“Welcome to a new school year at Saint Maria Goretti School. It is a privilege to receive a Catholic education. First and second graders, remember to wait for the crossing guard to help you across Main Street. Seventh grade Camp Fire Girls will have their first meeting after school tomorrow in the cafeteria. Remember that all book fees are due in this office by Friday,
September eight. Finally, will Mary Clare O’Brian and Gregory Kowalski please report to my office after school.”

Gregory motioned to her, holding a manila folder with the words “Diocesan Essay” printed on the tab. Mary Clare sighed. She hadn’t done the addendum. She had thought about it a thousand times over the summer, but something she couldn’t quite put her finger on stopped her each time. Now it was due.

Gregory waited for her at the door. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he teased.

Mary Clare shrugged.

“You’re kidding!” Gregory said. “Ten bucks. Ten bucks is the least you can get for just writing the addendum—we’re finalists!”

“I’ll get it done before the deadline,” Mary Clare said.

She repeated the same words to Sister Agony after Gregory’s essay had been accepted with a smile.

Sister Agony puffed up in her chair. “You had all summer, Mary Clare. Now you have less than
two weeks.”
She hit the desk with her hand for emphasis. “I want to see one of you two win this contest,” Sister Agony said. “In fact, I want one of you to win first place and the other second. It would benefit the school.”

Gregory leaned in toward Sister Agnes. Mary Clare could see the anger in his eyes. “You mean the money?”

“No,” Sister said, a sour look on her face as if the mere idea were distasteful. “It shows that Saint Maria Goretti School is producing top-notch students.” Sister turned her attention to Mary Clare. “Of course, I did think that if you won the money you could help your parents by putting it toward your tuition. Your poor mother has to teach full-time just to make ends meet.”

Mary Clare was shaking with rage. It took every ounce of strength to keep from lunging at the nun. She took a deep breath
instead, stood with as much dignity as she could muster, and looked the nun straight in the eye.

“My mother
wants
to teach. She
wants
a career. And the money she earns from teaching means that I don’t have to help with tuition.” She walked out tall, her chin up high. Gregory was right behind her.

“You’re dismissed,” Sister Agony called after them.

Gregory snickered.
I’ll write the addendum,
Mary Clare thought,
but it won’t be about winning. It will say exactly what I want to say.

W
hen Mary Clare hadn’t turned in her addendum by the following Wednesday, even her mother started cranking up the pressure. It seemed unfair that Sister Agony had daily access to her mother. It seemed unfair to her mother too.

“It’s hard enough having that negative woman telling me that none of my teaching ideas will work. Now she’s badgering me because you’re not getting your work done.”

Mary Clare was helping Mom make a salad to go with the chicken casserole in the oven. Anne could be heard clanking silverware against glasses and plates as she set the table for dinner. Luke’s voice rang through the house as he practiced a new song on his guitar.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Mary Clare said. “I’ll do it right after dinner.” She pulled a tomato off the windowsill and washed it for the salad.

“You’re darned right you will. But this is so unlike you, Mary Clare. What’s the problem?”

Mary Clare didn’t respond. She wasn’t quite sure what the problem was, except that each time she’d pulled out paper and pencil with the full intention of writing, she’d get jumpy inside and do something else instead.

A loud thud drew Mary Clare’s attention. She turned to see Mark looking like he’d seen a ghost. He dropped his books on the kitchen table. “You guys,” he said in a barely audible voice. Mom turned her attention to him. His lips were colorless and his eyes brimmed with tears. “I got some news.”

“What?” Mary Clare and Mom asked simultaneously.

Mark took forever to get the words out. He’d open his mouth, then close it again. His hands were in tight fists on top of the table as if he were ready for a fight. Finally he took in a sharp breath and the words that had been caught inside came tumbling out. “It’s Flipper. It was a land mine,” Mark said. His face crumpled. “He just got there, man. He
just got there.”

Mom stood frozen holding a pair of tongs in the air. Mary Clare still held the knife she’d been using to cut tomatoes and grabbed the back of a chair with her other hand.

“No,” Mary Clare said. “That’s not true.” Her words sounded like they were coming from someone else. Someone in a long tunnel.

Mary Clare was vaguely aware of thumping as someone, probably Anne, ran up the stairs. In a minute the guitar stopped playing and Luke raced down to them, his face a mess of emotions. Mom opened the arms that were holding Mark to let Luke inside their embrace. They were all sobbing. All except Mary Clare. She was still there in the kitchen, could still feel her back against the corner counter where she had somehow placed herself. She could hear the sobs. But she wasn’t a part of it. She merely watched, hearing the words and watching her family from a distance.

The phone rang and Anne answered it. “Yes, we know,” Mary Clare heard her say shakily.

Gabriella sauntered in through the back door, her cheerful expression giving way to concern as she saw everyone’s faces.

More words. More tears.

Matthew,
Mary Clare thought.
I have to tell Matthew.
She knew he was resting in a makeshift bedroom in the basement. Her arms and legs were like Jell-O but they managed to take her down the stairs. She knocked on the door.

“Stay out!”

She walked in anyway.

“Hey, you can’t just…” he started. But when he saw Mary Clare’s face, he bolted upright from the bed he was lying on. “What’s the matter? You look like a ghost!”

Matthew was dressed in a white uniform. White shirt, white pants—even the shoes at the side of his bed were white. His hair was pulled back in a rubber band. On his shirt pocket he wore a badge that said SAINT MARY’S HOSPITAL, MATTHEW O’BRIAN, ORDERLY. It was the job he’d been assigned for his conscientious objector service. So far he’d been working the night shift.

“Flipper,” she said. “It’s Flipper.”

“Oh, God,” Matthew whispered. “Oh, dear God.”

Mary Clare wondered about God. Wasn’t this all His fault? Or didn’t He even care?

“Come upstairs,” Mary Clare said. And Matthew followed.

Dinner could have been at Joannie’s house. It was that quiet. Mom led the evening prayer, as she always did when Dad was gone. Tonight she added a prayer for Flipper and his family.

Even the little kids seemed to understand that something profound had happened. They were quiet, looking from Mom to each of the big kids, trying to understand. Forks shifted food around plates but very little made its way to anyone’s mouth.
Finally Margaret broke the silence. “I’m glad you didn’t sign up, Mark,” she said. “I would cry so, so hard if you got killed.” Mary Clare suspected that everyone had been thinking the same thing. Mark’s face flooded with emotion—anger, sorrow, maybe guilt.

After dinner, Mom thawed a pan of lasagna to take over to Flipper’s family the next day. Matthew went to work and Mark and Luke and their friends gathered in the Pad. Mary Clare could hear Mom crying on the phone when she talked to Dad. The younger kids were all playing upstairs, so Mary Clare crept into Dad’s office where she could be alone with her thoughts and grief.

She sat in the rocking chair and let the tears come at last. She’d never known anyone who died before. Until now, getting killed was something she heard about on the news or read about in the paper. All of a sudden, it was here, in her life, someone she knew and cared about. Mark had said that Flipper believed that the war in Vietnam was God’s will. But it couldn’t be true. The idea of God willing pain and suffering for anyone made her stomach hurt.

Mary Clare regretted that she had let the addendum go so long. How could she write it now, when she was heartbroken over Flipper’s death? How could she write it when she was so different from the person who wrote the first essay?

Of course. That was it. Every time she’d thought about writing the addendum she’d imagined writing it using the same voice she’d used in the original essay. But she couldn’t do that. She wasn’t the same person she’d been then. Winning had been the most important thing. She’d felt desperate for the money, and desperate to know that God wanted her to be a saint. She had wanted to find the right words to impress the judges. But so much had happened since then. And she didn’t want the same
things. She wasn’t planning to become a saint or even a nun. God had answered her prayer for money in a completely different way than she had expected. Besides, she had other things she wanted to say.

Mary Clare picked up her pencil and began to write.

Mary Clare O’Brian

St. Maria Goretti Parish

September 5, 1967

DIOCESAN ESSAY ADDENDUM

You asked that this addendum go deeper into our spiritual lives. Well, that’s pretty difficult because I’m changing so much. Like so many Catholics I’m confused about a lot of things. But I am also quite certain about other things.

It all used to be so simple: you tried your best to follow all the rules in the Church, went to confession, and hoped you could be good enough to get to heaven. But these days it seems like every tradition and rule has a question mark next to it. Does God really want us to worry about every little sin or do we trust that God is forgiving? Does God really want women to be subservient to men and have no power in the Church, or did the Church misunderstand? If God is love, then that means seeking justice for everyone.

There are several things that I am sure of. Things about me, things about God, and things about the Church. I am sure that I’m not the kind of girl who can be quiet and sweet, like the Church shows the Virgin Mary and St. Theresa. I am sure that Christ wants us to fight for justice like he said in the Beatitudes. And I am sure that when God gave us free will, it meant that we were also free to interpret God’s Word—which is pretty scary because we have to use our brains and our hearts to figure out the truth.

I used to believe that holy people like priests and bishops and mother superiors could hear God better than the rest of us, but I don’t think it works that way. I think people hear different things from God because of our own beliefs and maybe because of what we want to hear. That explains why Father Groppi and Archbishop Cousins hear God telling them to fight for civil rights while Mother Monica hears God saying that Religious shouldn’t
concern
themselves with civil matters. It explains why some people fight in Vietnam
because they believe God wants them to, and others become conscientious objectors because killing is against their beliefs.

I think the people who originally thought God wanted women to be submissive to men were men. They heard what they wanted to hear. Some people still believe that for a woman to disobey her husband is to disobey God. Not me. I think if I tried to be a docile person, I wouldn’t be Mary Clare O’Brian. I’d be someone else.

It seems to me that our Church and our whole society is just beginning to wake up after a long sleep. We’re waking up and wanting to make things better in our world. Maybe we’re just now learning how to listen to God.

One thing I know is that God gives us gifts and he doesn’t want us to bury them. He wants us to use them. I will take a vow of obedience—but not a vow to be a nun and listen to someone else tell me what God wants. My vow will be to listen to God with my own ears and my own heart. I could never be a saint like Saint Theresa or Joan of Arc, and I don’t want to be a martyr like the civil rights workers who die for their cause. I just want to be an ordinary person. Just a good, ordinary person.