Authors: LaVyrle Spencer
“...wash your dresses and fix your hair and don’t you worry, I won’t go away and leave you. Every morning when you get up I’ll be here just like I’ve always been. And I’ll cook you oatmeal and sometimes French toast if you’re really, really good, and on Sundays we’ll all go to church together, and when you come home from school, I’ll have your play clothes laid out and whatever kind of cookies you like best I’ll have ’em baked for you. Now hold still while I tie this for you.”
He thought surely his heart was broken as he started up the stairs. Though she heard him coming, she went right on fussing with her doll as he stopped in her doorway and looked in. She was standing beside the bed, wrapping the doll in a miniature patchwork quilt that Krystyna had made several years ago out of scraps from the girls’ dresses. The doll had matted yellow hair and weighted eyes that were closed. Anne pulled down the chenille bedspread from her own bed, laid the doll on the pillow and covered her to the chin. She leaned over and kissed her and said, “There now, sleep tight, and if you have a bad dream I’ll be right here.” She patted the spread around the doll chin and, keeping her back to her daddy, began fussily folding some doll clothes that were scattered on the bed.
Eddie said quietly, “Does she have bad dreams a lot?”
“Sometimes.”
“What are they about?”
“Train wrecks.”
“You know, she can come to me in case you should be busy with your other dolls.”
“She knows that.”
“Then why doesn’t she?”
“She doesn’t want to bother you when she knows you have to get up so early every morning to ring the Angelus.” He went inside and touched her hair with his dirty hand that had been moving rocks all morning. “Oh, honey, is that what you thought? That you couldn’t bother me?” He went down on one knee and turned her to face him. “Maybe I was having bad dreams, too.” She hung her head because she was nine years old and nine-year-olds weren’t supposed to cry.
“Everybody goes away and leaves me,” she said with her chin pulled hard to her chest. “First Mommy, then Auntie Irene stopped coming over, and now Sister Regina’s gone, too.” Her first tears fell and she wiped her eyes on a flannel doll kimono.
“I know, honey...” He pulled her into his arms. “...I know.”
“I hate school and I’m never going back there!” She gave up her stubborn resistance and flung both arms around his neck. “I hate that dumb old Sister Clement! She doesn’t even know how to teach anything! She doesn’t... m... make... the... b... boys...” The storm broke at last, and Anne’s thin body shook with a rash of weeping. He held her and shut his eyes against his own tears, rocking them both, bumping the side of the mattress until at last Anne managed, “Why did Sister Regina go? Did she die, too, Daddy? I think she did and n... nobody wants to t... tell me.”
“No, that much I’m sure of. She’s very much alive.”
“Then is she sick?”
He sat on the floor, leaning against the bed with Anne on his lap, petting her head with his rough hand and staring at the box-elder branches beyond the low south window. “No, not at all.”
“Then why didn’t she tell us she was going? She didn’t even say goodbye.”
“Sometimes people have to leave suddenly and they don’t get a chance.”
“Like Mommy?”
“Yes... Like Mommy.”
They sat on awhile, healing, taking solace from the fact that they had cried together and felt better for it.
“Do you still miss Mommy?” Anne asked, still resting against him.
“Every day. But you want to know the truth? A lot of days get easier. I mean, at first... well, heck, I didn’t even want to get up out of bed in the morning and go on without her. But I knew I had you girls, and you both needed me, so at first I did it for you. Then pretty soon, you know what?”
“What?”
“I was doing it for myself again. And now, I actually have some pretty good days when I can think about her without getting sad at all. How about you?”
He felt Anne shrug. “The same, I guess. At first when she was gone... well, I cried a lot, except when Auntie Irene would come over. I liked it when she was here. It was kind of like having Mommy here. Why did she quit coming, Daddy?” She looked up at him.
“Well, honey...” His hand moved off her hair and patted her shoulder blade. He thought maybe she was old enough to know the truth, this girl who was so close to giving up dolls. “I’ll tell you what. Auntie Irene and I... well, she sort of liked me like a boyfriend, I guess you’d say. And I didn’t feel that way about her, so we both thought it’d be best if I tried to get on with my life and not depend on her so much, you know what I mean?”
“Sort of.” After a thoughtful stretch, she asked, “Did you ever kiss her like you kissed Mommy?”
“Once. But I missed your mom too much to enjoy it.”
“Oh.”
He smiled to himself as he watched her trying to piece together the why and wherefore of adult ways.
“So does that clear up your questions about Auntie Irene?”
“I guess so.”
“Now, about Sister Regina and why she didn’t tell you she was leaving. I’m sure if she’d have had the chance to tell you goodbye she would have, because I happen to know that we were very special to her, too. But you know what it’s like when you’re a nun. Sometimes other people tell you where you have to go, and when.”
She nodded her head, knowing he was right. Still, he could tell she was sad.
“But I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he went on. “I’ll see if I can find out from Father Kuzdek where she’s gone, and then you can write her a letter. How would you like that?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”
They sat in silence awhile, then Anne said, “You know what, Daddy?”
“What?”
“I loved her. And I’ll tell you a secret—sometimes I’d pretend that she was my mommy... after Mommy died.”
“Oh, she’d love to know that.” He gathered her up for one hard hug, then released her.
“Would it be okay if I told her that in my letter?”
“I think it would be perfectly okay. Now... what are we going to do about school this afternoon?”
“I
don’t
want to
go
!” she declared stubbornly, and got up and left the room. He listened to her footsteps go down the hall, through his bedroom into the bathroom where she blew her nose, flushed the toilet, then came back to find him still sitting on the floor, with his arms outstretched along the edge of the mattress, ankles crossed comfortably.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, slapping the mattress with both hands. “I’ll make a deal with you.”
“What kind of deal?” She came over and straddled his crossed knees, facing him.
“You can stay home this afternoon all by yourself. You’re nine years old—I don’t see why you shouldn’t be allowed to have the place to yourself now and then. Spend some time writing to Sister Regina, or even to your mother if you want to, and I’ll make excuses for you at school. But then tomorrow, and every day till the end of the school year, you’ll go to school without complaint. Sister Clement or no Sister Clement. Deal?”
She hooked her wrists behind his collar and gave him a quick peck on the mouth.
“Deal.”
He clasped her in one last spontaneous hug and said, “We’re gonna be all right, you and I, aren’t we, sunshine?”
“And Lucy, too.”
“And Lucy, too.”
“Now get off. I gotta get back to work.”
They went downstairs together and she saw him to the door, just like Krystyna used to. But as he left her, he realized that for the first time the comparison brought no pain.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The peculiar thing was, she still felt like a nun, still awakened at five A.M. without the help of an alarm clock, still knelt and said lengthy morning prayers, still went to Mass each day, only now she drove into Gilman to do it, once again with Grandma Rosella as she had as a girl.
People stared at her when she went to town.
That nun who dropped out,
their curious eyes seemed to blame as they studied her face to make sure it was Jean Potlocki, whom they scarcely remembered. Few approached her and she supposed they didn’t know what to say, so she remained as separated from friendships as she’d been in the convent.
With the exception of her sister Elizabeth.
Liz came out to the farm the first day, insisting she take Jean to St. Cloud shopping. They bought bras and shoes and cloth and patterns to make Jean some more skirts and blouses. They even bought a pattern for slacks. Liz apologized for acting
as stupid
as all the others when Jean had first announced her plans to seek a dispensation. Since then Liz had had time to reconsider, and she realized she was being selfish by concerning herself primarily with
what people would think.
“Let them think what they will. You have a right to live your life the way you want to.”
There was a tremendous sense of relief in having one ally at last, one person with whom Jean could talk about everything: her daily feelings of being a displaced person; her grave disappointment at how her departure was handled; her worries about the children thinking she had thoughtlessly abandoned them; her sadness at being unable to see her fourth-graders receive their First Communion after preparing them for two years; the way her mother continued to act hurt and embarrassed over the whole thing; her chagrin at being financially dependent on her parents once again.
And, too, she told Liz about Mr. Olczak.
“You mean he doesn’t know where you are?”
“No. I wasn’t given a chance to talk to anyone before I left. I’m going to write to him, but I thought I’d give myself time to adjust first.”
“He’ll find you. He knows where Mama and Daddy live.”
“I’ve told myself a thousand times, I mustn’t expect that. After all, we’ve never even spoken about our feelings.”
“He’ll find you.”
“Even if he does, I couldn’t... well, you know. People would talk even more if I took up with a man I used to work in the same school building with.”
“Let them talk. You know that you were dissatisfied with
the life
long before you started having feelings for him.”
“Yes... that’s true. Well, what’s the use in talking about it? Mr. Olczak hasn’t even—”
“Doesn’t he have a first name?”
“It’s Eddie, but I’ve never called him by it.”
“Well, let’s hope you get the chance.”
________
Three days after she returned to the farm, the mailman brought a letter from Anne Olczak. Her heart fluttered with excitement as she read the return address, formed in the rounded, carefully written cursive penmanship she’d taught Anne this year.
Dear Sister Regina,
Daddy said it would be o.k. if I wrote to you becauseI was very sad when you left. I never thought you would go away too and now I hate school. Sister Clement isn't a very good teacher and she falls asleep on her chair all the time and its no fun to go out at resess cause the boys are meen to us and she doesn ’t make them behaive.
Daddy said the reason you didn’t say goodby is that they make nuns go wherever they say and you have to do it. I don’t think that’s write so I’ve desided not to be a nun when I grow up. I was going to be a nun when I grow up but now I’m not going to be one. I hope that’s o.k. with you.
Daddy says its o.k. if I tell you that I use to pretend you were my mother after my mother dyed. I use to pretend that sometimes. That is why I felt bad when they said you were gone.
Lucy got 100 in her spelling test.
I hope you are fine Daddy says you are fine and you did not die too. Well I have to go and clean out sugar’s sand box.
Love,
Anne Olczak
Her mother looked over when Jean finished reading and her hands drifted to her lap, still holding the letter.
“What’s wrong?” Bertha said. They were in the kitchen, Jean sitting at the table, Bertha kneading bread dough on a floured board.
“Nothing.” Jean dried her eyes with the edge of her hand and folded the letter back into its envelope. “It’s from one of my students that I particularly liked.”
“Oh? What’d she have to say?”
Jean gave a sniffle and a wistful smile. “That her new teacher falls asleep on her chair and the boys are mean on the playground. Very important stuff to a fourth-grader.”
“I seen the return address when I brought it in from the mailbox. Is that Mr. Olczak’s girl then?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Hmph,” Bertha said, and resumed her kneading.
Jean spoke to Liz about the letter. “It broke my heart.” Liz studied her sister closely and came to a conclusion. “Why, you love his children, too, don’t you?”
“Very much, Liz. So very much.”
“Then answer her.”
“But maybe he’ll think it’s just a convenient way for me to let him know where I am.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
Jean laughed and dropped her eyes demurely. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Well, anyway, you told me you were going to write to him.”
“I know, but...”
“But what?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s too forward.”
Liz said, “If I were you I’d write to them all! Tell them your superiors wouldn’t allow you to say goodbye, so you couldn’t tell them where you were going. While you’re at it, tell them you miss them, too. I think they deserve that much.”
“Actually, I do, too.”
“Then, do it.”
“Mama will—”
“Mama will just have to learn to live with the fact that you’re not a nun anymore.”
________