A NOVELLA BY PETER NOLAN SMITH
CHAPTER 2
The 7A class of Our Lady of the Foothills sat with hands folded atop wooden desks and their eyes fixed on the ancient nun by the blackboard. A heavy black habit covered most of her tiny body. Parched hands and a withered face were the only evidence of her humanity, not that any student considered nuns human, for the wives of Jesus existed on a celestial plateau between archangels combating evil and angels protecting mortals from daily temptation, plus Sister Mary Goretti was old than as the Bible.
Some of us guessed the ancient nun to be over a hundred. My bet was closer to 90, because she didn’t look as old as my great grand-aunt, who lived to be 103, then again 13 year-olds saw little difference between those ages, but 100 meant her being born in 1855 and 90 put her birth year in 1865, the last year of the Civil War.
Sister Mary Goretti would have been my age in 1876. Life was much different back then had to have been different for teenagers. None of us wanted to know how, however they must have felt the same as us on the last day of school.
Outside the window a line of hemlock pines wavered with the wind and this uninvited breeze spirited into the classroom with the message of things to come and our rigid spines thawed in anticipation of watching the Red Sox, swimming at Nantasket, screaming on the Paragon Park’s roller coaster, diving off the Quincy Quarries, and eating fried clams on Wollaston Beach.
A chair squeaked an inch across the polished floor and Sister Mary Goretti’s head swung away from the black board with the speed of a cobra. She put down the chalk. “Someone in a hurry to leave school?”
The one-syllable reply was frozen on our tongues, for the right answer was possibly a trap. The nuns taught that freedom of choice separated humans from the animals, yet suppressed any exhibition of that difference. The school year lasted 186 days. The nuns controlled our every move from 8 in the morning until 2:30 in the afternoon every minute of those days. We did what we were told. Any trained monkey would do the same.
“This is not a trick question.” Sister Mary Goretti was strict, but not mean, and her greatest love outside of Jesus was educating our minds beyond the strictures of the Holy Roman Church.
Lessons of Trigonometry and the source of the Nile were woven into the basic curriculum. DUE SOUTH by Shackleton opened a world of exploration to readers the Baltimore Catechism and Jack London’s TO CATCH A FIRE taught a doomed lesson of survival opposite the tribulation of Job’s blind faith. Some parents criticized her deviation from the 3 Rs and the Seven Deadly Sins, however most mothers bequeathed the old nun with early sainthood, having miraculously graduated every student to the 8th Grade.
“Has the Devil stolen your tongues?” Her eyes flitted from student to student without finding an answer. “Let me ask the question in a different way. Have you had enough Math for this year?”
“Yes, sister.” The algebra diagrams on the blackboard would disappeared from my brains at the dismissal bell.
“That’s what I thought.” Even nuns need a holiday and Sister Mary Goretti held out an eraser to the nearest boy. “Then wipe the board clean.”
“Yes, sister.” Jim Lally erased the linear equations like he never wanted to hear ‘polynominals’ again. His C- in Math thanks to this nun’s tutoring had reprieved him from repeating a grade. I had received an A- without any help. Only one girl had scored an A+ and she lifted her head to the wall clock.
We joined Kyla’s gaze.
The minute hand moved closer to the year’s final bell.
It was 2:21pm on June 10, 1965.
Sister Mary Goretti coughed to regain our attention.
“In a few minutes you’ll be on vacation and Mother Superior has asked me to speak about the challenges facing you. What is your duty on earth?”
“To know, love, and honor God.” Endless sessions of rote memorization had seared the doctrines of the Baltimore Catechism onto our tongues.
Its 19th Century text suited the Catholic Church’s undying desire for order in all aspects of life. Every boy attending Our Lady of the Foothills wore white shirts, sky blue ties, and navy blue trousers. The girls were clad in the pleated skirt version. Our parents purchased the uniforms at a diocese-approved shop in Boston. The touchy salesman had described my build as stocky. Being bigger than most boys my age I told him to keep his hands to himself.
“And what happens, if you don’t?” The nun glided forward, as if her feet weren’t touching the ground.
“Go to Hell.” Chuckie Manzi answered to the snickering of the class.
“And why would you go to Hell?” Sister Mary Goretti floated down the aisle, fingering wooden rosary beads.
“I don’t know, sister.”
“There are Communists south of Key West.” Sister Mary Goretti stopped at Chuckie’s desk and her upturned eyes pierced the ceiling to peer at heaven. “And the devil plays rock and roll. Have you heard of the Rolling Stones?”
“I listened to them on the radio.” Chuckie wished he hadn’t opened his mouth.
“The monsignor calls them servants of the devil.” Sister Mary Goretti’s habit billowed with an inner strength born of a life sacrificed to Jesus.
“I never bought any of their 45s.”
“That’s not what Sam at Sam’s Music Shop says.” The Sisters had a spy network laced through our families, friends, and nearby shopkeepers.
“I didn’t buy them for me.” The very air around a nun was a truth serum against which no lie could survive.
“Someone else?”
“Yes, sister.”
Her eyes dropped from asbestos ceiling and slowly surveyed the classroom.
No divine intervention was needed to deduce the true recipient.
Chuckie lived next door to me. We had served as altar boys together. He was free to visit Mattapan Square for movies and pizza. My mother said I was too young. Sister Mary Goretti’s almond eyes fell on me and I admitted, “Sister, he got them for me.”
“And not Beatles 65?” Sister Mary Goretti asked with true interest.
“No, I’m a Stones fan.”
My brother was into the Beatles and WEST SIDE STORY.
Between the two of us we had about 150 45s and LPs. SATISFACTION with UNDER-ASSISTANT-WEST COAST PROMO MAN on the b-side was my present favorite, although I couldn’t play it loud, if my parents were home.
“And are they any good?”
“I only know what I like.” My father considered the Stones noise.
“Like who else.”
“The Searchers, Kinks, Yardbirds and LOUIE LOUIE.” The Kingsmen’s hit had been banned in Boston. “Plus anything from Chess Records.”
“Soul music.” Her voice touched a dulcimer tone for the first word.
“What about Pat Boone and Perry Como?”
“Sorry, sister, they’re kind of square.” I tried not to make a face.
“Square? Is Elvis square?”
“No, sister.” Everyone, but me answered.
“And you think he is?” Sister Mary Goretti had nurtured my love of knowledge. I had reciprocated with good grades. This question demanded a response.
“My mother thinks he was handsome and a good boy for taking care of his mother.”
“And you?”
“He hasn’t had a hit since going to Germany.” No teenagers of age listened to the “King’.
“You know when Elvis appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show, Mother Superior banned the students from watching him?”
“No, sister.” It was a lie.
She had told us this story more than once and that Sunday night my mother had propped my brother and me on the sofa. The swiveling hips and screaming girls meant nothing to a four year-old, but Sister Mary Goretti thought otherwise as did hundreds of thousands of millions of young people from the 1950s.
She retraced her steps to the front of the classroom without turning around leaning more credence to the rumor that nuns had eyes in the back of their heads that could see through their habit, which was why they were cut their hair short.
“I don’t think one student obeyed her edict. Did they go to hell? Not yet, which is why I want to talk to you about good versus evil. You are not children anymore, but you’re not adults either, are you?”
“No, sister.”
None of us wanted to be adults, since this summer marked our first season as teenagers. Not that anyone 14 or older thought someone 13 was a teenager, but thirteen sounded a lot better than twelve.
“My first teaching assignment was in Egypt. Land of the Pharaohs. There were no cars or radio or telephones. We didn’t have electricity, but young is young no matter when, so I know the temptations Satan will offer you, so I want you to remember this summer that your bodies are temples of God and He wants you to respect each other’s sanctity.” Sister Mary Goretti sat on her desk. Her habit rose two inches to reveal her tiny feet. She wasn’t wearing any sox. Only sandals. “Even the smallest act on sin can have repercussions lasting for eternity.”
“Yes, sister.” Our sins were supposed to be told to the priests as soon as possible, however it was common knowledge that the priests ratted confessional secrets to Mother Superior, so we kept our sins small in the confesional.
“A kiss can lead to something else. Something else can lead to trouble. Trouble can lead to sin and sin can lead to Hell. And there is no escape from Hell. No last minute call from the warden or miracle touchdown pass from the quarterback. Hell is hell.”
“Yes, sister.”
The nuns portrayed Hell as a torture pit of searing fire and stabbing pitch forks. Sulphur was its perfume and boiling oil a horrid elixir for the damned. Only goodness in thoughts, words, and deeds could save us from that fate, yet my eyes wandered to Kyla Rolla.
Three years ago a black dog had terrorized my neighborhood. He attacked me on my paper route and caused the death of my pet bunnies. Ten year-old boys aren’t supposed to kill dogs, but I carefully planned my revenge. We met for a showdown in a sandpit. The black dog growled with lupine fangs. I held two wads of wax stuck with nails.
Before we could settle which species was dominant, a skinny girl in a sun suit emerged from the bushes. The ice cream cone dripped chocolate on her fingers and her lips were smeared with a brown froth. The dog dropped to its knees. She gave him the ice cream and he ran away yelping with pleasure. Even dogs like chocolate.
Her name was Kyla and she asked if I wanted some ice cream. I blushed red and said yes. Her dog DJ still wanted to bite me, but only a little. He knew what I was special to her and maybe she was special to me.
By the time we were twelve, kissing had become a ritual we practiced more than the rosary. We were meant to be together forever, then at Chuckie’s Valentine’s Day she caught me singing PLAY WITH FIRE to Connie Botari. We hadn’t spoken since. Not in school. Not outside. Never.
She sat two desks in front of me and I studied the strand of soft brown hair furling down her neck like a candy ribbon. In a few more months Kyla Rolla would cease to be a girl. I unlocked my fingers and imagined touching her skin.
Sister Mary Goretti rapped her knuckles on the desk. “Pay attention.”
“Yes, sister.” The class thought she was speaking to them, instead of me.
Wanting to hold Kyla’s hand might be a sin to the nuns and she pointed at me.
“This boy thinks The Rolling Stones are good. Sister Superior thinks they are bad. The Ten Commandments are the basis for right and wrong. You are coming to an age where good and bad is not black and white. Some things will seem good when they are bad and some things will seem bad, even though they are good. This confusion will lead to mistakes and mistakes to sins, but remember you are beloved by your parents and God. Everything is forgivable.”
Everything covered a lot of ground.
Surely God wouldn’t pardon Adolf Hitler.
The Fuhrer had to be in Hell along with Josef Stalin and the red Sox owner who sold babe ruth to the Yankees.
“Are there any questions?” The sister placed the rosary on the desk.
“No, sister.” Another lie.
Puberty wreaked havoc on our bodies. Hair sprouted from previous bald skin. The stick bodies of girls gained curves. Sex was a greater mystery than the transformation of the Holy Eucharist. Parents spoke vaguely of the birds and bees. The Boy Scout handbook offered a single paragraph on nocturnal emissions.
The blank plastic between the plastic legs of Barbie dolls failed to reveal the source of my mesmerization whenever Cher appeared on WHERE THE ACTION’S AT. Her bra resembled two Dixie Cups. The long-haired singer often visited my dreams without her partner Sonny. The things she did were never repeated in the confessional and neither were what I did to myself.
“Then pass in your books and pack your bags.” Sister Mary Goretti ordered softly and we emptied the desks of pens, papers, erasers, and personal belongings.
“Psssh!” Chuckie hissed from the next row, passing his books forward. “Sorry about that.”
I shrugged to indicate I wasn’t angry.
“Mr. Manzi, you want to stay after school?”
“No, sister.”
“Then maintain silence for the next minute. All of you.”
Sixty seconds later the bell rang and Sister Mary Goretti clapped her hands once. We rose to our feet. She clapped twice and the 7th Grade marched from the classroom. Girls first. Boys second. The procedure was repeated by over three hundred students. We were not men. We were Catholic school kids and filed from the door like robots on parade.
“I want you to have a good vacation. Say your prayers and go to church on Sundays.” Sister Mary Goretti stopped at the door. Her eyes squinted in the bright sunshine and a smile lit her face. Something about it was sad. “I’ll see you next year and don’t forget to confess.”
“Thank you, sister.” Her lessons about the French Revolution and the American Civil War were trapped in our head along with the Latin declension of the verb to love Amo amas amat and Ou est le bibliotechque.
It would take a few days to shrivel her teachings into monosyllables. In my case even less. Kyla was walking to the street with two schoolmates. Her mother was waiting by their Plymouth Valiant. Tomorrow she was leaving to summer in Florida with her father. All As had not prepared me for this moment.
A hand touched my shoulder. It was Sister Mary Goretti. “Go speak to her.”
“Who?” I read Kyla’s horoscope every morning. Her sign was Virgo. Mine was Gemini. Our signs were compatible according to Jeanne Dixon.
“You think I’m blind. It’s the end of a school year. Don’t let the summer go by without saying what you want to say.” Her advice was followed by a gentle push. My feet moved without will and I told myself, “Walk, do not run.”
I called her name.
My nervous stutter rendered the two syllables into three.
Kyla turned and signaled her friends that she would meet them at the car. She shifted her weight to one foot with impatience and asked, “What do you want?”
“To wish you a good time this summer.” I could tell my face was red.
“Is that all?” She sighed, as if every boy said the exact opposite of what they had practiced before the mirror.
“I want to say I’m sorry.” This apology had been stuck deep down my throat too long.
A lot of students were watching us.
It was almost like being on TV.
“Why didn’t you say it before?” Kyla didn’t take her eyes off mine.
“The nuns don’t make it easy during school.” Boys were forbidden to speak with girls during the school day.
“And after school?” Flecks of gold floated on the emerald green.
“Your mother always picked you up.” I was running out of excuses.
“And now?”
The nuns held no power over us now we were on vacation. Her mother was speaking to another mother. I had at least a minute and tied to not speak too fast. “I didn’t want the summer to pass without telling you how I feel.”
“You actually know how you feel?”
A thousand words clattered onto my tongue without exit. I fought bakc a stutter and held up a pen. “Can I write you?”
“Write what?”
“Poetry.” I opened my notebook. Not a word was scrawled on the blank pages. Writing her name was the best I could do right there.
“When I’m gone, will you go to any dances?”
“I only want to dance with you.” I had only been to one dance at the Rexacana. Chuckie’s sister had taken us. The ramrods were playing and I danced to every song. Not with any girls, because I was too young. Kyla must had heard different.
“And no other girls?”
“None.” Several 8th Grade boys laughed at my awkwardness, until my older brother punched one of them in the arm. He knew how I felt about Kyla. Everyone did.
“Three months is a long time in the summer.”
“90 days will pass like a second if I see you in the end.”
“That’s almost poetry.” She scribbled a Miami address. I wanted time to stop. Her mother beeped the horn and Kyla ran away with her ponytail bouncing in the sunlight. Before she got into the car, she shouted, “Have a good summer.”
“See you then.” Several love songs fought for top of the charts in my head.
SEE YOU IN SEPTEMBER won after two seconds.
When the Valiant drove away, I waved and she waved back. I was hers 100% and she was mine. I stuffed the notebook in my bag. Her address was inside. Nothing could stand in our way. As I returned to the parking lot, Sister Mary Goretti nodded with satisfaction.
“That went better than I thought.” Chuckie pulled on my sleeve.
“Me too.” Three months without girls, Cher, or touching myself was a test I would not fail. I had belonged to our version of the Little Rascals’ He-Man Woman-Hater’s Club before Kyla. Re-enlisting couldn’t be so difficult. Neither would be tearing up my membership card in September.
“So it’s summer time.” Chuckie undid his tie.
“All summer long.” Our neighborhood bus was beeping its horn. We jumped on board and the driver shifted into first. The bus lurched out of the parking lot. We sat in the middle. My older brother was with his friends. They tore off their school ties. Chuckie and I upped the ante by popping our shirts’ top buttons.
Everyone spoke louder than they had in months. Someone switched a transistor radio onto WMEX. Drums led into The Rolling Stones’ SATISFACTION. The teenagers sang along with the lyrics. The young kids joined the chorus. The bus driver too. The DJ liked the song so much that he played it twice.
Public school busses were dropping off students too. They had to go to school another two weeks. We yelled out the windows that we were free. They replied with middle fingers. Getting out of school early was one of the few pluses of attending parochial school. We returned the finger with pure joy.
The bus passed our local church. Father Curry was watering the lawn. We yelled out hello. He blessed us with the hose.
Our neighborhood was almost in the next town and my street was the last on the route. After dropping us off, the bus disappeared behind a line of trees. Months would go by before we saw that color yellow again and by that time I would be ready for love and it wouldn’t be puppy love either.
For CHAPTER 1 click on this URL