Life With Mother Superior (3 page)

Chapter Five: The Sour Note

I was not the only one who looked forward to Mother Superior’s semiannual trip to an education convention
in Chicago. I had the distinct impression that the entire faculty was just as delighted as we were to see her tall,
imposing figure climb into the convent bus with her companion. By leaving town she unintentionally announced a holiday. The whole kit and convent of us
responded to the festive mood. It was an emotional release for all of us, and, if Mother Superior found it
stimulating to leave, we found it more refreshing to
have her gone. Oh, we still had classes and prayers and
the usual convent chores, but by and large, they were
done with humor and a wee bit of sloppiness on every
one’s part. It never entered our heads for a moment that Mother Superior might have been experiencing the exact same emotion. In the years I spent in the convent, Mother Superior
spent about six days a year away from us. Three days each semester. It was perfect timing. We had one day
to get used to the idea of her being gone, one day to enjoy it, and one day to get ready for her return. And
each time she came back, she came back enriched and
endowed with the distinct idea that we were anything
but model students. This might be divided into any
of the various categories, depending on the convention.
Once it was science. We were in no way prepared to face a life of scientific experimentation, and if faced with a dividing cell, we would probably flounder and
fall. Yet from that moment on, Science would occupy
Mother’s mind and spirit, and all of us were expected to fling ourselves into the mood of Louis Pasteur or Madame Curie. But then the next convention might
be on a more cultural level and Mother would make up
her mind that St. Marks was not giving us proper balance in the form of art or music, and to bring up a
generation of scientists would be dismal, at best. After
all, what was life without a bit of music in it?

Up till this particular convention, we had been spared the necessity of music appreciation. It all worked out rather well in the basic plan. None of the Sisters had any particular talent, and there was no orchestra leader material, God knows, in my class.
And that was how Mr. Orman Gettinger came into our lives. Needless to say, the convent had little peace and
quiet after his arrival.

Mother Superior made it quite clear from the start, to the Mothers’ Club, to Mr. Gettinger, and to all of us, that she not only expected St. Marks to have a
band, but she expected this band to be a prize-winning
band. And then we all knew Mother Superior had what
we called a “superior” motive. First prize in the Amer
ican Music High School Band Contest was $500, to be
used any way the school saw fit. Mother had already
spent the money. She was determined to buy a great world globe for the library. Not that any of us were particularly impressed with the world at our age, but Mother Superior ruled what we knew of it, and she wanted the rest of it at her finger tips.

Mr. Gettinger was really the first close-at-hand
Neanderthal man I had ever seen. He had a hairline that never seemed to end, long dangling arms—an
asset for a bandleader—huge lips, rather remote eyes,
and a barrel chest. Despite this rather forbidding appearance, he was really quite sweet and patient. A necessary ingredient to cope with either his band material or his sponsor. The first thing he did was call auditions. Since I played the violin, I was automatically excluded from the band. Mother Superior sat through the entire hour-long audition. Her hands folded under her cape, her foot imaginatively tapping
out some unheard Sousa march. Looking at me in one of her rare kind moods, she said, “Why can’t she play
her violin, Mr. Gettinger?”

I was amazed at Mother’s attitude. This was the first
time she had ever openly encouraged my being a part
of anything.

Mr. Gettinger tried to explain to her that a band was an all-wind instrument group, and a violin was definitely out of order.

“Well, I just thought that there would be strength in numbers,” Mother added, quite unconvinced.

Mr. Gettinger had his pride, too, and even if St. Marks was not the Marine Band, he had too much in his work to take a band with a fiddle in it on the road.

“Mother, if we put a violin in, regardless of her
talent”—he was being sarcastic now—”we will not be
able to qualify for the contest.”

On that note, Mother Superior withdrew. It was only
the first of several major battles.

Mary Clancey, who played the clarinet on her own, was disqualified also. Mr. Gettinger said she was the
only completely tone-deaf person he had ever met. Mary was rather put out, as she had her heart set on writing Benny Goodman about her new and original beat. It was at this point that Mary and I began to notice that we were usually bystanders in all school productions. We sat through most of them on either
side of Mother Superior. Not exactly the most desirable
seats in the house, I might add.

However, Mother Superior consoled us this time.
“There are quite a few things you can help me with while the band practices.” And when I say they
practiced, they practiced. At eight o’clock every morn
ing, after mass, one could hear any of the major marches being solidly but consistently butchered.

At three-thirty every afternoon, Mr. Gettinger arrived again for special cornet practice or drum practice, or French horn practice. And on Saturday morning they went at it again, whole hog. Yet, after
six months, it still sounded like a record on the wrong
speed. Mother was livid. The time barrier for the contest was edging up a good deal faster than the sound barrier.

Mary and I, more out of boredom than anything
else, one day asked Mother if it would ever be possible
to get a movie projector. Since we never got to town, the reward for a month’s good behavior, we thought it
might help us considerably if the town came to us.
Mother showed absolutely no interest in our proposi
tion.

“But, Mother, Elinore Stanton’s father would give us the movies, he’s in that business.”

“How much do they cost?” Mother quizzed us.

“A good one is about five hundred bucks.”

“Dollars!”

“Dollars.”

“Ridiculous! What a foolish way to spend money.”

We tried to tell her about all the improvements since the magic lantern, but Mother couldn’t be sold. “Imagine five hundred dollars for something like that
when St. Marks needs so many things. A statue of St.
Mark for the main hall, or another set of encyclopedias,
a globe for the library.” Obviously, Mother considered
a movie projector about one hundred down on the list of good buys for St. Marks.

“Couldn’t the Mother’s Club—” Mary tried to finish the sentence, but Mother clipped it off like a nail.

“The Mother’s Club has just been asked to provide
costumes for the band.” This was complete news to us. Now we really felt left out Band costumes, green capes
and overseas caps to match. How glorious. I made up
my mind to get one, come hell or high water.

As the concert time grew nearer, St. Marks in full voice sounded like the tune-up of the Ponca City Orchestra. In our hearts, Mary and I felt that St.
Marks wouldn’t have a chance pitted against schools
that had had bands for years.

The morning of the concert, which was to be held
in town, was complete chaos. Each girl was scrubbed
and polished and starched into her uniform, the
green capes carefully folded into three large cartons, the instruments piled into cases and into the bus. The
non-musical side of the school Would go on the next
bus trip with Mother Superior. Mary sat on her one side and I sat on the other.

“One trick from either of you and you’ll answer to me.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Don’t “yes Mother” me, all I want from the two of
you is perfection.”

We responded with silence. When she was in this
frame of mind, it was the only acceptable behavior.

She kept fiddling with her beads, and we presumed
that she was now laying down the law to God.

The bus dropped us at the corner of the City High
School block. Each school in this area, about ten in all,
was eligible to participate in this contest. Mary and I
decided to give Mother the slip when she went back to check up on the band. We headed for the first row in the auditorium. It was occupied but Mary made it clear to two smaller girls that we wanted to sit there. We felt that if we remained quiet and scrunched
down, Mother would never find us in this sea of brown
bobbing heads.

Mary surveyed the program. “Look, we’re sixth.”

“One chance out of ten; that’s not even good odds.”

Our greatest rival would be St. Mary’s. St. Mary’s
was a brand new school in town that had taken a good
bit of Mother Superior’s business in the last two years.
It would do no harm to beat them.

The auditorium grew hushed and the concerts .began. The first three schools sounded just as bad as our band did. The next band was St. Mary’s and in our opinion, humble as it was, beat the devil out of our band.

“Mother Superior is going to have a fit.”

After St. Mary’s, another few terrible bands, and then St. Marks.

“What does it sound like?” Mary kept saying. She had taken this tone-deaf business seriously, and now considered herself totally deaf to all music

When the final piece had been played, the judges rose and went to the table. They had been sitting in the middle of the auditorium as the acoustics were not ideal. Mary and I remained in our seats and waved and made faces for our various friends on the stage just above us.

St. Marks and St. Mary’s had tied and a play-off would take place. The piece would be “Stars and Stripes.”

St. Marks played first. I wouldn’t go on record as saying it was good or bad. Mary leaned over and went through her coat pockets. She produced three lemons and knife.

“What have you got?” I whispered, my salivary glands working instantly.

“Look, when St. Mary’s files out on the stage, get their attention as best you can without getting caught and suck this lemon. See if you can get the clarinet section, and I’ll try the trombones.” Kathryn Murphy had joined us in the front row, and she took the third lemon and concentrated on the saxes.

Of course, the band thought it was very amusing. We sat there sucking and peeling the sour things. There was no stinting on our parts in our loyalty to St. Marks.

We didn’t completely hit home, but their over-supply of saliva was enough to ruin their rendition of the prize-winning number. St. Marks won first place. We all climbed into the bus and sat smugly in our reserved places. Mother Superior was completely enchanted, and on the way home she even smiled at me. “See what hard work accomplishes?”

We were all a bit flushed and tired, but Mother Superior held us a minute after dinner in the refectory.

“When you see the new globe in the library, you will know that you earned it. I’m proud of each and every one of you.”

And she was proud, too, until the band of St. Mary’s complained to the judges that three of us sat in the front row eating lemons.

St. Mary’s was shocked. The judges were shocked. St. Marks was shocked. Mother Superior saw us, not in her office, but in the front parlor. This was the closest she could come to throwing us out before she knew the facts.

“Did you or did you not have lemons?”

“We did not,” Mary said. She spoke with a hurt tone.

Had we been on the carpet for anything else we wouldn’t have stood a chance, as Mother was never convinced of our innocence. This time, however, the globe was at stake.

“Not a one of you is what I would call an ideal
student. I might expect it of you two,” she said, peer
ing at Mary and me, “but not you, Kathryn.”

Kathryn ducked the issue. “I think St. Mary’s are a
pack of poor sports,” she answered.

Mother said, “That will be all.”

The Mother Superior at St. Mary’s felt that to
pursue it any further
would
make them look like bad
sports. The judges agreed that it was too far-fetched
to believe and St. Marks was awarded the prize. The
Sentinel
came and took a picture of the band in then-
capes and Mr. Gettinger in his tuxedo. When the
reporter asked Mother what she was going to do with
the money, she said that under the circumstances she felt the money should go to a worthy cause. The new
Home for Wayward Girls seemed, in her opinion, to be the most deserving.

Chapter Six: Days of Wrath

I was insanely jealous of Mary. She had been expelled early in December of our second year at St. Marks and
she had been expelled without me. There is nothing that can achieve the hushed respect and awe of the
student body like one of its members being sent home.
The fact that I had helped her do the definitive act
never got me out for a day. Mother Superior simply called for Mary and that was that. I couldn’t very well go in and say, “Me too”—although I certainly wanted
to. Mary had brought back from summer vacation some super-fine bath salts and we had spent an hilarious prayer session substituting bath salts for sugar in the Sisters’ kitchen. Mary, unfortunately,
owned the secret ingredient and out she went, decanter
and all. She was gone for two weeks. Then her mother
and father came and pleaded with Mother Superior:
Mary would turn into a person and not a prisoner only
if Mother Superior agreed to take her back. They won
and Mary returned meekly to St Marks.

The day she returned Mother summoned us both to
her office and told us in no uncertain terms that our
behavior pattern was not to her liking. It was the first
time she had ever pounded on the desk. The desk clock
actually shuddered with every whack, and the lamp that lit her darkened den made vibrating metallic sounds.

She had, she said, put up with us because last year
we were babies. This year, however, babies were more
mature by far than either of us. The words came crisply from between her clenched teeth.

“I am personally taking on the job of seeing that
you both grow up or you’re both going out. The Sisters
have already indicated their preference. And,” she fixed me with her black eyes, “if either of you, to
gether as your usual team, or individually, gets out of
line one inch, I will post demerits here in my office.” She pointed to a bare wall. I could see the marks on it,
like notch marks for shooting down enemy planes. “When you have three together or separately you will
be finished at St Marks.” It was a strange incentive plan for all of us.

We managed until January 14th, which was Founda
tion Day, to stay within the letter of her law. This was
not easy, as Mother’s ideal day went somewhat like
this: awake on time, get up quietly, pray, study, pray,
study, pray, study. One only crammed in a few moments to eat and sleep.

Foundation Day marked the first holiday after
Christmas and was St. Marks’ answer to George Wash
ington and Abraham Lincoln. Of course, we did not go
home for just one day. Instead, we celebrated our
leisure by arising at the same time, attending a Solemn
High Mass, and substituting a heavy schedule of tribal
ceremonies for classes. This day was set aside to honor
the founder of the Order of St. Marks and the cou
rageous little nun who came to this country to set up the convent on the wild Indian shores of Lake Ontario. Her life with the Indians made Joan of Arc look like Beth in
Little Women.
Her life was re-enacted by the senior class and the great excitement
was seeing some of the seniors dressed as nuns.

For a special, special added attraction each table at dinner got one of the faculty for a dinner partner. Our table got old Sister Helene, who was as em
barrassed as we were. Mary didn’t fare as well. She got
Mother Superior and when Mother sat down, there
was a burst of nervous coughing and a few giggles. It
made us terribly uncomfortable to have a nun for
dinner. Mary accepted her royal supervision with bore
dom. Mother sat at the head of the table and tried not to watch the table manners. The idea was for each group to discuss world affairs, books, music, art, or whatever one could think of with their Sister. The menu of the day began with grapefruit. I watched Mary dig into hers with gusto. I suppose that in the
rush of our glorious holiday no one had segmented the
fruit, and Mary hit the rind with such energy it flew right off her plate, slid across the table and landed
in Mother Superior’s lap. No one laughed; the few who
saw it were in shock. Mary couldn’t leave well enough
alone and pretended she had dropped her napkin. From under the table she tried to sneak into Mother’s lap and pull it down while Mother tried to get it up
off her lap. That, of course, started me laughing. They
had quite a tug of war and Mary looked quite ridiculous on her knees under Mother’s great skirts. They both left the dining hall and luncheon progressed. It
was one demerit down for Mary and two to go.

I didn’t see Mary all afternoon, and when I bumped
into her she signaled toward the bathroom. We
crowded into one of the stalls. We were at no time
supposed to talk in the bathroom, and in order to have
any talks that were not tapped, Mary would climb on
the seat and I would stand up.

“Where have you been?”

“On my knees in Mother’s office.”

“Gosh, the whole afternoon?”

“Well, it wasn’t too bad. I read the records.”

The following Sunday was a “Silent Sunday.” We had them every three months. It was a day of enforced
silence. The nuns simply wanted peace and quiet, and
Silent Sunday was the by-product I couldn’t bear those
days and looked forward to them like a trip to the dentist. This time I prepared for the day by binding
three good novels with religious covers.
The Imitation
of Christ
was really fair
Stood the Wind for France. Bleak House
was the Bible, and I had a very authentic
St. Thomas Aquinas cover on a smuggled copy of
Gone
with the Wind.
I decided to work on St. Thomas for
Silent Sunday, and after Mass we retired to the library
for religious reading. I never heard Mother Superior
come in. Rhett had just slapped Scarlett when Mother
Superior slapped me. She shook me up out of my seat,
secreted the book under her cape and, without a com
mand, I followed her.

“You are a disgrace,” she said, “a disgrace.”

I didn’t say anything. This was the sort of thing you
either got by with or didn’t. I knew that getting by was out of the question. Left to Sister Librarian’s watchful eye I could have read the Talmud, but Mother Superior was too sharp.

“I don’t know whether to send you home now or
tomorrow. What do you think?” she asked pointedly.

“Oh, Mother Superior, I can’t go home.”

“Well, I have little faith in you or your future materially, but I have prayed that spiritually something could be done about you. I have lost faith.”

“I’ll try to be good,” I said.

“Try and convince me by deeds, not words.” And I did until the week before Easter.

Lent seemed longer than usual that year. And there
were certain extra deprivations that we added to our
schedule, like saying the rosary on our knees on the
floor of the dormitory before we went to bed (and it
was a cold wooden floor). Also, the candy shop was
shut tight, which reduced our supplementary diets
considerably and, even though we didn’t have to fast
officially, Mother Superior did her best to get us ready
for the plunge. Instead of a recreation period we had
Benediction every evening. Instead of one Silent Sun
day we had all Silent Sundays. On one Silent Sunday, Mary poked me and whispered, “I have simply got to
have a smoke.”

“Like where—in Mother’s office?”

“No, I’ve got an idea where they’ll never find us.”

“Where?”

“When they all go to the library, meet me in the movie projection booth.”

In the library, it was easy to ditch Sister Miriam (whom we called “The Mouse”). I merely excused myself by climbing over Lillian Quigley and heading for the bathroom. The Mouse looked up only momentarily. I didn’t think she would miss me, as she could barely see.

The door to the projection-room was up a dark, single flight of stairs. It went nowhere but to the projection-room, and I didn’t dare turn the light on. I stealthily opened the door. The room smelled musty and unused. It was seldom in action, as Mother didn’t believe in movies and we had no equipment. The only movie we had had that year had been borrowed from St Giles, where the boys had one a month. We had seen
A Tale of Two Cities
in February and no one had been in the projection-room since. Mary joined me and we opened the tiny windows to get some air. It was pitch black. We smoked up a storm. I loved Twenty Grands and so did the janitor. Mary stole at least two a month, which we smoked somewhere in St. Marks. So far, we had not been caught.

I didn’t even hear the door open, and I had become so used to the dark that I was shocked when the light snapped on and there were The Mouse and the janitor. We had never counted on the large clouds of un-inhaled smoke that billowed from the projection room windows, or the fire vigilante they might attract. “Out,” piped The Mouse. “Out! Out! Out!” Roger looked sympathetic He took our cigarettes and stamped them out. He also recognized them, and at last knew where his supply was going. “Disgraceful, disgraceful, disgraceful.” Mary and I left the projection-room and went down the stairs to Mother Superior’s office. She had been briefed by The Mouse and she looked at neither one of us.

“You can both go upstairs and pack your suitcases. I’ll have your letters ready when you come back. I’ll phone both your families and tell them you are on your way home.”

There was no point in trying to coax or cajole Mother this time. We went quietly to the dormitory and started packing. I wished now that I had just tried to be a little better. “Mama is going to hit the ceiling,” I called to Mary.

“My mother’s already been there this year.”

“What did your mother do last time?” I asked her.

“She merely locked me in my room and I spent two weeks there.”

“I was going to three parties on the holiday,” I said sadly, “but that’s all over now.”

Mother Superior handed us both our letters and said our families were expecting us, and she doubted if she would ever see us again. She made it quite clear that this cast no shadow of sadness on either her or St. Marks.

Mama met me and we had a silent understanding. By silent understanding, I was not to open my mouth, and Mama would do all the talking necessary.

“You are just no good. No good,” she emphasized. “I try to do nice things for you, but you’re an ungrateful child . . . a terrible child. I can’t understand you. What possible pleasure do you get from these pranks? You take after your father’s side of the family—they’re no good either. Well, what will become of you when I’m gone, God knows! And from the way I feel, I won’t be here long. I doubt if your father will care what you do. He’ll probably find some young woman and you’ll just be out on a limb. Well, that’s all I can expect. Mark my words, young lady, you’ll get nothing here in the way of fun. You can just clean the house every day, and do all the dishes, and stay in your room, and when you’re old enough you can go to work. Obviously, you don’t appreciate a good education—so why try? I’m tired of trying.”

The record went on and on and on. And then my father’s record began. “It cost a hell of a lot of money to send you to that place, and dammit, you could just as well make a fool of yourself at the public school as you could do in that expensive place. I work too damned hard for my money to just pour it down the drain on the likes of you. Your mother has always let you get away with murder, and now this lax treatment is beginning to show.” And this record went on and on.

But I guess that in spite of myself some of St. Marks had rubbed off on me and I was not only good, I was angelic. I did not speak until spoken to. I called my father “sir” and Mama “ma’am.” I actually folded my clothes and combed my hair. It reached such a point that I think my father felt that if I were a saint, St. Marks would be missing a good bet not to have me. Very solemnly he asked me if I would like to go back and very solemnly I answered, “Yes, sir.”

I knew that I would not be able to keep up the pose much longer at home and, after all, they did know what I was like at St. Marks. And so, the day before vacation ended, my father told me that he and Mama had discussed the matter. Maybe the nuns were too strict and had misjudged me, and there wasn’t much point in my going to the public school when all my friends were at St. Marks.

To this day I don’t know what Father said to Mother Superior, but he certainly must have said quite a lot, because the next day my parents took their little angel back to St. Marks.

Another little angel returned to St. Marks at about that time—my friend and conspirator, Mary.