The Divine Economy of Salvation (17 page)

Stripped of all its regular ornaments for the pageant, the altar now held a wooden manger with a naked male doll hidden inside it underneath a dishtowel. Barrels of hay had been shipped in from the outskirts of the city and spread across the floor. Sister Aline was already miffed at the amount of work it would take to clean it up. She had allergies, she told us, but the pageant was an important event, and she'd simply have to suffer. She kept a handkerchief in her right hand and brought it out regularly, like a good luck charm, covering her nose to ward off the smell. Christmas lights were strung along the pews where the choir stood. When the night scenes were staged, all the church lights would be turned off and the tiny yellow bulbs would twinkle in the distance. The angels wore white dresses and cardboard wings attached to their shoulders by bent clothes hangers. Instead of real animals, we used a few sheep from the church Nativity set, plastic and easy to lift, and a couple of deer placed towards the back, painted brown to disguise their previous
incarnation as Christmas lawn decorations. There was debate as to whether deer in Bethlehem would be historically accurate, but Mother Superior put her foot down, saying the audience would want other animals in the play besides sheep, and we would make do with what we had. Francine, who played Joseph, wore a shirt and pants cut out of a potato sack. She itched throughout the performance. When Mother Superior went backstage at the intermission, Francine was told to stop scratching or she'd be sent home early for the holidays. This comment put Francine practically in tears, which worked well with the play, a few parents commenting afterwards on the budding actress in the bunch; when Joseph returned to the stage for the manger scene, he seemed genuinely upset that he could do no better for the holy child.

The parents, teachers, and nuns sat in the pews as if we were performing in a theatre. Lights were kept on at the church entrances and on the stage only. Father McC. was our priest; he delivered Mass on Mondays when all the girls were in attendance, and also on Sundays for the Leftovers, and provided us with confessional services every two months, although we had no confessionals. He'd seat two chairs opposite each other, back to back, and we were supposed to pretend he didn't know who we were and we didn't know who he was. He enjoyed delivering his repentance instructions in Latin, then waiting for us to ask him for the translation, admonishing us to study languages other than English and French in order to be good Catholics. For the pageant he sat in the front pew with Mother Superior, both with their backs straight and staring ahead, without speaking to each other. Mother Superior took a Bible from
the back of the pew in front of her and read. Father McC. counted something on his hands.

The collection plate would be passed three times: once at the beginning, again during intermission, and finally after the performance was over. Sister Aline told us this so we could warn our parents to bring more money or divide the money they planned to give. We would all remain onstage at the end of the pageant to sing a final hymn, the hymn of the school, “Our Eyes to Heaven,” a translation of a Greek Orthodox hymn altered by one of the founding nuns to reflect the motto of the school. Sister Aline taught us the hymn with as much vigour as she taught the rest of the songs, but she hated it. In four-four time and with forced rhymes between words such as “school” and “adore,” “heaven” and “stepping,” the hymn, she believed, was not a sound translation. One day, in her disgust, Sister Aline muttered that she was sure it must have been a drinking song. As usual, however, she acquiesced under Mother Superior's authority and added it to our repertoire.

Before the performance, we were herded into the hallway behind the choir section, and before our group prayer, Sister Aline kept sneaking peeks through the doorway to judge how many people had arrived and found themselves seats. “Yvonne, your parents and your brother are here,” she chimed. “Patricia, I think your grandmother made it.” I wanted to ask if she spotted a woman in rose-coloured glasses holding onto a tall man's arm, but I didn't want to draw attention to myself. The odds were not in my favour that my parents would be attending. When I mentioned it to my father on the phone, he replied that a couple of hours would be an
awful long time for my mother to sit on such uncomfortable seats. “Is it really important?” he asked. I said no, but hoped against hope that they might not have been able to keep themselves away, that they might not want to miss their oldest daughter perform in a pageant, that they might feel proud.

With only a few minutes left before curtain, Sister Aline, her handkerchief tucked into her fist, asked us to hold hands. She couldn't lose any opportunity to broaden our religious instruction. She'd told us once in class that when she was our age, the nuns didn't explain theology, and how you could love something you could not understand was beyond her. She wanted us to love our religion, not because we were born into it, but because we would choose it. Because of this decision she anticipated us all having to make, we did not sing a single song in the choir without listening to an exegesis of the lyrics in excruciating detail. She had such a gentle disposition, though, that we didn't resist her. We merely humoured her.

“Christmas is the day the prophecy begins to be fulfilled,” she said, choking a bit on her words in her excitement or because of her stuffy nose and scratchy throat.

“You are made in God's image. And like God's image, there are complements in all things.” She pointed to her own body to demonstrate. “We have two eyes, two hands, two legs. We are symmetrical. The same on both sides.”

“Two breasts,” added Francine under her breath, a row of girls in front of her, enough to ensure Sister Aline did not hear. I wondered
if Francine had been privy to Rachel's bra showing as well and had made the joke for our benefit, but I kept quiet and concentrated on Sister Aline's sermon, hoping she might impart a few words to save me from disaster in front of the school. It was the birthing scene I was dreading, pretending to give birth to a child in front of all those people, regardless of whether the child represented the Son of God. A stupid plastic doll, without the features of a boy, but called a boy because it was bald and girl dolls were always sold with hair, reeked of mockery. I didn't want to hold that hollow boy child in my hands and rock it in my arms.

“This is why there are two parts in the Bible. The Old Testament and the New Testament. There are those who think you can disregard one or the other, but you can't. They lose their meaning. The Old Testament is the prophecy, and the New Testament is the prophecy fulfilled. The birth of Christ begins the miracle of Christ's fulfilment. Begins the process of complementing the past with the future. So remember when you are out there, you are making the prophecy come to life! God will be watching you.”

I think she added the latter statement to comfort us, but it made me even more nervous to think of God sitting in one of the pews, like Caroline's mother or Rachel's father, assessing which of the children could sing best or deliver their lines most clearly and passionately, silently admonishing those who might fall short of their cues or forget their lines under the lights. If not God, we were acutely aware that Mother Superior was watching, and she
was scarier than He was by a mile. Mother Superior would let you know if you'd failed her. She would call you into her office and then dismiss you from her presence. She would inform your parents.

When the lights were dimmed, Sister Aline escorted the choir onto the stage, and those of us in the play stepped out onto the church floor while the rest took their places in a row of pews to the left and waited their turn to join us in the final hymn. Father McC., though he was smiling up at us, was fidgety once the play began, shifting around in his pew, as if uncomfortable being seated with the rest of the crowd when he was accustomed to the lead role. He frowned. Mother Superior held the Bible against her chest.

When it came time for me to deliver baby Jesus, I did it exactly as I was instructed to: miraculously, without pain or discomfort. Hidden underneath the dishtowel in the manger, the baby rose fully formed into my hands; the shortest labour in the history of womanhood. Sister Aline had directed me for this climactic scene, and had insisted that Mary did not suffer from childbirth pain in the least, as she was free from sin. She said it was the simplest birth in the world. I doubted her, but at least I wasn't asked to scream or moan or hold onto the bundles of hay with my fists and yell at Joseph to fetch water, as we had seen in the movies. My labour was a fake. The pillow strapped to my stomach was removed by my own hands while the choir gathered in front of the altar in a straight line to shield me. As the force of the singing grew, Bella's voice leading the way, the singers parted and I was
revealed, slim and smiling. The hell of being in front of everyone was nearly over.

The only thing left before the school hymn was Bella's rendition of “O Holy Night.” Gabriel's costume, though also donated by the theatre group, was prettier than ours: a long white dress with ruffles along the hem, a set of wings made of silk. The crowd hushed. Bella's voice rose steadily, evoking both reverence and mourning. Her silk wings opened as she raised her arms, her voice transforming into triumph. The choir stood motionless behind her. We were instructed to freeze in our positions as she sang, but we didn't need to be told. The spotlight was hers.

Hear the Angels Sing.

O Night Divine, O Night that Christ was Born.

Illuminated, she was practically transcendent. Father McC. folded his hands in prayer. Sister Aline took out her tissue but delayed wiping her nose. Mother Superior stared fondly upon the school treasure. I was sure each parent in the audience wished Bella were their child. And then I was glad my parents hadn't come. I knew if they had shown up, they would have shared the same expression as the other parents in the crowd; they would have been stunned at the beauty of Bella's gift, they would have regarded her mother, who sat beaming though she didn't understand the English words, with envy. I was grateful to be spared.

I took the plastic baby from the manger and tried to cradle its stiff body lovingly in my arms as Bella hit her final note, which echoed under the wooden beams of the church. Every single person applauded. Some rose to their feet. When Bella took her humble
bow, they sighed with wonder. At the end of the performance, I walked out with a trussed-up baby Jesus dangling by his feet from my hands. Bella, distracted for a second from the glowing appraisals of Sister Aline, stepped backwards in confusion. Take it, it's yours, I said. And she did.

KIM WALKS WITH A
black leather purse in her hand, a gift from Sister Josie, the string hanging down like a tail between her legs as she exits Mother Superior's office. I just happen to be near the office door on my way to get lunch. It is Thursday, and I like to have two large helpings at lunch and dinner because on Fridays I fast. I stop and wave to Kim, but she does not address me except to raise her purse slightly in the air. She turns quickly as if to enter the washroom to her right.

“Wait, Kim,” I say.

She is not a difficult ward. She obeys her elders when she must and waits for me to catch up to her, fiddling with her purse string, weaving her fingers through it like a cat's cradle.

“It's good for you,” I say. “The doctor will be able to tell you if you're well. Sister Ursula doesn't have all the equipment here.”

Kim pouts. Her lips are puffy and wet from crying. Her pitiful expression makes her condition seem more hopeless. She had built up her energy to appear so healthy to Mother Superior, so well adjusted to her new surroundings, that she hoped a trip to an outside doctor would be deemed unnecessary. It doesn't surprise her
that I am aware of what her meeting with Mother Superior was about; she already knows there are few secrets here.

“For the baby,” she says. “Yeah, I know. Apparently I'm too skinny. All the weight's in one place and I'm going to bend out of shape.”

Her knuckles are white, the purse string wrapped tightly around the skin. She does not wish to speak to me and scales the walls nervously with her eyes, as if she were being expelled from the convent, holding in her breath to keep from crying. It is worse than the day the policemen came.

“Mother Superior didn't say you had to leave, did she?”

“No,” she replies, taking her free hand and wiping her forehead, rubbing it in frustration. “It's just that . . .”

She sucks in her lips and I lament how skinny she is, how much pain she might be in from her pregnancy. She has barely enough energy to lift herself out of a chair. The unborn child rides high and directly in front, and she is without any bulk on her obliques or lower back. And her pregnancy is barely half over. A healthy girl might not even look pregnant, just a little bloated, but Kim looks like she's strapped a ball underneath her shirt. Mother Superior is right to worry, I think. The baby needs more room to grow. Kim needs to build up her muscles or else the child might topple her.

“Are you afraid?”

“Yes.”

I try to put my arm around her but she backs out of my embrace. She must be sick of being touched by us women, continually fussing over her body and trying to coddle her. She pats my elbow to assure me she isn't angry, she just doesn't want the comfort
I offer. Sister Bernadette strolls by and smiles at us, beaming brightly, one of her many manila folders under her arm, a skip in her step. Kim stares at her backside grudgingly.

“Is she always so happy?” Kim asks, imitating Sister Bernadette's stride by moving her arms into a march, an exaggerated smile pinched across her face.

“Hard to believe, isn't it?” I reply with a smirk. “She's a real happy nun.”

This at least elicits a laugh.

“She's got a lot of faith, I guess,” Kim says, dropping both her arms and her smile.