Too Close to the Falls (39 page)

“Thank you, Catherine. Your pearls of wisdom never cease to enlighten us.”

“I'm not finished,” I said, getting more angry by the second. “Speaking of flowers, I also object to the
fact
that you had a flower-arranging
expert
— Mrs. Low, a beautician who moonlights as a florist — talk to us about altar arrangements for two weeks while you listened to the World Series on the radio in the back of the room.” I felt quite pleased. He hadn't expected that zinger.

“Ah-hah, well, that makes this occasion all the more auspicious,” he said, beaming. I began to wonder if he had had a few — his “bevelled beauty” line was somewhat of a tipoff. “For with us today we have Father Daniel Rodwick. He recently received a Ph.D. in philosophy at the Pontifical Institute after attending Notre Dame, and will be leaving for the missions in Africa when he is ordained. He has, in the interim, generously agreed to donate his time to us and has undertaken to teach philosophy to the entire gaggle of girls who have seen it in their hearts to attend our class of the enlightenment.” Turning to me, he added, “Catherine McClure, I only hope that he can meet your stringent requirements.”

Father Flanagan looked to the back of the class and we all turned around to see who had entered through the coatroom door. “Father Rodwick,” he said, waving his hand toward us with the flourish that only a wee drop of the sacramental cups can enhance, “I present you with your ultimate test.” Raising his arm and bowing, Father Flanagan announced in his gospel-giving tone, “Job had floods and famine, and you, Father Rodwick, as Almighty God's servant, have Miranda Doyle and Catherine McClure, a species Noah left off the ark.”

The class was shocked into silence. A man,
here
— what's more, a
Jesuit
at Hennepin Hall! As twenty-eight dumbfounded heads swivelled around, we saw a young man in a black cassock and clerical collar walking up the aisle. He was tall, thin, blond, broad-shouldered, the most handsome man I had ever seen in my life. In fact he was the only man I had ever seen who was handsome. His smile was genuinely happy, his green eyes had never been bored. For a minute I wondered if Father Flanagan had gone to get an actor to put on this robe — I knew he was out to get us — but I doubted he'd go to all this trouble. He, like Miranda, wasn't one for going to extraordinary lengths. This Father Rodwick character had to be the real enchilada, otherwise it would be a sacrilege. Impersonating a priest was like playing God.

I didn't dare look at Miranda for fear I would have a giggling attack that would get out of control. When I finally sneaked a glance at her, she cocked her head and raised one eyebrow at me, as if to say she was definitely up to the challenge; and if this guy thought he was going to face lepers in a few months, he had no idea what he had in store for him right here in the tiny
town of leprous Lewiston. I lifted my eyebrow in agreement. Even Linda Low took out her extra hair clips.

Father Flanagan continued, “Ladies, although the intellectual calibre will be uplifted by God's young proxy, the canons remain the same. No eating or makeup applications, girls to the washroom one at a time. May God be with you.” At this point he bowed dramatically to Father Rodwick and left. Linda Low led the correct response of “And with your spirit.”

“Well . . .” Father Rodwick smiled again. He had one of those Dr. Kildare smiles, the kind Richard Chamberlain used when he smiled at a patient who'd finally regained her sight after an operation. “I've never taught this age group or girls before.” He swallowed, and I noticed he had a prominent Adam's apple and large veins pulsating in his neck. “You've never been taught philosophy, so I hope that we'll be able to help each other out. Stop me if I'm speaking over your head or in a condescending way.”

While I was contemplating the meaning of the word
condescending
, Miranda was wasting no time. She opened her Daddy Long Legs sucker, the long thin taffy kind, and began licking it from bottom to top. Then she began pulling it and making it longer and snapping off the top. The whole class was looking from Miranda to Father Rodwick to see what he was going to do about it. He ignored it. Then she began leaning back in her chair, tilting her head backwards and making noises with her tongue on the taffy.

Finally he said in a friendly enough tone, “Miranda, there is no eating in here.”

“Why?” she asked in an innocent and wide-eyed tone. “What about the loaves and fishes — didn't God distribute them while He was preaching? He didn't mind a few munchies here and there.”

“Unfortunately there were two differences. One, Jesus Christ did not have to answer to Father Flanagan, and I do. Two, the loaves and fishes were consumed after several hours of hunger and thirst. I assure you, if we are ever together for over twelve hours I will serve you both loaves and fishes.”

Together for over twelve hours?
What was he going on about? He didn't know Miranda very well if he thought that lame cocktail chatter was going to swing her into line. Sure enough, her behaviour became more and more outrageous. She began making loud, smacking, slurping sounds when she licked.

Finally he said, “Miranda, I don't think that is very ladylike behaviour.” He had no idea what impact the word
ladylike
had on all of us. No one, not Father Flanagan, nor Mother Superior, would have ever referred to our behaviour as
unladylike
. They would use the words
un-Catholic
,
heathen
,
unsanctified,
even
idolatrous
, but they never made any mention that we were females. He had no idea what a can of worms he was opening, nor how quickly Miranda could inch in.

“We had no idea that you knew the ins and outs of ladylike behaviour. Why don't you tell us a bit about your experience along those lines?” Miranda inquired.

“Miranda, throw it out,” he said in a less affable tone. I could see that was his second mistake.

“If you want it, take it.” She was still licking the Daddy Long Legs as she held it between her teeth. He took one step toward her, then two — his face became red and he stood frozen very close to her. She taunted him with the sucker in his face by tilting her head back. Everyone watched in silence, even the
We Willing Workers
crowd.

He didn't take it. I had no idea why. Father Flanagan would have pulled it out of her mouth at the risk of rattling her teeth, and told her to sit up straight and that she would have to clean the gum off the lunchroom tables after school and then maybe sticky taffy wouldn't look so appealing. Father Rodwick, obviously another story, looked bewildered, as though he'd been running somewhere and someone had removed his final destination. Once we all saw that he couldn't deal with Miranda, we knew it was game over for “The Rod,” as she was soon to christen him.

As the weeks tumbled on, everyone, minus the inner sanctum, began to bring food and put on makeup. Sometimes when he would call on Miranda, she would say, “Just a sec,” then pull out a lipstick, roll it up, and put it on slowly. After everyone watched this display, she'd say, “
Now
, what's the question?” He would look out the window at the distant church spire and again get that confused, fogged-over look.

Nearly everyone contributed to the mayhem. Although both Miranda and I were the hard-core heretics, the number of other occasional offenders was increasing as the weeks and months slid by. When we were discussing the Reformation and Martin Luther's concerns, I questioned everything he said on the issues of tran-substantiation. I even read all of the dittoed sheets that Father Rodwick sent home —
nobody
did that. I tried to find holes in the logic and then confront him about them before he even had a chance to start the class. The strange thing about all this questioning was that he actually seemed to
enjoy
these arguments. He would throw the chalk up, catch it, and say, “Catherine, you're not the first to have thought of that. However, you're in good
company, since Thomas Aquinas asked the same questions.”

These were the same questions that infuriated Mother Superior and made her call me a “doubting Thomas” and Father Flanagan address me as “oh ye of little faith.” They would ask if I had
forgotten
that Christ died on the cross for me, or had it slipped my mind that He gave His last drop of blood to redeem our lost souls. Did I need to stab His side to see only water issue forth, before I would believe He gave His body and blood for us, or could I
possibly
accept this on faith. Father Flanagan asked if I, like Pontius Pilate, was washing my hands of the Lord's persecution? After this barrage, I would then have to kneel and recite all of the stations of the cross. Maybe then I would think twice before doubting the Almighty.

The Rod brought in books for me to read and I began to feel that school was not the hellhole I had believed it to be since kindergarten. I read Descartes, Aquinas, More, Plato, and others, and was amazed to find answers to questions that I brought up in class. I felt less in the opposition. I realized there were other people like me who asked the same questions and someone liked their ideas enough to let them publish a book. From what I could gather, these people were all dead men and they were called philosophers. Everything I ever asked was answered in these books. The Rod and I began having long, convoluted debates in class and even Linda Low stopped listening.

This was the most intellectually fruitful time of my life. I devoured all the books and for the first time felt, or realized, that there was more to the world than the circumscribed town of Lewiston. Rebelling against my tawdry small-town life didn't seem to pack such a wallop of excitement any more. I felt as
though I had been a person alone in the world who collected stamps and everyone thought it was annoying at best, and evil at worst, and then one day someone said, “I collect stamps too, isn't it the greatest thing to do? And many great people in the world who lived hundreds of years ago also collected stamps.” I wasn't crazy! Or if I was crazy, at least I had some ancient company. I went to the library and looked at pictures of Descartes and St. Thomas Aquinas and, believe it or not, they looked exactly as I pictured them. I felt as if I had found a lost relative after being an orphan for all of these years. I even looked for family resemblance in Plato's face.

I still felt obliged to be in the opposition, but it was in form only now. Although I asked several questions and tried to be as inflammatory as possible, only Miranda really knew how to rattle The Rod's cage. One day, in an effort to uphold my rebellious front, I went on the attack over the Church's corruption at the time of Martin Luther. I even said that if I had been Martin Luther, I, too, would have complained about plenary indulgences.

Miranda picked up on this and added, “You think Martin Luther left the Church over philosophical differences, but you don't really know that — after all, it was hundreds of years ago!” The Rod hesitantly nodded in agreement, which encouraged her to go on. “Maybe he left because Catholic priests couldn't marry or . . .” her voice trailed off.

Sticking to the facts, he replied, “He was excommunicated. He didn't leave voluntarily.”

“Yeah, well maybe he had himself excommunicated because he knew he couldn't hack celibacy —
you
know, abstinence — in the physical way.”

He broke in, “I am familiar with the term
celibacy
, Miranda. What you're saying is, of course, possible. However, we are here to discuss the
philosophical
differences between the Catholic Church and Martin Luther. We are not here to discuss Luther's
personal
weaknesses.”

“Well, I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this guy, OK? If you couldn't be celibate, would that be a ‘personal weakness' or just a fact — like — well, you know, if you kissed Mary Magdalene while she was washing your feet and drying them with her hair —” Miranda flung her long dark hair behind her “— you know, you just couldn't help yourself.”

“Yes, I believe that would be a personal weakness if you made a promise of celibacy.”

“Don't all priests suffer from earthly passions?” She asked this while eating a cherry icicle, which was melting quickly.

He looked at a spot on the wall and replied, “All people suffer from earthly passions. It is a question of how they are directed.”

Earthly passions?
What was Miranda getting into?

The Rod said, “Miranda, we are diverging from the topic.”

I felt that I could jump in at this point. “You said divergence is part of discourse as long as we can say in what way we are diverging. What's wrong with Luther's passionate anger? Jesus was angry at the temple when the merchants sold their wares there. What's the problem with earthly passion?”

The Rod looked at Miranda and she looked at me with complete disgust, the kind she reserved for Linda Low, the lowest of low. What had I done? I had said something stupid that had no bearing on what was going on, but what
was
going on? I tried to make him angry but I had somehow relieved the tension.