rocks began. If she
told Father about all the lies she’d [39] told Nonnie since her last confession, she’d be in here
until Easter, two weeks away. No, she’d have to pick just a few.
Rose squeezed her eyes shut, ran a sweaty palm down her pleats. This was the part she hated
most—actually having to describe her sins. And how in heaven would she confess her mortal sin?
Did priests even know about such things?
She took another deep breath, and let the air out slowly.
“I lied about the book,” she said.
“What book?”
“ Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger. I checked it out of the library. But Nonnie said I
couldn’t read it because it was in the Index .”
She thought about Molly Quinn, her best friend, calling the Index of Forbidden Books the “Shit
List.” A book, Molly explained, didn’t have to be filthy actually to be on the list, it just had to
contain four-letter words. And everyone was always consulting the Index, the Sisters and the
kids, which made no sense, until one day Molly told her why.
“Go down to the public library,” Molly had said and laughed, flashing a mouthful of metal (she
claimed she could get WABC and WNEW on her braces) and hooking her long blond hair behind
her ears. “Go see which books are always checked out.”
Father gave a dry, polite little cough. “And you read this book even though you knew it was
against your grandmother’s wishes?”
“Yes, Father.” Rose sighed.
“You committed two sins then. Failing to honor your grandmother as well as deceiving her.”
“I honestly didn’t see what was so wrong with it! I mean, what Holden Caulfield was trying to
say ... well, it wasn’t about sex really—” Rose broke off, horrified. Holy Mother of God, did I
really say that? Aren’t I in enough hot water as it is without shooting my big mouth off?
Father Donahue cleared his throat. “You must trust in the wisdom of your elders, my child,” he
admonished gently. “And keep in mind that the dictates of the Church are not yours to question.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You may continue.”
[40] “Uh ... that’s all I can remember, Father.” Another lie. But what was the use of
explaining? Father Donahue couldn’t understand what it was like for her at home.
Rose pushed her hair up in back to get some air on her neck. She remembered Nonnie braiding
it for her before school when she was in kindergarten, pulling it back so tight it stretched the skin
across her temples and left her with a headache. But by lunchtime, it would all be sprung loose
anyway, a mass of wiry black curls corkscrewing every which way.
Like a little Gypsy, Nonnie would mutter, tight-lipped, every morning declaring war on Rose’s
hair. With each painful yank of the hairbrush, Rose couldn’t help being reminded how different
she was from everyone else in the family. A freak, with her olive skin, impossible hair, and huge
black eyes.
Big, too. Not like her sisters, both dainty as Ginny dolls. None of the clothes Marie and Clare
handed down to her fit properly. They strained across her chest and hips, riding up in awful-
looking furrows, making her feel as big as King Kong. But what could she do? It was a sin,
Nonnie said, to waste good clothing because of vanity. Besides, they were too poor to throw
anything away.
Once when no one was home, Rose had peeled off all her clothes and stood in front of the
speckled chifforobe mirror in her bedroom. She knew it was a sin to look at yourself that way;
Sister had said so. But she couldn’t tear her eyes from her dark nakedness. Dark all over, even
where the sunlight never touched her. Her heavy breasts the color of the Old English polish
Nonnie rubbed over the furniture on Saturdays, with nipples big as saucers, so dark they looked
almost blue. And hair. A great coarse black bush of it rising from the mound between her thighs.
Darker and curlier, even, than the hair on her head.
Rose had touched herself
told Father about all the lies she’d [39] told Nonnie since her last confession, she’d be in here
until Easter, two weeks away. No, she’d have to pick just a few.
Rose squeezed her eyes shut, ran a sweaty palm down her pleats. This was the part she hated
most—actually having to describe her sins. And how in heaven would she confess her mortal sin?
Did priests even know about such things?
She took another deep breath, and let the air out slowly.
“I lied about the book,” she said.
“What book?”
“ Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger. I checked it out of the library. But Nonnie said I
couldn’t read it because it was in the Index .”
She thought about Molly Quinn, her best friend, calling the Index of Forbidden Books the “Shit
List.” A book, Molly explained, didn’t have to be filthy actually to be on the list, it just had to
contain four-letter words. And everyone was always consulting the Index, the Sisters and the
kids, which made no sense, until one day Molly told her why.
“Go down to the public library,” Molly had said and laughed, flashing a mouthful of metal (she
claimed she could get WABC and WNEW on her braces) and hooking her long blond hair behind
her ears. “Go see which books are always checked out.”
Father gave a dry, polite little cough. “And you read this book even though you knew it was
against your grandmother’s wishes?”
“Yes, Father.” Rose sighed.
“You committed two sins then. Failing to honor your grandmother as well as deceiving her.”
“I honestly didn’t see what was so wrong with it! I mean, what Holden Caulfield was trying to
say ... well, it wasn’t about sex really—” Rose broke off, horrified. Holy Mother of God, did I
really say that? Aren’t I in enough hot water as it is without shooting my big mouth off?
Father Donahue cleared his throat. “You must trust in the wisdom of your elders, my child,” he
admonished gently. “And keep in mind that the dictates of the Church are not yours to question.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You may continue.”
[40] “Uh ... that’s all I can remember, Father.” Another lie. But what was the use of
explaining? Father Donahue couldn’t understand what it was like for her at home.
Rose pushed her hair up in back to get some air on her neck. She remembered Nonnie braiding
it for her before school when she was in kindergarten, pulling it back so tight it stretched the skin
across her temples and left her with a headache. But by lunchtime, it would all be sprung loose
anyway, a mass of wiry black curls corkscrewing every which way.
Like a little Gypsy, Nonnie would mutter, tight-lipped, every morning declaring war on Rose’s
hair. With each painful yank of the hairbrush, Rose couldn’t help being reminded how different
she was from everyone else in the family. A freak, with her olive skin, impossible hair, and huge
black eyes.
Big, too. Not like her sisters, both dainty as Ginny dolls. None of the clothes Marie and Clare
handed down to her fit properly. They strained across her chest and hips, riding up in awful-
looking furrows, making her feel as big as King Kong. But what could she do? It was a sin,
Nonnie said, to waste good clothing because of vanity. Besides, they were too poor to throw
anything away.
Once when no one was home, Rose had peeled off all her clothes and stood in front of the
speckled chifforobe mirror in her bedroom. She knew it was a sin to look at yourself that way;
Sister had said so. But she couldn’t tear her eyes from her dark nakedness. Dark all over, even
where the sunlight never touched her. Her heavy breasts the color of the Old English polish
Nonnie rubbed over the furniture on Saturdays, with nipples big as saucers, so dark they looked
almost blue. And hair. A great coarse black bush of it rising from the mound between her thighs.
Darker and curlier, even, than the hair on her head.
Rose had touched herself
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