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Authors: Frances Itani
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cove. We waited until we were sure they would not rise again and we continued on to the new store owned by Ferdinand the Bull. This time, however, we did not call out as we did on other evenings, vying for the sighting of the birds, hoping to be the first to shout out: “My wedding! My wedding!”
SISTERS
1953
“A boy after Mass,” Mimi said—it was her turn with the oar—“told me the nuns bury dead babies behind the convent, in the woods.”
“That’s where we pick dogtooth violets for Mother’s Day,” I said.
“The boy made it up,” said Mimi. “It isn’t true. It’s a sin to say that.”
I thought of the nuns, their long sweeping skirts and halfhidden enamel faces. Unlike the priest, they were rarely sighted in the village. I did not know where they bought their groceries or what kind of food they ate.
“The nuns are married to Jesus,” said Mimi. She preened while she said this.
But the way she thought of the nuns was the way I thoughtof her and of all the Catholic girls in the village: child brides of Christ. An army of them marching forward, starting their journey under flowing white veils from the time of their First Communion—from the day they accepted the gift of the white rosary. To me they were a separate order of marked children bearing the weight of the Sorrowful Mysteries, bearing the weight of the Faith.
“Anyway,” Mimi said, “the nuns are good teachers. But when Sister gets mad she cuffs us on the back of the head with her hand. She sneaks up behind us and sprinkles water on the back of our necks.”
We thought about this for a moment.
“If it’s true about the dead babies,” Mimi said, “I wonder if they’re baptized before they die. If they aren’t, they stay in limbo.”
“It wouldn’t be the same if the baby was born in a house with a mother and father,” I said. “Still, if the baby died, the mother and father would go mad with the grief.” The grief was what Granny Tracks sometimes talked about when she told us about Grandfather Meagher.
“Limbo is where the baby would go if it isn’t baptized,” Mimi said. “It would have to stay in limbo for a long time. It might never get all the way to heaven. The priest said.”
I tried to think of a layer of babies in gowns, all trying to get closer to heaven. It was hard to imagine. Instead, I saw rows of little boxes buried in the woods.
Mimi handed me the oar and I turned it end to end and we changed places. The boat was tied and we pushed it back and forth in an arc, drooping our hands over the sides, our fingers darting after crayfish that slipped under the rocks. We stayed in the boat because Mimi was wearing her Sunday shoes withthe black patent straps and had been told not to go into the river. She kept her feet on the wooden platform in the bottom of the boat. There was always water beneath the platform—water that could never be bailed.
I had changed as soon as I’d come home on the bus. I’d been to Hull for Sunday school and church, and today had added a new Bible card to my collection: Job sheweth the wicked may prosper. I’d been thinking about the wicked when I’d gone up the church basement stairs and slipped into the pew beside Mother and Lyd. Eddie had stayed in the basement to be supervised, below, while we were in church.
The wicked were all around us, we’d been told, and I thought that perhaps this was like communism. I looked at the Anglicans, their light summer coats pressed shoulder to shoulder in the pews ahead. I’d been forced to wear a hat to church, a crescent-shaped hat with a veil that tugged over my eyes. I hated the hat. The veil scratched my forehead and obstructed my vision. But it had to be worn. I looked through it at Lyd and Mother beside me, and when Mother looked back and raised an eyebrow, I slipped off the seat and kneeled on the hard planks of wood that flipped out from under the pew ahead. I tried to think of a prayer. Mother and Lyd always closed their eyes
SISTERS
1953
“A boy after Mass,” Mimi said—it was her turn with the oar—“told me the nuns bury dead babies behind the convent, in the woods.”
“That’s where we pick dogtooth violets for Mother’s Day,” I said.
“The boy made it up,” said Mimi. “It isn’t true. It’s a sin to say that.”
I thought of the nuns, their long sweeping skirts and halfhidden enamel faces. Unlike the priest, they were rarely sighted in the village. I did not know where they bought their groceries or what kind of food they ate.
“The nuns are married to Jesus,” said Mimi. She preened while she said this.
But the way she thought of the nuns was the way I thoughtof her and of all the Catholic girls in the village: child brides of Christ. An army of them marching forward, starting their journey under flowing white veils from the time of their First Communion—from the day they accepted the gift of the white rosary. To me they were a separate order of marked children bearing the weight of the Sorrowful Mysteries, bearing the weight of the Faith.
“Anyway,” Mimi said, “the nuns are good teachers. But when Sister gets mad she cuffs us on the back of the head with her hand. She sneaks up behind us and sprinkles water on the back of our necks.”
We thought about this for a moment.
“If it’s true about the dead babies,” Mimi said, “I wonder if they’re baptized before they die. If they aren’t, they stay in limbo.”
“It wouldn’t be the same if the baby was born in a house with a mother and father,” I said. “Still, if the baby died, the mother and father would go mad with the grief.” The grief was what Granny Tracks sometimes talked about when she told us about Grandfather Meagher.
“Limbo is where the baby would go if it isn’t baptized,” Mimi said. “It would have to stay in limbo for a long time. It might never get all the way to heaven. The priest said.”
I tried to think of a layer of babies in gowns, all trying to get closer to heaven. It was hard to imagine. Instead, I saw rows of little boxes buried in the woods.
Mimi handed me the oar and I turned it end to end and we changed places. The boat was tied and we pushed it back and forth in an arc, drooping our hands over the sides, our fingers darting after crayfish that slipped under the rocks. We stayed in the boat because Mimi was wearing her Sunday shoes withthe black patent straps and had been told not to go into the river. She kept her feet on the wooden platform in the bottom of the boat. There was always water beneath the platform—water that could never be bailed.
I had changed as soon as I’d come home on the bus. I’d been to Hull for Sunday school and church, and today had added a new Bible card to my collection: Job sheweth the wicked may prosper. I’d been thinking about the wicked when I’d gone up the church basement stairs and slipped into the pew beside Mother and Lyd. Eddie had stayed in the basement to be supervised, below, while we were in church.
The wicked were all around us, we’d been told, and I thought that perhaps this was like communism. I looked at the Anglicans, their light summer coats pressed shoulder to shoulder in the pews ahead. I’d been forced to wear a hat to church, a crescent-shaped hat with a veil that tugged over my eyes. I hated the hat. The veil scratched my forehead and obstructed my vision. But it had to be worn. I looked through it at Lyd and Mother beside me, and when Mother looked back and raised an eyebrow, I slipped off the seat and kneeled on the hard planks of wood that flipped out from under the pew ahead. I tried to think of a prayer. Mother and Lyd always closed their eyes
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