Read Online When We Were the Kennedys by Monica Wood - Free Book Online Page B

down to hide her swooning. Father Bob observes the class for a loaded moment, arms akimbo, his small shiny shoes tapping as if in impatience. What will he say? The suspense is exquisite. Will he advise us, as Father Cyr does, to live a life of loving kindness? Will he bring announcements, as Father LaPlante often does, about the church fair or First Friday Mass or the schedule for Confirmation?
    â€œBoys and girls,” he says. “What’s new?”
    Everybody laughs. This is so, so funny! Father wants to know what’s new!
    Nyew
is how he says it, because he is splendidly educated and this is how they pronounce this word in England. He also says
pro-
gress, with a long
o.
Possibly he does this more with Dad gone. It drives Mum crazy.
Quit putting on airs,
she used to chide him, but as a priest he’s allowed to put on all the airs he cares to. He was born loving words and works them like a paint kit.
    Father Bob makes no special note of me except for a quick, sidelong glance that says:
I know you’re here.
This makes me a hundred times more exceptional than if he’d announced to the class,
There’s my niece.
He does this when visiting Cathy and Betty’s classroom, too, roving the room, singling out our friends instead of us, which is far more delicious, our glory deflecting to other kids who become celebrities once removed. The ones who didn’t have the smarts to want Betty’s friendship will now pay.
    â€œDenise Vaillancourt, how are you this morning?”
    â€œFine, Father. Thank you, Father.”
    â€œMargie Lavorgna, I saw your father when I stopped at Fisher’s just now. He’s looking well. Such an affable fellow.”
    â€œThank you, Father.”
    I remind myself to look up
affable
and tell Margie what it means.
    â€œYou’ll give your mother my very best regards?”
    Very best regards! Nobody we know says “very best regards”!
    â€œYes, Father. Thank you, Father.”
    He has this way of sounding simultaneously chummy and formal, making a child the delectable center of something rare and memorable.
    â€œSister, what are the children studying today?”
    â€œWe’re studying the explorers, Father.” Sister Ernestine swans across the room, pulls down the map of the world, and asks Judy Pepin to point out Portugal, and Spain, and Italy. Then, in case Father prefers a more contemporary show-and-tell, she asks Penny Naples to point out the neighborly provinces of Canada and the godless expanse of the U.S.S.R. She does not consult the boys, who can’t be trusted to come up with the right answers on cue.
    â€œWell done. Very, very well done.” Father beams at the child who has pointed correctly—but really he’s beaming at me. “Excellent pro-gress.”
    I sit there, thinking:
Mine, mine, mine.
    â€œVery nice visiting with you, Sister. Thank you.”
    â€œOh, thank
you,
Father!” She raises a single eyebrow at us, whereupon we leap once again to our feet.
    â€œAu revoir et merci, mon Père!”
    He shows his small, white hands and down go our heads, down, down, down, a domino-quick reflex.
    â€œIn nomine Patris,”
he intones,
“et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
    We cross ourselves. “Amen.”
    His custom is to visit all the grades, not just ours, and then drive home to Mum and wait for us. As we file to the cafeteria for lunch, I spot him through the great doors. He’s sitting in his parked car, his hands on the wheel, his forehead gently resting on his hands. After lunch, filing past the door again, I look for his car and it’s gone.
    So he’s with Mum now, and here’s what I want to imagine as I finish my first good-tasting lunch in weeks: the brother and sister as their old selves, playing a ferocious round of Scrabble in the kitchen, Mum registering challenges until she can’t take one more ridiculous, unheard-of, perfectly legal English word pointed