The Gathering (7 page)

Rose laughed. “Al, Manny hasn’t turned into some kind of goon or thug. Remember: Manny didn’t start this whole thing. He just responded to the bad guy’s challenge. Like the war: We didn’t start it. We didn’t even want to get into it. Then came Pearl Harbor.”

“Yeah …” Alice pondered that incontrovertible fact.

“Mike and Manny …” Alice reflected.

“Mike and Manny …” Alice repeated. “Do you realize, Rose, that Mike and Manny are the only two guys in our class that I know? And I know them only because I know you. You’re Mike’s twin. That’s how I know Mike. And Mike’s best friend is Manny, and that’s how I know Manny.

“Doesn’t that seem odd?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Think about it,” Alice persisted. “Public school kids seem to know everybody … I mean everybody in their own class anyway. And you and I know a sum total of two boys!”

“And all our girl classmates,” Rose reminded.

“It just doesn’t seem right. We go through seven years; we’re in the same building—at least through sixth grade, then all of a sudden we’re not only not in separate classrooms, we’re not even in the same building.”

“And,” Rose added, “the boys aren’t taught by the nuns. Their teachers are the Brothers of Mary.”

“That’s right. Why do you suppose the boys have to wait until seventh grade to get the Brothers? I mean, they’re already in separate classrooms. How come they don’t get the Brothers right off the bat? In first grade.”

Rose paused in mid-stroke. “I suppose it’s simply supply and demand.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe there aren’t enough Brothers to go around. It comes down to numbers.”

“Really?”

“Mike and I have talked about it.”

“And?”

“Well, take the girls … our classmates … ourselves. The plan—at least in Redeemer—is for all the girls to be taught by nuns, with maybe an occasional laywoman. When the girls graduate, most of them get a job. A few go to college. But, in any case, practically every one of them is looking for a husband. After all, being a housewife is the ultimate goal … right?”

“Hmmm. Yeah … I guess so. But what about girls like us … who want to go to the convent?”

“Then …” Rose was having trouble keeping track of the strokes. “ … we go to the convent. Ordinarily, girls like us naturally go to Monroe—to the Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. You know, that’s the religious order that trained and taught us.

“But even if we don’t go to Monroe … if we become, say, Dominicans from Adrian … we’d still be the same essentially. We’d be nuns. Just members of different orders, that’s all.”

“Sure. But what’s that got to do with the Brothers? That there aren’t enough to staff all twelve grades of boys?”

“That’s where Mike comes in.”

Alice shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“How many boys from Redeemer intend to become priests?”

“I dunno. A couple … maybe three or four …”

“From the whole high school?”

“No. I meant by class. I’d say”—Alice ran the figures through her mind—“a couple—as many as four or five … from each class.”

“Okay. Why do you think these kids go to the seminary?”

Alice shrugged. “Because they want to be priests.”

“Yes. But
why
do they want to be priests?”

“Well, going to a parochial school doesn’t hurt. Having Catholic parents. Like that.”

Rose nodded. “And Mike tells me it’s not only those things. It’s also because they think being a priest is exciting. They want to get in on the action.”

“I couldn’t argue with that.”

“It’s right from the horse’s mouth. Mike said that. And he also said that not many of the kids understand what the Brothers are up to. And that’s why the Brothers don’t inspire many kids to join up.”

Alice looked surprised. “Gee, I don’t have a problem with that. The Brothers of Mary we’ve got here are classy guys. Real men and real teachers.”

“But they’re not teaching
us
. So we don’t experience them the way the boys do. Anyway, how many boys in Redeemer High School, do you think, sign up to join the Brothers?”

“I … I don’t know. Not as many as want to be priests.”

“Would you believe one or two in the whole high school? Mike says the kids appreciate being taught by men for the first time in all the years in school. He says he just doesn’t see the Brothers as a vocation. One of Mike’s teachers asked him if he wanted to become a Brother.”

“What did Mike say?”

“He said he’d never thought of being a Brother. He said the Brother looked kind of hurt. Like he’d been personally turned down. But Mike had said it and he couldn’t take it back.

“Mike told me he couldn’t understand the vocation. Brothers aren’t dumb. Lots of times they’re smarter than priests. So why go half way?”

Alice could hear the radio being turned off downstairs. She couldn’t make out which program was going off. But the sound had stopped; the Smiths were getting ready to retire.

Alice, on the other hand, was ready for some Sinatra. Her desire would cause no problem; it was shared by Rose.

“How are you getting along?” Alice asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The brushing. How many strokes?”

Rose brushed. “That would be ninety-three,” she said without breaking stride.

“How can you do that?”

“Do what?”

Alice sat upright. “We’ve been having a conversation. You had to be involved in what we were talking about … at least part of the time. How can you talk and still keep count of your strokes?”

“It’s not hard; it’s just a matter of thinking of two things at the same time.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“You find it difficult?”

“Me and most of the rest of the world.”

“There.” Rose put the brush down and shook her shoulders, which were somewhat stiff after this monotonous exercise. “All done.” She turned to Alice. “Some music?”

“You bet!”

By the time the two girls reached the main floor, the Smiths had retired to their bedroom. Michael, also in pajamas and robe, was stretched out on the living room floor.

None of them felt awkward. They were friends and no more than that.

Rose went directly to the phonograph. In no time the pleasantly nasal voice of Vaughn Monroe was crooning “Blue Moon.”

The two girls sat together on the floor roughly halfway between the record player and Michael, who, pencil in hand, continued to work on English drills.

Alice, lost in Monroe’s distinctive voice, seemed mesmerized by the lamentation.

“Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone, Without a dream in my heart, Without a love of my own …”

Without a love of my own.
How depressing! Was that the lonely life she was slated to enter?

Alice had no real knowledge of convent life. No one who had not lived that life could comprehend it. In her naïveté, she was quite sure that what she saw she certainly would get.

She would wear the time-honored uniform, popularly known as a religious habit. It stood for something. She would be set apart in a most secular world. She would dedicate herself, body and soul, to the Roman Catholic Church.

If she joined almost any other religious order than the IHMs, she would be invited to express her preference for one of two paths: teaching or nursing. The fact that she would not necessarily be allowed to pursue the one she had chosen merely spoke to the dedication that religious life would demand of her.

But there was something to be said for either occupation.

If she were to teach, she would be instilling in young minds the ancient and ever-present truths of Catholicism. Her students would remember—some for the rest of their lives—what “Sister said.” The aphorism “Once a Catholic, always a Catholic” would, in many cases, be the legacy of her vocation.

That—even the demands on her freedom—was all on the positive side. There would be pride in what she had accomplished and a reverence for what her life signified.

If she were directed to the nursing field, it held similar possibilities. She would have to be qualified as a nurse. She would work in a Catholic hospital where uniforms abounded and nurses’ caps identified the wearer’s school of training. But among all those uniforms of various shades, hers—the religious habit turned white—would be the most distinctive.

She would be warmly welcomed by patients stricken with nearly every sort of illness. Her prayers would be solicited and promised. Patients would go forward with renewed confidence: What better insurance could there be than a nun’s prayer?

She would be with those who would not survive. Being encouraged and given good hope as they passed from this life to the next. She would be with the bereaved, offering consoling words, a reassuring presence, and the promise of more prayer.

All these were positive and motivating arguments for the life she proposed to pursue.

She could not imagine what it would be like to live in a community of women who would compose one’s “Sisters.” She hoped that that would be worth the price of admission. Still, there were doubts.

What if she were to find herself locked away with no companions other than women who were more strangers than Sisters?

What if she were housed with one or more women with whom she was flat-out incompatible? Alice guessed there would be no remedy for that. Obedience—blind obedience—would be the required response. The Community saw fit to send her to this school, this hospital, and/or this convent. That mission then would be God’s will—no matter how unpleasant the atmosphere might be.

Monroe’s voice reinvaded her consciousness. That about which he was singing was the real sacrifice she would have to face. She felt that it would be the most difficult gift of all—a veritable oblation.

Loneliness.

And not just under a Blue Moon.

She would see it everywhere.

And it would be worse as a nursing Sister. Teachers deal with students, kids more than likely. More times than not it would be on an adversarial basis. She recalled a cartoon of a nun at a blackboard lecturing other nuns. On the blackboard was the stick figure of a little boy in open-neck shirt and jeans, with a slingshot sticking out of his back pocket. The cartoon caption: “
THE ENEMY
.”

Teaching nuns had little to do with adults, unless the parents’ little darlings were in deep scholastic or disciplinary trouble.

The nursing nun dealt with everyone from infants to the elderly. Not only did these nuns care for the ill and infirm, they also interacted with the next of kin: husbands, wives, children, friends, relatives, lovers. Sometimes the love among these people was all but palpable. They would hold hands, be near, kiss.

None of that for her.

Could she do it?

Right now, Mr. and Mrs. Smith were in bed together. Whether or not they were making love, at least they were together—touching, caring, sharing, being in love.

Not in her life. Her life would have its pluses—and its minuses. Could she carry it off? No telling till she gave it her best shot.

No one had said a word during Monroe’s song. Alice and Rose each had her own thoughts and daydreams. Mike was deep into lines connecting adjectives to nouns, adverbs to verbs.

Monroe had finished. Time to put on another record.

Time to share a little conversation.

   
SIX
   

M
IKE PACKED AWAY HIS BOOKS,
rolled over onto his back, and stretched. “No wonder they call Monroe the Iron Lung; he sings practically every song his band plays.”

“Stop picking on him.” Rose was lighthearted. “At least he’s good at it.”

“He sounds like someone pinched his nose with a clothespin,” Mike replied.

What has been said of twins’ closeness was true of Mike and Rose. Even as infants they had paid more attention to each other than to the toys their parents lavished on them.

Although Mr. and Mrs. Smith had planned a large family, Rose and Mike were the only offspring they had and the only ones they would ever have.

The Smiths had not expected twins, although they certainly welcomed the two, who would, they thought, provide a great start toward the desired large Catholic family.