The Guineveres (30 page)

This is the part of the story where we should have been caught, but we weren't. If we'd been found, and punished, I'd probably be telling a different story. A better one? I doubt that. A couple of us would have been spared some pain, but there was no escaping all of it.

*   *   *

During Rec Time the next day, the older girls blasted the radio from the corner. One of them would turn eighteen tomorrow, and so the radio privileges were restored by the Sisters as her send-off into the world. The girl kept tuning the stations, ratcheting the dial back and forth, as though trying to tune into Earth frequencies from a planet far away. The Specials had taken over the Ping-Pong table. Lottie and Nan competed against Shirley and Dorrie Sue, who swatted at the ball like the summer flies that sometimes made their way into the cafeteria in the warmer months. A few of The Poor Girls had strapped roller skates to their shoes, the ones Sister Fran said were donated by some of the parishioners from the church when they learned we had little in the way of recreational equipment.

The Guineveres eased our bodies onto the floor, then arranged ourselves like fallen dominos and made cushions of each other, since all of the couches were already taken. The fabric of our skirts chafed our winter skin, scaly from the loud old radiators that sucked moisture right out of the air. Above us, the fluorescent lights flickered, and we pretended to watch a filmstrip on the ceiling, one in which we imagined Our Boys in the War. Only, in this filmstrip, time progressed backward: Bullets were sucked out of Our Boys' limbs, and explosions condensed to a single point on the horizon. Our Boys stood up from their crouching position, and they turned toward the sun, their uniforms unsoiled, the fear extinguished from their faces.

The Guineveres prayed we could reverse time for Our Boys, to protect them, to save them from their own fates here in the convent. But if we could, if we really had the power, like God Himself whose own son could walk on water, His toes never even getting wet, we'd never have met them. We'd never get the chance to go home. And in this way, we were relieved that we couldn't do anything about time or about the War or about the injuries Our Boys had sustained.

Our very next thought might have naturally progressed to feelings of guilt, but instead Reggie appeared above us, hovering like a chubby angel without wings.

“My dad finally wrote back,” Reggie said. Noreen trailed behind her like a shadow. “I got it on Tuesday. Remember, you told me to write him. Because he's a general?”

“Your dad's not a general in the War,” Win said, though she didn't take her eyes from the ceiling. Reggie appeared like an inkblot on her periphery. “You probably don't even have a dad.”

“His picture's on my bunk. You've seen it,” she said and turned to Noreen, who nodded vigorously but remained mute. “See.”

“What did he say?” I asked. I was as skeptical of Reggie as the others. She always fibbed. She once told us she was related to the pope. But The Guineveres were desperate for information—anything at all—and we were willing to hear what she had to say, just in case.

Reggie scratched her scalp as though she were shampooing it, and tiny flakes of dry skin drifted to her shoulders. “He said lots of soldiers go missing. It's not unusual. But they never leave anyone behind. That's a rule of the War or something.” The Guineveres offered no response, just listened to the static sounds coming from the ever-tuning radio. If that were the case, where was Peter Drexel?

“That's it?” Gwen huffed. “That's all you could get from your dad, the War general?”

“It was a short letter, actually,” Reggie responded. “But he said the War will make the world a safer place. I guess that makes those soldiers heroes. Are they still in a coma?”

We didn't like the word “coma,” preferring “sleeping” instead. “Is the world dangerous now?” I asked.

Reggie shrugged her shoulders. “I don't know.”

“Can we read it?” one of us asked. “Your letter?”

“I have a stamp collection at home from all over the world. My dad has been to thirty-seven countries. Thirty-eight, actually, if you count our own. I'll show them to you when you come over for my welcome-home party. That is, if Sister Fran lets you come.”

At that moment, Sister Fran charged into the room blowing her whistle, signaling to us for supper. The radio silenced, the skating stopped, the Ping-Pong ball dropped to the floor with a quickening tap, and we all lined up in single file to march. We could barely eat our macaroni-and-mayonnaise salad, our stomachs already too full of doubt. And we weren't sure which kind.

A few days later: confession. We welcomed its arrival. The other girls bowed their heads, conjuring up courage. Nobody enjoyed confession. How could you? It's like taking off your clothes in front of a stranger who is fully dressed. A peep show of the soul. This time, The Guineveres refused to participate.

Near the end of the service, after most of the girls had been given their blessings, we lined up in Father James's queue.

“When are we going to the Veterans Administration?” we asked, four times over. Our bodies shook, so we crossed our arms to still ourselves. We couldn't stop thinking about Junior, wondering what his last thoughts were as he departed this world, wondering if his soul went up or down. We had to save Our Boys; we had to save ourselves.

“Soon,” he said. Father James fidgeted beneath his robe, shifted from one foot to another. We could see his shoes poking out. “The Thursday after next. I'll tell Sister Fran I need you for an in-service.” He held his hand over our bowed heads, and we pretended to take his blessing. Ginny faked weeping, Win exaggeratedly swayed her body, and Gwen placed her hand over her heart, but she was really just feeling for Her Boy's ring in her bra.

“Amen,” we each said, our doubts subsiding, but not completely. Back in the pew, The Guineveres held hands as we kneeled, as we prayed. We were ordinary girls and it was still Ordinary Time, but we were certain, more certain than the stars in the sky or oxygen or heaven, that something extraordinary awaited us. Our fingers interlaced. We squeezed and released. If only we'd known to be careful what you pray for. It just might come true.

 

Saint Agatha

FEAST DAY: FEBRUARY 5

To her parents' dismay, young Agatha refused to marry. This despite the string of suitors who often lined their receiving room, waiting for a glance of the willful maiden with a reputation for beauty.
Oh, silly girl,
the gentlemen would say to each other as they leaned back, smoked their pipes, and admired her supple breasts with animal hunger.
Give her time.
But time only bound her more fervently to her Lord. The thought of a man's touch made her stomach roil, and she prayed to Him for protection from suffering.

But it was His will for poor Agatha to suffer. Soon a local prefect, Quintian, heard of the maiden who refused all advances, and he sought the young woman for himself. His desire wasn't born of love or of money—or even of sexual longing—but of ego, pure and simple. A lowborn man, Quintian was greedy for power, greedy to claim that which other men couldn't. He collected maidens like trophies, and Agatha would make an excellent prize. When he learned of the maiden's Christian faith, outlawed in those times, he sent for her, then offered a simple proposition: either himself or prison. It was blackmail, he knew, but what did he care? He was sure he'd bed her by the night's end. He imagined her round bosom, her firm bottom, and his mouth watered at the very thought of it.

Faced with such options, Agatha chose imprisonment. Quintian fumed and ordered her to a brothel, a wretched one that even he wouldn't frequent. Nightly she was subjected to violations of the crudest kind, but nightly she called upon her Lord for protection.
I am your sheep,
she'd pray. As she felt men, wild as wolves, try to climb atop her, her body glowed with a brilliant light. The men flew off her, propelled by some unseen force, thudding against walls and falling unconscious to the floor. In this way, Agatha remained untouched, a maiden till the very end.

After some months, Agatha was called again to Quintian. She stood before him dirty and barefoot. Her dress was in tatters, and her skin was smeared with dirt and with excrement. Still, his mouth watered at the sight of this beauty. He imagined her wide hips and the small of her back and her belly button that would look like a tiny pinhole in the dark of his chamber. He offered her one more chance: himself or prison. He was certain she'd choose him this time.

She remembered the brothel, all those rough hands upon her skin, not delicate like a woman's. The stink of the men caused her to retch, a biological impulse. If only she had been born into a different body. “Prison,” she spat out, a faithful girl, but an obstinate one.

And so he sent her to prison, a damp and putrid place reserved for hardened criminals, for those who had murdered and pillaged, raped and robbed. There she prayed to her Lord,
See my heart and know my desires
. Her knees dug into the dirt; a shackle dug into her neck. She felt her soul pulling away, rising up, sucked out through her mouth and her eyes, as if she were being embalmed.

And that was the moment the torturers arrived with a sword, and gave her one more chance to renounce her faith. But she didn't speak, didn't utter a word, didn't even scream when the masked man raised his sword and brought it down fast upon her chest. He sheared off her breasts, now two bloodied mounds in the dirt of the prison floor.

Then the torturer handed her a platter and placed upon it her breasts, nipples to the sky like bells waiting to be rung.
Walk,
he said. And she did as instructed, out the prison door and into the sunlight. With the platter held in front of her, she felt like a serving girl, and maybe she was one.
Here's my maidenhood,
she shouted.
It's here on this platter.
Her breasts jiggled a bit as she walked, and even Agatha had to admit, they were admirable breasts; she'd never seen them from such an angle. She continued through the town, past a gloating Quintian, past the brothel, past the home where she was raised, where at night, in her room, she'd pray for a different life. The gentlemen who'd called her a silly girl were there; they averted their eyes, disgusted by such a sight. Agatha held the plate above her head, her wounds weeping blood.

She had never felt freer in her life.

 

Lent

In preparation for the upcoming Lenten Season, Sister Fran required us to strip our Bunk Room of any excesses. Gwen was forced to take down her glossy magazine cutouts, and Win had to hand over her domino set that she'd carved out of soap. We used to play dominoes together in the Rec Room—Win was the best, her spatial logic serving her well in such moments—but we had no use for such games now. Instead, we spent our Rec Time talking about the depths of love, of the things a woman must do to procure it. Maybe we were just growing up. We believed that without Our Boys we had nothing; we
were
nothing. And each day we didn't know their identities, each day they didn't wake up, meant we were further from our futures together. We all had our vision of what these futures looked like. Ginny said she wanted to live in a house in the country, raise some chickens.

“Why chickens?” Win asked. “My grandfather had chickens, and I can assure you they're filthy creatures.” We were leaning against the wall outside the Rec Room, where we were supposed to be observing quiet time. Even though Lent was still more than a week away, the Sisters had already taken away our Ping-Pong table, our puzzles, our records, even the knitting box for the War Effort, suggesting we fill the time with reflection instead.

“Why not?” Ginny said, adding, “Animals bring us closer to our universal nature. And besides, I want to paint landscapes.” She still had dreams of going to art school and hoped that Her Boy could find a job nearby.

“He may have to commute to the city for work,” Gwen reminded Ginny. “Do you really want his suit stinking of a chicken coop?”

“I'll raise the chickens myself, if I have to.” Her Boy's Lucky Talisman had made her less squeamish. “An artistic life won't be an easy one.”

Gwen had begun to craft a future where she and Her Boy eloped, then moved to the other side of the country, where he got a job as an executive at one of the big movie studios. It was there, while working as his secretary, that she'd be discovered by a famous director.

“What if he doesn't want you to work?” I asked.

“I'd tell him to pound sand,” Win said. “Nobody's going to tell me
anything
once I get out of here.”

“I'll become a model, then. That's not
really
work. You just sit around getting pictures taken.”

“You'd really want people ogling you all day?” Ginny asked. “Wouldn't you rather make the art?”

“I'd rather
be
the art, thank you.”

“I want to build something,” Win said. “But not any of this art stuff.”

“Like a carpenter?” one of us asked.

Win nodded.

“Whoever heard of a woman working as a carpenter?” Gwen said. “It's hardly practical. What, will you put down your hammer to pull a beef roast out of the oven? That's hardly appropriate.”

“Who says I'll be cooking at all?”

“I want to cook. Every night for My Boy. We'll have dinner together like a family,” I said. “At six o'clock sharp.”

“But what do you want to
do
?” Win asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you want to do
besides
cook? With your life?”

“I want to be his wife,” I said. To be honest, I didn't know. I'd been at the convent for more than three and a half years now, four if you rounded up, as I did, and my vision of the future was mired in the memories of the girl I was when I first arrived. What would
she
have wanted to do, I tried to ask myself.
She
would have wanted to stay near her mother. Settle into a house. Grow a garden. But none of these ideas would interest The Guineveres, who believed I should have greater ambitions.