Saint Training (13 page)

M
ary Clare wiped down the kitchen counter, enjoying the delicious knowledge that the rest of the day was hers to enjoy any way she wanted. It was Sunday. Mom had been in school for two long weeks and was now sitting at the kitchen table writing out a schedule of meals for the upcoming week. Dad was attending a conference in Michigan and Mark and Luke were camping at Devil’s Lake with some friends. The kids were all playing outside.

The first few days after Mom told Dad about her plan to go back to school and teach had been tumultuous to say the least. Mary Clare listened as Dad used every argument he could think of to dissuade her mother from her plan.

“Our kids will be orphans,” he said at one point. Mom reminded him that they still had two parents. “People will be saying terrible things about you,” he told her. She said she was ready to handle it. “What makes you think that after all these years you can step back into the university and make decent grades?” Mom said she’d die if she didn’t try. “We can’t afford for you to go back to school.” Mom had an answer for that, too. She had gotten a scholarship.

“My scholarship not only pays for tuition but includes a living stipend. We’ll be better off financially before I even start working,” Mom said.

That silenced Dad but it didn’t make him happy. Dad couldn’t argue about how much she’d be earning with her job either. Mary Clare saw the charts and tables her Mom had generated, showing how they would pay off each bill with the income she’d start earning in the fall. She listened from the kitchen as her mom appealed to Dad’s Achilles’ heel.

“I don’t want you to have the burden of all the finances anymore. All these children, and you providing for them without help,” she said.

When the phone rang, Mary Clare wiped her hands dry on her shorts and ran to pick it up.

“Whatcha doin?” Mary Clare recognized Jen’s voice.

“Nothing much, unless you count housework.”

“She’s doing housework,” Jen said to an invisible audience.

“Yuck, tell her to break free.” It was Kelly’s voice.

Mary Clare felt her insides clench. Kelly had hung out with her during the first few days Mom was in school. She had even helped out. But one day she’d found it all too much. When Mary Clare would call her she was always too busy. Now Mary Clare realized that Kelly was hanging out with the rest of the group. She may have even defected as Mary Clare’s best friend.

“I hear you’ve been doing nothing but working this summer. Is that true?” Jen asked.

“Yup.” Mary Clare wanted to throw the phone at something. It was so unfair. Her friends were having a normal summer of swimming and fun while she was stuck at home. She tried to keep her voice even. “Who’s all there?”

“Just Kelly and Sandy,” Jen said. “My brother said he’d take us to Lake Ripley tomorrow and we wanted to see if you could come.”

“Rats!” Mary Clare said. “I could do it today. I have this afternoon off.”

Jen laughed. “Mary Clare has the afternoon
off,”
she repeated to their friends. Mary Clare could hear laughter in the background. “Gosh, you sound like a maid or a slave or something.”

Mary Clare swallowed the hard lump of anger and self-pity that was rising in her throat. She didn’t appreciate being laughed at and was about to say so.

“Today won’t work, Mary Clare. We’ve all got family stuff going on later.”

“Let me tell her about the party,” she could hear Sandy say. “Hey, Mary Clare, I’m having a slumber party Wednesday night. I told my mom it’s all I want for my birthday.”

“That sounds fun,” Mary Clare said. “I’ll have to talk to my mom. I just hope she doesn’t have play practice that night.”

“Play practice?” Sandy asked.

“Yeah, Mom’s in Summer Stock Theater. She gets three credits for acting but she has to practice at night sometimes.”

“Oh,” Sandy said. “Well, I sure hope you can come.”

“I’ll call you back as soon as I know.” Mary Clare braced herself for talking to Mom. She said a quick prayer begging God to make it so she could go to the party.

Mom was putting the last touches on the meal chart for the following week when Mary Clare approached her. “Do you want to come with me to the grocery store?” Mom asked. “We’ll get everything you need for the week.”

“No,” Mary Clare blurted. “I want to do something
fun
but everybody’s busy.” She flung herself dramatically onto a kitchen chair.

“Hmm,” her mom said. “I just thought you might want to spend a little time together. We haven’t had much time lately.”

That was an understatement. The play meant that Mom was
away early in the morning until late at night some days. Mary Clare let out a sigh.

“Sandy’s having a slumber party on Wednesday,” she said. “It’s for her birth…”

But Mom was already shaking her head. “Out of the question,” she said. “I have play practice that night, and your father will still be out of town.”

“It’s not fair!” Mary Clare yelled. “Somebody else is going to have to stay home. Or you can hire a babysitter.” Mary Clare stomped out of the room and up the stairs, ignoring her mother’s pleading voice from the kitchen.

“I know it’s not fair. I’m sorry. Please don’t start. I need your cooperation.”

But this was too much for Mary Clare. She threw herself on her bed and sobbed angry tears.
This was not the deal, God. When I said I’d be a saint, I didn’t think it meant working every minute of every single day and giving up my friends. How could you expect this of me?
Mary Clare wasn’t sure that it was right to talk to God this way, but she couldn’t make herself stop.
I thought you would make miracles happen
—
maybe Dad would get a big raise, or a huge anonymous check would appear in the mail. I thought maybe somebody would pay for our house and all the bills would magically disappear. But Mom going back to school and getting a job
—
that’s no miracle. It’s Mom solving the problem instead of you. You’re not doing your part, God. You’re not.

Mary Clare was pretty sure that she had gone too far talking to God that way. She had gone from being saintlike to being bad, just like that. But it still didn’t stop the angry tears. Now she wondered if she’d end up in purgatory for a long, long time—or even worse. And it would be six days before she could go to confession.

It took a few minutes for Mary Clare to pull herself together
so she could call Jen back. Sandy had already gone home, so she told Jen the bad news.

“We were talking about this,” Jen said. “It’s not fair.”

“I know,” Mary Clare said.

“Do you want my mom to call her?”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah. She thinks your mother is being self…She thinks you’re having to do your mom’s job and it’s really unfair. We all think that.”

“No!” Mary Clare said. “Don’t have your mom call.” The idea made her cringe. Mary Clare knew that people were saying mean things about her mother. Mom had had arguments with both of her closest friends, who believed that women shouldn’t work outside the home. One of them had even told her that it was God’s will for the family to be poor and she needed to accept it. Mom said her friends had nearly broken her heart but she knew she was doing the right thing.

Now Mary Clare just wanted to change the subject. “So who’s all going to be at the party?” she asked.

Jen laughed. “That’s the fun part. Some of the guys found out, and Sandy thinks we can probably sneak them into the basement for a while.”

“You’re kidding!” This put the party on a whole new level. “Will Gregory be there?”

“Sure, he’s the one who thought of crashing the party.”

Mary Clare felt stabbed. She had never admitted, even to herself, that she liked Gregory, but now it seemed outrageous that her friends got to party with him without her.

“What about
your
party?” Jen asked.

“I don’t know,” Mary Clare said. “Anyway, I’ll let you know if there’s a miracle and I can come.”

“Okay,” Jen said.

Mary Clare was suddenly exhausted. She wanted to go to the party and resented her responsibility at home, but she didn’t want people talking about her mother as if she were a bad person. She wanted to give the party with the Seminarian band but didn’t know if she’d make it through all the hoops she’d have to get through to make it happen. She laid back down on the bed and fell asleep.

She awoke to the sound of Matthew’s voice downstairs. His voice was animated and loud and Mom’s was reassuring in the background, but Mary Clare couldn’t make out what either was saying. She pulled herself out of bed and hurried downstairs.

“What happened to you?” Matthew asked when he looked at Mary Clare. “You look like you’ve been crying all day.”

Mary Clare ducked into the main-floor bathroom. He was right. Her eyes were swollen and red. She splashed some cold water over her face and patted it dry.

“You can’t do this,” Mom was saying to Matthew. She was leaning against the kitchen counter next to the four loaves of bread that were almost done rising on the counter. The kitchen table was strewn with Mom’s school books and paper. “You won’t be able to come back.”

“Back from where?” Mary Clare asked.

Matthew tried to say something in response but it came out as a croak. He pulled two envelopes out of his back pocket and tossed them to Mary Clare. She sat down at the table. The first was from The United States Selective Services. Inside was an official-looking paper. In bold letters it said “ORDER TO REPORT FOR ARMED FORCES PHYSICAL EXAMINATION.” Underneath were Matthew’s name and address and the ominous words, “You are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination by reporting to the Jefferson County Courthouse, Jefferson, Wisconsin, on June 30, 1967, at 7:00 a.m.”

“June thirty was Friday,” Mary Clare said. “Did you go?”

“Yeah, I went,” Matthew said. “I
had
to go.” He slammed his fist on the counter. “But I’m not going to stick around to get my draft notice!” Mary Clare watched as the air went out of all four loaves of bread. She stifled a giggle. But when Matthew saw the bread he laughed too.

Mom rolled her eyes. “If you want to punch something, punch that dough. We’ll have to knead it all over again.”

“I don’t understand, Matthew,” Mary Clare said. “I thought you applied to become a conscientious objector.”

“I did.” He pointed to the other letter he had tossed to Mary Clare. “I was denied.”

And Mary Clare didn’t know what to say.

“He was denied,” Mom said, punching some dough, “but he has appealed and may still be approved.” She faced Matthew. “But if you go to Canada, you’ll have problems for the rest of your life.”

Matthew washed and dried his hands and took the lump of dough Mom handed him. He punched it several times, then turned to Mary Clare. “This is actually a good release,” he admitted.

He kept punching the dough. “I couldn’t kill anybody,” he said. “I couldn’t live with myself if I did.” He placed the dough back into the loaf pan and dumped out another. “Father Weisman wrote a great letter for me. I sent it along with my appeal.”

“That’s wonderful,” Mom said.

“Yeah,” Matthew said. His eyes held hope. “From what I hear, I probably have a month before I get my induction notice. I guess I can wait a few weeks before I go to Canada.”

“Thank you,” Mom said. She kissed his forehead.

“Besides,” Matthew said, looking at Mary Clare affectionately, “I owe Mary Clare a party.”

“What?” Mom asked.

“We’ve been talking about it since before you lost the baby,” Matthew said. “Mary Clare wants a party, and I said we’d play for her.”

Mom grabbed her calendar. “What a wonderful idea,” she said. “If we could give the party in late August I’ll be home and can make pizza.”

Mary Clare glowed. Everybody loved her mom’s pizza.

“You look a little better than you did when I first got here,” Matthew said. “So what was your problem anyway?”

“It was…” Mary Clare couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. She thought about the terrible decisions Matthew was facing: going to war to kill or be killed, escaping to Canada or continuing to struggle for his CO status. The fact that she was missing out on a friend’s birthday party was minor in comparison.

“Something silly,” she finally said.

“Okay,” he said. He reached over and pinched her cheek. “So how many kids can I expect at this party?” he asked.

Mary Clare’s enthusiasm returned. She’d have the best party anyone from Maria Goretti School had ever had. “Lots,” she said. “I’m going to invite the whole class—girls and boys!”

Saint Mary Magdalene Convent and School

1123 Good Shepherd Road

Minneapolis, Minnesota 55199

Mary Clare O’Brian

188 Jackson St.

Littleburg, Wisconsin 53538

July, 1967

Dear Mary Clare,

Just a quick note to let you know that I will be in Milwaukee August 2-4. I would love to meet you if your parents are able to get you to the Pfister Hotel in downtown Milwaukee.

I only have one possibility to meet with you on the afternoon of August 3. If you are able to make it, I could meet you in the main lobby at 1:00 p.m. Please drop me a line to let me know one way or another.

Fondly,

Mother Monica

M
ary Clare brushed her hair one hundred times, watching as it swelled and frizzed in the bureau mirror. She swore her hair got curlier every day. While Kelly and Jen and Sandy all wore their hair straight with a little flip at the end and had bangs that curved perfectly at their eyebrows, hers lay in tight little curls. She had tried for a long time to offer her wretched hair up to Jesus, but right now she wasn’t doing any sacrifices.

As far as she was concerned God had not kept his end of the bargain with the miracle of riches she had expected. She still talked to God, but she kept it to a minimum, curt, like the way her parents talked to one another when they were done fighting but still mad. Making her work like this—God just didn’t seem fair.

She hadn’t, however, given up the idea of becoming a Mother Superior. For one thing, she could end up stuck dealing with her humiliating hair forever if she didn’t cover it up with a veil. She liked the special privileges that came with running the household, which, she thought, was a lot like being Mother Superior. She not only controlled the younger kids but had gained the respect of her older brothers—at least where meals were concerned—and she also got special privileges from her
parents, as long as her requests didn’t require “time off.” If she wanted to make popcorn at midnight, it wasn’t a problem. If she wanted to have a friend spend the night, it wasn’t a problem. So maybe her parents would even be willing to give her a little bit of money.

The thought prompted Mary Clare to drop her brush on the dresser and dash to her closet, where she pulled down her box of saints and glow-in-the-dark statues. There she had tucked a newspaper ad that could save her pride and her hair. It was for a new product—Curl Free—a permanent that took curls out of a person’s hair. But it was really expensive, almost five dollars. She wondered if her parents could even come up with the money if they wanted to. And what would happen if something went wrong.

The very idea of having straight hair made Mary Clare stroll down the stairs with more confidence and determination than usual. She wore her baby-doll pajamas and held the Curl Free ad boldly in her hand.

As she approached the kitchen she heard the back door open and the clicking of high heels in the doorway. Mom was home. She glanced at the clock: 10:30 p.m. Now that it was getting closer to the opening of Mom’s play the practices were getting longer and more frequent, and since Mom had the lead she always had to be there. Mom dropped her books on the table and grabbed a glass from the cupboard, which she filled with water and drank down before she said a word.

“Just a few more weeks of this,” Mom said. Mary Clare wasn’t sure whom her mother was trying to reassure.

“You seem exhausted,” Mary Clare said.

Mom nodded. “I am. But it’s a good kind of exhausted. I’m having a wonderful time.”

Mary Clare held out the ad and her mother took it.

“You’re kidding. A permanent to
straighten
hair? What will they think of next?”

Dad joined them in the kitchen, carrying a beer. A little clump of hair stood up on top of his head where he had been twisting it again. He did this automatically when he was lost in thought.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Mary Clare looked down at the floor. It was awkward for her to talk to her father about personal things.

Mom handed him the ad. When he read it he laughed and smiled broadly at Mary Clare. “I like your hair curly,” he said. He twirled his hair. “Do you really want this?” he asked.

Mary Clare nodded.

“We’ll just have to find the money for it,” he said.

Mary Clare jumped up and gave her father a hug.

“With all you’ve been doing around here, you deserve it.” He gave Mom a critical look that suggested she didn’t do much at all.

It seemed to Mary Clare that her dad was slowly getting used to her mother being back in school and the plan for her to teach in the fall. He was still finding fault with the new way things were done. He’d get mad if he didn’t have more than a couple of pressed and starched shirts to choose from in the mornings, and though Mom found rides three days a week to and from school, he had to give up the car on the other two days and work out of the house. And Mary Clare suspected that his pride was wounded when he discovered that he didn’t have the power to forbid Mom from doing something she really wanted to do. But at least they were talking again. Mary Clare prayed that he was adjusting to Mom’s decision.

The back door swung open again, revealing the unusual sight of Matthew, Mark, and Luke together.

“What’s going on?” Luke asked.

“Well, if it isn’t the Three Musketeers,” Dad said. “I hope you boys are staying out of trouble.”

The boys mumbled that they were. Matthew pulled a jar of peanut butter out of the cupboard.

“We’re out of bread,” Mary Clare said.

“Crap,” Matthew said. He perused the refrigerator to see if there was something he wanted to eat.

“I just remembered something,” Dad said. “Mark, you got a letter from Flipper today. Let me get that for you.” He returned to his office and came back a minute later with the envelope. He handed it to Mark. “It’s actually addressed to the whole family, but I wanted you to open it.”

“Is he almost done with basic training?” Mary Clare asked.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “Three more weeks.” He opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper with writing on both sides.

Dear Mark and O’Brian family,

Whoa! This place is something else. Parts of it are great, like getting in shape, but parts of it aren’t so great. Mrs. O’Brian, I’d kill for some of your lasagna. I miss all the lively table discussions, especially when Mr. O’Brian is home and gets into one of his stories.

The other part that stinks is when I look at my battalion and realize that some guys will return home missing arms or legs, and some won’t come home at all. I can’t help thinking of that when the number of soldiers being killed rises daily.

Anyway, it will sure be worth it when I get out of here. I’ll get my GED and let Uncle Sam pay for college.

Mary Clare, thanks for those cookies. I gorged myself before I shared any with the guys.

See you guys as soon as I get my leave.

Love,

Flipper

P.S. Holy moley, Mark, we thought some of the teachers at Littleburg High were strict. Try marching in the rain for five hours because one guy didn’t make his bed right!

Flipper in the army.

Mary Clare tried to imagine his shoulder-length blond hair shorn off into a crew cut. She tried to picture him in army fatigues but couldn’t.

Dad broke the silence. “It sure brings back memories. I remember marching in boot camp until guys dropped. But the discipline helped. None of us could have withstood the conditions of war without it.” He looked at Matthew. “And the war made a man out of me.”

Matthew swallowed a bite of the cold macaroni and cheese he had discovered in the refrigerator. He dropped his fork. “Fighting the government is no picnic either. I’m finding my own way to become a man,” he said.

Dad scowled and shook his head. “Any word from Selective Services about your appeal?” he asked.

“No,” Matthew said. He raised his chin and looked defiantly at Dad, “But I’m sure that I’ll win.”

“Flipper sounded pretty cheerful,” Mark said, clearly trying to change the subject.

“That was really nice of you to send him cookies, Mary Clare,” Luke added.

Mary Clare nodded. At the moment, she was more concerned about removing the Curl Free ad from the table before her brothers saw it and started making fun of her. She leaned against the table, reached back, acting as if she were straightening her shirt, and crumpled the ad in her left hand.

“G’night,” she said, slipping backward toward the stairs.

“Wait a minute,” Dad said.

Mary Clare swung back around, praying he wouldn’t say anything about her hair.

“Your mother mentioned that you wanted to meet a mother superior in Milwaukee on Thursday. I can take you.”

Mary Clare stood frozen at the kitchen door.

“You’re kidding, a mother superior?” Luke asked.

“I knew she was going to end up a nun,” Mark said. “I never have to pray because I figure she prays enough for all of us.”

All three boys laughed at that.

“C’mon,” Matthew said, “leave her alone.”

“Paul, you shouldn’t have said anything in front of the boys,” Mom was saying, but Mary Clare was already running up the stairs to her room. She sat on the edge of her bed, too upset to lie down. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. Mary Clare had kept her correspondence with Mother Superior a secret.