Scruples (84 page)

Hell waited for her, Teresa never doubted that. Her weekly catechism class had started when she was five and a half. From that time on she spent all of every Saturday morning being indoctrinated into the rules, laws, and prayers of the church, by a different nun every opinion of everyone who’d ever seen her, Agnes told herself, trembling with frustration. Teresa should be making movies, or at the very least commercials—there was no limit to her future. But no, her husband, unable to move away from his rigid, old-fashioned, European ideas of what was correct and proper for a young girl, had steadily refused to let her take the girl to New York, where she could meet the influential people who would recognize how exceptional her daughter was.

Night after night, Agnes Horvath asked herself what had possessed her, when she was a mere eighteen and far too stupid to make choices, to insist on marrying a man who was essentially foreign to the tight-knit, devout, Irish Catholic world in which she had her enviable place as the youngest of the five sparkling, black-haired, blue-eyed Riley daughters. Why had she set her heart on a refugee from Communist Hungary, a music professor of thirty-five?

Each time Agnes asked herself this question, she couldn’t stop herself from treating it as if it were a newly discovered problem that might contain some newly meaningful answer. She’d recapitulate the past as seriously as if she might still uncover some forgotten fact that would suddenly change the present.

Sandor had been an amazingly handsome man, a charming and romantic stranger, who had swept the provincial fool she had been off her feet and out of what small, unsophisticated wits she had possessed. The distinguished man who spoke English with more elegance and precision than any American boy had been irresistible to her barely formed mind and impressionable heart. Savagely Agnes reminded herself that she’d also been suffering from a bad case of seeing
Gone with the Wind
too many times. Then, and still today, at forty-eight, Sandor strongly resembled Leslie Howard, but she’d been too immature to realize how quickly his fine-boned, intellectual, sensitive beauty would become infuriating when she weighed them against the rules and regulations he imposed on her.

Now she was thirty-one, her marriage was thirteen years old, and Agnes Horvath had known for at least half of it that she’d made the biggest mistake a deeply religious Catholic woman could make. No matter how great her rage against her husband, there could be no thought of divorce. But even if the mere idea of divorce had not been a sin, what training did she have to make a living for herself and Teresa if they were to find themselves on their own? Agnes Riley had been brought up to be a protected wife and a devoted mother, nothing more, and certainly nothing less, like every other woman of her generation.

Sandor earned a good salary as the head of the music department at an exclusive girls’ school in Stamford, Connecticut, not far from their home on the modest edge of the rich community of Greenwich, where they lived in order to be near their daughter’s school. Teresa was a day student at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, an aristocratic institution which they were both intent on her attending.

In all fairness, Agnes reminded herself, turning over in bed, she had to admit that Sandor worked hard to make his way in his new country. Her sisters had married local boys in nearby Bridgeport, where she’d grown up, mates whose status never came close to that of a professor. Some of these good Irish-American boys made considerably more money than Sandor in their blue-collar jobs, but the whole family respected her elegant, learned husband.

Each of Agnes’s sisters had produced a sprawling brood of kids, ordinary, unremarkable, almost indistinguishable kids. When she took Teresa to their frequent family gatherings there was no doubt about whose child, among the dozens of cousins, was the center of attention. Teresa’s singularity was a subject of family pride rather than any sniping or competition. From the time she was a tiny baby she had so fine and rare a quality that a party would have been incomplete without Teresa to marvel at. Her own sisters, Agnes knew, were in awe of the child she’d brought into their limited world. Her cousins vied for her attention, the older ones whisking her away so they could play with her as if she were some very precious kind of doll.

Teresa was the only one of the cousins who didn’t attend a local parochial school. At the Convent, one of the many Sacred Heart schools in the world, she was a “Day Hop,” not a boarding student. Many daughters of millionaires were her classmates, a distinction that only added to Teresa’s exalted position in the Riley family.

“Your family will ruin her utterly with all that attention,” Sandor had grumbled angrily after the last Riley get-together. “Teresa’s becoming spoiled. She used to be such a satisfactory child, docile and obedient, but lately, I warn you, Agnes, I sense that there’s something going on inside her that I worry about … some sort of rebellion under the surface, something I can’t put my finger on. And I most definitely don’t approve of that ‘best friend’ of hers, that Mimi Peterson. She’s not a child I want Teresa associating with, she’s not even a Catholic, heaven knows what ideas she’s putting—”

“You’re imagining things,” Agnes had snapped. “Every little girl has a best friend, and the Petersons are lovely, suitable people. They may be Protestants but they have the good sense to realize that the quality of education at Sacred Heart is better than that at an ordinary school. And they truly appreciate Teresa, which is more than her own father seems to do.”

“How can you say something so unfair?” he demanded, stung. “I love her too much for my own good, but, Agnes, the world’s a difficult place and Teresa’s not a princess, whatever you may think. She doesn’t need any more fuss made about her than she already gets from you. The way you dote on her is shameless … it comes close to the sin of pride, if you ask me.”

“Sandor!”

“Pride, Agnes, is too high an opinion of oneself.”

“Do you imagine I don’t know that?” she asked, outraged. She loathed his tone when he started to talk church doctrine, as sanctimonious, stuffy and hair splitting as if he’d lived hundreds of years ago.

“Too high an opinion of one’s offspring, can, like pride, lead to the sin of presumption.”

“When I need a priest’s interpretation of sin, Sandor, I know where to go for it. How dare you preach to me?”

“Agnes, but you realize that in less than a year Teresa will be a teenager? I’ve seen your sisters go through enough trouble with their own teenaged children, why should we be different? If only …”

“If only we’d had more children? Don’t you dare, Sandor! I wanted them as much as you did. Are you saying it was my fault that I had those miscarriages …?”

“Agnes, you can’t possibly be starting this nonsense again, please, I beg you. I was going to say that if only it were ten years ago life would be simpler, if only there were
standards
 … if only people stayed the same! In my country teenagers behaved like the school children they are. Please stop talking about fault. The Blessed Virgin didn’t mean it to be, and we must accept that.”

But he did blame her, Agnes Horvath brooded angrily, he blamed her in his heart of hearts, but never as much as she blamed herself, no matter how ridiculous and futile and morally wrong she knew it was to use the word “blame” about a situation that was in the hands of God alone.

But at least she had Teresa, and wasn’t one Teresa worth a houseful of ordinary children?

She wished her parents wouldn’t fight about her, Teresa thought in misery as she tried to go to sleep. She couldn’t hear them from her room, but she knew from their expressions while they’d listened to her say her bedtime prayers that another of their quarrels was hatching.

Long ago she’d stopped listening outside their door; their basic differences never changed, and yet nothing she did seemed to make it better for either of them.
For years she’d tried so hard to please
. There were her mother, her father, the nuns who taught her catechism class on Saturday, the priests who listened to her confession each Thursday, her teachers, the many Madams of the Sacred Heart, even every last one of her relatives. For a long time she had believed she could change her mother’s disappointment, make her father less severe. But nothing worked. Her mother was utterly concentrated on her; her father was suspicious and disapproving, he corrected her pronunciation, refused to let her use slang. Other kids said she sounded “stuck up.”

If her parents knew everything there was to know about her! They’d die if they knew,
die
, Teresa told herself, caught up in a combination of defiance, shame, guilt, and—worst of all—the dreadful fear that she had lived with for the past year, ever since she’d realized that she wasn’t going to get anywhere by pleasing.

It was their own fault! As Mimi said, the atmosphere around Teresa’s house was enough to make a cat fart. To Teresa her home life was maddeningly irritable, so tense that it made her want to scream and break every dish in the house and rip up her frilly bedspread and take a sharp kitchen knife to the pile of pretty pillows on her bed so all the feathers would fly out and cover the floor with a mess that couldn’t be cleaned up.

There was never a time in which she could take a deep breath, feel a sense of contentment, and, most important of all, feel safe. Oh how she yearned for a safe day, a safe hour, even a safe minute, in which all pressure would dissipate and be replaced by easy, loving, unqualified approval.

Just yesterday she’d caught a glimpse of her mother sitting in a back row of the darkened school auditorium, while the rehearsals for the school play went on, sitting so far scrunched down that nobody but she would have noticed her.

“Mother,” she exclaimed furiously, as soon as she got home from her last class, “you know you promised me never to do that again!”

“Teresa, Mother O’Toole said it was all right with her so long as I stayed out of sight. No one saw me, absolutely no one,” Agnes defended herself vigorously.

“Except me. How do you expect me to concentrate when I know you’re there, watching my every move?
You’ve been doing that all my life!
Ever since the first part I had in a kindergarten pageant. I hate it! It makes everything so much more difficult. I’ve explained that to you again and again, but you won’t leave me alone!”

“I see nothing to apologize for,” Agnes responded coolly. “It’s excellent training for you to have to ignore me. When you start acting for a living, you’ll be the center of everyone’s attention, not just mine. No one acts without an audience, and at least, in my case, you know I’m biased in your direction. ”

Helplessly Teresa had watched her mother head toward the kitchen, with the self-righteous conviction of someone who hasn’t the slightest doubt that she always acts in your own best interests.

If it weren’t for Mimi she didn’t know what she’d do, Teresa thought. She didn’t know how she’d manage to keep on pretending to be the good little girl her father expected her to be as well as enduring the burden of being her mother’s “pride and joy.”

But at least she could escape the atmosphere of her home, when she went over to Mimi’s to do their homework together—to Mimi’s big, luxurious house that impressed her mother although she’d never admit it. She and Mimi, another only child, were sworn blood sisters, and Mrs. Peterson, lively, easygoing, and expensively dressed with blond streaks in her hair, was too busy playing bridge or golf every afternoon to give a thought about what the two little convent girls were up to.

“Teresa, sweetie, you’re a good influence on Mimi,” she’d say if she came in before Teresa had left for home. “She never got her homework done before you started studying together.”

But Mrs. Peterson had no idea how easy the homework was when Teresa and Mimi put their heads together and attacked it. Both bright, they could polish it all off in an hour with a system of tutoring each other that divided the work in half.

year. When she’d made her First Holy Communion at eight, she’d been certain that she’d go to Heaven. Just thinking of how pure and light-filled she’d felt walking down the church aisle in her beautifully embroidered long white dress, a little bride accompanied by a little groom, could still bring tears to her eyes.

Yes, the forest of fear of Hell she lived in now was a place she’d been prepared for from the beginning of her memory. Hell, the certainty of Hell for a sinner who hadn’t confessed and wasn’t absolved, had been seared into her for seven years. It wasn’t knowledge she could question any more than she could question the fact that she was a girl or an American.

Hell, actually going to Hell, had only started to be a reality to Teresa after she met Mimi. Before that she had been able to confess to the mortal sins of envy or sloth and anger, as well as all the minor venial sins, and feel cleansed when she left the confessional.

Now she couldn’t give up her lies of omission in the confessional any more than she could possibly tell a priest that she’d spent hours looking at pictures of naked men and women and reading vivid details about people having sex in every way anyone could imagine.

As the year passed, Teresa’s confirmation loomed. “Oh, what am I going to do?” she moaned to Mimi. “I have to make a full confession, a good confession, before I’m confirmed, and even if I managed to admit—you know—my mother would know I’d done something very bad.”