A Parting Glass - a novel

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Elizabeth loved being Catholic - all those saints, all those stories, all the drama, the great robes, the mystery, the incense. She often wondered why anyone would be a Protestant; that was beyond her understanding. The Protestants in Elizabeth’s neighborhood didn’t have very many children. They didn’t have any beautiful saints to pray to, and they were definitely going to Hell. However, she learned from her mother that somewhere along the way, while crossing the American heartland, the Catholic religion had been kidnapped. The religion of beautiful statues was abandoned and left on the frontier (a parting gift) as the family moved west. Thank goodness! Elizabeth thought when her mother described her own upbringing in a household of Protestants. She was happy that her father had converted and chose incense, chants and a foreign language that only Catholics sort of knew. It was the only time she thanked him.

The saints died for their beliefs with horrible deaths, some upside down like St. Peter. The thought of it made Elizabeth’s head swirl. She would give anything to have just one holy card (a perfect replica of a saint). A holy card was small, not even as big as an index card. It would fit right into Elizabeth’s pocket. She could take it with her everywhere, but there was never enough money for things like holy cards.

As an alternative to buying, Elizabeth only had to be especially good and smart to receive a holy card from the church. She tried hard to be good, and that was the only challenge for she knew she was smart. But there was just one thing that stood in her way - Mary Paul, whom she considered to be the meanest nun to ever don a habit. Elizabeth chastised herself each time she had bad thoughts about this monster who looked more like a Penguin, an image Elizabeth could not shake no matter how hard she tried. Mary Paul, with her squatty body dressed in the black and white habit, waddled around squawking, never smiling. Elizabeth never used the word “Sister” when she thought of Mary Paul.

None of the children ever used the word Catholic around their father’s mother Grandma Vena. She was an Episcopalian, a “pretend Catholic,” Elizabeth’s father would say. Grandma Vena was saddened when her oldest and dearest son became a Catholic. It drove her crazy. Just the word “Catholic” would send Grandma Vena into a tizzy, and Grandma Vena knew how to throw a tizzy.

Aside from the fact that her grandmother was Protestant, Elizabeth thought her Grandma Vena was the greatest grandmother anyone could ever have. They all loved her. She made the best chicken and noodles that were thick and gooey. She rolled the noodle dough out and cut long skinny strings with a paring knife. The strings of dough would be left to dry, and then mixed with chicken and creamy stuff. This was food Elizabeth loved to eat; there were no beets at Grandma Vena’s house. She also made great pinto beans and tortillas, a skill she developed when she married Elmer.

Elmer was a man motivated by hard work with a recipe for success based on the number of hours that a man could possibly toil. His job was to maintain the rail bed that supported the trains. For the family, pinto beans and tortillas became a staple and a connection to a place and time where hard work justified all actions and made a person whole. A job meant you were worth something, and it was a joy to be worth something when there was so little. They lived, worked, and ate with the Nationals, recruited from Mexico as cheap labor.

Vena’s first home was the last car on the train. When it came time for her to give birth to Elizabeth’s father, the first of her five children, Vena got lucky and so did Elizabeth’s father. She was assisted by Elmer and a railroad worker who only spoke Spanish, but had delivered several of his own children.

The stone structure was simple. Stained glass windows depicting the journey of Christ to his crucifixion allowed a muted sun to enter the chamber and lay across the faces of the worshipers. The place was packed with mostly railroad families. The O’Sullivan family, dressed in their Sunday best, took up half of one long pew. Over the altar was a life-sized carving of Jesus Christ hanging from a cross. Statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary with a cherub Baby Jesus in her arms, and St. John the Evangelist, patron saint of the Church, bookended the altar.

Elizabeth looked around the church. It seemed the same but different somehow, or maybe it was her. Maybe she had changed. They had been gone for over a week, a last break before school started. That’s how it was explained to the children, but they knew it was to protect the sinner.

All the families looked alike and were white. There were no brown faces in the crowd although the city had been populated with workers from Mexico who broke the ground that allowed the train to move west. The Mexicans had their own church, much more ornate than the lily white church, and a priest who spoke Spanish from the old country.

The people weren’t so far apart economically because they all worked at the railroad. They had built the railroad, brown and white together, but once the sun went down, the brown people lived in a different part of town, went to a different church and attended a different school. The old brown people spoke only Spanish and lived with their children in these houses. They made the best enchiladas and sold them from their back porches. At least once a week, Elizabeth was summoned to fetch two dozen from Mrs. Rocha.

Church was different for the white Catholics and the brown Catholics. It was more casual in the Mexican church. Mexican mothers opened their dresses to feed their babies during Mass. Elizabeth had seen it one winter when she went to a Christmas Mass with her mother who had been asked to sing. Once a year, the two churches exchanged services, but there was no breastfeeding in the white church. Elizabeth felt a little out of place with no screaming babies. She liked the image of a mother breast feeding; it seemed right and she was mesmerized. Elizabeth was certain she would never have breasts. What would a nun do with them? She didn’t remember her mother breastfeeding John, but maybe she did. Katherine was maturing that way, sort of, which made sense to Elizabeth because her sister would have her own baby one day and would probably breastfeed like the brown mothers. Katherine would be a good mother; Elizabeth knew that.

The parish priest, a huge man in his sixties with gray hair and a booming voice, genuflected and turned to his flock and said, “Dominus vobiscum.” The parishioners responded with “Et c*m spiritu tuo.”

Elizabeth loved that response, it made her want to laugh saying too-too, and she would say it over and over in her head. She thought of a ballerina in a tutu, and then imagined the big priest wearing one. It was almost more than she could bear. She knew what would happen if she laughed.

Although Elizabeth loved being Catholic, she didn’t like mass, but she attended everyday before school and always on Sunday. She took communion because the nuns and most of the community were watching. She never felt very holy or special once the wafer was down her throat. Oh, there were lots of good words, all in Latin which she liked because she could pretend she was in a place far away, but at its core it was really boring. The music was good; she liked the music and knew most of the responses, but she would rather think about anything but Jesus... like maybe purses; she liked purses. She didn’t have one, but she wanted one with all the mysteries they held inside. She also liked to look at the statutes of the saints placed in alcoves and on small altars scattered throughout the church, and then wonder about their lives. Most were nuns - and Elizabeth was fascinated with nuns.

Just a few more responses until Mass was over, then the priest would bolt out of the sanctuary with the altar boys trailing behind. No doubt there was a meal waiting for this very big holy man.

Elizabeth looked over at her mother who was watching the crowded choir loft. Susanne smiled at a young woman who waved back. Susanne longed to be in the loft singing, making her way with notes and chords among the friendly faces. Elizabeth knew when her mother was most herself - when she was singing. Susanne started singing at about the same time she began to talk. Although the Depression stole any chance for more of an education, Susanne was given singing and piano lessons through the Works Progress Administration. Due to circumstances beyond her control, she could only use her talent in places like weddings, war bond rallies, and Sunday services.

As the doors opened, the parishioners exited with the O’Sullivans making their way among neighbors and coworkers. Just as the family reached the last step leading down from the church, the young woman from the choir loft grabbed Susanne’s arm. “Susanne, it is so good to see you. We can’t wait for you to come back. I was so sad to hear about your accident.”

Susanne smiled and just as quickly looked at Junior. He pretended not to see the young woman or hear what she said. Susanne reached out and touched the woman’s arm as a show of appreciation before she was pulled in the other direction.

“I need to get something to eat,” Junior announced - the artful act of the diabetic. Maybe he had not eaten and his sugar was low, or maybe he already had a bite before they left for Mass. The truth wasn’t important; he just needed a way to maneuver Susanne away from prying eyes. It also wasn’t important to the children. They would rather he lie than make a scene. And then they were gone.