Short Story | Maureen O’Hara Pesta

Cherry blossoms floating in the spring breeze … Nora’s mind wandered as she watched the pigeons flapping outside the open schoolroom window. Two pigeons landed on the sill, and one hopped on top of the other. Some of the girls snickered. 

Sister Saint Pierre’s voice droned on.“Je vais avec toi.” The chalk squeaked as she wrote the phrase on the blackboard.

The aroma of lunch wafted through the window from the Tea House, the lunch building across the lawn at St. Ursula Academy. Nora guessed it might be meatloaf on the menu today. Her long sleeved school uniform itched in the warm weather. 

How did Sister Saint Pierre stand the heat? The nun wore a long belted black dress with deep pockets, and her rosary rattled whenever she moved. The pockets were so deep that Sister had to lean down toward the floor to reach the bottom. There was a large wooden clicker, sort of like a clothespin, which she used when she clacked the class into an orderly line. Once, Nora had seen Sister pull out a clock.

Sister’s large, round, stiff collar was attached to a close-fitting, starched headdress and a band across her forehead. A black veil topped all. When her teacher turned, Nora could peek under the lifted collar and see that Sister’s hair was black.

The schoolroom clock ticked toward recess. Maybe at lunchtime they’d play baseball. Nora hoped she wouldn’t be the last one picked.

A few weeks ago, a baseball flew through the chapel window. The window was open, and the ball landed smack in front of the Blessed Virgin Mary statue. The girls were lucky. They sneaked in and retrieved the ball. No one was the wiser.

Sometimes, during recess, Nora traded cards with her friends. Nora kept her swap cards in her bookbag in the cloak room. Her friend Mary Catherine loved Scotty dogs, and Nora’s favorites were horses, so the two made good trading card partners. If there was an exceptional card, an especially desirable Scotty dog or horse, they’d trade two for one.

Before recess, the two girls would meet in the hallway outside their classroom, in front of the statue of the Infant of Prague, a representation of the baby Jesus. The Sisters would carefully dress this statue, doll-like, in elaborate clothes — purple vestments for Lent, white for Christmas — and solemnly instruct the girls to kneel there and pray for sick children to be cured. 

The statue was tucked into a dark niche in the hallway, with a little wooden kneeler in front. One time Nora and Mary Catherine saw their teacher kneeling and praying there, with her tunic and other parts of her habit splayed out around her calves and the blocky shoes on her feet. Mary Catherine thought that was funny. Afterwards the girls secretly called the nun “Sister P,” after the French word, “pied,” for foot. 

But now Mary Catherine was gone. Just gone. 

The girls had been preparing for their acting debut in a school play, “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” Nora had the part of the tailor who fooled the king by offering to weave magical fabric into a royal robe that was invisible to all but the very wise. Mary Catherine was to play the vain king who paraded around in his underwear, fearful that if he admitted that he couldn’t actually see the magical robe he was supposedly wearing, he must be stupid. 

However, one day, Mary Catherine did not show up for school, or for play rehearsal. That’s because Mary Catherine was dead.

“Her heart,” the sisters explained. “Our little angel,” they said. 

The sisters told the girls to pray for the repose of Mary Catherine’s soul. They also called off the play.

Nora wasn’t disappointed that the play was cancelled. She never wanted to be in it. She’d worried about performing in front of everyone. But she did wonder how Mary Catherine had died. Did she go to bed and not wake up? Did they call the doctor but it was too late? Was she in heaven now?

A few days after Mary Catherine died, Nora’s mother brought her to the funeral home, a big brick building on Collingwood Avenue with tall white Greek columns at the entrance. Inside, the overwhelming fragrance of florals engulfed Nora.

And there was Mary Catherine, resting upon a silk pillow in a white casket with gold hardware and wearing a lacy white dress with a pink velvet cape, and a crown of flowers in her hair. Her skin was pale, like a doll’s skin, but her cheeks were unnaturally pink. A white rosary was wrapped around her hands. 

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death,” chanted family and friends, holding their own rosaries.

Seeing Mary Catherine dressed in such beautiful clothes had reminded Nora of the statue of the Infant of Prague, where they’d meet to go out and play. The doll-like statue was rosy cheeked, too. And it was dressed in lacy linen and colored gowns. 

Sitting in class now, several days later, Nora’s thoughts returned to the Sisters’ promise that praying to the Infant of Prague would save children’s lives. Should she pray for Mary Catherine? Should Mary Catherine have not giggled at Sister P when they saw her kneeling there? Had their giggling offended the Infant of Prague?

The bell for recess finally rang. As Nora approached the statue in his dark hallway niche, she glanced at the strange plaque that read, “Verily I say to you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Nora didn’t understand. As she passed, she tried to look pious.

Nora imagined Mary Catherine in a better place, far away from the playground, entering someplace like heaven, where she would be crowned with jewels. Maybe she would have a large wardrobe for her dresses and fancy shoes and capes.

We will all meet again, Nora had been assured by the sisters. Nora and Mary Catherine, friends forever.

Nora quickened her pace toward the radiant light of the door to the playground. She checked her pocket for the nickel she would spend on a Val-O-Milk candy bar, her favorite. Then she passed through the heavy wooden arch and into the spring sunshine, where the light shone so bright she needed to blink her eyes to adjust.