THE MORNING AFTER, I felt wretched. I don’t think I had ever really known what too many olives could do! I sat brooding over a large mug of coffee made by Greta, who in her sweet, gentle way did not say anything. After a time she softly told me that she was off to Mass and would be back afterwards if I wanted anything. “Yeah, can you go to confession for me?” We laughed.
“Of course not, silly, but I can light a candle for you by the Sacred Heart…bye.” Greta. She knew just what to say.
Well, I felt wretched, not because I had too many olives, but because of the way I stomped off in a huff like a ten-year-old schoolgirl, leaving Fr. Meriwether. I was upset and angry at him, but that was all my own ego not getting its way. I wanted him to agree with me and talk me out of any vocation foolishness. Certainly he could see better than anyone that this nice Catholic girl from the West Side was talented, intelligent, religious, and would make some Catholic guy a wonderful and devoted wife and mother of many children. This was the second half of the twentieth century; this was the age of women coming into their own; I couldn’t bury myself in a cloistered monastery. I loved life too much; I was a New Yorker, for Heaven’s sake. I drank smart Manhattan martinis, even if my sophisticated head was presently achy and feeling full of cobwebs.
What a way to start the new year. And it was first Saturday, and I had wanted to do the Five First Saturdays requested by Our Lady at Fatima. It was Saturday, however, so I could go to a Mass at noon, maybe at St. Catherine’s over on East 68th between First and York. It was another Dominican parish with its own interior charm and lovely brickwork, but really no match for St. Vincent’s. St. John the Martyr on 72nd Street was even closer, and I liked its smallness. It was kind of Catholic cozy. But for the next thirty minutes, alone with my coffee from Grace’s Market, I allowed myself to review the situation again. Besides all those reasons I just gave, something was gnawing at me which came across as fear. What was I afraid of?
I was afraid of the repercussions from my family; it was one thing to swallow the Catholic pill, it was something else to “commit suicide”…and that’s how the Feinstein Clan would see it. At this point, though, I didn’t much care what David or Sally or Ruthie thought—it was Papa I didn’t want to hurt, or lose my right to be his daughter. And I really didn’t want to cause Mama more suffering than I already had, although again, she didn’t seem to be any worse for the wear given the circumstances.
So it must be more than familial fear. I think the idea of living in a cloister for the rest of one’s life is quite fearful. Day after day, and year after year, they do the same thing nearly every day. The ingredients would vary with the seasons, both natural and liturgical, but I had a career to think about. Anyway, I had too many faults and imperfections to ever be a nun. I liked Milky Way candy bars and olives. I liked Broadway musicals and shopping all day at Macy’s. I loved my independence more and more since I moved out of my family’s apartment. I could come and go as I pleased. I loved midnight walks along the East River with the lights of Roosevelt Island and Lower Manhattan glistening on the East River and wrapped around me like a cape of lights.
I liked to walk around Central Park on Sunday afternoon or to lay in the living room with the Sunday Times spread out around me, eating bagels and lox. I was no fashion model, that’s for sure, but I loved new clothes and hats and handbags, even penguin earrings and high heels. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens… I began to sing and laugh at myself.
What did any of this mean? I also knew I loved the Lord and thanked Him every day for the gift of faith and the gift of The Faith. His Church has been likened to many things, but I really loved the idea that His Church is His Bride. And Fr. Meriwether’s Scripture passage came back and hit me right between the eyes, like a spiritual boomerang I had thrown out on New Year’s Eve and had returned a week later: I will espouse you to me in justice and truth, and you shall know the Lord. We are all called by the Lord to be living members of His Mystical Body, the Church, which is so joined to Him that He calls it a marriage…His Church (all of us) are espoused to Him, and that is how we truly come to know the Lord.
This was too much on a floppy stomach and black coffee. I went into the kitchen and began to make a three-egg omelet with Swiss cheese and finely chopped jalapeño peppers; a toasted English muffin; sliced tomatoes; and a fresh pot of coffee. I was feeling remarkably better already. The thought of actually being a nun, like the Dominican nuns in Brooklyn Heights, wasn’t as frightening as before, or as incredible, but really not probable, I kept saying to myself. I did like the idea of praying the Rosary during the Night Guard, and chanting the Divine Office. The habit was also one of the most beautiful habits of all the different Orders, not that I had seen very many. Some active Orders were modifying the habit with a little hair showing, a shorter shirt, and no wimple, but I thought the one they had in Brooklyn Heights right now was feminine and most pleasing to look at.
The Sisters of Charity are always quite visible, at least here in New York. Gwendolyn told me people call them “God’s Geese.” I think the head gear, called a coronet, is really quite lovely, and they are a riot on a crowded subway. But I’ve noticed how readily people respect the habit. St. Vincent’s has Dominican sisters whose motherhouse, I think, is in Columbus, Ohio. Their habit is really beautiful too, although the veil seems stiffer than the nuns’ in Brooklyn Heights. Greta told me once, when I was raving about how beautiful a habit was, that “the habit does not make the nun.” I don’t know where she comes up with these sayings of hers. Of course the habit doesn’t make the nun any more than anyone’s clothes make the person. The bathing suit does not make the swimmer. But there’s something to be said for the uniform helping the person wearing it to remind him or her of what they are striving to be or do.
I remember Fr. Meriwether in one of his classes talking about the accidents belonging to a substance, according to Aristotle. And one of the accidents is habitus, or clothes. It’s interesting that only human beings clothe themselves; and like cooking, we’ve refined making clothes into a fine art. Clothes are also used by us humans to symbolize other aspects of ourselves or what we do, so clothes become in themselves a way of praising God, who made us the way we are.
Such thoughts while nursing a mild hangover! Maybe it was the jalapeño peppers in the omelet. At any rate, the breakfast and coffee gave me the energy I needed to get my face together for the Noon Mass. I went to St. John Martyr on 72nd Street; it was closest and coziest. I needed the small space with lots of candles burning.
Greta had given me a new leather-bound blank book again; it was becoming an annual affair. I had not been entirely faithful about writing in last year’s. But a new year lends itself to such resolutions.
Anyway, the point is, that I opened up my brand-new journal while sitting alone in my pew in a rear corner. Just a few people remained after Mass. My own soul was at peace since Holy Communion, and I didn’t want to analyze any of it, but simply to be. It’s a wonderful moment, letting go and allowing God’s presence to calm one’s anger, confusion, resentments, anxiety, whatever one is carrying. Come to me all you who find life burdensome, and I will refresh you. I knew that refreshment deep in my soul, in that inner space where I could commune with God. And so it was here, in this mindset that I opened my journal. I wrote:
Dear Lord, behold your poor child sitting here in your Holy Presence. I am still living in the intimacy of Holy Communion in You fifteen minutes ago. Thank you, Lord, for this gift of Yourself. The Blessed Sacrament is beyond my comprehension, but help me to surrender to You without understanding. I believe, Lord, I believe, help Thou my unbelief. Lord, you know me better than I know myself. You know my sins and weaknesses, and so I depend entirely on Your Mercy and Forgiveness. My own will is so strong at times, Lord, that I fear it will always be my downfall. Never let my will separate me from You, dear Lord, even when everything or everyone seems contrary to my knowing and willing. Forgive me for being such a huffy little girl in front of Fr. Meriwether. I ask you, Lord, to send Your blessing on him and help him to forgive me. Give me the courage and wisdom to know how to ask him in person.
And Lord, thank you for the week at the Dominican Monastery; and for all the sisters there who serve You by their prayer, penance, and work. I can hardly believe, Lord, that You would want me to be a nun like one of them, but Lord, all I want is to do Your Holy Will. I have no idea what that is and how it will be accomplished, but I trust in You, Lord, and know you will draw me to Yourself despite myself. All I ask, Lord, is that You give me a sign, something that I recognize or consent to which I have the ability to do. Do you understand what I mean, Lord? It must all be Your work. It always is, isn’t it, Lord? It always is—Your work.
I added a few extra thoughts about the people in my life, closed the book, and closed my eyes. I was at peace. Maybe I would come back at four o’clock when they had confession or go over to St. Catherine’s. I liked the Dominicans there, although I didn’t know any of them personally. They had a very nice Shrine dedicated to St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases. It always had a good number of candles burning in front of his statue. It was an appropriate shrine to have across the street from Sloan Kettering Cancer Hospital.
I left St. John Martyr and headed east on 72nd Street, deciding to visit St. Catherine’s to light a candle. It felt like a good day to go over to Gwendolyn’s, and I suddenly missed Ezra and Gracie. Maybe Ruthie would like to go, but I hadn’t spoken with any of my family since I had called them from the monastery on New Year’s Day. On the corner of Second Avenue, I stopped and bought a soft pretzel, crispy hot from the hot plate, and loaded with salt…I think it was even kosher salt, but probably not. I chuckled to myself. I loved New York pretzels. Did you get that, Lord, that’s another reason I could never bury myself in a cloister: there were no pretzel vendors at any of the corners.
St. Catherine’s was a welcome refuge from the cold. There is something clean and masculine about the red brick and dark pews. St. Jude was there basking in the warmth of all those candles. There was an old man in baggy clothes asleep in the back pew and several people scattered in the pews, lost in their prayers. There was already a woman lighting a candle, bundled up in a woolen coat with an artificial fur collar and trim. She looked over at me, and hesitated. “Becky Feinstein?” she said.
“Yes,” I said looking at her intently, “Mrs. Levine?”
“What?” Mrs. Levine smiled. She was one of my mother’s best friends from Hadassah.
“How are you, dahling? You look good for your age…”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Levine…for my age. I didn’t know you were a fan of St. Jude.”
Mrs. Levine got very serious, and leaned into me, talking under my chin. “It’s for my friend, Mrs. Melbourne; you remember her, don’t you, from the old neighborhood?” She said all this like one would speak of the old country. But I remembered Mrs. Melbourne and her sister, and their lamb chops; she was in my dream for heaven’s sake. “She’s got cancer of the pancreas and isn’t expected to live; she’s over there at Sloan Kettering. She’s a Catholic, you know, so I thought I’d light a candle for her; what’s to hurt?”
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Levine. I did that a few years ago for my friend Grace Price who had leukemia. She was very grateful.”
“That’s right, Becky, what’s to hurt? Happy New Year, dahling.” And she scurried off. I lit a few candles that afternoon. One for myself and my dilemma; one for Fr. Meriwether and his intentions, and one for Mrs. Melbourne, who would soon see the Lord face to face, and probably tell him that my sister Sally was the smartest Feinstein girl. I think I almost saw St. Jude smile at me. Don’t you love the Communion of Saints!
Pocket poor by this time, I only had enough to buy a carton of coffee on the corner and walk home up First Avenue. Maybe Greta would be home now; maybe she would like to eat out tonight and go see Funny Girl, the movie I was dying to see. Ruthie had seen it twice so far. Her new name is probably Barbra, spelled like Barbra Streisand spells it.
Greta was not only at home, she was in the middle of cleaning the place. I forgot we usually did that on Saturday afternoons. So I threw myself into scouring the bathroom, which was very good therapy. Someone should write a doctorate about it. To my delight, Greta was thinking of Funny Girl too, and had already checked the paper and saw where it was also playing uptown on the West Side, and thought we could have a late, high tea at Tea on Thames, and go to the movies. A perfect plan.
The next day Greta was going off to Jersey to see old friends, which meant I had the place to myself…also a perfect plan. We’d go to Mass at St. Vincent’s, she’d take a cab to Port Authority afterwards, and I’d pick up The Sunday Times and a half-dozen bagels, and have a lazy afternoon without any plans at all. Perfect.
Gwendolyn was happy to see us and would have loved to have joined us for the movie, but she had to work. We got to the movie theater and had to wait in line, but got in for the five o’clock show. Of course, we both loved it, and went through several handkerchiefs at the end, when she sang “My Man.” It’s always fun to see a movie made after the Broadway show. I was fortunate enough to see Barbra do Fanny Brice on Broadway.
I went over to St. Jean’s for Mass on Sunday because I wanted to hear their choir, but it was probably more to avoid running into Fr. Meriwether. They also had Eucharistic adoration after the last Mass for all of Sunday afternoon, ending with Benediction at 5:00. St. Jean’s also has a nice side chapel devoted to St. Anne, with a statue of St. Anne and the Blessed Mother as a young girl. St. Anne is teaching her to read, perhaps, and one wonders what they are reading. For sure, it wasn’t the Sunday Times, which I picked up on the corner of 79th and Third and schlepped home along with my bag of bagels and a container of blended cream cheese.
At three o’clock I lay on the living room rug. I was playing my Sound of Music album, having exhausted Funny Girl, when the doorbell rang. Who in the world could it be? We were not expecting anyone; no one had called. I got myself up and looked through the peephole. It was Papa! I was so surprised and delighted, and flung open the door. Papa had never ever been here, and for a minute my heart also sank to the ground. Something was wrong; somebody died?
“Papa, what is it?” I was taking his heavy overcoat and scarf from him, and waved at the Sunday Times. “Sit down, Papa, don’t mind the mess.” I must’ve been as white as a sheet, as Papa immediately assured me that nothing was wrong; he was in the neighborhood and thought he might surprise me and wish me a Happy New Year. “Your roommate, she’s not here?”
“No, Papa, she’s in New Jersey for the day; we’ve got the whole place to ourselves. Let me put the kettle on…or would you like a drink, Papa?”
“A drink? My little princess is serving me drinks?” He smiled. “I’d love a little brandy to warm my old bones, if you have some.” And we did. Greta had nice friends and a fine-tuned gift of hospitality. We had a well-stocked bar, hidden behind a wood carved armoire that you’d think was a library for precious books or a private desk. It probably was at one time, but Greta turned it into the bar. She said it gave a whole new meaning to studying for the bar.
I decided I’d better not have my usual with olives, but I would have a little brandy too; besides, I loved the glasses. I swooped up the newspaper and threw it on an empty easy chair and brought us each a snifter of Danty X.O. Brandy. I didn’t know if it was good, but I loved the bottle. “Mazel Tov,” said Papa, and I repeated, “Mazel Tov,” and we clinked glasses, and I was filled with such emotion.
“How’s Mama?” I said while escaping for a minute into the kitchen to get something to nosh. What goes with brandy? Where was Greta when you needed her? I grabbed an unopened box of petit fours, which someone from the library had given me for Christmas. The little cakes would be perfect with brandy, so I arranged them quickly on a Steuben crystal candy dish. Schmaltzy, I thought. I turned down the hi-fi, which was telling Sr. Maria to “climb every mountain.”
“Don’t turn it down too much; I’ve come to talk to you about the movie.” I repeated this to him, as I wasn’t sure I had heard right.
“Did you see The Sound of Music?” He had. It was playing at one of those theaters downtown that brought back the old movies…old being only a couple years. Remember this was before the day of VHS tapes and Academy Award movies on television.
“I had an appointment on West 23rd Street near the 23rd Street Y, and when I got there, learned that it had been postponed for four-and-a-half hours. I could’ve gone back up to my office, or I could’ve walked around downtown, and killed time, which I decided to do. I still had a little holiday shopping, and I passed a movie theater where The Sound of Music was playing, and beginning in 15 minutes. I knew it had won the Academy Award and that it was filmed in Austria. You remember, our family was from the Austrian Feinsteins…”
“I know, Papa.” I wanted to put three petit fours in my mouth at once, but just smiled. He went on. “Well, as you know, I’ve always wanted to take your mother to Austria, but she would never go till they built a bridge, she’d say, but I thought maybe I could entice her by the scenery in the movie. The posters looked beautiful. So I went in by myself to see it first.”
“This is what you’ve come to tell me? That you went to a goyim movie because it was filmed in Austria?” I hoped I didn’t sound too cynical.
Waiting to swallow his petit fours and washing it down with Danty X.O., he continued, “Oy, it was such a beautiful film, but it wasn’t just the scenery that moved me to tears. It was those nuns. I didn’t know there were people around like that. From the very beginning when they were singing ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’ to when they were so happy to dress her for the wedding day—and what a wedding!—I was a little sorry she didn’t stay with the nuns,” Papa giggled in the little guttural way he did. “I remembered that Peggy Wood, when she was Mama on I Remember Mama on television. She was such a down-to-earth and holy lady, you know, right to the end when they were helping the von Trapps to escape. And I remembered my great uncle was just a boy then in Austria, and it was a monastery of nuns who hid him from the Nazis.” I could see Papa getting just a little teary-eyed, and so I poured him just a wee bit more of the brandy.
“I sat there in the theater unable to move while the credits were being shown, and I realized that my Becky is a Catholic and a brave and wonderful woman too, and I would be so proud of her if she became a nun.” He was half crying and half gurgling his giggle. I sat stunned. The tears rolled down my cheeks without any inhibition.
“Oh, Papa, you’ve made me so happy! You are my sign… my sign.” And I began to sob quite unabashedly.
Papa came over and took me in his arms. “It’s okay, my little Raf, I understand.” Papa took out a clean, neatly pressed and folded white handkerchief from his inside pocket and handed it to me. “It wasn’t just the scenery I wanted to see. I wanted to see you, little one, and I had a little Christmas gift to give you, but I didn’t know where you were. You never answered the phone; they told me you were off for the week from the library; I even came over here, and no one was home. So I asked Ruthie if she knew where you’d be for the holiday. I knew she would see you once in a while. And she said she had no idea, but maybe your friend Gwendolyn who owned the tea shop would know. Good idea. This tea shop I wasn’t sure where it was exactly, so I took Ruthie for a winter walk, like we’d do, and she knew right where it was, and this Gwendolyn knew her and was so friendly to me—you’d thought I was from the royal family. And that tea shop, oy, did you know she has a whole flock of penguins at the nativity set?” Papa laughed, and I laughed but still couldn’t say anything, the lump in my throat was so big.
“She even came and sat down with us and had a cup of tea. She gave me a penguin tea cup which she said was her favorite. Well, to make a long story short, she told us you were spending the whole week at a Dominican monastery of nuns in Brooklyn Heights, named Mary Queen of Hope. Both you and your roommate were there, even over New Year’s Eve. Such a place, I thought. It must be something for you to give up even New Year’s Eve in New York to be in a monastery of nuns. Gwendolyn said you went there quite often. And then she leaned forward, and almost in a whisper, looking over the top of her glasses, she said, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised, Mr. Feinstein, if Becky was thinking of being a nun, but don’t tell her I said so.’”
Papa said that Ruthie sat there with her eyes almost popping out of her head. “Mama would have a cat if she heard that.” I don’t know where Ruthie got that expression, but he didn’t like it. Staring straight into Ruthie’s eyes, Papa said, “Mama will not hear a word of it.”
“Of course not, Papa…”
And so Papa explained that that was the main reason he went to see the movie, to get some firsthand ammunition, and wound up loving the nuns more than the von Trapp Family. We sat in silence for a few minutes; the album had started over again and was playing “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?”
“No, as a matter of fact, she and Ruthie are on a train right now heading for Chicago to see Sally. I made excuses to stay home because I wanted to see you and just to let you know we love you.” That nearly started Niagara Falls again, but I got a hold of myself.
“Well, I think you should let your second daughter take you out for dinner.” And Papa said he would be delighted, that he hadn’t been taken out for dinner since, well, he’d never been taken out for dinner, come to think of it. And we laughed. I told him to help himself to more brandy while I freshened up and changed into something more suitable for the royal Feinstein Family Singers.
I went to my room and knelt down at my bed, and I sighed a sigh of relief that I hadn’t realized I was holding in. I went easily to my hiding place inside, and thanked the Lord for answering my prayer so dramatically and so quickly. How could I ever doubt that He hears our prayers and answers them? And there and then I made a little surrender on my knees to whatever God wanted. I had no idea how it would work out, but I trusted that it would.
And tonight I was taking my Reuben Sandwich out for dinner and I knew the perfect place. A half hour later we were out on Third Avenue and Papa waved down a taxi… we climbed into the back seat, and I leaned forward and told the driver, “Brooklyn Heights, please.”