It’s been a week since her father took her to the five-and-dime, and now, on a sweltering August day, Emma wipes her brow and gathers up all her courage as she enters the churchyard of the Immaculate Conception Church, directly across the street from the Projects. For so long she’s been longing to enter this forbidden territory. Since the Rosens aren’t great Jews, she figures she should learn a thing or two about Catholicism, which seems so wonderfully exotic, with its notions of original sin and sainthood and its beautiful depictions of nearly naked Christs nailed to the cross.
But what if by just entering the Church she becomes a Catholic? For one thing, her parents would never forgive her, since her mother frequently says that the Rosens—even Emma’s father—are “ethnically Jewish, and proud of it,” even if they don’t believe in God or observe Hanukkah, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, or Passover. She adds, “And don’t be fooled. Daddy may not show it, but he feels exactly the same way,” and she tells a story about how when Leo was young, he got into a wild fistfight with some men who said “kike” and “hymie” in front of him.
Emma isn’t sure that she believes the part about her father’s great Jewish pride, but she definitely believes in his wild temper, since she’s observed it firsthand many times. And that’s precisely why she also knows that he’ll kill her if he ever finds out that she’s about to venture inside the Immaculate Conception churchyard.
Nevertheless, walking as quickly as she can, she tells herself that as long as she remains in the churchyard and doesn’t actually set foot inside the church, nothing terrible will happen. Still, her heart beats so hard that her chest hurts.
So far so good, though. Nobody is around: no stern, frowning nuns; no dreamy-eyed monks; no nosy Catholic kids from the Projects. She walks for a few moments, her heart thudding in rhythm with her footsteps, until she enters a yard hidden by a high brick wall dense with ivy. Has she come upon God’s garden? No, it’s too run down, the grass scraggly and wayward, with an abundance of dirt and no flowers. Surely if He exists, His garden would be in constant bloom.
Even more quickly, she walks along a narrow dirt path bordered by a few large trees offering intermittent shade. Swatting at a mosquito circling her face, she wonders why, if, as her late Grandma Thelma (her mother’s mother, whom her father couldn’t stand, and who died two years before of a stroke) always declared, the Jews are supposedly the chosen people, it’s the Catholic kids who have the most holidays off from school, and who receive tons of gifts at Christmas.
Emma’s friend, Rosemary Mammano, frequently tells Emma about the things Catholics believe. They’re so poetic that Emma is consumed with envy. Emma wants to be a great poet when she grows up, like Poe, Shakespeare, and Percy Bysshe Shelley, whose great works her father reads aloud to her on nights when he’s in a good mood. “How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner/As he bends in still grief …” he reads, from Shelley’s “Bereavement,” in an actor’s confident voice, suited for whatever role he takes on: booming Othello; mischievous Puck; mad, bereft lover of Annabel Lee. Why, then, isn’t her father able to appreciate the poetry that’s part and parcel of Catholicism? Catholics believe, for instance, that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost are three distinct beings, and yet really one Supreme Being, and isn’t that as marvelous an idea as Poe’s fantastic raven who quoths “Nevermore?”
She swats again at the mosquito, and it flies off. She stands still for a long moment, smoothing her baggy navy blue shorts, relishing the hot sun on her face, even though her fair, freckled skin is likely to burn. That’s another reason to envy the Catholic kids, at least the Italian-American kids like Bobby Gaglione, whom she has a crush on, because their deep-toned, olive skin doesn’t immediately turn bright red in the sun. Also, the Catholic kids are so tough and cool, saying “shit” and “fuck” with abandon, since by confessing to a priest once a week, they’re granted total absolution—another poetic idea, if ever there was one.
The narrow, dirt path leads Emma to a section toward the back of the yard that’s somewhat better kept, although there are more weeds than grass. To her right stands a plain-looking white building, with a tiny, murky wading pool in front. This must be where the monks live, those chubby, pale, bald old men, and the equally pale, bony, melancholy-looking young men she sometimes sees walking around the outskirts of the Projects in their long brown robes and sandals. She walks even faster, in case one of them should appear, and question her motives for being here.
And that’s when she comes upon the statue of the Virgin Mary, who reigns there all alone, with no baby or adult Jesuses, no angels or cherubs, to keep her company. One afternoon not too long ago, a sixth grade boy riding the elevator with Emma leaned toward her. “When a man puts his thing inside a woman,” he whispered excitedly, “a baby comes out. But virgins like God’s mother,” he added, “can have babies without the man’s thing.” Right on the spot, Emma decided that virgin-motherhood—surely the most enviable poetic notion of all—was the state she wanted to achieve when she grew up.
Emma stares up at the statue. Mary seems larger than life, towering above her as though the top of her head actually touches the tip of Heaven, which, according to her parents, Emma isn’t supposed to believe in. Mary has wide-open hands that promise so much in the way of tenderness and touch, with long, tapered fingers that seem to glow. Her skin is ivory and luminous, her mouth benevolent and full. She looks as generous and kind as Glinda the Good Witch in the The Wizard of Oz, whom Emma adores because her voice is like liquid silver. Sometimes, when Emma’s alone, she recites Glinda’s lines in dulcet tones, “Click your heels … there’s no place like home … .” She imagines herself, hand in hand with Dorothy, transported through the skies to that warm and loving place called Kansas.
Emma pictures Mary gathering her up in maternal arms, tenderly smoothing her hair and stroking her forehead. Mary would never get migraine headaches and vomit, the way her own mother does, or grow sad and depressed and say that all the Rosens, including Emma, are “destined for lives of Doom and Gloom.” Mary would stick up for Emma and not just stand by helplessly, wringing her hands and looking at the floor when Emma’s father hits and hits her, when Emma’s screams are so loud she doesn’t understand why neighbors don’t come pounding on their front door to rescue her.
Emma closes her eyes, and it occurs to her that this is a perfect opportunity to seek guidance about things that trouble her. Pressing together the palms of her hands, enjoying the sensation of the wild-growing grass tickling her ankles, she silently asks Mary how best to win the heart of black-eyed Bobby Gaglione.
And how can she start doing better in math, her worst subject at school?
And is there any way to prevent May, who hates her guts, from calling her names and smacking her and punching her—not unlike her father?
And can Mary help her to figure out once and for all how to stay out of trouble with her “hotheaded” father, which is how her mother describes him when he’s not around?
Finally, Emma asks silently, “And how can I learn to be a good Jew, when I don’t even know if God is real?” She doesn’t dare add, “I don’t even know if you are real.”
Emma waits for Mary’s answer. Mary is silent, and her beautiful, good-witch eyes reveal nothing of her thoughts. Emma presses her palms together so tightly her wrists ache. Way too much time seems to be passing. She wants to look at the Timex she proudly wears on her wrist, a gift from her father for her tenth birthday, but she doesn’t dare, in case Mary gets insulted.
At last, just when Emma is about to give up hope, Mary begins to speak. In a wise, soft, musical voice, she says, “Bobby Gaglione likes you a lot, as much as you like him, but he doesn’t yet know how to show it. Boys mature more slowly than girls.”
Emma is grateful that Mary speaks so intimately to her, although it is weird that a statue can talk. Is she willing Mary to speak, by yearning so much for her to do so? Are her desires that strong? Whatever the reality is, she’s already figured out before today that the world is sometimes a very weird place, a place where people’s actions and words often don’t make sense, and she’s had no choice but to accept the reality of such a world.
In a honeyed voice like a lullaby, Mary continues, reminding Emma that although she may not be good at long division and fractions, she’s “exceptionally literary,” which coincidentally is exactly what her father says.
Mary urges Emma to stand up for herself with both May and her father. At the same time, she tells her to be patient with them.
Again, Emma waits. Mary has answered all her questions but the one about being Jewish, and Emma wants to smack herself for having asked it. But just then Mary says, in a clear, strong voice: “Don’t worry now about how to be a good Jew. One day you’ll understand. And then, you will be what you wish to be.”
Emma feels exhilarated. “Thank you,” she whispers, dropping her hands to her sides, beginning to walk so fast that she’s nearly running, heading for home along the run-down path, past the muddy little wading pool and the lonely looking white building. She swats again at a mosquito, possibly the same pushy one she encountered earlier, and this time he lands on her forehead and takes a bite, but she’s far too happy to care.
Exiting the churchyard, she looks left and right to ensure that her secret journey will remain a secret, and she promises herself that she’ll be back.