CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Los Angeles, 1950

The rest of that day passed like a dream. The brightly lit auditorium; the sound of hastily assembled folding chairs scraping on the linoleum floor; the dozens of students gathering for the award presentations, which began at seven o’clock. The euphoria of hearing my name called, of walking up the auditorium aisle, of folding my hands around a splendid gold cup, dimly hearing the applause, thanking the tournament judges—it all pushed back a faint fog of uneasiness over my brief encounter with the reporter. Surely, any mention of my speech would be, at worst, tucked deep in the local section of the newspaper. A high-school tournament? The Herald-Express barely noticed that kind of event.

Malcolm sat next to me, applauding hard. “They’ll take it back from you for the engraving,” he whispered. “Don’t hold on too tightly.”

“Thank you for what you did,” I managed to say.

“You’ve just won your own Academy Award,” he said.

I looked down at my beautiful cup, burnishing it with my fingers. Was this the way Ingrid felt when she won for Gaslight? I liked that idea.

And then it was over, and we were all climbing onto separate buses to go back to different districts, where our parents were supposed to pick us up. I lost sight of Malcolm; he was on a bus scheduled to go to another part of town. Nice guy, though he had a strange, prissy name. It was quite likely I would never see him again, because he didn’t go to a Catholic school. I felt a twinge of disappointment, but I was savoring the excitement of handing my parents the tape of my speech and telling them the great news.

It was very late when the bus reached my pickup point. Mother was waiting, standing by our new Oldsmobile. I slid from my seat, jumped from the bus, and ran over to her, the gravel crunching under my feet.

“Guess what?” I burst out, and then stopped at the sight of her face. Her skin was ashen, crumpled as tightly as the newspaper she held in her hand. She held it out between us like a shielding weapon.

“How could you?” she said hoarsely. “How could you do this?”

Only then did I see my father standing on the other side of the car, staring at me. He strode forward until we were almost face-to-face.

“Some job, kid. How the hell could you do that?” he said slowly in a heavy voice. His face was dark with anger. “I can hardly believe it. It wasn’t enough just to jeopardize me—you took down both sides of the family. And I’m standing here asking myself, What kind of daughter are you?”

My head spun; my knees buckled. Dimly, I realized something—that crumpled newsprint in Mother’s hand was the evening edition of the Herald-Express.

“Read it,” Mother said.

Hands trembling, I took the paper and read swiftly. My parents always said Hearst’s evening paper fed on lurid stories and gossip. And, yes, I had provided fodder for its reputation.

The article was double-headlined and prominently placed on page 3.

CONVENT SCHOOL GIRL ATTACKS HOLLYWOOD AND CATHOLIC CHURCH

Tournament Winner Defends Shamed Actress Ingrid Bergman

The story was gleeful, missing nothing, naming my father as the “hustling publicist” who had built Ingrid’s career. It called me a “defiant” challenger of my own church, and emphasized the “irony” that my school was the same one that had proudly hosted the making of The Bells of St. Mary’s—nothing was missed.

Some job, kid….You took down both sides of the family.

I don’t remember much of our drive home that night. Crying, I tried to explain. I would never have deliberately done anything to hurt either of them—couldn’t they see that?

“Seems to me, you were more concerned with defending Ingrid,” Father said. His voice was as sharp as flint scraping stone.

“Jesse, were those opinions you expressed your true feelings?” Mother asked suddenly.

I tried to think of a way out. But anything other than the truth would just take me into some cavern of lies. “Yes,” I said.

“You really believe the Church is hypocritical?”

“Not in everything, no, and this was never meant to hurt you—”

“What about me?” My father’s harsh voice again, but there was something additional, something raw. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, and I was shocked. They were filled with pain. His hands gripping the steering wheel were white. “Am I one of those cowards in the movie business you took down?”

Oh God, I wanted to throw up. “No, Daddy…” I pleaded. And I could say no more. As the car rumbled on, with the night lights of the city flashing off the windows, the tension swirled, not between them this time, but between them and me. And with that realization came my old fear of sin, and I felt fully, for the first time, that it had always been waiting to pounce on me. There was no averting it, and there was nothing venial about it—this was surely mortal. I couldn’t think straight; my head spun. I had dishonored my mother and father. Maybe ruined Father’s career.

“I need to throw up,” I mumbled.

“Hold it until we get home,” Father said. “You’ve spewed enough bile for the day.”

I threw up. Over everything. Little rivulets of vomit trickled down the window next to me. My father cursed. We were on the new freeway; he couldn’t pull over.

“I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up—”

“Never mind, Jesse, I’ll take care of it.” My mother, her first kind words.

“I’ll do it—”

“You need your sleep.” I heard an audible sigh. “Sister Teresa Mary wants to see you in her office Monday morning.”

“Why?”

“Somebody made sure she got a copy of the paper’s late edition.”

I kept to myself Sunday and slept little that night, just cried bitterly as I stared into blackness. I should have thought more of my parents before I gave my speech; I should have thought of my school. I had struggled; I had wanted to do what was right. I could make excuses for myself, but I knew the truth: I had said what I believed, but that had proved dangerous. I had pronounced my own judgments, and they were outside the moral framework of my life. Hadn’t I committed the sin of pride?

I wanted to talk to Kathleen.

The early-morning Examiner ran a longer story, with generous excerpts from my speech, elaborating with a few reaction quotes. Howard Hughes’s spokesman said the movie mogul was “surprised” that Gabriel Malloy’s daughter would take such an “intemperate” position. The chancery office released a one-line statement from Bishop Doyle, expressing his “regret” that one of his flock would hold such views. Another quote, no attribution: “The scandalous actions of Ingrid Bergman continue to distort the values of the young.” And one that brought tears to my eyes from a judge at the Redlands Tournament: “I don’t know what the fuss is about,” he said. “She won the competition. But, then, I’m a Protestant.”

It was not yet seven o’clock as I walked up the path to the front offices of Saint Ann’s Academy to see Sister Teresa Mary. There were no students around; it was still too early. A mist lay low over the verdant green lawn. The palm trees that lined the path looked like sentries, standing guard, still and silent.

I had come to love this entrance to my school. This was the place, this soft green lawn, where my class would soon graduate—all of us dressed in white, carrying baskets of fragrant flowers, crowned with floral wreaths. The school orchestra would play “Pomp and Circumstance” as we marched, just as it did every year. Our parents would be sitting on folding chairs, straight and proud.

Well, that was the way it was supposed to happen.

The principal’s office this time seemed forbidding. As the school secretary ushered me in, I saw it in bleak detail. The bookcase nestled in one corner of the room had a piece of thick cardboard shoved under one of its wobbly legs to right it. The desk was scuffed from years of wear, the finish worn thin, and the wall behind it, painted a steel gray, held nothing except that imposingly large crucifix, which graphically displayed Christ’s cruel wounds. It was the same as before, but I was seeing it differently.

Sister Teresa Mary stood up from the desk as I entered. She looked shockingly small. Her body seemed lost inside the heavy serge of her usual black habit, but her blue eyes were as steady and bright as ever.

“Sit down, Jessica,” she said quietly.

Only then did I see Miss Coultrane standing at the rear of the room, hands folded tightly in front of her, a set look on her face I could not fathom.

“Miss Coultrane will join us for a moment, at her request,” Sister Teresa Mary said. “Miss Coultrane?”

My speech teacher cleared her throat. “I have taught at this school for many years with great pride,” she said. “And I have never been prouder of a student than I am of you. Congratulations, Jessica.”

“Thank you,” I managed, bewildered. Could this be some kind of offered absolution?

“It seems, however, to be an appropriate time for me to retire, and I wanted to tell you myself, with the consent of Sister.” She shot a swift glance in Sister Teresa Mary’s direction.

“What do you mean?”

“I have submitted my resignation to Sister Teresa Mary,” Miss Coultrane said quietly.

“But why?” I was aghast.

She glanced again at Sister Teresa Mary. “Sister will explain,” she said. She turned then, with a nod, and brushed past me, touching my shoulder lightly as she left the room.

Sister Teresa Mary, with great effort, pulled herself straighter, as if trying to fill her clothing.

“Jessica, I’m afraid I have bad news for you. You cannot be valedictorian at graduation,” she said heavily.

My head reeled. “But—but—” I wanted to ask why, but it was sinking in, and I again felt sick to my stomach.

“Yes, I know this must come as a shock. I did not make the decision. Bishop Doyle has ordered that your name be taken off the list of speakers.”

She could not look directly at me.

“But I earned it,” I said, voice shaking.

“I know you did.” Her tone softened slightly. “My dear, I have taken a vow of obedience. I do not question the authority of the bishop.”

“But…this isn’t fair, you know it isn’t fair.” I was crying. “Was what I said that terrible? Don’t you sometimes have different thoughts—”

“If I do, I do not express them.” She sighed. “Jesse, maturity means knowing when to speak up—and when not to. You clearly haven’t learned that, I’m afraid.”

I had to fight back. With something. “I’m not a hypocrite,” I began, thrashing to recapture some of the giddy pleasure of speaking out and saying what was true. But it was elusive, disappearing; the taste of it had gone thin. “I had to speak out….” I tried to continue, but with what words? I stopped.

“You’ve had many good years at this school, Jessica,” Sister Teresa Mary said. “Would you dismiss all of us who have loved and worked for and with you?”

Her spine was stiffening, and the hard edge of authority was moving back into her voice.

“No,” I said. I wanted to force her to admit this was wrong. Even when, inside myself, I wondered otherwise. “Please, tell me—do you agree with the bishop?”

She paused a short while before replying, fingering the beads laced around her waist, staring at some point past my head. “Obedience is very important in the Church, Jessica. Not just for nuns and priests—for all of us.”

“You don’t agree.”

She gazed at me, and I saw or imagined a lingering sorrow in her eyes. And I think we both knew, in a fundamental way, we were saying goodbye.

“We will make no public fuss about this,” she said. “Your name will be taken off the speaker list on the program without comment. I will do whatever I can to make this a less stressful experience for you. As for my personal feelings—they are not relevant.”

So, yes, there was a conflict in Sister Teresa Mary’s heart and brain. And she was just as ensnared as I was.

I understood now. My wonderful Miss Coultrane was fighting back by leaving a job I knew she loved. She could do something. But there was no protest open for Sister Teresa Mary. That increased my pain, but it gave me the only taste of satisfaction—sour though it was—that I would find in the debacle. Somewhere inside this nun, this symbol of authority, were the unharvested seeds of rebellion that stirred now so strongly in me.

Kathleen was sitting on the entrance steps as I emerged from the building. She looked up; she knew. I wanted to hug her and wail.

“How—” I began.

“Miss Coultrane called me last night,” she said with a faint smile. “She told me you would need a friend.”

“She’s quitting,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“And I did it all. I’ve destroyed everything.”

“That’s crap.” She stood up. “Come on, let’s go talk by the pool.”

That’s crap. A lifeline, a balm to my father’s charge. If only for those two words, I would have reason to love Kathleen forever.

The school was stirring now with sleepy-eyed students hurrying to class. No one was swimming: too early for that. Kathleen and I had the pool area to ourselves, but I couldn’t sit still. So we walked and walked around its edges, going nowhere. How could I make sense of it all? I wept, I ranted, I poured out everything all jumbled together, and Kathleen listened. She never stopped me; she didn’t try to explain, defend, or console. If I ever needed someone to just listen, it was that day. I had been on both sides of righteous denouncement now, and I deserved my parents’ anger, but surely not the humiliation doled out by Bishop Doyle, unless, maybe, it was God’s way—

“Stop.” Kathleen shoved her hands into the pockets of her uniform. “If you’re guilty of anything, it’s being clueless about consequences.”

“I said what I honestly believe.”

“Sometimes consequences matter more.”

I opened my mouth to protest. But what came out was, once again, what I was really thinking. “How can anybody become a nun?” I asked. “I think Sister Teresa Mary ruined her life. All those girls going into the convent, swearing obedience to a church that won’t let them think for themselves—they’re going to do the same thing.”

“Well, clearly, the convent just lost you. Too bad—I was hoping you would get tucked away and do all the praying for both of us from here on.” A hint of a smile played across her lips.

I managed a smile back. We weren’t trapped, either of us: that’s what she was telling me. “Do you still want to be a lawyer?” I asked. She had applied to colleges in the L.A. area, and it struck me suddenly that I would probably be a long way away from her, no matter where I went.

“Maybe. Representing people who are treated rotten, like you.”

I couldn’t speak then. But it did dawn on me slowly, as we continued walking in companionable silence, that her words showed the kind of loyalty I would do all I could to give back. Whenever needed.

The news of my demotion swept through the school that day, and I saw what I expected in the eyes of my classmates, both sympathy from friends and some snickering from those who relished a mini-scandal that took down the girl from Beverly Hills. I marched through my classes as stoically as possible, keeping my chin up high, like Ingrid in Joan of Arc. I decided I could lose myself in a part, too.

I trudged out at the end of the day, looking forward to nothing more than crawling into bed and pulling the covers over my head that night. As I walked past the other, chattering students, I saw a familiar car pull into the school parking lot. My father was behind the wheel.

He stepped out of the car and we stood there, staring at each other.

He had never seemed so rumpled. His tie was twisted and pulled into a hard, graceless knot, and he looked like he needed a shave.

“Jesse, I was too hard on you,” he began. “I want to apologize.”

My voice trembled. “You told me I took down both sides of the family,” I said, tears coming. “You told me I spewed bile—”

“Yeah, over the top. That was—over the top.”

I couldn’t move, even knowing there were girls brushing past me who were straining to catch what we were saying, their whispers sharp enough for me to hear.

What did he want? For me to tell him this was all right now?

“I won the first state prize in speech that Saint Ann’s has ever had.”

“You did. You’re good.” He looked suddenly so weary.

I still couldn’t move. “They won’t let me be valedictorian. They took it away from me.”

“That must have been Doyle’s doing. He’s a self-righteous bastard. Jesse, you got caught in something you can’t be expected to understand.”

“I put you in danger.” I could hardly get the words out.

He put out his hands, palms up, and said, “Look, plenty of other things are happening, especially in Washington. Movie people have enemies now on every side. You complicated things, but not by intent.”

“You never tell me more; you just hint at bad stuff.”

“I want you free of it all.”

I didn’t answer, just climbed into the car, all the emotions of these two days—all the confusion and humiliation, the fear for my father, all the excitement and the pain of losing an honor I had dreamed of—jumbled together in my head.

Mother was waiting at the front door, holding a handful of envelopes, her smile fixed. “Jesse, you’ve heard from your colleges,” she said.

They both stood expectantly, waiting to see what I would do. My hand trembled as I reached for the envelopes. If they thought I would open these in front of them, they were wrong. I took the official-looking letters and went right to my bedroom, firmly shutting the door between me and the two people that, right now, I both loved and hated most in all the world.