CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Los Angeles, June 1950

I wanted to be excited on graduation day. I had a beautiful new dress meant for frothy strolls through garden parties. Kathleen and I had spent a whole afternoon in the stores, trying on a couple of dozen frocks, giggling and laughing. But our levity had a forced quality, no question.

“Malcolm asked if he could come to my graduation,” I blurted at one point, surprising myself.

“What did you say?”

“I said yes, but it didn’t mean—”

“Oh, pooh. You said yes because you like him.”

“Stop always being so direct.”

“Anyway, given the way things are going, it gives you a guaranteed support base of two friends,” she said calmly.

“It doesn’t matter; I’ll be gone in a few months.”

A flicker of a shadow crossed her face. “Yeah. I’ll miss you.”

I busied myself, putting my new dress back on a hanger. “I’ll miss you, too,” I said.

We stood there awkwardly for a few minutes; this was something we had avoided talking about.

“Friends for life?” I said.

“You got it,” she said.

At home, the game continued. Mother’s bedroom door would be closed when I walked in from school; I was supposed to knock at five o’clock so she could get up to fix dinner, but not before. We were playing our roles—automatically doing the “pass the salt, please” or “how was your day…isn’t that nice” stuff. I was aching inside. What came next? I wanted to ask; but I didn’t know how. I hated the sight of my father slumped down in his chair night after night, staring into the distance, fingers tight around his always full bourbon glass. If an ax was going to come down on his head, would there be any warning?

“Who are you loyal to, Jessica?” Mother asked suddenly, out of the blue, one day.

“My family, of course,” I said, unnerved. How could she believe differently? But I was letting them go, I knew; it was just happening. I told myself my father was the source of the make-believe of our lives, and I wanted—oh, how I wanted—to move on, to get out of Los Angeles and away from all of it. To do that, I had to play out my part on graduation day.

The weather was gorgeous that morning. Mother helped zip up my dress, doing everything she could to chatter brightly and play her part. She would drive me over early to the school, where all the girls in my class, whispering and giggling, would be lining up for their pink tea-rose bouquets.

“On the whole, Saint Ann’s was a good place for you; I hope you agree,” she said with forced casualness. I nodded. She reached for me in an awkward, unexpected gesture. I let her hug me, a quick hug, breathing in the scent of a soft lilac perfume I had never noticed before.

“Is he coming?” I asked.

“He’s waiting for a phone call—you know how that goes. But of course he’ll be there. I’m going to get us good seats on the aisle so we can watch you march in.”

We had one hour before lining up. Holding my bouquet, I impulsively walked across campus to Miss Coultrane’s classroom, hoping to see her and say goodbye. I knew Sister Teresa Mary was presenting her with a plaque at the ceremony, thanking her for all her years of service, and I wondered how Miss Coultrane felt, and if, in her dignified, restrained way, she would welcome my impulse to rage at the injustice that had prompted her decision to leave Saint Ann’s.

She was there, sitting behind her desk, quite properly erect. She looked up as I came in, and I had a sense that she had been expecting me.

“Well, hello, Jesse,” she said, her face softening.

“Miss Coultrane, I think it’s terrible—”

“No, it’s not,” she interjected gently. “It was time for me to go, anyway. But I’m so pleased you came by. Poor Sister Teresa Mary is determined to give me some sort of voice today, which I appreciate.”

“She could have turned down your resignation.”

“No, dear, I would have insisted.” With carefully manicured fingers, she opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out an envelope. “Now, I’m wondering—when they present my plaque, would you be willing to accept it for me?”

“Me?” I was confused. The last person welcome on the graduation podium was me, surely. Especially since Bishop Doyle, in time-honored tradition, would preside.

“I’ve suggested this to Sister Teresa Mary, and she agreed. I’ve finished out this year of teaching at her request, but it’s time for me to leave, not stand around to be congratulated. Will you do that for me?” Her gaze was steady.

“But you are right here—”

“I can’t face the ceremony. I hope you will do this.”

“I…” I didn’t know what to say.

She smiled, as if at a joke. “Wonderful,” she said. She reached out and handed me the envelope. “My remarks,” she said. “Please, don’t open the envelope until you are on the podium. And, Jesse”—she squeezed my hand—“Sister Teresa Mary is on your side.”

Clutching the envelope, I hurried back to where the girls in my class were lining up. I would trust Miss Coultrane; I always had.

It was almost time for the ceremony to begin. The aisles of folding chairs spread across the lawn were filling up. Mothers in crisp summer dresses and festive straw hats were chattering away, greeting each other; fathers in neatly pressed coats and ties were smiling and shaking hands. Sisters and brothers and grandparents all strained for a peek at the graduates as the school orchestra began playing softly. Bishop Doyle, flanked by clerical aides, emerged from the school, raising his hand in a blessing as he took his seat on the dais. His role would be to allow each girl to kiss his ring as he handed out the diplomas. I could taste the cheerful expectations as I hurried for my place in the lineup, and for a moment, I felt truly part of it.

I was straining for a glimpse of my parents just as the orchestra burst into a well-rehearsed rendition of “Pomp and Circumstance.” The line began to move, cadenced step by cadenced step, all of us cradling our tea roses, Miss Coultrane’s envelope tucked inside mine. And that’s when I caught sight of Mother. Her head was turned toward me, and she was smiling brightly. The seat next to her was empty.

I had no protection from my feelings anymore; no matter how much I pretended to myself, I had wanted, craved to see him out there, proud and smiling. Where was he?

The speeches began; awards were given. The girl who had been tapped to take my place as valedictorian was an earnest history student who gave an earnest speech, talking about God, our lives ahead, and hopes and dreams. She glanced at me several times, and I smiled encouragingly; I had nothing against her, though I was quite sure I would have given a better speech.

As she left the podium, I looked for the tenth time in the direction of where my mother was sitting. My heart jumped. He had come; he was in his seat. Looking worn, as usual. I felt an almost giddy relief and did my best to quell it. At least he had given me his presence.

Graduation was reaching its concluding moments. I saw parents checking their programs, discreetly ready for the pageantry to end, when Sister Teresa Mary came to the podium and announced a farewell award for Miss Coultrane, in honor of her many years of devoted service to Saint Ann’s Academy.

Due to Miss Coultrane’s unfortunate illness today, Sister announced, the award would be accepted for her by one of her students. She took an obvious deep breath and said, “That would be graduating senior Jessica Malloy. Jessica, will you come up here?”

I wasn’t imagining the sudden tremor of surprise among my classmates as I rose to my feet, clutching the envelope, and made my way up the platform stairs. And I wasn’t imagining a sudden alertness in the priests flanking Bishop Doyle. I wanted to glance back at my parents for support, but any nerve needed here would have to come from me.

Sister Teresa Mary presented me with the plaque, her eyes unusually bright. I thanked her, cleared my throat, and faced the crowd.

“Miss Coultrane has asked me to convey her thanks,” I began.

I quickly opened the envelope, conscious of the rustle of paper being magnified by the microphone. Scrawled across the top of the page, in Miss Coultrane’s handwriting, were these words: “This is for you, Jesse. And for Ingrid. Read it all. And tell them it is a lesson in the meaning of mercy. If they take nothing else away from this day, let this be it.”

It was Portia’s speech.

I did just that, and began, in a shaky voice at first.

“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes….”

A few puzzled glances were exchanged among the parents and relatives sitting there, balancing their folding chairs on the soft grass. A murmur threaded through the group. Everyone at Saint Ann’s surely knew about my disgraceful behavior at the Redlands speech tournament. And—especially if they read Louella Parsons’s column—they knew that Portia’s speech had been misused as part of my recklessness.

An aide to the bishop moved over to him and whispered in his ear. I ignored them and continued reading. Ingrid had brought these words to life for me; she had given them meaning. And Miss Coultrane wanted to remind me of that. I could do this.

“ ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this sceptred sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself.”

I caught a sudden movement. My father had risen from his chair and was standing, pulled tall to his full six-foot height, a silent gesture of support that set a few people murmuring. I saw my mother, looking horrified, tugging at his jacket. What grandiose statement was this? Of course, here he was, embarrassing her again. He wouldn’t sit down.

He and I locked eyes. The big, jaunty smile I knew so well wasn’t there, but his eyes told more. For this moment, wasn’t this truly my father? My heart leaped. My voice caught for a second, and then I was overwhelmed by a burst of frustration. I wanted to cry out: Where have you been? Are you putting on an act? Is this real? Where are you? Trying to decide what I believed, I stared at him, unsmiling.

A total silence fell over the crowd for a few brief seconds after I finished. My father lowered himself into his chair, his face an odd muddy gray. Was something wrong? I tried to catch his eye, to smile finally, but he was looking down. Once again, the microphone caught the sound of the rustling of the paper as I carefully folded it and put it back in its envelope. Without turning my head, I could see the bishop murmur to his aide, who then beckoned to Sister Teresa Mary.

I had to say one more thing as I stood clutching the plaque.

“Miss Coultrane is a gifted teacher, and I am proud to have been her student,” I said. “She knew all about mercy and kindness. And telling the truth. Saint Ann’s will be the poorer for her absence.”

There was a scattered burst of clapping as I prepared to make my way back to my seat.

Sister Teresa Mary, looking, I felt, like a woman going to her execution, stepped slowly to the microphone.

“Thank you, Jesse,” she said. “Bishop Doyle regrets to inform us that he has been unexpectedly called away. Unfortunately, that means he will be unable to personally hand out the diplomas. Monsignor O’Hara will take over that conclusion to graduation. But he congratulates you all and wishes you a blessed future.”

A buzz of surprise. Parents who had endured the speeches and awards, some half dozing, suddenly realized that the bishop’s honored presence, usually the capstone of the ceremony, had been taken away. He was at that moment turning his back, but not before casting a steely glare in my direction, making it very clear to whoever was watching just why this sudden change of plans.

I looked over at my parents—saw my mother putting an arm around Father’s shoulders, talking to him. Look at me, I silently pleaded.

Nobody seemed to know what was supposed to come next. The school orchestra launched raggedly into a hymn as everybody whispered. I wanted to get off that stage, to run off. A few uncertain minutes dragged by, and then Monsignor O’Hara, looking befuddled, started handing out diplomas.

A commotion suddenly burst out where my parents were sitting. People were standing, craning their necks. What was happening? Chairs were toppling over. I heard a man’s voice shouting for help. And then I heard my mother scream.

I scrambled off the podium, tripping over a flowerpot, then kicking it out of the way. I couldn’t see my parents, I heard somebody yell for a doctor, and I tried to shove through the crowd.

“Jesse—” Kathleen, also out of breath, was at my side. She pointed to the street, where a car had bounced over the curb and kept going through the grass, wheels digging into the loam, all the way to the unfolding scene. Two men, a limp figure hoisted between them, quickly deposited their burden gently in the back seat as the driver kept the engine running.

“It’s my father, isn’t it?”

“I think so.”

I ran, my legs rubbery. I saw Mother climb into the car; someone slammed the door shut. “Wait for me!” I screamed. But no one heard, and I couldn’t get through the crowd fast enough. The car, churning deeper into the velvet turf, roared away.

“They’re headed for the hospital. Are you that man’s daughter? Come on, follow me, I’ll drive you. My car’s over there.” Who was he? A stranger, somebody’s parent. Blindly, I ran after him, Kathleen at my side.

I knew before the doctor approached me in the emergency room. A massive heart attack. I remember crying, crying so hard it hurt my throat. No, this happens in the movies, I tried to tell myself. They took me to the curtained-off room where my father lay still on a gurney. Mother sat next to him, head bowed.

Couldn’t I have been given just one last moment with him? Couldn’t God have managed that? Instead, weeping, I reached for his motionless hand. All I could do was to watch him turn into nothing more than one of those still, cold statues at Saint Ambrose Church.

Mother looked up as I rushed in, her eyes glazed with shock. “It happened so fast,” she said. “All that waiting—and just like that: fired.”

“This morning?”

“It didn’t matter, he said.” Her voice was choked with tears. “He said you came first today. The heart attack hit right when he stood up for you. The exertion was too much.”

“Oh, Mother—”

The tears flooded her cheeks. “You were too hard on him,” she said. “You should’ve been kinder.”

The room spun. I heard Kathleen gasp. Covering my ears, I stumbled out of the room. Somebody caught me as my legs buckled—it was Malcolm; he was standing outside the door. Oh God, he had heard this.

“You didn’t do anything,” Malcolm blurted.

I pulled away from his grasp. Mother was right. He couldn’t absolve me of this; there was no absolution. I was guilty.

“Yes, I did,” I choked out.

I have memorized every movement, run it in slow motion: the set of my father’s chin that fresh June morning, the tired look in his eyes as he stood in support of me. Why didn’t I smile? Couldn’t I have managed a small one? How wrong it is to be eighteen and decide never to forgive. I have cried a sea of tears, knowing too late the message of love my father had been trying to convey, that of one frail human to another.

Kathleen and Malcolm stood by me at the sparsely attended funeral. There was no Mass. Mother wasn’t sure if Gabriel Malloy had ever been baptized, and she couldn’t shrug that off. There was no certificate to prove his Catholic credentials, and the bishop was, of course, a stickler for such details. That apparently discouraged the more fervent Catholics of Hollywood, such as Louella Parsons, from attending. And those who had heard the whispers surrounding his firing stayed away, too; guilt by proximity was always a fear.

I saw Sister Teresa Mary and Miss Coultrane standing in the shadows at the funeral home, and felt a surge of gratitude. Jerry Feldstein showed up, looking haggard. His scriptwriting days were over, I had heard. Like others, he wouldn’t work in Hollywood again. The room was bursting with elaborate, overly bright flower arrangements displayed on a fake altar, flowers from people like David Selznick, Howard Hughes, and Gary Cooper. Maybe Cary Grant, too, I never looked at all the cards. I wished I could send Cooper’s back to him. He didn’t denounce people by name, but he had made it clear he thought communism in Hollywood was a real threat, which kept the shadows building that took down people like my father.

A letter from Ingrid Bergman came, which Mother read and promptly tore up. She stood alone in the church, hard and silent. I kept remembering how she had tugged at Father’s jacket, wanting him to sit down. Trying to save him from me.

The weeks of the hollow summer that followed remain blurred in memory. My father’s pension from the studio would pay for college as well as supporting my mother, I was told by a very officious studio lawyer. They helped sell the house for us. Slowly, we packed. Mother had decided living in Hollywood was too expensive. With the urging of Father’s brother, she decided to move up to Sacramento, where she could buy a nicer house than she could afford in Los Angeles. And I was heading for Bennington College. We shared a sadness, but it was a strange, chilly sharing. We did what we had to do.

Mother went to Mass as usual each Sunday, almost up to moving day. She would stand at the hall mirror to apply her resolutely bright lipstick, just as she had in the old house when I was young. She looked just as fragile, but I was sure she was steel at the core. She always asked if I was coming with her; I told her I was busy.

One Sunday, I did go to Mass—quietly, at the cathedral, alone. I hadn’t planned it. I had been walking by when the splendid, soaring Latin hymns of High Mass drew me in, opening all the yearnings for peace and meaning in my heart that would not go away. I sat at the back of that huge, grand church, rosary beads in hand, fingering them, no prayers in my voice or mind. I looked around at the congregation—it was a high-noon Mass, and the church was crowded. Several old people, bent in prayer, sat near me, murmuring their responses, while a young family just ahead struggled to keep four little girls quiet through the lengthy service.

Only as the Mass ended did I realize Bishop Doyle was the celebrant—I was so far in the back of that vast space, I hadn’t noticed.

And now, with the organist playing at full volume, he was leading the recessional from the altar, down the center aisle, to the rear of the church. Three altar boys, walking backward, swinging incense burners, led the way. Behind him, the deacon and subdeacon followed in cadenced step. As he passed each pew, people were genuflecting, bowing their heads, and making the sign of the cross. I realized he would brush right past me; I would be expected to do the same.

He was coming closer. Those cold eyes of his fastened on mine.

I couldn’t stand it. “Excuse me,” I whispered to the people between me and the back exit from the pew. Eyes widened; faces frowned; I was pushing now, shoving slow-moving parishioners out of the way, not even trying to be discreet. I knew, fully knew, I couldn’t bend my knee to this man, this representative of the unforgiving God my mother believed in so fervently. That would pile hypocrisy onto sin. I knew I would live with a permanent burden of guilt. And there would always be disapproval, in my mother’s face and in my church. I was expected to embrace it. And if I didn’t feel there was a place for me in my church anymore, maybe there never had been, all the way back to my reluctance as a child to stand for the pledge to condemn immoral movies.

Bishop Doyle was only three pews away when I broke free. I glanced in his direction, saw his stony expression, then turned my back and pushed for the door.

I woke up that last night in our house somewhere around three in the morning, unable to sleep. I pulled on a robe and wandered into the living room. It was dark; the furniture was mostly gone, sent with the movers to Sacramento. My bags were packed and by the front door. I stared at them, ran my finger along the living-room wall, realizing all of this would never be tangible again: this house, my parents’ dreams, would all exist only in memory for me in a matter of hours.

“I guess you couldn’t sleep, either,” my mother’s voice said quietly, cutting through the darkness.

I started, then saw the burning tip of a cigarette as she released a curl of smoke into the air from her chair by the glass doors leading to the patio. Her profile was etched into sharp relief against the soft glow of a waning moon.

“You never smoke.”

“It’s a release,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what to say next.

“Jesse, I want to explain myself better to you,” she said softly.

“Please, you don’t have to.”

“I want to tell you what it was like, working in that ticket booth at Grauman’s Chinese. And meeting your father. Will you listen?”

“If it matters to you,” I said. There really was no choice.

“It was a job, and I was lucky to have it,” she said. “It felt glamorous and important, doling out tickets to lines of people eager to see the most famous movie palace in the world. But it was such a tiny space inside the booth, I could barely move. I thought, for a while, it was worth it.” She paused, her voice fading for a moment.

“But all the excitement was on the other side of the glass,” she continued. “I took money and smiled until my muscles ached, but nothing was changing. I was memorizing every detail about them—but they didn’t see me. I felt lonely. That sounds vain, I know.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said quickly. For just a split second, I could envision a young girl from a poor Irish neighborhood outside Boston smiling hopefully out on a world closed off to her by birth and opportunity.

“Gabriel was often in that line, usually with some pretty girl on his arm. He was so handsome and cheerful—I began looking for him, hoping he would show up. He would make a joke as I slipped his tickets under the glass; once he told me I should be in the movies, and I said I didn’t want to be, and he asked what time I got off.”

“I always thought it sounded romantic,” I ventured.

She hardly seemed to hear. “I couldn’t believe my luck.” Her voice broke; then she went silent.

What was I supposed to say? I waited.

“Things went the way they often do,” she continued. “But not like in the movies. Your movie-star heroine knows all about that.”

Ingrid. She was talking about Ingrid. A realization took root, slowly growing. My devout mother? Who called down fear of God’s wrath at the very idea of illicit sex?

“I was afraid, terribly afraid, when I realized I was pregnant. He said he wouldn’t desert me. He followed up on that—he was a decent man, and I loved him desperately.”

“And he loved you—”

“Who knows? Would he have married me if I hadn’t gotten pregnant?”

That shocked me even more. “Of course he would have—” I said.

She cut me off. “Don’t pretend, I don’t need it. I will never know, but he was a dutiful human being. That’s why he married me.”

“Mother, I don’t believe that. He adored you.”

“I didn’t deserve him, Jesse. And you should know why.” She took a deep breath. “I deliberately tried to get pregnant,” she said. “I knew it was a sin, but I was willing to risk everything.” The glow of her lit cigarette disappeared, scrunched into embers in an ashtray.

“And the fact that he saved me from shame was a miracle, but it didn’t wipe the slate clean. I loved him and tried to be a good wife, and prayed for forgiveness. But he could have made a better marriage. I knew, somewhere along the line, there would be a price to pay. My only possible salvation was to make sure nothing like that—the desperateness, the temptation—ever descended on you. I promised myself I would keep you safe.”

Until that moment, I don’t think I had ever quite realized how much my mother totally embraced her belief in the unforgivable.

“When I learned about his affair, I thought that would settle my score with God. But then you gave that awful speech at the tournament—even that blow wasn’t enough.”

“Mother”—I couldn’t help it—“don’t you ever forgive yourself?”

“How? Oh, Jesse, how?”

She began crying—in such anguish, I couldn’t absorb it. “I lost him, I loved him so much, how do I forgive myself?” I could see her body in shadow; she looked so small and frail, her shoulders heaving.

Maybe by loving me more.

The words were on my tongue, full of my own anguish. I wanted to yell them out, and I tried to form them, but they caught in my throat. I couldn’t do that: it would be a slap in her face. I could deal out no more hurt.

I moved to her side instead and embraced her, searching for the right words of comfort. Maybe we could find a way out of what held us both captive; maybe we could reach each other.

She quickly dried her eyes with her hand and then, with just a few words, split the chasm wider.

“God will forgive you eventually,” she said. “But you were born under a shadow, and I’m the one who created it.”

“Mother, that’s a trap; I don’t believe it.”

Her voice was suddenly calm again. Cool. “I wish you were going to a Catholic college,” she said.

“I will be fine,” I said automatically. All my words hung suspended—unspoken.

Then, after a silence, she said, “It’s time for us to head back to bed. Tomorrow is a busy day.” She rose, touched my shoulder, and padded off to her room.

I made no move to follow her.

Later, when the harsh morning sun was high, and the cabdriver was loading my bags, we faced each other one last time on the front porch. I gave her a quick hug goodbye, all elbows and jutting bones, hers and mine, and told her I would come to Sacramento for Christmas. She gave me a stiff squeeze back, and said she would come see me at college.

Kathleen was permanent, I already knew that. But I said a final goodbye to Malcolm after the funeral. He was hurt, I could see that; I couldn’t help it. I wanted as few memories as possible, no tethers to this place laughingly called home.

That’s all, that’s all.

Well, it isn’t, really. So many questions still weave through my life. Sometimes I want to find answers, but I’m afraid I will find there aren’t any, and that would be worse.

And maybe that is why I am going back.