June 7 – Dear Diary, I wore my new dress today. Wanda and Carole asked me when I was going to Africa as a nun. I said there was a delay. Luckily I brought the nun book, and we looked at the habits. Wanda wants to wear the white wings on her head. Carole is a Doubting Thomas. BY THE WAY. Today I will sacrifice my diary in the service of Father Stefanucci becoming the Pope at the end of June. Instead of saying, “Dear Diary,” I will say, “Dear Jesus” and write letters and prayers to God. This is, from now on, a prayer book instead of a diary.
The day was as gorgeous as it could be. No smog, the sun squinty bright like it is at the Rose Parade, only hot, and I should have been excited at the sight of the waves. We were on a sandy beach that stretched for miles. But there was dread and danger everywhere. Scary music played in the background, the kind that makes you know something bad is going to happen. Mother and I were barefoot; I could feel the sand between my toes. I wanted to run, but nothing in my body worked like it usually does; I couldn’t even move a finger. The iron pot was as round as a witch’s and as big as the backyard swimming pool at Clarkie Franklin’s house next door. The water wasn’t hot enough yet, but the fire burned under it. I was first in line! In my mind, I read the headline: Youngest Nun ever to be sacrificed. Then I felt something tugging at my foot. Through sleep mud, I heard Daddy’s voice.
“Annie, do you want to get up with me this morning? It’s time to get dressed.” The fear at the pit of my stomach evaporated as I understood that I was in my own bed, that Jeannie and Rosie were dark lumps in theirs.
Yes! Yes I’d love to go with you to Mass this morning! I thought right away. And you can bet I’ll be saying a special thank you prayer to the Blessed Mother. I was out of my pajamas in one second. I felt the warmth sitting in the pile of them and the cold in the room.
“This is a special day, Annie,” Daddy said as we backed out of the driveway. “You’ll pray for me, won’t you?”
It always feels special so early in the morning when there’s a little bit of chill and no one on the road. You can hear the tires rolling over the asphalt. Cars parked in front of the houses sweat with condensation as the first light of day creeps up. When we pass our neighbors, I imagine them stirring in their beds, still sleepy and exhaling bad breath clouds. In winter, the street lamps fade one after another as the sun rises all around us. The smell of fresh manure wafts up from the manicured lawns on Orange Grove Boulevard and tiny blades of recently sown grass poke up through the soil in early spring. A calm euphoria, the feeling of promise and a comfortable goodness, fills the air. I love these mornings. Especially when I’m the only one who gets up for 6:30 Mass. Because on those mornings, it’s just me and Daddy.
Today is Friday. Mass on the first Friday of each month for nine consecutive months guarantees the “grace of a happy death.” If you do the novena, the deal is, God will make sure you won’t die in your sleep or get killed in a car crash without first saying you’re sorry. At the very least you have the chance to clean the slate since your last confession. You won’t go to hell. That’s the guarantee. It’s like buying an insurance policy without having to pay anything. The only thing you sacrifice is your sleep. I had five more Fridays to go.
Today, he said, was his last day at work for the United States Navy. It was the last day he was going to have to work for idiots who bossed him around just because they were above him and had a higher rank.
“But Commander, that’s a high rank, isn’t it, Daddy? Don’t you have people you can boss around?”
“I’ve been in the Navy 21 years, Annie,” he confided.
That’s what I liked about Daddy – he told you things that were on his mind, like he forgot that you were only twelve going on thirteen. And when he told you, it’s like he was giving you this responsibility to take his side. And you didn’t want to let him down.
“In the beginning, I rose quite quickly, during the war,” he said. “At Pearl Harbor I was a boot ensign, but by the time I met your mother I was already a lieutenant.” We were at the corner of the majestic Arroyo Seco Bridge and the road to downtown. The sun was glowing on the horizon. The air was warming up; there were more cars on the road. Pasadena was waking up to her day.
“In the Navy, there’s a whole social aspect to getting ahead,” Daddy confided. “But with so many kids, it became impossible for your mother. People have their expectations, but it’s a different reality when there are five children at home under the age of seven. You can’t just drop everything and get gussied up for a dinner party. Don’t ever tell her this,” he paused. He looked over to me as if deciding whether or not his secret would be safe with me. He smiled, a bit sadly. “She wasn’t cut out for it. It’s a disappointment. But what could I do? I love your mother.”
So Mother wasn’t inclined to playing Navy wife to Hoity Toitys? I had to agree with him there. I couldn’t imagine her dressed up. There’s no way she would wear high heels. For one, her bunions were as big as her toes from standing on her feet all day.
That’s the problem with Dad, you can get going on a topic, but sooner or later it always comes back to the same thing: how the kids slowed him down, or used up all his money, or took away his golf time. It made me feel guilty and sad. Now he was resigning from the Navy because he didn’t get promoted. And he didn’t get promoted because Mom and us kids were hanging off his neck, relying on him to get bargains on massive amounts of food and keeping him from important cocktail parties. I couldn’t help thinking about the photograph of Mother in the hospital with that mystery baby on her lap. Daddy acted like it never existed. If I had a baby that disappeared, I might not think impressing other Navy wives was an important thing to do either.
“But Dad,” I said, “didn’t God want you to have so many kids? If it’s the kids’ fault, or if it’s Mother’s fault for having so many kids, it’s really God’s fault, isn’t it?”
“God is never at fault, honey. And it’s not your Mother’s fault, either. It’s just a disappointment, that’s all.”
We got to the church doors just in time. The priest was already up on the altar. Mr. Sanchez, who attended Mass every morning since his wife died two years ago, gave Daddy a stiff salute.
“Good morning, Commander. Any news of the Conclave in Rome?” he asked, holding the huge wooden door open for us.
“Nothing yet, Sanchez.” We stepped into the cool church and hushed our voices. “God’s will be done, whatever it is.”
When we got home the house pulsed with the sounds of morning: coffee percolating on the sideboard, the screen door slamming as Bartholomew (#5) put stuff in the VW bus, steam hissing from the iron as Madcap pressed her dress. I melted butter on my steaming bowl of Cream of Wheat, excited at the prospect of an adventure: we were all going to play hooky from school and drive to China Lake with Daddy for his last day in the United States Navy.
We filled the whole front row of the main conference room at the Naval Ordnance Test Station while a bunch of guys in uniforms gave speeches about our dad. Luckily we had training about how to sit still from having to go to Mass every Sunday. Mother had to take Jude to the doorway and put him down so he could toddle around. I love how babies are disobedient, how you can’t always get them to do what you want. They just need what they need. Jude didn’t want to be cooped up in a room with a bunch of boring old Navy officers, and because he was still a baby, all he had to do was wiggle to get a little bit of freedom. But once they learn how to talk, you can control them by telling them stories. They’ll believe anything.
Anyway, the admirals and officers gave Daddy a plaque and he got up to the microphone.
“It’s not so bad that I’m retiring,” he quipped, motioning to the lot of us, “I’ve got my own private mess hall here, in case I get homesick for you guys. Heh, heh, heh.” Everyone laughed with Dad. “Once a year on April 15th, I thank the Lord for these kids. I never pay taxes ‘cause I’ve got so many deductions.” Laughter again. Maybe Daddy was retiring to become a stand-up comedian. He was saying things like, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!” as the punch line, or “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!” As Jude ran through the aisles with Mother chasing after him, everyone was laughing, like they do on TV when Phyllis Diller tells a joke. Then Rosie (#8) called out from the front row, “Don’t give up the ship, Dad!” The crowd roared.
There were a couple of cakes with seven-minute frosting (my favorite) and they had to cut really small slices so all the kids could get a piece. All the commanders and captains were standing around the cake table having coffee, patting Daddy on the back, and bending over and shaking the hands of the little kids. There was one guy who’d survived the war standing on one good leg. The other leg was just a folded pant leg. He had a cane and was dressed in a long khaki coat, so you didn’t really notice it, unless you were short. But I could see that Matthew (#11) was trying to figure it out.
“Him’s got only one leg!” he blurted. The room went silent as all faces turned towards little Matthew, age four, and his big voice. A smile escaped from Daddy, and then he suppressed it. Hopefully no one else saw. We all felt sorry for the guy with only one leg.
After that, we stretched out in a line in front of the enormous metal anchor out in front of the building, in birth order. Paul, aka Big Cheese (#1) at one end, and Mother holding Jude (#13) at the other next to Daddy in his Navy dress whites. We squinted into the sun as the photographer snapped a picture.
As soon as the car doors were shut, the windows were rolled up and we rolled out of the parking lot, Daddy led the charge. “Him’s only got one leg!” he said laughing heartily, egging us on. “Him’s only got one leg!” The carload of us were killing ourselves with laughter, barreling down the highway towards Pasadena.
Dear Jesus, The big surprise was, John-the-Blimp announced that he had decided to join the seminary! No offense to you, but John-the-Blimp is not priest material! He just wants some of that residual glory going around about Father Stefanucci possibly becoming the Pope. Surely you know this, and you’re just letting him work it out on his own. Right? Right?!