by Marie Davis and Margaret Hultz.
Sister Rita was petite, slight by adult standards, only fourteen hands high—fourteen, seven-year-old, hands high. Each hand stapled alongside the closet door in her one-bedroom apartment; hand upon sun-faded hand, each resting on top of the other. Hands of children now long gone from Sister’s life; washed out memories from her first class of girls—fourteen hands in all.
“The bathroom is down the hall to the left, not the right. That’s my bedroom so don’t open the door, the cats will get in.” Sister sternly directed each child while they visited her obligatory Saturday afternoon catechism lessons.
Kitten was Clara’s nickname as a child, partly because her baby teeth had come in sharp as razors, pearly white and pointy, and partly because one of the first two words she learned was, “Me.” Dentists told her parents that those tiny sharp teeth were nothing to worry about, and truthfully, it never caused her much trouble, except for the occasion nip on the tongue that would bleed profusely. That taught Clara her second word, “Ow.” Me-ow . . . Pitiful Kitten, forced to attend catechism classes—every Saturday afternoon.
The prettier the day the fouler her mood as her mother pulled up to the Sister’s apartment building. “This is for your own good,” Mother spit through her teeth while ordering Kitten out of the car.
Scowling, the young girl crossed her arms. Breath held. Face reddened. Finally, gasping for air Kitten blurted out, “I’m not going. Please, Mama, please don’t make me go. She makes me . . .”
“What? Read? Pray? You’ve never been good at either of those, so I sure wouldn’t want to go if I were you. But, I did it and you will do it too—it didn’t kill me.”
“NO! I am NOT!”
“Yes, you are going young lady.” Regaining some composure, Mama tried reason, “All young Catholic ladies must go to catechism class. You do want to go to heaven don’t you?”
“No! I don’t care about heaven. I won’t go, and you can’t make me!”
Stomping around the car, Mother grabbed Kitten by the arm and dragged her kicking and screaming up to the front door. Turning around the woman shook her finger, “Now, you listen to me, missy. You will go in there and I will be back in two hours, and if you smarten up your attitude, maybe we can go for ice cream.”
Ding dong.
Kitten pushed the bell.
Sister Rita answered dutifully, with a generous smile, “Well, hello Clara.”
“Hello, Sister,” the young girl said begrudgingly.
“Did you read your lesson?”
Clara nodded.
“Good, come in and have a seat on the couch and read to me about Saint Francis of Assisi.
Sister Rita sat down next to Clara as she opened up her catechism book. The nun put her arm around the girl and leaned in, she breathed through her student’s hair, letting some of it get stuck on her tongue. She liked the taste of obstinate little girl’s hair, it always smelled like the lunchroom, and tasted like stolen candy from the corner market.
Clara began to read aloud, “The Church prays that we be delivered from a sudden and unforeseen death. We ask Mary to pray for us now and at the hour of our death. Death would have no great terrors for you if you had a quiet conscience. If you aren’t fit to face death today, it is very unlikely you will be tomorrow . . .”
“Hmm . . . very unlikely . . . well done. Go on girl.”
“Woe on those who will die in mortal sin! Blessed are they who will be found in your most holy will, for the second death will not harm them . . .”
Sister interrupted, “Yes, yes, the second death will not harm . . . Oh my, Clara! Where did you get that cut on your knee?”
“I climbed the tree in my backyard, higher than Jimmy Clark,” she bragged. “He was too scared to go that high—he’s a scaredy-cat.”
“Oh, I see, how prideful,” the Sister pulled the little girl onto her lap. “Let me take a good look at that, maybe you need some Mercurochrome?” The nun pushed up her skirt for a better look.
“Now, how did you get this?” The sister leaned down and kissed the knee.
Clara froze.
Not moving her lips from the girl’s leg, she one-eyed Clara’s face.
The girl had a faraway gaze.
Sister Rita continued to kiss the girl’s leg, pushing the skirt up further as she moved along the inner thigh.
Clara jerked her legs away, kneeing sister in the jaw, she hollered, “I got it from meanness, Mama says.”
“Ouch!” The nun snapped, grabbing her jaw. Seizing an oak switch as she stood up and growled, “Oh you little miss so and so.” Clara darted around the coffee table. Sister pointed the switch and a thin knobby finger, “You little devil! Your soul is going straight to hell.”
“No! It’s not.” Clara headed towards the front door, but was stopped short by a yank from the nun.
“Put your hands out. PUT YOUR HANDS OUT!”
“NO!” Clara refused and hid them behind her back.
“The devil wants you child, the devil wants you.” Wrestling around the room, the nun managed to drag Clara’s left arm from behind her. Swat, swat swat! She hit the palm of the young girl’s hand. The sharp sting cut through the nerves in her body like knives.
“OUCH! STOP IT!”
Swat swat . . . The switch sang through the air.
“Please . . . please . . . I won’t be mean anymore.”
The nun stopped swinging, “You won’t?”
“No,” Clara whimpered through her tears.
“Now, that’s much better,” the nun hugged her to her breasts. “Dear child . . . you go in the bathroom and splash some cold water on your face.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“That’s better,” she pinched the girl’s cheeks, “We can love that devil right out of you and save your soul.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Clara headed down the foreboding hallway; four cats weaved between her legs as she walked. Meow . . . meow . . . meow . . .
The nun sternly directed, “The bathroom is down the hall to the left, not the right. That’s my bedroom so don’t open the door, the cats will get in. Splash some cold water on your face . . . but take your shirt off—the Lord would not want you to get it wet.”
“Yes ma’am.” The bathroom’s familiar smell of bleach, dusting powder and toothpaste made her nauseous. An overhead florescent light flickered as she started to take her shirt off. Eight, it was always eight buttons. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,” Clara took a deep breath, “eight.” The shirt released its hold on her and fell open. She pulled her arms through the holes, careful to fold the white cotton, making certain to adhere to its starched creases. Pulling off her undershirt, her nipples lightly puckered from breasts that were only a promise. She stepped out of her plaid, pleated skirt, lightly admonishing herself for its short length while she slid out of her panties, embarrassingly moist with urine. Her socks and saddle shoes were next, the fashionable shoes she had begged her mother for, shoes like all the other girls. Placing them perfectly on top of the pile of clothes, and then cracking open the bathroom door, she set her belongings on the carpet just outside.
Meow. A cat scampered over her immaculately folded clothes and into the bathroom. It playfully curled around her legs. Clara heard Sister Rita say, “Very good child, perhaps Jesus can love the sin out of you.”
Clara stared at herself in the full-length mirror. A little girl, she was just a little girl, her body was bare of hair except for the brown pigtails that were usually tied so tight that they gave her a headache. Her plump belly was rosy and so were her trembling knees.
The door swung open a few more inches and in walked another cat followed by Sister Rita.
Clara reached down and picked up the old pistol sitting on the toilet, put it to her temple and this time truly pulled the trigger.
Come Sunday morning beloved Sister Rita, named after the patron saint of impossible causes, did not show for the mass preparations. Worried, several parishioners and Father Albert walked to her small apartment just one block away. The Father kept reassuring each one, “You know Sister Rita is getting older and a bit forgetful from time to time. Surely she’s just over slept?”
Police reports tried to keep the details of the suicide quiet out of respect for the old woman who had worked tirelessly for sixty years as a vicious advocate for victimized children. Nevertheless, even good church people cannot withstand tacky gossip, and word got around that Sister Rita was found naked in her bathroom, right next to her old girls’ school uniform.