Perfect Devotion
Her life was devoted to two things – becoming beautiful and the Catholic Church. Middle daughter of seven born to wealth, her family from Ireland, straight off the boat into the business of alcohol, pubs, and hotels, to serve fellow immigrants, thirsty for home, a pint and a good story or even a sad one. Irish displaced, destitute, moving from shanties in the old country, some to rise to lace curtains in the big city, a new country far away, land of promise they were told.
Helen McDonnell, such a beautiful name, compensation maybe from her parents for the middle girl whose chin was just a little too sharp, nose a bit big maybe, teeth too, like a horse her father would say to anyone listening; not pretty really.
My own mother, Helen‘s only daughter, said to me that her parents thought my grandmother was not very bright either, not sharp inside. Me, listening to my mother, her in her hospice bed, me in my easy chair, asking her questions about her life, her parents, her parents parents, to try and get as much as I could get in the time remaining; to understand the backstory of us women, the generations going back. My own daughter, beautiful now before me, with my mothers strong jaw, dark brows, the beauty having skipped a generation-me with sad brown eyes, round jaw, inherited instead from my father who had said that even though I wasn’t pretty I was smart. Mixed blessing for me. Five women in line, sharing the dna passed, randomly assigned faces on the outside, the quest for the spirit on the inside, to assist us each along our solitary way. My mother took to a degree in pastoral care, to help others suffering in some way, me pulled to Buddhism trying to make sense, my daughter theologian now.
The sad story of Helen, doing her best. I can imagine, lost and unseen, in the mix of her brilliant brothers, her beautiful sisters. What’s a girl to do? the unfairness of the deal back then, to be born female, constrained object only to be viewed or owned, little agency, reliant on the grace of some man arranged early, before she became an old maid, considered a spinster beyond 25, maybe 26. Helen then, eyes prospecting her future, her only solace and refuge the Catholic Church, her Catholic school, Sacred Heart. not bright, and not pretty the unfairness don’t you see. She would try to make herself beautiful and bright. Attending mass at the cathedral as a young girl, horse drawn carriage along the cobbled streets of Philadelphia, nine in all taking their assigned seats, white ruffled dresses, lace veils for the girls, sober suits for the boys, collars slightly tight around the neck, each with their rosary in hand, crosses hanging, swaying slowly in the wooden carriage. To Sunday service, along the mainline, Sunday Drive. At age five, I began to fall in love with this weekly ritual, so calm and regular and soothing It’s appeal to me, ancestral.
My own mother, good catholic, much brighter, brilliant even, but subject to the Catholic church’s dictate to marry early, be fruitful and multiply; fill the pews, no family planning. the pill was a sin, rhythm only remaining, last resort.
So after my youngest sister‘s birth, five children in six years for her to bear, One morning, she sat at the breakfast table with my father and her own mother, dear Helen, come to help, really no help, just another mouth to feed, to clean up after and corral. My mother slid from her chair onto the floor, unable to speak or move, or care for us all. Taken away to a special hospital, but because we were poor, powdered milk poor, She was sent to a state institution. No choice, my father working long hours far in the city, she rubbing nickels together to even buy a washing machine for all the diapers, nappies my grandmother would call them. my just younger brother born nine months after me, Irish twin, too early, yes too fucking soon I think, for her, for him, for all of us. He, just out of diapers now; two more bottoms to monitor, change, repeat. Sharp pins poking thumbs and soft bellies, acrid dampness, toilet dunking, again and again and once again. Too much for her really, who wanted to be a mathematician and so beautiful herself; perfect jaw, hazel eyes, dark brows, a swimmer’s shoulders, and sturdy frame, but not strong enough for this.
After the slide, me at five years old, eldest daughter to be sent away to this grandmother, because I was easy and a girl and would cause no trouble. Her apartment, third floor, Philly brownstone smelling of old wood, lush and dark. she had no children’s toys so she gave me a small pot and a spoon, to pretend I was cooking dinner like her, my stove the low radiator, and warm. My other toy, a small clear glass piggy bank, placed high on the bookshelf. She would give me pennies and nickels to drop in, to then shake out for the poor at collection on Sundays, leaving me enough to buy a stick of candy for myself. So Sweet. And the once fright when this toy shattered in pieces on the floor, me trying to pull it down to count my riches, coins and glass shards flying. She taking me by the hand the next day to the little store around the corner to purchase a new one for me, the small sin forgiven, sweet redemption. For her and me.
Every Friday during Lent she’d make for me the white fish, the white rice, the white sauce, carefully in her electric skillet, soft and tender, a waiting, a purification of sorts. My little frame standing at the radiator, cooking too, looking out the big window across the street at the old Catholic Church, towering gray silent stone. Sunday mornings she would bring out my one dress, sent from home far away. Bobby pins gently to hold the white veil upon my head, placing the crystal rosary in my small hand, we would begin our shared procession, creaking stairs and knees, the front stoop, down the sidewalk, to enter into those wooden doors. Opening to the smell of devotional candles, lit red and flickering on the sides, priest, shrouded in a white dress too, chanting in Latin, and then swinging the chain censer, filling the air with sweet smoke, shrouding us pilgrims in frankincense and myrh, wood pews creaking in the silence. Burned in my memory still, Good Friday service, huddled groups moving darkly down the side aisles to the next station of the Cross, Jesus bent over, carrying his assigned load, falling with the weight of it; so cruel of them I thought, so sad for him. A certain refuge and comfort for me from a certain sadness then, and now.
My own mother did come back, gave it her all, to mother us. But something missing now. Maybe never there. Her bright mind elsewhere now. Having suffered the treatments, the electric prods, mandatory scrubbing of floors to get the pads to catch her blood, fresh wound. the indignity circa 1960s of postpartum depression; the barbarism really.
She would go through the motions, determined, strong willed, looking perfect on the outside but her brightness dimmed. At 7 o’clock each night, when my father returned from work, perfect meal, one pounded piece of meat divided for seven, to sit down at the dinner table, “bless us, oh Lord and these thy gifts“.
She stashed a pack of cigarettes which I found at the top of the fridge one day, suspecting divorce in my young mind, that she would go away again. She started a subscription to Ms. Magazine which she placed strategically on the teak coffee table for all to see, me included. A master plan and silent rebel now.
When Helen, her mother, my grandmother, became too old to live on her own in that old brownstone; the stairs too much for her arthritis and cane, My parents cleared out their master suite, really just a 12 x 12 bedroom in our suburban home with a small bath attached. An inconvenience, possibly a burden to them, no choice. Old wounds for my mother, though, to take in a mother who had not been a good one to her. But to me a gift.
Helen, once promising and promised to, all previous contracts dissolving, falling away, denied her debut into high society which her older sisters had been afforded. Their Papa‘s business went bust with prohibition, blowing all hope for dignity, a smooth trajectory to wealth, a successful man and easy life, drinking tea out of fine China. Middle girl, Helen, good Catholic girl, to marry a Jewish businessman, hoping for ease, bearing a son, also brilliant, but whose birth did not guarantee this man would stay.
Alone her, with her shame, and a small boy now, divorced, an abomination per the pope and once kind priests. The taking of communion denied, consigned to kneel in the confessional only, requiring a litany of her sins. Her life more difficult, devoted herself once again, if half-heartedly, to becoming beautiful, that means to an end now. Left to her own devices really, resorting, resourceful, to find a new man who might stay. My grandfather arrives, good Welshman, a mason, sturdy, carefree, artist, naval officer. Her strange beauty and wherewithal, seen by this man, to marry again and bear my own mother, telling me years later, that since Helen had her boy, her father wanted a girl. And she arrived, to then see him go too, to her misfortune. Pearl Harbor, bombs landing to clear him out. Send him away on some ship, older seaman now, useful body nonetheless for them, this new man to be taken away from Helen and her daughter. Older brother off to Yale, gone, no protection. A sad stage left after this man’s exit. four years gone, formative years they say. My mother, so young, left in this woman’s care. Both sad and wanting. an old photo of my grandmother, in her early forties then, sitting in her upholstered chair, my own mother at some distance, age four or five, silhouetted standing by that same window looking out, forlorn I imagine. They would go to the ocean in the summer, some inexpensive rental, look out over the Atlantic, along the horizon, a temporary widows walk, little girl in tow, eyes looking for signs of his return. Only to be told of German submarines surfacing, enemies only, but no father, no husband, no love. Helen in her sadness, would take her “lay down“ every afternoon in the quiet apartment in the city, necessary for her in her grief. Respite from the girl’s sad eyes staring blankly back at her. Her only girl, daily reminder of the abandonment and loneliness. Silence save for the hissing radiators, only thing providing warmth. Necessary, Helen felt, to lock my mother out, aged four or five, onto the patio for her daily “fresh air“. Coal smog really and often just cold. Bundled in whatever old winter coat still fit, hard white shoes blackened on toes from my own small mother, kicking at the metal door to be let back in, for warmth, some food, just comfort really, needed all around.
The other question for my mother on her soon deathbed, cigarette ash forgotten in the haze of percoset, because she was thinking about my question, going back in time. What was your mother’s childhood like? Did her parents love her? Relating then to me, and not thinking twice, that her mother had told her that her Papa would come home drunk and angry and lock her in the basement. little Helen, unwanted, dispensable, and that her own mother had allowed him to do this to her. my mother’s own nemesis, my own savior. so unable to see past her own early pain. I said it sounds like your mom had a rough childhood, yes I guess she did, so matter of fact. End of her story, she just staring at the star lights twinkling above her head. I had hung them there thinking they would ensure her sweet dreams which I wished her each night, whispering in her turned ear, placing pillows, tucking a fleece under her chin. One time, her turning suddenly to look up at me, hazel eyes clear, lucid for a moment, she said “everything’s going to be okay” sure of it, smiling up at my face so close, making me smile back, and then realizing I don’t think she’s ever spoken those words to me, her own daughter, now grandmother myself. Having waited so long for this mother to arrive for me, making up for lost time.
The teen years for us five kids, 1970s. our parents thinking the hard part is done. Older brother off to seminary, age 14, good Catholic boy, leaving me the oldest now, no role model really for the younger ones. Wool schoolgirl uniform, and Peter Pan collars given up. saddle shoes discarded; all pinching and scratchy, too tight for my 16-year-old body. Asking too many questions really; rebel, smart mouthed now, words and body being freed.
Standing in the garage in torn jeans, Chuck Taylor’s, Aerosmith tee shirt, braless, listening to this oldest brother, golden child, lecture me on the 10 reasons why God exists, scornful eyes on my new body, and me not having any of it. The old church doctrine, the patriarchy, professorial and patronizing. Me resistant to any authority over my body or mind now, fighting any attempt at indoctrination. My father became dismissive and critical, mystified really of his wayward daughter; our shared brown eyes Observing the gap now My mother could sense something was up, hearing me sneak in the back door, any open window, way past any curfew; the smell of cigarettes, beer, whiskey, whatever; hazy eyed, and the scent of some boy or young man on my skin. My dear mother’s sharp mind turning, sits me down at the dining room table to ask me if I was having sexual intercourse yet, strange question between us, but such a kindness I know now. Wishing to save me from unplanned consequences, long-term, and life-changing, she knew. It was one of the few talks we had, Rather it was her, just speaking truths to me, assessing the situation, troubleshooting her first girl. She was overwhelmed by it all clearly, plus three younger ones to manage; her resorting to longer and longer days lying in her dark room, locked, gone away.
A few months later, and I was gone from that house; wild child, once straight-A’s but increasingly bored and restless, high school dropout and looking for adventure now, freedom, some warmth really. You could drive, and I did, in some old car with new friends, complete strangers even, through the forest preserve back then, to buy any drug, find any boy, take any trip with whoever you found yourself with. New families, but unsupervised, often dangerous I see now, but an unleashed me. The first time I was caught, by the side of the road, we were heading to Florida, not strategic enough to make it past the Indiana border. Sent back to that quiet childhood home, alien and surreal. Taken then by what felt like an old collar, placed tightly again on my neck, and dragged off, with my mother’s insistence and my father‘s resignation to a “special” hospital, to be locked up; “harm to Self”, well, not really, if you had asked me. The Rorschach and IQ tests, “what do you see happening in this picture?”; psychiatrists all throwing their hands up, nothing in their books to diagnose my troubles. I learned there only: how to shoot pool and hammer leather with imprints of boy’s names, what haldol would do to a young man whose warm hand had reached out for mine in some sterile, secret stairwell, and what they had done to that old woman, staring blankly ahead under harsh lights after the electricity had been administered.
Learning how to not get caught again or go back, ever. Too much for me at 16, my smart mind, formative really, and my soft heart.
I knew none of this then, at age 10, sharing a room with my little sister, three brothers in bunkbeds next-door, parents retreating to the basement, Jerry-rigged refuge for them. We moved Helen into the room next to mine. Loving that room now, a new open door policy, with this grandmother remembered dearly. Me missing so much the love and affection of maternal hands myself. Her Southern facing window, sitting on the edge of the bed, view of the backyard plot, chain-link bound, solitary rusting swingset. Her bed was soft, like a silken cocoon for me, filled with half melted chocolates I would search for under her pillows. She, letting me sit with her, silent as she clicked through her devotions, black rosary beads in hand at the end of the bed, soft whispering under her breath “Hail Mary, full of grace“. Amen, I would join her silently, to myself, at the end. Me, mesmerized by the kind face of Jesus in the picture she brought from her old bedroom, now hung above some new dresser, Sacred Heart open. here, he points, to the center of his chest, to just love, and its forgiveness.
I would wait patiently there for her, for the ending, watching her watch her little black and white TV on her tea table placed under the window, broadcasting for her the Sunday mass for shut ins; the closest cathedral, in a small black box, squinting her eyes, either from the sun, to see more clearly or just to return again. Busying myself just to stay with her here in this sacristy, dusting scented powder from her dresser, scapulas, prayer books, his Sacred Heart. Ten year-old me, oldest daughter assigned her chores, but really basking in the caring of her- for her Catholicism, her beauty. Washing her stockings with sweet soap in the sink basin, rolling them just so in the towel, hanging them to dry, gently. washing her teeth in the little cup with small brush and minted paste, rinsing, handing over to her, placed with a click, face radiant upon me, teeth perfect now. standing behind her to pull tight her corset strings, using my small weight as counterbalance to her 70 year-old frame, strong but soft. Ever-devoted to becoming beautiful, a once needed, and now habitual thing, to make a small waist from years of settling. Powdered perfumed puff handed over, stockings clipped to garter, slipped into sturdy black heeled shoes. now slipping on her Sunday dress careful of her now white curls, scented, serene now.
We then on our slow Sunday drive in the station wagon, all eight of us, her in front for ease, to 9:30 mass. veil on her head, crystal rosary carried now by hands crippled by arthritis unable to open anymore, but beads shining, glinting in the sun, to my eyes. Holding onto her arm on one side, cane on the other, to make our slow walk, Pilgrimage, to the folding chairs, no pews here, settling her down at the end of an aisle for ease, but always first row. The priest, family friend of course, good Catholics we, Now facing us, speaking words that needed no translation, but lost now that beautiful Latin chanted slow and deep “Kyrie eleison” before, to my bones. No incense, no quiet. The reverence once known, hard to feel for me here now, only 10, but old soul somehow.
And most likely her as well, in her end days, when she needed it most. Her church and mine now was that last bedroom of hers; the quiet, the softness and warmth, sun streaming in, catching air lifted powder, glittering, transcending.
She would die at the nearby naval hospital the next year, alone, pneumonia, struggling to take a breath, a new corset, a constriction again, alone most likely and mystified; afraid, I feel. My tears would not stop, my own mother mystified. Slow shaking memory now etched in my young mind; the phone call, on Good Friday of all days, and mid afternoon, near his time; my mother astonished, relieved maybe, and sad for the loss of a mother, so long familiar the grief. Me, Remembering the ashes upon our shared foreheads, the beginning and end of that beauty. My own eyes and heart observing that miracle, of course, that Helen could learn to love, having been forgiven. And I, the fortunate one, that her confessions had absolved her, he had seen her trail of tears. redeemer and redeemed. Free. Like Jesus of the open heart, and Mary, dear mother, she had long beseeched; rosary, soft clicking unending, devoted “pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death“ Amen.