What’s it like being from a big family? They ask with a smile, an expectation of the wholesomeness of The Brady Bunch or the nastiness of Shameless. If they're from a big family themselves, it's What number are you? Here, they heap any beef or affection toward their sibling corresponding to that number onto you. I’m the ninth of thirteen children. Everyone thinks their family is “normal” until the world tells them otherwise.
It was 1974, in Sister Agnes’s fourth-grade classroom, that I first suspected something was up with my family. Back then, self-esteem was not a thing. To avoid conceit, the Sisters of Mercy were miserly with praise. This was especially true for Sister Agnes, who received her teaching certificate in 1936. One hint of your standing was the classroom seating chart. The smartest sat in the first row, first seat, while the dumbest sat in the sixth row, sixth seat. I sat in the second row, fourth seat. Not bad.
My best friend, Debbie McManus, fifth row, first seat, knew everything. She knew whose family was the poorest, who reeked of B.O., and whose aunt had an affair with the departed parish priest. Her seat was perfectly positioned to update us when Sister Agnes abruptly stopped the English lesson and responded to someone in the shadowy hallway just outside the classroom’s heavy walnut door.
“Shhhh!” She said to get the boys’ attention. They never listened. “Father Riley is here!” The mention of the pastor’s name snapped us out of our fidgety boredom.
“He’s coming!” She said from the side of her mouth, with her hands folded on her desk. We adjusted ourselves accordingly.
A slow hiss from the radiator filled the silence, creating an invisible metallic mist above our heads. Each desk had a hollow inkwell on the upper right-hand side and wrought-iron decorative feet bolted to the oak floor. Father Riley entered, finding us upright and attentive.
As far as any of us knew, Father Riley had been the pastor of St. Gabriel Parish since its founding in 1880. His ghostlike presence harkened an era when this grey tower of a man still ruled the intimate details of each of his parishioners' lives. A smug Sister Agnes, who had been threatening us all morning, trailed at a respectable distance. You’ll be sorry once Fr. Riley gets here. He won’t put up with such shenanigans and fuss-budgets! She found the lifestyle changes of the late 1960’s to be an affront to all that was decent and clamored for us to receive our just desserts. Father Riley, who had been hearing his parishioners' confessions for decades, seemed to greet the inevitable modern changes with a weary acceptance. His black vestments and white collar elicited a welcome sense of order among both children and adults, alongside a not-so-welcome feeling of shame for our respective roles in disrupting it.
Father Riley gingerly sat in Sister Agnes’s chair and raised his silver-grey eyes. As if Jesus himself had materialized before us, we were humbled and terrified. Unable to look away, we returned his gaze, amazed to see another being in Sister Agnes’s impenetrable space. As Sister Agnes flitted about, her navy polyester skirt swished above thick nylons and men's-style black shoes. With a downturned smile, she placed all necessary papers in front of Father Riley.
“Due to Father’s important schedule, he will distribute report cards only to the boys today,” Sister Agnes announced. Father Riley glanced up at her. Sensing his question, Sister Agnes turned to Father, and they communicated in silence. As children tend to do whenever sensing adults in conflict, we perked up and leaned in. Father Riley was the pastor, and a man, but we knew most nuns, including Sister Agnes, also had a certain masculine energy. Eventually, Sister Agnes broke the stare and addressed the class, delivering a message for Father Riley. “The girls will receive their report cards from our principal, Sister Alphonso, later this afternoon.” Father seemed satisfied, and if any girl found this unsatisfactory, she dared not speak.
The smudged chalky remains of a diagrammed sentence were now forgotten. As were our used textbooks, corners softened and frayed. Piles of loose mimeographed math sheets sat on the back table with the blade of the paper cutter, as long as my forearm, which, for now, sat safely idle. As Father shuffled the reports, we expected that, finally, the boys, who had been monopolizing and disrupting our classroom throughout the school year, would finally meet their maker. So, to speak.
“Kevin Ahern?” Father Riley said, looking around the classroom. Nobody moved. Keven Ahern was publicly belittled and personally bullied by Sister Agnes several times daily. Of course, we didn’t call it bullying. At the time, it was discipline. But we knew. All shrank with dread each time Sister Agnes stopped the lesson and rested her crow-like gaze on Keven Ahern. From his sixth-row, fourth-seat position, his ruddy complexion became inflamed. He stood. With hands at his side, he passed the steaming radiators below the wide, heavy windows. We ached for him but dared not turn away.
Father Riley reviewed Kevin’s report card, taking in the 1’s (unsatisfactory work) and “behavior checks” (disruptive in class, unprepared for class, missing work, etc.). Kevin stopped three feet from the desk. Sister Agnes, from the blackboard, nudged him closer with the point of her chin. His eyes widened as Father Riley motioned him to stand beside him next to Sister Agnes’s chair. Father looked directly at Kevin’s face, and his shoulders slumped. He leaned close to Kevin so that only those in the front seats could hear.
“I know you will do better next term, Master Ahern,” Father said. We paused in confusion. That was it? No beating? No berating? Kevin took his report card and floated back to his seat in a daze. We huffed in disappointment.
Next was Thomas Bailey. Thomas sat in the first row, second seat. He had a tight buzz cut and a fat head that blotched up whenever he interacted with another human being. Thomas didn’t have any brothers or sisters. Nobody knew his parents, and as far as we knew, he had no friends. When he approached the desk, Father was still reviewing his undoubtedly near-perfect report. Without a word, he reached out and gave Thomas a hardy handshake. We thought this appropriate.
And so, it went as Father summoned each of the seventeen boys in alphabetical order. I looked to Debbie for distraction, but she sat with her elbows propped on her desk, holding a chewed-up pencil near her lips, ready to insert at any minute. I cleared my throat to get her attention. Nothing. Knowing Sister Agnes despised such idle behavior, I doodled on the back of a faded yellow folder.
Father called Johnny Vaughan, a scrawny kid who was never one to accept punishments stoically. Before he reached the front of the room, he was already sniveling. As if in a confessional booth, the two spoke earnestly in hushed tones.
“Now, son, I know you can do better than this. The Lord knows this as well.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Father,” Johnny gushed. We had seen this show before. By the time Father Riley left, the girls slouched in their seats with boredom, and the boys were limp with exhaustion.
Sister Agnes passed out damp, ink-smelling, long division worksheets, and we settled back in our routine. The smell of the purple ink mixed with the chalky dust and the earthworm scent of our wool uniforms. As we worked, Sister Agnes rolled a Kleenex generously in each nostril before returning it into the sleeve of her modern-style habit. Without warning, the broad shoulders of our principal, Sister Alphonso, filled the walnut doorframe. We roused ourselves to a straight-back position, and Sister Agnes stood at her desk.
“I spoke with Father Riley.” Sister Alphonso’s deep voice vibrated down the rows of desks. “He reports that your class provided a fine example of the students of Saint Gabriel.” The latter half of the sentence was addressed to Sister Agnes, who bowed her head to accept the compliment. Sister Alphonso adhered to a leadership style that provided little time for her staff or the 650 students in her charge. Parents were merely expected to present their children in first grade and, unless otherwise notified, attend their graduation in eighth grade.
“It has come to my attention that several students did not submit their church envelopes this past Sunday,” Sister Alphonso said without fanfare. There was no mention of the girl’s report cards. Her left hand held a single sheet of paper—a list.
“Kevin Ahern, Tony Green, Maura Fitzpatrick, Mark Johnson, and Johnny Vaughan, please rise,” she instructed. Upon hearing my name, everything stopped. Did she say Maura Fitzpatrick? I looked to Debbie, whose panicked expression told me everything. I wobbled out of my stiff desk and stood, mind swirling, gut quivering. Pressure filled my forehead as I faced the mortifying truth that I might actually cry.
“Master Ahern, tell me why you were not at church on Sunday,” Sister Alphonso plowed forward without as much as a nod toward Sister Agnes, who remained standing, protecting the territory behind her desk. With renewed interest, I awaited Kevin’s answer. Perhaps he could show me how to get out of this.
Everyone knew that Kevin’s parents were a lot of fun and probably didn’t go to church half the time. When in the school hall for a pancake breakfast, Mr. Ahern, a fireman, washed big pots in the kitchen and joked with the other dads. Mrs. Ahern parted her hair down the middle in wings. She wore a brown corduroy blazer and a matching suede skirt. She was usually in a deep conversation at one of the long banquet tables with another mom, drinking coffee, an overflowing ashtray between them.
My Mom and Dad, on the other hand, seemed older than the Aherns. My Mom constantly cleaned and demanded that we either do the same or watch the babies. My father stopped at Shorty’s bar for one beer and one beer only each night after work. We had the table set, and supper was ready as soon as he washed up. In the evenings, my dad worked on the car, rewired a toaster, or fixed a leaky faucet while my mom bathed the babies. No fun at all. The entire class turned once again toward Kevin Ahern.
“Um, we were in Wisconsin,” mumbled Kevin. This was plausible. The Aherns did spend a lot of time in Twin Lakes.
“And did you attend mass in Wisconsin, Master Ahern?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“And what Mass did you attend?” Nobody risked even a silent breath.
“Ten o’clock, Sister, at Our Lady of the Lake,” Keven managed to eke out to our collective relief. We all knew it was a lie, but Sister Alphonso accepted the answer and questioned the next on her list. One by one, each defendant put forth various fictions.
“I lost my envelope.”
“I was sick.”
“We went to my grandmother’s church in Bridgeport.” Then I heard it.
“Maura Fitzpatrick?” I couldn’t think. I felt Debbie turn to me. Thomas Bailey and Kevin Ahern were also facing my direction. The realization that the entire classroom was now looking at me left me unable to carry out my plan: to say, “I’m sorry, Sister, I forgot the envelope.” This, too, was a lie. But the truth was too hard to explain.
In our house, the church envelopes were piled on the kitchen counter by the phone. Six of my brothers and sisters also attended St. Gabe’s. Therefore, in theory, five other boxes of school envelopes would be there among old pens, coupons, recipes, broken crayons, and scraps of paper documenting messages from missed phone calls written with the broken crayons. I had scanned the boxes of envelopes, but only found those for my two older sisters and my little brother. I looked on my mother’s dresser, where one might find the envelopes among the thin combs, diaper safety pins with faded yellow ducks at the head, blue plastic rosary beads, clumps of used Kleenex, empty candy wrappers, prayer cards, a few pennies, and a tin of spare buttons. No luck. At this point, we were running late, and I heard Mom and Dad ordering us to hurry. There was no time to search the kitchen counter again. Wearing one brown earth shoe, I foraged the floor of the front hall closet for the other, where I found a white crocheted poncho that would match my hand-me-down blue bell-bottoms. We’re late! It’s ten minutes to Ten! Let’s go! My waist-long hair, unbrushed, was tangled and frizzed, but I found the other shoe. The yelling intensified as two of my brothers, both reaching for the same belt, began shoving each other. I had to skip the envelope. Besides, my mother was never crazy about these church envelopes. Even when we weren’t late, even when, as instructed, I remembered the envelope the night before and asked my mom for a dime, the recommended amount to put in the envelope, she would hiss, "Get my purse!" As if I personally benefited from receiving the dime. As if any of this was my idea.
And so that’s what it is like to be from a big family. Of course, I could never say this to Sister Alphonso. Or to anyone. But as I stood next to the fourth desk in the second row in my nearly catatonic state, Sister Alphonso raised her hand.
“Oh, you’re a Fitzpatrick. You may sit, my dear,” she said dismissively. “I know you go to church.” Sister Alphonso and Sister Agnes shared a satisfied glance, one usually reserved for the likes of the brainy Thomas Bailey, or for Eileen Hickey, the mousy sixth grader who consistently won the spelling bee. Or for Patricia Fuller, the matronly eighth grader who read the first and second readings at each First Friday Mass slowly and clearly so that the entire congregation could hear the Lord’s word.
Stunned, I grappled to understand my good fortune. Before I could move, I saw the resentful fold on Johnny Vaughan’s face and heard the tsking at the unfairness of it all from the girls around me. But I didn’t mind. Sweet relief softened my face and limbs as I slid into the safety of my grounded desk. I covered my mouth, but it was too late. Debbie lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows at the smugness of my concealed smirk.