deodorant—of which none of us had ever heard.
Even Jessie Wozynoski seemed well enough to go. Sister felt she could manage her since Jessie had just fainted in Ancient History two days before, and Jessie seldom fainted twice in the same week.
Jessie was a sad, dark eyed girl who lived with her grandmother and grandfather. She was our only contact with the Continental life, for Jessie had been born in Paris, and spent her first and formative years shuttling between the Italian and the French Riviera. Her father was old Polish Aristocracy and her mother a Bavarian princess. Neither of them had much fun together and no official country to have what little they had together. From what we had heard, Jessie’s parents had shipped the grandmama and grandpapa and Jessie to this country while they still shuttled between Rivieras. Jessie usually left school a good month before we did to join them in some exotic spa like La Napoule or Biarritz. She was the only person we had ever met who had their own room every year on the “Queen.” Jessie was taller and paler than any of us, and I think a year or two older than the rest of us. We all rather liked Jessie, as she was sweet and provided us with a twist from our common heritage. The only problem with Jessie was that she fainted. And she fainted rather dramatically. None of this business of just slumping down. No. Jessie would stand dramatically—bolt upright—in the middle of Ancient History or Algebra or wherever she was about to go, utter a superb moan, “Siiiiisisssster,” and crash down flat on the floor and on her face. She often cut her lip or her eye on the sides of desks, but no one ever doubted the authenticity of the faint. No one would just crash like that unless they meant business.
Mother Superior sent her off to the convent doctor who pronounced her sound of body but high-strung; the chaplain’s doctor pronounced her sound of mind but peaked. Sister Nurse thought her blood was weak, Sister Cook made her drink heavy broths with egg in them and Jessie had to report before lunch for a pill and a glass of port. Jessie’s only active thank you for the attention was to faint one day in the kitchen.
Of course, we treasured the moments of her downfalls since they afforded a good fifteen minute break in our monotonous morning or afternoon. Most of all, we enjoyed Jessie’s fainting at the Communion Rail or at a public ceremony. But basically, there was nothing really wrong with Jessie—at least not enough for the school to send her away, and somehow we all learned in our years at St. Marks to be quick enough to try and catch Jessie (though she was very crafty about timing), and if we didn’t catch her we at least knew we should pat her wrists, get a cold cloth and fetch the first Sister that we could.
Sister Mary William made a point of taking Jessie with us. She felt that Jessie should see something of scope in our country. “After all,” she said, “she’s seen the famous landmarks of Europe—why not right here in Chicago.” Mother Superior wasn’t keen at all and Jessie bit her nails and tried to stay upright for a week so that she, too, could visit this Mecca of the Midwest.
Mother Superior herself bundled Jessie into her clothes. In fact, Jessie looked like a large walking mummy with a stocking cap and two sweaters, a coat and a large scarf that was wound Nefertiti fashion from her bosom up to her nostrils. In fact, the fashion back ground we all received at St. Marks was certainly a firm foundation for a life of a frumpdom.
By the time the bus left, the driver was trying to keep his window clear of steam—if was so cold in the bus that our breath quickly frosted the windows, leaving him in somewhat of a cloudlike atmosphere. Also, we sang a lot—which didn’t help him one whit.
It was one of those icy-red days in Chicago, when it’s so cold the wind seems to unbutton your coat and twist around you like a muffler. The bus could only go as far as
Even Jessie Wozynoski seemed well enough to go. Sister felt she could manage her since Jessie had just fainted in Ancient History two days before, and Jessie seldom fainted twice in the same week.
Jessie was a sad, dark eyed girl who lived with her grandmother and grandfather. She was our only contact with the Continental life, for Jessie had been born in Paris, and spent her first and formative years shuttling between the Italian and the French Riviera. Her father was old Polish Aristocracy and her mother a Bavarian princess. Neither of them had much fun together and no official country to have what little they had together. From what we had heard, Jessie’s parents had shipped the grandmama and grandpapa and Jessie to this country while they still shuttled between Rivieras. Jessie usually left school a good month before we did to join them in some exotic spa like La Napoule or Biarritz. She was the only person we had ever met who had their own room every year on the “Queen.” Jessie was taller and paler than any of us, and I think a year or two older than the rest of us. We all rather liked Jessie, as she was sweet and provided us with a twist from our common heritage. The only problem with Jessie was that she fainted. And she fainted rather dramatically. None of this business of just slumping down. No. Jessie would stand dramatically—bolt upright—in the middle of Ancient History or Algebra or wherever she was about to go, utter a superb moan, “Siiiiisisssster,” and crash down flat on the floor and on her face. She often cut her lip or her eye on the sides of desks, but no one ever doubted the authenticity of the faint. No one would just crash like that unless they meant business.
Mother Superior sent her off to the convent doctor who pronounced her sound of body but high-strung; the chaplain’s doctor pronounced her sound of mind but peaked. Sister Nurse thought her blood was weak, Sister Cook made her drink heavy broths with egg in them and Jessie had to report before lunch for a pill and a glass of port. Jessie’s only active thank you for the attention was to faint one day in the kitchen.
Of course, we treasured the moments of her downfalls since they afforded a good fifteen minute break in our monotonous morning or afternoon. Most of all, we enjoyed Jessie’s fainting at the Communion Rail or at a public ceremony. But basically, there was nothing really wrong with Jessie—at least not enough for the school to send her away, and somehow we all learned in our years at St. Marks to be quick enough to try and catch Jessie (though she was very crafty about timing), and if we didn’t catch her we at least knew we should pat her wrists, get a cold cloth and fetch the first Sister that we could.
Sister Mary William made a point of taking Jessie with us. She felt that Jessie should see something of scope in our country. “After all,” she said, “she’s seen the famous landmarks of Europe—why not right here in Chicago.” Mother Superior wasn’t keen at all and Jessie bit her nails and tried to stay upright for a week so that she, too, could visit this Mecca of the Midwest.
Mother Superior herself bundled Jessie into her clothes. In fact, Jessie looked like a large walking mummy with a stocking cap and two sweaters, a coat and a large scarf that was wound Nefertiti fashion from her bosom up to her nostrils. In fact, the fashion back ground we all received at St. Marks was certainly a firm foundation for a life of a frumpdom.
By the time the bus left, the driver was trying to keep his window clear of steam—if was so cold in the bus that our breath quickly frosted the windows, leaving him in somewhat of a cloudlike atmosphere. Also, we sang a lot—which didn’t help him one whit.
It was one of those icy-red days in Chicago, when it’s so cold the wind seems to unbutton your coat and twist around you like a muffler. The bus could only go as far as
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