pocket of virtuous ignorance. She didn’t admit that
Ivanhoe
bored her; it is a famous book, an important book, and Joseph and her father like it, so she will not allow herself to understand that she is bored with it; she tells herself that what she’s feeling isn’t boredom but something else, something whose name she doesn’t know, because books are never boring and if her father and Joseph are interested it must be interesting, and what she is feeling is not important or not real but has to do with the fever.
“You and Joseph were lying on the bed together?”
Her alarm, then, seeing the nun thinks it’s wrong, realizing she should have known it.
“It was my father’s bed. Joseph’s and my rooms are next to each other and my father’s is across the hall. He could hear we were awake.”
“Your rooms are next to each other?”
A knife falls down between them.
“Your father has been very kind to Joseph and his mother. I’m sure they’re very grateful.”
“They’re like our family.”
She said that because she thought it was something the nun could understand, and she was hoping it would make her forget that there was something bad about her and Joseph lying on her father’s bed. But the minute Sister Berchmans asked the question—“Your rooms are next to each other?”—Maria knew it was wrong, although it wasn’t wrong before, so it was wrong but it
wasn’t
wrong, and for the first time in her life Maria experienced moral confusion. So she said, “Joseph is like a brother to me, we’re like brother and sister,” and Sister Berchmans said, “I’m sure.”
Maria saw the light glint off her rimless glasses and took in for the first time that the nun had some darkish hairs on her upper lip. And she knew that she and Joseph were in danger, and she had put them there.
It wasn’t long after that conversation with Sister Berchmans that Maria’s father took Joseph to the city, just the two of them.
When they came home, her father looked a little flushed and Joseph looked sick. He went right up to his room. When she knocked on the door, he said he was busy. Then she realized he was crying. When she went into her own room, she could hear his sobs through the wall. Joseph rarely cried, even as a child, and when he did his tears were modest, reluctant, whereas Maria’s were loud and violent.
Joseph still looked punished when he came down for dinner. Maria’s father tapped his water glass with a knife, as if demanding silence. But no one had been saying anything.
“I have an exciting announcement. Joseph and I had a marvelous adventure today. Today we met Brother Raphael, the head of Portsmouth Priory. Starting in September, Joseph will have the privilege of studying with the brothers at the finest boys’ school in America.”
Maria jumped up and stood close to her father, closer than he liked. “Joseph will be going away to school?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you doing this?” she shouted at her father.
“It’s a great opportunity for Joseph.”
And then she knew he was a liar, and she hated liars, and she saw his cruelty, and the cruelty of Sister Berchmans and Father Lynch, the cruelty of a whole way of life, a way that believed in purity and punishment, and she understood that this was happening because people, starting with Sister Berchmans, thought it was wrong that they were a boy and girl not related living in the same house. And this had happened because she trusted Sister Berchmans, who was unworthy of trust. She would never forgive them, any of them.
And she never has.
. . .
These were the Kennedy years, when people of Maria’s age dreamed of going into the Peace Corps, dreamed of facing down Bull Connor’s dogs and Lester Maddox’s hatchets. Maria saw Joseph’s being sent away as an injustice she must stand up against. If her father could be untruthful, she could, in the name of justice, be the same. If Joseph was being banished, she would see that she
Ivanhoe
bored her; it is a famous book, an important book, and Joseph and her father like it, so she will not allow herself to understand that she is bored with it; she tells herself that what she’s feeling isn’t boredom but something else, something whose name she doesn’t know, because books are never boring and if her father and Joseph are interested it must be interesting, and what she is feeling is not important or not real but has to do with the fever.
“You and Joseph were lying on the bed together?”
Her alarm, then, seeing the nun thinks it’s wrong, realizing she should have known it.
“It was my father’s bed. Joseph’s and my rooms are next to each other and my father’s is across the hall. He could hear we were awake.”
“Your rooms are next to each other?”
A knife falls down between them.
“Your father has been very kind to Joseph and his mother. I’m sure they’re very grateful.”
“They’re like our family.”
She said that because she thought it was something the nun could understand, and she was hoping it would make her forget that there was something bad about her and Joseph lying on her father’s bed. But the minute Sister Berchmans asked the question—“Your rooms are next to each other?”—Maria knew it was wrong, although it wasn’t wrong before, so it was wrong but it
wasn’t
wrong, and for the first time in her life Maria experienced moral confusion. So she said, “Joseph is like a brother to me, we’re like brother and sister,” and Sister Berchmans said, “I’m sure.”
Maria saw the light glint off her rimless glasses and took in for the first time that the nun had some darkish hairs on her upper lip. And she knew that she and Joseph were in danger, and she had put them there.
It wasn’t long after that conversation with Sister Berchmans that Maria’s father took Joseph to the city, just the two of them.
When they came home, her father looked a little flushed and Joseph looked sick. He went right up to his room. When she knocked on the door, he said he was busy. Then she realized he was crying. When she went into her own room, she could hear his sobs through the wall. Joseph rarely cried, even as a child, and when he did his tears were modest, reluctant, whereas Maria’s were loud and violent.
Joseph still looked punished when he came down for dinner. Maria’s father tapped his water glass with a knife, as if demanding silence. But no one had been saying anything.
“I have an exciting announcement. Joseph and I had a marvelous adventure today. Today we met Brother Raphael, the head of Portsmouth Priory. Starting in September, Joseph will have the privilege of studying with the brothers at the finest boys’ school in America.”
Maria jumped up and stood close to her father, closer than he liked. “Joseph will be going away to school?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you doing this?” she shouted at her father.
“It’s a great opportunity for Joseph.”
And then she knew he was a liar, and she hated liars, and she saw his cruelty, and the cruelty of Sister Berchmans and Father Lynch, the cruelty of a whole way of life, a way that believed in purity and punishment, and she understood that this was happening because people, starting with Sister Berchmans, thought it was wrong that they were a boy and girl not related living in the same house. And this had happened because she trusted Sister Berchmans, who was unworthy of trust. She would never forgive them, any of them.
And she never has.
. . .
These were the Kennedy years, when people of Maria’s age dreamed of going into the Peace Corps, dreamed of facing down Bull Connor’s dogs and Lester Maddox’s hatchets. Maria saw Joseph’s being sent away as an injustice she must stand up against. If her father could be untruthful, she could, in the name of justice, be the same. If Joseph was being banished, she would see that she
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