South of Broad by Pat Conroy

raise a son who did not dare utter the word shit . A shitless son, I thought as I answered the phone.
    “Hello, King residence. This is Leo speaking.” My Southern race does politesse with thoughtless grace.
    An unknown woman’s voice spoke. “May I speak to Sister Mary Norberta?”
    “Mary Norberta? I’m sorry, but no one lives here by that name.”
    “Excuse me, but I believe you’re mistaken, young man. Sister Norberta and I were novitiates at the Sacred Heart convent many years ago.”
    “My mother is the principal of a high school. My high school. I can assure you that you have the wrong number.”
    “You are Leo,” the voice said. “Her younger son.”
    “Yes, ma’am, I am Leo, her son.”
    “Except for your glasses, you’re a very attractive young man,” she said. “I suggest you remove your glasses when your father takes your photograph.”
    “He’s photographed me my entire life,” I said. “I don’t know what his face looks like, but I know what his camera looks like.”
    “Your mother brags about how witty you are,” the voice said. “You get that from your father’s side of the family.”
    “How would you know?”
    “Oh, I haven’t identified myself, have I? My name is Sister Mary Scholastica. I called to wish your mother a happy Bloomsday. I bet that rings a bell with you, doesn’t it?”
    “Never heard of it,” I said. “Sister Scholastica.”
    “She’s never spoken to you of her time in the convent?”
    “Not once in my life.”
    “Oh, dear, I hope I haven’t broken a confidence,” the nun said.
    “Not that I’m aware of,” I said. “Are you saying that my brother and I were illegitimate?”
    “Oh, heavens, no. I’m afraid I must go gargle; it seems I have put my foot in my mouth. So, has she raised you a feminist? She bragged that she would.”
    My mother had, indeed, bragged such a thing, to everyone, since I was born. “My God in heaven,” I breathed. “You do know her. Sister Norberta, huh?”
    “She was the most beautiful nun I ever saw. Any of us, for that matter. She looked like an angel in her habit,” Sister Scholastica said. “Will she be in later?”
    “Let me give you her phone number at the school.” And I did so, my rage a bile I could hardly control. But then I finished the task: added vanilla and the benne seeds, dropped them in dollops from a coffee spoon on a pan lined with aluminum foil, and placed them in a slow oven. Then I dialed my mother’s number.
    When she answered, I said, “Yes, I admit it: once I called you Mother. But from now on, you’ll be Sister Mary Norberta to me.”
    “Is this one of your jokes?”
    “You tell me, Mother dear, if this is a joke or not. I’m on my knees, praying to St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless causes, that it is a joke.”
    “Who told you this?” my mother demanded.
    “Someone with a dumber-sounding name than Norberta. Her name was Scholastica.”
    “She knows that she’s never supposed to call me at home.”
    “But it’s Bloomsday, Mother,” I said with more than a pinch of sarcasm. “She wanted to share your joy.”
    “Was she drinking?” Mother asked.
    “We were on a telephone. I don’t have a clue.”
    “You get rid of that tone right this minute, mister,” she demanded.
    “Yes, Sister. I’m sorry, Sister. Please forgive me, Sister.”
    “I didn’t really keep this a secret. Look at the photograph on my dresser, the one with his parents and your father. You’ll see.”
    “Why couldn’t you just tell me?” I asked. “And quit saying you’re raising me as a feminist.”
    “You’ve always been strange enough, Leo. Steve knew all about my life as a nun. But you were so different and so difficult that I wasn’t sure how you’d handle it.”
    “It’s going to take a while to get used to this,” I said. “It’s not every day a boy finds out his mother’s a professional virgin.”
    “My vocation was very fulfilling to me,” she informed me firmly, then changed