Thou Shall Not lie

This story belongs to my sister, Margaret, but she’s not here to defend it. So here goes.

It takes place in 1965 on the Sunday before Margaret’s first holy communion at Saint Joseph’s church in Libertyville, Illinois.

We went to the public school, and every Sunday morning we attended religion classes after mass.  The Sisters of Mercy taught us.  That name is the definition of irony.  The sisters showed little mercy to “publics” (kids who did not attend the Catholic school).  They thought our parents doomed us to a life of sin and eternal damnation by sending us to learn among the heathens.  We knew the nuns thought this way because they told us several times every Sunday.

Catholic kids in second grade received their first communion.  In the two months before Margaret’s first communion the nuns gave the students extra lessons after school on Wednesdays.  She was supposed to walk the two blocks from our pagan school to the Catholic school for these classes.  Both the Catholic school students and the publics took the Wednesday instruction at the same time.  Although the nuns kept the publics separated so none of our ungodly cooties infested the blessed Catholic school kids.

Sister Clarisine (which rhymes with kerosene) led the lessons.  She was a chunky older woman who was barely taller than her students.  She carried a cane.  Perhaps she needed a cane to walk; I do remember she did hit the boys with it.  Sisters of Mercy, indeed.

Margaret hated the Wednesday classes.  She did not like being separated from the Catholic school students and the aura of contempt that came from the good sisters. She often took the bus home because she “forgot” to walk over to the Catholic school.  Our mother was too busy with her eight other children to drive Margaret back into town. 

On the Sunday before her first communion Sister Clarisine had Margaret stay after class.

The merciful sister assumed a menacing attitude and said, “Margaret, you have missed too many Wednesday afternoon lessons so you can’t take your first communion next week.  You will have to wait until next year.  Tell your parents.”  All the while she rapped her desk with that cane.  

Why didn’t she warn Margaret’s parents weeks ago, before it was too late?  Nope, this Sister of Mercy dumped the problem right in the eight year old’s lap.  

Poor sister Clarisine, she did not know she would soon be dealing with an entity beyond her comprehension – Margaret’s father.  

That Sunday he was waiting outside to drive his third daughter home.  Pop wasn’t a Ward Cleaver type.  He knew about nuns; specifically he knew who Sister Clarisine was because most of his six older kids had suffered through her first communion classes.  He might have even known about how she used her cane.  He had his own history with the nuns as a student in the Saint Barnabas parish school in the Beverly neighborhood on the southside of Chicago.

Margaret went outside and met Pop.  He was leaning against his 1962 Chevrolet Biscayne station wagon wearing a white tee shirt and an ancient pair of stained khaki pants while smoking an Old Gold cigarette.  Remember, he wasn’t Ward Cleaver – with his cardigan sweater and fragrant pipe.

Margaret tearfully said, “Sister Clarisine told me I can’t take my first communion next week because I missed too many classes.”  

He shook his head, flipped his just lit cigarette into the gutter, grabbed the cane he used compliments of a leg wound he suffered during WWII in the south Pacific, and said, “Come with me.”

They went back into the school and found sister Clarisine still in the classroom.

After assuming a saintly attitude (he was part chameleon) , Pop approached the nun, stood over her while leaning on his walking stick and quietly said, “Sister, may I have a second.”

She replied, “Of course, Mr. Smith.”  She was polite to the father minutes after humiliating his young daughter.

“Sister Clarisine, Margaret told me that she cannot take her first holy communion next week because she has missed too many classes.  I thought her mother had called to explain that Margaret has been extremely sick the last couple of months.  She has missed so much school and is trying to catch-up, as best she can.  I am sorry that you did not know.”

This was one hundred percent hokum, bunk, hogwash and rubbish with a side dish of bullshit.  

Sister Clarisine replied, “Mr. Smith, I had no idea.  Her mother should have called.  Of course Margaret can take communion next week, if she learns the material.”

“Sister, that would be so nice.  Thank you.  Also, please do not mention this to Margaret’s mother, because she has been completely upset by the whole situation.”  

He was playing tournament level poker while sister C. played go fish.

“Of course, Mr. Smith.”

Sister Clarisine gave Pop copies of the lessons and they returned to the car.

Pop said to Margaret, “You will learn this material and not tell your mother, right?”.

“Yes, sir.”

That day Margaret appreciated the kind of old man he was; sometimes a kid needs something more than Ward Cleaver.  Although many decent people would think he was setting a very bad example for her.  Despite all that, she grew up and became a fantastic and well grounded adult.

Those lessons in Margaret’s hands certainly contained the ten commandments, including the one about not lying.   Our father’s version included an additional clause, something like, “unless it serves your purposes and nobody gets hurt.”  His experiences in life made it clear that stuff happens and rules can be interpreted in many ways.  He was drafted in ‘41 and the army taught him that even the seventh commandment, “Thou shall not kill”, had a lot of give in it.  His work after the war as an overnight police reporter for a Chicago newspaper showed him that life included more grey areas than black and white areas.

Why did he do it?  That morning Margaret and sister Clarisine had dealt him a handful of crap cards.  Regarding Margaret’s first communion he had skin in the game because her godfather was supposed to be a guy he worked with.  Additionally our mother had ordered a cake for the party, planned the menu, invited her siblings, sewn a white dress and veil, bought Margaret new white patent leather shoes and frilly little anklets.  Pop had to keep this train on the track, despite the godawful cards in his hand.  He was a gifted poker player; he knew what to do with a handful of nothing – you bluff.  

That’s not lying; it’s bluffing.