Love May Fail

  Even though I’m not really religious, her offer makes me feel a little better. So far, people are nice here, at least.

  I wonder if Mother Catherine just moved in. There are boxes all over the floor, and nothing hung on the walls. She sits down in a throne of leather behind a large wooden desk and motions for me to sit in the much more modest wooden chair facing her, so I do.

  She examines my face for a moment or two, like she’s sizing me up. “This is my first week as principal here, and you are my first official order of business. Do you want to know why you were called in for an interview after the position had already been filled a month ago?”

  “I’m happy to interview, regardless of why the position has opened up. I’m ready to teach,” I say. I had no idea there had been a previous hiring for the job. I’ve shotgunned my CV around to so many places that I can’t really keep track of them all.

  “I see you’re a no-nonsense type of guy. I like your style, Mr. Bass,” she says, and then gives me a smile. “If you get hired today, you’ll no doubt learn the gossip soon enough—that is, if you haven’t already read today’s local paper. There were some unethical hiring practices going on. The former principal is being accused of abusing his authority, and the attractive young woman he hired earlier in the summer has filed a sexual harassment lawsuit against us. So here I am, filling in as emergency principal, and here you are.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.

  “Those are my cards. Right there on the table,” she says. “Let’s see yours.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why haven’t you been hired yet?”

  “I don’t know. I’m ready to teach, though. I’m an excellent teacher.”

  “Are you a practicing Catholic?”

  “No.”

  “Are you a nonpracticing Catholic?”

  I swallow once and shake my head.

  “Do you believe in God, at least?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say, and it’s true—I pretty much believe in God, or maybe I don’t not believe in God.

  “Well, that’s certainly a good start. Now, should we hire you, would you be willing to uphold the beliefs and morals of the Catholic Church in your classroom, or are you one of those teachers who want to Trojan-horse us?”

  “Trojan-horse you?”

  “Sneak inside our walls using some sort of philosophical disguise and then attack from within. I’ve seen it happen a million times. People take jobs working for the Catholic Church and then they want to challenge the roles of nuns and priests and debate all sorts of things just to get everyone upset. We don’t need that, especially at an elementary school. You don’t have to agree with everything the Catholic Church does, but if you want to work here and take home a check every two weeks, you have to at least be respectful of the institution providing you with a job.”

  This nun is intense, I think. “I just want to teach kids how to read and do math. Help them learn how to write. I have no other agenda than to educate. Especially regarding six-year-olds. I mean, it’s first grade, right?”

  She looks into my eyes for what seems like an eternity. “I believe you. Good.”

  I nod, because I don’t know what else to do, and when the sound of the air conditioning blowing full blast starts to get uncomfortable, I say, “Would you like to see my teaching portfolio?”

  “In order to speed up the process—and especially in light of recent events here at our school—I’ve already spoken with your references, including the cooperating teacher with whom you did your student teaching, Mrs. Baxter. She was absolutely lovely on the phone, and she’s already told me everything I need to know about what you are capable of doing in the classroom.” Mother Catherine pauses, smiles knowingly, and says, “Before I ask this next question, I would like to preface it by saying I am a Catholic woman, and Catholic women believe in redemption and the power of forgiveness. But we do not suffer liars all that well. No, we surely do not. So with that in mind, why is there a rather large blank on your CV? Who were you before you decided to teach little children?”

  I can feel my throat start to close, my palms becoming slick, my tongue drying up, and my forehead turning bright red.

  Remember what Kirk said, I tell myself. Be strong for Portia so you can start building a future. Be the man she can admire.

  Mother Catherine is tapping the tips of her index fingers against each other, waiting for me to answer, but instead of opening my mouth, I open my wallet, pull out my Official Member of the Human Race card, and hand it to her.

  “What’s this?” she says, a bit surprised for the first time during the interview, which feels like a good sign for some reason.

  “My high school English teacher made it for me,” I say. “Go ahead. Read it.”

  I watch Mother Catherine’s eyes move back and forth as she reads the lines, and a smile creeps its way up her face. “Please explain,” she says when she finishes.

  So I tell her all about Mr. Vernon, and what an influence he was on me, and how I never told him thank you and always regretted it. Before I can stop myself, I’m telling her about my heroin addiction and how I finally came to admit I had a problem and then went to rehab, where I used Mr. Vernon as a lighthouse as I got clean, making teaching my ultimate goal. It feels so freeing to say all of this out in the open, in an interview, no less—so much so that I wonder why I didn’t do it earlier. I am killing this interview now. There is a confidence in my voice that I haven’t heard for a long time, and I can see it registering on Mother Catherine’s face, which gives me even more swagger, and so I tell her all about Mr. Vernon being attacked in the classroom and how Portia and I tried to save him.

  She interrupts me and says, “Who is this Portia?”

  I know that living with a woman out of wedlock is probably still a sin according to the Catholic Church and will probably win me no points with a nun, so I skip that part and say, “She’s my girlfriend. The great love of my life. And I’m going to ask for her hand in marriage just as soon as I’m on my feet financially.”

  A look of shock flashes across Mother Catherine’s face, which terrifies me.

  “You may find this a rather odd and intrusive question, Mr. Bass,” she says, “but are you willing to tell me Portia’s last name?”

  “Why?”

  “Just indulge me. Please.”

  “It’s Kane. Portia Kane.”

  A beat of silence hangs heavy between us before Mother Catherine says, “Does she know you’re here today interviewing for this job? Did you happen to mention my name to her?”

  “I left her a note saying I was going on an interview, but I don’t think I mentioned you specifically by name. May I ask why?”

  “You may not,” Mother Catherine says. “But you may tell me the end of your story.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Whatever became of this Mr. Vernon, the man who changed your life for the better?”

  “We don’t know,” I say and then explain how he ditched his own party before it even began, demanded to be left alone, and had the Oaklyn police order us to stay away from him. I tell her about our efforts to find him since, but it’s like he’s vanished. “We tried our best to help Mr. Vernon. We really did,” I add, thinking maybe this wasn’t the best story to tell in an interview for a first-grade position, even if it distracts her from the fact that I am a recovered heroin addict.

  She looks down at her desk for a long time. Finally she says, “All humans have access to Jesus Christ—but some of us are a little more connected than others, so to speak. And I’m not shy about my relationship with Jesus.”

  I stare back at her. I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “If you are going to work in a Catholic school,” she says, and I wonder if it means I already have the job, “you must get used to people like me talking about God and
His mysterious ways. Are you okay with that? Again, we don’t want to invite in any Trojan horses.”

  “I am definitely not a Trojan horse,” I say. “I am more than okay with religious talk.”

  “Again, I do not suffer liars easily,” she says in a way that makes me believe she’d take the wooden ruler to my knuckles if she had to, and judging by her size, I bet she could break more than a few with a single whack. “You are willing to lead your class in morning prayers, take them to school mass, and participate yourself too?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, without hesitation.

  “Okay, then,” she says. “You’ll have my decision by eight o’clock tonight.”

  “That’s it? The interview is over?” We didn’t talk about my teaching philosophy, all of the ed psych I learned in college, nor did I even pull my portfolio from my leather briefcase.

  “You are free to go.”

  “Thanks for your time.” I stand, and then add, “I really do love kids. You hire me, and you will not regret it. You’ll have a fully committed teacher.”

  “I know.” She nods. “No need for histrionics, Mr. Bass.”

  I nod back, wondering what the hell histrionics means, and make my way to the door. But then I turn around, and before I can stop myself, say, “Why were you so interested in my girlfriend’s last name?”

  She smiles. “Is it possible for her to be there when I call you with my answer tonight? Tell her Mother Catherine Ebling of St. Therese’s requests the pleasure of speaking with her on the phone.”

  “Sure,” I say. “But how do you know Portia?”

  “Oh, I do believe that she and I are linked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ask her.”

  “Does this mean I have the job?”

  “You’ll have my answer tonight, Mr. Bass.”

  When I arrive home, I tell Portia everything, and she laughs and laughs and explains Mother Catherine’s relationship to Mr. Vernon’s mother, how they both were nuns in the same convent and also best friends, “although they talked badly about each other all the time like an old married couple, which was hilarious. They bickered even when Sister Maeve was on her deathbed! Mr. Vernon’s mom referred to Mother Catherine as the Crab.”

  “Wow. Mother Catherine does have these enormous hands,” I say. “And you’re not going to believe this. When she shook my hand—I felt a pinch.”

  “Shut up!”

  “I swear.”

  We both laugh.

  Then I add, “But don’t you think it’s a little uncanny that I end up interviewing with a friend of Mr. Vernon’s mom, after all that’s happened?”

  Portia touches the crucifix hanging around her neck. “No weirder than my meeting Sister Maeve by accident on a plane and then finding out she’s the mother of my favorite English teacher.”

  At eight o’clock Portia and I are staring at my cell phone on the kitchen counter, and when it rings we lock eyes for a second before I pick it up and say, “Hello?”

  “Let me talk to Portia,” Mother Catherine says, without even identifying herself.

  “She wants to talk to you,” I say to Portia.

  Portia’s eyebrows arch as I hand her the cell phone, and then she’s chatting away with Mother Catherine like they’re long-lost friends.

  For a half hour I sit there as Portia tells Mother Catherine all about her time with Mr. Vernon in Vermont and New York City, going on and on, when I just want to know whether I got the job or not.

  They talk about Mr. Vernon’s deceased mother next, and what a pistol she was. “So feisty,” Portia says more than once. And then Portia is nodding and saying, “Um-hmm,” over and over again, writing things down on the magnetized scratch pad we keep on the refrigerator.

  I’m shocked when Portia hangs up without allowing me to speak with Mother Catherine, but then she says, “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

  “Why didn’t you let me talk to her?”

  “She didn’t want to talk to you. I’m sorry. You don’t tell the Crab what to do.”

  “Bad news first,” I say, because my heart is pounding.

  “The nonnegotiable starting pay is only twenty-five grand a year plus benefits, and those are sort of shitty, from what I gathered.”

  “I got the job?”

  “That’s the good news. They want you to start tomorrow. Orientation begins at eight thirty sharp, and Mother Catherine recommends you give yourself plenty of time because of Philly commuter traffic. She says she doesn’t tolerate tardiness.”

  “How does she know I’ll be taking the job?”

  “She said Jesus told her you would accept.”

  “What?” I laugh. “Is this weird or what?”

  “Your getting hired to do what you’ve always wanted to do?”

  “Just the way it happened, right? Bizarro!”

  “Let’s celebrate! Congratulations!” Portia says, and then she’s in my arms.

  We head over to Danielle’s and Tommy’s. Johnny Rotten’s drinking a beer on the futon, looking very much at home.

  I ignore the fact that he’s living in my apartment for free and excitedly tell my sister the good news.

  “Nice,” she says, and then carries a bowl of Cinnamon Life and a Budweiser to the futon.

  “This is what I’ve worked so hard for,” I say, feeling a little kicked in the balls by Danielle’s nonchalance.

  “Congrats,” Johnny Rotten says and lifts his beer in the air.

  Danielle halfheartedly lifts her beer too. “Super congrats, bro. Happy for you.”

  They aren’t exactly rude, but they clearly aren’t excited for me either.

  “Mind if we take Tommy out to celebrate?” Portia says, breaking the awkward tension.

  “I bet he’d like that,” Danielle says, and I notice that she’s wearing long sleeves, which makes some part of my brain wonder if she’s hiding track marks. The air conditioning is cranked up, and it’s freezing in here, so I tell myself I’m being paranoid as I make my way to Tommy’s bedroom.

  He’s got his headphones on like usual, so I sneak up behind him and tap his shoulder. I move left when he looks over his right shoulder, and when he turns the other way to face me, I remove his headphones. “Guess what? I got a teaching job!”

  “Awesome!” he yells, and then he’s in my arms and I’m lifting him up over my head so he can fly Superman style.

  We take him to Friendly’s and gorge on celebration sundaes.

  When the bill comes, I insist on paying, and then we’re driving home in the old man’s Ford when Tommy says, “Can I stay with you guys tonight?”

  “School night for me, buddy. I’m a legit working man now,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “I don’t want to live with my mom anymore,” Tommy says.

  “Why?” Portia asks.

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  “Did something happen?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “You can tell us anything,” Portia says.

  “I know.”

  “Did Johnny Rotten do something to you?”

  “No,” Tommy says. “He’s okay to me.”

  “Did your mom do something to you?” I ask.

  “She doesn’t do anything anymore.”

  Portia and I share a worried glance over his head.

  In the Oaklyn apartment, Portia and I tuck Tommy in and read him a quick book as my sister and Johnny Rotten stare at the television and sip beer.

  When we say bye to them, Johnny Rotten says, “Congrats again.”

  “Yeah, proud of you, bro,” Danielle says, but her words are flat and empty.

  In the truck, I say, “Was it me, or did Danielle seem underwhelmed by my good news?”

  “You’re changing your life for the better, and
she’s the same as always. Your drinking buddies aren’t going to cheer when you get sober, right?” Portia says, and we drive back to our own apartment of bliss, where Portia toasts my new job with champagne, and we talk more about the strange coincidence of my connecting with Sister Maeve’s best friend and then end up making celebratory love on the living room floor.

  CHAPTER 26

  The day after Thanksgiving, I have a precious day off.

  Teaching has been going very well. I love my kids, the other teachers have been incredibly supportive—sharing lesson plans, lending me supplies, taking me out for after-work drinks and not grilling me when I don’t order alcohol—and Mother Catherine seems pleased with my performance so far, but teaching full-time is much more demanding than I had originally thought. It’s even harder than student teaching, which was difficult. And unfortunately, it’s cut into the time I get to spend with my nephew.

  So I use my rare free day to take Tommy out to buy a cell phone. He’s been complaining about our not talking as much as we used to. My commute is long, so I figure we can catch up then.

  Tommy and I pick out a cheap little flip phone at the Verizon store and I add him to my plan for next to nothing, especially since the only person he will ever call is me, and the sales guy sets it up so that calls from Tommy won’t cost me anything extra.

  “So I can call as many times as I want?” Tommy asks as we drive home. He’s got the phone in his hand now and is examining it like it’s some magical device from outer space.

  “All you have to do is . . .”

  “Hit the number one,” he says, because we’ve programmed my number into his favorites.

  “And . . .”

  “Keep the phone charged.”

  “That’s right! And I can call you from the truck now too during my commute!” I reach over to tousle his longish hair.

  He pushes the one button on his phone, and mine starts ringing.

  “I wonder who that could be?” I say in an overly dramatic voice that Tommy loves. It’s so easy to entertain the little guy.

  “Hello,” I say into my phone.