Confessions of the Sullivan Sisters

  Another branch of my family is the Norrises. They also came to Baltimore from Ireland. Wilbur Norris got rich by ripping off poor people. He bought their farmland cheap, then sold it to the B&O Railroad for a fortune. Soon he was on the board of directors of the railroad, raking it in.

  It’s pretty hard to get rich without ripping off somebody. That’s the point I’m trying to get across here.

  When the Civil War came, Wilbur Norris sided with the South. He didn’t own slaves (but some of my ancestors probably did—nobody wants to talk about it, but they must have. Hello? Tobacco farm?), but he was really into business, and he had business interests in the South (based on slavery, no doubt).

  I would like to pause here and point out that we are talking about the SLAVERY of human beings. What is more evil than slavery? Nothing, except maybe genocide.

  Wilbur Norris built the house my evil family lives in now. His daughter, Evangeline, lived in the Tower Room, the very room my sister is sleeping in at this moment. My sister’s name? Norrie—short for Norris. And the beat goes on….

  During the Civil War, Baltimore was occupied by Yankee soldiers, but the Confederate army was camped just outside the city in Anne Arundel County. The Confederate soldiers could see the light from my sister’s Tower Room if they used a telescope. Evangeline had a crush on a boy who was spying for the Confederates. So this boy, Russell Pinkney, sneaked into Evangeline’s tower at night and sent secret spy signals to the Confederate troops in Anne Arundel County. Eventually the Yankees caught him and put him in jail in Fort McHenry for a while, so he missed the last half of his senior year and graduated late. He’s lucky that’s the worst that happened to him.

  My ancestor helped a Confederate spy. My house was used to advance the Confederate cause. Even the very house I live in has a history of evil. I can’t get away from it. I hope it’s not somehow seeping into my skin through evil air molecules.

  Coming up: Evil? Welcome to the Twentieth Century

  JANE OUT

  COMMENTS:

  Sully: Hey, Jane, wtf is this?

  myevilfamily: It’s the TRUTH, brother. Recognize it?

  Every report card I ever got has some comment like, “Jane has problems with authority.” To which Daddy-o always says, “That’s my girl—stick it to the Man!” which is so embarrassing. Ginger sighs and adds, “Darling, let me give you a little tip: Fake obedience until you graduate. Just keep your mouth shut and pretend to go along with whatever the nuns say. That way you don’t waste a lot of precious time in detention and what have you. After that, you can be as rebellious as your little heart desires. Okay?”

  I understand where Ginger is coming from—undermine the system from within—but I just can’t do it. The trouble started in second grade, when I had my First Communion. Sister Madeleine told us that once we took Communion, Jesus would live in our hearts. I was really dreading the day Jesus moved into my body, no matter how wonderful everyone said he was. I took the whole thing too literally, I guess. But as soon as that wafer dissolved in my mouth, I felt it. He was in there somewhere, floating in my stomach, moving through my bloodstream on the way to my heart. It made me very uncomfortable. Since that day, whenever Jesus is mentioned, I feel that weird discomfort. It’s like I have to clear my throat. That’s a big handicap when you go to a Catholic school, because, as you know, Jesus’s name comes up a lot, especially in Religion class.

  Last year I had Sister Apollonia for Religion. (Do you remember your saints, Almighty? Saint Apollonia, patron saint of dentists, had all her teeth knocked out by a persecutor when she refused to renounce her Christian faith.) Sister Apollonia wears a little gold tooth on a chain around her neck in honor of her patron saint. She’s a sweet, smiley nun whose religious focus is mostly on how much Jesus loves the little children. She also believes in giving out candy during class. Maybe that’s her way of helping out the local dentists. She and I got along just fine.

  This year I have Sister Mary Joseph for Religion. Right away I could tell she was going to become my archenemy. She has a stony face with a mean squint; Clint Eastwood in a wimple. She trained that squint on me and decided I was trouble from the get-go.

  We started the year learning about the lives of the saints. “The saints teach us lessons about God,” Sister Mary Joseph lectured. “Their suffering shows us what God wants us to strive for. Every generation has its own saints, with its own message from God. Yes, Mary Pat?”

  “Why does God kill so many of his saints?”

  “He doesn’t kill them, he martyrs them. To make us pay attention,” Sister M-J said.

  Sister Mary Joseph told us we had to memorize a hundred saints and what they stood for by the end of the month. I kind of like the whole saint thing, because it’s basically magic. My favorite part is learning which saints to pray to in which situations, from St. Matthew (patron saint of accountants, bookkeepers, and security guards) to St. Germaine Cousin (unattractive people).

  A really cool one is St. Uncumber. She didn’t want to marry the King of Sicily, so she prayed to God to let her keep her virginity. Presto, the next morning, she woke up with a beard and mustache. Virginity saved. She is the patroness of unhappy wives who want to get rid of their husbands.

  I have a feeling Sister Mary Joseph would pray to St. Uncumber if she was ever in any danger of getting married. But the Clint Squint negates any need for miracles.

  My patron saint is Joan of Arc: partly because we have the same name (close enough), but mostly because she is the patron saint of people who oppose authority. She was executed for heresy by the church. They retried her and found her innocent, but that was twenty-five years too late. She was safely dead by then and couldn’t cause any more trouble.

  “Tonight’s homework has two parts,” Sister Mary Joseph announced. “First—choose your patron saint. It doesn’t have to be the saint whose name you share, but the saint you admire the most. Write a page on why you admire that saint and draw an icon for him or her, complete with symbols that saint represents. Part Two: Who are our twenty-first-century saints? Think of someone from the last fifty years or so whom you admire and think deserves sainthood. Write a page arguing for his or her canonization and draw an icon for him or her as well. This project is due next week. Any questions?”

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes, Jane?”

  “Does the Church ever make mistakes? I mean, like, can the Pope ever be wrong?”

  Laser squint. “What does that have to do with the lives of the saints?”

  “Well, if Joan of Arc was a saint, why did the Church burn her for heresy?” I asked. “A bunch of priests and bishops said she disobeyed religious laws. Then later they changed their minds and made her a saint. So somebody in the Church must have made a mistake, right?”

  “Catholic theology is very complicated,” Sister Mary Joseph snapped.

  “So if they could make a mistake then, they could make mistakes now,” I continued without being called on. Sister M-J ignored me.

  “Any relevant questions? Bibi?”

  “Does the twenty-first-century saint have to be a real person, or can we make one up?”

  Bibi’s lame question didn’t get the Squint. “I suppose you could describe an ideal modern person to be nominated for sainthood if you like. Anything else? Tasha?”

  “Can we nominate you for sainthood, Sister Mary Joseph?”

  Sister Mary Joseph’s idea of a smile: The line of her thin lips stretched slightly outward. “That’s very kind of you, Tasha, but I must humbly ask that you leave that decision up to the Vatican.”

  I must humbly ask… I wanted to puke. Sister Mary Joseph would have killed to be a saint, I knew she would. I wanted to nominate Tasha as the patron saint of sucking up, apple polishing, ass kissing, and best-friend stealing.

  I raised my hand. There was something I’d always wondered and had never asked a nun before. Sister Mary Joseph reluctantly called on me.

  “Sister, did you ever wish you could be a
priest instead of a nun?”

  Sister M-J gritted her teeth. “Stop wasting class time with these silly questions, Jane. Men are priests and women are nuns. You might as well ask if I ever thought of becoming a man.”

  “They have an operation for that now,” I said. Even the prissiest girls in the class laughed.

  “Jane Sullivan, if you’re planning to spend the rest of the year with this attitude, you might as well walk out of this classroom right now and never come back. What will it be?”

  Before I had the chance to answer, the bell rang. Everyone bolted to their feet.

  “Any other br-r-r-rilliant questions?” Sister M-J trilled. “No? Class dismissed.”

  I was the first one to the door.

  I took my drawing paper and pens upstairs to Norrie’s room, the Tower of Evil. I like to have an occasional smoke while I work. At first she tried to say “No smoking in my room,” but I countered with “Sully always let me,” and she dropped it. She had just inherited the room from Sully and I guess she didn’t feel complete ownership over it yet. It drives Norrie crazy when I smoke, which makes it more fun for me.

  I was working on my icon for Joan of Arc. I drew her tied to a stake, staring at the sky, waiting for God to save her. Which he wasn’t going to do.

  She was such a badass. She wasn’t one of those passive victim saints who just suffered—getting raped, beheaded, eyes gouged out, all that. She was a girl of action. She fought to change the world against crazy odds. She was seventeen years old—my age, Norrie’s age, Hannah Montana’s age—when she grabbed a sword and led grown men into battle against the English. In 1429. That’s a badass.

  When they were deciding whether or not to make her a saint (400 years after she died), some anti-Joan Church people said she shouldn’t be a saint because she wasn’t a martyr—because she didn’t want to die. She wanted to live and she came right out and said so. I don’t care if she was an actual saint or not. To me, that’s a technicality. The fact that she wanted to live instead of voluntarily jumping into the fire (like the tooth queen, St. Apollonia) only makes me admire her more.

  She was passionate. She said what she thought. She held nothing back. That’s what made her great.

  Norrie got up and looked over my shoulder. “Is Bridget doing St. Brigid?”

  “Of course,” I said, coloring the flames orange. “Even though St. Brigid was a lame-o.”

  “Milkmaids, cows, and illegitimate children. What’s not to like?”

  “You mean there are children whose parents aren’t married?” I said sarcastically. “How is that possible? I thought you had to get married before the stork started dropping off babies.”

  “I like St. Brigid,” Norrie said.

  “You would.”

  “She was pretty.”

  “Exactly.” St. Brigid’s father tried to marry her to a young bard but she wanted to keep her virginity, so she prayed to God to take her beauty away. (Much like St. Uncumber. So many of the female saints were obsessed with their virginity.) The prayer was answered, though her beauty returned after she took her vows and became a nun. Why? What good did it do her then? So she’d look good in her stained-glass saint pictures? Everybody likes the pretty saints the best.

  “I doubt St. Joan wore that much eyeliner,” Norrie said.

  “Fuck off.”

  “If you’re going to barge in on me and use my room as a smokatorium, then you’ll have to take my opinions along with it.”

  “Fine. I’ll go back to my room,” I said, but I didn’t move. We were quiet for a while. She went back to reading in her window seat.

  “Why are you going out with Brooks this weekend?” I asked.

  She put down her book. “I don’t know. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Do you like him?”

  She shrugged.

  “See, that’s not a good answer.”

  “Yes, I like him,” she said. “Don’t you like him?”

  He’s a nice boy if you like dull conformist milquetoasts—which, strangely, a lot of girls do. I know you like him, Almighty, and I don’t mean to criticize your taste. I’m just saying.

  “I know why you’re really going out with him,” I said. “Because Almighty wants you to.”

  “No I’m not,” she said. “I’m going out with him because I want to see what it’s like to go out with Brooks Overbeck.”

  What could I say to that? We were quiet again for a while. Sassy came in.

  “What are you guys doing?”

  “Nothing,” Norrie said.

  Sassy draped herself across the bed. She likes to lie down whenever possible. She gets that from Ginger. Ever notice how many daybeds and chaise longues we have in our house? That’s so Ginger can get horizontal whenever the urge strikes her.

  “I didn’t see you and Lula at hockey practice today,” Norrie said to Sassy.

  “JV doesn’t start until next week,” Sassy said.

  “So you’re not even going to try for varsity? Some sophomores make it every year.”

  Sassy shrugged. “I’m not that great at hockey.”

  “Hockey is the dumbest game ever invented,” I said. “And lacrosse is the second dumbest.”

  “You’d be good if you practiced harder, Jane,” Norrie said. She is such a tool of the establishment.

  Sassy stared at the ceiling.

  “What’s the matter, Sass?” Norrie asked. “You tired?”

  “Yeah,” Sassy said. “And I just got hit by a car.”

  “What?” Norrie jumped off the window seat and dove onto the bed.

  “She’s kidding.” I joined them on the bed. “She must be kidding. Look at her. Does she look like someone who’s been hit by a car?”

  “I was, though.” Sassy rubbed her eyes. “On Northway. A car backed out of a driveway and bumped into me. I’m okay, though.” She absently touched her thigh. There was a small bruise there the size of a quarter.

  Norrie freaked out. “Are you sure? Don’t you want to see a doctor or something to make sure you don’t have a concussion? Maybe you have internal injuries.”

  “I didn’t hit my head,” Sassy said. “Really, I’m okay. She didn’t hit me very hard.”

  “Who hit you?” I asked. “Was it Mrs. Vreeland?” Mrs. Vreeland lives around the corner on Northway. Sometimes, when we were little and playing with other kids in the neighborhood, we ran through her yard as a shortcut. She called the police on us every time. I hate Mrs. Vreeland.

  “No. Some lady I didn’t know.”

  “But you’re sure you’re not hurt?” Now Norrie was shaking Sassy’s arms and legs, checking for broken bones. Sassy lay limp as a rag doll. “Did you tell Ginger and Daddy-o?”

  “No. What could they do?”

  “I don’t know,” Norrie said. “But, I mean, they’re our parents….”

  We all burst out laughing. Ginger and Daddy-o are not exactly helpful during emergencies. Remember when Takey was two and he fell off your piano stool and broke his nose? Daddy-o couldn’t remember the number for 911. And Ginger—when one of us complains of being sick, she says drily, “I’ll start making funeral arrangements.”

  “Really, Norrie, I promise I’m not hurt.” Sassy sat up and made a muscle to prove it.

  “Okay.” Norrie leaned back against her headboard and propped her feet on Sassy’s legs, pretending not to be worried anymore. “Maybe you should make Sassy one of your saints,” she said to me. “She can get hit by a car without getting hurt. She’s indestructible.”

  “Saints aren’t indestructible,” I said. “Haven’t you ever looked at the windows in church? The saints are always getting shot by arrows or beheaded or burned to death. That’s what makes them saints. You’re thinking of a superhero, not a saint.”

  “All right then, maybe she’s an angel,” Norrie said. “They can’t die, right? ’Cause they’re already dead?”

  “You mean like ghosts?”

  “No, I mean like angels.”

  “Stop it, yo
u guys,” Sassy said. “I’m not a saint or an angel. I’m just lucky. Really, really lucky.”

  “Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” I said. I got off the bed and went back to the desk to work on St. Joan’s flames. I wanted to make them hotter.

  FOUR

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  How Lou Became Almighty

  Now we come to the story of my grandmother, the Almighty Louisa Norris Sullivan etc., etc. Her father built Gilded Elms, where she grew up as the pampered, adored, and strong-willed daughter of a diplomat, and where she still lives. She inherited the house after her parents died and she moved in as a young bride with her husband, Alphonse Sullivan, Jr., a diplomat like her father.

  As a girl, Almighty’s best friend was Mary Margaret Rennert, known as Mamie or Mame. Mamie’s father, James Rennert, owned a newspaper. Together Mamie and Almighty Lou ruled St. Maggie’s School. They had the best parties. They rode horses and swigged champagne and jumped into fountains in their fancy clothes. They were famous for crashing stag parties at the Maryland Club wearing only bathing suits under their fur coats.

  Almighty had lots of beaux (that’s what she still calls her boyfriends), but her favorite was Junius Overbeck. He escorted her to the Bachelors Cotillon and she expected him to propose to her later that year. But at the Cotillon, Junius did something taboo—he danced the final dance with Mamie, not Almighty Lou. How could he not know that would piss off Almighty? And you don’t want to piss off Almighty.

  After the ball, all the young people went to the country club to dance the night away, and Junius couldn’t take his eyes off Mame—even though he was supposed to be Almighty’s date. Junius and Mame left the club together at dawn, and a week later Mame’s parents announced her engagement to Junius Overbeck.