Did Louise have the same memories of Mother Leone as I did?

I used to wonder why we had to call her “Mother” and why she  wore a long, black dress and the veil that completely covered her head.  I liked the long black dress,  it made her look like she was floating across the front of the classroom as she talked about Jesus and the BVM.     And, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder if she actually had any hair?  Didn’t every Catholic kid wondered if the nuns had hair, back in the day?  Mother Leone kindly told me, when I asked about the veil, that she was a bride of Christ.  The only physical part we ever saw of Mother Leone’s was her face and her hands.  She had beautiful hands with  long smooth fingers and neatly trimmed nails.  I don’t think Mother Leone was a nail biter and if we were lucky enough to hold her hand during recess, hers was a soft, cool hand.  I mentioned that to my Mom once, about Mother Leone’s soft hands.  Mom told me her hands wouldn’t be so soft if she had a houseful of noisy, dirty kids to deal with and had to hang out her own laundry in the winter.  My Mom’s hands were anything but soft.  Even as an old woman, with domestic conveniences and no noisy, dirty kids, Mom’s hands were rough and red.

Louise was chewing the nail on her thumbnail, as she stirred her coffee.  When we were kids Louise chewed her fingernails, sometimes so fiercely they would be red, bloody and raw around the edges.  I gave her the evil eye and she put her hand on her lap and practically shouted, ”Jesus we were stupid.  We actually believed everything we read in the Blue Catechism even the part about being sinners the day we plopped into the word.  Why the hell would anyone try to lay the blame for anything on a newborn?”  Did she want me to answer?  I was never very good at rhetorical stuff.   And, honestly, I had always liked the idea of being born with something evil going on in my little baby soul.  Not dark and sinister, just a bit of no-good and hellbent for evil burping, spit-up and dirty diapers.  In our Catechism class Mother Leone had told us we’d all been born with a stain on our mortal souls – original sin – even Jews.  ”Don’t forget the Jews!” I blurted out.

Louise looked at me like I was nuts.  ”What about the Jews?” She asked, as she re-examined the offending fingernail, then asked if I remembered how we’d  baptized my baby brother in the backyard when we were supposed to be watering my Mom’s precious tomato plants.  I laughed and said,  ”Ya, who knew a baby could howl so loudly?  Poor kid couldn’t have been much more than ten months old, sitting in his little wooden jail.  We caught it good from Mom.  I remember.”  I didn’t remember it being Louise who had been my “emergency” baptismal assistant.  You’d think I could remember something like that, right?   She is my friend and all.  ”Holy Hell.”  Louise said.   “Ya we got Holy Hell from your mom for baptizing your brother.  I remember her screaming at us out the back window,  the little window over the septic tank.  Your Mom said she was going to tell my Mom about it.  That scared the shit outta me.”  I don’t rightly remember ever being “scared” of my Mom.  But, she would have “scared the shit” out of just about anyone who didn’t live with her everyday.  She was like that.  One, scary little woman who threw things when she was angry.   I smiled, thinking Mom probably told us we’d be going to hell or maybe even told us to go to hell.  She was like that, Mom was.  I’m like my Mom, except for the little part.   I don’t have any internal dialogue.  I tell people to go to hell.  Mother Leone wouldn’t have told us to go to hell even if she knew about our foray into “holy orders”.   If Mother Leone had been my Mom,  baptizing my baby brother in the backyard wouldn’t have pissed her off.  Nah, Mother Leone would have reviewed the lesson in the Blue Catechism about emergency baptisms and why it wasn’t right to baptize my brother just for the hell of it.

“You know, sometimes I used to wish Mother Leone was a real mother - my mother.”  I could tell by the look on Louise’s face, she couldn’t believe what I’d just said.  ”Fuck Theresa, the older you get the worse you are.  At least your mom could cook and your house was always clean.  Geez, at least your mom was a real mom.  My mom couldn’t wait for us to go to bed at night so she could have a cocktail and made no bones about it.  Too bad there wasn’t something in that Catechism about crappy mothers.  Mine would have spent her friggin’ life doing penance.”  She pushed her coffee cup away.   ”Do you think Mother Leone ever did any housekeeping or cooking?”

“Now, who sounds like my Mom?” I asked, as I imagined Louise’s mom in a confessional with a cocktail in her hand.