The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(7)

“What do I pray for?” I whispered.

My mother did not raise her head or open her eyes. “Righteousness,” she whispered.

After our visit to the church, my mother parked on Cortez Avenue and marched me up the steep red steps to the wrought iron–gated entrance to the OLM school quad. Built in 1932, this older section of OLM, like the homes nearby, had been influenced by Spanish architecture and consisted of salmon-colored stucco walls with rounded archways and red-tile roofs. Eight mahogany doors faced an inner courtyard of red concrete slabs with an elevated white statue of the Blessed Mother at the epicenter. I felt the eyes of every student watching our assault as we marched up those stairs, through that quad, and across the asphalt playground. Our destination was the admissions office in the modern portion of the school. I would subsequently learn that the admissions office was readily accessed from the adjacent block, Cabrillo Avenue, but that would have been far too subtle an entrance for my mother. She wasn’t interested in just rocking this boat. She intended to capsize it.

Sister Beatrice, OLM’s principal, met us in an austere lobby. She wore her solid-black habit, which fell in folds from her throat to her shins, cinched at the waist by a woven wool girdle from which hung a black rosary and ebony cross. Add to this a black wimple, thick black-framed glasses, a prominent nose, and two equally prominent front incisors, and I was certain I was staring at the Wicked Witch of the West. I was terrified.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Hill?” Sister Beatrice asked, pleasantly enough.

“I’m here to enroll my son, Samuel, in the first grade,” my mother replied.

“Did you receive my letter?” Sister Beatrice asked.

My mother held up the envelope. “I did indeed.”

“Then you understand why that is not going to occur today.”

“To the contrary,” my mother said, “that is exactly why I am here, to see that it does occur today. I don’t want Samuel to fall behind a single day.”

Sister Beatrice’s lips puckered, making the wisps of black hair adorning her upper lip twitch. “I am the principal of this school, Mrs. Hill. As the principal it is my obligation to make decisions that are in the best interests of the child.”

“To which child are you referring?” my mother asked, both women still cordial at this point.

Sister Beatrice frowned. “Why, yours, of course.”

“Really? You’re going to make a decision in the best interest of Samuel? Before you do, tell me, Sister, if you would be so kind, all of the things that you know about Samuel . . .”

“Excuse me?”

“With the exception of the color of his eyes, of which I am quite certain you are fully aware.”

Until that moment, Sister Beatrice had never once considered me. When her gaze shifted to my face, I felt an instant lump in my throat. She folded her arms, and her hands disappeared in the wide sleeves of her habit. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked that you tell me everything you can about Samuel, Sister.”

“I’ve never met the boy.”

“Precisely. So I fail to see how you are in a position to be making a decision that is in Samuel’s best interests.”

At this proclamation, I noticed several of the office women seated behind the wood laminate counter raise their heads and put aside any pretense of being engaged in work. Apparently Sister Beatrice was rarely, if ever, challenged.

“Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside my office?”

“Perhaps we should,” my mother agreed.

Sister Beatrice spun, a swirl of black cloth, and marched into her office. She turned and raised a hand to stop me from proceeding. “The boy will wait in the lobby.”

“Samuel will not wait in the lobby. As this is a matter that involves him directly, he will need to be present. I believe it will be an insightful lesson for him on Catholic compassion and empathy.”

Lips pursed, Sister Beatrice gestured to two cloth chairs across from a metal desk. I followed my mother inside and sat. If the lobby was austere, Sister Beatrice’s office was downright spartan. Photographs of Pope Paul VI and our pastor, Father Brogan, hung side by side on one wall. On her otherwise spotless desk sat a six-inch cactus that looked in desperate need of water.

Sister Beatrice’s posture was impeccable, back straight and hands folded on her desk blotter. My mother’s spine likewise never touched the back of her chair, and yet she still managed to cross her legs. I didn’t dare slouch.

“This is a private school, Mrs. Hill. Father Brogan has seen fit to make me its principal. As such I have the authority to decline admittance to any child. This school is not subject to the admissions requirements that govern public institutions.”

“In other words, you have the right to discriminate in the name of God.”

Sister Beatrice’s face flushed. “It is not discrimination. It is . . . careful analysis.”

My mother smiled, and I could not help but think her beautiful in her black-and-white-checked wool skirt and matching jacket, a simple strand of pearls adorning her neck. With blonde hair and blue eyes, my mother always had a youthful appearance, and I would learn—to my horror—an hourglass figure that would generate catcalls well into her forties. My father called her “a looker,” which in my day equated to “a total babe.”