I laughed.
Joan gave me a weak smile. “Listen, don’t tell anyone, will you—but—it’s my sister.”
“Oh?” My ears tingled. I hated talking about sisters. It made me feel like I was standing at the edge of a deep pool.
Joan swallowed. “She wrote me and—” She looked over at the door. “She thinks she might be”—she licked her lips—“in—in the family way. But—but she’s not married.”
“Oh.” I tried to keep my expression neutral, not to look too shocked, too sorry. After a moment, I said, “Does your mom know?”
Joan shook her head. “And I just don’t know how to help.” Her eyes filled with tears.
I stood to embrace her but she waved me away. I sat back down, impressed by her self-containedness, that she wasn’t using the moment to snare attention for herself. I passed her a box of tissues instead. Joan dabbed at her eyes.
“And her beau—is he—”
Joan sniffed. “Oh, he’s all right. He works for the postal service.”
“Ah. Good.” I took a moment to imagine what a Catholic Catholic might say to sound reassuring. “So, I suppose, isn’t this a happy thing?” I said. “A baby?”
Joan cocked her head to one side.
“I mean, no one’s sick or dying. It’s a good thing, surely,” I said. “That is, if they get married right away,” I added.
Joan rubbed her eyes with the tissue. “I guess.”
“I bet your sister is scared, but perhaps she needs someone to remind her what a blessing this is.”
Joan licked her lips. “I hadn’t thought about it like that. But I guess it will be a blessing in the end.”
“My mom always says”—I hesitated—“she always says, God doesn’t make mistakes.”
Joan took a deep breath. “Right.”
“So it can’t be a mistake,” I said, gaining confidence now.
Joan nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right. And it sounds like your mom is just as strict as mine. No boys and all that.”
I pretended to adjust the hem of my skirt instead of answering.
Joan reached for another tissue. “I suppose my mom—”
There was a soft knock on my bedroom door, and Joan shot me a terrified look.
“I won’t say a word,” I whispered. “I swear.”
Joan nodded.
“Come in,” I called.
Katherine poked her face around the door. “Did you see it’s hailing?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Wild, huh?” Katherine lingered. “Wonder how long it will last.” She twisted the door handle. Her excuse for loitering was so feeble that it became awkward.
I grimaced apologetically at Joan. “Did you want to come in?”
“Yes, please! So, what are we talking about?” Katherine settled on the bed, kicking off her slippers and folding her legs under her.
“Nothing,” Joan said abruptly.
Katherine smiled. “Ah, Bridge confession.”
“What?”
Katherine tucked part of the blanket over her knees. “You know, like confession. But with St. Bridget.”
There was a bright sting in my chest, like a knitting needle. I tried to control my expression. Was she being cruel or was it a joke? “Don’t be an idiot,” I said eventually.
“Oh, Bridge, I didn’t mean it like that,” Katherine said, her forehead pinched.
I forced a laugh. “I know.” I pretended to plump my pillow.
“You’re just so patient with us,” Katherine said. “You’re never in a mood or anything.”
Joan was nodding. “Like Old Faithful.”
Despite myself, I couldn’t help but laugh. I was so relieved, my eyes began watering, but I passed it off as mirth.
Katherine was staring at Joan. “What’s Old Faithful got to do with saintliness, you goose?”
“I just mean it’s steady, you know.” Joan’s cheeks were going red.
Katherine laughed and they began to talk about national parks and bears and camping stoves and poison ivy.
While they talked, I pulled out a bag of biscotti cookies and a bottle of wine, which I poured into the toothbrush glasses I now strategically kept washed and ready for visitors.
There was another knock on the door. “Oh, I thought I heard a party,” Bunny said. She called behind her, “Barbs, come—party in Bridge’s room.”
Then we were six, then eight, and everyone was lounging across the two beds, laughing, drinking, squabbling over whose turn it was to try on Rhona’s fur, to fluff up my curls. I marveled at the magic of the cookies.
“Would someone knock on Isabella’s door?” I said. I could have gone myself, but it was better that one of the girls collect her—that way she could see me nonchalantly at the center of the fun.
“Tried,” Sylvia said, her mouth full of crumbs. “Her door’s locked.”
“It’s locked?”
“She always locks her door when she gets one of those headaches.”
“She does?” This worried me. What if she was ill again? And she was in there, coughing, turning, flushed, restless.
As discreetly as I could, I untangled myself from Sally’s knitting and went down to Isabella’s door. I knocked. There was no answer.
“Isabella?” I said, knocking again. “It’s just me.” Nothing. I tried to jiggle the door handle, but Sylvia was right; it had been locked.
I stooped and looked through the keyhole. The room was dark, the curtains closed. I couldn’t make anything out except for a clothes hanger lying on the floor. I came away feeling uneasy. It was one thing to lock the door by turning the key in a moment of pique. It was quite another to lock the door, take out the key, and place the key on the dresser. That was a truly locked door.
I went back to my room and stood for a moment in the doorway to appreciate the view. The hail was still falling, catching sparks of light. The girls were lounging on the beds, on the floor, thumbing through the German recipe magazine, tossing around my green beret, passing the bag of cookies, clinking glasses, dropping crumbs on the bedspread. Making a mess, a glorious mess.
20.
November
Over the next couple of weeks, Isabella spent a lot of time in the garden. She said being cooped up with the academy girls aggravated her headaches. But I much preferred to be indoors with the other girls. And also, I didn’t have a choice. I had assignments to finish and comprehension exercises to catch up on, so I bound myself to the common room. After Signor Patrizi’s lectures we all crowded in there. Joan took territorial responsibility for stoking the fire; Katherine sat in the armchair and knitted in companionable silence. Nancy helped correct my copybook. Greta and Sally decided it was the right place to learn handstands, and my pen wobbled every time the floor shook. In the evenings I hosted girls in my bedroom, sharing cookies and wine. And at night, carefully bathed, wearing my new nightgown, my hair unbraided, I sat in bed, waiting. I waited as long as I could, just in case, struggling against sleep until my head knocked against the iron headboard.