Love May Fail (27 page)

Just before August ends, when I have all but given up hope, resigning myself to another year of substitute teaching and bartending, I get a surprise call from a small Catholic school in Rocksford, Pennsylvania, a sixty- to ninety-minute drive from our apartment in Collingswood, depending on traffic.

A Mother Catherine Ebling asks if I can possibly interview immediately. When I agree, she says, “How about this afternoon?”

Portia’s clicking away in her room with the door closed, so after a shave and shower, I leave her a note and hop in the old man’s Ford wearing my one and only suit, which is tan and dated and a little too snug, but hopefully adequate.

I drive with my jacket off, the vents on high and the windows open, but I end up sweating anyway. It’s ninety-five degrees out, the old man’s Ford has no air-conditioning, and I’m nervous as hell.

“Remember what Kirk told you,” I say over and over as I drive. “That getting clean is an accomplishment—something that sets you apart, something to be proud of and not to hide.”

When I arrive at the small school, I drive past the huge imposing black iron crucifix outside and pull into the parking lot.

I mop off my face with my lucky red handkerchief, look at myself in the rearview mirror, and say, “You are a fucking rock star, Chuck Bass. A first-grade-teacher rock star. And your jacket will cover the disgusting sweat marks under your pits and on your back.”

With my jacket on and my portfolio in the leather briefcase Portia purchased for me when I first started going on interviews—I refused to let her buy me a new suit, although she offered at least a hundred times—I enter the school and am greeted by a cool blast of wind.

Hello air conditioning, my old friend.

My luck continues when I spot a men’s room.

So I freshen up, washing my face with cool water, and giving myself another pep talk in the mirror. “
Not working, old approach. Another, you must try, Young Bass. Rock star, you are
,” I say like Yoda for some unknown reason.

I enter the office fifteen minutes early and introduce myself.

“Welcome!” yells the tiny woman behind the desk. She looks to be maybe ninety years old and is squinting so badly I wonder if she might be legally blind in addition to being hard of hearing, or so I assume based on the way she yells. She’s in plain clothes, wearing a heavy sweater to protect her from the air conditioning. “We’ve been praying hard for a miracle around here! I hope you’re it! Take a seat!”

I laugh and then sit down by the teacher mail cubicles and read the last names printed above each. I wonder who will have to move all but Mrs. Abel’s name over should Mr. Bass get hired and take cubicle number two, by right of alphabetical order.

The old woman disappears and a minute or so later returns with another slightly less elderly nun, who is maybe six feet tall and rather manly looking, even though she’s in a nun’s habit. A large silver crucifix rests on her enormous breasts, she’s wearing tan stockings in August, and her hands are so large and red that I wonder if maybe she started out life as the opposite gender.

“Mr. Bass, I presume?” she says, extending her gigantic mitt toward me.

I stand. “Mother Ebling?” When we shake, her grip pinches me unexpectedly, almost as if her hand were a claw.

“You may call me Mother Catherine.” She lets go, saying, “Follow me,” and I obey.

The tiny old woman who first greeted me yell-whispers, “Good luck! And I’ll say a prayer for you!”

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?”