where the ink is.
These inkwells are for when we write with ink. We’re never allowed to use fountain pens; we have to use these awful pens they sold us. There’s a pen holder and little pen points which fit into them. Mostly we only do Palmer Method. Once in a while we have to write a composition with those pens, but mostly it’s Palmer Method.
I can never write a composition without making big spraying blots. The points of these pens are very pointy and are split into two thin parts tight together with a hole for holding ink between them. My pen always gets stuck in the paper and then sprays over everything; or sometimes all the ink just rolls out of the pen and makes a big solid blot.
The Palmer Method is where you go across the page making up and down lines between the lines on the paper, or round and round things, where if you do it right it looks like a tunnel you could see through. But I can never do it. You’re supposed to roll on the ball of your palm, holding the pen lightly in your fingers, gliding your little finger on the paper, and that way you get a nice smooth movement.
But it’s not the way I write. I hold a pen hard in my fingers, then move my fingers to write with. The way I do Palmer Method when nobody’s watching is turn the paper sideways and make those up and down lines and circles from top to bottom. That way I can do it, almost. But it isn’t Palmer Method; I don’t even use my palm.
The worst part is dipping that pointy pen in the glass inkwell. It scrapes against the bottom; hairs rise on the back of my neck, and my ears feel empty. Everybody in the class jams those pens in the inkwells hard, on purpose, but they can all do Palmer Method.
We aren’t allowed to open our slanted desks unless we’re told to. Usually the nun will say, ‘Now let’s open our desks and take out our reading books’ or our civics books, or something. That’s one of the most interesting things that happens all day. At least there’s something new to see: the inside of the desk. One of the ways my mind wanders is trying to remember everything inside the desk and where it is. I want just one time to put this picture in my mind and then look in the desk and find everything the way it is in my head.
This morning, during religion class, the first thing I know an eraser has hit me smack on the forehead. It’s a blackboard eraser and isn’t hard. It doesn’t hurt but it’s filled with chalk dust; so, chalk dust, like smoke, flies around my head. The whole class is giggling and laughing. Sister Anastasia, who’s a fat nun, is standing up behind her desk in her dark blue habit with the white bib. She has some other stiff white stuff wrapped close around her face holding in the fat sides. There’s a dark blue veil over that too. She’s wearing the most shiny glasses I’ve ever seen, no metal around them, just thick glass. You can hardly see her eyes.
‘All right, Kettleson. Are you deaf?’
‘No, Sister.’
‘Then answer the question.’
Of course I figure she’s asking about those seven capital sins again. I start out.
‘The seven capital sins are Pride …’
I stop. The whole class is giggling. Sister Anastasia comes out from behind the desk. She has her ‘signal’ in her hand. I’ve already been hit on the hands with that thing for not paying attention, and it’s only the second week of school. It’s wooden and has a hard knob at the end. There’s a rubber band or something in the handle, and Sister can make a clicking noise with it when she wants things quiet; but mostly I think it’s for hitting kids with, at least that’s the way Sister Anastasia uses it. I’m ready for another knock on the knuckles.
‘Pick up that eraser and put it on the chalk rail here, young man.’
She points at the chalk rail behind her. I lean down and find the eraser under Mary Jane Donahue’s desk. It bounced against her, too, and there’s a white mark on the side of her uniform, but she’s keeping her hands crossed on the desk with her thumbs overlapped the way we’re supposed to do when we’re not writing. The thumbs crossed over each other like that are supposed to make a real cross and be a way of praying to God.
I carry that eraser to the front of the room and put it on the chalk rail.
‘Now put your hand out.’
I put it out and she gives me three good raps with her ‘signal’. She’s strong for a fat woman. The tears are coming into my eyes and I’m so mad I almost just run out the door, only I start back to my desk. The whole class is trying not to look at me, but I can hear them laughing inside. I don’t blame them; there isn’t much to laugh about in school. But I’m mad.
I go back to my desk and Sister Anastasia tells me to stand up again. ‘Kettleson, just what was it you were thinking about when you should’ve been listening to your Catechism?’
Before I can say anything, she starts up again.
‘Children, this is a perfect example of the sin of Pride. Kettleson thinks he knows more than God’s word. Catechism is God’s word made easy for young people. If you don’t pay attention to God’s word then you’re guilty of the first capital sin, Pride. Now, what were you thinking about instead of listening to God?’
I don’t want to lie. I especially don’t want to lie to a nun, even if it is Sister Anastasia.
‘I was thinking about what it is to be dead, Sister.’
She stares at me, shining circles in her glasses. Nobody moves in the class.
‘Just what do you mean by that, young man?’
‘I don’t know, Sister. That’s what I was thinking: how it must feel being dead.’
‘If you’d pay attention to your Catechism you’d know. You’d either be in Heaven with God, in Purgatory working out your salvation or in Hell burning for all eternity.’
She pauses, turning her head to take in all the class.
‘And I don’t have much doubt as to where you’re headed, Kettleson.’
I stand there. What’s there to say? I’m wondering if there’s much difference between what she’s just said and saying ‘Damn you’ to somebody.
‘Kettleson, I think for the good of your soul you should come up here, kiss this crucifix and pray for God’s forgiveness.’
She motions me to the front of the room again. The rooms have scrubbed wooden floors and they’re laid so they lead up and down the room. I walk up toward her with my head down, trying to walk on a single board and trying not to cry. When I get close to her, I smell the smell of a nun, the smell of baby powder and ironed clothes. She pushes me down onto my knees and holds out her large crucifix at the end of the giant-sized rosary wrapped around her waist. All the nuns in this school have rosaries like this around their waists. On the thin ones, it hangs practically to the ground, but with Sister Anastasia it comes to just below her belly, just about where my face is when she’s pushed me onto my knees. I kiss the crucifix and wipe my mouth. Then, I spit on the floor.
It’s something I do automatically; it isn’t meant as an insult or anything. The taste of metal in my mouth always makes me want to spit. When I’m working with Dad he keeps nails in his mouth so they’re handy, but when I’ve tried it, I drool around them and have to keep taking them out of my mouth to spit. It’s the same way with toy whistles, anything metal in my mouth makes spit spring up. Also, I’m nervous and not thinking.
Sister Anastasia grabs me by the hair and yanks me to my feet. She’s dragging me out of the room and I’m too scared to listen to what she’s saying except she’s taking me down to Father Lanshee because I’ve committed a sacrilege, spitting at the crucifix and spitting at a nun. I guess she believes that’s what happened. I try not to yell, not to cry, but she’s twisting my hair in her hands so it hurts and she’s pulling hair out.
We need to go outside the school to get to the rectory and she stands at the door, rings the bell. We don’t talk at all while we wait for the housekeeper to open it.
Father Lanshee finally