The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(10)

My father dropped the bowl. My mother appeared on the grainy television, standing beside Dan, a microphone under her chin and Sister Beatrice’s letter in her hand.

“It seems that when it comes to Catholic values, Our Lady of Mercy is good at preaching them but not at practicing them,” my mother said to Dan. “My son is no different from any other child, save for the color of his eyes, over which he has no control.”

Our Lady of Mercy’s school grounds appeared on the television, the shot angling up at the quad from the lower parking lot. It then switched to a close-up of the salmon-colored door of the administration office. The blinds had been drawn to cover the thin sidelights. Dan peered into the camera. “Attempts to contact the school principal, Sister Beatrice, were not successful,” he said, tone grave.

The camera shot returned to my mother standing beside Dan in the parking lot. “She said the decision was hers alone to make, so I can only assume she speaks for the entire parish.”

“But that appears not to be the case,” the newscaster said, and I recognized the sudden appearance of our pastor, Father Brogan, dressed in his mud-brown Franciscan frock.

“This is clearly a misunderstanding,” Father Brogan said to Dan. He looked uncomfortable. “Here at OLM we do far more than preach Catholic ideals. I can assure you they are very much put into practice.”

Dan asked, “So is there any truth to the assertion that the boy was denied admittance because of the color of his eyes?”

Father Brogan looked pale, even on the washed-out screen. “We had more applicants than space,” he managed. “We certainly do not discriminate at OLM.”

With that pronouncement, my mother returned to the screen beside Dan. This time she sounded more conciliatory. “We’re hopeful that this misunderstanding will be quickly rectified.”

The newscast moved on to the next story. My father and I sat as if frozen.

“Samuel, turn off the television,” my mother said, piercing a green bean with her fork and bringing it to her mouth.

The click of the knob was the last sound I recall until the telephone down the hall rang. My mother casually transferred her napkin from her lap to the table, and left to answer it. “Hill residence. This is Mrs. Hill.” Pause. “It’s nice of you to call, Father Brogan.” Another pause. “No. As a matter of fact, we were just finishing up.” Longer pause. “I understand. Of course. These things do happen. Samuel is very much looking forward to it.”

I looked to my father. He sat rigid, his face red.

My mother continued to speak into the phone. “We’d like to have you to dinner one evening, Father. Yes, we’ll have to do that.”

I heard her replace the receiver in its cradle. A moment later she reseated herself and draped her napkin in her lap. “You’ll need to get a good night’s sleep tonight, Samuel. You start first grade in the morning at Our Lady of Mercy.”





12

We spent the rest of the evening in a chilly silence. I pretended to watch television until my bedtime at seven thirty. The minute hand had no sooner struck the six when my mother and father spoke nearly simultaneously—“Time for bed, Samuel.” I needed no further encouragement this night.

I hurried upstairs, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and pulled on my pajamas. Then I slid beneath my bed and inched close to the floor vent. Ordinarily I had to press my ear to hear my parents’ conversations in the room below, but this evening I could hear them both just fine.

“Why on God’s green earth would you do that, Madeline?”

“I won’t have him discriminated against.”

“You drew more attention to him than if you stood on the church steps and blew a bugle.”

“Don’t be melodramatic. I stood up for my son; if that makes me a bad mother—”

“And don’t pull the martyr act. This isn’t about you, Maddy. This is about Sam. He is the one who has to walk into that school tomorrow and confront the bed you have made for him.”

“He will be stronger for it.”

“He’s six years old!”

“And what? You think it will get easier for him as he gets older?”

“Precisely my point—the cruelty will begin soon enough.”

Cruelty? What kind of school was OLM? Jefferson Elementary was looking better and better.

“The cruelty has already been inflicted by a Dominican nun who had the temerity to call my son, our son—”

“Who will be his principal—”

“The ‘devil boy.’”

“Good God!” my dad shouted. “And you want to send him there?”

“She won’t be his principal for long, not if I have anything to do with it.”

“Please. Are you going to get every teacher who is unkind to Samuel fired? What about every child who mistreats him—are you going to have them expelled?”

Unkind? Mistreatment? What had I gotten myself into?

“Don’t be ridiculous, Maxwell.” My mother rarely called my father Maxwell.

“Me being ridiculous? I’m not the one who made a spectacle of myself on local television.”

“I certainly didn’t make a spectacle of myself.”

“You indicted the entire community. Our community.” There was a lull in the battle. Then my father said, “Sam is different. There’s nothing that can be done about that.”