The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(8)

“Tell me, Sister. Would you have denied enrollment to Samuel had he been black?”

Sister Beatrice bristled. “Of course not.”

“Chinese?”

“No.”

“Russian?”

She hesitated, it being the Cold War. “No.”

“My son is of German-Irish descent. He was baptized Catholic in the church at the end of this school’s playground. My husband and I have been faithful and generous parishioners. Samuel can recite the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Act of Contrition. He can make the sign of the cross and knows how to say the rosary. So explain to me, if you will, on what basis you have chosen to deny him admission.”

“It is my belief that because of certain attributes, your son’s presence in the classroom could be detrimental to the learning environment of the other children.”

“You denied Samuel admission because he was born with red eyes, a condition over which he has no control.”

“I believe it will be difficult for your son to fit in, to make friends.” My mother started to speak, and Sister Beatrice added, “The children refer to him as ‘Sam Hell.’”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what does that have to do with—”

“They call him ‘the devil boy.’”

My mother flinched. So did I, having been well versed in the concept of the devil.

“As such, I think your son could be a disruption to the classroom—a distinct likelihood to which we all must be sensitive,” Sister Beatrice finished.

“But not to Samuel,” my mother said, quickly recovering.

“Excuse me?”

“You think it right to be sensitive to the possibility that other children will be insensitive, un-Christian, un-Catholic, un-Christ-like,” she said, “but not to be sensitive to a six-year-old boy whom God created and whom God gave red eyes?”

“Nevertheless, I have twenty-three other students in the first grade to consider.”

“Then perhaps you should consider that Samuel’s presence might very well be a perfect opportunity to put into practice some of the principles to which this school, and this parish, give lip service—to love one another and to display compassion to those who are different.”

“I can assure you, Mrs. Hill, this school very much enforces Christian ideals.” These being the days of wooden rulers and bullet-tipped pointers, Sister Beatrice’s use of the word enforce had surely been intended.

“At the moment, I think you can appreciate that your words ring rather hollow, Sister. Now, since there is no justifiable reason not to enroll Samuel, kindly advise me to whom I should write a check to cover his tuition, and into which classroom he will be placed.”

The two women locked eyes. There ensued a sickening moment of silence. Sister Beatrice broke the deadlock. “As I said, that is not going to happen, Mrs. Hill. I’ve made my decision.”

My mother stood. “Then I will have to make mine. Samuel.”

Taking that as my cue, and grateful for it, I stood to leave. My mother opened the office door, and though she turned to face Sister Beatrice, she kept her voice loud enough for all in the outer office to hear. “I will pray for you, Sister.” With that pronouncement, she left.

I trudged out behind her, stumbling into her legs when she stopped to address the two women behind the counter. “Prepare yourselves, ladies. It’s about to get very busy.”





10

“Don’t listen to a word that woman uttered,” my mother said as she shuffled me back across the courtyard, this time without an audience; the students were already in their classrooms. “A woman like that shames the habit she is wearing.”

Without further word, we climbed into the convertible Falcon and drove off, though not in the direction of our home. I can recall thinking my mother was driving straight to my father’s store, but we passed Broadway Avenue without slowing.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To see a college friend,” she said.

We continued south on the El Camino Real to a nondescript high-rise building and parked in a lot beside multiple white vans with the number four stenciled on the sides. Inside the building, my mother sat me in a chair in a reception area while she went to address a woman behind the counter. A minute later a man in a shirt and tie with perfect teeth and hair that looked like it could withstand fifty-mile-an-hour wind gusts greeted her with a hug and, to my astonishment, a kiss on the cheek.

My mother beckoned me forward. “Samuel, this is Dan, an old college friend.”

Dan bent down to shake my hand. “Hi there, Sam. How would you like something to drink and a morning snack?”

I looked to my mom, who nodded her consent.

“Emily,” Dan said to the woman behind the counter, “can you take Sam to the lunchroom and get him a juice and snack?”

I wasn’t sure about leaving my mother with a man who so easily kissed her, but I was also hungry, having not been able to stomach much for breakfast that morning.

“No problem,” Emily said, coming out from behind the counter. She stopped suddenly, staring at me.

“And get Sam some paper and colored markers to pass the time,” Dan said, but Emily must not have heard him. “Emily?”

“What’s that?” she asked, breaking off eye contact with me.