Household Saints (20 page)

So be it, she thought. If she couldn’t be a captain in His army, she would settle for being one of His common soldiers. For this, she believed, the teacher’s college was a kind of basic training, and like any good recruit, Theresa was ready to take orders from anyone who claimed the authority to give them.

In this spirit, she studied her German unquestioningly, though she knew she would never be called upon to use it. She gave up trying to understand the proofs of God’s existence and accepted them on faith. And she told herself that if God wished her to take the subway twice a day, she would do it without complaint. If He wished His future teachers to attend after-school programs and weekend retreats, she would do that too.

And so it happened that a young man named Leonard Villanova came to join the ranks of Theresa’s “superiors.”

On alternate Saturdays, the League of Catholic University Students sponsored what they called retreats. Unlike the retreats Theresa remembered from St. Boniface—week-long meditations at idyllic Staten Island estates—these retreats were coed, one-day sessions held at colleges in the city, at which students from the boroughs could socialize while discussing such topics as “Jesus, The Church, and Communism” and “Teachers in a Doubting World.”

One Saturday afternoon, riding the subway uptown for a forum on “Television and the Future of Catholic Education,” Theresa couldn’t stop wondering what she would say if, God forbid, she were called on to speak. Could she talk about television ruining her grandfather’s life, her mother watching “The Millionaire”? Could she mention that she herself had watched TV constantly when it first came into the house and then—in a fit of penitence—had given it up completely. At the start, keeping this vow had demanded a certain vigilance, but gradually she almost forgot they had a television; in the end, she was gratified by her abstinence, for she imagined that none of the saints would have achieved beatitude if they’d watched a lot of TV.

But what did any of this have to do with the future of Catholic education? And how could she tell a roomful of college students that she had sworn off television because the contents of the Fatima letter were never revealed?

Distracted by these questions, Theresa couldn’t concentrate on the opening panel and didn’t begin to relax till the audience broke up into small discussion groups and it became clear that the leader of Theresa’s group—a young man who smoothly introduced himself as Leonard Villanova, a second-year law student at St. John’s—planned to do all the talking.

Leonard Villanova was an expert talker. He spoke like the former Loyola High debating team captain he was, like the Jesuit he was in his secret heart. In one sentence, he could propose theories, suggest alternatives, weigh their merits, and ask pertinent questions which he answered with dozens of appropriate examples. Leonard had the facts at his command—statistics, percentages, television sets per capita, television hours per family per week. To hear Leonard talk, you would have thought that there was nothing in the world but television.

Theresa was happy to listen to him; she certainly had nothing to say. And though she was impressed by his eloquence and knowledge, she was not nearly so impressed by Leonard. A gangly boy with tortoiseshell glasses and a greased-up brush of dark hair, he was wearing a button-down shirt, a frayed crewneck sweater, khaki chinos too short by at least an inch. Watching him, Theresa thought it a pity that Leonard didn’t know as much about personal grooming as he knew about television. His face was pocked with shallow pits, his cheeks covered with a faint oily down, as if they were still too tender from a recent bout with acne for Leonard to risk shaving.

Ashamed to be entertaining such unworthy thoughts about someone who was putting himself to so much trouble, Theresa forced herself to stare straight at Leonard with the open steady gaze which she could envision St. Therese bestowing on a loyal and treasured brother.

Theresa’s stare attracted Leonard’s attention, but he failed to identify it as a saintly look and thought that she was trying to pick him up.

As soon as the discussion group ended, Leonard approached Theresa, reached behind her and rather clumsily helped her into her coat. Faking a boldness which he did not feel but imagined he saw on Theresa’s face, he asked if she would like to join him for a cup of coffee at the Automat.

Right away, Theresa recognized Leonard as an expert at taking girls for coffee at the cafeteria—an expert at door-holding, at plucking a tray off the stack in such a way that she knew not to bother getting one for herself, at guiding her through the line, asking how she took her coffee and paying before she could reach into her purse. Not only did he steer her expertly through the cavernous restaurant, but his expertise seemed to come naturally. For when Theresa asked him if he went there often, he shook his head and said, “Of course not.”

And yet for all that, Theresa was unimpressed by his worldliness, unmoved when he smiled conspiratorially and called the other students at the retreat a bunch of idiots who deserved to spend their lives teaching Catholic school. She was not even stirred by the one thing which—given her own belief in the importance of a conscious life-plan—should have impressed her most: Within the first five minutes of their conversation, Leonard had outlined an elaborate plan for the rest of his life. This scheme included a St. John’s law degree, a Lincoln Continental, a family, a town-house in the East Eighties, a summer place in the Hamptons, membership in a dozen clubs which had never admitted Italians, and a brilliant career in the new and wide-open field of television law.

“You mean like Perry Mason?” Theresa knew that this was not what Leonard meant, but it was all she could think of to say.

Leonard laughed—a tight, strained chuckle, high in his throat.

“That’s good. Very good. But not quite what I had in mind. I’d be strictly behind the scenes.”

“Behind the scenes?”

“Behind a big fancy desk on the top floor of Rockefeller Center.” After a moment, Leonard said, “And you? No doubt you have plans of your own?”

“No. Not me.”

“Come on now. It’s a lawyer’s business to read human nature, and the minute I saw you at that discussion group, I thought, ‘There’s a girl who knows what she wants and knows how to get it.’”

“Me?” Theresa was shocked. “I wish I did.”

“I’m sure you do.” Leonard leaned across the table. Theresa couldn’t look at him.

“I guess what I want …” She stopped. “What I really wanted was to go into the convent.”

There was a long silence, and suddenly Theresa was afraid that Leonard was regretting the money he’d spent on her coffee. This possibility so dismayed her that she would have said anything. What she did say was, “I just wanted to serve God the best way I could. Ever since I read about St. Therese—”

“Ah ha! The Little Flower! So you’re one of those!”

“One of whiches?” Were there others like her?

“The Little Flowers. Half the girls in my neighborhood wanted to grow up to be the Little Flower.”

“Is that true?” Theresa was encouraged to learn she had so much company. “Well,” she rambled on, “you can see why. Everything the Little Flower did, she did for God. And she didn’t do anything, really, didn’t live out on the desert or get shot full of arrows. She just washed the floors and the dishes and said her prayers….” Theresa froze. She’d never told anyone this before. Out loud, it sounded like something a five-year-old might say.

But Leonard seemed intrigued.

“Theresa,” he said, in the cagey tone of a lawyer beginning what he thinks will be a brilliant cross-examination. “Why shut yourself off from life? Didn’t it ever occur to you that a woman can serve God and her family at the same time? All those things you mention—the floors, the dishes—you can do them in a home of your own, for a family of your own, and God will be just as pleased.”

He won’t be, Theresa wanted to say. There won’t be enough left over for Him. It seemed too easy to cook for the husband, kiss the baby, and forget about God…. Or maybe it was just
her
insufficiency;
she
didn’t have enough for both. In her mind, Theresa rehearsed all the inner debates, the arguments with her father, the struggle which ended so ignominiously with a plate of sausage in the middle of the night. Until finally it dawned on her that Leonard had taken her hand and was awaiting a reply.

Theresa turned away and gazed out the picture window at Fifty-seventh Street. It had been a crisp December afternoon, lit by that early winter sun which makes every surface seem to glitter with promise. All the little boys were carrying hockey sticks or clarinet cases, and the girls swung past in threes and fours, ice skates dangling from laces around their necks. Lovely women clicked by on high heels, clasping bunches of shopping bags like bouquets; down the block, couples waved to each other, met, kissed, then disappeared into movie theaters and taxis.

It was growing chilly, and the light was beginning to fade. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, as if they had plans for an evening so magical that they couldn’t wait for it to come. As Theresa watched them, a certainty came over her; she felt, as at no other time, that those beautiful women were clicking their way toward God, that God was helping the lovers into their cabs. Perhaps it was the general excitement, the light, or simply the effect of the coffee which Theresa rarely drank. Whatever the cause, Theresa knew beyond any doubt that God was present everywhere—even in Leonard Villanova’s sweaty hand.

“Ahem.” Leonard made a show of clearing his throat. “If you’re not busy next Saturday, we might get together again….”

Theresa smiled, so transfixed and exhilarated that Leonard misunderstood the source of her radiance and imagined that he alone had caused her to shine.

No one doubted that Leonard Villanova would make an excellent lawyer. Already he could recite whole pages from his property texts by rote. After his father, an accountant, chanced to mention television law, Leonard read every word ever printed on this topic; he liked to think of his mind as a bloodhound, sniffing out the finest details.

Something of an expert on public affairs, he conscientiously followed the papers and news magazines. Since junior high, he had subscribed to
The National Review
and considered William Buckley the greatest thinker of the decade. A practicing Catholic, Leonard was versed in scripture and doctrine, and kept up to date with the Vatican’s latest pronouncements on key issues.

Yet even experts have their limits, and so it was with Leonard. It was one thing to know the history of the church’s stand on birth control; it was quite another to practice it. When it came to sex, Leonard was by no means the expert he pretended to be. When it came to women, he was as pure as a saint.

One Saturday afternoon, after a long and tedious retreat on “Ecumenicism and the Catholic Teacher,” Leonard walked Theresa to the subway. As she started down the stairs, he grabbed her arm, yanked her back and kissed her.

Theresa waited till he was through, then turned and went down the stairs as if nothing had happened. Leonard took a deep breath. The incident was over so fast, there had been no time to consider the fine points of technique he’d been agonizing over all week. Not counting his mother and sister, Theresa was the first girl Leonard had ever kissed.

The next week, they met at the Metropolitan Museum to look at the religious paintings. As Leonard enlightened Theresa with a running lecture on Renaissance art, she allowed him to hold her hand. The museum was full of lovers, arm in arm, and each time they passed such a couple, Leonard felt honored and proud.

Once again, at the subway entrance, Theresa let him kiss her. This time Leonard was less nervous and more aware. It was discouraging that Theresa didn’t kiss him back. But there was something about the way she stood there with her eyes closed, submitting patiently, which made Leonard think that she might let him do anything he wanted.

At the start of the fall term, Leonard had moved from his parents’ Bay Ridge home to an apartment on Montague Street which he shared with Vince Migliore and Al DeMeo—boys who came from good families like Leonard’s and acted as if they were already partners in some prestigious and conservative law firm. Soon afterwards, the three of them chipped in on a two-year subscription to
Playboy.

“Even the Pope gets
Playboy
,” said Al.

They kept the back issues stacked neatly in the living room, borrowing and returning them with the same care they would have shown crucial reference books from the office library. And that—as reference—was chiefly how they used them. Though none of them were music lovers, Al bought a stereo, which Leonard and Vince stocked with records mentioned in the
Playboy
music column. Occasional beer drinkers, they splurged on a bottle of good Scotch which they placed on a round tray with some highball glasses and cocktail napkins, near the stereo. In the optimism of that gentle Indian summer, it was understood that this set-up would be used for entertaining girls. And yet, throughout that fall, the only female to grace the apartment was the Miss October whom someone—no one admitted having put her there, nor did anyone volunteer to take her down—tacked to the inside of the bathroom door.

Having read the step-by-step instructions, Leonard knew that you invited girls home to listen to your sound system, to admire the view from your terrace, to sample your twelve-year-old Chivas Regal. But instinct told him that these ploys would never work on Theresa Santangelo. Theresa would never go home with him to be entertained or served.
She
would have to do the serving.

One afternoon they met by previous arrangement at Borough Hall. By now, Leonard had persuaded Theresa that the retreats were a waste of her time; he had promised her a tour of Brooklyn Heights. As they walked along the Promenade, Leonard recounted the history of the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. Suddenly he stopped in mid-sentence and said,

“Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.

“It’s these curtains…. My mother sent them to me for my room. For days now, I’ve been trying to figure out … Being a male, I’m not exactly an expert at hanging—”