Memory: ten years old
1981
In the twenty-two years that Sister Agnes had been the secretary in the office of the Immaculate Soul School, she'd never seen a student get sent to the Mother Superior's office more times than Roger Davis. She peered over the rims over her glasses at the repeat offender, who was slumped in a chair in his green and blue uniform, arms crossed over his chest, awaiting his punishment.
Sister Agnes pitied the poor boy. She's heard stories—everyone had heard stories—about his hippie mother and his wild upbringing in the East Village—such disgrace! It had given Roger and his brothers quite a reputation when they started here five years ago. But, Sister Agnes thought happily, as she rolled a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter, that's what she and her other sisters were here for, to save the poor souls of little lost lambs.
Mother Superior opened the door of her office and stepped out, the material of her habit swishing about her ankles. She wore a wooden cross around her neck and rosary beads hung from an unseen pocket.
"Roger Davis," Mother Superior said his name with venom.
Roger stood, straightened his white Oxford shirt and navy blue uniform blazer and ran his fingers through his cropped hair. If it was one thing that Gran had insisted upon (besides a Catholic education), it was that he and his brothers keep their hair short. Once it became clear that Carrie was not coming back, Mary Jude had shorn her grandsons like sheep. Roger remembered crying when his grandmother cut his hair. That was the last time he'd cried.
He followed Mother Superior into her office and sat in the hard wooden chair across from her gigantic lacquered desk. A crucifix was mounted on the wall to Roger's right. It was a rather graphic depiction: the flecks of blood on Jesus' forehead were enough to make Roger's skin crawl.
"Well, Roger, what have you done this time?" Mother Superior asked. She had a rather large nose, and a pointed chin. If she was green, she'd bear a striking resemblance to the Wicked Witch of the West.
Roger remained silent. He didn't have to tell her. She knew already.
"Sister Joan says during physical education, you grabbed Joseph Gallone by the hair and shoved him into a wall."
Joseph Gallone deserved it, Roger smirked to himself. Joseph Gallone is a bastard.
"Wipe that grin off your face," Mother Superior snapped.
He hadn't realized he really was smirking. He bit his lower lip.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
He just shifted in the hard chair and remained silent. It didn't matter if he said anything. It didn't matter if he told Mother Superior that the reason he shoved Joseph Gallone was because he'd skipped around Roger in the gymnasium, calling him a flower child. He knew he'd be punished anyway.
"This is a serious offense," Mother Superior lectured. She reached over and opened a desk drawer. Roger tensed. He knew what she was looking for. "Shoving another student. Sister Joan said she had to send Joseph to the nurse." She pulled out the yardstick.
Great, here it comes, Roger thought to himself. He readied himself as he clenched his hands into fists and presented them to Mother Superior. Often he would fantasize about thrusting one of those fists into her face.
"Six Our Fathers," Mother Superior instructed as she stood before him.
"'Our Father, who art in Heaven'…" Roger began to recite. He barely winced as she landed the first blow across his knuckles.
Roger trudged home at the end of the day, his backpack over one shoulder and his uniform blazer tied haphazardly around his narrow hips. His knuckles were swollen; he tried to ignore the throbbing pain. As he approached his grandmother's brownstone, he saw Eddie sitting on the front steps, sucking on a Popsicle. Last year he'd started wearing glasses. Combined with his curly white-blond hair and perpetually pink cheeks, he gave the impression of a near-sighed cherub. Since he was only in first grade, he got out of class earlier than Roger and Michael did, and was already in his after-school clothes.
"Gran's mad," Eddie announced as soon as Roger was within earshot. "She said Sister Joan called."
"Great," Roger frowned.
"What'd you do now?"
"Nothing," Roger trudged up the steps, dragging his backpack behind him.
"What happened to your hands?"
"None of your business."
"Gran's gonna get madder when she sees your jacket like that," Eddie grabbed at the back of Roger's blazer. Roger snatched it away.
"Get your disgusting hands off," Roger snapped.
"ROGER!" Gran's voice came from the kitchen window. "Inside, now."
Roger sighed. With one last glare at his little brother, he went into the kitchen. Gran was standing at the counter, shelling peas. Her feet were enveloped in her tired old house shoes and her gray hair was knotted at the back of her head. She didn't even turn when Roger entered.
"You want to tell me about school today?" she asked, her voice cold.
"No," he responded. He sat at the kitchen table and loosened his blue and green striped tie. The Chucks on his feet were orange.
Gran slammed a fist on the kitchen counter. "Damn it, Roger. I don't know what to do with you."
"Can I have a Popsicle?"
"No. Only good boys get Popsicles after school," Gran swept up a piece of her hair that had escaped her bun, tucking it behind her ear. She sighed and went back to shelling peas. "Sister Joan called about you pushing that boy into a wall. This can't keep happening, Roger. It's got to stop."
"I want the other kids to stop."
"To stop what?"
"Making fun of me. That's what Joseph Gallone did to me."
"Then you act like an adult and you use your words," Gran advised, "or you tell Sister Joan or whoever, and they'll help you solve the problem."
"That won't work. That won't stop them."
Gran sighed, "Jesus, Roger—becoming a bully won't stop them either."
"I'm not a bully!" Roger exclaimed, pushing his chair away from the table, standing in defiance, his feet apart.
"You're acting like one!" snapped Gran. She whirled on him, dropping the peas she was shelling. "I know your mother never would have wanted you to be a bully."
Roger's mouth acted independently from his brain. "Maybe if you weren't such a crappy mom, my mom wouldn't have run away!"
His grandmother took two steps towards him and slapped him sharply across the face. Roger was shocked. He might have been able to hold back his tears, but nothing could cover up the hurt look in his eyes. He turned on his heels and peeled out of the brownstone, slamming the front door behind him.
In the wake of Roger's departure, stunned by her own actions, Mary Jude crumpled to the floor, and cried.
