Monthly Archives: November 2019

GOOD MORNING STUDENTS,MY NAME IS SISTER JOHN MICHAEL

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In she storms her full skirt, making a swishing noise as she moves. When she stops, the giant rosary that hangs from her waist swings back and forth, she’s dressed in black that flows down to the top of her black boots; a white wimple covered her forehead and chin. And she wears a white bib that spans her shoulders from one side to the other. 

If she has any hair, you can’t see it; a black veil covers her head. She appears six feet tall. My first thought is she’s the Wicked Witch of the West.

Today is my first day of school at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Elementary School. I’m seven years old.   The classroom is overflowing with kids. There’re more kids in the class there than desks. A bunch of other kids and I have to sit on the windowsill. I saw three first grades in line in the schoolyard.

There’s a low murmur as the students whisper to one another. Suddenly, Sister yells out, “that will be enough of that. No one is to speak unless they have permission to speak, or unless I ask you a direct question, is that understood?” None of us made a sound.

She screeches, what’s wrong with you? Answer.

We mumble, “Yes.”

She says, “when you reply, you are to say, yes, Sister, or no, Sister.” Now repeat after me, yes, Sister, no. Sister.”

And we did.  “Yes, sister, no sister.”

“If you have to go to the bathroom, you must raise your hand, and ask for permission, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sister.” We say as one.

She walks up to the blackboard and picks up a piece of chalk, and writes her name, Sister John Michael. None of us can read.   “My name is Sister John Michael. You may call me Sister. By the end of the school year, you all will be able to read and write your names. You will know how to do Arithmetic.”

“Good, now let us begin. I’ll start with the fist aisle. You will stand and state your name, now go.”  I ‘m not in an aisle, so I’m hoping I won’t have to stand up and say my name.

After everyone who has a desk says their names, Sister tells the students sitting on the windowsills to speak. When it’s my turn, I stand up, and with my head down, mumble my name, “Susan Carberry.”

“What? I can’t hear you, speak up, and put your head up.”

I put my head up, but I don’t look at her. I stare at the large round clock that’s on the column in front of her. I don’t know how to tell time, but I hope it will be time to leave soon.  I spit it out all at once, “my name is Susan Carberry.” Then I sit down so hard, I jar my whole body.

After everyone has introduced themselves, Sister picks up a long wooden stick that’s pointed at the end. We all hunker down in our seats. Wondering what she’ll do next. Is she going to hit us all one by one?

She points at green cards that line the top of the walls along the front of the room. “Boys and girls, this is the alphabet. I’m going to point at each letter and say the name, and you will all repeat it after me, do you understand?”  She puts her hands deep into the pockets hidden in her long skirt.“Yes, Sister.” We said in unison.

“Good, now we will say the alphabet over and over until we know it by heart. You will all have a chance to show your classmates that you recognize and say each letter out loud. Later we’ll begin writing the letters in a special copybook. And you will learn how to read words that are made by putting these letters together. You will learn how to read and write by the end of the year. You will have to work hard. But you will learn. Do you understand?”

We all sit and stare at her. No one answers. Her voiced booms out, “I said, do you understand?” I for one don’t know what she’s talking about. But I yell out as loudly as I can,” Yes, Sister.”

“Well, Miss Carberry, you’re learning already. Now, I want to hear the whole class. Do you understand what I said?”

All a sudden everyone yells as loud as they can, “Yes, sister.”

“Good, let us begin. I’ll point at each letter and say the name. You’ll all repeat what I said, out loud. Let’s begin.”

After we repeat every letter out loud, Sister announces,” we’ll practice this every day. Beginning next week each student will be called on and they will have to repeat each letter as I point at it. Everyone will have a chance. “Do you understand class?”

There was a moment of silence and then sister repeats, “Do you understand?”

We all yelled out,” Yes, sister.”

My stomach tightens up. I feel sick. I know I’ll never be able to learn all these letters and say them all out loud in front of the class. I want to run out the door and go home.

And then sister says, “Alright class, it’s time to use the girls and boy’s room before recess. Will aisle one and two come to the front of the room and stand at the door?” I look around at the rest of the class, and I wonder what’s a boy’s and girl’s room? Does everyone else know?

And then the first two rows go up to the front and sister says. “boys in front, girls in the back. Go out into the hall and wait until I come out there and direct you to the bathrooms. Be silent, do you understand?”

“Yes, sister.”

And they all walk silently out into the hall. Well, at least I now know we’re all going to the bathroom. I wait my turn hoping I don’t have to wait too long because my stomach is really hurting.  Finally, it’s the turn for the people sitting on the window sills to go to the bathroom. We march out to the hall.

Sister says. “No, talking.”

Suddenly I feel someone t.ake my hand I look to see who it is. It’s a girl with curly brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She smiles at me and I smile back. My stomach starts to feel a little better. Sister yells, “go into the bathroom now. When you finish, form a line and wait until you are all done and then go back to the class and sit where you were sitting before.

My new friend and I hold hands until we get in the bathroom. We see four doors inside. We each open one of the doors and look inside. There is a toilet in there. We go in, and then we shut the door. It’s weird, but at least I have a moment alone when sister will not yell at me. When I’m done, I flush, the toilet and my friend is waiting at the door for me.

‘Hi, my name is Irene Simpson. What’s your name? “

“My name is Susie Carberry.” I, smiling shyly at her. We walk out hand in hand into the hall.  After all the kids are out, there we march back to the classroom and sit down again.

“Alright class, quiet, please we’ll begin practicing our letters. The first person in each row pass the copybooks to the person behind you. I would like a volunteer to come up to the front of the class to pass out the copybooks to the people who sit next to the windows. What no one wants to volunteer?” She looks up and down the aisle.

I feel her eyes resting on me. I turn my head slightly and put my head down. I’m thinking, please, please don’t call out my name.

“No volunteers? Alright then, Miss Carberry, come up here and get the books, please and pass them out.” I try to shrink down lower. “Miss Carberry, Susan Carberry, come up here this minute. I can see you.” I hop off the windowsill and walk up to the front of the class, and stick out my hands to take the books.

“Very good Miss Carberry, that wasn’t that bad was it?’ She hands the black and white books to me. I turn around and walk to the back of the class to the window and give each of the kids a book. And then I plop back on my window seat. I take a deep breath.

“Alright, let us. Begin I’m going to pass out pencils to each student and you must never lose it. This will be your pencil. And then, we will begin learning to write the letters.  Do you understand students?”

We all say, “yes, sister.” And sister hands out the pencils and shows us how we are to write the letter on the special lines of the copybook. It takes forever to fill up one page of letters.

I’m tired and want to go home. I feel like crying, but I hold it in. “Alright girls and boys, it’s almost time to go home for lunch. Please put your pencils and books on your desk or on the windowsill next to you. I ‘ll be calling each row and we will be walking outside. You will wait until you are dismissed and then you can go home for lunch. There’re people who will help you cross the streets if you need them. They are called safeties they have badges on over their uniforms. Do what they say. You have to come back to class at 12:30 and meet in the schoolyard and stay there until the bell rings then line up and you will come back here to class for the afternoon. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sister.”I have no intention of ever returning to this classroom. But later my mother told me I would have to go back there. My older sister tells me I will have to go to school for twelve years. But I know that can’t be true. So I stick my tongue out at her.

A LIE IS A LIE IS A LIE

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“Delta Dawn Rafferty, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” As I sit in the witness chair, I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead. And then a shudder runs through my whole body. I stare out across the courtroom. I hear a low buzzing in my ears, and heat on the back of my neck and ears. My heart is beating so hard I think it might explode out of my chest. Dear god, I think I’m going to pass out in front of God and country.  Carrie Z - Pixababy

I blink and take a long, deep breath and exhale. “Yes, I do swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god.” I’m biting my lip so hard it starts to bleed. I take an old tissue out of my jacket pocket and dab at my lip and gulp. I stuff the tissue back from whence it came. I sit up as straight as I can. And then I look out at Douglas, the accused, my former boyfriend, although a short-lived one.

“Can you relate to the court the circumstances that brought you here today? In your own words, can you tell the court what exactly occurred on January first of this year?”

As I sit there and try to decide what I should say, I realize that I had made up my mind a long time ago. I’m going to say precisely what it will take to put that bastard behind bars for as long as possible. Douglas is the picture of innocence. His face is blank, flaccid, you might say. But I know him better than anyone here. I can see that he’s gritting his teeth and his jaw is tightening. His lips are slightly pursed. If he could, he would rush up here and strangle me with his bare hands; he would. I have no doubt.

It began back when I was in grad school. Everything was going along as planned, and then I met Douglas. It was just after mid-term. I was on my break and my friends, and I decided to go out and party at the local pubs. Hell, I think we hit all of them on South Street in Philadelphia. I’m not much of a drinker, but for some reason that night, I just gave myself permission to drink myself into oblivion. Later, I wished that was all I found oblivion, not Douglas.

It was a beautiful starlit night. Well, that’s not exactly true, but it sounds better then it was raining like hell, and we all got soaked to the bone. There were five of us. There was Dolores, she has glorious red hair down to her waist and a tattoo on her arm that reads, Born to Die. She is the funniest person I ever met. She has a very dry wit,  dryer than the Mojave Dessert. She says the most outrageous things with a straight face. You have to think twice about everything she says, and then she will burst out laughing.

And then there’s Candy as beautiful as any model with an IQ that Einstein would envy. She’s only twenty-two and has two doctorate degrees. One in advanced physics, the other in psychology. Abnormal psychology was her area of interest.

And my best friend, Alicia. There isn’t any brief description of Ali she is all heart. I do not doubt that she is an empath. She can take one look at you, and in a few minutes, she understands who you are and what makes you tick. Although, I have to admit she misjudged me. She will go to the end of the earth to help you if you need her to. She has never met anyone who she doesn’t consider a friend. And the feeling is mutual. She has been my best friend since grade school. I can’t imagine my life without her in it.

And then there’s Thelma. How best to describe Thelma? She grew up in the Appalachian Mountains. Her family was poor. Not poor where they didn’t have extra money to go on vacation in the summer. But poor, she didn’t have food to eat every day of her life. She was homeschooled through high school. She has an endemic memory. If she reads it, she retains it. She has the frizziest hair that I have ever seen. She calls it her Irish Frow. There are freckles on her face and body the size of dimes. Is she the most beautiful girl in the world, no.? But, the men flock after her like a cat to catnip.

And then there’s me, of course, Delta Dawn Rafferty. Yes, I know that’s the name of a country-western song. My mother loved those old country ballads. Let me begin by saying that I have a good heart but don’t always make the best decisions. Often my heart leads the way instead of my head. I suppose I would have to say that of all of my friends I’m the creative one. My imagination knows no limits.  I’m an artist and writer. I’m quick with the sarcastic barb. I also have a quick temper and a short fuse. I’m a distant relative of Georgia O’Keefe. Now, you know everything relevant about me except how I came to be on trial for attempted murder. I didn’t attempt to murder anyone.  I was trying to save my own life. I believe that’s called self-defense.

As I was saying, we were out on the town hitting all the dive bars in Philadelphia’s South Street. If you ever have the time and the inclination, go there. The only possible place I could compare to South Street would be the Haute Ashbury section of San Francisco in the sixties and seventies. At least that’s what my grandmother Lou told me. And she ought to know she was a hippie back in the day.

We started at Tattooed Mom, it’s one of the most fabulous places on South Street if you are going on a bar troll with your best buds. Go there with a buzz on before you get there, even better.

Because this place is a sensory overload starting at the front of the building, the theme is carried on inside. Every surface is covered with psychedelic graffiti, including the walls and the furniture. All the artwork is created by the most talented and innovative graffiti artist in Philadelphia. Each one is a piece of history. They have a remarkable collection of craft beers. If you like some spicy chicken wings or an awesome veggie burger it’s yours for the asking.

They have poetry readings open to local poets. And then there’s Upstairs Mama’s where there’re political meet-ups with local Progressive leaders. Not your scene, then you can play a game of pool. It’s a very liberal place, so Conservatives’ beware. Anyway, my gal pals and I started here with a couple of beers and some food and listened to the poetry slam before we left.

We were all feeling the good vibes and moved on to The Twisted Tail. This is in the Society Hill section of South Street. The food is kind of uptown Southern Barbeque. We went there for the booze at the Southern Whiskey bar. And the music at the Juke Joint where talented local musicians play. That night a band called Mikey Jr. and the Stone-Cold Blues were playing. And then to top it all off there was a new musician and band who were playing Muddy Water’s Blues. By the time they got to Manish Boy, I was blown away. The singer could have been a reincarnation of Muddy Waters. And I was feeling no pain.

As I was throwing back my last whiskey a good-looking dude sat down next to me. And he asks if I wanted to dance. And that my friend was the beginning of a life-changing moment in my life. You know that little voice you hear in your head sometimes telling you, no don’t do it. Well, my little voice was screaming it at the top of its little non-existing lungs. But I was too far gone to hear it or care and I said yes.

Once I looked into his deep brown eyes, I was lost. I was his, for the taking. Next thing I know I got my jacket and told my best gal pal, Alicia, that I was leaving with this dude and would talk to her later. She tried to talk me out of it. They all did. But I had stopped listening. I was out the door hanging on his arm. Barely able to stand let alone walk.

Alicia came over just before I went out the door and tried once again to dissuade me. She physically tried to pry me off his arm. But I would have none of it. And I told her to mind her own business. And that was the last they heard of me for ten days. Yes, my friends that good-looking dude was none other than Douglas.

Yes, I was missing in action for ten days. that was a first for me. My friends were frantic. They had no idea where I was. I really think I lost my mind. I only considered what I was feeling. And I was feeling no pain. I was in love or lust, or maybe both. Those ten days were intoxicating.  Every time he walked into the room. I literally swooned. After ten days, Douglas decided he needed to go back to work and pick up the pieces. He left me a note saying it had been great fun. But the fun was over, and he had to get back to his real life.

Real-life, what the hell did that mean? I’m real. These last ten days seemed more real than any experience I had in my life up to this point. I was having none of it. He wasn’t going to toss me out like last week’s left-over Chinese food. I spent the rest of the morning ransacking his apartment. I got into his email. Can you believe he used the same password for every one of his accounts? And he had his password taped to the bottom of his laptop. What an amateur.

I looked at his Facebook account, his LinkedIn account, Twitter, his Tinder. I unfriended everyone on his Facebook account. Lastly, I blocked anyone on Tinder that I thought might get in my way. I changed his passwords for everything, and I copied his new passwords. I looked at his documents. I left no stone unturned. I happen to keep a jump drive in my purse, and I copied all relevant information. I even looked at all his online bank accounts. I moved some of his money from his checking and savings account into long-term CDs.

Douglas never asked for my phone number or address or my cell. He doesn’t even know my last name. He may be finished with me, But I’m not finished with him. Not by a long shot. He may not know my last name or address, but I know everything about him, and I mean everything. I looked in his address book on his phone while he was taking a shower. And I copied all his contact information, including family, friends, and workplace.

I cleaned every surface that I might have touched. I put all the dishes into the dishwasher and turned it on. I washed the clothes, sheets, and towels in hot water. Douglas’ apartment had probably never been this clean dare I say antiseptic since day one. And then I began to exact my revenge. Oh, you thought I already exacted my revenge. Hardly, I believe I mentioned that I’m creative. Well, my creativity is not limited to, painting and writing.

Day one- I contacted Alicia first by text, and after she unloaded a raft of shit on me via texts. I called her. Unfortunately, I should have given her a little more time to simmer down. Her anger was still boiling over. “Del, where the hell have you been? We have been looking all over for you. We made a police report that you were a missing person. We called your parents. We all were sure that that guy murdered you, cut you up in little pieces, and threw you in the Schuylkill River. Del, they dragged the river. You are going to have to talk to the police. I’ll text you the name and number of the detective that was, or I guess is investigating your disappearance. His name is Detective Dan Shaw.

“Del, it was in the Philadelphia Inquirer.”  “For reals? Are you kidding?” No, I’m not kidding. Your parents are a mess; they think you’re probably dead. No, I’m not joking. Have you lost your mind? We were all worried, sick.”

I tried to interject some reason here. But Alicia was having none of it. God, can’t a girl go a little crazy once in a while? I mean, you’re only young once, for crying out loud. So, I made plans to get together with her and Dolores and Candice, and Thelma for dinner that night at the Pussy Cat. It’s a kind of a dive bar in Deptford, NJ, near the Mall. But they have the most fabulous spicy Chicken Wings in South Jersey.

After I spoke to Alicia, I called my mother. When my mother picked up the phone, she immediately started crying. And then she started yelling. It seemed that this was going to be a new theme with everyone I talk to in the near future. I was starting to feel a little guilty for not letting them know what I was up to. But not that guilty. I have a right to my privacy, don’t I? I assured her I was fine, and I apologized over and over again. Then my dad got on the phone and read me the riot act. I guess I could expect more of this at the Pussy Cat when I saw my other girlfriends. I will try to deflect the tirade by starting with an apology, right off the bat.

Meanwhile, I got busy with my plan for Douglas. The basic plan was to make him regret using me and then ditch me like a bad habit. And then regretting the day he was born. I started sending emails to his boss at Megger International, describing some of the things Douglas had done to me. I copied that email to all his co-workers and close friends. And all his past girlfriends and on Tinder for any possible future girlfriends.

I was feeling a little jazzed for some reason. I guess I was feeling a sense of accomplishment. I didn’t stop for a minute to consider the possible consequence of my actions, not even for a minute. I found it divine retribution. Not that I felt sorry for my actions and how they would affect Douglas. But how it possibly affects me. I think I had every right to destroy Douglas’ little world and his pathetic life. Look what he did to me. Told me he loved me, adored me even. We were meant to be together forever. Men have been doing this to women forever. And it is time for it to stop.

My coup d’état was when I showed up at his place of employment, Megger international. They were having a meeting for all the top-performing employees at a special luncheon to thank them for their outstanding service to the company. I knew all this because I have been hacking into his work email. God, he had made it so easy.

I arrived just as the plant manager was standing in front of all the employees to hand out bonuses and announce raises. I saw Douglas sitting at one of the front tables. He seemed poised to stand up. I started to slowly move forward to the front of the large meeting room. I was going to start crying and telling everyone what a shit he was when he was finished speaking. But that never happened because as his name was called, Douglas sensed my presence somehow and looked over at me.

And I stepped forward he launched himself across the front of the room and toward me. He started choking me.   I was kicking and scratching. I was no match for his strength. I don’t think I mentioned that Douglas was over six and a half feet tall and cut. It looks like he spent a lot of time working out at the gym. He was shaking me like a dog with a bone. And then, at the last possible moment, I pulled the knife out of my jacket pocket and stabbed him a couple of times in the upper chest. Which was all I could manage, considering he was wringing my neck?

That was also when several of his co-workers and boss jumped on me and restrained me. Someone punched me really hard in the face. I don’t know who. But I intend to find out, and they will be sorry. The last thing I remember is the police putting me in handcuffs and shoving me in the back of the squad car. And that is all she wrote. And here I’m standing before you all ad innocent women trying to defend my honor. Nothing more. I was just defending myself, nothing more.

THE FIRST DAY OF FIRST GRADE

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It was September of 1957 when my sister Karen and I entered first grade at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in Maple Shade, NJ.

“Karen, Susan, Karen, Susan get up it’s time to get ready for school.” My mother yells from the bottom of the steps. We moan and reluctantly throw the covers off. And slowly we get out of bed.

School Yard – Pixabay

My mother had put our school uniforms out for us. They look exactly alike, a maroon jumper with a white blouse that had what my mother called a Peter Pan Collar, black and white saddle shoes, and white socks. And worst of all, a hat called a beanie that was also maroon. I put on the blouse and the jumper, and it is so itchy I can’t believe it. I don’t think I’ll be able to wear it all day. I start scratching. I put on my new shoes. They look kind of neat but feel heavy. Since I haven’t worn shoes all summer.

As soon as I start walking around, my feet start hurting. I take them off and put my old sneakers on instead.

Karen looks over at me and says, “What are you doing? You have to wear  school shoes.”

I stick my tongue out at her. She says I’m telling Mom.

“Shut up.”

“No, you shut up, I’m telling Mom.”

We walk down the steps to the kitchen. Karen’s shoes are making a lot of noise as she clumps down the stairs. I’m wearing my sneakers, so I’m not making any noise. I hear my mother yell.

“Pick up your feet.”

I start laughing at Karen. She rushes down the rest of the steps and runs in the kitchen.” Mom, Susie isn’t wearing her new shoes, she’s wearing her old sneakers.”

My mother says, “Don’t tattle Karen; that’s not nice.”

Karen is mad now, “but Mom, she’s not wearing her school shoes.”

“Alright Karen, sit down and eat your cereal, I’ll talk to your sister.”

I am hiding at the bottom of the stairwell, so I know my mother is coming to talk to me. There’s nowhere for me to hide, so I just stand there and wait for my mom.

“Susie, please go back upstairs and change your shoes. We already talked about this the other day you have to wear shoes and a uniform. It’s a rule.”

I look at my mother, and I want to cry, but instead, I say, “I hate school, I don’t want to go.”

“No, you don’t Susie, you don’t even know what it’s like. You’ll make new friends, and learn all kinds of new things. Now, please go upstairs and put on your new shoes. And while you’re at it, get your beanie. And after breakfast, I’ll fix your hair and help you brush your teeth.”

Now I stomp up the steps, muttering under my breath, “I hate school, I hate school.” I hear Karen laughing in the kitchen.

When I come down, I hear my mom talking to Karen in the bathroom while she is brushing Karen’s curly, dark hair. I start shoveling my cheerios in as fast as I can. I feel like I’m going to start crying. Karen and my mother come back into the kitchen. I feel a tear and then another run down my cheeks.

“Look, Mom, Susie’s crying, she’s such a baby.”

I look at Karen, and I’m so mad at her that I stop crying and stare at her hard. I stick my tongue out at her.

She yells, “Mom, Susie is sticking out her tongue at me again.”

“Alright Karen, that’s enough, go get your school bag, and wait for Susie on the front porch she’ll be outside in a minute.”

“Come on Susie, I’ll fix your hair, and you can brush your teeth.”

I follow my mother down the hall passed the Blessed Mother grotto towards the bathroom. I start feeling sick to my stomach. “Mommy, I don’t feel good, I feel sick.

“You’ll be alright, Susie, you’re just nervous. Let me brush your hair and then brush your teeth. Don’t forget to put on your beanie, or you’ll get into trouble.”

I look in the mirror, I see my tear-streaked face, it is all red from me rubbing it. I had washed my hair last night, but I didn’t comb or brush it so it is full of knots.

“Susie, your hair is a rat’s nest. Didn’t you comb it last night after your bath?’

“No, I guess I forgot.”

Then my mother starts pulling the brush and then the big comb through my hair. It hurts. I look in the mirror. I have blond hair, but my sisters always tell me it’s “Dirty blond.” I hate when they say that cause I wash my hair every week.

“OK, Susie, here’s your brush, put some baking soda on it and start brushing, brush all your teeth not just the front ones.”

“OK, Mom, I will.” And I try to brush all my teeth, but my arm starts to feel tired so that I may have missed a few of the back teeth.

“Alright, let me see your teeth, Susie, open up.”

I open my mouth wide. She looks in. “Looks like you missed the ones in the back, here’s your brush. Do it again, and then rinse out your mouth.”

I do it again, I hate baking soda it tastes like poison. I brush the back teeth, rinse and spit.

“Put your beanie on Susie.”

I put it on the top of my head, it’s sticking up weird in the back, because of my ponytail. I make a face. My mom looks at my face in the mirror. “Here Susie, I’ll put a couple of bobby pins on the beanie to keep it on. Don’t lose them.”

She sticks the bobby pins into my hair, and I flinch. Now, my feet and my head hurt. I want to cry again, but I don’t.

My mother leans down and gives me a little hug. It makes me want to cry again, but I hold the tears back. “Bye, Mom, I’ll see you later.”

“Oh, Susie I forgot to tell you. You can come home for lunch. Sister will tell you when it’s time. I’ll see you at lunchtime.”

For a minute, I feel a little better. Then I run out of the front door, and I see Karen has already left. Now I have to go by myself. Karen’s a pain, but I always feel a little better when I can go with her somewhere I’ve never been to before. My stomach starts to hurt in earnest. And I get the weird scratchy feeling in my throat right before I start crying.

I cry all the way to the schoolyard — the school bell ringing. There are hundreds if not thousands of kids in the schoolyard. I don’t know where to go. Then I realize that I forgot my school bag — the crying increases. I run into the schoolyard. There is a sea of unfamiliar faces. I can’t find Karen. All the girls look alike in their uniforms.

I see a “nun” coming toward me. I want to run away. She looks like a giant. She has a really long black dress on and around her waist is a giant rosary swaying back and forth. As she comes toward me, I see she has a giant bib on her neck that comes down to her chest. And a stiff white piece of fabric is across her forehead and chin. There is a black veil on her head hanging down her back.

I ‘m terrified. “You’re late, don’t let that happen again. What is your name, and what grade are you in?”

I looked down at the ground. For a moment, I can’t remember my name or what grade I’m in.

“Look at me and speak up.”

I look up momentarily and mumble, “Susan Carberry, first grade.”

“Alright, Miss Carberry, follow me.”

The “Nun” takes me across the schoolyard and over to the line with the smallest kids. I see my sister, Karen. And I have never been so happy to see her in my life, as I did at that moment. She looks over at me, and she gives me a little smile. And then the second bell rings and all the kids start marching toward the school. The first day of school begins.

The Foundling

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I had decided to spend the day at the Philadelphia Library. I have been working on my family history for the past ten years, and I wanted to search the census records for the period of time between 1900 and 1920. I am studying my father’s side of the family.

Philadelphia Central Library

I knew that he was an only child and had been raised from the age of seven until he was sixteen at Girard College. During that time, Girard College was a residential school for boys only. The only requirement was that one of their parents was deceased. His father passed away when he was five from uremic poisoning.

It was a beautiful crisp autumn day, so I decided to take the high-speed line over to Philly.  I arrived about a half-hour before the library opened. So I decided to walk around the corner to grab something to eat for breakfast at Whole Foods.

I bought a small container of yogurt and green tea. Whole Foods is a great food store, but they are pricey. It cost almost six dollars for these two items. I devoured the yogurt as I hadn’t eaten any dinner the night before. The tea was hot, so I sipped slowly. It was good. I’m something of a tea connoisseur. At any given moment, I can name fifty different brands and types of teas.

Unfortunately, very few people seem particularly interested in hearing my list, although some have suffered in silence as I listed them in alphabetical order. I know they don’t want to hear it, but somehow, I feel compelled to tell them.

First, I see their eyes shift from right to left, looking for a way out of the conversation. It isn’t a conversation, more of a monologue. I give them very little chance to break away. I keep talking at breakneck speed. I see their eyes glazing over, I know that they are not listening anymore, but still, I persist, naming my favorite teas, or pies, or ice cream. I have a list for just about any subject.

I decided to walk across the street to the Book Corner, a used book store operated by the Central Library. It is filled with used and donated books. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that I also collect books.

Books fill every inch of space in my two-bedroom apartment, stacked on tables, chairs, under tables and chairs, under my bed, and on the side of my bed that I don’t sleep on. People have told me that I am a hoarder of books. I say I ‘m a bibliophile. I love the feel, smell, and touch of old books. My favorite books are art books with full-color plates of art, every type of art, and periods of history. I’m a collector of many things, mostly useless facts that no one wants to hear or know about.  woman holding book

I almost purchase a book on Jasper Johns, one of my favorite abstract expressionist artists. But I talked myself out of it. Since I already had this self-same book at home in one of my piles.

I start walking up the street behind the library, and I see something on the sidewalk. I quickstepped up to it and lean over and pick it up. It’s a watch, a stunning watch. I don’t own valuable jewelry myself, but I certainly recognize quality when I see it. It’s gold, a women’s watch, with a mesh watch band. There are twenty-eight small diamonds surrounding the watch face. There is a small stone on the stem of the watch, I think a blue Topaz.

I turn over the watch and look on the back there is an inscription it reads: To BlJ, from JPO, and then some words in French. My high school French is somewhat rusty since I graduated. Well, let’s just say quite a few decades ago. I decided to type the phrase into Google translator when I finally got into the library.

When I arrive at the library, I fly up the steps and push open the beautiful ornate doors. I’m never disappointed when I enter the library, they have recently remodeled the first floor, and it is fabulous. The new entry floor is gleaming marble, all new showcases. I look at each one and study its contents.

Oh, there’s going to be a visit from an author. Oh, I definitely will sign up for that. I’ll purchase a copy of her book and have it autographed by her. I feel slightly buzzed being around all this beauty and the thousands upon thousands of stacks of books on every subject.

I should have been a librarian, but I wouldn’t have gotten any work done since I would have been reading all day instead of whatever librarians are supposed to be doing. Besides, I have observed that librarians are a bit on the strange side, either very quirky and annoyed by visitors or very formal, as if they’re famous professors who don’t have the time to speak to a visitor. If I worked there, I would probably be a little of both and get fired after a month.

I check my pockets to see if my treasure is still there. It is, but I know that I will check my pocket many times to be sure. It is one of my quirky traits, excessive checking of things. Checking to see if I really locked the door or turned off the iron, or didn’t accidentally run over a cat that I thought was a bump in the road. I’m just being cautious, that’s all.

I enter the main book room next to the entrance. I‘m so pleased with the remodel it’s dazzling. I run over to the computer and go onto the Internet, Google translator. I type in the phase Mon amour éternel. It means my eternal love. God, that is so romantic. The poor soul that lost this must be heartbroken. Imagine losing such a  keepsake.

I almost start to cry right there in the middle of the library. I start imagining what it must be like to have someone promise their eternal love. I have never had that, I want it, and now I know it is probably too late for me, but still, I keep my eyes open. You never know what might happen. I want to find a way to return the watch to the owner, but I don’t know what to do.

I approach the man who works at the main information desk, and he is one of the standoffish types, very formal. I’m not certain, but I believe he has some type of vision impairment, or he can’t bear to look anyone in the eyes. “Hello, can you tell me if there’s a lost and found?’ He doesn’t look at me or acknowledge my presence in any way. He starts typing on his keyboard. Perhaps he has a hearing deficit as well. I repeat my question only louder. Nothing.

Then somewhat abruptly, he says, “No book by that name but several containing that subject matter. Let me print it out for you. ”

“What, no, no you misunderstood. I’m asking if the library has a lost and found. You know you find or lose something and check to see if anyone turned it in, or you find something and turn it in. ”

“Go to the service desk. They might have an answer for you. I do not. ”

“But isn’t this the service desk?” I roll my eyes to the heavens. It’s lost on him. He has dismissed me from his mind. I no longer exist in his world. In my opinion, the library made a poor choice when they placed him at the central hall information desk. He should be sitting in the subbasement somewhere, filing something.

I walk over to the main room again toward the librarian. There are only two now since most of them were replaced by an automated checkout system. I wait patiently in line until it’s my turn. I repeat my question, “Have you got a lost and found?”

” This is the check-in or check-out department. You need to go to the service desk and ask Mr. Beaumont. He will be happy to assist you.”

“But I did speak to Mr. Beaumont. He didn’t assist me. He sent me to you. What do you suggest now?”

“Perhaps you could ask Charles, at the exit to the library; he’s the guard that checks all books as you exit the library.”

“Charles, thank you I’ll speak to him.” I walk over to the library exit, and Charles is sitting looking through a large stack of books that an older gentleman is checking out.

I have seen him before. He looks like an aesthetic, or perhaps the English actor who is tall and thin, was some sort of magician in Lord of the Rings he has very long, shiny gray hair, down to his waist, I have often seen him when I visited the art department of the library. He always keeps to himself, is surrounded by books, and spends the day taking notes, in a leather notebook.

I patiently wait for my turn. Finally, I step up to Charles, “Hello, could you tell me if the library has a lost and found?” As I’m waiting, I recheck my pocket to make sure the watch is there.

“Yes, what are you looking for?”

“I’m not looking for anything; I found something.”

“Well, I can’t help you with that, other than you write down, what you have found on this form, and a contact number or email, and I will give them your information.”

“Alright, let’s do that.” I finally feel like I’m making some headway. I give Charles my information, “Thank you, Charles, you have been helpful.”

I head over to the elevator, push the button for the second floor, and wait as it slowly makes its way down from the third floor. The doors slide open. They remodeled the elevator, too, and it looks like it belongs in a luxury hotel. I step inside, and somehow it has not lost that urine smell it always had. I hold my breath until the doors open to the second floor, make a right turn down the first hall, through the literature department, and find my way into the art department.

Oh, crap, I think. What am I doing here? I meant to go to the records department and study the census. I head to the elevator and back to the records department. I arrive safely. I step up to the desk and ask the librarian to help me find the census for 1900-1930.

She’s accommodating. I look at the records, which are digital copies of the original census books. However, the books were all handwritten and somewhat challenging to read. I spend the next three hours looking through them, meeting with some success. I find the record where my father is listed as an inmate of Girard College. An inmate, as if he were a criminal in prison. This upset me so much that I turn off the machine and decided to head home.

I buy a hotdog from the vendor on the corner, such a cheerful fellow. I say, “Thank you.”

I head towards the bus stop that will get me to the High Speedline. I arrived at the Speedline intake, and I believe I checked my pocket about fifteen times before I got on the train.

I head home, and I notice that my stomach is starting to feel a little queasy, and by the time we get over the bridge to the Camden stop, I know that I have gotten food poisoning.

I rush off the train, and I’m forced to use the public facility. Dear god, I think I will be able to make it home! I do, but just barely. I take some medicine for my stomach. It doesn’t really help. I spend the next ten hours in and on the toilet. Finally, I start to feel better. I go to the kitchen. I feel so empty and get some tea and crackers.

I decided to check my email; to my surprise, I have five hundred emails. I open the first one; Bill declares it is his watch, and he wants it back. I open the next ten; they’re all the same. I realize that I have made a mistake in describing the watch. All the rest are the same.

Chivalry has died, and so has my trust in humanity. I will put the watch away or perhaps donate it to some worthwhile charity. I think of the woman who lost her watch and said a silent prayer for her. She has lost something that was close to her heart, and so have I.