WORLD WITHOUT END:
A BOOK OF PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS
 
I
 
When I was in parochial school, a nun from the mis­sions came to vis­it my class. The nun wore a light gray habit. The nuns who taught us wore a lot of black and a lit­tle white.
 
Our teacher turned the lights down, and the nun showed us a video about what goes on in the mis­sions over­seas. In one scene there were naked brown chil­dren col­lect­ing palm leaves. In anoth­er a nun taught arith­metic. Some of her stu­dents had uni­forms like ours. Some were naked. Anoth­er scene showed bread rain­ing down from the sky, then a naked child tear­ing out the soft insides of a piece of bread. The rain­ing bread was a spe­cial effect.
 
While the bread was rain­ing down, the word “Bread!” appeared in large gold­en let­ter­ing in the cen­ter of the screen.
 
II

After the video, the nun told us a story.
 
In her mis­sion, there was a young priest who had been say­ing mass. Out of nowhere, an armed man walked up behind the priest and shot him at point blank range. The man fled and the priest fell for­ward on the altar. But the priest was not killed. In fact, he was not injured at all. He was wear­ing a lit­tle cloth medal­lion called a scapu­lar under his vest­ments, and the scapu­lar had stopped the bullet.

““God watch­es over his ser­vants,” the nun said.

III

““Are there any ques­tions?” asked the nun.

Nicholas O’Meldon raised his hand.

““Are scapu­lars made of the same thing as bul­let­proof vests?”

““No,” said the nun. “Are there any oth­er questions?”

Alex Bosto­ry raised his hand.

““Do nuns where you’re from not have to wear black?”

““No. The rea­son we do not wear black is because we live in a trop­i­cal cli­mate, and black attracts the heat. Any oth­er questions?”

Alex Bosto­ry raised his hand.

““So that means you’ll have to wear black when you’re up here?”

““No,” said the nun. “Any oth­er questions?”

IV

Nicholas O’ Mel­don and Alex Bosto­ry were nev­er real­ly friends of mine. This doesn’t mean that I was par­tial to the nuns. I tried not to be par­tial to anyone.

Susan McDor­mand was par­tial to the nuns. Susan McDor­mand came from a very reli­gious fam­i­ly and frowned angri­ly when­ev­er the nuns were treat­ed with irreverence.

One autumn, Nicholas O’Meldon found a gigan­tic pair of women’s under­pants, rolled them around in mud, and stuffed them inside Susan McDormand’s desk when Susan was at the water foun­tain and the teacher wasn’t looking.

V

Every Sep­tem­ber the school librar­i­an, Mrs. Nadel­man, orga­nized a Book and Mag­a­zine Fair. It took place in the base­ment room where the library was. The Fair’s selec­tion of books was very diverse. The Fair’s selec­tion of mag­a­zines came most­ly from the mis­sions and from the Catholic press­es. There were also posters on sale. A few were of ath­letes. Most were of Jesus.

The Book and Mag­a­zine Fair was one of the few extracur­ric­u­lar events that the school offered.

Mrs. Nadel­man always kept the blinds on the library win­dows pulled down. She prob­a­bly did not want the bind­ings of her books to fade in the daylight.

She wouldn’t even lift them for the Book and Mag­a­zine Fair.

VI

When I was in the first grade, I was tak­en to the Book and Mag­a­zine Fair by a stu­dent from the sev­enth grade. This was part of a men­tor­ing pro­gram called Lit­tle Bud­dy, Big Bud­dy. Under this pro­gram, first graders were paired off with sev­enth graders. Sec­ond graders were paired off with eighth graders. Third graders were paired off with fifth graders. Fourth and sixth graders were paired off with nobody.

Lit­tle Bud­dy, Big Bud­dy tried to pair old­er stu­dents with younger stu­dents of the same sex. This did not always work. I was paired with a sev­enth-grade girl.

VII

I was also paired with a girl when I was in the fifth grade. The girl was named Rober­ta Kurimoto.

The nuns called Alex Bosto­ry “Mis­ter Bosto­ry”. They called Susan McDor­mand “Miss McDor­mand”. They called Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to “Rober­ta”.

VIII

I had seen Rober­ta Kurimoto’s fam­i­ly in church.

There were many chil­dren in the Kuri­mo­to fam­i­ly, almost all of them girls. Rober­ta and her sis­ters were very tall. Their moth­er was very tall. Their father, how­ev­er, was very short.

In church, Mr. Kuri­mo­to would grasp the pew in his hands, lift his head to the ceil­ing, and sing. He opened his mouth very wide to enun­ci­ate each word, and he looked like he want­ed to cry tears of joy.

The oth­er Kuri­mo­tos would be per­fect­ly silent.

IX

As one of our Lit­tle Bud­dy, Big Bud­dy activ­i­ties, the third graders and the fifth graders were gath­ered togeth­er in one of the larg­er class­rooms. A nun from the mis­sions was there to make a pre­sen­ta­tion. This nun wore brown.

The nun showed a video.

The video was about a group of doc­tors and nurs­es on a remote Indone­sian island. They improved the natives’ hous­ing and gave the natives mos­qui­to nets. They also per­formed basic surg­eries. The cam­era showed a naked girl with a cor­rect­ed hare­lip. “How­ev­er,” said one of the doc­tors, “there are some things our fund­ing sim­ply will not allow us to do.”

The cam­era showed a baby. There was a fleshy pink growth the size of a small apple in the mid­dle of this baby’s fore­head. The baby kicked its legs and wailed, and the growth flapped up and down.

The doc­tor came back on the screen. “I believe there is hope,” he said, “if we can oper­ate in the next few weeks.”

X

The nun in brown did not take ques­tions. The nun in brown passed around a round wick­er bas­ket. An index card that said “Dona­tions for the Sick” was taped to the rim.

Most of the stu­dents put in what­ev­er was left of their lunch mon­ey. Susan McDor­mand put in a five-dol­lar bill.

Peo­ple began to tease Susan McDor­mand when they dis­cov­ered how much mon­ey she had giv­en. They said Susan McDor­mand was in love with the baby. They said Susan McDor­mand want­ed to mar­ry the doc­tor and have a baby just like that.

Susan McDor­mand wore her expres­sion of anger. Yet she refused to say any­thing back. She was always very quiet.

XI

One per­son who was always atten­tive to the qui­et chil­dren in my school was Sis­ter Augus­tine. She always had a nice word for me.

Sis­ter Augus­tine worked as Mrs. Nadelman’s assis­tant. Sis­ter Augus­tine had a cart that she pushed. She was frag­ile and old. She wore very big glasses.

Sis­ter Augus­tine always smiled. Her teeth were fake. I know this because she some­times put the teeth in the wrong way. Some­times only the bot­tom plate would be insert­ed. Some­times she would put the teeth in upside-down. Once I think she mis­took anoth­er nun’s teeth for her own. She smiled at me and her teeth were much small­er and sharp­er and whiter than usu­al, but a few days lat­er they were back to normal.

The teeth also did not look any­thing like real teeth. They looked like they were carved from the kind of plas­tic that glows in the dark.

XII

There were some fifth-graders who liked their Lit­tle Bud­dies very much.

Susan McDor­mand liked her Lit­tle Bud­dy. Once I saw Susan McDor­mand and her Lit­tle Bud­dy meet each oth­er in the hall­way. Instead of pass­ing by in silence, like Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to and I usu­al­ly did, the two of them waved and ran right up to each oth­er, and Susan McDor­mand stooped down and the two of them start­ed to play a clap­ping game, and as she was leav­ing, Susan McDor­mand said some­thing about how pret­ty her Lit­tle Buddy’s hair looked.

Susan McDormand’s Lit­tle Bud­dy came from a very reli­gious family.

Alex Bosto­ry hat­ed his Lit­tle Bud­dy. His Lit­tle Bud­dy was Matil­da Wylie.

XIII

Matil­da Wylie was an extreme­ly large and extreme­ly hun­gry girl. Her father owned a deli down­town. Matil­da Wylie sat alone at lunch and ate sand­wich­es with pas­tra­mi and cot­tage cheese. The smell was very strong.

She also got things from the lunch counter when the sand­wich­es were gone.

Matil­da Wylie had to start wear­ing a bra before any­one else. This was a fact that Alex Bosto­ry let every­body know. “I bet they aren’t even boobs,” he said. “I bet her chest just got fat.”

XIV

Matil­da Wylie did not get excit­ed often. At recess she sat by her­self and stroked at her hair.

How­ev­er, she got very excit­ed at Thanks­giv­ing. Her father pro­vid­ed the turkey for the school’s annu­al Thanks­giv­ing Feast. He also pro­vid­ed mac­a­roni and pota­to salad.

Matil­da Wylie would talk proud­ly about how her father would bring over all the turkey in his van. He always let her ride along. He also let her car­ry a few of the con­tain­ers of food into the school kitchen, where stu­dents were not nor­mal­ly allowed.

Some­times Matil­da Wylie would start talk­ing quite loud­ly. Her face would grow red and she would have to stop to catch her breath, but she would not stop talk­ing about her father and the turkey. “Calm down, Matil­da,” the lay teach­ers would say, but Matil­da Wylie would not calm down.

““Miss Wylie calm down!” said the nuns. Matil­da Wylie calmed down.

XV

How do I know all this? I was there to hear Matil­da Wylie because the nuns sched­uled sev­er­al Lit­tle Bud­dy, Big Bud­dy activ­i­ties before the Thanks­giv­ing Feast.

The activ­i­ties took place on Mon­day after­noons, at the time when my class typ­i­cal­ly had Mrs. Nadelman’s Library Sci­ence Seminar.

In the Library Sci­ence Sem­i­nar we were taught how to use the card cat­a­logue. Mrs. Nadel­man would hand around sam­ple cards. Each stu­dent would get a dif­fer­ent card. Each stu­dent would get a copy of the same work­sheet. The work­sheet had a few ques­tions. “On the basis of this card’s Dewey Dec­i­mal num­ber, under which sub­ject head­ing does it belong?” “If this book had been issued in 1977, as opposed to being issued under the year under which it was, would the entry for this book have been placed ear­li­er or lat­er in the card­ing file?” We did not receive a grade for the Library Sci­ence Sem­i­nar. It only said ““Sat­is­fac­to­ry” or “Unsat­is­fac­to­ry” on our report cards.

Mrs. Nadel­man care­ful­ly grad­ed the work­sheets anyway.

XVI

One of the Thanks­giv­ing activ­i­ties was a hand-print turkey. You spread your hand on a sheet of paper. You draw the out­line. Your thumb is the head and your oth­er fin­gers are the tail feathers.

I showed Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to how to make the turkey. Then I told her to spread out her hand and draw a turkey next to mine. She refused. She want­ed a new piece of paper.

When Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to drew her turkey, she extend­ed he thumb but kept the oth­er four fin­gers togeth­er. “You’re sup­posed to spread them, like this,” I said, and I showed her again. “No,” she said. “Why not?” I said.

She said turkeys didn’t have tails like that in real life.

XVII

Some of the stu­dents want­ed to put the hand-print turkeys on dis­play. Susan McDor­mand was espe­cial­ly enthu­si­as­tic. How­ev­er, there was no room in the third-grade class­room. The wall was cov­ered with posters. The fifth-grade wall was also cov­ered with posters. The hand-print turkeys were on very large sheets of paper.

““I’ll go ask Mrs. Nadel­man,” said the third-grade teacher. “She has a big open wall she nev­er uses.”

Mrs. Nadel­man said no.

XVIII

Despite the Book and Mag­a­zine Fair, nobody liked Mrs. Nadel­man. I would walk through the park­ing lot after school, and I would hear moth­ers com­plain­ing about her.

““I can’t believe they hired that woman to run the library,” the moth­ers would say. “My chil­dren say she’s always yelling at every­one and she hasn’t bought any new books in years.”

The moth­ers always referred to Mrs. Nadel­man as “that woman.”

XIX

Mrs. Nadel­man once brought my class a treat. The treat was a box of lit­tle tri­an­gu­lar pas­tries. The jel­ly in some was orange, the jel­ly in oth­ers was pur­ple. Each stu­dent was allowed to take one of the pas­tries. I got one of the pur­ple ones. It tast­ed stale.

““These are some­thing we have on the hol­i­days,” Mrs. Nadel­man kept saying.

Nobody knew what hol­i­day she was talk­ing about.

XX

I did not like the food at the Thanks­giv­ing Feast, either.

With the excep­tion of the ice cream cups that were hand­ed out for desert, all of the food came from Mr. Wylie’s deli. Mr. Wylie’s turkey was set on the table in big steam­ing tins. If you looked into a tin after the stu­dents had tak­en out all its turkey, you would see half an inch or so of water spread even­ly over the bottom.

The turkey in the tins came in flat cir­cu­lar slices. It tast­ed sour. It was the kind of turkey that is usu­al­ly put into sandwiches.

Sand­wich turkey was the only kind of turkey the deli had.

XXI

I have seen the nuns force stu­dents to eat. Once, Gin­ger Hunt was sit­ting at lunch with an uneat­en bag of corn chips and an unopened pack­et of yel­low cheese spread. A nun approached her and asked about the food. Gin­ger Hunt said she was not hun­gry. The nun said there are chil­dren in the mis­sions who would do any­thing for food like that. The nun said that hun­dreds of babies die of star­va­tion every day. The nun said it is a sin to waste what God has provided.

The nun stood over Gin­ger Hunt and watched until all the food was gone.

XXII

Some­times I think that Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to was much crafti­er than any­one imagined.

Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to and I had to sit togeth­er at the Thanks­giv­ing Feast. As one of the Thanks­giv­ing crafts, the third graders had made Indi­an head­dress­es and my class had made pil­grim hats and bon­nets, all out of con­struc­tion paper. We had to wear these at the Feast. My hat was not comfortable.

Dur­ing the Feast, Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to noticed the way that Susan McDor­mand was help­ing her Lit­tle Bud­dy. Susan McDor­mand would por­tion out turkey and pota­to sal­ad for her Lit­tle Bud­dy. She would also slice up the turkey.

Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to refused to take any food unless I por­tioned it onto her plate. She also refused to eat, unless I sliced up the turkey.

It was not easy to carve through the turkey. The turkey was rub­bery, and the knives that we had been giv­en were made of soft and inex­pen­sive plastic.

XXIII

Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to also want­ed my pil­grim hat. I let her have it. She took it from me and put her Indi­an head­dress on it so that the head­dress looked like a big feath­ery hatband.

I smiled at Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to when I saw this. Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to did not smile back.

XXIV

A few months lat­er, in the spring, a new girl joined our class, and Rober­ta Kuri­mo­to was giv­en to her. “Why the hell can’t they give her mine?” said Alex Bostory.

XXV

We did not have to take our lit­tle bud­dies every­where. A few weeks after the Thanks­giv­ing Feast, the fifth grade went on a pri­vate excur­sion to the Tomb of Sis­ter Mary-Eusta­tia. The Tomb is in upstate New York.

Sis­ter Mary-Eusta­tia had been can­on­ized. Our teacher informed us that Sis­ter Mary-Eusta­tia had per­formed great mir­a­cles in her life­time. I asked if these mir­a­cles were like the ones Jesus had performed.

Our teacher said that Sis­ter Mary-Josephi­na had led a tribe of Indi­ans to God.

XXVI

A nun showed us the Tomb. This nun wore brown.

The Tomb was inside a cham­ber with a large cir­cu­lar dome. Both the dome and the cham­ber walls were made of red bricks just like the bricks of our school build­ing. In the cen­ter of the cham­ber was the corpse of Sis­ter Mary-Eusta­tia. It was laid out on its back like it was sleep­ing. The corpse had been kept above ground for the vis­i­tors to venerate.

It was not easy to get a close look at the corpse. A large glass box encased the body, and a guardrail ran around the altar where the box and the body were set up.

Yet I could see what col­or the corpse’s clothes were. They were black.

XXVII

““Now do you have any ques­tions?” asked the nun.

Nicholas O’Meldon raised his hand. “Does Sis­ter Mary-Eusta­tia have real skin on her face?”

““Sis­ter Mary-Eusta­tia wears a wax face mask. It was cast on the day she died and it pre­serves the way she looked. Do you have any oth­er questions?”

Nicholas O’Meldon raised his hand. “Isn’t that against the Ten Commandments?”

The nun scrunched up her face. “Young man, could you please explain that question?”

““If it’s not her real face, doesn’t that mean she’s bear­ing false witness?”

“Young man, that is her real face,” said the nun. “Are there any more questions?”

Nobody had any more questions.

XXVIII

The staff of the tomb pro­vid­ed a lunch. We had baked pas­ta. It was served in the same kind of tins that were used at the Thanks­giv­ing Feast.

In each tin, the pieces of pas­ta that were on the sur­face had been baked until they were too hard to chew. Fur­ther down, a lot of the pas­ta had not been heat­ed at all. It was slimy and very cold. In some places it was still frozen together.

XXIX

We were tak­en to the gift shop. I walked around for a while on my own, then ran into Alex Bosto­ry and Nicholas O’Meldon in the back. They were laugh­ing hys­ter­i­cal­ly. I asked why. “Get a load of these,” one of them said, and held up a giant rosary with stur­dy wood­en beads on a met­al chain. “I bet you need this to hold up Matil­da Wylie’s bra.”

XXX

Sis­ter Augus­tine had accom­pa­nied us on our excur­sion. She did not join us on the tour or eat the lunch the staff pro­vid­ed. She spent most of the excur­sion kneel­ing before the corpse.

Sis­ter Augus­tine bought a poster from the gift shop. She showed it to many of us. On the poster a woman rais­es up her arms to Jesus, who is descend­ing from the heav­ens. The woman has pink healthy cheeks and shin­ing eyes.

The woman is Sis­ter Mary-Eustatia.

XXXI

On the ride back, I had to sit near the front of the bus, right behind where the adults were. I heard Sis­ter Augus­tine men­tion a few times that she would like to put her poster up on Mrs. Nadelman’s wall. “It will help all of us to remem­ber what a nice day this was,” said Sis­ter Augustine.

The poster nev­er went up.

XXXII

There was a rid­dle that Sis­ter Augus­tine liked to tell. She would find a child who was walk­ing alone in the hall­way or sit­ting alone at recess, and approach. I heard this rid­dle many times.

Sis­ter Augus­tine would ask, “Do you know how much Jesus loves you?” Almost every­one knew the answer. Yet we all pre­tend­ed that we had no idea, and let her continue.

“Well,” she said, “Jesus loves you this much.” And she would smile, and raise her old arms, and hold out her frag­ile hands like they had been nailed against a cross.

Patrick Kennedy is a crit­ic, essay­ist, and award-win­ning short sto­ry writer. He cur­rent­ly teach­es at Fair­leigh Dick­in­son University.