9 1/2 Narrow by Patricia Morrisroe Read Free Book Online Page A

tried to strangle her, but Maria fought back. So he held a knife to her throat and cried, “Submit or die!” Maria responded, “Death but not sin!” and he became so angry he stabbed her. Not once, not twice, but a total of fourteen times.”
    I hoped the story would take a more positive turn, but since people didn’t achieve sainthood without dying, I realized it didn’t look good for poor Maria.
    â€œMiraculously, she lived for the next twenty hours,” Sister Superior said. “During that time, she forgave her murderer. He was so moved by her compassion, he eventually wound up in a monastery, where he worked as a receptionist.
    â€œSo what is the moral of this story, girls?” she asked.
    All forty of us were completely stumped. Sister Superior waited impatiently until Bridget raised her hand and stood up.
    â€œThe moral is you don’t have to kill someone to become a receptionist,” she said. “One of my sisters has that job and she didn’t even graduate from high school.”
    â€œ
Sit down!
Now, obviously you girls haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. Death but not sin—that’s the moral. And as you prepare for your confirmation, I expect you to live by that rule.”

    Realizing that I didn’t have the right temperament to become a martyr, my mother thought it was important for me to learn ballroom dancing in order to eventually attract a husband. The November Club was
the
place for boys and girls on the cusp of puberty to grasp the essentials of civilized living. These included the waltz, the foxtrot, and “small talk.” The November Club had started out in the late 1800s as a women’s club, the first in New England to have its own separate building, in this case a dark and spooky Shingle-style house near Phillips Academy. Dancing and etiquette lessons were provided on Tuesday afternoons. Boys had to wear jackets and ties, girls white gloves and their best Sunday dresses and shoes. I chose black patent-leather flats, even though the nuns had told us to avoid shoes with shiny surfaces because they reflected your underpants and boys could see right up your dress. It sounded ridiculous and I didn’t buy it, though I hoped I wouldn’t find out later that Maria Goretti favored patent leather.
    The routine never varied. The boys sat on one side of the room, the girls on the other. At some point, an ancient woman, who was probably in her fifties, made us go through a receiving line so we could introduce ourselves to our volunteer “hosts.” As we lined up, boy-girl-boy-girl, I wound up next to the cutest boy in the room. His name was Nathan, and his father taught at Phillips and had done something heroic, like survive multiple torpedo attacks during World War II or climb Mount Everest. Nathan oozed self-confidence and approached the receiving line as if he’d been doing it all his life. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Watson,” he said. “I’d like to present my friend, Miss Patricia Morrisroe.” Holding out my white-gloved hand, I temporarily became tongue-tied and kept staring down at Mrs. Watson’s shoes. They were decorated with ladybugs. Finally, I opened my mouth. I’d recently been listening to the cast album of
My Fair Lady—
Julie Andrews was my idol—and in my best Henry Higgins diction, I managed to say, “How kind of
you
to let me come.”
    â€œAre you British, dear?” Mrs. Watson asked.
    â€œMy grandmother was born in London.”
    Since we’d just learned that discussing the weather was a great icebreaker, I mentioned that in “Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen.”
    â€œOh, how nice,” she said. Nathan nudged me along, and we returned to our segregated spots. I tried not to stare at him, but he was adorable, with a long forelock that kept falling over one eye. I hoped he’d ask me to dance, but he made a