Hungry Hill: A Memoir

Chapter 14 - An Evening of Informal Modeling

86 H u n g ry H i l l 14. An Evening of Informal Modeling Although it has been three months since my mother died, the house still has a peculiar, empty feel to it. After dinner, the Tuesday night after Labor Day, my dad reads aloud from a front page article in the Springfield Daily News that Cathedral High School is going upscale. The downtown site on Elliot Street, overcrowded, ancient, and funereal, has been tossed aside for a brand-new building in Holy Cross parish. It was good enough for him, he sighs, but not good enough for his daughter and sons. He’s teasing me, I know, but all I can think of saying is, “Dad,” stretching it out as if it were a sentence. Yes, mine will be the first class to spend four years in its chemistry labs, eat a hot lunch from its mechanized cafeteria (no more brown bag lunches), and study in its sacred, carpeted library. The jewel of the diocese, Bishop Weldon calls it. “No wonder you and Michael have those snazzy new uniforms,” my dad says, looking up from the paper. The snazzy uniform, the new fashion look for Cathedral High School boys, consists of gray wool blazers with the school crest on the pocket, white shirts, ties, and gray pants. My deep secret is that, with the exception of the brown and white saddle shoes that have a 1920s rah-rah Model T Ford look, I love the girls’ uniform. The deep green blazer with a crest identical to the boys’ emblem fits me loosely enough so I don’t have to worry about my breasts as a center of attraction. I always buy a size 32 bra because I’m just too embarrassed to buy anything bigger. I have no idea whether the bra fits, but I know I would never have asked my mother anyway. I’m very private about my body. Very private. The blouse is white with threequarter roll-up sleeves, buttoned to the neck, and the pleated skirt is a green, white, and navy plaid. A choice of socks—white crew or green knee length for winter. “Dad, I’m going to model my uniform for you.” “Now, Princess, don’t get carried away.” I run upstairs, two at a time, pull out the blazer, and hunt for the saddle shoes on my closet floor. With the blazer on and carrying the saddle shoes behind my back, I enter the living room with my Forbes and Wallace fashion show walk. My dad is A Memoir 87 at the stereo with his back to me. I hear the click of the record changer, and then Frank Sinatra is singing “One for my baby, and one more for the road.” Although my father hates Elvis, strangely enough I like Frank Sinatra. There’s a friendliness, a me-too quality about his songs so I can easily imagine Frank Sinatra knowing our family—my dad, anyway. “Before I give you my proper attention, let me get a drink,” my dad says and walks out to the kitchen. I drop into the armchair while he is slamming the ice cube tray against the sink, another piece of his nightly routine. The habit and the predictability of this nightly ritual put me on guard. From reading the newspaper or Time magazine, my dad moves on to the stereo, usually Frank, maybe Dean Martin, and pours himself a glass of whiskey. If he’s still on his first glass, he’ll be interested in hearing me talk about my uniform, might even ask me a question or two. But if he’s had a few drinks, if he’s stopped off somewhere on his way home from work, I can tell he’s just marking time for me to finish, to quiet down, so he can be alone with the whiskey. “I think socks would help,” my dad says. “I wasn’t planning on putting the shoes on, but you were in the kitchen.” “Rising to the challenge of prying ice cubes from their tray. Those ice cubes are a lot like your brother Joey, stubborn little devils.” “We get green knee socks for the winter. No one wears brown and white saddle shoes anymore. They are so old-fashioned.” “Your mother wore saddle shoes with ankle socks. But she stopped wearing them before we got married.” So my dad has just talked about my mom in a clear, strong...