Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

Record Details:

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said, "for all the world to hear. Happy songs. Songs you like. Sing," she'd said, and then she'd winked, "except," she'd said, "during Mass and during Meditation, of course. . . ." And then there was the time they'd talked about Connie's "boyfriend." "Who is he you're so stuck on," Sister M had asked, "and why are you so sad about him?" "Well, you know on Fridays, when I go shopping at the market with Sister A ?" Connie had asked. "Well, there's this dreamboat of a boy who works there, in meats and fish. And every Friday I'd try to catch his eye and hope that he'd talk to me. And finally, last Friday he did. And do you know what he said? He said he was going in the Army right away." "The Army?" Sister M had asked, all astounded. "How old is this boy, Concetta?" "Going on twenty-one," Connie had said. "And how old are you?" "Going on fourteen." "More like thirteen," the nun had said. "Oh, Concetta!" And there had followed a very serious discussion on boys and girls and the little matter of differences-in-their-ages. . . . About sin. about heaven There were other times together, other conversations. Like the conversation about Connie's stepsister, and Connie's own sin. "My mother got married again, you see," she'd said, "and she had another daughter, my stepsister ... I went to see them one day. My mother took me in to see the baby. And you should have seen the room — a room all to herself, she had — all in pink, and with a beautiful crib, and with a place where my mother said the baby's bed would go when she was bigger, a canopy bed, she said. And all I could do was stand there and envy this little baby, because she was going to get all the things from my mother that I never got. . . . And, Sister, I wonder, was it a sin to envy this baby like I did?" "Do you envy her still?" Sister M had asked. "No," Connie had said. "I've thought it over since then — she's only a little baby, and I can only wish her the best." "Then," Sister M had said, much to Connie's happiness, "it was a sin at the time. But it is no longer. . . ." And then there was the time they'd talked about Brownie. "He was my dog, when I was a kid," Connie had said, "the most wonderful little mutt in the world. He ran away one day, and I think he got killed. Anyway, I asked another nun, in Brooklyn, if he would go to heaven, at least; if there was a place in heaven for dogs, even mutts. And she said, 'Don't go bothering me with such foolishness. The church has enough to do worrying about the human soul, let alone dogs'. And, you know, even though that was years ago, I still think about Brownie. And I wonder, Sister M , but do you think there might be a place in heaven for dogs?" Very simple and direct, the nun had nodded. "I do," she'd said. "At least, I'd be very disappointed if I didn't find my pooch up there if and when our Lord allows me in." And that had settled the matter of Brownie and his whereabouts for Connie, once and for all. . . . There were other times together, other conversations. And they all of them had made Connie feel so good, not only because she finally had somebody she could talk to, really talk to; but because when she talked with Sister M , she felt she was talking 74 with a woman who was to her a friend, a sister, a mother, and her private saint. They lasted, these conversations with Sister M , for the two years Connie was at the school. And they ended on that morning following Connie's graduation night, when the last conversation they would ever have together took place . . . the one which began with Sister M so mad, sud denly, at first. . . . The walk in the rain The nun had been waiting in Connie's room, pacing the floor, looking out the window sometimes. Waiting. And then, when Connie did come in, she called out, "Where've you been? We've been worried sick . . . And look at you, soaking wet. Your beautiful new dress — Your hair — Where've you been, Concetta?" "In the rain," said Connie, "walking." "Since last night?" asked the nun. "Yes," Connie said. "But why, Concetta? Why?" "Because," said Connie vaguely, "I like the rain. It's like life is, really. It's good and it's bad. It makes the flowers grow, and it gives people colds . . . And me, I want to catch cold and die." "Concetta!" said Sister M , sharply. "I know," Connie said. "It's a sin to say. But I do. I do." "Why?" she was asked. "Because," said Connie, "the night of all nights— my graduation. And did she come?" "Who, Concetta?" "My mother, that's who," said Connie. She pretended to laugh. "Oh boy, how I felt. I didn't think it would ever hit me like this. But last night, after the ceremony, seeing all the other girls with their mothers there, waiting for them, in the lobby, with those big flowers, those big bouquets . . . And me. just standing there alone, like a big jerk, making believe I was looking around for my mother, making believe — " She stopped, and she pretended to laugh again. "Did you invite your mother, Concetta?" Sister M asked, cutting off the laugh. "She knew it was my graduation," said Connie. "But did you invite her?" the nun asked. This time, Connie didn't answer. "You know," said Sister M now. "she might have thought you didn't want her to come. Did you ever stop and think of it that way?" "But she knew," said Connie. "She knew it was my graduation." Sister M sighed. "Well, now," she said, changing the subject, "most of the girls have gone already. Scooted right out of here, first thing this morning . . . And how about your plans, Connie? Still the same — to leave this afternoon and take the train to St. Louis and go live with your father?" "Sort of the same. I guess," said Connie. "Except he's not gonna stay in St. Louis PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS The photographs appearing in this issue are credited below page by page: 10 — Nat Dallinger of Gilloon, UPI; 11 — UPI. Pictorial Parade. Nat Dallinger of Gilloon; 12 — Bob Williams of Gilloon, Vista, FLO; 13 — Pictorial Parade, Nat Dallinger of Gilloon, Darlene Hammond of Pictorial Parade; 14 — Earl Leaf of Galaxy. Nat Dallinger of Gilloon; Nat Dallinger of Gilloon, Wide World; 19-20 — Hamilton Maillard of Rapho-Guillumette, London Daily Express from Pictorial Parade; 22 — Howell Conant from Topix; 24-25 — Wagner International Photos; 26-27 — Nat Dallinger of Gilloon; 28-29 — UPI, E. H. Jaffee; 30-31 — Bradley Smith of Rapho-Guillumette; 34 — Gene Trindl of Topix: 40-43 — Griffith and Reiter from Galaxy; 44 — Pictorial Parade; 52 — Curt Gunther of Topix. long. He got a job in Beverly Hills, Cali-y fornia, beginning a few weeks from now playing at a restaurant or something . . He wants me to go there with him." "Beverly Hills," said Sister M "That's right near Hollywood, isn't it? "I think so/' said Connie. "Well now," said the nun, "that will be nice and convenient for you when yoi: decide you're ready to become a movie star." She smiled a little, in that way oi j hers. "You still want to become a singe; and a movie star someday, don't you Concetta? Or have you changed youi i mind?" "I don't know anymore," said Connie. "Connie Stevens," said the nun, " — that what you said you're going to call yourself, wasn't it? After the name your fathei uses?" "I don't know anymore," said Connie. "Well," said the nun, "I know. I know you're going to make it, too, Concetta. And i the way you've made us all so happy these past two years, singing for us, acting in our plays, that's the way you're going to make the whole world happy someday . . And," she said, "believe me, even though I won't be seeing any of your big pictures. I'll know when you make them. And I'll be rooting for you, praying for you. . . t' She swallowed something that seemed to. get caught in her throat. End of an era Then she said. "All right now, Concetta. enough of this talking. Get on with you, now, right in there, in the bathroom, and dry your hair out and change your clothes And quick, too. Before you really catch that cold and end up sneezing your way all the way to California. . . . "Go on, now. "Go on." Connie obeyed, going into the bathroom, and changing. And it wasn't until she was finished, till she came back out into her room, that she realized that the nun was not there. Then she saw the note on her desk. It was a short note, very short, and it was signed by Sister M . "Dear Concetta," it read, "I do not like good-byes. I never have. So please allow me to bid you bon voyage in this manner. Be good. Be successful. Love our Lord, always. And remember that I shall always be thinking of you." There was a P.S. to the note. too. "Please, too," it read, "think about what I said about your mother not coming to your graduation last night. Remember, you did not ask her, and maybe that was all she was waiting for, an invitation. Could I not be right, Concetta?" Connie nodded. "Yes, Sister," she found herself saying, as she stared down at the note. "Yes, you're right." She looked up then. And she looked around the empty room. "Sister?" she called out. "Sister — aren't we ever gonna talk together again, you and me? . . . Sister?" But, for the first time in two years now. there was no answer to her call. And Connie, knowing that it was over, this part of her life, these two beautiful years, put down the note and walked over to the window and rested her hand against the pane. It was still raining outside, she could see. The rain was really slamming itself against the window. It was making a design, too, a long and streaming design, like tears. And, all of a sudden, Connie saw, there were tears coming down both sides of the window. END Co?i?iie will co-star in Parrish. Warner Bros.