Secrets of San Mercado

By Michael Johnson

If there was one thing that Sister Teresa Anthony, Vice-Principal of Our Lady of San Mercado Grammar School, could not abide, it was student misbehavior. She had her long wooden ruler withing easy reach in case any such abominable sin should raise its ugly head and require immediate retaliation. Oh, certainly there were worse things in the world and foremost among them was the unspeakable. S-E-X. Search as you will, you would never find in the curriculum of O.L.S.M. School, in its textbooks, in the lectures given by the dedicated nuns, or in the sermons declaimed by Father O'Tramerty, any reference to such a thing.
It was 1962 in San Mercado, California and John F. Kennedy, Our First Catholic President, was in the White House. The good nuns and many lay believers hoped for miracles. But the students were confused. What the hell was Sex, anyway?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664109759

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The Secrets of

San Mercado

Michael Johnson

Copyright © 2021 by Michael Johnson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 11/09/2021

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Secrets of San Mercado

Why did God create man? Sister Origen stood in front of the seventh grade class of Our Lady of San Mercado School. It was the hour of Religion. Copies of the Baltimore Catechism were open on the desk tops, one to each child. Sister Origen was trying to discover who had and who had not memorized the catechism questions assigned as homework the day before. The lesson was a basic one, repeated at every class level to the students; it was a very important one. Years later some of the students would recall the existential question and the intonation given it by the Sister, which possibly implied that the whole man-creation incident had been a cosmic mistake.

For the moment, the seventh grade girls and boys squirmed in their places. Most had disobeyed and had failed to memorize the ten assigned catechism questions and answers. Of those who had memorized the night before, few would have complete recall.

Sister Origen, named after the holy Saint Origen (or-eye-gin), a theologian who interpreted Doctrine according to Neo-Platonism, surveyed the classroom of forty-two boys and girls. They were mainly Irish and Italian, with some Portuguese and Mexicans and a few others. She pointed to Mark Spitznitz. He had seemed inattentive when, if fact, he had only been trying to be inconspicuous.

Mark stood up, as the students had been taught to do when addressed by a teacher or other superior. God created man to know, to love and to serve him.

Sister nodded. Mark sat down.

Mark sat smiling at his desk. He had won! He had answered his question correctly, and it was probably the only one of the ten questions that he could have answered, because it was the first and the shortest. He had spent more than an hour memorizing the answers last night but still he couldn’t remember them all with even a fair degree of accuracy.

Sister moved on. She pointed to Danny Guzzo. What is the nature of man?

The nature of man is imperfect. Danny hit it bull’s eye.

The nature of man is imperfect, Sister nodded and repeated with a tone of approval. Why is the nature of man imperfect? Sister looked puzzled and glanced around the classroom as if she actually needed to be informed of the answer.

This time hands went up. Plump, freckled Sally Gallagher was recognized.

The nature of man is imperfect because of Original Sin.

Very good, Sally. Excellent. Sally is a very good student. It was well known that plump Sally was Sister Origen’s all time favorite pet. Sister Origen too was plump, but her plumpness was shrouded by a long black robe that reached up from her black shoes to a cowl that covered the back, top and sides of her head. Sister Origen’s large pink forehead, or the part of it that was visible, showed beads of sweat beneath the heavily starched white linen wimple that stretched under her cowl. Three correct answers in a row; it was almost a record and entirely unexpected. Time to try a harder one. The nature of man is imperfect because of Original Sin. Now, what is Original Sin.

That was an easy one. Almost every child knew the answer, at least vaguely. It had to do with Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. A forbidden fruit had been eaten. And from that point on Sacred History went pretty much in a straight line. Expulsion by an angel with a flaming sword from the Garden for Adam and Eve and their future offspring, against whom the gates of heaven would be barred until Jesus’ sacrifice opened them once again. The iconography was represented on the classroom walls. Besides the U.S. flag, the white and yellow Papal flag with its emblematic keys and crown, and examples of the letters of the alphabet, there was a large crucifix, a picture of the Holy Family with Christ as Child, pictures of the Immaculate Conception as Madonna, as Our Lady of Lourdes, Our Lady of Fatima and Our Lady of Guadalupe. There was the emblem of the Sacred Heart, symbol of the religious order to which Sister Origen belonged. She wore an identical symbol in the form of a silver broach clasped to her black robe over one breast. Sacred Heart of Jesus, Sacred Heart of Mary. A stylized representation of a double heart pierced by a sword. An icon with a more secular meaning was the photograph of President Kennedy meeting with Pope Pius XII.

Sister Origen had revolved to the front of the classroom. What is Original Sin?

Tommy Gomez, short, thick, brunette, raised his hand. That’s like when Adam and Eve got together alone in the Garden of Eden and God found out about it but it was too late. Laughter. Everyone knew that Tommy was from a family with twelve children.

Sister stopped, stared. She was unhappy with the formulation. She was angry. But she was unsure if Tommy’s answer constituted an actual infraction of comportment, thus allowing her to impose a penance. That is incorrect. Original Sin came about through man’s disobedience and offense against God.

The long black robe went back to her desk. She sat. She looked at her lessons plan register. She stood up again and walked in front of the first row of student desks until she stood between the flag and Pope Pius XII. Now, who can answer this question? She surveyed the Celto-Italo-Lusitano-Mexican class without much sympathy. She had seen many classes. They absorbed correct doctrine slowly. What was the result of Original Sin?

Ah. Again, they all knew the answer—angel with flaming sword evicting Adam and Eve from the Garden—but no one knew exactly how to phrase it.

Sister repeated. What … consequence … resulted from that … offense?

Diana Gansi raised her hand. Well, God was mad because they didn’t do what they were supposed to so they had to leave the Garden of Eden and then after they left they had to wander for forty days and forty nights and then … Diane sat down at a wave from Sister’s hand. The answer had been wildly vague and confused.

The result of Original Sin was the loss of Paradise. The loss of Paradise was inherited by all. Who can tell me, was the loss of Paradise permanent?

Richard Padillo raised his hand. No. Jesus bought back the right to Paradise with his Sacrifice.

Exactly. With his Sacrifice Jesus reopened the gates of heaven. He atoned for man’s sin and made it possible for man to be saved. Now, what must we do in order to be saved? Sister paused to allow for the full effect of this question. What must we do to be saved?

The class pondered with no small perplexity. This was a tough one. It didn’t have a simple and obvious answer. The answer had to be in last night’s catechism assignment, but where? They shifted, looked puzzled. All were fidgeting with cramped young muscles.

Again peripatetic, Sister passed the first row of desks in review and stopped near the center. She was now directly below the boyish, smiling portrait of JFK, our first Catholic President. What must we do to be … The loud clanging of recess bells all along the corridor of classrooms cut off Sister Origen’s sentence. The girls and boys changed mode immediately. While not daring to stand up —this was forbidden without the permission of a teacher or other superior—they started to jump up and down at their desks. Recess! Recess! School work was forgotten immediately. Sister Origen knew that this was inevitable, like the result of Original Sin. She waved her hand. The class rose as one. They mechanically recited a Hail Mary and were released into the schoolyard shouting, screaming and pushing.

All along the row of classrooms children poured into the playground where they ran, started games and sports. Black robed nuns circulated among them to oversee play and to prevent excess.

The playground was a vast expanse of tarmac and lawn that extended from the school buildings—two rows of classrooms on either side of the central tri-functional church-auditorium-cafeteria, all in a Spanish colonial style intended to resemble an early California mission, with long, column-supported porches—to the distant road. Whooping and shouting, hundreds of children filled the space. They played with balls, in teams organized in an instant, or in small groups, or as individuals. They were athletic. Boys hit the balls hard, knocking them far, not easy to catch. Girls, too, ran fast, out of reach, or paddled balls skillfully in close games. Nuns in their long black robes walked slowly. They told prayers on their rosary beads—a few extra prayers were always something gained—and settled disputes brought by angry, shouting, crying boys and girls.

Not all the boys were athletic. Not all were good players of games with balls or fast runners. In the corners, at the edges of the playground, gathered those left out, the awkward, the uncoordinated. Mark Spitznitz was there with a small group of boys standing, lounging near the girls’ two-square and four-square game area. They talked about the programs they had seen on television and about movies. They loved to tell each other about the scary shows they had seen, the monsters, the space aliens, the atomic mutants.

I saw one where, Ralph (blond curly hair, good with his hands but a poor reader) said, a horrible outer space monster came out of the space ship just when …

An uproar cut Ralph’s story short. Ten yards away, in the basketball court, an angry dispute had broken out. Bigger kids from the high school side were squaring off, five or six were shouting at each other, pushing and pointing. Among them Mark recognized his oldest brother, Andrei, one of the tallest. Andrei was an athlete, good at basketball, good at baseball. He was also a star Junior League baseball pitcher. Now Andrei and another of the big kids yelled, shoved, were ready to fight. But Sister Immaculata drove into the fray. She listened for an instant to their complaints, then ordered the disputants apart.

Say five Hail Marys tonight, both of you. And ask for help to control your tempers.

Suddenly a fist shot out. Andrei decked his erstwhile friend, Pat. Even the big kids were shocked. Pat got right back up on his feet, no harm to him physically. But Sister Immaculata, as well as all the others, knew that the act partook of heresy. Andrei had rebelled against authority, he had violated the order decreed by faith and doctrine. If the fist had shot out before Sister’s arrival, it would have been serious, but might have been dealt with according to normal penal procedures. Andrei’s act in Sister’s face had denied the chain of Authority.

Sister did not mention any of this immediately. It would have invited further breach, perhaps leading to vast fields of disobedience. You will report immediately to Sister Superior, she told Andrei in a cold, precise voice.

Andrei walked off toward the school administration office, a defiant swagger telling everyone that he could not care less, implying that he rejected the sacraments of Contrition, Confession and Penance and everything else.

As Andrei walked toward the office, and toward God only knew what frightful consequences—maybe a confrontation with Monsignor, maybe expulsion from Our Lady of San Mercado School, maybe even a jail term—Mark watched his older brother’s recessional. He was aghast, filled with horror and fear worse than a thousand spooky movies. How could he dare? How could Andrei defy Sister right in front of Sister, and risk the wrath of Sister and of Monsignor? He, Mark, would have died and gone to hell first. Mark was also afraid that he might be implicated in the consequences. Teachers, as well as parents, tended to hold kids collectively responsible. Mark might be called before the hearings of the Inquisition, made to tell the innermost truths of his soul. Had he ever had any thoughts or feelings similar to those exhibited by the culprit? Had he ever been guilty of impure thoughts or feelings?

Your brother really did it this time, Ralph told Mark. And it’s even worse ‘cause Sister Superior told the Bishop that the whole school’s getting out of control. This was the current rumor. Authorities accused massive and pervasive ill conduct. Multiple expulsions might be imposed. The dread consequence was exile into the public schools with their strange gods. Recess ended with another long, loud clanging of the electric bells. Back in Sister Origen’s classroom, the pupils sensed a change of atmosphere. Sister stood in front of the class, arms akimbo, jaw forward, an unconscious caricature of Mussolini.

I want all of you to put your heads down on your desks. They did so. I want you to consider some very important things. The duty of obedience that children owe to their parents and teachers. The duty of obedience that we all owe to our Holy Father the Pope and to His Excellency the Bishop.

Heads down on desk tops, seeing vast spaces of darkness behind their eyelids, with stars and light spots from pressure applied to the eyeballs, the children acquiesced. Obedience, authority, God, a natural chain of being.

Sister’s voice went on, now addressing the backs of pupils’ heads. Today in the playground something happened that we cannot tolerate. We do not allow violence in this school. Now I want each of you to examine his conscience. Ask: have I desired in thought, word or deed to commit acts of violence?

Mark examined his conscience, that vague space behind his now blacked out vision. No. The answer was no. Not really. Well, maybe a little, but he would never have dared to try it. If anything his desire was generally to avoid being the object of violence.

Then say an Act of Contrition and ask for forgiveness. At the same time resolve never again to harbor sinful thoughts or desires. Amen.

After school Mark looked for friends to walk home with. He had few friends. And even his few friends might not really be friends. They often seemed to avoid him. He had tried saying a handful of Hail Marys each night to solve this problem, but without success so far.

He left the school grounds going north. He caught a glimpse of Ralph cutting away with another pal. Ralph knew where he was going and he got there.

Walking along the sidewalk, carrying his books in a large, over-expanded imitation leather briefcase, Mark was stopped by his other brother, Sebastian. Sebastian crossed in front of him on the sidewalk, turned and whispered a confidential message.

They took Andrei to Monsignor. They took him in a car to the rectory. They’ll probably call Nana on the phone. It’s gonna hit the fan. Sebastian made a fanning motion with one hand. He rejoined a couple of classmates. Younger than Andrei, Sebastian was a year older than Mark. Nana was their grandmother and guardian, an elderly Romanian-American immigrant whose real name was Rusalka. Sebastian and friends cut down a side street and disappeared.

It was bad. It was worse than he had feared. Because at Our Lady of San Mercado School group responsibility was the rule. Later, students would learn that this was called guilt by association. Misbehavior could be blamed on the students of a class or the children of a family. Why’d he do it? Mark groaned the question aloud. Why oh why did he have to do it? He was passing in front of the houses-- the look-alike houses of the new subdivision of identical stucco finished homes, each with a garage and a lawn--that filled dozens of blocks around the school. Trailers and motor boats occupied the driveway spaces.

Mark crossed to the other side of the street to avoid walking directly in front of the public school. He harbored an ingrained fear of their heretical idols and their aggressive, undisciplined students. Cleveland School, too, was letting out for the afternoon. Crowds of kids poured into the neighborhood streets. Mark caught a glimpse of two former classmates from Our Lady of San Mercado School who had transferred to Cleveland. An air of heresy, of apostasy, tainted them already. Vice, too: they were openly smoking cigarettes.

Cleveland was a large, low-built institution. Its drab, modern-style classrooms spread in half a dozen rows over a vast space. Slim metal poles supported stark awnings along the rows of identical classroom doors. Mark considered another problem as he walked along, head down, attempting as far as possible to stay out of the way of the public/Protestant bands. The problem was Nana. When she was informed of Andrei’s misdeed—and the exact seriousness of it was still undetermined—she would become enraged. She would start shouting, probably in Romanian. She would blame all three—Andrei, Sebastian, Mark—equally. She would curse their mother, who was her daughter, also named Rusalka, and even their aunt, Zdenka. But Rusalka and Zdenka were lucky. They lived far away from the center of the storm.

When he got there, to the sprawling bungalow that was home, Mark hesitated. He didn’t want to go inside, not yet. He wanted to wait at least until Andrei got home in custody of Monsignor or of the police or of the Knights of Columbus or of sword-bearing angels. Instead of entering by the back door, as usual, Mark slipped into the backyard through the gate next to the garage. The backyard was enclosed by a high fence intended to screen a swimming pool from casual eyes. The swimming pool had been built by their father, Gunther, an experienced merchant seaman, at a time when, just returned from a thirteen month sailing to the Persian Gulf on an oil tanker, he was flush with cash and unsure how to spend it quick, which was his usual habit and desire. Mark stood in the backyard, in the center of a patch of long un-mown grass and he thought. He gave himself up to melancholy, as was his want when alone in the backyard. First he thought about Andrei. They would not, could not, actually execute his older brother, despite the enormity of his offense, could they? Then Nana. She would make their lives miserable for as long as convenient. Then Rusalka, their mother. When she heard about it she would be upset, but she lived in distant San Francisco, so that wouldn’t be anytime soon. Finally Mark thought about the ultimate. Andrei’s action had been a sin. It had offended God as well as Sister Superior and Monsignor. It was a Transgression of grievous nature. He, Mark, would never have dared to commit such an offense, even if he had wanted to, even if he had been able to. Andrei was playing with Mortal Sin. And to indulge in Mortal Sin was to risk Hell.

Mark peeked around the corner of the garage. He could see into the patio, a mosquito-screened veranda, and across the patio, through the French doors, into the living room of the bungalow. Nothing was stirring. Nana was lurking within, quietly, unobtrusively. If she had received word, she had not yet reacted.

By the edge of the swimming pool, empty except for a shallow green puddle sheltering pollywogs and algae, Mark gave his soul up to deeper reverie, forgetting for a moment the imminent catastrophe of Andrei. It was still amazing to him that he was Mark, himself, and not some other. He was a particular soul sent to a particular body. It seemed to be a chance, possibly a mistake. There was a sadness connected with it, something inexplicable but undeniable. He went to the fence, stepped up on the lower cross plank—he was not yet five feet tall at twelve—and looked over the fence top. The house on the other side of the street was the same as ever, with its garage converted into a tiny rented apartment. Close on the other side of the fence Nana’s bed of daffodils grew poorly, partly wilted, partly trampled. It might have been the venue of an impromptu football game. Mark stepped down, turned toward the center of the backyard. Now he thought again about the immediate problem. Andrei was going to be in bad trouble, and Sebastian and Mark himself, too, although to a lesser degree. Maybe he should pray. The best thing would be to say a dozen Hail Marys, several Our Fathers and a couple of Glory Be’s. Prayer was a wall of protection. It made up for transgressions, it protected against future ills. But while he was commencing a mechanical intonation of Hail Marys, a crashing sound of breaking glass followed by a screaming voice broke his concentration. The event had occurred. The scream was Nana’s. The vehicle was probably Romanian, her native tongue, but one that Andrei, Sebastian and Mark understood hardly at all.

A heavy object had been thrown through the glass of the French doors. The target, Andrei. Nana had never been a good shot. Then Andrei’s voice, alarmed, shouting. But I already confessed it … Partly pleading, partly defiant. The meaning was that Monsignor had received Andrei’s Confession concerning his act of aggression, had granted Absolution and imposed a Penance. And if the Church had forgiven, why should the secular arm continue punitive? But it did. Another crash was possibly the plaster Santa Clara that stood on the chimney mantelpiece. It had been thrown by Nana’s secular arm, not a good aim.

You are a disgrace to the family! Nana shouted in English, heavily accented but unmistakable. You have dishonored us before the holy nuns, before the priest!

Mark was peering around the corner of the garage. He thought he could distinguish a figure or two in the penumbra of the living room.

Andrei’s voice was defiant. B.S! I didn’t do anything at all like that. We were playing basketball and Pat and me got in a fight. He gave me a shove and I hit him! That’s all!

If the Sister says that you have committed an offense, then she is right. It is a disgrace.

But I already talked to Monsignor. He wasn’t too mad. I already confessed it.

Another object was thrown, one much smaller than Santa Clara, possibly a small Saint Jude, thudding on the living room rug.

You are to do as you are told by the holy nuns! Then silence. Probably Andrei had retreated to his room, because one minute later rock music blasted through house/patio/yard.

Big girls don’t cry!

That’s just an alibi.

Big girls dooo cry!

Still watching from behind the garage, Mark thought he saw Nana turn a contemptuous face toward the source of the music, then walk away, probably to the kitchen, where she would be preparing the evening meal. Nana was a stocky brunette whose hair had long ago turned white. Andrei had inherited both these traits, the stocky build and the brunette hair and complexion. Sebastian and Mark were slender. Mark was more slender that Sebastian; both were fair.

A clicking noise from the other side of the swimming pool drew Mark’s attention. He turned to see the gate that led from the backyard to the alley behind the row of houses open just about a foot. Then he saw the head of his brother Sebastian poke through the opening. Seconds later Sebastian and his friend Ralph were in the backyard. Running at a crouch to make detection less likely, they streaked to the area that was hidden by the garage from the view of the living room windows. Mark joined them. Ralph and Sebastian were both grinning.

Did you hear what happened? Ralph asked in happy excitement. They took your brother Andrei away in a squad car.

They took him to jail, Sebastian put in. He’s probably going to State Prison.

Sally go round the roses.

Sally go round the roses.

Roses they can hurt you …

The rock song was blaring from the radio in Andrei’s bedroom. Nana no longer made any effort to make him reduce the radio volume to below a deafening level. It was futile. Besides, at the age of seventy-six, her hearing was not overly acute.

Sally don’t you go

Don’t you go downtown.

Andrei’s in his room, Mark revealed. Nana was throwing all kinds of statues and stuff at him. She’s really mad this time.

Sebastian looked at Ralph. Maybe he’s out on parole or something.

Could be. But the cops’ll probably be back. Pat was hurt bad. They took him to the hospital with a concussion. Michael Murphy told us.

Mark was overwhelmed by the thought of the assured adverse consequences. Wait till mamma finds out!

Sebastian theatrically shielded his face with an elbow. Shit’s gonna hit the fan.

Ralph lit a cigarette. So did Sebastian. Cigarettes were forbidden to students of Our Lady of San Mercado School under pain of excommunication or worse. Minors could not buy cigarettes legally. Consequently, most boys over the age of twelve tried to smoke.

Give me one, Mark pleaded.

"I only got a few