She pointed to her usual chair. “You sit there tonight, Samuel.”
She reached across the table and grabbed my hand, and I took my father’s to complete the circle. After saying grace, my mother passed me a plate of fried chicken. I took a leg while sneaking a glance over my shoulder at the television. “Put your napkin in your lap,” she said.
“Is there something in particular you’re interested in watching?” my father asked.
My mother passed him the green beans as a washed-out image of Walter Cronkite looked into the camera and signed off. “And that’s the way it is, September 4, 1963.”
I assume the channel went to commercial, because I recall asking, “Can I have the potatoes?”
“Please pass the potatoes,” my mother corrected.
“Please pass the potatoes,” I said.
My father got as far as picking up the bowl when the local newscast began.
“Today in Burlingame a Catholic school denied admittance to a young boy because he was born with a rare genetic condition that causes the irises of his eyes to be red.”
My father dropped the bowl. My mother appeared on the grainy television, standing beside Dan, a microphone under her chin and Sister Beatrice’s letter in her hand.
“It seems that when it comes to Catholic values, Our Lady of Mercy is good at preaching them but not at practicing them,” my mother said to Dan. “My son is no different from any other child, save for the color of his eyes, over which he has no control.”
Our Lady of Mercy’s school grounds appeared on the television, the shot angling up at the quad from the lower parking lot. It then switched to a close-up of the salmon-colored door of the administration office. The blinds had been drawn to cover the thin sidelights. Dan peered into the camera. “Attempts to contact the school principal, Sister Beatrice, were not successful,” he said, tone grave.
The camera shot returned to my mother standing beside Dan in the parking lot. “She said the decision was hers alone to make, so I can only assume she speaks for the entire parish.”
“But that appears not to be the case,” the newscaster said, and I recognized the sudden appearance of our pastor, Father Brogan, dressed in his mud-brown Franciscan frock.
“This is clearly a misunderstanding,” Father Brogan said to Dan. He looked uncomfortable. “Here at OLM we do far more than preach Catholic ideals. I can assure you they are very much put into practice.”
Dan asked, “So is there any truth to the assertion that the boy was denied admittance because of the color of his eyes?”
Father Brogan looked pale, even on the washed-out screen. “We had more applicants than space,” he managed. “We certainly do not discriminate at OLM.”
With that pronouncement, my mother returned to the screen beside Dan. This time she sounded more conciliatory. “We’re hopeful that this misunderstanding will be quickly rectified.”
The newscast moved on to the next story. My father and I sat as if frozen.
“Samuel, turn off the television,” my mother said, piercing a green bean with her fork and bringing it to her mouth.
The click of the knob was the last sound I recall until the telephone down the hall rang. My mother casually transferred her napkin from her lap to the table, and left to answer it. “Hill residence. This is Mrs. Hill.” Pause. “It’s nice of you to call, Father Brogan.” Another pause. “No. As a matter of fact, we were just finishing up.” Longer pause. “I understand. Of course. These things do happen. Samuel is very much looking forward to it.”
I looked to my father. He sat rigid, his face red.
My mother continued to speak into the phone. “We’d like to have you to dinner one evening, Father. Yes, we’ll have to do that.”