Changing Habits (16 page)

SISTER KATHLEEN

O
n her way to the rectory the following week, Kathleen walked through the elementary school playground during the last recess of the day. Laughter and shouts filled the air as the first-through-sixth-graders scrambled about. The children, dressed in their school uniforms, took eager advantage of their fifteen minutes of freedom. There was a lively dodgeball game going on, some of the girls were jumping rope, while others played hopscotch on the pavement. It reminded her of her own early years at St. Boniface, the grade school where she'd first been introduced to teaching nuns.

Just then a stray ball rolled in Kathleen's direction. “Sister, Sister, throw me the ball.”

“No, me! Sister, throw it to me!”

Kathleen lifted the ball over her head and lobbed it toward the group. The children loved to see her join in, and she was much freer to do so in the shortened skirt. She suspected the kids purposely sent the ball in her direction for the pleasure of seeing her react. The ball landed halfway between the two boys, and both raced after it.

“Not a bad shot for a nun,” Father Doyle commented as
he walked down the hill from the church rectory. The wind ruffled his dark hair.

The instant the children saw Father Doyle, they abandoned their game and dashed toward him. He laughed into the October sunshine and good-naturedly caught a ball one of the boys threw him. He feinted, pretending to throw it back, then spun around and tossed it at another boy behind him.

Kathleen smiled, watching him. The children were thrilled by his attention and begged him to play for “just one more minute.”

It'd been a week since their talk. A week since she'd learned the carefully hidden truth about Father Sanders. Both priests had been absent from the rectory when she'd arrived Monday afternoon; Kathleen had done what work she could and left feeling thwarted. She could only do so much when a number of serious questions remained unanswered. Handling the church's accounts was difficult enough without this additional complication. She'd considered mentioning Father Sanders's weakness to Sister Eloise but feared that might only make things worse. Sister had been against her working on the church books as it was. No—much better to leave the matter in the capable hands of Father Doyle.

Suddenly in no rush to get to the rectory, Kathleen held one end of a jump rope and turned while the eight- and nine-year-old girls leaped in and chanted the same playground songs that had been part of her own childhood.

 

On the mountain stands a lady

Who she is I do not know

Not last night, but the night before

Twenty-four robbers came knocking at my door

 

The rope slapped against the pavement as the girls jumped in and out. Kathleen recalled how she and her sister
had loved to jump rope at this age. Now Maureen was a divorced mother of three and working two jobs to make ends meet. She rarely wrote and when Kathleen had visited Boston the previous summer it seemed that the sister who'd once been her closest friend was a stranger.

All too soon the bell rang, and the children were gone. Kathleen found herself on the playground alone with Father Doyle. Seeing the hopscotch squares, she couldn't resist and tossed her marker into the center, then hopped through the numbered squares.

“Way to go, Sister,” the priest called out. “Not only are you a whiz with numbers, but you're a master at childhood games.”

Kathleen laughed. “I can see you're easily impressed.”

“Oh, not really. But I do think kids can show you how to enjoy the moment.”

“I do, too.” Kathleen tucked her hands inside her sweater pockets. Speaking of moments, she should be at the rectory by now, but she dreaded another afternoon of trying to understand a situation she couldn't explain.

“Are you working today?” He nodded toward the rectory.

“Yes.” Kathleen realized her reluctance must be obvious.

“More problems?” His question was tentative, as though he was afraid of the answer or perhaps already knew it.

The bank deposit was off again. Father Sanders had made the deposit and then forgotten to enter it in the ledger, or so he claimed. He'd left her a note apologizing and promising to do better.

Kathleen had thought it would be a simple matter of phoning the bank and getting the information she needed. She'd done that and the bank had been completely accommodating. How she wished it had ended there, but once again the deposit was short.

The head ushers had tallied the collection, taking the
weekly donations from the envelopes. Part of her duty was to record donation and envelope numbers for income tax purposes. The ushers had given the weekly donations to Father Sanders to deposit—only the amount deposited was a hundred dollars short of what had been counted. This was the largest discrepancy yet, and she didn't know how to handle it. She explained the situation to Father Doyle. “What should I do?” she asked, hoping he could provide a solution.

Father Doyle's expression was sad. “I'll speak to Father Sanders and suggest I make the deposits from here on out.”

That might solve one problem, but it didn't help Kathleen with the discrepancy in the account books.

But even knowing what she did about Father Sanders, she couldn't help liking him. It was the same with her uncle Patrick. Both were generous, happy-go-lucky men who were often a pleasure to be around. Especially when they were sober…

“Is he worse?” she whispered, although no one could possibly overhear.

Father shook his head. “No.” But he sounded unsure.

“Have you spoken to Mrs. O'Malley?” Surely the housekeeper knew, although she, like Father Doyle, seemed bent on silence. Kathleen understood it, but she wasn't convinced secrecy was the best approach. However, she couldn't think of any other.

“Mrs. O'Malley and I have talked,” Father Doyle admitted. “Her husband, God rest his soul, was an alcoholic and I'm afraid she's grown accustomed to handling Father Sanders's…moods.”

Kathleen swallowed hard and wondered if the older woman had been buying alcohol for the priest. She was a gentle soul who strived to please, and if she'd been caught in that same trap in her marriage—well, there was no telling what she'd do. It wasn't inconceivable that she was supply
ing Father Sanders; Kathleen couldn't imagine where else he was getting the booze.

As far as she knew, Father Sanders didn't drink outside his room in the rectory. If he went to liquor stores or bars, people in the community would recognize him. She was beginning to feel that this situation couldn't remain hidden much longer.

“The bishop knows,” Father Doyle said, walking with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Bishop Schmidt?” Kathleen had been sure the parish was destined for trouble if word of Father Sanders's weakness leaked out, and to the bishop of all people. But if he knew…

“I believe that's the reason the bishop assigned me to St. Peter's.” Their steps slowed as the rectory came into view. “I shouldn't be talking to you about this, Sister.”

But there obviously wasn't anyone else he could talk to.

“I feel I've failed Bishop Schmidt.”

“Failed him?” This made no sense to Kathleen.

“Father Sanders is in spiritual trouble. I was assigned to St. Peter's to steer him away from alcohol and back to God, and I've fallen short of accomplishing my task.”

Father Doyle was a good priest, devout and dedicated to God. Kathleen understood why the bishop had given him this assignment. He was a man of prayer, and if anyone could influence Father Sanders, it would be Father Doyle. But that was a lot of responsibility to place on one priest's shoulders, Kathleen mused. Was it really fair?

“I don't think you can blame yourself,” she said, looking down at her feet, wishing she knew what to say.

“I can't—”

Father Doyle's words were cut off in midsentence as a car careened around the corner with such speed that for a few seconds it balanced precariously on two wheels. Kathleen gasped, horrified, as the vehicle narrowly missed two parked
cars before it fell back onto four tires again. The car landed with such force that it actually seemed to bounce.

Kathleen released a shaky breath, thinking the worst was over, but she was wrong. As though momentarily stunned, the blue Dodge sat in the middle of the street, then turned and aimed for the driveway leading to the garage behind the rectory.

“It's Father Sanders.”

Kathleen couldn't believe her eyes as the priest steered the car into the rectory driveway. Unfortunately he missed the driveway and drove across the lawn, leaving deep tire tracks. The car quickly disappeared behind the priests' residence.

Father Doyle raced toward the rectory. He outdistanced Kathleen, but she caught up with him at the car. Father Doyle had opened the driver's side door and had apparently gotten the keys out of the ignition and away from the older priest.

It terrified her to think of Father Sanders driving drunk—to think of what could have happened, what
might
have happened.

While Father Doyle assisted the other man from the vehicle, she hurriedly inspected the car for signs of an accident or a hit-and-run. She thought her heart was going to roar straight out of her chest, it was beating so fast. Fortunately, there was no sign of any impact.

“I need help,” Father Doyle shouted, struggling to keep the other priest upright with one arm around his waist. Father Sanders, who outweighed Father Doyle by a good fifty pounds, was leaning heavily against him. Drunk, he seemed incapable of walking.

Kathleen hurriedly wrapped her arm around him from the other side, and using her shoulder for leverage, offered him as much support as she could.

“Mrs. O'Malley, put on coffee,” Father Doyle shouted as they carefully made their way up the back steps. At the top,
Father Sanders turned to get a look at his rescuers. Kathleen gasped as he nearly sent all three of them crashing backward. She was convinced the angels must have prevented the fall, because there was no other explanation.

“Mrs. O'Malley's…gone for the day.” Father Sanders badly slurred his words.

“Gone?”

He laughed as though this had been a brilliant idea. “I gave her the day off.”

Kathleen could guess why. “I'll make the coffee,” she said, once they were safely inside and away from prying eyes.

The younger priest pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and with Kathleen's help managed to lower Father Sanders onto it.

Once he was settled, Kathleen started opening and closing cupboards until she located the coffee grounds. In a few minutes she had a pot brewing. No one spoke and the silence seemed to expand in the large kitchen.

When the coffee was ready, Kathleen poured Father Sanders his first mug. She set it in front of him. He stared at it as if he didn't know what to do with it. His eyes were rheumy, with deep pockets beneath. He looked lost and sad and frightened.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered brokenly after he'd finished the coffee. He couldn't look at Kathleen as she refilled the mug.

“I know, Father.” And she did. When her uncle Patrick gave in to his weakness for drink, he was regretful and melancholy for long days afterward.

“Did you hurt anyone?” Father Doyle asked.

Silence returned as Kathleen and Father Doyle awaited his reply.

Father Sanders buried his face in his hands. “Just me.” He wept openly into his palms. “Forgive me, forgive me,” he pleaded.

Father Doyle was suspiciously silent.

“It won't happen again,” Father Sanders vowed. Lowering his hands, the older priest lifted his head and large tears rolled unrestrained down his cheeks. “Never again. I swear it, never again. I've hit rock bottom, and God as my witness, I don't want to go back there.”

“You've said this before,” Father Doyle told him.

“I know,” the older priest sobbed piteously. “I do. I'll never touch another drop. This time I'm serious. I swear by everything holy that I'll never drink again.”

Father Doyle's eyes met Kathleen's and she could tell that he badly wanted to believe the priest. “This is the end,” he said finally.

“The end. Yes. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” Then Father Sanders started to weep in earnest.

Standing with her back against the counter, Kathleen found herself fighting tears. This was hard, so hard. Father Doyle had a terrible decision to make. He should probably bring the matter to Bishop Schmidt; Father Sanders's drinking today—and his subsequent behavior—was out of control. But the older priest sounded sincere and repentant. And they both liked him,
wanted
him to succeed.

She was glad she wasn't the one making the decision.

SISTER ANGELINA

T
hursday night after school, Angie wrote her father a long newsy letter, telling him about the new habits. Ever since her Health class had learned she was Italian, Angie's head had been full of childhood memories. In the convent you weren't Italian or French or American; nationality was ignored. All nuns were considered children of God who'd come to dedicate their lives to His service.

As she wrote, Angie brooded on what had happened this afternoon. Her Health class had gone poorly. The discussion had gotten out of hand and Angie blamed herself for the resulting chaos as she'd lost control of the class.

She sat at the table and stared down at the letter, realizing that she'd always turned to her father when she was bothered by something. It was a childhood habit. He rarely answered her letters, though. He had a good command of the English language, but his writing skills were poor and it embarrassed him that he had such trouble spelling.

Even though he didn't write, she felt his love. He'd never recovered from the disappointment of losing her to God. He discounted her happiness and still insisted that she'd made a mistake in entering the convent. She wondered if he worked as many hours at the restaurant as he had while she was
growing up and what he thought of all this election fuss. It seemed to her Nixon would surely beat McGovern, but she was no judge of that. The nuns always voted Democrat.

“You're looking thoughtful, Sister,” Joanna said, sitting in the chair across from her. She pulled out her cross-stitch—of a stylized sailboat—and carefully worked on one of the sails. It was a Christmas gift for her brother and his wife, she'd told Angie.

Angie set her fountain pen aside. She wasn't aware that she was so transparent. “We discussed birth control in class this afternoon. I did a poor job of explaining the Church's position.” In retrospect, she wished she'd invited Sister Joanna to come as a guest speaker. As a nurse, Joanna would have presented the information in a manner that was far more enlightening than her own awkward approach.

Sister Joanna's gaze briefly left the fabric. “That's not a subject I'd want to discuss with teenagers, especially these days.”

So much for that idea! The more she thought about this afternoon, the worse Angie felt. If she had more knowledge of male-female relationships, more experience, it would help, but she'd dated so little and when it came to sex she knew even less.

“When I was a teenager, sex was something that simply wasn't discussed,” Sister Joanna said, concentrating on her cross-stitch.

“I feel so inadequate talking to my students about anything having to do with it,” Angie murmured. “But it isn't like I can avoid talking about birth control when we're ordered to discuss it.” Sister Superior was adamant that all Health classes hear what the Church had to say on the controversial subject. Corinne's insistence on answers complicated everything; she wanted to know what other forms of birth control worked if the pill was forbidden. Angie didn't feel she should even mention the rhythm method, the form
of birth control acceptable to the Church, to teenagers who shouldn't be engaging in sex in the first place.

“The girls giving birth seem to be getting younger and younger, too.” Sister Joanna put down her cross-stitch project and leaned back in her chair. “Dr. Murray assisted Dr. Nelson with a cesarean on a fifteen-year-old who was having twins. At fifteen! It's hard to believe a fourteen-year-old girl would be sexually active.”

At that age, Angie was listening to records and the radio and laughing on the phone with her girlfriends. The thought of having sex so young—and dealing with diapers and bottles—was beyond the scope of her imagination.

“What did you tell your class?” Sister Joanna asked.

“Well…” Angie mulled over the question. “I said the same things Sister told us.”

“That the pill is against God and nature?”

Angie nodded. “I thought it was important my students understand that the medical community doesn't know what effect the pill will have on a woman twenty years down the road.”

“Personally I think what the Church is most worried about is that the pill will promote promiscuity.”

Angie looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I think a few of the girls might already be…active with their boyfriends.” She had her suspicions, especially concerning Corinne.

“That wouldn't surprise me.”

“It does me,” Angie cried. “They're so young, and they have their whole lives ahead of them.”

“Don't you remember this age?” Sister Joanna asked. “Everything was so urgent. So crucial. I was constantly afraid that life was going to pass me by. My biggest fear was that I wasn't going to experience any of it.”

Angie shook her head. “I didn't feel that way. My father
and I were close. I knew that no matter what happened, he'd be there for me.” A childhood friend who lived on the same street came to mind. Maria Croce. Angie hadn't thought about Maria in years. Her friend was constantly afraid her house would catch fire. There'd been a fire down the block and although the family escaped, the dog had died. From that point forward, Maria lived in constant fear of a house fire. Angie never gave the possibility a second thought because she knew nothing would prevent her father from rescuing her. He would walk through flames to save her, and she knew it. With that kind of love and security, Angie hadn't felt the same sense of urgency about life that Joanna had.

“Frankly, my class didn't
want
to hear the Church's opinion on birth control,” Angie continued, thinking back.

Corinne was the worst offender; in fact, she had openly scoffed. “One girl,” Angie murmured, “said she didn't think it was any of the Church's business whether or not a woman practiced birth control.”

“More and more women feel that way,” Joanna said as she resumed her cross-stitch.

Angie couldn't get the class out of her mind. Especially Corinne. The girl was quick to state her opinion and often critical of others when they disagreed. Rarely, though, did anyone take offense.

Corinne seemed to revel in being outrageous, but beneath all the show was a good heart. Angie usually enjoyed their talks and looked forward to the days Corinne hung around after class so they could visit.

Today hadn't been one of those days. Corinne couldn't get out of the room fast enough. Sure enough, when Angie looked out the window to the school parking lot, she recognized Jimmy's car.

Corinne ran across the lot and threw herself inside as if she'd been waiting for this moment all day. Angie couldn't
tell exactly what was happening in the car, which didn't leave for several minutes. She guessed Corinne hadn't been sharing the quadratic formula with her boyfriend.

“You said you thought a few of your students are sexually active,” Sister Joanna said. “Is this something you feel comfortable talking to them about? Privately, of course.”

Angie's eyes widened with dismay.
Her
talk about sex? She didn't even know how to approach the subject. And what could she possibly have to say about it?

Sister Joanna glanced up, looked at Angie and then started to laugh. “God
is
the one who created sex, you know.”

“Not to talk about.” Angie was sure of that.

“Just discuss it with them the same way your mother talked to you,” she advised.

“My mother died when I was five. My father's the one who explained the birds and the bees.”

“Your dad?” Sister Joanna lowered the cross-stitch to her lap.

“Dad told me everything. He got books from the library, drew me a picture and explained the way a woman's body works.”

“He wasn't embarrassed?”

At the time Angie had been so caught up in what he was telling her that she couldn't remember. “I don't think so.”

“But you are?”

She nodded. After years of living in a convent, in which every aspect of her femininity had been ignored, Angie could no more discuss the matter of physical intimacy than she could perform brain surgery.

“It might be a good idea if you did talk to these girls, Sister.”

Angie marveled at Sister Joanna. She seemed to believe such a discussion should come naturally—and for her, it probably would.

“I…couldn't.”

“I didn't think I could put a needle into someone's arm, but I learned,” Joanna said briskly. “We do what we have to. Your students respect you, and I'm sure they'd welcome the opportunity to speak freely with you.”

Angie rested her spine against the back of the chair as she considered talking to Corinne about such a deeply personal subject.

“They'd feel safe with you, I think,” Sister Joanna went on. “For one thing, you aren't their mother.”

“Wouldn't they worry about me judging them?”

“You're not like that and they know it.”

Maybe she
could
talk to some of the girls, Angie mused. Maybe she could have a frank and honest discussion with Corinne, just like her father had with her when she was a teenager.