Changing Habits (26 page)

ANGELINA MARCELLO

T
he first day Angie visited the restaurant, she sat on a stool and watched her father move between his chefs, tasting the sauces and correcting the herbs and spices. For weeks she simply sat and watched. Then one day, she suddenly realized how much she'd missed the pungent scent of simmering garlic. She closed her eyes and breathed it in the way someone who stands on a beach inhales the scent of salt and sea. At that moment Angie truly felt she'd come home.

Shortly afterward, for reasons she didn't understand, her appetite returned. Every day her father had tried to entice her with his favorite dishes. She refused each one until he offered her spaghetti alla puttanesca, which had been her childhood favorite.

The sauce, made with anchovies, tomatoes and olives, was hot and spicy. Long ago she'd heard that the recipe originated in the red-light district of Rome. Women of the night would cook the sauce and set it on their windowsills, hoping to lure patrons to their establishments.

The spaghetti tasted as wonderful as she remembered.
Better
than she remembered. That night she had two huge plates of spaghetti, heaped high with the spicy sauce.

It was as though she'd been awarded an Olympic medal for her appetite. The entire kitchen crew applauded when she finished her second helping. Her father beamed, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. He hurriedly brought her his signature zabaglione, and stood by watching as she ate every last bite.

That was the beginning. The next day it was fettuccine Alfredo. Angie hadn't noticed how thin she'd become—and she'd forgotten how wonderful food tasted—until she started visiting the restaurant.
Everything
smelled so good, and once she'd sampled the familiar dishes, it seemed as if her father's food offered her the comfort she hadn't found anywhere else.

Then one afternoon six months after she'd left the convent, Tony Marcello insisted he had paperwork that needed his attention and asked Angie to do the daily tasting. Reluctantly she'd agreed, seeing through his ploy. He wanted her to assume his role; it had been his plan for her from the time she was a child and she didn't have the heart to refuse him.

Mario Deccio and the other cooks had been with the restaurant for years and knew the recipes as well as—or better than—Angie. Still, they respectfully stepped aside and waited for her approval, the same way they did with her father. The gift she'd once shared with him had never left her, she discovered. Her instincts for the nuances of a dish were as reliable as ever.

In the summer of 1973, Angie began working the restaurant floor, greeting their dinner guests and making recommendations when called upon. It was her job to see that the patrons were satisfied and that their dining experience was everything they had anticipated. People liked her unobtrusive manner and asked after her if she wasn't there. By the end of the season, profits were up twenty percent.

Her father had never been happier, Mario said. That wasn't
all he told her. “Your papa was not the same after you went to the convent,” the chef confided. “For a long time we worried. He seemed to lose all interest in life. But you're home now.”

It was good to be back. Angie felt guilty for enjoying her role in the restaurant so much. It was almost as though the last fifteen years had somehow disappeared from her memory. From her life…

She might've been able to continue pretending indefinitely if Mario's granddaughter hadn't stopped by early one afternoon. Angie saw the teenager enter the kitchen and nearly collapsed. Gina Deccio was sixteen years old and wore her hair in the same teenage style as Corinne Sullivan. They both had dark, inquisitive eyes. Gina smiled at Angie and it was as if Corinne had stepped into the room.

“Angelina, come and meet my granddaughter,” Mario said. His expression revealed his pride as he placed his arm around the girl's shoulders.

“Hello,” Angie said, barely able to contain her panic. “If you'll forgive me, I have an errand to run.” No one questioned her as she pulled off the apron and hung it on the peg and nearly dashed from the building. It was muggy and warm, late in the summer; Jim Croce's “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” was playing on a nearby radio as Angie began her walk. She walked and walked for blocks on end.

Her feet hurt but she kept up the punishing pace, her mind racing, driving her further and further from everything that was familiar, everything that had given her solace.

She didn't stop until she found a church. It wasn't a Catholic church, but Angie didn't care. She hurried inside and made her way to the front, then fell onto her knees at the railing. Burying her face in her hands, she silently wept.

She cried until there were no tears left and when she was finished, she sat in a pew and realized those tears hadn't been for Corinne. They'd been for her.

In the months since Angie had set aside the habit of St. Bridget's Sisters of the Assumption, she'd found her place outside the convent. She wasn't going back. This time away wasn't a leave of absence. She wouldn't be returning to the convent in a few weeks or months. She was
never
going back.

Glancing up, she closed her eyes and prayed fervently, begging forgiveness. When she'd joined the convent she had devastated her father. Now she was afraid she'd be disappointing her heavenly Father by leaving it.

She waited for the guilt to come over her like a dark storm. Inwardly she cringed and feared another depression; instead she experienced a new sense of peace. She wondered if it was just wishful thinking; she wasn't convinced God would so easily forgive her for abandoning her vows. There'd be a price to pay. Surely penance would be required before God Almighty would set her free from debilitating guilt and remorse. She'd failed Him, and that couldn't be without consequences. She didn't know how long she sat and waited for some act of penance to reveal itself. It never did.

When she left the church, Angie felt almost giddy. She was free. The emotional shackles were gone. Without guilt, without remorse, she could walk away from her life as a nun.

Her father was white with panic by the time a taxi returned her to the restaurant. “Where did you go?” he demanded, following her inside.

“For a walk.”

“You were gone
four
hours!” he shouted.

“It was a long walk.”

He put his hands on his hips just as he used to when she was a child who'd disobeyed. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“Yes,” she said, and kissed his cheek before reaching for her apron. “On second thought, no.”

“No?” His eyebrows shot upward.

“No,” she repeated, feeling jubilant. “I've decided to write Rome.”

He scowled ferociously. “What are you going to write?”

“I'm going to ask that the Holy Father release me from my vows.”

Angie waited, expecting her father to express relief and delight, but he showed no outward sign of happiness.

“Did you hear me, Dad?”

“I heard you.” He turned abruptly and went back into his office.

Bewildered, Angie went after him. “Don't you have anything to say?” she asked, standing in the doorway of the small, meticulously organized office.

He looked up, his weathered face lined with worry. “Where are you going next?”

“I'm not going anywhere, Daddy. I'm home to stay.”

“You mean it?”

Angie nodded.

Her father took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “It was my zabaglione, wasn't it?”

Angie stared at him in disbelief and then realized he was teasing. “Without a doubt,” she said.

Her father burst out laughing. He leaped up from his chair, threw his arms around Angie and hugged her. She laughed, too, until the tears ran down her cheeks and the kitchen staff came to investigate.

KATHLEEN O'SHAUGHNESSY

I
n August of 1973, shortly after Nixon refused to hand over the secret Watergate tapes as ordered by Judge John Sirica, Kathleen moved out of the House of Peace and into her own apartment. She'd been hired as a lay teacher at St. Joseph's Parochial School, teaching fifth grade, and was jubilant to be self-supporting.

It was the first time in her life that she'd lived on her own. Her parents had visited earlier in the summer; they'd accepted Kathleen's decision and encouraged her to move back east while she reflected on her choices for the future. But Kathleen liked Seattle and this was where she wanted to make a fresh start. Sean was close by and she could visit her parents during the summers. Her mother and father had reluctantly agreed with her plan to live on the West Coast. They parted on warm terms, and Kathleen felt absolved from the lingering worry that she'd disappointed those who loved her most.

More and more, she recognized that she had no desire to return to the convent. Her counselor, a former nun herself, had helped Kathleen immeasurably. They discussed the complex issues of her role in the Church, past and future, as well as coping with life on the outside. They talked about
everything—finding jobs, feeling guilt, the possibility of meeting men…

For part of the summer, Kathleen taught a catechism program. She also led the children's choir, and for pure fun, she was teaching herself how to play the guitar again. That last summer at home, before entering the convent, she'd managed to learn a repertoire of easily played songs.

One afternoon toward the middle of August, Kathleen strolled through Elliott Bay Park after one of her counseling sessions. The blue sky and the warm breeze off Puget Sound enticed her to linger. Someone was playing the guitar and it sounded so much better than her own simple strumming that she paused to listen.

Kathleen found the musician sitting under a tree, dressed in jeans with his long dark hair tied in a ponytail and a kerchief headband. He played a folk song and she sat down on a nearby bench.

“Want to sing along?” he called out.

She shook her head, embarrassed that he'd noticed her.

“I'm Pete,” he said.

“Kathleen.”

“Good to meet you, Kathleen.” He began to play an old song she remembered, “House of the Rising Sun.”

“I've been teaching myself the guitar,” she said when he'd finished. “I've discovered it isn't as easy as it looks.”

“All you have to do is practice.”

“I know.” She supposed that was something she could be doing right then, but it was such a glorious day, Kathleen didn't want to go home to an empty apartment. So she stayed. Never mind that she owed both Father Doyle and her sister Maureen a letter. Or that she could be getting a head start on her classes for September. This was where she wanted to be.

After another half hour, she finally stood to leave.

“Goodbye, Lady Kathleen. Hope to see you again.”

“You too, Pete.” He'd begun to play a melody she didn't recognize. So many of the more recent songs were unknown to her.

She waved as she passed him, her mood free, swinging her bag at her side. Another thing she'd had to get used to—carrying a purse.

It soon became a habit to pick up something for dinner from the Pike Place Market and then stop at Elliott Bay Park to listen to Pete. That first time, she hadn't noticed he was a street player, or more accurately a park player. He collected coins in his guitar carrying case; because she considered him a friend, she didn't give him money. However, she often brought him fruit or a drink.

One afternoon she'd bought him a sandwich, and the two of them sat on the lawn and talked. Summer was winding down and Pete was heading south. To school, she assumed, although he'd never actually said.

“You're a teacher,” he said, opening a soda can and handing it to her. “You'll be going back to school next week.” He sat with one knee raised as he ate his turkey sandwich. She envied the way he seemed to fully enjoy each moment, each sensation.

“I'm starting right after Labor Day.” This wasn't a date, she reminded herself. They were just friends, but it felt good to sit with a man and simply talk. This was new to her, this easy camaraderie with the opposite sex. Even as a girl, her exposure to boys had been limited. Sean was almost ten years older and her youngest brother was barely more than a baby while she was living at home. She'd attended an all-girl high school.

Pete lowered his sandwich and studied her with undisguised admiration. “I certainly never had any teacher as beautiful as you.”

She must have blushed because he leaned forward and traced the bridge of her freckled nose. Those freckles had
been a curse when she was a teenager, but Pete seemed to find them intriguing.

“Don't men say pretty things to you, my lady Kathleen?”

She lowered her eyes, afraid that if she mentioned the fact that she was still technically a nun, he would leap up and race away. That was what the boys in her high school class had done even
before
she'd entered the convent.

Her dates had been few and far between. The minute a boy learned she was interested in the religious life, the relationship, such as it was, would immediately end. Kathleen didn't want that to happen with Pete.

“I'll miss you when you leave,” she confessed.

“I won't be gone more than a few months,” he said. Then with a small laugh, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Maybe I won't go at all.”

Kathleen's spirits lifted. “Really?”

“It's hard to walk away from a red-haired lady.”

His compliments flustered her and to distract them both, she asked a practical question. “How will you support yourself?”

He shrugged. “I'm not into material things. My life is simple. Anyway, I could always get a job in a tavern or maybe a coffeehouse. Summer's too beautiful to waste on a real job. That's why I enjoy playing in the park.”

Kathleen smiled, loving his free and easy life. She wasn't materialistic herself. When you weren't allowed to own goods of any kind, the hunger for material possessions quickly disappeared.
Things
didn't satisfy. Love was what mattered.

Pete straightened and reached for his guitar, playing a lovely song, one she'd never heard before. People stopped to listen as he strummed.

“That was beautiful,” Kathleen said.

“It's a love song. I wrote it for you.”

“Me?”

Pete chuckled. “Don't you know how I feel about you, Kathleen O'Shaughnessy?”

Her heart pounded furiously at his words, as though she were running straight into a flaming building.

“You like my music, don't you?”

“Oh, yes—very much.”

“Want to listen to a tape of it? We can get a bottle of wine and go to your place.”

Kathleen wasn't completely naive. She could listen to Pete and his guitar in person; she didn't need a tape to do so. She suspected the tape was an excuse to come to her apartment so he could kiss her. The silent debate inside her didn't last more than a couple of seconds. “That would be fun.”

Pete purchased a bottle of red wine and held her hand in his as she led him into her apartment. She didn't have any wineglasses, so they sipped the merlot out of tumblers. It was mellow, easy to drink, and quickly went to her head.

“This is very good,” she said, sitting on the sofa next to him.

His smile was incredible. Pete was incredible. He moved closer and settled his arm around her shoulders. Kathleen rested her head against his neck and when he turned to kiss her, she closed her eyes.

Almost right away, her head started to swim. She'd rarely drunk wine, and it seemed impossible that a single glass could make her tipsy, but it had. Pete kissed her, gently at first and then with deepening passion. His tongue invaded her mouth; Kathleen let it happen. This was foreign to her, but exciting, and she enjoyed their mutual exploration.

“How does that feel, my lady Kathleen?” he whispered.

“Good.”

“For me too. How about this?” He rained kisses along the side of her neck and then opened the top two buttons of her blouse. His mouth left a fiery trail down to the edge of her bra, where he let his tongue delve into the valley between
her breasts. When he paused, Kathleen held her breath, hardly able to believe what he was doing.

His hands cupped her breasts, taking in their fullness, while he continued to kiss her. She was hardly aware that he'd unfastened her bra, and she groaned aloud as he slipped her blouse over her arms. The bra fell from her shoulders, leaving her breasts exposed.

Kathleen freed her mouth from his. “I don't think—”

“No—don't think, because we're here to feel.” Taking her hand he pressed it against the bulge in his pants. She reacted as if he'd burned her and pulled loose.

Pete laughed and stripped off his shirt. “There,” he said, “how's that?” Then he kissed her again with long, slow seductive kisses that dissolved her objections.

Kathleen started to relax and Pete leaned her back until she was flat against the sofa. Then he lay on top of her, pushing her into the cushions. She felt his erection, which seemed to have grown even harder. Pinning her hands above her head, he kissed her lips and worked a line of moist kisses toward her breasts. When his lips took in her nipple and sucked on it, sensation shot through her like an electrical shock. Involuntarily, Kathleen arched upward.

Pete chuckled softly. “That's only the beginning.”

“No…”

“Yes, honey.” He drugged her with kisses once more, but a moment later, slid off her.

With her eyes closed, Kathleen relaxed again, grateful this had come to an end. They were moving too fast. Then she heard him release his zipper. She tried to sit up, but Pete wouldn't let her. He shoved her against the cushions, and before she had a chance to protest, he was on top of her again. When she attempted to squirm free, he forcefully held her down.

“You don't lead a man this far and then tell him no,” he said.

He tried to kiss her, but Kathleen twisted her mouth away
from him. The gentle musician she'd met in the park underwent a personality change as he jerked up her skirt and tore off her cotton panties.

“We can make this easy, baby,” he murmured.

“No…no! Don't do this. I don't want this.”

“Yes, you do,” he countered in the same seductive voice he'd used earlier. Even while she tried to push him away, he pried open her legs and rammed his rigid penis deep inside her.

Kathleen gasped at the pain, but if Pete was aware of her discomfort, he gave no indication. Eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted, he continued to pound her, his body repeatedly slamming against hers. Again and again. Faster and more furious. The pain was dreadful and it didn't ease even when he cried out and then slumped, his deadweight holding her down as he heaved and panted.

“That was fantastic,” he whispered.

Kathleen was too shocked to move. Her mouth had gone completely dry and her tongue felt glued to her teeth.

“Oh, honey, you're so tight. So good.”

It took her a moment to free her arms enough to push him off her. This horrible man had stolen her virginity. He'd taken advantage of her inexperience. He'd ignored her protests. Standing on wobbly legs, her skirt torn, she grabbed her blouse and held it against her bare breasts. Pointing a shaking finger at him, she cried, “Get out of here!”

Pete sat up, looking stunned. “What's wrong?”

“Get out,” she cried, near hysteria now. “Get out.” She picked up one of his sandals and threw it at the door.

Pete raised both hands as if to ward off an attack. “I'm going, I'm going. I don't know what you're so upset about. You wanted this as much as I did.”

“No! No, I didn't.” To be fair, she
had
wanted him to kiss her and had enjoyed their foreplay, but she'd never wanted him to go any further. What he'd done felt like abuse, like an
assault. It felt as if he'd crushed her soul. “Now leave.” She refused to let him see the tears in her eyes.

“All right, all right.” He dressed quickly, then slipped into one sandal and grabbed the second on his way out the door. As soon as it closed, Kathleen picked up his tumbler, still half-full of wine and hurled it at the door. The glass broke and red wine splattered across the carpet and the wall.

Falling onto her knees, she covered her face with her hands and wept. When she rose, the room was completely dark.

Emotionless, she stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She scrubbed every inch of her skin as she stood under the high-pressure spray, wielding the washcloth with such force she threatened to leave abrasions. The water ran cold before she'd finished.

Dressed in her nightgown, Kathleen sat in the darkened room and wept again. She needed a friend, someone she could talk to, someone she trusted. Sean would be furious and God only knew what he'd do to Pete if he found him. She didn't want her brother to end up in jail on her account. Her counselor came to mind, but she was afraid of what the woman would say if she admitted her stupidity.

In the end, at two in the morning, when she was sure she'd go crazy unless she heard another human voice, Kathleen phoned Father Doyle in Minneapolis.

He answered the phone himself, sounding groggy. “Father Doyle,” he murmured.

“You said I could call you any time of the day or night,” she whispered, uncertain he'd recognize her.

“Kathleen?” He seemed instantly alert.

She checked her watch and realized that with the time difference it was 3:00 a.m. “I shouldn't have called.”

“What happened?”

Now that she had him on the line, she found it impossible to admit what she'd done. Struggling to keep the panic
and the pain out of her voice, she whispered, “I met a man in the park.”