Authors: LaVyrle Spencer
She blushed.
And his heart thrilled.
And she remembered that she wasn’t allowed to eat with seculars, but found her mother’s homemade bread and chokecherry jelly too wonderful to resist.
At the door, when he was leaving, Eddie faced Sister Regina with her parents four feet away, hiding the things he was feeling. Here, amid her loved ones, she seemed like an ordinary person. He had met her parents. He had seen the house where she was raised. He had watched her eating a bun with butter shining in the comers of her mouth. Between a nun and a secular, these were intimacies. Saying goodbye to her felt like another intimacy.
“If you know what day you’d like to come back, I can come and get you.”
“Oh, no thank you, Mr. Olczak. Daddy will take me wherever I need to go.”
“You bet we will, won’t we, Mother? All the way back to Browerville whenever she wants.”
“That’s for sure we will. Thank you so much for bringing her,” Bertha added.
Frank shook Eddie’s hand. “Now you have a safe trip back.”
“I will. It looks like the snow’s letting up.”
Eddie glanced at Sister and felt the insane desire to hug her. He had the sharp impression that if he did, she’d hug him back. Instead, he dropped his head to put his cap on.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Olczak,” she said quietly, her hands once again properly tucked inside her sleeves. “Same to you, Sister.”
“And God bless you.”
“You, too.” He backed away a step, nodded, opened the door and said, “Frank... Bertha... nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” they said, and turned him out into the snow to drive home and wonder if it was a mortal sin to fall in love with a nun.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The morning after Sister Regina got home, she went into town with her folks to St. Peter and Paul’s for nine o’clock Mass. The snow had stopped and the sun was bright. The county plows had been through, but a strong wind lifted the surface snow and scalloped the edge of the road with it. The countryside was familiar, the silos forming the same constellations as when Regina was a girl. Riding in the backseat of her father’s 1938 Ford, she wondered,
Will I live here again? Will they let me move in if I need to? And if so, how long will I stay?
At church they sat in the fifth row from the front, the same pew they’d always used. They had just arrived and were still kneeling, saying silent prayers, when Grandma Rosella got there. Regina could tell that her grandmother had spotted her from behind because the old woman was breathless and glowing when she rose from genuflecting and slipped into the pew.
“Well for-
ev
-ermore!” she whispered, and threw a bluff hug on her granddaughter, nearly pulling Regina’s veil off its hat pin. “Where did
you
come from?”
“Hi, Grandma.”
“You should have more consideration for an old woman’s heart.”
That’s all she would say: Rosella Potlocki did not talk in church. To have said as much as she had was a measure of her elation at finding her favorite granddaughter home.
Once, however, in the middle of Mass, she captured Regina’s hand and squeezed it long and hard, holding it firmly against her midsection. Her eyes remained riveted on the altar, but her love for Regina was as palpable as the soft black cloth of her winter coat.
Grandma Rosella lived in town, near enough that she could walk to church as often as she liked. Her husband, a retired farmer who spent all his days in a pool hall drinking and playing pinochle, had fallen away from Catholicism years ago. Regina never once remembered him going to church. She’d never been close to him, had, in fact, always held a modicum of fear of her Grandpa Potlocki, a crusty old man who shunned family reunions, always needed a shave, spit tobacco juice on the street, and called her “Girlie” the few times he’d spoken to her at all.
The result of Walter Potlocki’s bibulousness and godlessness was a marriage that had rived years ago. He and his wife slept under the same roof, but in separate rooms. They occasionally ate at the same table, but had little to say to one another. For the most part they went their separate ways. Consequently, Rosella had learned how to drive; never gotten a legal driver’s license, mind you, only learned how to keep a car between the ditches so she could go visit her children whenever she wanted.
When Mass ended that Sunday morning, there was no question she’d go straight out to Frank and Bertha’s house and stay for dinner and the afternoon. She didn’t even bother to ask, but announced as soon as they cleared the vestibule, “Sister Regina will ride out home with me. I’ll bring the pork roast I put in the oven. Can I bring anything else, Bertha?”
“No, Rosella, the roast will be fine. I’m sure everybody else will show up with food, too. But I don’t think you should drive on these roads.”
“She’s right, Mama,” Frank spoke up. “Even though the plows have been through, the roads are a little slippery yet.”
“Oh, bosh.” Rosella pulled a red wool scarf from her coat sleeve and tied it on over her black felt hat, anchoring it in place. “You live two miles from church, Frank. If my car goes in the ditch, I can walk them two miles, don’t think I can’t!” She commandeered Regina’s arm and descended the church steps with the wind slapping their clothes and shaking last-night’s snow off the trees. They walked to Rosella’s house through the blinding light of the unobstructed sun on the newly fallen snow, both of them with black missals pressed against their ribs, the older woman retaining her tight grip on her granddaughter’s arm. The wind and chill bothered them little: they took their time. Being together again was precious in both women’s eyes, a blessing, they believed, from God who had also given them this sublime winter’s day, food for their table, family with whom to gather, and their good health.
“So, how have you been?” Sister Regina asked as they trod down the edge of the street.
“Busy getting ready for Christmas, baking coffee cakes, making doll clothes and sugar cookies for the grandkids.”
“How’s Grandpa?”
“That old fool. Never changes. Worthless as always.”
“He’s still not going to church?”
“He’ll never change. Drunk three-fourths of the time and grouchy the other fourth.”
“I pray for him every day.”
“So do I, but it don’t do no good.”
“How many years have you been married?”
“More than I care to count. So how are you? How’s things in Browerville?”
They veered onto a sidewalk that had been shoveled, and Regina stepped more slowly, grateful for this opportunity to speak to her grandmother privately.
“Well... things could be better with me, Grandma.”
“How so?”
“I’ve come home to tell you something and I... well, I wanted to tell you while we were alone together. Actually, I’m glad we got the chance to be alone together so I
could
tell you.”
“What is it, Jean? You sick?” Rosella stopped to examine her granddaughter’s face. “My goodness, if it’s—”
“No, Gram, I’m not sick.” Sister Regina moved on, forcing her grandmother to do the same, Rosella’s hand still clutching her granddaughter’s elbow. “This will be very hard for you to hear, as hard as it was for me to decide, but... I’m going to leave the convent, Grandma.”
“Oh no... and you liked it there so much! Where are they sending you next?”
“No, you don’t understand, Grandma.” Sister stopped walking and looked directly into her grandmother’s eyes. “I’m asking for a dispensation of vows. I’m leaving my vocation for good.”
Grandma Rosella’s mouth opened, her face etched in lines of dismay. “Nooo,” she whispered in disbelief.
“Yes, I am,” Sister Regina assured her gently. “It’s been a very difficult decision, one over which I’ve prayed many long hours and many long months.”
“After all these years it took you?”
Sister nodded.
“And how hard you studied?”
“Yes.”
“But... but why?”
“Because the life in a religious community isn’t what I thought it would be.”
“What does that mean—‘isn’t what you thought it would be’?” Grandma Rosella sounded piqued. “You were around nuns all your life! You knew what their life was like!”
Sister Regina tried to explain, but she could see her explanation was falling on stubborn ears. She touched upon many of the problems with which she’d been struggling— the difficulty of living with a bunch of women whose personalities sometimes clashed; the strict rules that often forbade worthwhile relationships and pursuits; the feeling of being isolated from some important aspects of life; the certainty that she’d made her decision at too young an age, before she’d matured enough to weigh the life of sacrifice against that of being a wife and mother.
“It’s a man, isn’t it?” Rosella asked, her expression pinched tight with disapproval.
“No. Although, in the future, I hope to have a husband and maybe even children of my own before I’m too old.”
“It’s a man,” Grandma said conclusively, just as they reached her driveway. Sealing up her mouth, she marched ahead toward the house with censure in every step. She’d lived with a man she found odious for so long, it was beyond Rosella Potlocki how anyone could want to tie herself to one of the disgusting things.
“It’s not a man,” Regina called after her, “but it’s his children, as well as all the other things I tried to explain! Will you listen to me, Grandma?”
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re not. You’re mad.” Someone had shoveled Rosella’s narrow driveway that went from the tiny wooden garage right past the kitchen door. Regina figured her grandmother had probably gotten up in the dark before church and done it herself. She was wiry enough, stubborn enough and independent enough not to expect anybody—including her husband—to do anything for her. She had learned years ago not to rely on him for much.
Rosella, visibly upset, entered the house, leaving Sister Regina outside in the cold.
Regina sighed and followed, understanding what a blow this was to her grandmother. Inside, she closed the kitchen door and said, “Grandma, I know it’s hard for you to understand.”
“You were doing what
I
wanted to do but my folks didn’t have the money for—going off to study in a convent,” Rosella said accusingly, for she herself had paid Regina’s tuition. “I don’t understand how you can give it up. It’s the most esteemed way to serve God.”
“No, it isn’t. You always told me it was, but I’m convinced it’s just as holy in God’s eyes to be a good wife and mother.”
Rosella swung around and held Sister Regina by both arms. “Jean, Jean, Jean,” she said, “you were
chosen
by
God.”
“No, Grandma. I was chosen by you. And by Mama and Daddy, because it was a great source of pride to have one of the family go into a religious vocation. You put the idea into my head from the time I entered parochial school, and I’m not bitter about it, but please understand. I gave it all these years and now I want some years for myself.” Rosella’s eyeglasses had begun steaming up. She stripped them off, turned away from her granddaughter, and tossed them on the kitchen table. “I got to take my roast out of the oven.”
Sister Regina’s joy at being back in this familiar house was eclipsed by her grandmother’s reaction to the news. She had expected disappointment. She had not expected anger. But there it was, marching around the kitchen in the form of this diminutive woman with the scarf tied over her Sunday hat, and her coat hem arching up to reveal brown cotton stockings when she leaned over the open oven door.
“Where’s Grandpa?” Regina asked, hoping to melt her grandmother some.
“Sleeping it off. Where else do you think he’d be on a Sunday morning?” Rosella wrapped her roaster in newspaper, which she tied on with a snow-white dish towel. “Let’s go,” she ordered, and headed outside, making it clear she was still upset.
The garage doors were hinged on the sides. Together they folded them back and left them open while they went into the garage and got into a ten-year-old Chevy. Then Rosella backed out, scraping the left side of the car on the lilac hedge all the way to the street. She buried the back bumper in the snowbank across the street, unaware she’d done so, grinding the gears as she shifted into low and headed toward the church steeple and the country roads beyond. She drove sitting on a sofa pillow, gripping the wheel with both hands, with enough space between her and the seat back that she could have carried her roaster there. She asked one question on their way out to Frank and Bertha’s farm, asked it without taking her eyes from the road.
“Well, if you ain’t gonna get married afterwards, what you gonna do?”
Sister Regina answered, “I don’t know.”
The word had spread throughout the family that Jean was home, and the house filled with her sisters and brothers and their families. There were eighteen people around the table by the time the meal was served, and, with no formal planning, food enough for everyone.
Sister Regina led them saying grace, but the words of the prayer were the last that Rosella uttered. Twice during the meal Bertha said to her, “Mama, is something wrong? Aren’t you feeling good?”
But the old woman kept her lip stubbornly buttoned. Regina waited to announce her news to the family until the children had left the table and were playing with metal cars on the kitchen floor. When only the adults remained over the remnants of their pie, when the coffee cups had been refilled and the group had grown sated and lazy, only then did she speak. “I have something to tell all of you... especially you, Mama and Daddy.”
The dining room was much quieter than earlier, and it grew quieter still. With every eye resting on her, Sister Regina spoke in a soft but resolute voice.
“Grandma already knows. I told her after church. Now I want the rest of you to know. I’ve decided that I don’t want to be a nun anymore. I’m writing to Rome and asking for a dispensation of my vows.”
Bertha’s hand flew to her lips. Her eyes flashed to Frank’s. His to her. They both gaped at Sister Regina.