Waiting to Believe (21 page)

Love ya, B

Kacey felt light.
But why?
Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as Bridget's face floated through her mind. It was true that Bridget had always been the first to greet Greg whenever he sailed through the kitchen door, the first to offer him a Pepsi. Why should that affection stop because Kacey was no longer the link between them?

She reached for the other piece of mail, sliding the single sheet from the envelope.

Kacey, don't know if word has reached you, but the LA Dodgers—and Sandy Koufax—sunk the Twins in the World Series. We made them go 7 games, but how can you stop that guy? Ouch! I had tickets for the games here. In typical Minnesota style, folks are saying there's nothing to be ashamed of, coming in second. But I say, the hell there isn't. You're either a winner or you're not. We weren't this time, but wait till next year . . .

Dad

Kacey thought about her father's words for a moment.
You're either a winner or you're not.

Sister Mary Quentin passed her in the hallway. “Praise be Jesus,” they said to one another. After three years, the designated phrase for greeting one another finally felt routine for Kacey. She could utter it without feeling foolish. She placed her mail on the bedside table and turned to pick up her astronomy text. Was that a snowflake she saw out the window?

Winter played with Minnesota for several weeks, catching everyone off guard with snow showers that immediately melted on the sun-warmed ground. The oaks and maples held on, refusing to let down their leaves, until finally, the last week in October, a great rain blew in from the north and took with it every leaf in its path. Overnight, the landscape turned gray and barren, and it was winter.

Through it all, the rhythm of convent life seemed to be more palatable to Kacey. More satisfying. Even so, homesickness could wash over her at the slightest provocation: the first snowflakes carried her away to a place she could no longer go, as did a smell of cooking, or the sweet fragrance of lilacs in spring. The sound of an evening whip-poor-will brought Greg to her mind. All these dear things of today still reminded her of home.

Even after three years, the command of total obedience nipped at the edges of her will. Often regretful after her “indiscretions,” as Mother Mary Bernard called them, she struggled to rein in her free spirit, to bow penitently to her superiors. She was haunted by the question Bernard had put to her, “Is it not possible for you to be obedient?” She was not certain of the answer.

She moved through the days, trying to believe the severe constraints were temporary, that the world outside these walls awaited her. Outside, she would fulfill her desire to “do good.”
Patience. Patience . . .

And always there was the struggle to believe. Believe in the providence of a God who watched over her and guided her every movement, every thought. Always, it seemed, she was waiting to believe.

At those times, she fled to the prayer that became her armor. With folded, clenched hands and a furrowed brow, she called out to the Mother of Mercy,

Help me for the love of Jesus Christ; hold out your hand to fallen sinners who commend and dedicate themselves forever to your service. I know that with your help I shall conquer; I know that you will help me.

Then, with all her might, she begged,
Let me not lose my God
.

37

November 12, 1965. Cold, gloomy. Breakfast was about to be served. The new authority figure, Sister Mary Julian, mistress of juniors, stood at the head of the table, about to make announcements. Kacey was hopeful about her. She appeared to be a kindly figure, with a quick smile and a soft expression.

But on this morning she looked grim. She said simply, “Sister Mary Patrick has left us. She will not be returning.”

An involuntary murmur ran down the length of the table. Kacey's eyes went to Sister Mary Quentin, sitting now next to an empty chair. Quentin's face was pale. Mary Julian began grace. The stunned sisters joined in.

Throughout the day, Sister Mary Patrick's face flashed through Kacey's mind. The sweetness of her easy smile, the openness of her expression. “Here I am, world!” she seemed to say. Now, in an instant, she was gone.

The habits were hanging on the basement clothesline, waiting for Kacey. The coifs lay on a wooden table alongside the altar cloths. She stood in the windowless laundry room, a big task ahead of her. What she really wanted was to put on a down jacket, a pair of Sorel boots, choppers, and a navy watch cap, and go out to shovel. To shovel until the cold air threatened to burst her lungs. To shovel till every sidewalk was cleared and then to fall back into unbroken snow and make an angel. That's what she really wanted.

Instead, she turned on the iron and reached for the first habit. As she did, her gaze fell to the newspapers on the floor. The date on a front page to the left of her foot read November 10. A small headline announced, “War Protester Immolates Himself.” She dropped to her knees and read the story.

A Catholic Worker Movement member, Roger LaPorte, of New York, set himself on fire in front of the United Nations building yesterday to protest US involvement in the Vietnam War. LaPorte, age 22, died at the scene . . .

Kacey groaned. This was the second immolation in less than a week, the story went on to tell her. A Quaker, Norman Morrison, had also set himself on fire in front of the Pentagon to protest the war.

She thought of Greg. No, that would not be his way. He would march, he would agitate, but he would not take his life.

Did she actually know that for a fact? Did she even know him anymore? Wearily, she raised herself from the floor and laid the iron on the black habit before her.

Kacey held the needle awkwardly between her thumb and index finger. She had caught the hem of her habit on the heel of her clodhopper. She sat alone at an empty table in the rec room, the bulky habit with its three-inch rip stretched across her lap. There it was yet again, Lefty Frizzell's “Mom and Dad's Waltz” coming over the tinny phonograph. After three years, she was more than tired of it. She sighed, plunging the needle through the thick fabric. Immediately, her left hand jerked up, a bead of blood spurting from the pad of her middle finger. “Shit!” she exclaimed.

“Stuck yourself, huh?” came the voice with a hint of laughter in it. Kacey sucked on the wound, glancing up at Lisa, who was holding a deck of cards and a cribbage board.

“I did. But worse than that, I swore,” Kacey admitted.

“So I heard! But don't worry, no one else did.” She sat down at the table and shuffled the cards. “Wanna play?”

“No, I've got to finish this, and then I should study. I've got an exam in Research Methodology this week. Not exactly my strongest class.”

Lisa pushed the cribbage board aside and laid out a game of solitaire. “Why'd you take that class, anyway?”

“Oh, I don't know. It seemed like a good basic class to have. Especially when I have no idea what I'm going to do after I graduate.”

“Whaddya mean? You'll be teaching
something
!” She turned over the ace of spades and laid it above her seven piles.

“Well, sure, I s'pose so. I'm afraid they're gonna rope me into drama.” She paused. “I'm not always sure I want to teach at all. It's just a struggle.”

“What is?”

“Oh, trying to hang onto my reasons for entering in the first place. Sometimes I can't even remember what they were!”

“Aw, c'mon. You don't mean that.”

“Yes, I do. I
know
I wasn't thinking of teaching drama as my contribution to the betterment of the world!”

Kacey set the torn habit aside to reach over and scoop up the deck. “Didn't mean to spoil your game.” She began absently to shuffle the cards.

Lisa took them from her and looked around to make certain no one overheard them. She was silent for a moment and then, “You told
me
once that this is just boot camp. Something we've got to slog through to get to the real stuff.” Kacey gave a slow nod. Lisa laid out a new game and whispered, “This isn't the first time you've had doubts, Kace, and it won't be the last, but you'll get there.”

Kacey's gaze met her friend's. “Black six
on your red seven,” she said.

38

Rose and Kenneth sat opposite one another at the kitchen table, drinking their morning coffee, he reading the newspaper, she thumbing through a worn cookbook. “I'm going to make shepherd's pie for supper,” she announced.

Kenneth smiled at his wife. “Sounds good.” Laying down the paper, he slipped into his suit jacket and reached for his overcoat. “Should I bring something home for a backup?”

“Kenneth!” she slapped at his sleeve. Shrugging into his cashmere coat, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing his briefcase and heading for the garage.

“Don't be late,” Rose called to him from the kitchen door. She pulled her worn robe tight against the bitter wind whipping across the wide yard.

Kenneth waved her off, opening the garage door. The leather seats were cold as he slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught with a powerful purr. The radio came on, full force. The Mamas and the Papas. “Monday, Monday.” Really, he wondered, what
should
he bring home as backup?

It was already dark when he stepped through the back door again. He was startled at the mix of intoxicating smells in the kitchen. Rose was waiting for him, with a hot pad in one hand and a glass of Jameson over ice at the ready. She handed him the drink. “Right on time,” she said seductively.

“Rose!” was all he could utter. He could not remember the last time she had presented him with such a welcome. He took the drink, smiled at his still-beautiful wife, and dropped his briefcase to the floor.

“Kenneth,” she responded and raised her own glass in a toast. He returned it.

She pulled the shepherd's pie from the oven onto a cooling rack. “Get comfortable,” she said. “Everything can wait.”

“No, no!” he objected. “I've kept you waiting long enough!” He loosened his silk tie, opening the top button of his stiffly starched shirt. “Let's eat.”

And then he stole a look at her as she reached for dishes from the cupboard. Arms raised above her head, he saw the outline of her breasts against the taut burgundy sweater. She was, indeed, still beautiful. In that instant, he felt a stirring for her, a sweet ache. It was familiar and powerful, and it caught him off guard. He felt his face redden as he thought of bringing her body to him, of touching her slowly at first and then with the great heat that would build and drive him. It had been so long.

Maureen appeared from the living room. “Grab a plate, Dad! It's just about to begin!”

Kenneth's mind and his body snapped back to the moment. He had no idea what was about to begin, but he stepped to the living room doorway and saw the CBS logo spreading across the screen with the words,
A Charlie Brown Christmas
. The music was bouncy. Infectious. The cartoon characters delightful. Gerald and Joseph had already commandeered the davenport. Maureen returned from the kitchen, pushing Joseph from his place, taking it for herself.