Waiting to Believe (3 page)

With each passing week of her senior year, Kacey knew she was being drawn closer to a decision. Wordless anxieties mounted, and more and more she sought time by herself, scrambling to make sense of what seemed unimaginable.

Still, there were sweet moments with Greg, swaying to “Moon River.” There was both tension and comfort being held in his arms.

5

Kenneth was a man of rituals. His childhood memories of Christmas on the farm became the framework for Christmas celebrations in his and Rose's home. So, the Christmas tree could not be cut down until the first week in Advent, and it had to be snowing when the eight Doyles tramped into their woods to do the cutting.

As the children grew and it became more difficult to pull everyone together, he refused to yield—until the winter of 1961. For the first time, the Doyles numbered only seven as they fought their way through knee-deep drifts in pursuit of the perfect tree.

“It just doesn't feel right to be cutting the tree without Annie,” Maureen complained.

Rose struggled to keep up, calling, “We couldn't wait till she gets home! The tree's got to go up. She'll understand.”

“Her finals will be over this week,” Kacey grumbled. The cold air pulled the breath from her lungs. It was hard to talk and trudge at the same time.

Gerald leaped ahead. “Besides, it's snowing now! Now's the time to get it!” He scooped up a fistful of snow and hurled it at Kacey.

Kenneth stopped and pointed. He had found the tree. “Gerald, Joseph! Dig out some of that snow around the trunk. Who's got the saw?” He stood back. “She's a beauty!” Hands on his hips, he watched his children swing into action. But wistfulness crept over him. The first year one child was missing. His mind went to Kacey. Where would she be next year?

The balsam stood seven-feet tall, and its fullness covered the two living room windows. Kenneth strung the lights. One by one, the ornaments were hung. A hodgepodge of memories of Christmases past. The Ray Conniff Singers serenaded them from the stereo.

“Where's Greg?” Bridget asked. “I thought he'd be here tonight.”

Kacey was hanging a velvet cardinal on an upper bough. She wrinkled her nose ever so slightly. “He's home pouting. We had a little fight last night.”

“Just because he's mad at
you
, that's no reason for him not to come!” Joseph declared. “Everything's more fun when he's here!”

Kacey reached into the box for another ornament. A glass replica of Christmas ribbon candy. “Well, you'll just have to live with it. Contrary to what you think, he's
not
perfect, Joseph! He can be a real brat!”

Rose stood back, holding an ornament in her hand. “Hush, Kacey! Don't talk about Greg that way!”

Kacey scowled at her mother. “Sometimes I need a little breathing room.”

Maureen and Bridget gave each other raised eyebrow glances. Something was up with Kacey. Rose, uncomfortable with even a hint of tension, called, “Time for tinsel!” She tossed a handful high into the boughs. At last, the tree was finished.

Kenneth looked at his watch. Ten o'clock. “Turn off the music, kids!” he called. “It's time for the news.” He switched on the television, and a blurred image snapped onto the screen. James Davis: the first US soldier to be killed in Vietnam. Ambushed, west of Saigon.

Kenneth sat down heavily in his chair. “Mother of God! Now it begins!” he exclaimed.

Maureen looked at her father. “What begins?”

Kenneth replied in a tight voice, “The government can call them military advisors, but I'm telling you, we'll be in a war before we celebrate another Christmas.”

So ended 1961.

“Can you just believe it?” Greg couldn't contain his excitement. He sat on the edge of the davenport. The final seconds of the 1962 Rose Bowl game were ticking away. All the Doyles sat huddled around the big black-and-white console television, watching as their Minnesota Gophers defeated UCLA.

Greg and Gerald leaped to their feet. Kacey laughed, reaching out to hug them both. Even Rose caught the excitement and gave Kenneth a squeeze. What a great afternoon!

Kenneth stood up, clapping Greg on the shoulder. “I told you you should apply to the U! A couple of years, and it could be you on that field!” Greg was dear to Kenneth's heart. Greg grinned back. Kenneth motioned him to follow as he headed for the kitchen. ““C'mon. I think you're old enough to celebrate with a beer!”

Still, on this raucous, high-flying afternoon, Kenneth felt a chill, a dampening of his spirit as his thoughts drifted to James Davis, the first dead soldier. “Have a Grain Belt, my boy!” he said, thrusting an amber bottle at Greg.

6

Sister Mary Evangeline watched as Kacey gathered her sheet music from the choir room. “I'm so pleased you have the lead in the senior play, Kathryn Clare! You'll make a fine Becky Thatcher!”

The music teacher was Kacey's favorite. Mary Evangeline was in her late sixties. Her coif encased a plump, round, wrinkled face, but her smile was quick and endearing.

Kacey blushed with pleasure at the compliment. “Thanks, Sister. Greg'll make a great Tom Sawyer! We're excited about being able to play opposite each other!”

“Oh, I'm sure you are! I suppose you'll have to do plenty of rehearsing together—
after
hours!” the nun teased, scooping up pages of music from her music stand.

“Well, to tell the truth, his singing could take some improvement!”

“Ah, ‘the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.'”

“Something like that!” Kacey said and laughed.

Sister Mary Evangeline sat down behind her desk, motioning Kacey to take a seat. Late-afternoon sun streamed through the oversized windows. The smell of chalk hung in the air. The smile on the nun's face softened slightly as she asked, “Is your head so full of him, Kathryn Clare?”

Kacey was startled by the directness of the question. “I—I'm not sure how to answer that, Sister. I like Greg a lot, but I have lots of other things in my head, too.”

The nun leaned back, folding her hands in front of her on the desk. “Like what?”

Kacey paused. “Oh, things like what I'll do this summer.” Her response sounded feeble, even to herself.

“And beyond this summer?” Silence again. For months, the question had been there, unasked, between them.

“I don't know. I—I just want to have some fun,” came Kacey's slow response.

“Fun? You just want to have
fun
?” Mary Evangeline repeated incredulously. Kacey nodded, her eyes refusing to meet the sister's. “Kathryn Clare, I've known you a good long time. I've watched you grow into a responsible young woman. What can you possibly mean by that statement?”

A flush crept up Kacey's neck. She struggled to answer honestly, knowing that if she did, she'd be giving away the most secret part of herself. “I feel like I'm on a roller coaster, Sister,” she began. “It's hard. Hard at home all these years.”

Mary Evangeline nodded. The difficulties in the Doyle household were known to many in the community.

“I've just dreamed of getting away.”

The nun reached across to lay a fleeting hand on Kacey's arm. “And the roller coaster? Where does that come in?”

Kacey took a deep breath. “There's this kind of nagging thing hanging over me.” Sister Mary Evangeline sat motionless, her eyes riveted now on Kacey's face.

“When I try to see my life, what I should do with it, I think of things like—well, being a tap dancer or something.” The nun's brows rose involuntarily. Kacey continued with slow deliberation. “Ya know, I just want to laugh. To be free. A free spirit.”

“But the roller coaster?”

“Oh, I guess I think the ride's too wild sometimes. Sort of like my life. Every time I get my hopes up, I get slammed down.”

The nun edged closer. “Tell me, Kacey.”

“Well, I don't know if I can explain it. I haven't said it out loud before.” She paused, looking down at her hands. She was embarrassed. “It's like God's nagging at me.”

Sister Mary Evangeline smiled. “Ah, ‘The Hound of Heaven,'” she murmured, and suddenly Kacey remembered the poem.

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him down the arches of the years.

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind;

and in the midst of tears I hid from Him,

and under running laughter.

Tears pooled in Kacey's eyes. “I've waited, waited for it to be my turn.” She struggled for composure now. “But it's like God is always there, trying to send me a way I don't want to go, and I don't even know why!”

The nun reached out to draw the trembling girl to herself. “Oh, Kathryn Clare . . . Kacey . . .” Tears now welled in her own eyes. Even if Kacey could not see her future, Sister Mary Evangeline could.

Becky Thatcher and Tom Sawyer took their final curtain call. They bowed deeply as the school auditorium exploded in applause for the handsome couple. The first on his feet for the standing ovation was Kenneth, with all the Doyles following him. Rose wiped a tear from her cheek. She applauded until her hands tired.

Kacey beamed. Early in the first act, she had spotted her family in the fourth row. She smiled at Greg, who held her hand as they took their bows. She could barely believe the applause was for them. For her.

As they walked off stage, he told her, “Great job! Let's go celebrate!”

“Not by
ourselves
,” she said.

Greg stopped. “Well, sure. By ourselves!”

“Don't be silly, Greg! The whole cast's got to celebrate.”

The angular lines of his face hardened as he ran his fingers through his greased down, red-dyed waves. He knew he wouldn't win tonight.

The partying went on till closing at Destry's Pizza Place. Laughing, singing, teasing. Greg could see Kacey had been right. It was a night to hold on to for as long as possible.

They climbed into Greg's pickup after midnight. The ride to their spot took twenty minutes. The walk from the truck deeper into the woods was familiar, easily managed even in little moonlight.

Spreading out the blanket, he held his hand out to her and gently pulled her down with him. “Oh, Kace,” he murmured as he folded her in his arms. His eyes closed in anticipation.

He immediately felt her resistance. “What?” he asked.

She sat up, her arms hugging her knees. “I don't know. I just don't feel like being here. Doing this.” Dread filled her as she struggled to find the right words. The intense drive she had felt so long to be near him, to touch him, had been slipping away. Play rehearsals had consumed their time and their attention for weeks, but around the corners of her consciousness, she was aware of a distancing within herself.

She could see Greg's face, drawn into a tight frown. “What's wrong with you? You used to like this. You used to like
me
!” He stood up, looking down on her.

“I don't know! I just feel like I'm being smothered!”

“Smothered?” Greg exploded. He dropped back down to his knees, his hands on her shoulders. “Kacey, I'm not trying to smother you! I love you!”

She reached out to stroke his shaggy hair, to cup his chin with her hand. “This just doesn't feel right to me anymore, Greg. I don't know what else to say.”

He took her hand from his face. “I thought you loved me.”

In the shadowy moonlight, she could see the pain in his eyes. She felt it in her own heart. “I
do
love you, but something's going on with me. I don't know what, really, but I just can't see a future for us anymore.” She paused, then whispered, “I'm sorry, so sorry.”

Without speaking, he stood. She rose and, picking up the blanket, followed him as he walked slowly back to the truck. She climbed in beside him. He sat, his hands gripping the steering wheel. His eyes staring into the darkness.