Waiting to Believe (30 page)

The Visitation station wagon pulled up. It was time to go back to Rochester, to Mary Adrian, to Mary Paul, and to Cardinal Spellman.

52

Nineteen Hundred Sixty-Eight. Kacey settled back into her room, checked out the well-being of the Cardinal and the less predictable Mrs. Spellman, and found that all was well.

She was surprised that it felt good to be back in her little closet of a room. She had made efforts to make the space her own with the few dollars available to her. Most of her money went for books, which she kept tucked under T-shirts in a dresser drawer. She wasn't sure why she felt compelled to keep the books hidden, but instinct told her it was wise.

James Michener had published a blockbuster in 1965 that intrigued Kacey:
The Source
. She could not afford a hardcover, but by the winter of '67, she found a used paperback in a Rochester bookstore. Michener recreated the beginning of three major world religions—Islam, Christianity, and Judaism—through artifacts found in an Israeli dig. It was not a textbook, but it opened her to a world she had not studied. She devoured it in the privacy of her room, seeking understanding and answers to questions she had not before thought to ask.

But the most daring of her reading adventures came to her in a book written by a priest, Father James Kavanaugh:
A Modern Priest Looks at His Outdated Church
. She had seen a review in the Minneapolis newspaper. The title startled her. The review made her want to read it. She dared not buy it, but on a day when she felt particularly brave, she asked Sister Mary Nicodemus to go with her to the public library. Mary Nicodemus was elderly but still taught seventh grade. Kacey had very little to do with her, which was why she chose her. There would not be much small talk. She was relieved when Nicodemus agreed, pleased to be invited.

“Let's just meet in half an hour, after we've checked out,” Kacey suggested as they entered the main library.

Kacey hurried to the nonfiction section, immediately finding the Kavanaugh book. She looked both ways, feeling like an undercover agent.

She had already decided she shouldn't check out just the one book. What if Nicodemus asked what it was? She needed a “cover.” She continued through the stacks, glancing at titles. Her search ended in the
H
s when she spotted a slim volume that she knew instantly would be more than a cover:
Markings
by the Swedish diplomat Dag Hammarskjöld. The book was a journal he'd kept for many years and revealed his negotiations with himself and with God. He was a profound man, a political being. He had served as secretary general of the United Nations, but he was also a philosopher and a lover of God.

Kacey opened the book to Hammarskjöld's first entry, a poem titled “Thus It Was.” She read it slowly.

I am being driven forward

into an unknown land.

The pass grows steeper,

the air colder and sharper.

A wind from my unknown goal

stirs the strings

of expectation.

Still the question:

Shall I ever get there?

There where life resounds,

a clear pure note

in the silence.

Yes
, she thought.
That's my question, too. Shall I ever get there?
And then she realized there was an even more profound question:
Where is “there”?

Clasping the book to her chest, she headed to checkout. She looked for Mary Nicodemus, fearing she would step into line right behind her. It was a relief when she saw Nicodemus standing by the door, book in hand.

“Would you like a bag, Sister?” the librarian asked.

“Oh, gee, yes!” A bag! A gift from heaven. She rushed off to meet Nicodemus. Mission accomplished.

She slipped the Kavanaugh book under her mattress and wished she could lock her door each evening when she pulled it out to read. There were moments when “tap, tap” sounded at her door—another sister needing the bathroom. Then she quickly hid the book within the tangles of her blankets.

On the second Sunday after returning to Rochester, Kacey was surprised to find two letters for her on the library table. The first was from Bridget. Now a senior at the University of Minnesota, she did not write often. Kacey understood. They had so little in common now. She tore the envelope and pulled out a single handwritten page:

Hi. I thought you'd want to know that your dearest old high school friend, Sandy Gregory, stopped by to see me the other day.

Sandy Gregory? Kacey didn't know anyone by that name. Bridget must have put the wrong letter in her envelope. Still, she read on.

You know, she graduated from some fancy university in Indiana with a double major in political science and communications.

Kacey was still stumped.
She was passing through Minneapolis on her way to New York. I think you know she and I kind of keep in touch. We'll never be as close as you two were, but I like having her as a friend. Anyway, she got involved with a group called the Catholic Peace Fellowship, which is intent on organizing Catholics to resist the draft and offers counseling to those who consider themselves conscientious objectors. She's very concerned about the draft, if you know what I mean. Has been working against it but finds herself somehow pulled in to it. (Tho that might seem hard to understand . . .) She wanted you to know what she's doing and asked me to tell you that she thinks of you often.

And then it was clear to Kacey. Sandy Gregory. Her dearest high school friend. Greg Saunders. Bridget was giving her news of Greg. She knew any references to an old boyfriend would never pass the censor, so she created a code she knew Kacey would crack.

Kacey's knees felt rubbery. She sank into a chair and read the letter again. “The draft.” What did that mean? That Greg was now in the army? She couldn't conceive of it! Anger rose within her at the censors who prevented her from getting the truth.

Six long years since she had seen him. The image of his face in the car window that last day was as fresh to her as if they had said good-bye yesterday. The pain on his face. She closed her eyes and allowed it all to rise to her consciousness.

What was Bridget telling her? Was she saying Greg still cared, and if he did, Kacey asked herself, did it still matter? He had been so central to her life throughout high school, had been her confidante, her greatest cheerleader, her gentle love.

Did he matter to her anymore? She was unsure of much in her life, but bringing Greg back to the forefront of her thoughts created at least a moment of clarity: he no longer mattered to her. That's what she told herself. Astonished and relieved, she placed the letter back in the envelope and tucked it away in her bottom drawer. Still, Greg in the army . . . Greg in Vietnam? No, it could not be.

Picking up the second letter, she recognized the scrawl of sixteen-year-old Joseph. She could not remember the last time she had heard from him.

Dear Kace.

Here's the deal. I have an assignment for my Communications in Daily Living class to “enter into a meaningful dialogue with another person through letter writing.” I think its pretty stupid, but I'm supposed to ask a question that will make the other person “think deeply” and then reply and then I've gotta write back and on and on. Back and forth. Till we come to an agreement, I guess. Stupid! So anyway, I'm choosing you.

Here's my question: If you were up to your chin in a barrel of snot and someone threw a bucket of puke at you, would you duck? Pretty deep, huh? Think it over carefully and write back. My grade for the semester is gonna depend on you, so don't let me down.

Love, Joe

Kacey clutched the note in her hands, breaking out in laughter. It felt like the old days, a tousle-haired bundle of good cheer tugging at her, asking questions.

But without warning, the laughter choked and turned into sobs. She was, once again, unsure of her place in the world. Her place had been at the farm, in the kitchen with Joey, wiping the dishes and giving him smart alecky responses to his endless questions.

She laid the note down, stepping back from it, as if it were toxic.

53

Four days passed. Bridget's letter was never far from Kacey's mind. By Friday, she knew it was time to respond. At her desk, she took out paper and pen.

Dear Bridget.

Talk about a surprise! I have to admit, I haven't thought of Sandy Gregory for some time, but it was nice to hear about her life. Sounds like she's been following her passion, although it was a little unclear what she's up to right now. I hope all is well with her. Well, I'm following my passion, too, but it doesn't leave room for the kinds of connections she and I had, so what we shared really is ancient history . . .

She paused, reading over her words and trying to see them through Bridget's eyes. And Greg's. Did she say enough? Too much? Did it seem too cold? Most of all, she wondered if she was saying exactly what she meant. She sat motionless for several seconds before picking up her pen again.

I do remember that you two corresponded after you graduated from high school. In fact, Dad told me you were considering an Indiana college. I assumed it was so you could be close to him—

Oops. Kacey crossed out the word
him
with several strokes of her pen and replaced it with
her
. She would have to read the whole letter over carefully when she finished to make certain she had not slipped up anywhere else.

I guess I never said anything about it, but I think it'd be great if you 2 linked up. She's a great person!

She finished with a few stories about her students, then signed it with “lots of love.” There. She'd said it. She meant it. It was done.

Joseph would have to wait for the answer to his question: A barrel of snot over a bucket of puke?

Algebra strands still made no sense to Kacey. She muddled through the math portion each day, watching the clock. It was a relief when she could close the book and call out, “Okay, enough math for today. Let's turn our attention to art!”

She enjoyed working with the children, loving the intensity of their efforts as they began using a variety of methods and materials to create their own little masterpieces. Debbie Bergquist showed a fine sense of color and proportion, but Kacey's fellow Twins fan, Steven McLeod, sat with a blank look on his face each time a new art project was introduced. Her heart went out to him.

Today, after a few moments of inactivity, he stood up and began to walk slowly toward the door. “Steven,” Kacey called out, “come here, please.” He stopped in his tracks, then turned back toward her desk. She spoke softly to the youngster. “Don't bug out on me, Steven. You can do this!”

The bewildered eleven-year-old looked at his teacher. “‘Bug out' on you? What's that mean?”

Kacey was taken aback until she realized that she was still stuck in the slang of her high school years. She had endured six years of virtual silence since then, and now that she could speak again, she was out of sync. Steven, and all her students, had been toddlers when she and her friends talked of “bugging out,” “flipping their wigs,” or “having a cow.”

Kacey smiled at Steven. “Oh, it's just a silly expression from when I was a teenager! It means, ‘don't leave.' I was trying to encourage you to stay with it.”

With a look of mild frustration, Steven said, “Well, it doesn't make much sense to me.”

“Nope. I guess you're right. It doesn't make much sense to me anymore, either. But here's a deal for you. Why don't you skip the assignment and just draw me a series of
bugs
? I know you can do it!”

He gave her a shy smile, returned to his seat, and picked up his pencil.

The social studies curriculum also turned out to be a favorite for Kacey. Teaching her class about the privileges and duties of citizenship and the principal of equal rights for all seemed a sacred task to her. She was teaching something very important to these bright, open minds. Nineteen-sixty-eight would be a pivotal year for the United States. An election year. She was determined to bring her students along in their understanding of the process and the consequences of the results.