Waiting to Believe Page 6

  Rose shifted slightly in her chair, just enough to see the Zenith TV in the living room. Through the arched doorway, she glimpsed the black-and-white image of Liberace flickering on the screen. Taking another drag, she washed it down with coffee and waited for the party to end.

  Kacey took a bite of the cake she had baked, pleased with the smooth texture. No lumps in her devil’s food. This was not the first time she had made the birthday cake for one of her siblings. Now she watched her mother and judged that it was time to move the party on.

  Joseph helped by sliding off his chair. “C’mon!” he shouted. “Open presents!” The youngest of the Doyle clan, he was still caught up in the magic of childhood. His dark curls bounced as he sprinted across the linoleum toward the living room, spaghetti sauce and cake crumbs spattered across his laughing face.

  Maureen took her place in the middle of the davenport, flanked by wiggling Joseph and timid nine-year-old Bridget. Gerald, one year younger than the birthday girl, sat on his head in an overstuffed chair, his legs stretching up against the back with thirteen-year-old Annie on the arm.

  Maureen reached for the biggest present in the small pile. “Whaddya think it is, Maureen?” Joseph asked in a hushed voice.

  “I think it’s a raincoat,” offered Annie, who delighted in playing the role of spoiler.

  Maureen looked up at her sister with disbelief. “A raincoat? Who’d want a raincoat for a birthday present?”

  Kacey’s anger flashed at her older sister. She knew it was, indeed, a raincoat, and Annie knew it, too. They had seen their dad wrapping it in his study, clumsily trying to fold it into a box that was too small. A last-minute gesture, the coat had been purchased on his way home from work.

  In his own way, Kenneth tried to hold things together, but how was he to know Maureen would have wanted a ukulele, or a baton or walkie-talkies?

  “It’s red!” exclaimed a blushing Maureen, lifting the shiny coat from its box. A momentary pause. Then, “It’s the most beautiful raincoat I’ve ever seen!”

  Annie poked seven-year-old Gerald. “That’s not saying much,” she whispered. Gerald snickered and poked her back, grateful to be included in the joke, even if he didn’t understand.

  But Joseph smiled shyly, “It’s really pretty, Maur—much nicer than a party dress.” All eyes went to Kenneth for his reaction. When he threw back his head in laughter, everyone joined in. Joseph was pleased with himself.

  Rose leaned against one of the built-in bookcases separating the living room and the kitchen. Her coffee cup had been replaced with a glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey over ice. No one had noticed. But now as she lifted the glass to her lips, Kenneth stood up abruptly, hissing at her under his breath, “For God’s sake, Rose! Can’t you wait for once?”

  Without a word, Rose held her glass toward him in a mocking salute. She raised an eyebrow at his glare and smiled. Shaking his head, he sat down and turned his back to his wife, focusing on the birthday girl.

  “Here, Maur, now open mine! You’ll like it!” Joseph insisted as he pushed a small package at her. He was right. A 45 rpm of Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog.” Maureen clapped her hands with pleasure. A set of green and yellow barrettes were from Bridget and from Kacey, there were two tickets to the Majestic Cinema to see The King and I. Annie had picked out a charm bracelet from an array in the glass case at the Ben Franklin. Gerald’s gift had come from Smithson Hardware: a shiny bike horn that emitted a loud honk at the squeeze of its round bulb. He had wanted to get her a pocketknife, but Kenneth had gently dissuaded him.

  Maureen sat amid crumbled wrapping paper, glowing. “Thank you!” she shouted, swooping up an armful of the wrapping paper and sending it flying.

  Kenneth stood up. “Okay, kids! Time for homework and bed.”

  Maureen’s smile faded. “Daddy, please!” She held the vinyl disc imploringly in her hand.

  “Not tonight, Maureen. I want to watch the news now. You can listen all you want tomorrow, but upstairs now.”

  Kacey knew the tone. “C’mon, you guys. You heard Dad!” Playfully, she ran at Gerald, who twisted to avoid her grasp. Rounding up her siblings was like herding cats.

  Rose reached out an unsteady hand, touching Maureen’s sleeve as she ran by. “Happy birthday, honey,” she said softly, but Maureen did not slow her pace as she headed toward the upstairs door.

  Still standing in the archway, Rose stared at the TV, then turned toward the kitchen, empty glass in hand. The party was over.

  Annie had not offered to help clean up, an irritation to Kacey. It was easier to resent her sister than her mother. By the time the dishes were done, Kenneth had disappeared to his study and Rose was asleep on the davenport.

  Kacey’s slender frame cast a pixie shadow against the yellow-flowered wallpaper of the bedroom she and Annie shared. In the glow of the bedside lamp, she undressed quickly. Crawling in next to Annie, she purposefully put her cold feet against Annie’s back, giving her a push. “Move over!” she muttered, still upset by Annie’s behavior at the party. Now Annie stirred, pulling the heavy covers with her. Kacey grabbed them back and burrowed.

  Though Kacey missed Annie, she didn't miss sleeping with her. She had come to the convent for a reason. This is where she belonged, or at least, where she would belong soon. But who will bake the birthday cakes back home?

  13

  The peal of the bell reverberated through the convent. Sonorous. Commanding. The voice of God. Kacey woke instantly from a deep slumber. It was 5:00 a.m. She was ready for this first full day. She threw off her nightgown and slipped into her clothes. Her four roommates were ahead of her. She entered the chapel just as prayers were beginning. “Lord Jesus Christ,” she prayed along with the others, “you came to show us the way to the Father. Help us to walk in the way of integrity, curbing our pride and always keeping our eyes fixed on you.”

  Oh, yes! she thought. Oh, yes!

  Life as a postulant began that day, but it was not the life Kacey had imagined. The routine was unwavering, the monotony almost unbearable. Worst were the hours in the penmanship class taught by the mistress of novices. It was maddening to spend an hour each day practicing handwriting, under the watchful eye of Mother Mary Bernard. Sitting before the stern faced teacher, her fingers tightened on the ball point pen she was holding, her brow wrinkled into a defiant frown. Without looking down, her hand moved quickly, furiously, in wild circles of loops. There! That’s what I think of this nonsense!

  Fall was hot and humid. Kacey’s heavy black skirt and blouse drew in the heat and held it close. She felt damp and prickly.

  September was winding down when the postulants learned they would now begin classes at the convent-affiliated college. Leaving the grounds would be a breath of fresh air, engaging in dialogue about relevant topics, a heaven-sent gift!

  The old blue bus, driven by Sister Mary Helena, lumbered up to the back door three days a week, and Kacey was glad to climb aboard. There were no choices to be made in classes: English, psychology, basic liberal arts. And classes on how to be a nun. Kacey did not object to these. She had not come with an understanding of how to pray. She welcomed instruction on meditation, though no amount of instruction seemed to help. Her prayer life remained a struggle.

  The postulants had only their one hour of recreation time, time in which they could talk with one another. Beyond that, they could speak only three words if they encountered someone in passing: “Praise be Jesus.” It felt like play-acting to Kacey.

  In the midst of many women, Kacey felt immense isolation. Of all the faces she encountered each day, one in particular called to her. Sister Lisa, a postulant from northern Minnesota. Kacey thought she saw something of herself in the easygoing young woman. She was bright. Inquisitive. There was a spark in her eyes. Maybe just a hint of irreverence. Someone is waiting behind those eyes, Kacey thought. I wonder if I’ll ever know who.

 
; Kacey missed physical exercise. Often, when she closed her eyes at night, she thought back to the rough-and-tumble days on the farm. Weeding, hoeing the large vegetable garden. Coaching Joey’s soccer team, cleaning the horse stalls. Playing tennis with Greg. But most of all, she saw herself racing Two Spot across the pasture, trying to catch her dad riding Shaw. She could feel the pounding on her slender body as the little pinto surged, lengthening her stride, her chestnut mane streaming in the wind.

  One evening during their free time, Kacey spotted Mary Adrian sitting alone at the jigsaw puzzle. She sat down opposite her. Adrian looked up, lifting her hand in greeting. “Hi,” she said. “I didn’t know you liked puzzles.”

  Kacey reached across the table to pick up a piece, holding it in her hand as she surveyed the work in progress. Hundreds of cats, all sizes, shapes, and colors. “Well, I’ve never really done them much before. It seems like a daunting task, but I s’pose a person could get into it.”

  “Oh, sure.” Adrian replied. “My family always had a puzzle going when I was a kid.”

  Kacey laid the piece down and picked up a different one. “I can’t really think of many things we did as a family.” She paused. “Well, my dad and I rode horses together pretty often. I liked that.”

  “You had a horse?”

  “Yep. Two Spot. A sweet little pinto, white and chestnut.”

  “I bet you miss her.”

  “I do,” Kacey admitted. She found a home for the piece in her hand and put it in place with a feeling of satisfaction. “I miss almost everything about home.” She stared into space for a moment. “Actually, that kind of surprises me.”

  Adrian looked into Kacey’s eyes but didn’t speak. Kacey took a breath and continued. “I had a lot of freedom. Did pretty much what I wanted to, now that I look back on it. I miss that.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s such a big adjustment,” Adrian agreed. Her hand was roving over the pieces.

  Kacey watched her. “I think the lack of physical exercise is the hardest,” she said and then added, “Well, next to obeying all the orders!”

  World Series time. And I don’t have a clue who’s in it! Only a month had gone by, but Kacey was fully removed from the world she had known. When she had entered Blessed Sacrament, the Minnesota Twins were in third place in their division, only five games out of first. Had they been able to gain ground?

  She was as much a fan now as she was on the day that Major League Baseball arrived in Minnesota. Both eleven-year-old Gerald and nine-year-old Joseph made the trip to Bloomington with classmates and one of the dads to be a part of that historic day. Metropolitan Stadium was overflowing for the season opener.

  Kacey remembered how they bounced through the front door to report on the game. “Hey, Dad!” Gerald yelled as he came upon Kenneth in the living room. “Did you hear the Twins can’t sell beer at the ballpark?”

  Kenneth turned from the newspaper. “Why’s that?”

  Gerald could barely contain his glee. “Because they lost the opener!”

  She thought wistfully of her own trips to Met Stadium with her dad and the boys. And with Greg. So long ago. Her uncle Martin had always sent the Sunday sports page to his son, Patrick, when Patrick was in Korea. Half a world away, but he still knew who was in the World Series.

  Would they let me get the sports page? The thought brought a great sadness. Her homesickness was a gnawing ache made worse each Sunday afternoon when the mail for the postulants was laid out on the library table. Then she experienced a misery she could not admit to anyone. Weeks went by when no letters came for her, while around the table, stacks of letters were snatched up by the others. Never did she see her mother’s handwriting on an envelope or a postcard. At best, she might receive a scribbled note from Maureen or Bridget. Occasionally a brief, formal note from her father.

  Would it ever occur to Dad to send me the sports page? Then, maybe he’s done it, and they won’t let me have it! A maddening thought. All mail was opened and read before it was turned over to the recipients. It was easier to believe her dad’s efforts had been rebuffed by the mistress of novices than to believe he had not made the effort at all.

  Tall, stately, with high cheekbones and chiseled features, Sister Mary Clement stood in front of her class of fifteen postulants on a sunny fall afternoon. Kacey thought her regal but most of all, gentle. She was a thoughtful, humble teacher who commanded attention and respect with her soft-spoken voice and her serenity.

  “Today you embark on what I hope will be a lifelong deliberation of the greatest theological thought ever written. Summa Theologica. Saint Thomas Aquinas.” Her small smile said the nun was relishing the journey about to begin. “He lived and wrote in the Middle Ages—a time when Christianity received its most influential intellect.”

  She crossed to the windows and paused. The sunlight filtering through clouded windows bathed her face in a radiance that transfixed Kacey. “Aquinas modestly considered his writing to be a simple manual of Christian doctrine for the use of students. But in fact, it turned out to be a complete, logically arranged exposition of theology as well as a summary of Christian philosophy.” With a smile, she returned to her desk. “So now, let us begin!” She picked up the well-worn book and held it to her heart.

  Kacey glanced over at Sister Lisa as she took her seat on the blue bus for the ride back to the convent. She wanted to whisper, “Meet me in the bathroom! Let’s talk about Aquinas!” But she did not. She rode in silence, turning her face to the window and blushing as a new thought came to her. Is it really Aquinas I want to talk about, or is it Sister Mary Clement?

  14

  As breakfast ended, Mother Mary Bernard rose to announce the work plans for the sunny, crisp fall morning. “Sister Mary Helena will take you to our community apple orchard this morning.” Kacey’s heart leapt. “The apples are ready, and you will have all morning for picking them. You’ll be given bushel baskets, pickers, and ladders. Be careful as you go about this work. The apple crop is an important part of our life here. We are honored to offer our apples to the mother house, and we are strengthened to do God’s work as we eat them ourselves.”

  Mother Bernard was not done yet. “Apple picking is not recreation. It is a labor for the Lord and should be treated as such. The rule of silence is fully in force during your time in the orchard.” With that, she pushed back her chair and moved swiftly from the room. But even her stern words could not dampen Kacey’s spirit. It was impossible for her to believe God wouldn’t smile at the beauty of a shiny red apple! Out in the sunshine, she would stretch and reach and extend herself with great joy!

  The road leading to the orchard was rutted and bumpy, a challenge for the lumbering old blue bus. Postulants were jostled from one side of their seats to the other, occasionally landing in the aisle. But there were no giggles, only a few small smiles, and those disappeared quickly. But Kacey could not, she would not, hide her delight at the adventure before them. The windows were open, and the fragrance of the waiting apples filled the bus and filled her spirit.

  Finally, Sister Mary Helena gunned the engine, willing it to pull the bus up out of the ruts to rest on the grass. A pickup truck, already there, was loaded with ladders, bushel baskets, and picking bags. Sister Mary Justus stood on the tailgate, ready to dispense the tools to the black-clothed army of pickers.

  Kacey picked up a six-foot step ladder with ease, tucking it under her arm while grabbing a bag and a bushel basket with the other hand. Her bulky skirt made walking cumbersome, but she took big strides, glancing over to see where Adrian and Lisa would be picking. She followed them, positioning herself at a tall, plump tree between the two.

  Climbing to the highest step, Kacey shifted her picking sack into a comfortable position around her neck. Adrian and Lisa were not visible through the foliage.

  “Hey, you two! Wherever you are! I’ll race you! Bet I can pick more apples than you!” s
he whispered loudly. No response. “Aww, c’mon! What’ll it hurt?” Still nothing. Their silence was embarrassing, and Kacey blushed at their rebuff. Chastising herself, she began picking in earnest, determined not to let their silence spoil her enjoyment of the morning. I’ll compete with myself. I’ll set my own goal, and I’ll exceed it! But this wasn’t nearly as satisfying as working against her two friends.

  The sun was high and hot. They had been picking for three hours, and even Kacey was beginning to feel the ache in her arms as she stretched out in pursuit of her prize. The bag around her neck had been emptied many times. The aroma surrounding her was still sweet, but she was tired and cranky, disgusted with herself for being so out of shape. Her neck and head ached from the weight of the bag. There was a time when I’d have swung from limb to limb and barefooted, too!

  The picking stopped, and the postulants carried their baskets to the pickup truck. Kacey cast a casual glance to see how many baskets Adrian and Lisa had. Rats. Too close to call. Walking to the bus, Kacey allowed herself a backward look at Lisa. Did she imagine it, or did the rule-abiding postulant flash her a quick V for “victory” sign? Kacey would never know for sure.

  15

  Looks like a snow sky. Kacey looked out the big north-facing windows in the dining hall. Having silent conversations with herself had become a habit. The hour of talk the postulants were allowed was more a tease to her than a pleasure. Everyone was so guarded. Anything meaningful was off limits.

  She missed the quick give-and-take with her siblings, the rumble of her dad’s voice at the dinner table, his occasional laugh that always took her by surprise. She missed being asked what she thought.