Waiting to Believe Page 9

  20

  The summer of ’63 was hot and dry. Stifled by the routine of her life, Kacey found little pleasure in it. Most of all, she missed the stimulation of literature classes, the excitement of drama class. Now she was steeped in the search for deeper knowledge of the Fathers of the Church, the seven sacraments of the Church, the corporal and the spiritual works of mercy. The novices were plunged into the canonical year of preparation toward final vows.

  It was true. The canonical year was a year of testing. Testing the resolve. Testing the endurance of the novice. It was not surprising that she felt more comfortable, more at home, in her understanding of the corporal works of mercy than the spiritual: Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, visit the imprisoned. These made up the framework of her value system.

  It was the spiritual works of mercy that continued to plague her: Counsel the doubtful, instruct the ignorant, admonish sinners. That she should assume such a lofty posture seemed arrogant to her. Who was she to attempt to counsel the doubtful when she, herself, was so often doubtful? Admonish the sinners? In spite of all the instruction she was receiving, it was still not clear to her what actually constituted sin. Or who would be considered a sinner.

  As she immersed herself in this year of intense religious study, she felt no closer to understanding sins and sinners than she had as a high school girl considering the religious life.

  Now she undertook her own storming against the gates of heaven. With an urgent heart, each night after lights out, she prayed the Memorare.

  Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help, or sought your intercession was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I fly to you, O virgin of virgins, my Mother. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in your mercy, hear and answer me . . .

  At these last words, Kacey added her question: What is sin?

  21

  The drone of Sister Mary Veronica’s voice was putting Kacey to sleep. It was that after-lunch hour when the rich split pea soup and the heavy rye bread settled in her stomach and triggered a nodding off. On this day, the subject of Sister Veronica’s lecture was the second-century martyr Cecilia. She was the patron saint of music, and this day, November 22, was her saint day. Veronica paused. “The gift of music should never be overlooked. Each day we should sing to God in our hearts!”

  She was raising her arms in exuberance when the door flew open and Mother Mary Bernard burst in, her face white and pained. The students sat up in alarm, straining to catch a word of her whispered message. Sister Veronica’s hands flew to her mouth, in disbelief and horror. The mistress of novices whispered another word, then turned and left the room without a glance at the students.

  A pale Mary Veronica reached down to steady herself against her desk before clearing her throat. “President Kennedy has just been shot.” A gasp rippled throughout the room. “It’s not known if he has survived.” Now a moan. The nun dropped her head. She murmured softly, “All classes are dismissed. The bus will take you back to the convent.” The class sat motionless. Mary Veronica took a step closer to her students. “Pray for him. For us all. Now, go. Go!”

  Winter attacked with fury after the president’s assassination, as if the heavens themselves railed. The convent felt colder, damper. Kacey could not get warm. Her hands ached with the chill.

  And now, it was Christmas. Preparations began early in the morning for their Christmas dinner. Kacey and Lisa were assigned the chicken detail: a surprise because she always feared their friendship would become visible, which would mean immediate separation.

  Pulling feathers from the rubbery dead bird lying on the table before her, she whispered, “I look for small blessings where I can find them. At least I didn’t have to wring his poor little neck!” The task was repulsive. Her upper lip curled in disgust.

  Lisa smiled at her friend. “That’s what they’re put on earth for, Kace. To feed our hunger! This’ll be the best meal we’ve had in months.” She pushed aside the plucked chicken she had finished and reached for another. It would take many chickens to feed all the sisters.

  Kacey moved on to her next chicken, involuntarily shuddering as she touched it. “I wish we could wear rubber gloves.”

  “It’s not like you have to concentrate on it. Think about something else!”

  And so Kacey allowed herself to be swept back to Christmas dinner at home. It was an easy journey. Her father presided over every aspect of the meal, preparing it lovingly as a tribute to his Irish heritage. Kacey served as his sous chef.

  The dinner festivities would begin with a glass of mead, the traditional Irish drink of celebration, made with honey, lemon, pale ale, yeast, sugar, and water. It was a week in the making. Kacey saw them all gathered around the kitchen counter as Kenneth poured out the small glasses for everyone, with more water than wine for the younger children.

  Kacey remembered the laughter as she followed her father from glass to glass, dropping two raisins in every serving, the final step in the elaborate ceremony. “Sláinte agus saol agat—health and long life to you!” he would declare, holding his own glass high in salute. In that moment, his eyes always went to his wild Irish Rose, standing by his side, and she raised her glass to him, a faint smile on her lips, a filmy look of love in her eyes. “Sláinte.”

  And then the meal began as they took their places at the table. First, nettle broth from a County Tipperary recipe of his mother’s. Then colcannon made of red potatoes and cabbage, both harvested from their own garden. The subtle aroma of the potatoes, the boiling milk, and butter wafting up as he stirred the creamy mixture.

  A brimming bowl of baked onions. Another of carrot and parsnip mash, under a thick slather of butter. Irish soda bread and a garden salad with Shanagarry cream dressing.

  And finally, Kenneth, his cheeks flushed, put the family platter, handed down from generation to generation, in front of his place at the table. It held a twenty-pound roast turkey with chestnut stuffing. A look of great satisfaction spread across his face as he carved thick slices, laying them on the plates offered him, one by one.

  Later came the traditional desserts: plum pudding and the sinfully rich Irish sherry trifle. The trifle was so desired that when Kacey turned thirteen, her father assigned her the task of hiding it the night before so no one would dip into it ahead of time. Kacey could hear her grandmother Doyle’s lilting voice, “If you’re going to make it, then don’t spare the sherry, and if you’re going to use cooking sherry, don’t bother to make it at all!”

  For all the chaos of day-to-day life in the Doyle household, Kenneth’s Irish Christmas dinner was always perfection.

  But now, Kacey’s attention was jolted back to the task at hand. “At the rate you’re going, we won’t have enough chickens ready until Epiphany!” snapped Sister Mary Anthony, hands on her hips.

  “Oh, you startled me!” Kacey responded without thinking.

  “And you disappoint me,” came the reply. “Where do you go when you drift away like this?” The tone was a shade gentler.

  “I’m sorry, Sister. I—” Kacey paused. What could she say that would make sense to this woman whose entire world had been within these walls for fifty years? Finally, “I was thinking of Christmas,” she whispered.

  22

  Kacey burst through the kitchen door. “I smell spring!” Seated at a table covered with packets of Northrup King seeds were Sister Mary Adrian, Sister Mary Andrew, and Mother Mary Bernard. All three turned toward Kacey, eyes wide in astonishment.

  Mother Mary Bernard rose in one swift movement. “Sister Mary Laurence! I cannot believe this outburst!”

  Kacey froze, her head dropped in shame. The old nun had only begun. “How long have you been with us now? Almost two years, and still you behave as if you were a free-spirited teenager! Is there no reverence in you?”


  Kacey clenched her fists inside the folds of her habit. She could not lift her head to meet the riveting glare of her superior.

  “Look at me when I speak to you, Sister! Answer this one question: Is it not possible for you to be obedient?”

  “Mother Mary Bernard, I am most sincerely sorry for my actions! I don’t know what came over me. I beg forgiveness.”

  “You did not answer my question. Is it not possible for you to be obedient?”

  Kacey whispered in a hoarse voice, “It is possible, Mother. I will be obedient.” But even as she spoke, the sweet scent of spring was filling Kacey’s senses.

  Indeed, spring arrived in a splash of glory that year of 1964. And once again, the crocuses and hyacinth, the tulips on parade along the back sidewalk, all greeted the sisters with bursts of life that defied the stark interior of the convent.

  A light rain had fallen off and on throughout the night, and the ensuing humidity sucked the energy from Kacey as she entered the library Sunday afternoon. She joined the others in searching through the stacks of mail lying on the table, though more often than not, she would find nothing from her family—a fact that both saddened and embarrassed her.

  But this day, she recognized the backward slant on an envelope. She reached for it eagerly and hurried to her room to read it in private.

  Dear Kacey,

  Ha! I’ll bet this is one big surprise! You probably thought you’d never hear from me, but here I am. Well, I do think of you, even if I never write. If it’s any comfort to you, I never write home, either. College life is pretty demanding, but I’m having the time of my life. I’ve finally settled on an English major, tho I have no idea what I’ll do with it. I love being so near Chicago and have gotten comfortable making my way around the big city. Truth be told, I’ve got some pretty good help in the form of a handsome hunk named Dean Knutson. (Knutson! Can you believe it—he’s Norwegian! And a Lutheran! Which is worse??) He’s a year ahead of me, and we’re spending a lot of time together. As in A LOT.

  So, things are great with me. I’ve never been happier. Hope that’s true for you, too. When will you be done with all this in-house training stuff and get out in the real world doing your good deeds?

  Love, Annie

  PS. Keep this news under your veil!!! Dad would have a conniption fit! Maybe Mom, too.

  PSS. I hear Bridget’s writing to Greg at Notre Dame. What’s that all about?

  Kacey read the letter once, quickly. More slowly a second time. Then she skimmed it, with phrases leaping out at her: “the time of my life,” “never happier,” “When will you get out in the real world,” “Greg.”

  Her breathing was tight. It was all unsettling. She closed her eyes.

  She did not envy Annie’s chosen life, and yet, in it was something that made her own life, by comparison, ring untrue. Or lacking. Something was missing, truth be told.

  Kacey’s eyes sought out Sister Mary Adrian as the novices filed from the chapel after vespers. Covering her mouth with her hand, Kacey whispered, “Don’t let them rope you into Monopoly! Let’s play whist with John and Angelica!” She had almost slipped and called Lisa by her given name instead of John. It was tough keeping their friendship as secret as she must, even with the other novices.

  She dropped her hand quickly and continued to move forward, but from out of nowhere, Mother Mary Bernard was upon her.

  “You couldn’t wait five minutes, Sister Laurence? You couldn’t keep the silence until recreation?” Mother Mary grasped Kacey’s arm and pulled her from the group. The old nun’s fingers were strong, pinching Kacey’s flesh through the heavy layers of her habit.

  Mary Bernard did not expect, nor did she receive, an answer. Just another heartfelt apology. Bernard shook her head with exasperation. “Since you have so much energy this evening,” she said, “I believe we should put it to good use. You will forego recreation and will scrub the kitchen and dining room floors. And I mean scour! I want those floors to sparkle!”

  “Yes, Mother Mary,” Kacey said in a feeble voice, turning to leave.

  “And when you’ve finished there,” Mary Bernard was not done with her, “I think you’ll still have time to do the chapel floor as well.” Kacey’s head jerked up in disbelief. She wanted to protest. Her mouth opened, but the flinty old nun was waiting to see if Kacey would add to her misdemeanors by resisting.

  Kacey understood the dynamic. She would not give in to it. “Yes, Mother Mary. Right away, Mother Mary.” She looked directly into her superior’s eyes.

  I don’t even like whist that much. Why can’t I just accept things the way they are? It was in her heart to be obedient. She found no pleasure in annoying and angering her superiors, and yet it kept happening.

  The rhythmic scrubbing in the echoing chapel brought back vivid memories of when her father had first bought the farm. They were still living in the tiny rental near Minnehaha Creek, and the hour-long drive out from the city was repeated, day after day, throughout the summer as the Doyle family worked to make the house habitable. Drains were plugged, pipes leaked, faucets dripped. Kenneth had used vacation time to organize the work. He took on the plumbing problems, one by one. Each success brought a smile of satisfaction to Kenneth’s weary face.

  Rose begrudgingly plunged her hands into the steaming bucket of Murphy’s oil soap and water, scrubbing the hardwood floors on her hands and knees. Maureen stood before a grimy, streaked window, wiping it in big, circular motions with crumbled newspaper. Bridget was outside on a shaky stepstool, trying to mirror her sister’s sweeping motions. “Quit playing games!” Rose screamed. “This is no picnic! Just get the damn job done!” Maureen and Bridget sobered and leaned into the task.

  Kacey had watched it all from above. She was secretly pleased with her job of painting the exterior as high up as she could reach from the six-foot ladder. A gallon of Sears Best white paint hung from a hook on the top wrung. She dipped her brush into the pail and slathered the smooth, shiny paint across the thirsty, weathered boards.

  Annie was assigned the more delicate work of painting the trim. There had been no discussion of color. Kenneth said it would be black.

  The boys were given “field” work. Joseph pulled his Radio Flyer wagon across the expanse that would be their yard, picking up rocks and branches in the undisturbed tangle of grass and weeds.

  Remnants of a distant past were also unearthed: A rusted John Deere tractor seat, a Studebaker hubcap, two hand scythes with chipped blades and broken handles—all these lay hidden in the tall overgrowth, making the task an adventure.

  Finally, the house stood ready. Weeks of backbreaking work had brought them to the moment when the moving van pulled up and the parade of furniture wound its way into the nine empty rooms. The children were still quarrelling over who would get which room as the furniture went up the narrow stairway to the second floor.

  Rose stood in the middle of the living room, trying to stay one step ahead of the movers. Kenneth came to her, putting an arm loosely around her shoulders. “It’s a little overwhelming, isn’t it, Rosie?”

  She looked up at him and nodded, leaning her head for just a moment against his chest. “It is,” she agreed. Then, “Why don’t we stop long enough to have a drink? It would help settle my nerves.”

  Kenneth smiled. “I think I just saw the glassware go past,” he replied, “and we can always lay our hands on a bottle of Jameson.” They turned and headed for the kitchen.

  The voices of her parents were so clear in Kacey’s mind, she felt they were in the chapel with her.

  Kacey was still stiff from her hours of scrubbing but she decided to go down for the rec hour the next night anyway. She found Lisa alone, playing Solitaire. “Ten on your red jack.” Kacey nudged Lisa ever so slightly with her hip as she leaned over her friend from behind.

  Lisa gave her a playful frown. “In my family, anyone k
ibitzing was banished from the room! Sit down. Let’s play gin rummy.”

  Kacey slid into the chair opposite Lisa. “No, I’ll just watch. What’s new? I feel like I haven’t seen you in days!”

  “I know.” Lisa played the black ten on the red jack. “I’ve been in M. B.’s doghouse since I burned a hole in her wimple with the new iron. How in the world did I get assigned to ironing? Is that my greatest skill?”

  “Evidently not.” Kacey reached out and made a play on Lisa’s stack of cards. Lisa slapped at Kacey’s hand and then looked around to make certain the interaction had not been seen.

  She shuffled the deck, a serious look on her face. “But to answer your question, I don’t know what’s going on with me, other than lately I’m having trouble believing I’ll ever fit it.”

  “Now you sound like me!” Kacey watched as Lisa laid out a new game. Lisa did not respond. “Well, what’s going on?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about Dan. I thought I was through with all that stuff, but last night I even let him into my bed—in my dream, of course! Do you think spring fever is penetrating the thick walls of this convent?”

  Kacey was taken aback. “Into your bed? Did you actually do that before?”

  Lisa did not look up from her game. “Oh, sure. Not ashamed of it, either. It seemed perfectly natural to me. We make love because it feels good. So what?” She saw the wide-eyed look on Kacey’s face. “Didn’t you?”

  “No!” Kacey blurted out. “No, we didn’t! Greg and I came close, but we always stopped just short. Well, I always stopped us.”