Till Death

by William X. Kienzle

  It was hectic trying to stay ahead of the textbooks and at the same time enforce necessary discipline on the kids. It was demanding. But when the occasional undemanding moment occurred, Sister Perpetua was conscious that something was wrong.

  She was lonely. She hadn’t expected that. After all, she was living with eleven other women. How could anyone be lonely in such a sizable group?

  She hadn’t counted on being in a semicontemplative order. As a pupil, she had been accustomed to the Theresians talking in the classroom. Sometimes they had even shouted.

  But since she hadn’t asked any questions, she’d never realized that Theresians had permission only rarely to speak when in the convent. Aside from a half-hour recreation period after supper and on Sunday afternoons, the Sisters needed permission from Mother Superior to speak to anyone, even each other.

  So there she was, still a young girl actually, in an alien situation. She felt so all alone, with no one to talk it over with but Mother Superior, who didn’t wish to be bothered.

  Sister Perpetua wanted to run. Just get up of a morning and, instead of going to chapel for meditation and morning prayers, somehow get a car and drive away. Anywhere, as long as it was away from this dead silent convent with its elderly, silent nuns.

  But she couldn’t do that. At least she didn’t think she could.

  One early morning she felt she had no alternative; the choice was escape or suicide. She went to meditation and morning prayer with the intention of splitting immediately afterward. On the way to chapel, she pocketed the key to the nuns’ only car.

  But the theme of this morning’s meditation was from Luke’s gospel. Mother Superior read the text: “Yet another said to him, ‘I will be your follower, Lord, but first let me take leave of my people at home.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Whoever puts his hand to the plow but keeps looking back is unfit for the reign of God.’”

  This text struck Sister Perpetua as if it were a personal revelation.

  She had put her hand to the plow when she entered the convent. To look back to her life as it had been, to take the plow in hand and then leave it—for whatever reason—was to make oneself unfit for the reign of God.

  Stealthily, after morning prayer, she returned the car key to its hook. She then followed the other nuns in the short walk to St. Ursula’s church for Mass.

  There was only one other reason that argued against her leaving the religious life: Such a departure would, especially in her family’s neighborhood, be a disgrace. She and her mother would be the target of gossip and shame. Her father, inasmuch as he was able, had opposed her entering the convent. If she were to return home now, he would not badger her. But his silent “I told you so” would be manifest and unequivocal.

  Even so, she could have pulled it off if it had not been for what she considered to be the will of God. The will of God through Sacred Scripture in the place of prayer.

  All of that could not have been a mere coincidence.

  So she continued to go forward, one foot ahead of the other, finding some form of fulfillment in the children she taught.

  Then she began to take notice of the young assistant, Father Anderson. He was in his fourth year at St. Ursula’s. The rest of this year plus all of the next and he would have served his hitch.

  At a time when there was considerable experimentation in Liturgy elsewhere, Mass was strictly kosher at St. Ursula’s. It wouldn’t be otherwise given its pastor. Nonetheless Father Anderson made his performance come alive. He had good presence. And his sermons were captivating, relevant, and sprinkled with humor. After a few of these—just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke and that his homilies were always good—Sister Perpetua began to smile.

  It did not take the other nuns long to notice. If Sister Perpetua had thought life was closing in on her before, she could have had no concept as to what would happen when her Sisters began to ratchet up their contempt for her frivolous behavior.

  She simply stiffened her resolution. She would not disgrace her mother. She would not allow her father to win. Mainly, she would not take her hand from the plow. But she had to turn to someone. Otherwise she would implode from all the external pressure.

  Who else but Father Anderson?

  The revised Code of Canon Law had been published a year ago. But even in the old 1918 Code, with its call for “regular confessors” for nuns (regular in the sense of an assigned priest to hear nuns’ confessions every week), even then nuns could select any priest they wished as their confessor. And no one could say them nay.

  So Sister Perpetua began going to confession to Father Anderson.

  Of course St. Ursula’s confessionals were yesterday’s model with three compartments: the center cubicle for the priest and one on either side for penitents. Even when the sliding panel was opened, a grating and a curtain still separated confessor and penitent.

  There’d be no fooling around with a confessional room and communication face-to-face. Not while Father Angelico was at the helm. If the guarantee of anonymity was good enough for the past few centuries, it would survive the next millennium.

  Even with the barrier of door, grate, and cloth, it was sometimes impossible for the priest to recognize the identity of the penitent. If not by name at least from the routine sameness of the style of speech. There was the woman, for instance, who always added the phrase “more or less,” as in “I ate meat on Friday four times, more or less.” And, yes, the inevitable would happen from time to time—as in, “I missed Mass once, more or less.”

  It did not take Father Anderson long to recognize that one of his penitents was a nun—and, in short order after that, that the nun was Sister Perpetua.

  What gave her away initially was what Anderson liked to call the “eau de nun.” It made sense, since every nun wore the same sort of clothing (differing only in size), that the same detergent be used for all laundering. So every nun, at least in this school, smelled exactly like every other nun.

  But there was more.

  Twined about her cincture was the rosary. Not the beads of the five decade rosary many Catholics carried and some actually used. The nuns wore the full fifteen-decade variety with large beads. If not for the beads, nuns would have been completely noiseless when they walked. However, with the beads hanging loosely from the cincture, nuns clicked when they walked. They also clicked in the confessional when they fidgeted about trying to find a comfortable spot on which to kneel.

  There was still more.

  Nuns confessed things practically no one else ever mentioned. As when one would confess anger with her children. Just out of curiosity the priest might ask how many children she had. And she would answer, “Sixty.” It may be possible that only a nun ever confessed failing in “promptitude”—meaning she had been late for one or another ritual function.

  Put these all together in the dark recesses of the confessional and you have a nun-penitent.

  One further deduction on the part of Father Anderson—that no other nun assigned to St. Ursula’s would think of using Father Anderson—led to the conclusion that this had to be Sister Perpetua.

  At first her confessions were run-of-the-mill: impatience with the children; resentment toward some other nun—or all of them; inattentiveness during prayer; and, of course, the ever-popular failure in promptitude.

  Gradually, her reserve broke down. She announced that she wanted him as her spiritual director. He consented. This created an entirely different plateau in their relationship. She was no longer confessing sins—or rather, peccadilloes. Now she was consulting him on the level of her spirituality. He should be steering her on a path that would mark progress in her spiritual life. She should confide in him with deepening trust.

  This new plateau further dampened what had been no more than a unilateral platonic affair, alive only in his fantasy life.

  To date, her only contribution to their relationship had been a smile. Not much to fuel a genuine love affair. Her participation in this relationship might or might not
be active. He had no way of knowing.

  His fantasies were extremely entertaining. But now they had to be put on a back burner.

  As for her spiritual life, after some initial progress, things had bogged down. The crucial question became whether or not to remain in her present position.

  They talked about it regularly—interminably.

  It was her life, the only mortal life she would have. Was she throwing it away on mindless rules and regulations? She was still a young woman. She could have children of her own. But if she stayed put, years would pile up to the point that she would have dried up and her children would not be.

  The argument for leaving was compelling.

  And Father Anderson was growing more convinced from each session with her that she should, indeed, put an end to this struggle and go. He was not of a mind to vacillate with no hope of a resolution. A favorite incident he’d witnessed involved a gentleman, one Ferris Fain by name, who had played first base for the Detroit Tigers. An opposition batter bunted. The second baseman ran to cover first, resulting in a collision. The two players shouted at each other, argued with each other and cursed each other—until Fearless Ferris Fain hauled off and decked the runner. Fain had become weary of “all the jawin’” and determined to end it. And so he did.

  Fain was one of Anderson’s heroes; he and the first baseman were both men of action.

  Perhaps it was because Perpetua was playing devil’s advocate. The harder Anderson pressed his argument for leaving, the more she dug in her heels. Inevitably their sessions took on a sameness.

  There was no question that their get-togethers had to be beyond suspicion. In the confessional, out walking openly, rarely in the convent’s parlor, it really didn’t much matter: The mere fact that each was young, of the opposite sex, and evidently interested in the other was enough to fuel evening and Sunday afternoon gab sessions.

  Then something happened that redirected the attention of the faculty. The pastor and Mother Superior decided that the school needed a kindergarten and therefore an additional teacher. The ongoing census indicated a bumper crop of preschoolers coming of age. Their parents pressed for adding a kindergarten to serve them.

  Compared with other teaching orders, the Theresians were fairly well stocked with nuns; nevertheless, the supply was not inexhaustible. Even Father Angelico had to pull in his horns every now and again when confronted with a strong and determined Mother General.

  The request for an additional nun was denied. Soror locuta est. Sister has spoken. Case closed.

  As a result—and much to the interest of the faculty—instructors qualified to teach primary grades were now being interviewed. That took a lot of heat off Sister Perpetua and Father Anderson. She was obsessed with the question of whether to stay in or bug out of religious life. He was busy trying to counsel her while wrapping up the loose ends of his stay at St. Ursula’s. Though only his first assignment, this surely had been an education.

  Eventually—with indifference on the part of Perpetua and Anderson and great curiosity on the part of the rest of the faculty—a young woman named Lillian Niedermier was hired to teach the second grade.

  Finally, it was time for Father Anderson to leave St. Ursula’s.

  It was the custom in almost every parish to host a send-off for the departing clergyman. The purpose of such an event was to elicit donations that would speed the recipient on his way and soften the blow of moving. In some parishes this collection was called a purse.

  Associated with this procedure was the following probably apocryphal story.

  It involved a pastor and his assistant who got along with each other much as did Angelico and Anderson. Actually, the two were at the point where if one more straw were to fall the relationship would self destruct.

  The sanctuary of this particular church was the traditional type with the high altar near the rear wall. The tabernacle held the consecrated wafers for Communion, as well as the single large wafer used for the Benediction service. This tabernacle could be opened from the front or the rear. The rear opening afforded access when there was an emergency sick call while services were being conducted—thus obviating the disturbance or interruption of the service.

  One Sunday evening the pastor was concluding Benediction service. At the end, in dramatic fashion, all the church lights, except the spotlight on the tabernacle, were dimmed. The congregation was singing, “Good Night, Sweet Jesus” as the pastor opened the tabernacle to repose the Blessed Sacrament. At this very moment, the assistant was at the rear door preparing for a sick call.

  So there they were: the congregation singing, “Good Night, Sweet Jesus,” the pastor and his assistant looking at each other through the open tabernacle.

  The assistant said, “Good night, Joe.”

  Shortly thereafter, the assistant was assigned to another parish. As he left the rectory, carrying his few earthly possessions, he said to his now former pastor, “So long, Joe. And, Joe: No purse.”

  Father Anderson did not get a similar bum’s rush. His time had been paid in full. The only striking similarity was in the farewell collection: There was none.

  In baseball, the on-deck batter swings either several bats or a special weighted bat. The extra load makes the single bat to be used at the plate seem light as a feather by comparison. In parochial assignments, serving under a Father Angelico made almost any subsequent parish seem like a little bit of heaven.

  So it was with Father Anderson. His next parish after St. Ursula’s was Nativity. In location and congregation it was not unlike St. Ursula’s. The difference was in the pastor. Though of the same vintage as Angelico, he did not look over his assistant’s shoulder. Anderson was given certain responsibilities and was left to his own devices as to how to respond to them.

  Anderson appreciated being treated as an adult. However, this newfound freedom would grow into what some might describe as a mixed blessing at best.

  Back at St. Ursula’s, Father Angelico expectantly awaited his next assistant. His patience was not at all resilient. In less than a month he began contacting the chancery about a replacement for Anderson. He drew a grimly bleak if realistic picture of a large parish being served by a single priest.

  As it turned out, Angelico simply lived in an unfortunate time frame.

  When he had served his apprenticeship as an assistant there were many priests to staff many parishes. A change in assignment required nothing more than a letter beginning with the words: “Dear Father So-and-So: For the care of souls I have it in mind to send you to …” And there followed the name of one’s next assignment where one would work for no more than the next five years.

  Times had changed drastically. In a word, there just simply were not enough priests to go around. And assignments were no longer made by letter; now the transferee had an active voice in the circumstances of his own future. In this seller’s market, the first to be shunned were despots like Father Angelico. The irascible tyrant importuned the chancery people via mail and phone, until, worn down by the onslaught, they had to respond.

  The task of informing the irate pastor on the present way of life fell to a young priest—low man on the hierarchical totem pole.

  After stating the simple truth that St. Ursula’s was not going to get a replacement for Father Anderson, the young cleric responded to Father Angelico’s, “Why not!?”

  “Because,” the fledgling priest replied, “no one will serve with you.”

  Angelico seethed, fussed, and fumed. It didn’t matter whether a priest wanted to come live with this pastor: Send him!

  In fending off all these objections, the chancery official held the trump card: the factual truth—no one would serve with the cantankerous old pastor.

  Five

  Meanwhile, a vacuum had been created in the spiritual life of Sister Perpetua.

  Her spiritual director was gone. Not irretrievably—she and he still shared the same city. Yet, to try to maintain their relationship would complicate things. Th
e city’s bus service left much to be desired. Twelve nuns shared the one car allotted to St. Ursula’s convent. Jerry Anderson had a car, of course. But it was unrealistic to expect him to visit her. He had more than enough to do acquainting himself with his new parish.

  It was June. The traditional time for graduation celebrations and, of course, June brides. Both sorts of events saw the return of Father Rick Casserly. Even after all these years, he was still called upon occasionally to witness a marriage at his former parish. He also agreed to attend St. Ursula’s high school graduation.

  Feeling the loss of Father Anderson, Sister Perpetua’s attention turned to Father Casserly. Given a choice between Casserly and Anderson—all other things being equal—Perpetua would have chosen Father Rick for her director.

  In the cold light of reality, Anderson had been no more than a convenience: He had been handy when she felt the need of spiritual direction. Now that Anderson had departed he was no more handy than Casserly—who would have been her first choice had that been convenient.

  She phoned Father Casserly and explained the situation. The main problem, if he accepted her plea, would be transportation. But before any concern about how to get from here to there, Casserly would have to agree to become her director.

  He was well aware that his primary responsibility was to his present parishioners. Of course one neither could nor should cull nonparishioners out of the confessional line nor screen phone calls. But taking on an individual for a relationship as sensitive as personal spiritual direction could develop into a time-consuming task.

  Casserly had lived through a similar misery during his days at St. Ursula’s. Perhaps, on second thought, not so similar; there he’d had to deal merely with the pastor. Perpetua answered not only to the pastor but much more nitpickingly to the Mother Superior, plus ten other equally dissatisfied nuns.