by Sandra Bloom
Instead, she turned on the iron and reached for the first habit. As she did, her gaze fell to the newspapers on the floor. The date on a front page to the left of her foot read November 10. A small headline announced, “War Protester Immolates Himself.” She dropped to her knees and read the story.
A Catholic Worker Movement member, Roger LaPorte, of New York, set himself on fire in front of the United Nations building yesterday to protest US involvement in the Vietnam War. LaPorte, age 22, died at the scene . . .
Kacey groaned. This was the second immolation in less than a week, the story went on to tell her. A Quaker, Norman Morrison, had also set himself on fire in front of the Pentagon to protest the war.
She thought of Greg. No, that would not be his way. He would march, he would agitate, but he would not take his life.
Did she actually know that for a fact? Did she even know him anymore? Wearily, she raised herself from the floor and laid the iron on the black habit before her.
Kacey held the needle awkwardly between her thumb and index finger. She had caught the hem of her habit on the heel of her clodhopper. She sat alone at an empty table in the rec room, the bulky habit with its three-inch rip stretched across her lap. There it was yet again, Lefty Frizzell’s “Mom and Dad’s Waltz” coming over the tinny phonograph. After three years, she was more than tired of it. She sighed, plunging the needle through the thick fabric. Immediately, her left hand jerked up, a bead of blood spurting from the pad of her middle finger. “Shit!” she exclaimed.
“Stuck yourself, huh?” came the voice with a hint of laughter in it. Kacey sucked on the wound, glancing up at Lisa, who was holding a deck of cards and a cribbage board.
“I did. But worse than that, I swore,” Kacey admitted.
“So I heard! But don’t worry, no one else did.” She sat down at the table and shuffled the cards. “Wanna play?”
“No, I’ve got to finish this, and then I should study. I’ve got an exam in Research Methodology this week. Not exactly my strongest class.”
Lisa pushed the cribbage board aside and laid out a game of solitaire. “Why’d you take that class, anyway?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It seemed like a good basic class to have. Especially when I have no idea what I’m going to do after I graduate.”
“Whaddya mean? You’ll be teaching something!” She turned over the ace of spades and laid it above her seven piles.
“Well, sure, I s’pose so. I’m afraid they’re gonna rope me into drama.” She paused. “I’m not always sure I want to teach at all. It’s just a struggle.”
“What is?”
“Oh, trying to hang onto my reasons for entering in the first place. Sometimes I can’t even remember what they were!”
“Aw, c’mon. You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do. I know I wasn’t thinking of teaching drama as my contribution to the betterment of the world!”
Kacey set the torn habit aside to reach over and scoop up the deck. “Didn’t mean to spoil your game.” She began absently to shuffle the cards.
Lisa took them from her and looked around to make certain no one overheard them. She was silent for a moment and then, “You told me once that this is just boot camp. Something we’ve got to slog through to get to the real stuff.” Kacey gave a slow nod. Lisa laid out a new game and whispered, “This isn’t the first time you’ve had doubts, Kace, and it won’t be the last, but you’ll get there.”
Kacey’s gaze met her friend’s. “Black six on your red seven,” she said.
38
Rose and Kenneth sat opposite one another at the kitchen table, drinking their morning coffee, he reading the newspaper, she thumbing through a worn cookbook. “I’m going to make shepherd’s pie for supper,” she announced.
Kenneth smiled at his wife. “Sounds good.” Laying down the paper, he slipped into his suit jacket and reached for his overcoat. “Should I bring something home for a backup?”
“Kenneth!” she slapped at his sleeve. Shrugging into his cashmere coat, he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before grabbing his briefcase and heading for the garage.
“Don’t be late,” Rose called to him from the kitchen door. She pulled her worn robe tight against the bitter wind whipping across the wide yard.
Kenneth waved her off, opening the garage door. The leather seats were cold as he slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught with a powerful purr. The radio came on, full force. The Mamas and the Papas. “Monday, Monday.” Really, he wondered, what should he bring home as backup?
It was already dark when he stepped through the back door again. He was startled at the mix of intoxicating smells in the kitchen. Rose was waiting for him, with a hot pad in one hand and a glass of Jameson over ice at the ready. She handed him the drink. “Right on time,” she said seductively.
“Rose!” was all he could utter. He could not remember the last time she had presented him with such a welcome. He took the drink, smiled at his still-beautiful wife, and dropped his briefcase to the floor.
“Kenneth,” she responded and raised her own glass in a toast. He returned it.
She pulled the shepherd’s pie from the oven onto a cooling rack. “Get comfortable,” she said. “Everything can wait.”
“No, no!” he objected. “I’ve kept you waiting long enough!” He loosened his silk tie, opening the top button of his stiffly starched shirt. “Let’s eat.”
And then he stole a look at her as she reached for dishes from the cupboard. Arms raised above her head, he saw the outline of her breasts against the taut burgundy sweater. She was, indeed, still beautiful. In that instant, he felt a stirring for her, a sweet ache. It was familiar and powerful, and it caught him off guard. He felt his face redden as he thought of bringing her body to him, of touching her slowly at first and then with the great heat that would build and drive him. It had been so long.
Maureen appeared from the living room. “Grab a plate, Dad! It’s just about to begin!”
Kenneth’s mind and his body snapped back to the moment. He had no idea what was about to begin, but he stepped to the living room doorway and saw the CBS logo spreading across the screen with the words, A Charlie Brown Christmas. The music was bouncy. Infectious. The cartoon characters delightful. Gerald and Joseph had already commandeered the davenport. Maureen returned from the kitchen, pushing Joseph from his place, taking it for herself.
Kenneth sighed, filled his plate, and bumped Gerald from the davenport. Rose came in last, a fresh drink in one hand, a half-filled plate in the other.
“I can tell you what Christmas is all about,” Linus declared. “. . . Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, good will toward men.”
“If only it were that simple,” Kenneth said in a voice tinged with weariness. He was on his second drink when the program ended. He switched the channel to NBC for Bonanza.
The evening wore on. His third drink was almost empty when the ten o’clock news came on with its reports of the never-ending war raging on in Vietnam.
His beautiful Rose had fallen asleep in the recliner, head tilted to the side, giving off soft snores. Kenneth watched her, lifting the last of the soothing amber liquid to his lips, his sweet ache long gone.
39
Laden with two bags of garbage, Kacey noticed a small cluster of snowdrops making their first spring appearance just outside the convent kitchen door. They were snuggled up against the foundation, their delicate heads breaking through the last vestiges of late-spring snow. The promise of things to come. The sight brought a smile to Kacey. The gardens were certainly proof of God’s love.
In no time, the crocuses also appeared. The hyacinth and the daffodils emerged overnight, and finally the lilacs, breaking out in royal purple glory. Each morning, Kacey stopped to search out the new life, reveling in the array of colors and fragrances. But even i
n the midst of such beauty, her inner struggles raged. Often she knelt beside a tender new plant and offered her morning prayer:
Stay with us, Lord Jesus Christ. Guide us on our way to your Kingdom. We are poor and weak. Cast out all restlessness from our hearts and increase our longing for you . . .
Please, she added.
“I’ve been looking over your grades.” Sister Mary Julian motioned Kacey to an easy chair and sat in another, across a coffee table. Julian’s office was light and airy. Through an open window, the sweet scent of peonies drifted up from the garden below. “You’re doing well. I’m impressed with the quality of your classwork.”
Relief flooded Kacey. She was never sure if she were in trouble. “Thank you, Sister Mary Julian.”
“I’m especially impressed with your work with Sister Mary Boniface. The feast day plays you’ve directed have been well received.”
Suspicion immediately stirred in Kacey.
The older nun waited a moment and then continued. “I’ve spoken with Mary Boniface about your next step, and she’s suggested something we’ve not considered before.” Kacey swallowed. “I’ve decided to go along with her suggestion. You’ll be taking two drama classes at the University of Minnesota during the upcoming summer session.” The nun beamed.
Kacey’s face betrayed nothing. She did not speak.
Surprised, Mary Julian went on. “Well, obviously, it would be too far for you to commute each day, so we’ve made arrangements for you to stay on campus during the week.” She beamed again, but still Kacey did not speak.
Julian could not mask her disappointment. “You understand, I’m sure, that this is most unusual. I trust you appreciate that.”
Now Kacey nodded her head.
“You’ll be the only sister in the classes. It’s taken some doing, but we believe you’re ready for the experience and will benefit from it.” She paused. Then, “Of course, you will remain bound to your vows at all times. That goes without saying.”
Kacey forced a smile. Her palms were clammy. “I’m humbled and honored, Sister. This is an incredible privilege.” But her mind raged, Drama classes? No, no, no!
The warmth of the late-spring sun beat down on the small group of young nuns, their habits pinned up midcalf, as they scuffled with each other for possession of the basketball. A backboard had recently been installed on a wall of the triple garage. It had been Mary Julian’s idea, though she met with considerable opposition from some of the more senior sisters, including the mistress of novices, Mother Mary Bernard. But Julian had persevered, speaking passionately of the need for more physical activity for the young women in their charge. It helped that it was in a secluded area, unseen by outsiders.
The backboard had been put up by the convent handyman, Sudsy—a most unfortunate, though descriptive, name, the sisters all seemed to agree. Still, they were pleased to have his services for those tasks just beyond their reach.
Often Kacey was in the middle of pickup games. They were a rare opportunity to move her body energetically, and she relished them. She was usually the high scorer, though few kept track other than she.
“I leave for the U next week.” Kacey and Mary Adrian sat on the rich, black earth, carefully planting tomato plants in long, straight rows, enough to feed one hundred sisters and then some.
Mary Adrian could hear the lack of enthusiasm in Kacey’s voice. With a twinge of irritation, she responded, “Do you have any idea how rare this is? What you’re being allowed to do?”
Kacey bristled. “Allowed? I’m not being allowed. I’m being forced!”
Mary Adrian was startled. “I’m sorry if I sound critical, but this is such a great opportunity—to attend the U for an entire summer session. It’s hard to understand why you’re not thrilled.” She turned back to her task, reaching deep into the soil with her trowel.
Kacey paused in her planting. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But I didn’t enter the community to study drama, you know? Why am I being singled out for this?”
Mary Adrian sat back, chuckling. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you can do the whole ‘Right Here in River City’ song without missing a beat.”
Kacey could only grin. “For a relatively shy thing, I can strut my stuff when I need to.” She patted the earth around the last plant. The two stood up, shaking dirt loose from their habits. “We’re never really dressed for life in a habit, are we?”
Mary Adrian picked up the empty tomato cartons. “Well,” she said, “it all depends on what you mean by ‘life.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The friction was back. Kacey fell in step as they headed toward the outbuildings.
But Mary Adrian stopped, turning to face Kacey. “It’s been four years now. It was hard for you at first, I know, but I thought you’d be more peaceful with this life by now.”
“Peaceful wouldn’t be a word I’d use to describe my life. Not before Blessed Sacrament, and not now, either.” Silence fell between them as they moved about the shed, cleaning off the gardening tools, putting them in place. “I’m doing what I want to be doing, Mary Adrian, but I don’t always do it peacefully.”
Mary Adrian looked into her friend’s face. “I’ll pray for you, Kacey. I’ll pray that peace will come.”
Kacey was startled. Mary Adrian had never disobeyed the rules regarding the use of their names. For her to address Sister Mary Laurence as Kacey was an intentional act of intimacy. An act of tenderness. Kacey would not forget it.
40
“Miss—” There was a pause. “Laurence?” The lanky professor looked out over the small auditorium, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “Are you with us?” He reached up, scratching his scruffy beard with his pipe.
Kacey sat in the midst of forty-five shaggy-haired students all wearing the uniform of the day: love beads, fringed vests, and headbands. Had she been sitting naked, she could not have felt more conspicuous than she did in her stiff, unforgiving habit.
Reluctantly, she raised her hand. The heat of embarrassment crawled up her neck. Dr. Jackson Cole scanned the auditorium again, finally catching sight of Kacey in the seventh row.
“Aha!” he declared. “There you are, and now I’m assuming you are not Miss Laurence. So, tell me, how shall I address you?”
Kacey saw a twinkling in his eyes as he called attention to her. She was instantly irritated. “I’m Sister Mary Laurence, Dr. Cole.”
“Well, Sister Mary Laurence, welcome to Drama Theory! In all my years at the university, I have never had the pleasure of a nun in one of my classes. Your perspective will be intriguing, I’m sure!”
“I doubt it will range far from that of my classmates, Dr. Cole.” There was a slight sting in her words.
“Delightful! I apologize, Sister Mary Laurence, if I’ve offended you by putting you in a category of your own! I’m sure you’ll blend in nicely.”
All eyes were on her now. She would not blink.
“Class!” Dr. Cole whirled around and picked up a book from the podium. “Turn your attention to chapter one of Hadfield and Burrows. Let’s begin our exploration of what it means to engage in the study of drama, shall we?” He had toyed with her. Now he was done with her.
Settling into her dorm room, she thought of Bridget, now home on the farm after spring semester ended. How she wished her little sister was taking a summer session course, too. How ironic that Kacey would now be on campus just as Bridget was leaving it!
She checked the Star Tribune each morning for the Twins score. They were doing well, in second place, though it was still early in the season. Finally, she bought a small transistor radio at Grey’s Drug Store with money she had scrounged, skipping lunches or breakfasts in the student union cafeteria. She discovered she could study while listening to the game in the background.
She also indulged
in another forbidden activity, heading to the dorm lounge to curl up on one of the lumpy couches. There, knees tucked beneath the folds of her habit, she sipped Pepsi and gave herself over to Peyton Place and Ben Casey. She was soon hooked.
Mosquitoes had no reverence for nuns. They swarmed around Kacey’s face and made forays up her wide sleeves. Sitting alone on the patio outside Comstock Hall, she caught a glimpse of the sun dropping between the buildings, casting its lush rays on the Mississippi River just beneath her.
This was always a lonely time of day. Her dorm mates were friendly but guarded. Deferential. They didn’t know what to do with her. Her mind was far away when she heard her name called.
“Sister! We’re going to Dinkytown. Wanna come?” Three of her classmates were headed her way. “Pizza at Vescio’s! It’s the best!” one of them called. Kacey knew of the area in the middle of campus that was a favorite gathering spot for students. They stopped just short of the table where her book lay closed.
“Hey, c’mon. Everybody loves pizza, right?” The one on the left took the lead. “I’m Rachel. We’re in Cole’s class with you. Maybe you don’t remember us.”
Kacey stood. “No, I do recognize you. I’ve seen all of you in class.”
The one in the middle stepped forward. Her long hair was a tangle. “I’m Emily. I usually try to sit behind you—you know, crunch down behind your veil so he won’t see me.” She giggled, and her face reddened.
Next was Sharon somebody. Kacey looked at the three. They were trying so hard. She felt an immediate tenderness, a desire to respond. She struggled for a moment, knowing she should not accept the invitation. Then, she picked up her book. “Well,” she said quietly, “off the record, I’m Kacey, and—” She hesitated before plunging ahead. “I’d love some pizza! Just let me drop off my book and get some money.” A cheer went up as she swept past the three, her habit flying behind her.