She shook off the thought as they all lined up and filed slowly into the chapel. Kate knew that her parents, along with Dan and Maggie and even some of her girlfriends, were somewhere in the church, but the whole scene swam before her eyes as the postulants glided to the altar past their families, past the professed nuns, the novices, and up into the sanctuary, crowded with priests, where the towering wide figure of Cardinal Cody himself, dressed in gold vestments, his miter gleaming in the lights, waited for them.
After reciting together the ritual request for the habit of the order, the postulants filed out a side door into the long hall off the kitchen leading to the chapel. Chairs had been placed for each of them with their new white habits and veils carefully folded over the backs. Kate’s hands trembled as she took off the bridal veil, the gown, and the long slip. As she pulled the long white habit of the Dominicans over her head she tried to remember the prayer she was supposed to say. Standing by a window that looked out into the courtyard garden, she watched a few sparrows splashing with abandon in the bird bath, and it seemed suddenly that time stood still and that she could never move on from this point. Soon unseen hands were helping her fasten the starchy white wimple that covered her hair, and pin the fine white wool veil to her headdress.
When Kate looked around she was startled. All the girls had disappeared; in their place was a row of look-alike, somber young nuns, their hands tucked beneath their scapulars, their eyes shining with wonder at the enormity of their transformation.
Later when the families gathered in the shade of giant elm trees out on the lawn, the new novices chattered and laughed as they opened their presents. When her father and Dan decided to find a spot for a smoke, Kate found a moment to look at her mother, pretty and young in her flowered summer dress.
She smiled into Kate’s eyes and took her hand, surprising Kate, for her mother was usually cool, reserved. “Well, Katie, you’re finally the nun you’ve been longing to be. I must confess, though, that when we saw all of you coming down the aisle you looked more like ghosts than brides. I wanted to cry!”
Kate laughed and then realized that she felt like crying, too. Somehow the play-acting days were done, she knew, and these next two years would be the real test of her grit, her determination to stick it out.
That first year of the novitiate was a blur, her time spent in the laundry, with the huge vats of bleach and the hot hiss of the mangle as the novices pressed the nuns’ veils. In the afternoons, they would be sent up to the apple orchard where they walked among the trees fragrant with blossoms in the spring and heavy with fruit in the late summer days. She was a city girl, but found to her surprise how much she loved being in the fields and orchards of the convent grounds.
The novices took turns working in the kitchen, and the month she was assigned to the kitchen was a disaster for Kate. As she and the three other new novices reported for the first day of their month of kitchen duty, Sister Emmeline, the crabby sixty-year-old head cook, sat dejectedly at her small desk in the corner of the kitchen. She surveyed them with a great sigh: “Humph. Not a farm girl among you, I suppose. College girls . . . lots of book learning and not an ounce of common sense, I can tell already. I don’t know how in the world I’m supposed to run a decent kitchen when they send me four green novices every month to train. I just get them broken in, and four new ones show up. Come on, I’ll show you how to get the potatoes started for tonight.” With that she hobbled off, her white apron immaculate, her walk unsteady and arthritic.
Kate bridled at the injustice of the nun. Why, Sister Emmeline didn’t even know them. Wasn’t that her job, to train them? And what was all that stuff about college girls? Kate supposed the cook sister was just jealous that she didn’t get to go to college. Kate wondered if she would be able to hold her tongue. Sister was always after her—about the way she stood with her hand on her hip as she stirred the great pot of soup; nagging her about the way she didn’t pin her veil back neatly, instead letting it hang down so that it got in the way when she chopped the onions and celery for the soup. Kate was also a careless dishwasher, Sister Emmeline pointed out, as she rejected bowls with traces of dried food that Kate had missed.
The final humiliation occurred one Saturday morning when Kate was in charge of getting all the food dished into serving bowls, placing them in the large warmer and then, ten minutes later, handing the bowls to the novices who were serving tables. The food was, of course, still supposed to be steaming hot. Sister yelled at her to get a move on; the nuns were already filing in from chapel and Kate hadn’t even started dishing out the food. Nervously, she grabbed the huge iron pot of mashed potatoes and looked around for a place on the counter to put it. In desperation, she swung the pot up on the high serving wagon and stared up at it, realizing that she couldn’t reach the potatoes to spoon them out.
At that Sister Emmeline flew across the kitchen with a great cry and whacked Kate soundly on the back, right between her shoulders. “Get out,” she cried. “I can’t stand it another minute. You don’t have the sense God gave you!”
Kate tore off her apron and rushed through the scullery, tears streaming down her face, while astonished new postulants watched in disbelief.
Kate ran down the hall to the chapel, pushed open the swinging doors with all her might, and threw herself down in the pew nearest the altar. She sobbed until her rough linen handkerchief was soaked; then she sat down and stared up at the risen Christ over the altar. How dare Sister hit her! Wasn’t she supposed to be in control of her temper? And why was she always finding fault with her? Kate was not used to being bad at anything. She wasn’t great at sports, but she was a decent softball player and a good swimmer. But in Sister Emmeline’s kitchen she couldn’t do anything right.
It wasn’t much better in the sewing room. Three times she had to make over a simple blue-and-white checked apron, until finally Sister Carol Ann grabbed it away from her, muttering in exasperation that she would do it herself, since it was such torture to watch her mangle the job.
The class in Gregorian Chant was a relief for Kate, for she loved to sing and was beginning to appreciate the contemplative nature of this music. But she didn’t understand yet how she was supposed to contemplate while Father Jean LeBeau scowled at them over half-moon glasses, making great, frantic swoops in the air as he tried to get the novices to follow his rhythm.
Le Beau was a Benedictine monk from France. For some years he had been teaching at Washington University in St. Louis while living with Father Finn in the solid two-story brick rectory on the grounds of the Dominican Convent. As payment for room and board, Le Beau taught the advanced piano pupils among the young nuns and directed the chant. Short and graceful, he had a heavy French accent that was a source of mimicry for the more gifted actresses among the novices, at least when they were out of Sister Mary Paul’s earshot. He drove them hard during chant rehearsal, often keeping them well over the allotted hour.
Once he had hurt Kate’s pride badly as he walked around the room while the novices struggled through the Introit for the first Sunday of Advent: “Ad te levavi, anima mea.” Although the music was soulful, intense, almost introspective, Kate sang with all her might, hoping Father would notice her clear if untrained soprano and choose her for the schola, the special small group that led the nuns’ singing and took all the difficult parts.
As he walked by her, his hands behind his back, he stopped suddenly and glared at her: “Shut up, big mouth!” he cried. “Blend, blend your voice with the others in a seamless flow!” Afterwards, her cheeks had burned for an hour.
But there was humor and tenderness in the man, too. One day he startled them all by asking if they knew how to dance. After a few murmured assents, he took the hand of a pretty dark-eyed novice and led her to the front of the room. Then, humming a waltz, the priest grabbed her around the waist and swirled her around and around while Reverend Mother and Sister Mary Paul looked on unsmiling. All the novices clapped; Kate wished that she had been the one chosen.
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sp; Once on a damp gloomy Monday afternoon in November, Father LeBeau was trying to teach them a particularly difficult motet by Palestrina. Suddenly he motioned for them to stop. He leaned against the tall stool he sat on during practice, slipped his hands in the sleeves of his Benedictine habit, and silently regarded the twenty-four young novices before him. Finally he asked with amazement: “Why, what’s the matter? I feel as if I am at a funeral.”
When no one answered, he walked around among them, lifting a chin here and there to look into eyes that shied away from his. “Ah,” he said softly. “I think I know what it is. Yesterday you had a visiting day. It was your last one until Easter. Christmas is coming. You will not see the dear parents for a long, long time. Is that it?”
Several novices nodded. Kate kept her head held high, vowing she would show no tears. Father went on in the same unnaturally soft tone. “Well, you go on to the chapel when I dismiss you. Go sit and stare at the crucifix and tell Him you want to go home. Do you think He wanted to stay on the cross?”
The novices sat in silence as he packed up his books and swept out of the room. One by one they filed out, most of them heading for the chapel. Kate went out to the courtyard and sat on the single step leading into the garden. She hugged her knees and thought about the awful analogy Father had made between their lives and Christ hanging on the cross. Maybe he was talking about himself, she thought; at nineteen she was not ready to face long-term suffering.
Gradually Kate realized that she was not the only first-year novice having difficulties. One by one their number was dwindling. She would wake in the morning and see someone’s bed still made up from the day before. Then she would know that a novice had left the community and that they would probably never see her again. Kate hated the hugger-mugger secrecy of it all, as if it were shameful to leave.
She grumbled bitterly to her friend, Sister Francesca, as they took a long Wednesday afternoon hike through the brown, lifeless, early-January fields of dried cornstalks. They were supposed to stay with the group but had lagged behind to talk.
Francesca pulled her black shawl tightly around her shoulders and looked at Kate. “Were you surprised that Lucy was gone when you saw her bed this morning?” Lucy was a girl Kate had known in high school, and although not best friends, they had always been close, sharing news from home after visiting days.
Kate thought several moments before replying. “Not really, I guess. She had seemed so glum lately. About a month ago she told me that she’d gone to Sister Mary Paul to tell her she was thinking about leaving. Sister had asked her to wait and pray about it for a while. But she and that postulant called Anna had become great friends. I used to see them meeting secretly in odd corners, whispering intensely. When Anna left two weeks ago, I had a bad feeling about Lucy.”
Francesca faced her, a grim smile on her face. “Well, guess what? The rumor is that Lucy didn’t really leave with permission—she escaped!”
“But why? We’re all free to leave whenever we want to!” Kate strode more quickly now, not wanting to hear this.
“Evidently Sister Mary Paul kept urging her to stay. Lucy and Anna were thick, so when Anna left, Lucy arranged for her to come back with a car in two weeks. Then when we were all at Vespers, Lucy changed into a skirt and blouse she had in her trunk since her entrance, stuffed her habit into a laundry basket, and slipped out the front door to meet Anna.”
Francesca stared into the distance, kicking at the rows of dirt beneath her feet. Kate felt sick. The story was sad. If Lucy didn’t want to be a nun, why couldn’t she just tell them all? Why did she have to sneak out in the night, like a prisoner escaping her guards? She was a runaway!
Finally, with a fierce pull at the shawl that kept slipping off her shoulders, Kate said, “I’m going to ask Sister Mary Paul about this today during instructions. We need to get this out in the open. All this secrecy makes us feel a hundred times worse about people leaving than the truth ever would.”
Francesca struggled to keep up as Kate strode ahead. “She’s not going to like it,” Francesca warned Kate.
Kate knew that her friend thought she was too outspoken and enjoyed stirring up rebellions occasionally in the regimented world of the cloister. But Kate didn’t care; this secrecy was like a worm gnawing away at her sense of certainty in her vocation.
That afternoon Sister Mary Paul, apparently anticipating the approaching rumble of discontent, was unusually frank in making the announcement. “Sisters,” she began, “I know you are all very saddened by the departure of one of your classmates, Sister Mary Lucy. The circumstances of her leaving were . . . irregular, and I can only say that we have been in touch with her parents as well as her pastor at St. Roch’s, and I would like you all to pray for Sister in what must be a very difficult time.” She looked slowly around the room. “Are there any questions?”
Kate raised her hand immediately, but Sister looked past her, trying to see if anyone else had something to say. Finally, she nodded at Kate.
“Sister, we . . . that is, I was wondering why we never get to say goodbye to someone who leaves. You’re always encouraging us to think of each other as sisters and to love each other. It just seems so cold to have someone hustled off in secrecy without time to say a word to anyone. Of course, I’m not talking only about Sister Mary Lucy,” she amended, seeing Sister Mary Paul’s face darken.
“Yes, I’m sure it does seem cold, as you say, Sister Mary Katherine. It hurts us all when someone decides to leave. But my responsibility is to protect and encourage those of you who are choosing to stay. I do not want you influenced by someone who is questioning and doubting our whole way of life. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sister, but I don’t agree.”
There was a long moment of silence while Sister Mary Paul’s cheeks flushed and Kate held her gaze. No one moved until finally, from the back of the room, Kate heard someone murmur, “I don’t agree either.”
“Neither do I.” The comments were coming now from all over.
Sister Mary Paul got up stiffly and rested her hand on the table in front of her.
“Well, my dears, you must realize by now that religious orders are not democracies.” She smiled tightly and left the room. Kate realized that her victory was hollow and would probably cost her in some way.
That’s why she was astonished later that afternoon. Hurrying to chapel for None, she almost bumped into Sister Mary Paul and Reverend Mother in Our Lady’s Chapel, huddled in conversation. Though their voices were low, Kate sensed they were talking about Sister Lucy’s flight. Meaning to slip past them quietly, Kate was startled when the novice mistress reached out and grabbed her arm, holding her lightly as she said kindly, more so than ever before: “I was talking to your pastor, Father Peters, this morning about . . . well about Sister Lucy, actually. He asked me how you were doing. I told him to send me ten more just like you.”
Both Reverend Mother and Sister Mary Paul gazed at Kate with mingled affection and amusement. Kate was dumbstruck. Sister liked her! Since the day Kate became a novice, Sister Mary Paul had seemed constantly irritated by her, chiding her for her bouncy, undignified way of walking, her careless handwriting, her stream of chatter during silent time.
Kate mumbled hurried thanks and ducked quickly into her pew in chapel. She was distracted during the chanting of the office by what the novice mistress had said. Kate thought she understood now the psychology used by the novice mistress in forming young nuns. Constant, intense criticism, which, if it could be borne with reasonably good grace, would be the refining fire that would separate the gold from baser metals, or something like that, she thought, realizing at once the arrogance of her analogy. She didn’t agree with this theory of education, but it was an immense relief to know that despite all her carping, Sister Mary Paul thought she would make a good nun. But wouldn’t it be better, more effective, to show encouragement, affection, even love to all these struggling young women?
Suddenly Kate thought of her mother. W
hat she gave Kate was what she missed sorely here—that deep, unshakable love that lay beneath the normal nagging of a teenager’s mother. Love had been like air at home. Nobody talked about it, but it was always there, invisible, indispensable. Now she was living at a rarefied altitude; the air was thinner here. The question was, could she survive in this atmosphere?
Without having answered that question, Kate knelt two years later on the feast of St. Dominic, August 3, and pronounced her first vows: “I, Sister Mary Katherine, vow and promise to Almighty God, and to you Reverend Mother, that I will live for three years in poverty, chastity, and obedience.” She unpinned the white veil of the novice from her headdress, and in its place pinned the black veil of the professed nun. Dry-eyed and calm, Kate had whispered as they filed back into the chapel, “If You want me to do this, You’ll have to help me. I have a feeling it’s not going to be easy.”
Chapter Twelve
Saturday, June 27, 1964
In the dark church, Kate awakes, panicked. Feeling the woolen jacket beneath her, she remembers Peter. She thinks sickly of the trouble she caused him. Thank God he left her the money! How will she be able to repay him? She pictures the nuns and priests in Juliaca. By now they would have radioed Sister Jeanne Marie who was still in Bolivia with the Poor Clare nuns after her retreat there. She would be the calmest, trying to reassure the others about Kate, but secretly furious at her for causing all the commotion.
Sister Josepha would be angry and deeply worried. At sixty-two, Josepha was an ascetic, committed missionary, scornful of creature comforts and of the younger nuns’ questioning of their mission in the Altiplano. Her fair, serene Slavic features were straight out of a painting by Van Eyck, Kate had thought the first time she’d seen her. Her eyes were light blue, fringed by pale, almost invisible lashes, and her hands were as large and red as a farm wife’s. She bustled around the parish with a brisk, no-nonsense approach to doing good. Self-doubt didn’t seem to be a part of her makeup, and she had a hard time disguising her impatience when it surfaced in others.
Toward That Which is Beautiful Page 10
