Toward That Which is Beautiful

by Marian O'Shea Wernicke

  When she spoke to them about Jesus they were very quiet, their eyes shining. She discovered that Jesus’ parables made sense to these children of farmers and shepherds.

  One day she read to them in slow, clear Spanish with Elva translating softly into Aymara:

  If one of you has a hundred sheep and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open pasture and go after the missing one until he has found it? How delighted he is then! He lifts it on his shoulders and home he goes to call his friends and neighbors together. “Rejoice with me!” he cries. “I have found my lost sheep.” In the same way, I tell you, there is greater joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who do not need to repent.

  She’d waited for a long moment, looking at the faces gathered around her, solemn and unblinking.

  “What do you think Jesus meant when he told his friends this story?” she asked. There was a stillness in the room.

  Finally one tall boy who always sat in the back of the room spoke up. “If the man had a hundred sheep, he must be a very rich man.”

  Kate nodded her head.

  “So, why doesn’t he send his helper after the sheep instead of going himself?”

  Kate was stumped. She had never taken the passage literally. But these children had been herding sheep with their parents since they could walk.

  Kate was saved by Pilar in the front row who raised her hand, “I think Jesus means that we are all like sheep. And sometimes we go away from him and then he has to come and rescue us.” The child stopped, overwhelmed by what she said, then added softly, “The shepherd loves the little stray one more because he caused him all that worry.”

  She looked up at Kate, unable to speak for a moment at the child’s grasp of the parable. Now hands went up all over as each child thought of a story he knew about tending the sheep. Suddenly Kate remembered the boy by the roadside who had lost some of his father’s sheep, his tear-stained face, his despair. She told the children that story, and they all murmured sympathetically at the boy’s trouble.

  Kate ended class that day by reciting Blake’s poem “The Lamb” to them in English just wanting them to hear the sounds of the rhyme. Elva then wrote a translation of the poem on the board in Spanish. As the children bent over their notebooks, copying the poem in Spanish, Kate walked around the room, murmuring the words in English like a prayer.

  Little Lamb, who made thee?

  Dost thou know who made thee?

  Gave thee life & bid thee feed,

  By the stream & o’er the mead;

  Gave thee clothing of delight,

  Softest clothing, woolly bright;

  Gave thee such a tender voice,

  Making all the vales rejoice!

  Little lamb, who made thee?

  Dost thou know who made thee?

  On her way to the convent for lunch that day, Kate dodged the puddles. The rain had stopped, and the clouds scuttled across the sky, leaving big patches of blue. Maybe she would write to Sister Antonia, her first great literature teacher, and tell her she’d discussed a poem by William Blake with the children of Juliaca, Peru.

  She entered the house by the back door and threw a little ball she kept in her pocket to Tito. Marta turned from the stove and greeted her, and, almost as an afterthought said, “Padre Tomás is back. He’s waiting in the front parlor to see you for a few minutes before lunch, he said. I told him lunch was at twelve en punto.”

  Kate was careful to keep her voice as even as she could, sensing a faint air of disapproval in the set of Marta’s shoulders. “Gracias, Marta. I won’t be late.”

  Her heart thudded as she walked to the parlor. She stopped at the interior door and pinched her cheeks. Smoothing her habit, she noticed that her hands were trembling. Then she opened the door, and Tom Lynch filled the room as he rose from the chair and in two strides stood before her. After a long moment he held out his hands, and she gripped them as a drowning woman grabs a lifeline. Still they said nothing. He was tanned and fit, bursting with restless energy.

  “You look rested,” she stared up at him, trying to match this face to the one in her dreams.

  “Oh, that I am. I suddenly feel wonderful.”

  His grin was mocking. She blushed and looked around helplessly. “Well, sit down. Tell me about Lima,” she said, taking the nearest chair.

  He pulled his chair up near hers, and sat facing her, their knees not quite touching. “Lima was gray and misty and depressing, as usual. But I ate wonderful food, went out drinking with the lads at the Maryknoll House and lay in the sun in Chosica. Now cut the small talk, Kate, and tell me how the hell you are.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Other than that I’ve been fine.” She looked away now from the naked longing she saw in his eyes. Embarrassed, she rattled on about the trip to Copacabana, her class that morning, anything to fill up the silence. He was looking at her with amusement and a certain impatience. Finally, she paused. “Tom, it feels so strange to be with you. I don’t know how to act.”

  “I love hearing you say my name.”

  “I say it all the time to myself.”

  They stared at each other. Then he got up from his chair and paced the tiny room, and she could only watch him stride back and forth.

  “Kate, things are changing in Lima. The slums around the airport have grown. I couldn’t believe the numbers. The people at first were only trickling down from the sierra. Now there’s a torrent flooding Lima. Do you remember seeing the barriada called San Martín de Porres when you drove by the airport?”

  “Yes, the sisters pointed it out to me but I was so scared by the traffic that I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “I went out there with one of the men who works there, Jack Casey. It’s a disaster. We’ve got to stop this exodus to the city by making things better for the farmers up here. They have no work in Lima.” Tom stood at the one window in the room and looked out at the courtyard of Santa Catalina where the children were playing, their shouts ringing out in the thin air. He lowered his voice and turned to her. “While I was in Lima I went to the Ministerio de Agricultura. I tried to find out all I could about the new land reform bill. No one seems to know exactly what it will mean or how it will be implemented.”

  She was confused now. Why was he telling her all this? She had a hard time concentrating on his words, as she watched him move around the room, bursting with impatience.

  He continued to speak, almost as if he were talking to himself. “Tomorrow I’ll be going out in the campo again, probably for a couple of weeks.” He turned as she gave a little moan. “I have to, Kate. I’m going to talk to the men and women in the villages about the coming reform. They need to organize. I’ve been talking with people in Lima. What the people of the Altiplano need is technical know-how, roads, and cheap credit. But no one in the government is going to hand out these things. It’s up to us to help them speak out.” He glanced at her apologetically. “Sorry. I get carried away, I know. Can you understand why this is so important?”

  She stood and faced him. “Of course. Part of why I love you is because you do care so much.”

  He laughed and laid his hands firmly on her shoulders, and for an instant held her in a cautious embrace. “Someday I’d like to find out the other part of why you love me.” He held her away from him then, and she found she could not lift her eyes to his. Kate stared at his mouth, and her breath came in short jerks.

  Abruptly, he turned from her and zipped up his windbreaker. As he opened the door, the bells in the tower chimed out the noon hour. Kate watched as he took the steps two at a time. He stopped, faced her and said with a grin, “It’s great to be back. Great, because you’re here. Hasta la vista.”

  “Hasta la vista,” she called, her words fading in the quiet air. She sighed and straightened the chairs. So this is how it would be. He would breeze in every once in a while, completely upsetting her h
ard-won balance, and then take off again with a regretful but impatient air. She lectured herself sternly. What did you expect? You yourself set the rules. Just be grateful for what you have.

  But it wasn’t enough. Seeing him like this made it harder—like food placed just out of reach in front of a starving person. She joined Josepha and Jeanne Marie in the dining room, and as they stood with bowed heads for grace, Kate gripped the back of her chair in a silent appeal for help.

  Now time played tricks on Kate. Gone was the steady rhythm of the days. She found herself jerked back and forth between long unending hours of waiting to see him and speeded up moments of sheer joy in his company. She tried to hide her love and wondered at the fact that everyone around her seemed so oblivious to the truth she was living.

  One evening before the sisters said Compline, Jeanne Marie looked at her and said, “I can’t get over the change in Father Tom.”

  Kate held her breath. Sister Josepha nodded and agreed. “Yes, he seems so much more relaxed since he came back from Lima. I guess the break did him some good.”

  Jeanne Marie went on. “It’s not just that. He comes over to see us in the evenings now. I thought we’d never get rid of him tonight.”

  She laughed and yawned, but Kate could feel Jeanne’s shrewd eyes watching her. Kate said nothing. His casual visits to them in the evening when he was not out in the campo were both a torment and a great delight for her. She longed to be alone with him but feared it, too. She usually managed to walk him to the door when he left, and in the darkness of the cold entrance parlor they would link hands and gaze at one another until she felt she would drown in his eyes. He always tried to keep the mood light. She thought her intensity frightened him.

  Once he had grabbed her hand and brought her palm up to his lips. “Isn’t there a line in Shakespeare that says something like, ‘Let lips do what hands do,’ or something to that effect?”

  She looked up, willing him to kiss her. But he only kissed her hand and turned away. Her hand burned where he had kissed it. “Romeo and Juliet,” she said finally.

  “Oh, and look what a bad end they came to.” His tone was light, but as he left that night he had looked back at her, his eyes dark and unreadable.

  Later, lying in bed, Kate felt ashamed. She was burning up with desire while walking around in the habit of a nun. What had happened to her? She was luring on a priest, a man who had vowed celibacy not because he hated women but because it was the price he had to pay to be a priest. Maybe Tom had been right to want to break it off early, and now he was the one being careful, holding back. She would break her vow of celibacy in a minute if he wanted her. The icy clarity of that realization washed over her and she sobbed in the dark, muffling the sounds in her pillow. She tried to pray, but what would she pray for?

  Kate reached for the crucifix she kept always by her bed, the one her father had given to her the day she entered the convent. The figure of Christ was silver, and the cross itself of a dark wood like ebony, framed in silver. She ran her fingers down the nearly naked body of the young Christ. Help me—help me to not hurt him, to not hurt You. I’m not sorry I love him, though. I won’t ever be sorry for that.

  When she woke up much later that night, the crucifix was beneath her, digging into her left breast. All the next day her breast was sore, and the pain was hidden and sweet.

  By May, the rainy season was over and winter was coming on. Travel became a possibility once more. Jeanne Marie surprised Kate one morning at breakfast when she asked her if she felt like taking a little trip. “You’ve been up in the altitude for six months now. You could probably use a little break.” Kate was cutting up a banana, and she looked over at the other nun to see if she was serious. Jeanne continued, “Once a year I go down to the Poor Clare nuns in Coroico for a week’s retreat. Then I usually stay another week and help the nurse who’s there. Father Tom drives me down there and says Mass and hears the nuns’ confessions. They love to be able to go to confession in English once a year, although I can’t imagine what they ever have to confess.”

  “Where’s Coroico?” Kate asked, trying to hide her excitement at the news that Tom would be going, too.

  “It’s in the Yungas, about three hours out of La Paz. It’s gorgeous, Kate—hot and humid with tropical flowers all over. I lie in the sun in the nuns’ back patio with my spiritual reading and pretend I’m in Hawaii.”

  “Aren’t the Poor Clares a cloistered community?” Kate had never even seen a cloistered nun. She thought then of Thomas Merton and her delight in his description of the monastery at Gethsemane. “Will it be all right with Sister Josepha if I go along?”

  “Actually, she’s the one who suggested it. She thinks you’ve been looking a little peaked lately, as she would say,” Jeanne was grinning at her and Kate smiled back, trying not to look too eager. As she got up to clear the table, Jeanne added, “Of course you and Father Tom would only stay a day or two. He’ll have to get back for the Masses on Sunday. I’ll take a bus up to La Paz later and then catch a ride with someone coming back here from La Paz. Does that sound okay?”

  Kate nodded and helped Jeanne clear the table, afraid to look up and betray just how okay it all sounded to her. She and Tom would have a whole day alone together. And this was all at her superior’s suggestion, so she was merely being obedient. She felt a twinge of guilt at the casuistry involved in her reasoning, but no fine scruples were going to mar this one chance, she resolved.

  They left at noon on Sunday, the twenty-first of May. Jeanne Marie and Kate had packed the jeep the night before with medical supplies from the States for the nurse in Coroico. Jeanne explained that even though the nuns were cloistered, they had received special permission from their Motherhouse in Philadelphia to open a clinic in one room of the convent every afternoon because there were no doctors in the town on a regular basis.

  “The odd thing is,” Jeanne said as they loaded the heavy boxes, “the nun who’s the nurse, Sister Rachel, is Jewish. She converted to Catholicism in her late twenties, and then entered the Poor Clares. Her family is supposed to be fabulously wealthy, but she’s really down to earth. We stay up late and tell jokes when I come. Sometimes I even smuggle in a few cigarettes for her. Those women are really something, living in a little hilltop village in Bolivia, lost to the big world.” She shook her head. “They’re funny and smart, too.”

  Kate watched her short, stubby figure as Sister Jeanne Marie hauled out the last box. “You’re pretty smart and funny yourself,” Kate said, realizing how much she had come to appreciate Jeanne.

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t stand being cooped up like that.”

  Kate looked around and began to laugh. “Oh sure, you’re really out in the big world here.” She stopped when she saw a puzzled look on Jeanne’s face.

  “But this is the big world, Kate. There are hundreds of people who need me here and I like feeling needed. No one else is going to do the job if I don’t. There aren’t any backups here.”

  Kate realized she had hurt Jeanne, and she put her hand on her friend’s arm.

  “I know that. And I was just trying to say how much I admire you.”

  Jeanne grinned and slapped her hand away. “I forgive you. You still have a lot to learn here—and I do mean a lot.”

  Kate followed her eyes and saw Tom crossing the courtyard, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. She gathered her skirts together and jumped into the back seat, crowded with packages, so that Jeanne could sit in front with Tom. They drove off in high spirits, like children playing hooky from school. Kate watched Tom and Jeanne as they talked and gestured in the front seat. The roar of the engine was loud, and she couldn’t hear anything they said, but she was happy just to watch them, knowing that if she stretched out her hand she could touch the back of Tom’s neck.

  Kate sat back, letting the jeep carry her along as if in a dream. The winter sky burned blue above them, arching down to the purple snow-covered peaks of the Andes. The fields were golden brown; she
saw here and there small patches of white and gray that turned out to be sheep grazing in the distance. When they were an hour outside of Puno, following the curve of the sapphire lake, Kate felt the jeep skid as Tom braked suddenly. She looked out to see a herd of llamas sauntering down the road in front of them. Their graceful heads held high, the beasts were unperturbed by the gathering trucks and cars on either side whose drivers beeped and honked in protest at the delay. Then Kate glimpsed two women trotting along beside the llamas, small black whips in their hands. They whistled and chanted to the beasts, and after ten minutes, finally got them off the road and into the near-by fields. Kate watched the scene framed in the back window of the jeep until it disappeared in the dusty road.

  By four o’clock they were heading west into the setting sun. Tom shouted back to her that they would make a rest stop and eat the picnic dinner Marta had packed for them. Kate could see nothing except stony fields and the lake shimmering in the distance off to their left. Suddenly Tom pulled the jeep off the road, and he disappeared behind some rocks.

  Jeanne looked at Kate and laughed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to die if I don’t go to the bathroom soon.” They got out of the jeep, and as Tom reappeared, announced that they would be back as soon as they found a suitable private place.

  The wind had picked up, and the setting sun’s rays had weakened. Kate pulled her cloak tightly around her and then used it for a curtain when they found a good spot to relieve themselves. Suddenly Jeanne Marie laughed. “What would the mistress of novices say to us now, do you think? I don’t remember that this situation was covered in the Custom Book.”

  Kate laughed, too, and, as the two of them took turns guarding each other, they would burst into laughter at intervals, thinking of the stern face of the elderly drill sergeant.