Toward That Which is Beautiful

by Marian O'Shea Wernicke

  When the car lurches to a stop, Kate wonders how long she has been sleeping. She cannot see her watch in the darkness. The driver gets out, and Kate peers through the dusty window at a small cluster of buildings. An electric bulb dangles over one hut. The Molinas sleep on. She hears voices outside and feels a scrape on the side of the car as the driver unscrews the gas cap.

  The sharp smell of the gas fills the car stirring a memory of being back in St. Louis, with her mother and father on the way to a few summer days in the Ozarks. Then, too, she’d been crowded in the back seat, stuffed between Dan and Maggie. With the windows open, she’d lean out, and the wind would flatten her cheek. Once they stopped at a filling station out in the country. While Dan and Maggie had gone to the bathroom, she had stood by her father and watched the dark-haired teenage attendant fill the gas tank. “I love that smell,” she’d said to her father. When she looked up she had seen a look pass between her mother and father, a strange look that she recognized now as desire.

  What would her parents think about her love for Tom? She had described him in her letters in the half humorous tone she reserved for all the priests she worked with, but she had been careful not to mention his name too often. Her father was especially quick to pick up on her feelings. Now they would have to know. Or would they? She starts composing the letter: “Dear Mom and Dad, While I have been working in Peru, a wonderful/ terrible/unexpected thing has happened: I have fallen in love.”

  How can she explain running away? They would be horrified. They are already nervous enough about her being in Peru although they tried to sound cheerful in their letters, telling her the news of the house and the neighborhood, sharing her letters with anyone who asked about her. No, she will not write home about this.

  She longs for home. It is July, winter here in the Altiplano. But somewhere back home on this night a screen door bangs, and that remembered sound is the essence of summer in St. Louis. Instead here she sits waiting in a dark car, shivering in the dry cold air of the Altiplano. But it’s the right thing to go back—back to the parish in Juliaca, back to the nuns and the children. She can stand it now. Tom is gone. The thought of his going has played around the edges of her mind all day. He is probably in Dublin already or heading across Ireland for Galway on the shore of the Atlantic, two oceans away from her. He would be hurting, she knows, and she remembers his eyes that last night, their puzzled angry pain, like those of a dog who can’t understand why he’s been whipped. He is going home to sorrow, the loss of a father, a mother alone. She imagines him in years to come, a priest still, caustic and impatient at the petty world around him. She loves him fiercely now, and the memory of his head in her lap makes her gasp. She closes her eyes, waiting for the image to fade.

  Yes, she would finish out the year. Knowing she was leaving Peru in a few months made her want to see everything with that intensity that comes in knowing it’s the last time. She will work hard, she vows; she will learn everything she could about the men and women of the sierra. The brilliant light that blinded her is gone; maybe now she will be able to see things more clearly. One thing has become very clear to her: she does not belong in Peru. She does not know enough of the culture nor of the history. She can’t even speak Aymara! Sergeant Vargas’s words echo: aren’t there problems in your own country? She feels how presumptuous she’s been in thinking that she could teach in the Altiplano, when actually, the Peruvian people have taught her. No, she will go back to the States and figure out her own path. Her Spanish is pretty good now, so maybe she can find a way to use this hard-won skill in her own country. She leans her head against the window, trying to picture her future.

  They are driving again now, moving out of the village into fields of moonlight. She tries to pray, looking out at the dark. All her life God had been real to her. Faith was effortless. She grew up in a world where His existence was assumed. Now came the test.

  It would be easier to leave the convent if she didn’t believe in God. For without God, that life made no sense. Nuns would just be a group of do-gooders living together in the uneasy way of women in groups. She stares out at the silent distant peaks of the Andes, and she senses a presence, feminine now, like the moon that has slipped behind the clouds. In the dark back seat, she whispers, “I’m sorry, Lord. But you made me this way. I know You are here with me even though I’ve been lost.”

  By dawn they are on the outskirts of Puno. Kate feels the familiar lightness, the breathlessness.

  Señora Molina huddles in her overcoat, shivering and moaning, “Ay, my head hurts.”

  Her husband soothes her. “Now, now. In just a moment we’ll go have a cup of mate de coca and you’ll feel better.” María Luísa is still asleep.

  As they enter the Plaza de Armas, Kate sees the jeep from Santa Catalina. Sister Jeanne is standing beside it. Kate feels her stomach drop. She is embarrassed. How childish the whole episode must seem to these good nuns.

  Jeanne grins when she sees her. They embrace, and Kate feels grateful as Jeanne begins to laugh. “Well, I go off for retreat, and you disappear into the mountains. Jeez, Kate, can’t I leave you alone for a few days?” She has already grabbed Kate’s arm and is heading for the jeep when Kate remembers the Molinas.

  “Wait a minute. I want to say goodbye to the family I rode up here with.” She turns back to see the three of them watching her. She holds out her hand to the señora, who takes it in both of hers.

  “I am so happy we met, madre. I can’t believe you really want to live up here. No hay nada.” She looks around the Plaza, slick with the cold winter rain.

  Señor Molina bows over her hand, almost kissing it. “Pray for us all, madre,” and his eyes shift to his daughter. Kate sees the worried frown.

  María Luísa holds her face up to be kissed, and Kate looks into the girl’s eyes as she embraces her. “Good luck in La Paz,” Kate says. “Maybe I will come see you at the school the next time I get to La Paz.”

  The girl says nothing, staring at Kate and at Sister Jeanne who waits by the jeep. Finally the girl whispers, “Good luck to you. You will need it here.”

  Kate lifts her habit and climbs into the jeep. Jeanne starts the car and thrusts a postcard at her. “I can’t believe it. You’ve been gone from us for only a week, and already you’re receiving mail from a strange man.”

  Kate is grateful for the teasing tone. Obviously Jeanne has decided not to press her for the story of her journey, at least not yet. “This postcard is from an Englishman who lives near the Lake. I stayed in his house the first night I was gone. He gave me a ride to Arequipa.” Jeanne nods, but keeps her eyes on the road. Kate reads the card aloud: “Greetings from Lima. I’m at the airport about to leave for London, but the thought of you wandering around (with my stolen jacket) makes me a bit uneasy. I hope by now you have arrived at wherever it was you were going. Perhaps I’ll see you on my return. You’re welcome, Peter.”

  “Stolen jacket?”

  Kate sighs. “It’s a long story.”

  “Save it for later. Sister Josepha and Father Jack are both pretty upset over the whole thing, so you’re going to have to do some explaining.” She glances at Kate. “I think I know why you left. It was Father Tom, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Kate finds she has trouble speaking.

  “I tried to warn you.” Jeanne’s mouth is set in a tight line. She turns to Kate then. “I wish you had talked to me about what was bothering you.”

  “I do, too, Jeanne. But maybe I had to figure things out for myself.”

  “Are they all figured out?”

  “Well, I have decided to leave the community.”

  Jeanne says nothing for a moment. When she speaks, she stares straight ahead at the road. “Is he leaving the priesthood, too?” Kate hears the note of contempt Jeanne gives to the pronoun.

  “No.”

  There is a short silence while Jeanne swerves to avoid a flock of sheep at the side of the road. Kate tries to explain. “This is not about Tom, not directly
, anyway. It’s about what I’ve discovered about myself, about who I really am.”

  Jeanne says nothing. They drive on, and Kate can feel the sadness in her friend and her brave attempt to disguise it. She hasn’t thought about that—how the sisters would react to her decision. How selfish she’s been! Now she sees how her leaving for good will hurt them. It is the same pain she had felt as a novice years ago when someone left, a feeling of diminishment.

  “Jeanne, I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with you or Sister Josepha. We’ve lived really well together, I think.”

  “I thought so, too.” Jeanne’s voice is wistful, a little tired. She rallies. “When are you leaving?”

  “Not until next year when my vows are up. I want to finish the year working here, that is if you all agree.” She stops. Maybe the nuns wouldn’t want her here anymore after what had happened.

  “Good.” Jeanne’s tone is brisk. “There’s lots to do around here, and you were just starting to be useful.” She looks over at Kate. “Besides, maybe you’ll change your mind. Father Tom has gone home, you know. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “I know.” Kate stares out the window.

  They are at the edge of Lake Titicaca now, and the rain has passed. Wispy clouds linger over the hills in the distance. Then Kate sees them. Her hand clamps Jeanne’s arm on the steering wheel.

  “Jeanne, stop the car. Look at those people over there.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jeanne stares at her and then looks out the window.

  “Over there. See that group of people. They’re dancing. Can’t you hear the music?” Kate is already opening the door. Jeanne slows to a stop and pulls the jeep off the road. Kate jumps out and strides across the field toward the group gathered on the shore of the lake.

  Off to the right are the musicians, eight or nine men in the chill Andean morning, with their flutes and drums, their long reed pipes. The music wails, a plaintive melody that tells of suffering and loss. But over its insistent rhythm hovers a note of joy, a steady driving flight toward bliss. Against the deep blue water of the Lake, steam rising off it from the morning’s rain and glistening in the emerging sun, the men and women dance. They are in a circle and the women twirl their full skirts, weaving among the men who call out to them, whistling and stamping their feet. Six women and four men dancing in the cold Andean morning, with no audience except the geese that fly low over the Lake and veer off at the sound of the flutes. She stands watching for a long time, the music rising and falling but never ending, the men and women tirelessly spinning at the lonely edge of the world.

  Acknowledgments

  All quotations from scripture are from The New English Bible with the Apocrypha, used with permission from the publisher, Oxford Publishing Limited, reproduced with permission of the Licensor through PLSclear. For the hymns of the Divine Office quoted, permission was granted by the Sisters of the Most Precious Blood of O’Fallon, Missouri, from The Music Supplement to The Liturgy of the Hours, 1979 (Benziger Brothers). The poem by Patrick MacDonogh, “Be Still As You Are Beautiful,” is used by kind permission of Estate of Patrick MacDonogh c/o The Gallery Press, Loughcrew, Oldcastle, County Meath, Ireland, from Poems 2001. For the line from the song “Unchained Melody,” permission was granted by Abby North of Unchained Melody Publishing LLC.

  Writing a novel is a journey. Along the way, many people have lent a helping hand. For reading an early draft and for her incisive comments and suggestions, I thank novelist Christine Bell, author of The Perez Family, Saint, and her recent novel Grievance. Much gratitude is owed to Herta Feely and Emily Williamson of Chrysalis Editorial for their suggestions on the manuscript and their encouragement. Thanks to Tom Epley, an early agent for the novel. I am grateful to Brooke Warner, Shannon Green, and the team from She Writes Press for publishing the work. Special thanks to Sister Helene Rueffer, C.PP.S, with whom I worked in Lima, for her stories that she shared with me. Thanks to my dear son-in-law, Max Benitez, for developing a prototype of the map of Peru and Bolivia. Thanks to publicists Crystal Patriarche, Tabitha Bailey, and Hanna Pollock of BookSparks for their support.

  Several close friends and colleagues have read early drafts and cheered me on. Thanks to Karen Sirmans, Mary Bozeman, Peg Wallace, Bill and Nina Burke, Ginny Vail and her mother from Peru, Graciela Rabines Kelly, and Sister Fran Raia, C.PP.S. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the Sisters of the Most Precious Blood of O’Fallon, Missouri, for the eleven formative years I spent among them. Above all thanks to the wonderful people of Peru from whom I learned so much and whose literature, art, and culture I fell in love with.

  My mother Margaret O’Shea and my father Tom O’Shea both read early drafts and were not too scandalized. My brothers Dan, Tim, and Matt; sisters Katie, Ellen, and Mary Grace; and sister-in-law Kay O’Shea urged me on. Finally, I thank my three wonderful children, Kristin, Tim, and John, who waited patiently for my attention over the years and who encourage me every day. Above all, I thank my husband, Michael, whose fine eye for detail in proofreading as well as his constant enthusiasm and patience saw me through the process. His love sustains me always.

  About the Author

  Marian O’Shea Wernicke is the author of a memoir, Tom O’Shea, A Twentieth Century Man: A Daughter’s Search for Her Father’s Story. She is also co-editor with Herta Feely of a collection of short stories and memoirs called Confessions: Fact or Fiction? She studied under poets Derek Walcott, Maxine Kumin, and Mark Jarman at the Sewanee Writers Conference. A professor of English for 25 years at Pensacola State College, Wernicke also served as department head of English and Communications. As a nun for eleven years, Wernicke taught in St. Louis and in Lima, Peru. Married and the mother of three grown children, she and her husband now live in Austin, Texas.

  Author photo © Matthew O’Shea Photography

  Selected Titles From She Writes Press

  She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.

  The Black Velvet Coat by Jill G. Hall. $16.95, 978-1-63152-009-9. When the current owner of a black velvet coat—a San Francisco artist in search of inspiration—and the original owner, a 1960s heiress who fled her affluent life fifty years earlier, cross paths, their lives are forever changed . . . for the better.

  Shrug by Lisa Braver Moss. $16.95, 978-1631526381. It’s the 1960s, and teenager Martha Goldenthal just wants to do well at Berkeley High and have a normal life—but how can she when her mother is needy and destructive and her father is a raging batterer who disdains academia? When her mother abandons the family, Martha must stand up to her father to fulfill her vision of going to college.

  The Belief in Angels by J. Dylan Yates. $16.95, 978-1-938314-64-3. From the Majdonek death camp to a volatile hippie household on the East Coast, this narrative of tragedy, survival, and hope spans more than fifty years, from the 1920s to the 1970s.

  Profound and Perfect Things by Maribel Garcia. $16.95, 978-1631525414. When Isa, a closeted lesbian with conservative Mexican parents, has a one-night stand that results in an unwanted pregnancy, her sister, Cristina adopts the baby—but twelve years later, Isa, who regrets giving up her child, threatens to spill the secret of her daughter’s true parentage.

  The Moon Always Rising by Alice C. Early. $16.95, 978-1-63152-683-1. When Eleanor “Els” Gordon’s life cracks apart, she exiles herself to a derelict plantation house on the Caribbean island of Nevis—and discovers, with the help of her resident ghost, that only through love and forgiveness can she untangle years-old family secrets and set herself free to love again.

  The Vintner’s Daughter by Kristen Harnisch. $16.95, 978-163152-929-0. Set against the sweeping canvas of French and California vineyard life in the late 1890s, this is the compelling tale of one woman’s struggle to reclaim her family’s Loire Valley vineyard—and her life.