Till Death

by William X. Kienzle

  “I went swimming.” He would buy the swimming excuse only because he had no idea how terrified she was of the water.

  “Swimming!”

  “Yes. Just the thing to do on a hot summer’s day.”

  “Granted. But how did you pull it off?”

  “Pull it off?”

  “Yes …” He would gesture toward the habit. “You’re not exactly dressed for the sport.”

  “It really isn’t that difficult. The idea is to put your swimsuit on under the habit. Then all you have to do is find a little spot for privacy and slip the habit off. With all the practice I’ve had, that can be done in the twinkling of an eye.”

  He would blush slightly. “You mean after you got done swimming, you put the habit back on over the swimsuit?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It must be terribly uncomfortable. I mean your suit must still be wet. Isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes. I didn’t count on the discomfort.”

  “This is going to get dicey, I think, isn’t it? By the time you get back to the convent you are going to be dry-cleaned. You will be wearing practically a sauna.”

  She would smile nervously. “I guess I didn’t plan this very well.”

  “Well …” He would hesitate for several moments. “Why don’t you get straightened around before you leave? You can use my shower. Get rid of the swimsuit. Then when you’re dry you can put the habit on and it’ll be lots more comfortable by the time you get back.”

  “Well, if it’s not too much trouble …”

  “No trouble at all. You’ve never been in the back of the rectory. I’ll show you around.”

  They would go into his bedroom. “Excuse the messy bed. I wasn’t expecting guests.”

  “Without a woman’s touch, things tend to get this way.”

  By this time, his face would be almost the color of his hair. What had begun as an innocent offer of aid would be developing into the threat of serious sin. “Here’s a fresh towel and there’s the bathroom and shower. Take your time. I’ll be in the living room.”

  He would go back to the living room and pace nervously, hoping that this would not explode.

  But explode it would.

  That would happen when she walked in wearing only the towel.

  Her hair would be wet because she had taken a shower. Her smile would be forced and plastic. Two people would be standing in the living room, both deeply embarrassed. The silence would last a few moments. Then she would say, “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to give the habit a chance to dry.”

  From that point on, the scenario could go in any number of directions.

  She would wait for him to make a move. But not too long. If he approached her, she would throw herself into his arms. From that point they could allow passion to carry them through to that rumpled bed.

  If he did not make the first move, she would drop the towel. Just observing him over the years had left her with no doubt whatsoever of his masculinity, his ample testosterone level. If she stood before him naked, he would never be able to resist her.

  If he were willing, he could mend her life, which had become so fragmented. What would happen after their first sexual adventure only time would reveal. As far as she was concerned, they could simply exchange the counseling sessions for romantic interludes. Fortified with tangible, expressed love, she would be strong enough to field whatever cruelties the nuns would invent for her.

  And Father Casserly? He would achieve his goal of helping her to stay the course in the face of the Theresian plan. Included in this package was a missing fulfillment for him.

  It certainly seemed a satisfactory solution for everyone. The nuns could lay on the punishment as thick as they wished. That should make a group of sadists happy. She would draw strength from Rick and their lovemaking. And she would make sure he was a happy camper.

  She just needed a little time to get used to her plan. As far as she was concerned, this was a drastic step; she was not prepared to put it into action immediately.

  So she stayed with the status quo. She was obedient to every crazy and monstrous command and demand made by the Sisters. Her delight in what was to be sufficed. She was at peace in the anticipation of Rick’s love.

  In her counseling sessions her mind would wander in fantasies that would one day become realities. She would undress him with her eyes—an action once the province of the male. Yes, there was something to this new feminism.

  In due time she was ready. She waited for the next sunny, warm Saturday—one that would make credible an outdoor swim. Such an opportunity arose ten days later.

  Since it was Saturday, the convent’s one and only old car would be used for shopping. But Saturday afternoons were virtually the only times that one could be quite sure Father Casserly would be at home and unencumbered by appointments. Knowing Mother Superior might forbid the car’s use even for spiritual direction, Perpetua decided to ask for it anyway. After all, this could be God’s will. She had to give it a chance.

  The frown could have meant that Mother was displeased at the request. Or it might have been her standard expression.

  In any case, permission was granted with a curfew no later than four in the afternoon.

  Perpetua paid no mind to the curfew. If her plan did not develop the way she had expected, she would be back in plenty of time. If, on the other hand, it worked substantially if not perfectly, nothing Mother Superior could do to her would matter.

  For her part, Mother could afford to be patient and confident. It was always possible the young nun would break and conform to the demanding obedience that characterized the Theresians. Occasionally a rebellious Sister would change her life and stay with the Theresians. Something like a wild horse being broken to human use. But wild horses learned to conform much more reliably than young women.

  Perpetua could escape the convent to visit her director. It made little difference to Mother. The impetuous young lady would return and the persecution would proceed to break her—or send her packing.

  After receiving permission and the car keys, Perpetua dug out her bathing suit and slipped it on. It fit loosely. She had lost significant weight in these almost two years at St. Adalbert’s. It didn’t matter. According to her plan, Rick would not see her in the suit. Either she would be wearing the habit or nothing.

  She showered with the suit on, then patted herself down. Her extremities were dry but the suit was sopping.

  She parked in her familiar spot in the church lot. She remained in the car, waiting for her breathing to return to normal. Once that was accomplished, she went to the rectory door and rang the bell.

  It was like living a dream.

  He was dressed in black slacks, shoes, and a white T-shirt. He was surprised to see her. He supposed this was his fault—that she had made the appointment but he had failed to recall it.

  She disabused him. She told him of going swimming and getting the keys. She did not mention the curfew; it just wasn’t relevant.

  She was sure he would have some reaction to the genuine fact that beneath her habit she was wearing a wet bathing suit. It was also a fact that she was chafed and miserable.

  Just here, according to her scenario, he was supposed to offer his shower and an opportunity to lose the wet swimsuit. Her heart raced in anticipation.

  “Well …” he said, and hesitated, as she’d planned. But instead of showing her to the bathroom and offering her a fresh towel, he began talking to her about the convent.

  It was only a matter of time, he predicted, before the Theresians would have to catch up with the post-Vatican Church. She herself was contributing to this progress by her very presence in the convent. And when, inevitably, the change came about, Perpetua would be there to celebrate the victory. All she had to do was persevere. He urged her to remember that divine lesson that she had learned at prayer: Stay the course. Don’t turn back.

  All the while he was talking, he seemed insensible of her uncomfortable condition.
r />   She felt like a balloon whose air was slowly escaping. It hadn’t worked. He had not caught her signal. It had gone well over his head.

  She was lost. All this time Rick Casserly had been her preserver. The only strength she had left was in his arms. Love seemed banned in her convent. She was starving from denial of compassion.

  Rick continued to extol the virtue of patience. But his words fell on a distracted mind. With great difficulty, she held back heated tears. She blinked some of them away, brushing the escaping ones aside with furtive gestures.

  Rick concluded his monologue by noting that he had to be getting over to church to prepare for Mass. As he let her out, he added one more pitch for restraint and prayer for her religious life. He assured her he would join her in that prayer.

  He shut the door and retreated to the back of the rectory. Thus he did not see the forlorn figure walking dejectedly to her car. He did not see her sitting in the car, shoulders shaking from gut-wrenching sobs.

  Now she was completely alone. Her final hope of finding a compassionate ear and a loving body had just been dashed. She was despondent and terribly, terribly depressed. The battle was over. Rules without humane mercy had won.

  She was in no condition to drive. Nevertheless, she turned the ignition and put the car in gear. She hoped she would not harm anyone as she drove. Other than that, she didn’t care.

  Seven

  Rick Casserly automatically prepared the church for the first of the weekend Masses.

  Light the candles. Don’t forget the Paschal candle. Turn the lights on—though on this bright, sunny day they were hardly needed. Check the microphones to make sure all are working.

  While he followed the familiar routine, his thoughts returned to his unexpected visitor.

  He was puzzled. It just didn’t make sense.

  Why would she lie about having an appointment with him? Just to go swimming? The two of them had talked of many things in the counseling sessions. Lots of extraneous subjects were discussed. Never once was there a mention of water sports.

  He had no notion how many layers of cloth went into a full religious habit. But he was pretty sure that there was room enough, if one were familiar with the garb, to wriggle out of a bathing suit without having to remove the habit.

  If that were true, why would she say she was wearing a wet bathing suit? Anyone wearing a wet suit under the bulk of that habit would have to be extremely uncomfortable. He’d thought it strange the moment she’d mentioned her discomfort.

  At the time, he almost suggested she use his shower. Once she was dry and the suit was removed, all would be well. He didn’t act on that thought because he instantly realized that course was fraught with danger.

  There was no doubt about it: The two of them by themselves in a rambling rectory could spell trouble. Of course that was always a possibility when Perpetua came for spiritual direction. However, the setting for those meetings had been structured to ensure decorum.

  But if they were alone and she was naked, look out!

  The thought took only a moment to materialize. By the time the thought became a temptation, he knew better than to start the ball rolling. That path led to disaster.

  For one thing, he was her spiritual guide. As part of that designation, he heard her confession during each visit. If they had sex—even once—it would destroy that relationship, Not only that: If they were to sin together and he absolved her, he would be automatically excommunicated—a sin reserved to the Pope for absolution. Which meant, among other things, that he would confess to a priest who would have to notify the Holy See of the sin—all the while preserving Rick’s anonymity. Absolution would be granted by a Vatican office acting in the name of the Pope. The penance demanded by Rome had been known to go as high as, “Father will cease acting as a priest and disappear.”

  All of that had flashed through Rick’s mind in the few seconds it took him to reject the very strong temptation to offer Perpetua his shower and a towel.

  As he went in a different direction, trying to convince her to keep a stiff upper lip and hang in there, he could see the tears welling in her eyes. He wasn’t reaching her despair and he knew it. He had the strongest urge to take her on his lap and just hold her. Let her cry it out.

  But that, he feared, would only return them to the shower and the towel.

  So, in effect, he did nothing. This day she had brought him a tortured soul. She took away with her a troubled mind, to go with the tortured soul.

  It had been no picnic for him either.

  He knew Perpetua as well as or better than anyone else. He liked her. He liked her a lot. It would not have taken much to move from platonic friendship to a romantic relationship.

  There had been sexual dalliances in his past. Nothing terribly serious. Inquisitive minds and responsive bodies; growing up experimenting with the opposite number.

  In the twenty-five or so years he’d been a priest he had never violated the chastity required of him. But it was getting harder rather than easier as the years passed. Deeper than the drive for sexual fulfillment was the need for companionship. He was lonely.

  Neither condition would have to last much longer if one could believe what was being written and bandied about. Almost anytime anyone mentioned the Catholic priesthood it was in reference to the priest shortage and the possibility of an optionally celibate clergy. That possibility seemed just around the corner. Eastern Uniate churches never had ruled against a married clergy. Most of their clergy were married. And their churches were in complete union with Rome.

  Then there was the latter-day phenomenon with some of the Protestant clergy, notably those of the Episcopal and Lutheran faiths. Some of their priests and ministers were requesting inclusion in the Catholic priesthood. And some were welcomed—along with their families. Someplace along the line it must occur to the Catholic Church at large that if some men from other sects are welcomed to function as priests along with their wives and children, the option should be open to everyone.

  Meanwhile men like Rick Casserly kept denying themselves the pleasure, comfort, and responsibility of married life.

  He did not think of this often. But an occasion like this, when a woman every bit as lonely as he came to him, drove the lesson home: He did not dare even hold her hand.

  The church was filling. Mass was scheduled to begin in just a few minutes.

  Soon he would have to focus on the church service. Especially his homily. He’d been at this a quarter of a century now—a long, long time. His sermon preparation was not as it once had been; he had so much experience that his sermons no longer needed the research and preparation that he’d given them in his early years.

  However, his recent conversation with Sister Perpetua had disquieted him. She had taken him unprepared and—he hated to admit it—he was confused. Had he handled her visit correctly? Both he and the nun admittedly were lonely people. He was supposed to guide her. The blind leading the blind.

  He was limping psychologically. He understood loneliness but lacked the integrity to lead someone out of that dark night. Just as he limped when counseling in marital situations. He had never lived in the demanding closeness of marriage.

  He felt he might correct this weakness by the simple process of getting married.

  But that was not to happen anytime soon. As much sense as a married clergy made, there was no indication that the present Pope was paying attention to the plea that sprang from clergy and laity combined. On the contrary, His Holiness was building walls around celibacy and the question of female clergy by trying to preclude even a discussion about these solutions.

  Father Casserly began to vest for Mass.

  One final distraction: Suppose he were free to marry, who would have him at his age? And, if he had a choice, whom might he select?

  These were such ridiculous questions that he could not help but chuckle.

  He was surprised by the name that came to his mind.

  He’d met her five or six years
ago. And he’d encountered her occasionally since. They had talked and seemed to enjoy their conversations. Really there was not much of anything beyond an innocent friendship. But she did seem to like him. And he certainly liked her.

  But the age difference was so great and their relationship had been so casual, that it seemed absurd even to think of such a thing.

  Nonetheless, Lillian Niedermier, second-grade teacher at St. Ursula’s school, was easy on his mind.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if something were to grow from this rudimentary relationship?

  It might solve some of his problems. On the other hand, it might create some for her. What were the odds?

  Astronomical.

  Sister Perpetua parked in the port reserved for the nuns’ car. She had no recollection of how she had gotten from Father Casserly’s rectory to what passed for home. But here she was and there had been no accidents. For this she was grateful.

  At least she was aware of one thing: The battle was over. Her days and nights with the Sisters of St. Adalbert’s were finished. She might just as well put her vocation out of its misery. She just wasn’t sure exactly how to do that. But it needed to be done, so, as she turned in the keys, she asked Mother Superior for a meeting.

  Instead of addressing the request, Mother said, “You were unusually long with your director. Never mind, we’ve still got time for the shopping.”

  She seemed to be dismissing Perpetua. But the nun didn’t budge.

  “I need to talk,” Perpetua said in a no-nonsense tone. “I need to talk to you now!”

  Mother removed her glasses and slid them into their case. “Very well, Perpetua. What is it?”

  Perpetua had not been invited to be seated. And in the Theresian order, one needed such an invitation. Otherwise one stood. She took the straight wooden chair opposite Mother.

  A thin smile passed quickly across Mother’s lips. Perpetua missed it entirely. From the tone of Perpetua’s voice and her presumption of sitting without permission to do so, Mother guessed that this was the end. Perpetua would not be broken to the Theresian mold. So it would be farewell, Perpetua. Either conclusion would have been acceptable; it did not much matter to Mother.