by Ann Warner
Absence of Grace
Ann Warner
Silky Stone Press
Silky Stone Press
Absence of Grace
Copyright 2012 Ann Warner
http://www.AnnWarner.net
Cover Art- Ann Warner
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical works or reviews.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
The End
Note to Readers
About the Author
Dedication
To my husband, partner, friend.
And to the real Mag who taught me how to cook and helped me become.
Acknowledgements
Many friends and relatives have been supportive of my career as a writer. It is the encouragement of these special people that has helped me through the many rough patches every writer encounters.
My heartfelt thanks!
Evelyn Bowman
Michael Bowman
Shauna Buring
Jayne Close
Eugene Coats
Barbara DeSalvo
Elizabeth Eichel
Gary Grunewald
Kay Hartsel
Lois Kupferberg
Jean Nichols
Charles Pippenger
Rose Reifenberger
Kathy Steele
Andrea Wall
Delores Warner
Daphne Wedig
Dennis Worthen
Patti Worthen
I also wish to acknowledge Jason Black, who saw more clearly than I did the story Absence of Grace needed to be and helped me to see it as well.
Chapter One
1962 - 1963
Colorado Springs, Colorado
“Hon...we need to talk.”
Her least favorite words, especially when they came from her mother.
“Michelle Marie, there’s something we...” The girl winced at the use of her given name, but that wince gave way to alarm at the sight of both her parents standing in the doorway to her bedroom.
Quickly, she reviewed the past month, searching for a transgression to explain their obvious distress. There was the paper airplane incident during honors English, but she’d already done her penance for that. So...could they have learned she planned to ditch the college wardrobe picked out by her mother with such love and determination? The boys had figured it out, and she’d threatened them with excruciatingly painful deaths if either of them said a word. Still, a clothes contretemps would hardly explain her father’s upset.
Her mom sat on her bed, while her dad hovered. “You know that fainting episode Josh had?”
Joshua hit a home run in his last Little League game, but he’d passed out crossing home plate. Very scary. But he was fine after he drank some water and sat in the shade awhile—so what was the problem?
Her father’s hand came to rest on her mother’s shoulder. “The doctors did some tests.” He drew in a breath. “Joshua has leukemia.”
Leukemia? It made her feel light and floaty, untethered, like that time she rode the roller coaster at Elitch’s and couldn’t stop shaking for an hour afterward. Joshua and Jason could be real pains. But that, after all, was younger brothers’ territory. She yelled at them sometimes. Okay, a lot. They were brats. But this...
Her throat tightened. “He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”
“Of course he is.” Her mother’s words sounded more incantation than certainty, and it didn’t help when her eyes filled with tears.
“What about Jase? Is he okay?”
“Of course,” her father said.
But there was no ‘of course’ about it. Joshua and Jason were identical twins.
“They were both tested,” her mother said. “Jason is fine.”
“I guess I better stay home. Not go to college.” They were the hardest words she had ever said. She’d been looking forward to college with a desperation she hadn’t admitted to anyone. Had barely admitted to herself. And that despite the fact Marymead, like her wardrobe and hairstyle, were more her mother’s choice than hers.
Her mother sat up straight and blew her nose. “Of course you’re going to college, Michelle. Joshua is going to be just fine.”
She should have felt relieved, but somehow she didn’t.
Marymead College - Mead, Kansas
She left for college on a Greyhound bus. It wasn’t the original plan, but her mother had to be in Denver for Joshua’s treatment, and her father couldn’t take the time off. In some ways, though, taking the bus made it easier to leave.
Despite the fact her mother wasn’t there, she still wore one of the outfits her mother had chosen. But at the dinner stop in Limon, she replaced the full-skirted dress with slacks and a tailored shirt. She also cut her hair, something she hadn’t had the heart to do before. Peering into the wavy mirror in the bus stop restroom, she did the best she could, although the result wasn’t even close to the pixie cut she’d envisioned. But then, she was no pixie.
The boys were the ones who’d inherited her mother’s delicate bone structure. She took after her father. In his case, tall and awkward was endearing. On her? Well, suffice it to say she made it all the way through high school without anyone asking her on a date.
When she climbed back on the bus, the driver frowned and asked to see her ticket. He examined it thoroughly before waving her aboard, still frowning. She accepted that lack of recognition as a sign her transformation was a success.
Since there was nobody in the seat beside her, she turned sideways and curled her feet under her. Bits of snipped hair had slipped down her neck, and they itched, making it difficult to doze off. Although that was okay, since she didn’t really want to sleep. Instead she wanted to savor this transition from past to future.
She looked around the bus, imprinting it on her memory—the dark interior with only a few reading lights illuminating dozing occupants—as the vibration of the engine settled into a steady rhythm on the flat road.
She ran fingers through her now short hair and looked toward the window, encountering there an image of herself overlaid on the darkness outside. An unexpected vision, that girl with her straight nose, lips neither thick nor thin, and jaw firmer than most. Her eyes, which appeared darker than they actually were, held in their depths a hint of both excitement and trepidation.
She fluffed what was left of her hair, staring at that girl, beginning to smile. Yes, at last. She looked like herself. Like Clen. Despite the itching, the steady hum of the tires eventually lulled her to sleep.
When the bus arrived in Mead, she stepped into the cool pre-dawn and stretched, savoring the feeling of delicious anticipation.
A man leaning on the door of a yellow cab straightened and ambled over. “You heading for the college, Miss?”
When she said she was, he loaded her suitcases in his trunk. Then he climbed in and looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Wasn’t sure you was a Marymead girl at first. Don’t look like one, that’s for sure.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement of her new look.
Suddenly nervous, she peered out the window as the taxi began the gradual climb from the downtown to the college. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it was light enough for her to see the pale bulk of Marymead’s main building, vaguely gothic and definitely churchy, looming over the town.
The cab pulled into the sweep of drive in front of that building. “They expecting you this early?” the driver asked as she paid the fare.
“I told them I was arriving on the morning bus.”
“Well, I expect you oughta just go ahead and ring the bell then. The good sisters get up early. Likely someone will hear.” He unloaded her suitcases then drove off.
When the bell wasn’t answered right away, she sat on the steps next to her things, readying herself to appear relaxed and confident to whomever appeared. After several minutes, the door creaked open and a tall slender nun dressed in garb as medieval in appearance as the building stepped out. Her face, framed by wimple and veil, was beautiful.
“Michelle McClendon?”
She cleared her throat and took a breath. “Clen. Everyone calls me Clen.” There. She’d done it. Finally. Told someone the name she’d chosen for herself.
The nun folded her hands within the flowing black sleeves of her habit and tipped her head. Then she nodded. “Clen. It suits you. Welcome to Marymead. I’m Sister Thomasina.”
“Like the cat.”
“Ah, a reader. Did you like Gallico’s story?”
“It was sad.”
“Yes, indeed it was.” Thomasina paused as if waiting for more, but Clen was suddenly too tongue-tied to add anything. The nun’s eyebrows twitched, giving her an amused look. “Breakfast is in an hour. Meanwhile, I suggest you unpack and change into something more appropriate.” She paused with a flicker of a frown. “You did review the orientation booklet? It gives details about what is acceptable dress.”
“Orientation booklet?”
“You didn’t receive it?”
She had been a college woman less than two minutes, and already she’d messed up. But with Joshua’s illness, none of the McClendon family had exactly been on top of things lately. Still it should have occurred to her a Catholic women’s college would have rules.
Lots of rules. And while her roommates got demerits for coming in late from dates or sneaking out at night during the week, Clen got them for leaving books sitting on her bed or for running to get to class on time. But most of her demerits were awarded for her continued flouting of the clothing canon.
Within a breathtakingly short time, she’d amassed a sufficient number to confine her to campus for the rest of the year. That was when Sister Thomasina sent for her.
“Clen.” Thomasina gestured toward the chair at the side of her desk. “What are we going to do with you?”
“Wouldn’t you rather be a nun than a nanny?” Popping off without thinking, her father called it, but when she saw Thomasina was struggling not to smile, she relaxed.
“Marymead’s rules are meant to help us live peacefully together.” Thomasina’s voice was mild.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand how leaving books on my bed or wearing slacks to class interferes with that peace. At least I made the bed and I’m not running around naked.” Clen was absolutely certain this time Thomasina was fighting back a smile.
“Well, if you wore a skirt, as the rules require, it would certainly make life more peaceful for Sister Angelica.” Thomasina tapped her fingers on the desk and examined Clen. “Do you know why we have rules about dress?”
“We are Christian young women.” Clen’s voice fell into a singsong chant. “Our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, therefore, we must clothe them with dignity and conduct ourselves with propriety.”
“I see you’ve finally read the orientation booklet.”
“But we aren’t nuns in training, you know. Besides, you can hardly hold yourselves up as fashion examples.”
“There’s a saying, when in Rome do as the Romans do.”
“Julius Caesar. Act two. Scene one.”
“You’re guessing, Clen, and not accurately.”
She knew she needed to cool it, but she was having too much fun. “So...does Sister Demonica’s peace trump the majority’s legitimate desire for more freedom?”
“Sister Demonica?”
“I think you’ll have to agree, Angelica is a misnomer. And anyway, isn’t peace in the eye of the beholder?”
Thomasina smiled, for real this time, and shook her head. The sharp movement made the starched band of white across her forehead dig in, leaving a red mark. “We still need rules, Clen. Although I will grant you, lots of things are changing.”
Thomasina had to be referring to the Second Vatican Council, currently in full swing in Rome and shaking up the lives of Catholics, both lay and religious.
“Perhaps it is time we reconsidered,” Thomasina said. “I don’t believe the rules have been updated since I was a student, and I’ll grant you, we didn’t keep all of them either.”
“Yet you became a nun, and now you have even more rules.”
That put a thoughtful look on Thomasina’s face. It emboldened Clen further. “So why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Become a nun.”
Thomasina stared past Clen out the window. “I came to a fork in the road, and this seemed the more...interesting path.”
“But are you happy?”
“I’m certainly happy more than I’m unhappy.”
“You must have some regrets, though. Didn’t you ever want to get married? Have children?”
“Everyone has or will have regrets.” Thomasina spoke slowly, and her expression altered to one of such melancholy, Clen regretted her impertinence.
For the first time she saw a nun as a woman rather than as a slightly alien being. But why would someone as beautiful as Thomasina choose a life that required her to wear thick black serge accessorized with bits of white starched to a painful stiffness?
“Did you do it to guarantee you’d get to heaven?”
“If I were living this life merely to earn a few gold stars, it’s unlikely I’d be happy even some of the time.”
“Perhaps you would.” Although really, Clen had no idea.
“If that were my reason, I’d spend all my time trying to decide if I was pious enough or doing sufficient good deeds. I’d be living a life ruled by shoulds and musts. I’d be miserable, and likely everyone around me would be as well.” Thomasina’s sorrowful expression had altered, and her words were once again crisply delivered. “Besides, I very much doubt God is keeping score.”
“Then it shouldn’t matter what we do.”
Thomasina gave her a long, steady look while Clen tried not to squirm. “There is one other thing you should have noted in your reading of the orientation booklet, Clen. Any student exceeding one hundred demerits in a semester is not allowed to return.”
At the rate she was acquiring them, one hundred was not going to present a problem—a thought that made Clen’s chest feel tight and sore.
“Is that what you want?”
“No.”
Thomasina leaned forward as if unable to hear her response.
Close to panic, Clen cleared her throat. “No.”
“Well then, let’s see if we can agree on something here. If I give you permission to leave campus, do I have your assurance you will buy appropriate clothing? Clothing you will wear for classes and meals?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to send you away, Clen. I believe you’re going to be good for Marymead, and I hope Marymead will benefit you, too.”
Clen left the meeting with Thomasina determined to stop getting demerits. She did want to stay at Marymead, despite her worries about how well Josh was doing.
She hadn’t told anyone about her brother, not wanting that to color all her interactions, although the only person observant enough to remark on Clen’s occasional bad days was Maxine. Maxine had also been the one who re-trimmed Clen’s hair, with a far superior result to what Clen had achieved. And so it was Maxine Clen consulted about the formal her mother had insisted she buy to attend Marymead dances.
“You may want to go to a dance sometime, you know,” Maxine said, shaking out folds of pink taffeta and tulle sprinkled with rhinestones.
