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
