The older nun’s pale blue eyes regarded her serenely. She continued to rub the chalice briskly as she waited for Kate to go on. “Why, Sister, what is it?”
“I think . . . no, I have fallen in love with someone. I’ve tried so hard to fight it. I’ve prayed, I’ve asked God to help me through this, but nothing seems to work.”
Sister Josepha did not look at her, but smiled slightly as she buffed the golden chalice. “Why, Sister, surely you’re not surprised at being human? Men and women fall in love all the time. Remember, our feelings are never sinful; we can’t help them. It’s what we do with them that matters.” At this she put down the chalice and looked directly at Kate. “May I ask who is the object of your feelings?”
In Sister’s tone was a hint of laughter; Kate flushed. How could her superior make light of what was to her a source of agony?
“It’s Father Tom.” Kate’s tightly clenched fists rested on the wooden work table. In the silence that followed her admission, she did not look to see the other nun’s reaction.
Sister Josepha broke the silence in the sacristy by clearing her throat and saying dryly: “I confess, I never would have guessed him.”
“Why not?” Kate was eager now to talk about Tom.
“Father is—how shall I put this—rather distant; even cynical, I might add. He’s a good priest, extremely dedicated to the people. But there’s a wall around him. I always thought he had little use for nuns. I believe he finds us slightly ridiculous.” The older nun turned to face Kate squarely. “Look, dear, you know what you have vowed. You’re still in temporary vows, so this experience of struggle is healthy. But in the end only you can decide. I will pray each day for you.” As she gazed at Kate, her eyes softened. “I’d hate to lose you, Sister. You have a magnetic personality that draws others to you. This is God’s gift, and I hope you decide to continue to use it in His service.” Brusquely, she gathered up the chalices and placed them in the cupboard. She locked the small doors and hooked the large circle of keys on her cincture, unconsciously giving them a little house-wifely pat.
Kate knew she was dismissed. Well, at least she had finally told someone. Sister Josepha didn’t refer to their conversation again, but two nights later Kate found a book on her bed, The Gift of Chastity, when she turned on the light after evening prayers. Great, a book to give me all the answers. I’d probably do better to re-read Anna Karenina. Books had always been her great treasure, but somehow Kate knew the answer to her dilemma would not be found in a book.
Now in the quiet of the still-dark church Kate gazes at the far-away altar. It is decorated in the ornate, baroque style that Spaniards loved. The sanctuary lamp gleams steadily, suspended in a silver wheel above a side altar of the Virgin. She kneels, burying her face in her hands. Startled by the creak of a door, she looks up and sees an old man in a long black cassock shuffle in from a side entrance near the altar. With great effort he lights the six tall candles on either side of the altar. One by one the flames catch, flicker weakly, and then settle into a steady glowing flame. The old man works slowly, stopping often to cough, to adjust his robe. Finally, he heads down the aisle, swinging a brass circlet of keys at his side. Kate waits for him to notice her, and tries to think what she will say. But with a great rasping of sliding bolts and squeaking of wood he unlocks the wooden doors, and for an instant the strong morning sun illuminates millions of dust motes in the air.
One by one people enter. Thin, elegant ladies in black mantillas, women with babies on their backs, a few businessmen, all cross themselves on the threshold and head for a statue to light a candle or whisper prayers to their favorite among God’s saints. Mass would begin soon, she thinks; she better leave before the priest notices her, an out-of-place American nun.
Kate genuflects quickly and steps out into the freshness of the morning, her mouth dry and stale, her body stiff from the hard bench she slept on. She follows two women carrying baskets down a side street and soon comes to the open-air market. She buys two hard rolls, a banana, and a cup of coffee, and then sits on a bench in a nearby square to eat her breakfast. Carefully she folds the precious soles Peter has left her and tucks them securely in the deep pocket sewn into the skirt of her habit.
After her breakfast she rinses her mouth in the fountain nearby. The water, smelling of copper, has a metallic taste. Uncertain what to do now, she looks around the square and notices a bus rumbling by, covered with dust, packed with campesinos. It must have just come in from the mountains. She stops a group of schoolboys, their brown packs strapped to their backs. They are dressed in the short white coverall jackets worn by public-school children.
“Con permiso, niños. Me pueden dirigir a la estación de autobus?”
“Oh yes, madre.” They grin, obviously happy to use their hard-won English. “The bus is over there. Yes, over there,” they point excitedly to the far corner of the plaza.
“Thank you,” she smiles, not wanting to leave these boys with ruddy faces and dark, shining eyes.
“Yourrr welcome,” they shout in chorus. They make Kate homesick. They remind Kate of her old neighborhood and the kids of St. Roch’s. How in the world has she landed here? She is Kate O’Neill, Tim and Mary’s daughter. She quickens her pace and holds up her head as
