“It’s a waste of my time. I’m a nurse, darn it.” She slammed down the cards on the table. “The priests are really benevolent dictators. We’re supposed to be a team, but by now you must see who makes all the decisions around here.”
Kate was surprised by her outburst. She watched as Jeanne pushed her chair back from the table and got up to pace the room.
“And while I’m on the subject, there’s something else that bothers me about the priests down here. You may have noticed this in language school in Cochabamba. I sure did.” She looked at Kate a minute then went on. “Back in the States we never had anything to do with priests. But suddenly it’s fashionable to have friends of the opposite sex. Well, a lot of women are getting hurt. These friendships heat up, and the priest walks away when things get sticky. I’ve seen it a lot.”
Kate watched her for a moment and then spoke. “You can hardly put all the blame on the priests though. Don’t you think the nuns or volunteers—or whoever you’re talking about—share some responsibility?
Jeanne looked directly at her. “I think women who fall in love with priests are naive. They’re the ones who get hurt.” Then she gathered up the cards and said good night. Kate looked away, her face burning.
So Jeanne had seen something between Tom and her. Now there was no one to talk to. Loneliness closed in like the fog on the mountains. Now that she was back in the daily work of the parish, Coroico seemed like a dream. She relived those moments by the waterfall over and over, playing the scene in slow motion. Many nights she slept badly, waking up gasping for breath, as if she had been running. She had a hard time getting to sleep, and would lie in bed after night prayer reading the Chekhov stories until she nodded off. Once Sister Josepha asked her if she had been sick during the night. She had seen Kate’s light burning at three in the morning.
Kneeling in church before Mass, Kate would feel her stomach churn as she waited to see which priest would celebrate Mass. It was hardest when Tom came out. To see him at the altar stern and distant was always a shock. Then he would disappear into the campo for days at a time, and she would feel relief. She was glad for her classes. She forgot about everything when she was with her students.
In the middle of June she got sick. Her period the week before had been heavy and painful. She hardly ever got cramps, but this time she had to go to bed. Marta fussed over her all day, bringing cups of mate de coca which Kate would pour into the cactus plant on her windowsill, hoping it wouldn’t kill the plant. But when her period ended she felt worse. She was nauseated and weak. Her bowels rumbled, and she had to run to the bathroom down the hall all day. She felt guilty; poor Josepha had all the work to do now. Finally she began to feel better, but when she went outside, the glare of the sun in the courtyard hurt her eyes. Some nights, alone in her room, she couldn’t stop crying.
Kate began to be afraid. What was happening to her? Nothing felt real. The day before she ran away had not been different from any other day. Tom had said Mass as usual at six o’clock. When she went up to communion, she looked into his eyes as he placed the Host on her tongue. When his fingers brushed her mouth, she felt a knife thrust of desire. Gazing up at him through the flickering light of the candles, she knew she could not go on. She was living a great lie. He was a priest, and she was—what?
That night she took off her clothes and looked in the mirror. She didn’t recognize the haggard face. The body was the same, a little thinner, but tall and straight. She slid her nightgown over her head and arranged her things neatly for the next day.
Finally, she saw what she would do. She would go away from here. If she didn’t leave soon, something bad was going to happen. Tom mustn’t know. He would try to stop her. He would feel guilty, and for one sharp instant that thought gave her pleasure. She wanted him to be hurt too. His cheerfulness was maddening. Couldn’t he see what was happening to her?
She felt calm as she slipped between the covers. It would be easy to leave if she waited until noon when everyone was inside at lunch. Should she pack a bag? But that would draw attention. No, she would just slip out. It would be so much easier to think if she were away from him. She could figure it out. She was Kate O’Neill from St. Louis, Missouri, she thought, her eyes burning in the dark. She would know what to do if she could just think clearly. In the open spaces, she could breathe.
In her dream that night she and Tom were in a car that was headed up Art Hill in Forest Park. The trees were full and green. It was a summer night, and the car windows were open. Tom stopped the car and took her in his arms. But when she lifted her face to his, he turned away.
When she awoke her gown was soaking wet and she felt the dry cold of the winter morning like
