“Thanks, Sister. What time is it?”
“It’s almost eight. I’ll be back for lunch and then we’ll drive out to Ancón.”
“Is there anything I can do this morning? I need to pay for my room and board.”
“Ask Teresita. There might be some vegetables to cut up. Oh, you could always do some ironing. These skirts and blouses are supposed to be wash and wear, but we don’t like to wear them without ironing them. I’ll see you later.” A minute later Sister pokes her head in again. “I forgot to tell you that Pilar is bringing over a bag of clothes that some of the better-off ladies of the parish have donated to the clinic. Pick out a couple of things to wear at the beach. There might even be a bathing suit in there. I can’t imagine swimming at this time of year, but you may be tempted to go in.”
She disappears again, and Kate stretches and settles back down under the covers. This feels wonderful—she might stay in bed all morning. She dozes off and awakes to the scent of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. She dresses quickly and hurries down to the kitchen to greet Teresa, the Chinese woman who has been the sisters’ cook since they came to Peru.
When Teresa sees Kate dressed in the simple skirt and blouse and small veil of the nuns, her eyebrows go up only a fraction. She says, “I didn’t know when you would be coming down, so I just left everything out for you except the milk.” Her voice is clipped and she keeps her back to Kate as she speaks.
“Corn flakes—I haven’t had any corn flakes in a year.” Kate knows her cheer is forced, but she chatters on to Teresa as if there is nothing strange about her unexpected appearance in the house. The cereal tastes wonderful, crunchy and fresh, and Kate thinks of home, the kitchen on Waterman Avenue with the plants hanging in the window and her father’s motto over the sink: “Work is the curse of the drinking class.” He still thinks it is funny and points it out to her every time she comes home.
When Pilar, the Peruvian social worker, comes over later in the morning, Kate is struck by her beauty. She is tall, with skin the color of cinnamon. Her features are Aymara, her straight dark hair coiled high on her head. Her dark, heavily rimmed eyes slant upwards. In a low, sweet voice she says, “I understand someone over here needs some clothes for the beach.”
She is teasing her, and Kate finds that she doesn’t mind it at all. They pick through the clothes together, laughing as Kate holds a tweed suit up to her body, and then a long, slinky red dress.
“I guess this would do if I went out in the evening,” Kate says.
Pilar lights a cigarette and crosses her legs. “I think I had better go with you as a chaperone, Sister. You would be dangerous in that dress.”
Kate laughs and tosses the dress back in the box. She chooses a pair of faded jeans and a navy blue sweater, along with a couple of men’s shirts. “What I really need is a pair of sandals.” She rummages through the clothes. “Aha, a nice pair of tennis shoes.” She tries them on and admires her foot in the red canvas shoe. “They’re Keds. I haven’t had a pair of these since I went to the convent.”
Squashing out her cigarette in a brass plate nearby, Pilar gets up and smooths her skirt down to mid-thigh. “Sister, I adore all the nuns. But I have never in my life understood what in the world would make a woman want to live like this.”
“Like what?” Kate sees her looking around the living room.
“In a house with a bunch of women.” Pilar pauses and grins up at Kate. “Without men,” she whispers.
Kate hands the bag back to Pilar and watches as she makes her way down the steps of the convent, her hips swaying. Watching her, Kate feels awkward, boyish. No one would ever mistake Pilar for a boy. Now Kate realizes how in the convent, sexiness has been trained out of her. Day after day in the convent she had learned to move and to walk like a lady—“like Queen Elizabeth,” the novice mistress would say. As new novices, they were trained to cross their ankles only, never their knees, and to walk with a glide. They were to practice custody of the eyes, keeping them lowered instead of staring about hungrily at the world. As Kate takes the clothes upstairs, she practices swinging her hips. Then she laughs to herself and feels lighter than she has since she’d come to Lima. Maybe the fog is lifting.
That afternoon as Sister Domitia drives to Ancón, a few miles north of Lima, the sun comes out and heat beats down on the van. They pass an area of one-story villas, partially hidden behind white stone walls. The waves boom steadily against tall rocks, a blue-green swirling mass. When Sister turns the van into a long driveway lined with olive trees, Kate is surprised. “How did the Maryknoll priests ever get a place like this?”
“Oh, I think it was a donation from an American couple who had lived here a long time. It’s used quite a lot, I think. We’ve never stayed here, of course. It’s supposed to be for people like you who are fatigued by the altitude in the Altiplano. Well, let’s go in and get you settled. I want to get back before it gets dark. I don’t like driving alone.”
“Thanks for bringing me. I’m grateful to you, Sister.” She’s been a lot of trouble for everybody lately.
They are met at the front door by Carlos and Rene, the caretakers. Carlos takes the small canvas bag with the few clothes Kate has brought. Rene
