“Wait a minute. I want to say goodbye to the family I rode up here with.” She turns back to see the three of them watching her. She holds out her hand to the señora, who takes it in both of hers.
“I am so happy we met, madre. I can’t believe you really want to live up here. No hay nada.” She looks around the Plaza, slick with the cold winter rain.
Señor Molina bows over her hand, almost kissing it. “Pray for us all, madre,” and his eyes shift to his daughter. Kate sees the worried frown.
María Luísa holds her face up to be kissed, and Kate looks into the girl’s eyes as she embraces her. “Good luck in La Paz,” Kate says. “Maybe I will come see you at the school the next time I get to La Paz.”
The girl says nothing, staring at Kate and at Sister Jeanne who waits by the jeep. Finally the girl whispers, “Good luck to you. You will need it here.”
Kate lifts her habit and climbs into the jeep. Jeanne starts the car and thrusts a postcard at her. “I can’t believe it. You’ve been gone from us for only a week, and already you’re receiving mail from a strange man.”
Kate is grateful for the teasing tone. Obviously Jeanne has decided not to press her for the story of her journey, at least not yet. “This postcard is from an Englishman who lives near the Lake. I stayed in his house the first night I was gone. He gave me a ride to Arequipa.” Jeanne nods, but keeps her eyes on the road. Kate reads the card aloud: “Greetings from Lima. I’m at the airport about to leave for London, but the thought of you wandering around (with my stolen jacket) makes me a bit uneasy. I hope by now you have arrived at wherever it was you were going. Perhaps I’ll see you on my return. You’re welcome, Peter.”
“Stolen jacket?”
Kate sighs. “It’s a long story.”
“Save it for later. Sister Josepha and Father Jack are both pretty upset over the whole thing, so you’re going to have to do some explaining.” She glances at Kate. “I think I know why you left. It was Father Tom, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Kate finds she has trouble speaking.
“I tried to warn you.” Jeanne’s mouth is set in a tight line. She turns to Kate then. “I wish you had talked to me about what was bothering you.”
“I do, too, Jeanne. But maybe I had to figure things out for myself.”
“Are they all figured out?”
“Well, I have decided to leave the community.”
Jeanne says nothing for a moment. When she speaks, she stares straight ahead at the road. “Is he leaving the priesthood, too?” Kate hears the note of contempt Jeanne gives to the pronoun.
“No.”
There is a short silence while Jeanne swerves to avoid a flock of sheep at the side of the road. Kate tries to explain. “This is not about Tom, not directly, anyway. It’s about what I’ve discovered about myself, about who I really am.”
Jeanne says nothing. They drive on, and Kate can feel the sadness in her friend and her brave attempt to disguise it. She hasn’t thought about that—how the sisters would react to her decision. How selfish she’s been! Now she sees how her leaving for good will hurt them. It is the same pain she had felt as a novice years ago when someone left, a feeling of diminishment.
“Jeanne, I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with you or Sister Josepha. We’ve lived really well together, I think.”
“I thought so, too.” Jeanne’s voice is wistful, a little tired. She rallies. “When are you leaving?”
“Not until next year when my vows are up. I want to finish the year working here, that is if you all agree.” She stops. Maybe the nuns wouldn’t want her here anymore after what had happened.
“Good.” Jeanne’s tone is brisk. “There’s lots to do around here, and you were just starting to be useful.” She looks over at Kate. “Besides, maybe you’ll change your mind. Father Tom has gone home, you know. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back.”
“I know.” Kate stares out the window.
They are at the edge of Lake Titicaca now, and the rain has passed. Wispy clouds linger over the hills in the distance. Then Kate sees them. Her hand clamps Jeanne’s arm on the steering wheel.
“Jeanne, stop the car. Look at those people over there.”
“What are you talking about?” Jeanne stares at her and then looks out the window.
“Over there. See that group of people. They’re dancing. Can’t you hear the music?” Kate is already opening the door. Jeanne slows to a stop and pulls the jeep off the road. Kate jumps out and strides across the field toward the group gathered on the shore of the lake.
Off to the right are the musicians, eight or nine men in the chill Andean morning, with their flutes and drums, their long reed pipes. The music wails, a plaintive melody that tells of suffering and loss. But over its insistent rhythm hovers a note of joy, a steady driving flight toward bliss. Against the deep blue water of the Lake, steam rising off it from the morning’s rain and glistening in the emerging sun, the men and women dance. They are in a circle and the women twirl their full skirts, weaving among the men who call out to them, whistling and stamping their feet. Six women and four men dancing in the cold Andean morning, with no audience except the geese that fly low over the Lake and veer off at the sound of the flutes. She stands watching for a long time, the music rising and falling but never ending, the men and women tirelessly spinning at the lonely edge of the world.
A
cknowledgments
