Waiting to Believe (5 page)

Kenneth felt a flash of impatience. He nodded his acceptance but hurried on with his news. “I want a Mass said on Sunday in celebration of Kacey's calling!” He laid ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills on the table between them. O'Hearn watched him, smiling broadly.

Kenneth took the sherry and proceeded to retell the story, leaving out parts of his discussion with Kacey in the barn.
Too much information
,
he told himself.

“I had no idea, Kenneth,” the priest said as he picked up the bills and placed them between the pages of the Aquinas book.

“Oh, I can't believe that,” Kenneth responded. “Surely she's talked to you about it!”

“No. No, she hasn't.” Father O'Hearn rose from his chair and walked to the window. He folded his arms across his chest. “One would think she would have. But, of course, I'm pleased. Very pleased! She'll make a dandy sister, Kenneth!” He raised his glass to Kenneth. “And congratulations to you!”

Kenneth smiled broadly, “Thank you, Tim. I'm blessed!” He flushed. “I am blessed.”

Fifteen-year-old Bridget was a whirlwind of contradictions. At once dismissing the loss of Kacey as inconsequential in her own life, but within minutes, railing against God and against Kacey for this theft that left her and the other children without their buffer in the world.

“Wanna help me dig potatoes, Bridg?” Kacey asked as she headed for the kitchen door. “Goes twice as fast with two diggers.”

Bridget was sitting at the kitchen table, a bowl of corn flakes in front of her. “No, I don't want to help! Do it yourself! We'll have to do everything when you're gone!” She pushed back her chair and stood.

“Oh, Bridg, c'mon. Don't be that way! You'll be fine. Everyone will be just fine,” Kacey crooned, crossing the room to embrace her sister.

But Bridget would have none of it. Whirling out of reach, she went to the kitchen window, staring out. “Isn't that easy for you to say? What do you know about what it'll be like?”

“This is something I've got to do, Bridget! It hurts to leave you, but honest, I just have to do this.”

Bridget grabbed a dishtowel lying on the counter and threw it at Kacey with all her might. It fluttered to the floor. “No, you don't! You don't
have
to do this! It's not about God! It's about getting away from here!” She flew out the back door, running toward the tool shed. Kacey watched her for a moment and then slowly went after her, her heart leaden with her sister's misery and her own fear.

Bridget sat on an overturned milk crate. She cradled her head in her folded arms. Sobs wracked her little body. Squatting in front of her, Kacey murmured into her hair, “Shush, shush, shush.” At length, the sobbing subsided, and Kacey could feel the tension easing from Bridget's body.

“Don't go, Kacey, don't go . . .” Bridget whimpered softly.

Thirteen-year-old Gerald thought of sex as he pondered Kacey's decision. He had been a stealthy observer during some of Kacey and Greg's after-dark hours on the porch swing, taking his stolen glimpses and turning them into his own fantasies, always imposing another face on the breathless girl in his imagined embrace. Now he wondered if Kacey and Greg had actually “done it.”
If they had
, he asked himself,
how could Kacey think of never doing “it” again
?

Gerald liked Greg. Now he was not only losing Kacey, he was also losing Greg. Why would Kacey give him up? In his heart, he thought her selfish. Outwardly, he was sullen and withdrawn.

Only Maureen seemed caught up in the drama of Kacey's decision. Her sense of the romantic flew in the face of the realities. Her questions were endless:
Is it true that nuns stop getting their periods? Will they teach you to glide instead of walk, or does that just come naturally over time? What if you toot during those big silences?

She watched as Kacey laced up the stiff black shoes they had gotten for her. “Will you really have to wear those clodhoppers?” she asked.

Maureen's reaction was unnerving. Kacey was glad she hadn't told her about the boy's T-shirts she would be wearing under her habit, instead of a bra. It was, indeed, quite a wardrobe for the bride of Christ.

Sometimes wise beyond her fourteen years, Maureen now sensed her older sister's unease and tried to lighten the moment. Bouncing off the bed, she grabbed Kacey in a dance pose, twirling her around. “Well, who cares? You won't be going dancing!”

Joseph, still moping, leaned against the doorway. “I don't see what's so funny,” he said quietly, easing into the room and onto Kacey's bed. He needed to soak up as much of his beloved sister as he could.

“Who says it's funny? This is serious business!” Maureen teased.

But Kacey's heart went out to him. She sat down next to him on the bed and began to rub his back. These days, he dogged her every step, as if he could will her not to go. He even reminded her to trim his nails; normally she'd have to go looking for him, but now he willingly surrendered.

“Do cowboys cut their fingernails?” Joseph had asked Kacey when she held his chubby right hand for the Saturday night ritual. She remembered it well. She had smiled down at her baby brother. “Of course they do!” Then she added, teasingly, “Well, some of them do . . .”

“I think Hopalong Cassidy does,” Joseph responded. “He always looks awfully clean.”

Kacey tried to suppress a grin. “Yep, he sure does. From his white hat right down to his shiny boots.”

Joseph extended his left hand. “Well, do you think they go to church? Like, do you think Hopalong cuts his fingernails Saturday night, like we do, to get ready for church?”

Kacey paused. “Hard to say, Buckaroo. We don't even know if he's Catholic . . .”

Somehow life went on in the Doyle household, as the countdown to the convent continued. Perhaps not surprisingly, it was Rose who stopped at the calendar every night on her way up to bed, marking off the days before her daughter would leave.

10

The sound of the ailing muffler sputtering up the long driveway was unmistakable. Kacey looked up from the stove where her pot of tomatoes was stewing. She watched through the window as Greg slowed to a halt.

Weeks had gone by since they had seen one another. Kacey's world had diminished in size over the summer. She'd busied herself at the farm, with the family.

She was the object of great speculation among her classmates. She felt their questioning gazes when they met at the drive-in or the ball field. She felt their awkwardness. They didn't know how to talk to her, though they wanted to do right by her. It was more comfortable for Kacey to stay home, where she felt loved, if not understood.

Greg saw her watching him through the window. His smile was sad as he waved. Stepping through the doorway to meet him, she walked into his gentle embrace. “I had to say good-bye, Kace.”

“Off to Indiana?”

“Yep. The folks are taking me in the morning. I'm all packed and raring to go.”

They moved to the porch swing. “You got your first choice. I've never known anyone who got into Notre Dame.”

“We're even, then. I never knew anyone who went into the convent.”

Kacey poked him in the shoulder. She wanted desperately to make it easy between them. “That's not true! You knew Melinda Harrison, when we were in junior high.”

“Yeah, but I didn't love her.”

“Greg . . .”

“It's okay. I just wanted to tell you one more time, I guess. I won't forget you, Kace.”

She would probably never be alone with him again. Somehow that knowledge robbed her of any ability to speak of their past.

Her head filled with the sounds and smells of her home: from an upper bedroom, the soft wail of Peter, Paul and Mary—“Blowin' in the Wind”; the sweet aroma of roses on the trellis; the lingering scent of tomatoes on her fingers. And her heart. She could almost hear the beat of her heart.

“Dad'll want to say good-bye. He's down in the barn.” She rose quickly, holding out her hand.

Kenneth and Gerald were working side by side, cleaning the stalls. They stopped as Kacey and Greg appeared. “Greg!” Kenneth called out, clapping him on the shoulder as he shook his hand. “I was hoping you'd stop by! Father O'Hearn told me you're leaving for Notre Dame this week.”

“Tomorrow morning. My folks are taking me.”

Gerald leaned on his shovel. “You're not gonna be a priest, are you?”

“Nope. I'm going to be a capitalist.”

“What's that?”

“I'm going to major in business.” Greg reached out with both hands, ruffling Gerald's shaggy hair.

Kenneth grinned. “And a fine businessman you'll be! Just don't let those East Coast firms lure you away when you're done. You're needed here!”

“Oh, I think my time in Minnesota is behind me now, Mr. D. I doubt I'll come back home.”

Kacey felt discomfort at the conversation. Greg put his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward the door. The four walked to his truck. Kenneth reached out his hand again, grasping Greg's firmly, shaking it longer than Kacey thought he should. “I don't like to hear that, Greg. You stop by whenever you're home.” Kenneth gave a wave over his shoulder as he stepped onto the back porch.

Gerald didn't like saying good-bye. But finally, with false enthusiasm, he gave Greg a sharp jab in the arm, “So long, Greg, it's been real!”

Kacey stood in silence, hands on the open car window frame, as Greg turned the key in the ignition. It was time for him to go.

The squeak of the fourth floorboard beyond the bathroom door was the signal that someone was coming down the hall toward Kacey's room. Kacey lay alone in the darkened room, waiting to see who turned up.

Rose stood in the doorway. “Kacey? You awake?”

“C'mon in, Mom.”

Rose slipped in, closing the door behind her. Kacey patted the empty side of the bed, and Rose sat down. “I hear Greg stopped by. Sorry I missed him.”

“Yeah, he came to say good-bye. He's leaving in the morning.”

“Two more days, and it'll be you.”

“Yep.”

“I always thought maybe you and Greg would, you know, end up together.” Rose spoke hesitantly. Gnawing silence hung between them. Finally Rose took a breath, and when she spoke again her voice came with greater urgency. “It's not too late to change your mind, Kacey! You don't have to be with Greg. I mean, you could go to the U—or St. Catherine's!” The words were tumbling out. “Oh, Kacey . . .” she implored as she reached out a trembling hand to touch Kacey's cheek.

Kacey took her mother's hand and held it gently in both of hers. “I've decided, Mom. This is what I want.”

“But I know your father's pushing—”

“This isn't about Dad. It's what I want. Please, Mom, drop it.”

Rose shuddered at the authority in Kacey's voice. She slumped. “I just want you to keep an open mind.”

Kacey could sense, though not see, tears spilling from her mother's eyes, but she knew she could offer no comfort.