Saint Training (16 page)

“There hasn’t been violence for days, and with the National Guard here there won’t be. Besides, we’re going to the Pfister Hotel, the ritziest in town. We’ll be fine.” He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know how those nuns can afford such opulence.”

When they arrived at the hotel, a Negro man in a fancy uniform took Dad’s car keys. Mary Clare’s eyes grew wide.

“It’s okay,” Dad laughed. “He’s the valet. He’ll park the car for us and bring it back when we’re ready to leave.” Mary Clare slipped into her mother’s white gloves and found that she was trembling as she followed her father into the fancy hotel. She told herself that with all the really important things happening in the world it was silly to be so nervous about meeting a mother superior. But it didn’t work. She used to quake in front of Sister Agony, and a mother superior was a much higher authority.

Dad placed a protective arm on Mary Clare’s shoulder, then stopped her just inside the lobby, where he leaned down and almost whispered in her ear. “After I meet the Mother Superior,” he said, “I plan to give you two some privacy. But I’ll stick close by, so don’t be nervous.”

Mary Clare smiled her thanks. She took in the huge lobby with its ornate chandeliers, grand wooden staircases, and Victorian furniture. There were fireplaces and several sitting
areas with Queen Anne chairs, like the one her dad had picked up from an estate sale. But there was nothing tattered about these chairs. The seats were velvety and maroon.

Dad nudged her. Mary Clare looked up to discover a white-clad nun approaching her. It had to be Mother Monica.

I
recognized you by your curly hair,” Mother Monica said, smiling.

Mary Clare automatically reached up to flatten the mound of hair that was ever-growing in this humidity. She wanted to run but smifed faintly instead. “I recognized
you
by your habit.”

Mother Monica and Dad seemed to think her remark was funny, so Mary Clare joined them in laughter.

Mother Monica was different from what Mary Clare had pictured. She was taller, older, thinner. She had a square jaw and bold brown eyes that looked Mary Clare over sharply. When Mother Monica extended a firm hand to shake Mary Clare’s, her handshake was solid. Mary Clare tried to match the shake, but her palm was damp and her hand still trembled. She was disgusted with herself.

“We can meet over there.” Mother Monica ushered them toward an area in the lobby that contained a settee, a Queen Anne chair, and one overstuffed green chair. She helped herself to the Queen Anne chair, looking like royalty herself with her perfect posture and authoritative face.

“Please don’t think that this”—she motioned to the chandelier and beautiful furnishings everywhere—“represents how
we live, Mary Clare. Our stay here was paid for by a donation from a generous man who loves this hotel.” Mother Monica turned to Mary Clare’s father, who had taken the easy chair next to her, leaving the little velvet settee for Mary Clare and her purse.

“Several convents in our order are meeting here tonight and tomorrow to look at possible changes in our habits,” Mother Monica said to Dad.

Dad smiled. “Are you ready for such a change?”

“Not at all,” Mother Superior said. “I’m quite fond of our habits. But as Mary Clare would say, I’m old-fashioned. The younger nuns find them cumbersome for the work we do, caring for infants and cooking.” She sighed. “Tending our gardens while wearing white is no small feat either.”

Mary Clare looked at Mother’s long billowy sleeves. She couldn’t imagine weeding in a habit.

“The nuns who do the laundry and iron every day find the habits especially annoying.”

Mary Clare hid her shock. The image of nuns filling baskets with vegetables from the garden had seemed quaint somehow. But nuns doing laundry and ironing? She had thought that by becoming a nun she’d escape mundane household chores. She’d pictured herself doing important things like counseling the young mothers to save their souls and choosing good families for the babies. She certainly didn’t want to join a convent to do more housework. And she’d have no choice. When she was a lowly postulant and novice, and for all the years it took her to become mother superior, Mother Monica could assign her any chore she saw fit.

Dad shook his head. “It’s hard to keep up with all the changes,” he said. “It’s a new world.” He moved to the end of his seat. “Reverend Mother,” he said, “I’ll excuse myself so that you
two can get to know each other better.” He nodded to a table across the lobby. “I’ll be right over there.”

He stood.

Mother Monica stood.

Mary Clare didn’t know if she should stand or sit. She remained seated and gave her father a nervous wave good-bye.

Mother Monica patted the empty chair next to her. “Sit closer,” she said.

Mary Clare obeyed. But her mind went blank. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

Mother Monica offered her a warm smile. “How was your trip from Littleburg?”

“Fine, thank you.” Mary Clare’s voice squeaked.

“Were you nervous about the racial tension?”

“Sort of,” Mary Clare admitted. But when she thought of the Bishop’s speech her anxiety was replaced with excitement. “We listened to Archbishop Cousins on the radio, and he was
wonderful.”

Mother Monica nodded soberly. “I saw it on television,” she said, and sighed.

Mary Clare waited for Mother to say more about the speech, but she was looking over Mary Clare, distracted by something in the lobby. Mary Clare turned in time to see two young nuns hurrying toward them. They seemed lit up with excitement, especially the fair-skinned one with the rosy cheeks. The other nun—a Negro—seemed more contained.

“We’re very sorry to disturb you, Reverend Mother,” the rosy-cheeked one said.

“Yes, very sorry,” the Negro nun said. It had never occurred to Mary Clare that there might be Negro nuns.

“Mary Clare, this is Sister Grace,” Mother Superior said, nodding toward the rosy-cheeked one. “And this is Sister Miriam.”

The nuns extended their hands and Mary Clare shook them.

“We’ll talk over there,” Mother Monica said, nodding toward a Victorian-style table and chairs next to one of the fireplaces. The nuns waved to Mary Clare and followed her.

“Go ahead,” Mother Monica said. Mary Clare could hear without even trying to be nosey.

“We have an incredible opportunity, Reverend Mother,” Sister Grace said. “Father Groppi is going to lead a march today from St. Boniface to the safety building—a police station and jail—and several of us would like to join them.”

“No,” Mother Monica said, barely waiting for Sister Grace to complete her sentence. “I cannot permit it.”

Mary Clare was so shocked she forgot to pretend she wasn’t listening. She looked at the two disappointed nuns and at Mother Monica’s stern face. The Mother Superior towered over the two young nuns. Her chin jutted out as if she was offended by their request. Sister Grace looked down at her feet, but Sister Miriam didn’t flinch. “It would mean a great deal to me, Reverend Mother,” she said. “They’re protesting unfair housing. All my life I’ve wanted—I want to help make a difference.”

“I understand, Sister Miriam,” Mother Monica said in a cool voice that didn’t really sound understanding. “But I will not put you or any of my Sisters in harm’s way.”

Sister Grace opened her mouth to say something but Mother Monica raised a hand, demanding silence. “And I won’t contribute to the image of the Religious as radicals who stir up trouble. Surely that is not why you became nuns.”

During the long silence that followed, Mary Clare could barely stay seated. She picked at a loose thread on one of the arms of her chair. Anger consumed her. She wanted to jump up and argue that the nuns wouldn’t be in any more danger than Father Groppi and the brave protesters who had the courage to
stand up for equality. She wanted to tell Mother Monica that Religious should fight for justice, and taking a stand only looked bad to people who didn’t care about justice. This was the same Mother Superior who’d been kind to her—told her not to worry so much about sins, sympathized when Mom was pregnant and when she lost the baby. Now she seemed so cold.

“Reverend Mother, I believe that protesting wrongs
is
serving God,” Sister Miriam said.

“That’s possible,” Mother Monica said, “but Mary Magdalene Convent won’t participate. We serve God through the work we do with unwed mothers and their babies.”

“Reverend Mother,” Sister Miriam said.

Mary Clare would have loved to hear what she had to say but Mother Monica stopped the conversation cold. “Thank you, Sisters,” she said. That was all. That was the final word.

Mary Clare could hear the rustling of their habits as the two nuns walked away. She peeked up at them and found their faces to be as desolate as she felt.

When Mother Monica returned to her chair, she looked pale and exhausted, as if the brief conversation she’d had with the Sisters had drained her of every ounce of energy. Yet she managed a smile for Mary Clare.

Mary Clare could not return the smile. She looked from Mother Superior’s face to the purse she was holding on her lap, hoping to hide her anger. But Mother Monica knew.

“So, you heard my conversation with the Sisters,” she said.

“I didn’t mean to,” Mary Clare said.

“Of course you did,” Mother Monica said. “You want to know all there is to know about being a nun—and especially about being a mother superior. Besides, we weren’t all that far away.”

Mary Clare could hear the smile in Mother Monica’s voice. She nodded reluctantly.

“And you didn’t like what I had to say.”

“I don’t understand,” Mary Clare said carefully. But when she saw that Mother Monica expected her to say more, a dam burst inside of her. “How can you say no to the nuns when the protest is so important? How can you think that the nuns and priests protesting for justice make the Church look bad? I think it shows that the Church cares about all people. Religious like Father Groppi and Archbishop Cousins help Catholics see that we have a responsibility to do the right thing. Your sisters just wanted to help with an important cause. You called it rabble-rousing, but I think it’s just helping people wake up.”

“The role of the Church is to bring people to God, not to fight the government, Mary Clare.” Her words were slow and patient.

“Are you sure?” Mary Clare didn’t even pause to consider that she was talking to a mother superior. “Father Groppi and Archbishop Cousins think it’s important for Religious to take a stand. What I don’t understand is why would God tell you one thing and tell Father Groppi and Archbishop Cousins something else?” Mary Clare was shaking again.

Mother Monica didn’t respond. She looked even more exhausted than before.

Something caught in Mary Clare’s throat and she couldn’t go on. She let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, and with it came tears she didn’t even try to control.
Mother Monica should know the answer,
she thought.
With her position in the Church she should be able to hear God clearly. When she tells the nuns what to do, it should come right from God.
But judging from Mother Monica’s face, it was clear that mother superiors didn’t know everything.

“Do you think there is only one way, one truth, one answer?” Mother Monica asked.

“Of course,” Mary Clare said. It was a silly question. “And one
God,” she added. But she remembered then what Becky Turner’s mom had said when she tried to convert Becky to Catholicism because it was the true religion. “Everybody thinks they have the true religion,” she had said. She bit the inside of her mouth and felt her shoulders slouch involuntarily. Everything was so confusing.

“One God, of course,” Mother Monica said. “But what if there are many answers, many truths that all exist together like different colors of the same rainbow? All I can do, Mary Clare, is pray, and listen to my heart for what God wants.”

Mary Clare liked the image—all those beautiful colors, reflecting from the same source but all beautiful and all moving in the same direction.

Mary Clare sat. Mother Monica sat. It seemed that neither of them could think of anything to say.

After a while something occurred to Mary Clare and she couldn’t stop herself from saying it out loud. “You don’t hear God any clearer than other people, do you?” She hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation, but it did.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how other people hear God. I hear by listening to my heart.”

Mary Clare felt the fire of her convictions flare inside her once again. “But if I listen to my heart I come up with different answers.”

“Yes, I know. If you were Mother Superior, you would have told the Sisters to march, and you would have marched right with them.”

Silence.

“And what would you have done if you were a Sister under me, and I told you not to protest?”

Mary Clare held her eye contact with Mother Monica. “I would have done everything I could to change your mind.”

Mother’s eyes were smiling but she held her chin firm. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?” Her voice softened. “And if you didn’t succeed in changing my mind?”

Mary Clare lowered her eyes. She held her jaw tight to prevent the truth from slipping out, the truth that both of them knew. The truth that Mary Clare could not take a vow of obedience. The truth that knowing this, Mother Monica would never accept her into St. Mary Magdalene Convent. Mary Clare hugged herself against the hurt. She had failed, failed, failed.

Suddenly Mother Monica laughed. “My dear,” she said. “If you were in my convent I’m afraid you’d spend half your time doing penance for your strong will and spunkiness.”

Mary Clare didn’t think this was funny. She wished that she could be obedient. She wished that she could believe that Mother Monica knew God’s will for her and simply follow that will without questioning, thinking, searching for truth on her own. It would be so much easier to have someone guide and take care of her.

“Then you’d probably quit on me and—who knows?—start your own convent.”

Mary Clare lifted her head and leaned forward. This was something she had thought of before. “Like Saint Clare,” she said. “She started her own convent with the help of St. Francis.”

Mother Monica’s eyes widened as she saw that Mary Clare had taken her seriously. “Or you could just do wonderful things as a layperson,” Mother Monica said, quickly recovering from her shock. “You could have a career or become a wife and mother.”

“Or both,” Mary Clare said.

Mother Monica raised herself from the chair and beckoned for Mary Clare to do the same. Mary Clare allowed herself to be wrapped in the embrace Mother offered. She was aware of the
same Ivory soap smell as Sister Charlotte, but Mother Monica’s scent was mixed with something else, something musky—like incense. Mary Clare wanted to stay in that embrace forever. She felt safe. Mother Monica was mother. She was Mother Church.

“Whatever you do with your life, Mary Clare, you will do it well. You will do it with passion and love. I will continue to pray for you every day, and I hope you will pray for me.”

For a second Mary Clare wondered why a Mother Superior would need prayers, but then she remembered that Mother was really just a human being.

“Thank you,” Mary Clare murmured. “I will.”

Dad must have seen them get up because the next thing she knew he was standing next to them.

“You have a wonderful daughter,” Mother Monica told Dad.

“I think so too, Reverend Mother,” he said, shaking her hand good-bye.

This time Mary Clare started the hug with Mother.

“I hope you’ll continue to write,” Mother Monica said.