Then Came Heaven

  “I will. It looks like the snow’s letting up.”

  Eddie glanced at Sister and felt the insane desire to hug her. He had the sharp impression that if he did, she’d hug him back. Instead, he dropped his head to put his cap on.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Olczak,” she said quietly, her hands once again properly tucked inside her sleeves. “Same to you, Sister.”

  “And God bless you.”

  “You, too.” He backed away a step, nodded, opened the door and said, “Frank... Bertha... nice to meet you.”

  “Same here,” they said, and turned him out into the snow to drive home and wonder if it was a mortal sin to fall in love with a nun.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The morning after Sister Regina got home, she went into town with her folks to St. Peter and Paul’s for nine o’clock Mass. The snow had stopped and the sun was bright. The county plows had been through, but a strong wind lifted the surface snow and scalloped the edge of the road with it. The countryside was familiar, the silos forming the same constellations as when Regina was a girl. Riding in the backseat of her father’s 1938 Ford, she wondered, Will I live here again? Will they let me move in if I need to? And if so, how long will I stay?

  At church they sat in the fifth row from the front, the same pew they’d always used. They had just arrived and were still kneeling, saying silent prayers, when Grandma Rosella got there. Regina could tell that her grandmother had spotted her from behind because the old woman was breathless and glowing when she rose from genuflecting and slipped into the pew.

  “Well for-ev-ermore!” she whispered, and threw a bluff hug on her granddaughter, nearly pulling Regina’s veil off its hat pin. “Where did you come from?”

  “Hi, Grandma.”

  “You should have more consideration for an old woman’s heart.”

  That’s all she would say: Rosella Potlocki did not talk in church. To have said as much as she had was a measure of her elation at finding her favorite granddaughter home.

  Once, however, in the middle of Mass, she captured Regina’s hand and squeezed it long and hard, holding it firmly against her midsection. Her eyes remained riveted on the altar, but her love for Regina was as palpable as the soft black cloth of her winter coat.

  Grandma Rosella lived in town, near enough that she could walk to church as often as she liked. Her husband, a retired farmer who spent all his days in a pool hall drinking and playing pinochle, had fallen away from Catholicism years ago. Regina never once remembered him going to church. She’d never been close to him, had, in fact, always held a modicum of fear of her Grandpa Potlocki, a crusty old man who shunned family reunions, always needed a shave, spit tobacco juice on the street, and called her “Girlie” the few times he’d spoken to her at all.

  The result of Walter Potlocki’s bibulousness and godlessness was a marriage that had rived years ago. He and his wife slept under the same roof, but in separate rooms. They occasionally ate at the same table, but had little to say to one another. For the most part they went their separate ways. Consequently, Rosella had learned how to drive; never gotten a legal driver’s license, mind you, only learned how to keep a car between the ditches so she could go visit her children whenever she wanted.

  When Mass ended that Sunday morning, there was no question she’d go straight out to Frank and Bertha’s house and stay for dinner and the afternoon. She didn’t even bother to ask, but announced as soon as they cleared the vestibule, “Sister Regina will ride out home with me. I’ll bring the pork roast I put in the oven. Can I bring anything else, Bertha?”

  “No, Rosella, the roast will be fine. I’m sure everybody else will show up with food, too. But I don’t think you should drive on these roads.”

  “She’s right, Mama,” Frank spoke up. “Even though the plows have been through, the roads are a little slippery yet.”

  “Oh, bosh.” Rosella pulled a red wool scarf from her coat sleeve and tied it on over her black felt hat, anchoring it in place. “You live two miles from church, Frank. If my car goes in the ditch, I can walk them two miles, don’t think I can’t!” She commandeered Regina’s arm and descended the church steps with the wind slapping their clothes and shaking last-night’s snow off the trees. They walked to Rosella’s house through the blinding light of the unobstructed sun on the newly fallen snow, both of them with black missals pressed against their ribs, the older woman retaining her tight grip on her granddaughter’s arm. The wind and chill bothered them little: they took their time. Being together again was precious in both women’s eyes, a blessing, they believed, from God who had also given them this sublime winter’s day, food for their table, family with whom to gather, and their good health.

  “So, how have you been?” Sister Regina asked as they trod down the edge of the street.

  “Busy getting ready for Christmas, baking coffee cakes, making doll clothes and sugar cookies for the grandkids.”

  “How’s Grandpa?”

  “That old fool. Never changes. Worthless as always.”

  “He’s still not going to church?”

  “He’ll never change. Drunk three-fourths of the time and grouchy the other fourth.”

  “I pray for him every day.”

  “So do I, but it don’t do no good.”

  “How many years have you been married?”

  “More than I care to count. So how are you? How’s things in Browerville?”

  They veered onto a sidewalk that had been shoveled, and Regina stepped more slowly, grateful for this opportunity to speak to her grandmother privately.

  “Well... things could be better with me, Grandma.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve come home to tell you something and I... well, I wanted to tell you while we were alone together. Actually, I’m glad we got the chance to be alone together so I could tell you.”

  “What is it, Jean? You sick?” Rosella stopped to examine her granddaughter’s face. “My goodness, if it’s—”

  “No, Gram, I’m not sick.” Sister Regina moved on, forcing her grandmother to do the same, Rosella’s hand still clutching her granddaughter’s elbow. “This will be very hard for you to hear, as hard as it was for me to decide, but... I’m going to leave the convent, Grandma.”

  “Oh no... and you liked it there so much! Where are they sending you next?”

  “No, you don’t understand, Grandma.” Sister stopped walking and looked directly into her grandmother’s eyes. “I’m asking for a dispensation of vows. I’m leaving my vocation for good.”

  Grandma Rosella’s mouth opened, her face etched in lines of dismay. “Nooo,” she whispered in disbelief.

  “Yes, I am,” Sister Regina assured her gently. “It’s been a very difficult decision, one over which I’ve prayed many long hours and many long months.”

  “After all these years it took you?”

  Sister nodded.

  “And how hard you studied?”

  “Yes.”

  “But... but why?”

  “Because the life in a religious community isn’t what I thought it would be.”

  “What does that mean—‘isn’t what you thought it would be’?” Grandma Rosella sounded piqued. “You were around nuns all your life! You knew what their life was like!”

  Sister Regina tried to explain, but she could see her explanation was falling on stubborn ears. She touched upon many of the problems with which she’d been struggling— the difficulty of living with a bunch of women whose personalities sometimes clashed; the strict rules that often forbade worthwhile relationships and pursuits; the feeling of being isolated from some important aspects of life; the certainty that she’d made her decision at too young an age, before she’d matured enough to weigh the life of sacrifice against that of being a wife and mother.

  “It’s a man, isn’t it?” Rosella asked, her expression pinched tight with disapproval.

  “No. Although, in the future, I hope to have a husband and maybe even children of my own bef
ore I’m too old.”

  “It’s a man,” Grandma said conclusively, just as they reached her driveway. Sealing up her mouth, she marched ahead toward the house with censure in every step. She’d lived with a man she found odious for so long, it was beyond Rosella Potlocki how anyone could want to tie herself to one of the disgusting things.

  “It’s not a man,” Regina called after her, “but it’s his children, as well as all the other things I tried to explain! Will you listen to me, Grandma?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re mad.” Someone had shoveled Rosella’s narrow driveway that went from the tiny wooden garage right past the kitchen door. Regina figured her grandmother had probably gotten up in the dark before church and done it herself. She was wiry enough, stubborn enough and independent enough not to expect anybody—including her husband—to do anything for her. She had learned years ago not to rely on him for much.

  Rosella, visibly upset, entered the house, leaving Sister Regina outside in the cold.

  Regina sighed and followed, understanding what a blow this was to her grandmother. Inside, she closed the kitchen door and said, “Grandma, I know it’s hard for you to understand.”

  “You were doing what I wanted to do but my folks didn’t have the money for—going off to study in a convent,” Rosella said accusingly, for she herself had paid Regina’s tuition. “I don’t understand how you can give it up. It’s the most esteemed way to serve God.”

  “No, it isn’t. You always told me it was, but I’m convinced it’s just as holy in God’s eyes to be a good wife and mother.”

  Rosella swung around and held Sister Regina by both arms. “Jean, Jean, Jean,” she said, “you were chosen by God.”

  “No, Grandma. I was chosen by you. And by Mama and Daddy, because it was a great source of pride to have one of the family go into a religious vocation. You put the idea into my head from the time I entered parochial school, and I’m not bitter about it, but please understand. I gave it all these years and now I want some years for myself.” Rosella’s eyeglasses had begun steaming up. She stripped them off, turned away from her granddaughter, and tossed them on the kitchen table. “I got to take my roast out of the oven.”

  Sister Regina’s joy at being back in this familiar house was eclipsed by her grandmother’s reaction to the news. She had expected disappointment. She had not expected anger. But there it was, marching around the kitchen in the form of this diminutive woman with the scarf tied over her Sunday hat, and her coat hem arching up to reveal brown cotton stockings when she leaned over the open oven door.

  “Where’s Grandpa?” Regina asked, hoping to melt her grandmother some.

  “Sleeping it off. Where else do you think he’d be on a Sunday morning?” Rosella wrapped her roaster in newspaper, which she tied on with a snow-white dish towel. “Let’s go,” she ordered, and headed outside, making it clear she was still upset.

  The garage doors were hinged on the sides. Together they folded them back and left them open while they went into the garage and got into a ten-year-old Chevy. Then Rosella backed out, scraping the left side of the car on the lilac hedge all the way to the street. She buried the back bumper in the snowbank across the street, unaware she’d done so, grinding the gears as she shifted into low and headed toward the church steeple and the country roads beyond. She drove sitting on a sofa pillow, gripping the wheel with both hands, with enough space between her and the seat back that she could have carried her roaster there. She asked one question on their way out to Frank and Bertha’s farm, asked it without taking her eyes from the road.

  “Well, if you ain’t gonna get married afterwards, what you gonna do?”

  Sister Regina answered, “I don’t know.”

  The word had spread throughout the family that Jean was home, and the house filled with her sisters and brothers and their families. There were eighteen people around the table by the time the meal was served, and, with no formal planning, food enough for everyone.

  Sister Regina led them saying grace, but the words of the prayer were the last that Rosella uttered. Twice during the meal Bertha said to her, “Mama, is something wrong? Aren’t you feeling good?”

  But the old woman kept her lip stubbornly buttoned. Regina waited to announce her news to the family until the children had left the table and were playing with metal cars on the kitchen floor. When only the adults remained over the remnants of their pie, when the coffee cups had been refilled and the group had grown sated and lazy, only then did she speak. “I have something to tell all of you... especially you, Mama and Daddy.”

  The dining room was much quieter than earlier, and it grew quieter still. With every eye resting on her, Sister Regina spoke in a soft but resolute voice.

  “Grandma already knows. I told her after church. Now I want the rest of you to know. I’ve decided that I don’t want to be a nun anymore. I’m writing to Rome and asking for a dispensation of my vows.”

  Bertha’s hand flew to her lips. Her eyes flashed to Frank’s. His to her. They both gaped at Sister Regina.

  Nobody knew what to say. Eyes met eyes all around the table, wives to husbands, husbands to wives. And every single person there thought, It’s a man.

  Bertha was the first to find her voice. “You don’t mean that, Regina.”

  “Yes, Mama, I do.”

  “How can you do this to us?”

  I’m not doing anything to you, Mother, she thought, but of course she didn’t say it.

  Then everybody started babbling at once.

  “What will Father Whalen say?”

  “Nobody quits the convent.”

  “But Jean...”

  “Jesus, Mary, Joseph...” (whispered, accompanied by the sign of the cross).

  “I knew it. I knew something was wrong when they let her come home for Christmas.”

  “It’s that man who brought you home, isn’t it?”

  “Some man brought her home?”

  “I’ll never be able to face my friends again.”

  “After all that money it cost Grandma Rosella to send you through the convent?”

  “Shh, keep your voices down! The kids will hear!”

  The comments burbled on and on until Grandma Rosella stopped them by bursting into tears. In the midst of all that patter, without offering a word herself, she put her face into her hands and let loose with a bunch of noisy sobs that shook her skinny shoulders. This woman who claimed her place as the undisputed hub of the family, who was daunted by nothing, who had lived with a drunk for years and coped without his help and never felt sorry for herself for a day; this woman who had faith enough for the entire family, had they not had it for themselves ... this woman was weeping.

  Frank got up and went around the table to her. “Ma...” he said, dropping down to one knee with an arm around her shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world, Ma.”

  “Oh y... yes, it is. Yes, it is... for me, it is.” The words came out muffled into her hands. Finally she lifted her ravaged face. “That’s all I ever w... wanted was for my little Jean to be a nun, and now what does she d... do but betray me.”

  Regina felt a bubble of anger pop inside, but she kept her voice meek. “I’m not betraying you, Grandma.”

  “God, then. You’re betraying God. You made a vow to Him.”

  “With provisions for renouncing that vow.”

  “Are you talking back to me? What’s got into you, talking back to your grandma that way?”

  “I’m not talking back to you. I’m trying to make you understand.”

  Rosella raised her voice, angry, too. “You go ahead, then, and you tell the rest of them what you told me about why you’re quitting! You see if they believe it any more than I do! It’s a man—that’s what it is! Nuns don’t give up their habits unless there’s a man involved!”

  Someone else asked, “Can you still go to heaven if you do this?”

  Her mother said, “If there’s a man, Jean, you mig
ht as well go ahead and tell us. We’ll find out sooner or later, anyway.”

  Her father said, “Now, Mother, give her time.”

  “Well, it was a man who drove her home last night!”

  “It was?” one of her sisters said, surprised. “Is it him, Jean?”

  Someone started reciting an Act of Faith and the hubbub mounted again.

  Sister Regina Marie, O.S.B., who usually maintained a mien of composure that the saints themselves would envy, stood up and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Stop it, every one of you! Stop it right this minute!”

  Their mouths shut like gopher traps and they stared at her, the soft-spoken nun with the gentle manner, who had finally reached the end of her rope.

  She made a ball and socket of her hands and pressed them to her mouth. Inside, her heart was clattering. It had felt fantastic, shouting. Felt so horrid, being misunderstood. Felt so hurtful that they wouldn’t consider her happiness first before their own. That they’d renounce her for her decision without asking with open minds what it was that made her change over the years. Without caring. They wanted her to be perfect for them, their perfect little Sister Regina, their own private conduit to heaven, the one they could mention to their Catholic friends and thereby imply they had an inside track to the golden gates. Oh, that was part of it, she knew. She’d always known, deep in her heart: those families with a professed religious felt a little more smug than others about the here and the hereafter.

  But she wanted her family to be different. She wanted them to say quietly, Sit down, Jean, and tell us why you ’re disappointed, and when your feelings started changing, and what happened to change them, and what you want to do with your future, and if you’re sure this is the right thing for you. Let us commiserate with you and talk about your plans.

  Instead, they saw this as a disgrace.

  Nobody had said a word since she’d shouted. They were all staring at her as if she’d gone daft. There was so much they didn’t know about a nun’s life. She decided to tell them some of it.

  Her voice and stomach were trembling as she began. “I’m sorry I shouted, but that’s something I haven’t been allowed to do for eleven years, shout. There’s a paragraph in our Holy Rule about it.” She scanned the circle of faces. “Can you imagine your life without shouting? Or without touching other human beings? Or without being allowed to have one special friend of your own, or talking to acquaintances you meet on the street? Owning a wristwatch so you can check the time whenever you want, or buying your own bottle of shampoo, or sending a gift to someone when you feel like it? How about writing a letter to your own grandma without someone else reading it? I haven’t even been allowed to do that—did you know that? Every letter a nun writes must be given to her superior unsealed. So I couldn’t write to you over the years and tell you of my growing dissatisfactions. Perhaps if I could have it wouldn’t have gotten to this point where I want so badly to be free.”