Toward That Which is Beautiful

slips between the sheets. She pulls the rough woolen blankets around her. They smell musty; Peter mustn’t have much company. In the dark, she starts to tremble. What is she doing? She has taken the coward’s way out, she knows. Running away from Santa Catalina isn’t helping her think straight. She is only worrying a lot of good people who have other, more important things to do than chase after a twenty-five-year-old nun who should know how to handle falling in love. Falling. Yes, fallen.

C
hapter Three
In the strange bed, Kate is restless, turning from side to side, smoothing the pillow. She was so excited about coming to Peru just one year ago. She did well during the five months in language school in Cochabamba, earning the praise of her teachers as well as of the other students who were struggling. Now, after only six months in the Altiplano, she is out of her depth.
She remembers her first glimpse of Tom. It was in December, just six months ago, after she’d traveled all night on the bus from language school in Cochabamba to La Paz. At the train station, she was to meet the team of priests and nuns she would be working with in Juliaca. Cold and tired, she’d felt relieved to see the tall form of a Dominican nun waiting for her in the crowd. When Sister Josepha embraced her, Kate breathed in the clean, unmistakable scent of Palmolive soap. Then she noticed two men standing by, waiting to be introduced.
Sister Josepha led her over to the priests. “This is our pastor, Sister, Father Jack Higgins.” Kate felt her hand crushed between the rough hands of a tall, gray-haired man in a black windbreaker. Beneath it she saw a gray sweater, but no evidence of a Roman collar. He motioned to the man beside him, and Kate looked up into blue eyes that reminded her of a winter sky in Missouri.
“Tom Lynch,” he said, and she recognized the tones of the west of Ireland, the lilt of her grandfather.
“Sister Mary Katherine O’Neill,” she found herself saying in her most prim nun voice.
“Well, Sister Mary Katherine O’Neill, let’s get the hell out of here. It’s freezing, and we haven’t had breakfast.” Grabbing her suitcase, he strode ahead as Sister Josepha and Father Jack walked beside her through the crowded bus station. She’d had the faint impression that Tom Lynch was making fun of her, but soon forgot about him in her struggle to breathe. Her heart racing, she had to stop several times to catch her breath.
“It’s the altitude, my girl. You’re at 12,000 feet now,” boomed Father Jack. “You’ll soon get used to it. Why, look at Josepha here. She’s a pro by now.”
Sister Josepha smiled slightly and took Kate’s arm. “Don’t worry, Sister. We all felt that way at first.” The nun led her to the street where Father Tom was already in the jeep, waiting.
He drove fast through the winding, narrow streets of La Paz, barely missing several campesinos heading for market with baskets of potatoes and beans. They pulled up in front of a two-story brick bungalow on a shady street that angled sharply up a steep hill.
“Now don’t get used to all this luxury,” warned Father Jack. “Juliaca is nothing like this. We’re having breakfast with the St. Louis priests and nuns at the convent of Cristo Rey; then we’ll drive on to Juliaca later today.”
Tom had already hopped out and was at the front door, greeting the two nuns who stood there and slapping the backs of a couple of priests in the entrance. He looked more like a politician than a priest.
During breakfast the whole group wanted to hear the latest gossip from Cochabamba and the language school. Kate told them about her teachers, especially the ruthless nineteen-year-old Mirta who had made her life miserable for the two weeks she had taught Kate Spanish. Then over bacon and eggs and strong coffee, the men and women traded stories of their own struggles to learn the language. Many had studied Aymara and Quechua as well as Spanish. Kate was stunned by the easy camaraderie among them; some called each other by first names, unlike the stiff “Yes, Sister,” “No, Father,” repeated endlessly at home.
Kate found herself glancing too often down the table to where Tom Lynch was engrossed in a quiet conversation with a white-haired priest for much of the meal. Once she heard the younger priest raise his voice and pound his fist on the table.
“Well, the gobshites that did this will pay. Kennedy was a great man, and you Americans will see to your shame what follows.”
The group quieted suddenly at the mention of the luminous young president, the first Catholic to hold the office, gunned down in Dallas in November. Father Jack said they were waiting anxiously for copies of TIME and Newsweek to arrive with the news they had only gotten in bits and pieces over the shortwave radio from Maryknoll in New York. Though Bolivian papers were full of the news, Father Jack complained about the confused accounts he read. “Or maybe it’s just my Spanish that’s confused,” he said with a sigh.
Kate hadn’t believed the news of the president’s death at first when the young Chilean teacher who was her favorite had told her gently that morning at language school. How could he be dead, their young president, who had stood hatless among the sober old men on the morning of his inauguration? She’d seen all those pictures in LIFE Magazine, Kennedy scooping up his daughter, playing on the beach with his son, grinning down at his dark-haired wife. To her he seemed everything a man should be. Secretly Kate had felt a fierce tribal pride that he was Irish Catholic. And now he was gone. Today was the first chance she’d had to talk about the assassination with Americans. They felt shame and confusion, as did Kate. What was happening to their country?
The meal