The Blue Bottle Club (40 page)

"Mary Love?"

She raised her head. Sister Francis had returned to the classroom and stood there staring at her, obviously puzzled to find her still here.

"Are you all right, child?"

"Of course, Sister," Mary Love muttered. "I'm fine." A hot prick of conscience seared through her brain, and she averted her eyes. Everyone knew you didn't lie to a nun. It might not be a mortal sin, but they had some kind of sixth sense that ferreted out untruth like a terrier sniffing out a rat. She looked up again and waited.

Sister Francis's eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing under her wimple. "Are you sure?"

Mary Love sighed. She couldn't do it twice in a row and expect to get away with it. She might as well tell the truth and get it over with. "No, Sister, I guess I'm not."

Sister Francis glided to the back of the room and perched on the edge of the desk next to Mary Love's. Amazing, how nuns could change positions without ever seeming to move their feet. A lot of Catholic children grew up with the notion that nuns didn't even
have
extremities—that they were disembodied heads and hands held together by some miraculous work of God. Mary Love knew better, of course—her own Aunt Belva had become a nun years ago and taken the name Sister Consummata. No one in the family had seen Consummata for a long time, but Mary Love was pretty sure her legs were still intact. Still, it was a wonder, this atmosphere of peace and serenity nuns exuded. As if they were above being burdened by the petty concerns that consumed ordinary people.

Sister Francis's mellow voice pierced Mary Love's consciousness. "Tell me what's troubling you, child."

"I'm graduating in two weeks," she said, looking into the nun's wide hazel eyes.

"I know. And with honors. We're all very proud of you."

"Thank you. But I—well, I'm having some struggles about what comes after."

"After graduation?"

Mary Love nodded. How could she tell this woman—this nun—that she would abandon her family in a minute if she only had the money to go to the art academy? How could she communicate, in ways Sister Francis could understand, her dreams and longings for the future?

"Do you have a family, Sister?" She blurted the question out before thinking, then wished she could take the words back. It was an unspoken law that one did not talk to a nun about her former life; when a nun entered the convent and took vows, she left behind all vestiges of worldly association.

Sister Francis's eyebrows arched a second time, and a rosy flush crept into her cheeks. But instead of reprimanding Mary Love for asking, she simply nodded. "Why, of course," she said. "A mother, two brothers, and a sister. They live in Minnesota. My father died several years ago."

Encouraged by this uncharacteristic show of openness, Mary Love pressed on. "Do you miss them?"

"Sometimes. We keep in touch."

Mary Love felt her jaw drop open. "You do?"

"Of course. My life is here, in my vocation. But I write to them regularly."

"I—I thought you would have to give that up."

"A nun's vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience means that we give up worldly wealth, ambition, and self-determination. It doesn't mean we cease to be human." She smiled and laid her hand over Mary Love's. "Why are you asking these questions, child?"

Mary Love hesitated. Her eyes fixed on the slim gold band that adorned Sister Francis's ring finger—the symbol of her marriage to Christ and the Church. All the nun's words about vocation, about the calling of God on a person's life, came back to her in a rush. She knew beyond any doubt that God had called
her
too—called her to be an artist, empowered her with the ability to interpret with pen and paints what she saw with her eyes and her heart. She had felt it, that overpowering intensity that came with creativity. Perhaps becoming an artist was a lot like becoming a nun—the willingness to give up everything for the summons to something greater.

"I've listened to what you've said about calling, Sister. About vocation. And I think that maybe—maybe I have a calling too."

She was going to go on, to explain about the desire that burned in her heart, about her dream of giving her life to her art. But Sister Francis interrupted her before she could get another word out.

"Why, Mary Love, that's
wonderful!
To tell the truth, Father McRae and I have talked about it, wondering if you might eventually discover your own religious vocation. It's a holy thing, you know, to be chosen by God to give your life to the Church. And your parents will no doubt be thrilled. Your mother is such a devout woman."

Mary Love started to protest, to tell Sister Francis that becoming a nun wasn't exactly the sort of calling she had in mind. But then an idea began to form: This might be the answer—not to her prayers, since she hadn't prayed any, but to her dilemma. A way for her to leave the chaos of home behind and still keep her reputation intact. If she couldn't do it by getting married to a man, maybe she could do it by another kind of marriage. Sister Francis was right: No one would criticize her for abandoning her family if she was going away to become a nun. Having a priest or nun in the family was a badge of honor, one her mother would show off like the crown jewels. And Mary Love could easily imagine herself in a quiet convent, living in blissful solitude and introspection, having all her needs met. What better situation to nurture her creative spirit?

"Would you like to talk with Father McRae about this?" Sister Francis was asking.

"Yes," Mary Love said with a firm nod. "Yes, I believe I would."

August 23, 1931

Mary Love stood on the platform at the depot, gripping a small bag of personal items in one hand and holding her makeshift portfolio under the other arm. The whole Buchanan clan—Mama, Papa, and all the kids—stood in a semicircle around her, watching her with expressions of awe and wonder on their faces. Even baby Vincent beamed beatifically from Papa's arms. Nearby, Sister Francis and Father McRae stood smiling and nodding in her direction.

The train pulled in, and Mary Love felt her stomach rumble. For a moment she battled against the temptation to tell them that this was all a terrible mistake, a misunderstanding. Once she got on the train to Minnesota, there was no turning back.

But everyone seemed so pleased with her decision. Mama was weeping into her handkerchief, fingering a rosary and uttering fervent prayers between her sobs. Papa stood straight and stoic and said nothing, but his chest was puffed out with pride so that she thought his buttons might pop off at any minute.

Father McRae and Sister Francis approached. "Father wanted to have a prayer with you before you go," Sister whispered.

Mary Love nodded, set her bag down, and knelt awkwardly on the wooden platform, still gripping her portfolio under her left arm. Father McRae placed his hands lightly on her head. "We commit into your keeping, O Lord, this our sister Mary Love Buchanan," he prayed. "Watch over her, and endow her with the gifts of wisdom and obedience. Let her heart be always turned toward you, O God, and may she find in you what her spirit seeks. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen."

Mary Love made the sign of the cross and struggled to her feet. She hugged each of her brothers and sisters in turn and reminded Felicity and Beatrice not to pick on each other, then kissed her parents and turned to board the train.

"Go with God, my child," Sister Francis whispered, squeezing her hand and giving her a quick embrace.

With a hiss of steam the train began to move, and Mary Love leaned out the window, waving and watching until they were merely specks in a vanishing distance. Then she sat down and let out a shuddering sigh.

Well, it was done. She was on her way.

As the train picked up speed, the click-clack of the wheels settled into a steady rhythm, the kind of sound that lulls the mind into giving up the secrets it has held in hiding for years. In a chaotic, illogical collage of images, Mary Love went back through her childhood—what there had been of it—with its never-ending cycle of new babies coming and chores to be done and Mama leaving her in charge while she went off to Mass. She remembered that horrible night when Tish Cameron's father died and Ellie's mother began to slide into the darkness of her own mind. She relived the knife thrust of envy she had experienced when Adora Archer announced her intention to go off and follow her dream in Hollywood.

But most vividly, she remembered that Christmas afternoon in the Camerons' attic, when the four of them revealed their dreams and vowed to support each other forever. What earnest eagerness had filled her soul that day! She had believed that anything was possible if you just wanted it enough. All of them had.

But life seemed to interfere with the fulfillment of those dreams, the way the wind caught autumn leaves and scattered them far and wide. Letitia would never marry Philip and have his children. No one had heard from Adora in months. And poor Ellie, locked away in that house with her mother, had been condemned to a living death.

Ellie.
The thought of her best friend brought tears to Mary Love's eyes. Ellie had always been the one to stand with Mary Love, to defend her, to draw her into the circle and believe in her. What would Ellie say now, if she knew that Mary Love was on a train bound for Minnesota, taking the first steps toward a lifetime of religious service?

She hadn't told Ellie, hadn't even said good-bye. She couldn't bring herself to do it. Ellie was the one person who would know better, who would call her to account for this decision. Ellie wouldn't believe for a minute that she really had a vocation; she would know that Mary Love was simply running for her life.

And so Mary Love had avoided the confrontation. Just as soon as she got settled, she reasoned, she would write to Ellie, let her know where she was and what she was doing. Things had been so busy these last few weeks, getting ready to go; there had been so much to do. But that was rationalization, and Mary Love knew it. The truth was, she couldn't take the chance that Ellie James might be able to talk her out of it.

Mary Love laid her head back on the leather seat and listened as the wheels pounded and the car swayed gently beneath her.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
. . .

Her eyes grew heavy. She leaned her head against the window, and as sleep began to overtake her, she heard in the deep recesses of her mind the prayer Father McRae had offered on her behalf:

May she find in you ... click-clack ... what her spirit seeks ... click-clack ...
may she find in you ... click-clack . . . what her spirit seeks....

39

TIME ON HER KNEES

January 20, 1932

M
ary Love leaned forward and tried in vain to stretch the kinks out of her aching back. The soapy water she was using to scrub the sacristy floor had already frozen in a puddle around her knees. The stones themselves were as cold as the icicles that hung like enormous stalactites outside the tiny mullioned window.

No one had warned her—not Father McRae, not Sister Francis, and certainly not the Reverend Mother who had so warmly welcomed her on her first day at the convent—that the life of a postulant was nothing short of slave labor, or that winter in Minnesota was only one step removed from the frozen pit of hell in Dante's
Inferno.
Of course they didn't tell her. No person in her right mind would have willingly volunteered for such service if she had known the truth.

And yet, here she was, on her knees in a tiny cubicle off the cavernous convent chapel, scrubbing away as if her very soul depended upon it.

The convent, called Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, wasn't really so bad. It was, as Mary Love had expected, a quiet place, conducive to contemplation. The only problem was, everything—absolutely
everything,
except sleeping—was done in community. At five the bell would sound to awaken them, and again to call them to meditation in the chapel. Then Mass, then breakfast, then work assignments. Every minute of the day was rigidly scheduled, and the postulants were expected to fall in like little soldiers. Obedience and discipline, after all, were inherent in Holy Rule.

But Mary Love had found a way around the rules. In the mornings, she would race through her chores and sneak off to her cell, where she pulled out a secret stash of art paper and sketched. At night, after lights out, she would slip away to the bathroom—the one place in the convent where the lights burned all night—hide in a bathtub, and continue her drawing. Once, when the temperature dipped to - 40, she nearly froze her behind. But it didn't stop her. After that, she took a blanket with her, with her pencils and paper rolled up inside.

It was against the rules, of course, and if she got caught, she would undoubtedly spend the next six months cleaning toilets and peeling potatoes. But it was worth the risk. She had left behind the familiarity of home and family for this opportunity to find herself in her art, and she would take the chance while she had it. As a postulant, she was supposed to be seeking her identity in God, but the religious exercises never brought her any nearer to the Almighty. She felt closer to God when she was drawing than when she knelt in forced prayer. Wasn't that what a religious vocation was about, after all?