The Gathering by William X. Kienzle Read Free Book Online Page B

vocation. Brothers aren’t dumb. Lots of times they’re smarter than priests. So why go half way?”
    Alice could hear the radio being turned off downstairs. She couldn’t make out which program was going off. But the sound had stopped; the Smiths were getting ready to retire.
    Alice, on the other hand, was ready for some Sinatra. Her desire would cause no problem; it was shared by Rose.
    “How are you getting along?” Alice asked.
    “What do you mean?”
    “The brushing. How many strokes?”
    Rose brushed. “That would be ninety-three,” she said without breaking stride.
    “How can you do that?”
    “Do what?”
    Alice sat upright. “We’ve been having a conversation. You had to be involved in what we were talking about … at least part of the time. How can you talk and still keep count of your strokes?”
    “It’s not hard; it’s just a matter of thinking of two things at the same time.”
    “That’s easy for you to say.”
    “You find it difficult?”
    “Me and most of the rest of the world.”
    “There.” Rose put the brush down and shook her shoulders, which were somewhat stiff after this monotonous exercise. “All done.” She turned to Alice. “Some music?”
    “You bet!”
    By the time the two girls reached the main floor, the Smiths had retired to their bedroom. Michael, also in pajamas and robe, was stretched out on the living room floor.
    None of them felt awkward. They were friends and no more than that.
    Rose went directly to the phonograph. In no time the pleasantly nasal voice of Vaughn Monroe was crooning “Blue Moon.”
    The two girls sat together on the floor roughly halfway between the record player and Michael, who, pencil in hand, continued to work on English drills.
    Alice, lost in Monroe’s distinctive voice, seemed mesmerized by the lamentation.
    “Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone, Without a dream in my heart, Without a love of my own …”
    Without a love of my own.
How depressing! Was that the lonely life she was slated to enter?
    Alice had no real knowledge of convent life. No one who had not lived that life could comprehend it. In her naïveté, she was quite sure that what she saw she certainly would get.
    She would wear the time-honored uniform, popularly known as a religious habit. It stood for something. She would be set apart in a most secular world. She would dedicate herself, body and soul, to the Roman Catholic Church.
    If she joined almost any other religious order than the IHMs, she would be invited to express her preference for one of two paths: teaching or nursing. The fact that she would not necessarily be allowed to pursue the one she had chosen merely spoke to the dedication that religious life would demand of her.
    But there was something to be said for either occupation.
    If she were to teach, she would be instilling in young minds the ancient and ever-present truths of Catholicism. Her students would remember—some for the rest of their lives—what “Sister said.” The aphorism “Once a Catholic, always a Catholic” would, in many cases, be the legacy of her vocation.
    That—even the demands on her freedom—was all on the positive side. There would be pride in what she had accomplished and a reverence for what her life signified.
    If she were directed to the nursing field, it held similar possibilities. She would have to be qualified as a nurse. She would work in a Catholic hospital where uniforms abounded and nurses’ caps identified the wearer’s school of training. But among all those uniforms of various shades, hers—the religious habit turned white—would be the most distinctive.
    She would be warmly welcomed by patients stricken with nearly every sort of illness. Her prayers would be solicited and promised. Patients would go forward with renewed confidence: What better insurance could there be than a nun’s prayer?
    She would be with those who would not survive. Being encouraged and given good hope as they passed from this life