Waiting to Believe (31 page)

But to do that, she had to deal with the war in Vietnam at some level. It was crucial to understanding the growing division in the country. She was walking a fine line, she thought, worried that her interpretation of the social studies curriculum and her introduction of the war as a topic for fifth graders would meet with disapproval from higher up.

But every once in a while the students presented her with opportunities to stray from the prescribed course. On January 6, Elizabeth Ryan stood before the class during current events, holding a small newspaper clipping in her hand: “Yesterday the United States lost its ten-thousandth plane in the Vietnam conflict.” The article was small, providing few details.

She was about to return to her seat, when Kacey stopped her. “Elizabeth, how did you happen to choose that particular news item?”

Elizabeth was flustered for a moment, then replied, “Well, actually, it wasn't the one I picked. I wanted to bring one about the most popular toys for Christmas, but my dad said I should pick this one instead.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“Well, um, he said it's important and more people should be paying attention to it. So I did what he said.”

“Smart girl! And smart dad, too. I agree with him.”

A relieved Elizabeth sat down. Kacey leaned against her desk.
This is one of those moments. A teaching moment.
And she began to talk about ten thousand airplanes. A number beyond comprehension.

Kacey looked at the clock on her dresser. Almost time for
Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In
. There was so little to laugh about these days. It almost seemed wrong to seek out relief in the inanities that flickered across the black-and-white screen. Still, she made her way to the rec room, where a small group had already gathered. Mary Paul was there, knitting in hand. Mary Nicodemus sat at a table nearby, paging through the Rochester newspaper. Kacey slipped into a seat at the table. Not one for small talk, she picked up a section of the paper.

While Lily Tomlin made her faces and sarcastic remarks as Ernestine, the telephone operator, Kacey's attention was drawn to a picture on the front page. Former US congresswoman Jeanette Rankin standing on the steps of the US Capitol. Jeanette Rankin. Kacey pressed her memory to pull up more about the woman. She turned to Mary Nicodemus, who was now in her nineties. “Who's Jeannette Rankin?”

Nicodemus looked up from her paper. “Your age is showing,” she replied.

“Well, I recognize the name, but I'm not sure why.”

“She made history. She was the first woman elected to the US House of Representatives. Sometime in the twenties, I think. She's a pacifist.”

Kacey's face brightened. “Oh, I
do
remember reading about her! She was the one who voted against our entry into both World War I and II. Right?”

Mary Nicodemus nodded. “I guess so,” her interest waning.

But Kacey murmured, “Well, that makes sense, then.”

She looked at the picture again and scanned the article. The eighty-seven-year-old woman led a group of five thousand women in a march on Capitol Hill to protest US involvement in the war. Calling themselves “Rankin's Brigade,” the participants came from all walks of life, the article explained: housewives, professional women, students, and celebrities. Singer Judy Collins and Coretta Scott King were among the walkers. The caption under the photo quoted Rankin as saying, “You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake.”

Kacey touched the face in the picture with a gentle finger. Before, she had thought of Greg when she read about the protests. This day, she thought of herself and wished she were among the numbers of “Rankin's Brigade.”

On January 31, the North Vietnamese and the Vietcong opened the Tet Offensive against major South Vietnamese cities. Included in their attack was the US Embassy in Saigon. The news grew grimmer with each passing day, finally driving President Lyndon Johnson to announce on March 31 that he would not run for reelection. The scramble was on for a successor.

The daffodils and the crocuses made their appearance in early April. Kacey sat curled up on her bed, a light blanket spread across her lap. The sun had moved from her window, and she felt the coolness of a late-spring afternoon. She had spent the last four hours reading Morris West's new novel,
The Tower of Babel
. She liked him and thought him somewhat a Catholic rebel, though he considered himself a good Catholic. She once read a review of his writing that observed how West argues in his novels for a church that would place forgiveness before punishment.

How ridiculous it seemed that it should ever be otherwise. She decided it was safest to read West only in the privacy of her room. She didn't see many of the sisters reading novels, nor did she find any on the bookshelves of the convent library. And most certainly, no Morris West.

She had just begun a new chapter when she heard a stirring in the hall. Doors opening and closing, feet shuffling. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was time for supper. She slipped the book into her underwear drawer and joined the others making their way down to the dining hall. Before turning to the last hallway, she sensed a commotion coming from the lower level and saw others heading for the stairs leading to the rec room. There was a sense of urgency in the movement. Puzzled and apprehensive, she moved with the crowd, but couldn't grasp what was being said.

Entering the rec room, she saw that the small television was on. A picture of three men standing on a balcony flickered on the screen, their arms pointing to the right. And then she heard the voice of Walter Cronkite: “Civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated today at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis.” A gasp swept the room. Older sisters made the sign of the cross. Younger ones wiped tears.

Kacey stood in stunned silence, thinking immediately of that November day five years earlier when she had heard the news of President Kennedy's assassination. Horror upon horror.

54

The May sun felt hot on Kacey's back as she and Mary Adrian walked down Center Street. The heat was a joy after a bitterly cold winter. They strolled with no particular destination in mind. These Saturday morning get-togethers had become a ritual.

Kacey stopped outside the Salvation Army store. “Hey,” she said, “let's poke around in here.”

“What on earth for?” Mary Adrian asked, but Kacey just laughed and pulled the door open.

The inside smelled musty. Clothes hung on long pipes or lay in irregular piles on tables. In the back, old couches stood among banged-up easy chairs and lamps, some with shades, some without.

“Get Ready for Summer!” declared a banner fluttering above the tables where shorts of every variety and every length were piled, as well as T-shirts, golf shirts, and tank tops. Kacey stopped.

“Now what?” Adrian asked.

Kacey absently picked up a tank top. Fire engine red. “Oh, I was thinking maybe I'd grab a few things for Maureen. I've been saving up for it.”

“Maureen? She must be twenty years old! Why would you buy her anything? And at the Salvation Army?”

Kacey flushed. “Oh, yeah. I didn't exactly mean for her. She—she has a little sister. You know, Big Sister–Little Sister. Anything here would probably be nicer than what the kid has. I'd like to contribute something.”

Mary Adrian smiled. “Always thinking of others, aren't you? Well, you look away. I'm heading for the used books.”

Kacey began rifling through the piles. Checking to make sure Adrian wasn't watching, she held a shirt up to herself, trying to imagine the fit. It had been a long time since she had known her size in anything.

Fifteen minutes later, they came together again. Mary Adrian had a P. D. James mystery in her hand. Kacey was just paying for one pair of cutoffs, a pair of madras plaid Bermudas, a purple-and-white-striped tank top, the fire-engine-red tank she had first spotted, and a ragged pair of Adidas sneakers —all fifty-cents each. She also had a pair of flip-flops for a quarter. It took all the money she had left for herself for the remainder of the month: $2.75.

It had been a long time since she had done any shopping. In spite of it being furtive, it was still fun! She couldn't help but think back to a much earlier shopping trip which had not ended well: age twelve, shopping with her family. She could hear her mother's voice calling clearly “Hurry up, Kacey! Annie! All of you! I'm ready to go!” Rose gunned the engine of the Ford station wagon, punching the horn at the same time. A trip to the Sears store in the city was always a highlight, but this trip would be even more fun. Kacey's best friend, Nancy, was coming along.

Rose, unlike the children, disliked the trip—the noise in the car, the responsibility of shepherding the children through the store, the decisions to make. School shoes for Gerald and Joseph, a bra for Annie. She resented Kenneth, who chose to stay home. Maneuvering the big wagon through the snarl of Lake Street traffic, she remembered their earlier tiff. “Why,” she had asked, “can't you drive us this one time?”

“This
one
time?” he mocked her. “I'm always driving you someplace. You take charge tonight! I have things to do.”

The station wagon swung into the parking lot, and the passengers tumbled out. Rose called, “Annie and I'll be in girls' clothing. Kace and Nancy, you'd better come with us.” She turned to the two boys. “You find the shoe department and wait for us there. And don't wander off!”

“Nancy and I have our own plans, Mom! Can't we just meet when it's time to go home?” Kacey pleaded.

It was easier for Rose to agree than try to prevail. “Nine o'clock at the car!”

To Kacey and Nancy, the toy department was a wonderland. Every toy imaginable was on display. Hula-Hoops, Wiffle balls, coonskin caps, dolls, wagons, Mr. Potato Head, paint-by-number sets. They strolled down the aisles together before going off in separate directions. Later, Kacey glanced at the big clock on the wall. 8:37. Time to find Nancy.

Nancy smiled slyly as they met. “Look what I've got!” In her hand lay a bright red Duncan yo-yo.

“Where'd you get that? You don't have any money!”

“I know. I stole it!”

“You did not!”

“I did!” She pocketed the yo-yo.

“Oh yeah? Prove it! If you stole that yo-yo, go back and get another one for me!”
That will call her bluff
, Kacey thought, but Nancy sauntered off. Kacey watched in amazement as Nancy casually took another yo-yo. Kacey stepped toward her friend only to see a grim, middle-aged saleswoman grab Nancy's arm and pull her toward a door marked “Private.” Kacey couldn't hear what was being said, but she hurried forward and touched the clerk's sleeve. “If you're taking her, you'd better take me, too. I asked her to steal the yo-yo for me.”

She remembered the first yo-yo, still in Nancy's pocket, and her stomach turned over. Would they be searched? Stealing one was bad enough, but two? Kacey's mind whirled, trying to think what to do.
Say nothing. Do nothing
. She hoped Nancy was thinking the same.

The clerk opened the door, flipping on the overhead light. It was harsh. The smell of old coffee and cigarettes hung in the air. They were joined immediately by a scowling man in a baggy black suit, flecks of dandruff dotting the shoulders. He nodded to the clerk to give him the details.

“This one was lifting a yo-yo. Followed her down the aisle,” the clerk said conspiratorially. She passed the yo-yo over to the store detective, who turned it over in his hand before dropping it theatrically to the desk.

“Okay, I'll take it from here,” he said, sitting down at the desk. He leaned forward, looking directly at the two, sizing up the frightened offenders. Then, resting his chin on his fist, he asked, “Ever been in our toy department before, girlies?”

“No!” they shouted in unison. Kacey quickly added, “Well, yes, but it was a long time ago. With my family.”