Changing Habits, Page 2

That first time Sister had spoken to her, Angie knew she’d found a friend. After school the same day, she’d visited Sister Trinita’s classroom and volunteered to wash the blackboards. Sister let her, even though Angie was only in third grade.

  After that, Angie used every excuse she could invent to visit Sister Trinita. Soon she was lingering in the school yard after classes until she saw Sister leave. Then Angie would race to the nun’s side so she could walk Sister back to the convent house, which was situated across the street. Sister Trinita looked for Angie, too. She knew, because the nun would smile in welcome whenever Angie hurried toward her. It became her habit to walk Sister Trinita home.

  “You’re going to sing with the choir?” her father asked, raising his eyes from the newspaper.

  Angie nodded, so excited she could barely contain her glee. “I like Sister Trinita.”

  “Good.”

  His curt nod told Angie that he approved.

  Scooping up the last of her Cheerios, she set aside her spoon and wondered if she should tell him that she’d started waiting for Sister Trinita outside the convent door each morning. She walked Sister to the church and then slipped into the pew where the third-graders sat.

  “Sister Trinita says I’m her favorite.” She hesitated, waiting for her father’s reaction.

  “Who is Sister Trinita?” her father asked unexpectedly. “Tell me again.”

  “The fifth-grade teacher. I hope I’m in her class when I’m in fifth grade.”

  He nodded slowly, obviously pleased with her acceptance by this nun. Pleased, too, with her daily attendance at Mass—even though he himself didn’t like going. He went to Mass on Sundays because he’d promised her mother he would. Angie knew that. He’d made a deathbed promise to the wife he’d so desperately loved. A man of his word, Tony Marcello faithfully escorted Angie to church each and every Sunday and on holy days.

  At night when he returned from the restaurant and sent the housekeeper home, he drilled Angie on her catechism questions. And on the anniversary of her mother’s death, they knelt before the crucifix in the living room and said the rosary together. At the name of Jesus, they would bow their heads.

  This morning, her father smiled as he drank the rest of his coffee. “Ready?” he asked. “If my little girl’s going to sing in the choir, then I’ll have to get you to church early.”

  “Ready.” With her braids flapping against her navy-blue uniform sweater, Angie grabbed her books, her Hopalong Cassidy lunch bucket, and reached for her father’s hand.

  For two years, Angelina Marcello walked Sister Trinita to and from the convent each weekday. It broke her heart when Sister was transferred to another school in 1950, the year she entered fifth grade. Angie had turned ten.

  After a while Angie stopped thinking about Sister Trinita, but she never forgot the nun from the order of St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption—the woman who had lavished her with attention when she’d most needed it.

  In the summer of 1953, her father enrolled her in St. Mary’s School for Girls. She would always remember that he sang “That’s Amore” as he drove her home following her interview with Sister St. George.

  “Your mother would be proud of what a fine young lady you are,” he told her, stopping at the restaurant on the way home. At age fourteen, Angie was waiting tables during the summer and cooking with her father, along with Mario Deccio, the chef. She knew the recipes as well as she did her own name. The restaurant was her life—until her senior year in high school.

  Everything changed then.

  “You want to do this?” her father asked, reading the senior class permission slip for the annual retreat. He looked at her carefully. “You want to travel to Boston for this retreat?”

  “It’s just for the weekend,” Angie explained. “Every graduating class goes away for retreat.”

  “At a convent?”

  “Yes. Sister St. George said it was a contemplative time before we graduate and take our place in the world.”

  Her father read over the permission slip again. “You know your place, and that’s right here next to me at Angelina’s.”

  “Everyone’s going,” Angie protested.

  “All the girls in your class?” He sounded skeptical.

  “Yes.” She wasn’t entirely sure that was true, but Angie wanted to be part of this retreat. After attending twelve years of parochial school, she was curious. Convent life was so secretive, and she didn’t want to lose this one opportunity to see it from the inside.

  “All right, you can go,” her father reluctantly agreed.

  He was right, of course; her future was set. She would join him at the restaurant and cook or wait tables, whatever was needed. The restaurant was the only life she knew, and its familiarity a continuing comfort.

  Early that June, St. Mary’s School for Girls’ senior class left by charter bus for Boston and the motherhouse of St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption. It was three weeks before graduation. The first thing Angie felt when the bus pulled up to the convent was a sense of serenity. The three-story brick structure was surrounded by a tall fence and well-maintained grounds. While traffic sped by on the busy streets surrounding the convent, inside the wrought iron gates there was tranquility. Angie didn’t know if her friends felt it, but she did.

  Friday evening the sisters served dinner.

  “They aren’t going to eat with us?” Sheila Jones leaned close and asked Angie. Sheila and Dorothy French were Angie’s two best friends.

  “Haven’t you ever noticed?” Dorothy whispered. “Nuns never eat with lay people.”

  Angie hadn’t noticed, hadn’t thought about it until then.

  “I wonder if they’ve ever tasted pizza,” Dorothy said.

  “Of course they have,” Angie insisted. “They eat the same food as everyone else.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Sheila murmured.

  Angie wondered. She couldn’t imagine life without pizza and fettuccine Alfredo and a dozen other dishes. These were the special recipes her father had entrusted to her care.

  Later that evening, Angie was intrigued by the Spartan cell she’d been assigned for the weekend. The floors were bare, as were the walls, except for a crucifix that hung above the bed. One small window took up a portion of the outside wall, but it was too high to see out of and only allowed in a glimmer of sunlight. The single bed had a thin mattress and the bed stand could hold a lamp and a prayer book, but little else.

  That first night when Angie climbed into bed, the sheets felt rough and grainy against her skin. She’d expected to fall asleep almost instantly, but her mind spun in ten different directions. This was holy ground, where she slept—holy ground on which she walked. Women who had dedicated their lives to the service of God had once slept in this room. This wasn’t something to be taken lightly, she realized. She finally fell into a deep sleep sometime after midnight.

  The second day of the retreat included an hour of solitary prayer. Each girl was to spend time alone to assess her calling in life. No talking was permitted, but they could speak to one of the sisters if they desired. Angie took pains to avoid her friends because it would be too easy to break silence.

  “Angie!” Dorothy French’s loud whisper echoed through the chapel as she loped down the center aisle.

  Angie cringed and ignored her.

  Undaunted, Dorothy slipped into the pew next to her. She rattled her rosary as she lowered her head and pretended to pray. “I’m going to bust if I have to go another minute without talking.”

  Angie glared at her friend.

  “What about you?” Dorothy pressed. She stared at Angie. “Don’t tell me this silence doesn’t bother you, too?”

  In response, Angie shook her head, slid past her and left the chapel. She’d been deeply involved in saying the rosary and resented the intrusion. Fearing someone else would distract her, she walked out of the building and decided to do the Stations of the Cross. The fourteen stations, which illustrated t
he stages in Christ’s journey to crucifixion, followed a path that meandered through the lush grounds. The air was warm and perfumed with the scent of spring, and Angie felt an unmistakable surge of well-being.

  It was at the fourth station, where Jesus met His mother on the road to Calvary, that Angie came upon an older nun sitting on a bench, her head bowed and her hands clasped in prayer. Not wanting to disturb the other woman, Angie decided to leave.

  Just as she was about to turn away, the nun glanced up and as she saw Angie, a flash of recognition came into her eyes.

  Angie took a second look. No, it couldn’t be. “Sister Trinita?” she whispered.

  The nun smiled. “Is it really you, Angie?”

  “Yes…oh, Sister Trinita, I’ve thought of you so often over the years.”

  “I’ve thought of you, too. Are you a high school senior already?”

  Angie nodded. “St. Mary’s School for Girls.”

  “The years go past so quickly.” Sister smiled gently. “I can hardly believe you’re almost grown-up.” She moved farther down on the bench, silently inviting Angie to join her.

  “I was so disappointed when you were transferred,” Angie told her. “I looked forward to fifth grade for two years.” After her mother’s death, Sister Trinita’s departure had been the second big loss of her life.

  “It was difficult for me to accept that I wouldn’t be your teacher, but it was for the best. The decisions of the motherhouse always are.”

  Angie didn’t agree. Sister Trinita’s transfer, her disappearance from Angie’s life, had seemed so unfair. “You had no choice?”

  “No, but that’s not the point. When I became a bride of Christ, I promised obedience in all things.”

  “I could never do that,” Angie told her. She didn’t like admitting to such a weakness, but it was true.

  Sister Trinita laughed softly. “Of course you could. When God asks something of us, there’s no thought of refusing.”

  Sister sounded so calm and certain, as though there was never any question when it came to obeying God, never any doubt. Angie was sure she’d turned God down any number of times.

  “You’ve grown into a fine young woman,” Sister Trinita said, her eyes soft with affection. “I imagine your father is very proud.”

  Angie shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  After another moment she asked, “You’re assigned to the motherhouse?”

  Sister Trinita smiled, but she hesitated before she answered. “For now.”

  “Oh.”

  There was a long silence, or maybe it only seemed long to Angie. Just as she started to speak, Sister Trinita rose slowly to her feet, tucking both hands in the capacious sleeves of her habit.

  “It’s been good to talk to you,” Sister said.

  “You, too.” Angie wasn’t ready to leave, and it seemed she was being dismissed. “Sister,” she said, “could I ask you about being a nun?” It was the only question she could think of that would prolong the conversation.

  Sister Trinita sank back onto the bench. “What would you like to know?”

  Angie clasped her hands and gazed into the distance. It was so peaceful here in these gardens. The sound of traffic was muted by the many trees throughout the property. “When did you first realize you had a vocation?” she asked.

  “Not until after I graduated from high school.”

  That surprised Angie. “So late?”

  Sister smiled. “I was nineteen.”

  “But how did you know?”

  Sister Trinita glanced down at her hands, which she’d removed from her sleeves. “That’s not easy to explain. I felt it in my heart.” She brought one hand to the stiff white bib of her habit. “I longed to serve God, to follow Him wherever He led me.”

  “Even if that meant not marrying or ever having children?” This was the most difficult aspect of a vocation for Angie to understand.

  “It was what God asked of me.”

  “I couldn’t imagine living without a husband,” Angie confessed. “I’m sure I’d feel incomplete.”

  “I’m married to Christ, Angie. He is the one who makes me whole.”

  Angie didn’t think she could ever feel the same. It wasn’t as if Christ was here on earth. She wanted the same things in life that her friends did—a husband, a real flesh-and-blood husband. One who would hold her close and talk with her and…and kiss her. She wanted children of her own, too.

  “Has your father remarried?” Sister asked next.

  She shook her head. Her father never would. There was no room in his heart for another woman. No room for anyone other than Angie.

  “Do you think your father is incomplete?” Sister asked. “He’s lived all these years without a wife.”

  “Not at all,” Angie said quickly, aghast at the suggestion. Her father was content. He owned a thriving business, had his friends—he bowled one night a week with his cronies—and focused his hopes and dreams on her.

  “Neither am I,” Sister said. “You see, with obedience comes joy, and there is no greater joy than serving our Lord.”

  No greater joy, Angie repeated in her mind. It was at that moment that the idea sprang to life.

  “Sister,” she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. “I think God might be speaking to me.” It frightened her to admit it, to actually say the words aloud.

  “Do you, Angie?”

  “Yes, Sister.” She exhaled sharply. “Oh, no!”

  “No?” Sister asked with a gentle smile.

  “My father—he won’t like this.” God was calling her. Angie felt the desire to serve Him gaining strength in her heart, becoming more real with every minute. When she’d first sat down with Sister Trinita, she’d had no idea where the conversation would take her. God had brought this special nun back into her life at exactly the right moment. It was His way of speaking to Angie and revealing her vocation. As always, God’s timing was perfect.

  “I have a boyfriend, too,” Angie murmured, thinking of the obstacles she had yet to face. “He works part-time at the restaurant and he’s cute, but…”

  “Are you and this young man serious?”

  “No…we’re not going steady or anything.” The truth was, Ken was more of a friend than a boyfriend. They’d gone to her school prom together and they talked on the phone once or twice a week, but it wasn’t anything serious. Ken would probably understand if Angie announced that she wanted to become a nun. But her father never would.

  “Might I suggest you keep this matter to yourself for now?” Sister said.

  Angie blinked back tears of joy. “I don’t know if I can. I feel like my heart’s about to burst wide open.” She hurriedly wiped her eyes. “I really think God’s calling me to be His bride. What should I do now?”

  “Pray,” Sister said. “He will lead you. And if your father objects, God will show you the way.”

  Shortly after she returned from Boston, Angie realized how right Sister Trinita was. She should’ve kept the call to herself. Instead, she’d made the mistake of telling her father she wanted to enter the convent.

  “No! Absolutely not,” Tony Marcello bellowed at his only child. “I won’t hear of it.”

  “God is calling me.”

  Her father slapped the kitchen table with such force, the napkin holder, along with the salt and pepper shakers, toppled to the floor. His unprecedented violence shocked them both, and they stared at each other, openmouthed. Her father recovered first. “What did those nuns say to you while you were in Boston?”

  “They didn’t say anything.”

  “You’re not entering the convent!” he shouted. “I won’t allow it.” His face had gone as red as his famous sauce and he stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Tears pricked Angie’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Sister Agnes, Mother Superior of St. Bridget’s Sisters of the Assumption, had warned the girls that if any of them had vocations, they might encounter resistance from their familie
s. She’d said it was common for parents to have questions and doubts.

  Angie had known her father wouldn’t be pleased, but she hadn’t expected him to explode. In all her life, her father had never even shouted at her. Not until the day she announced her vocation.

  Two weeks after graduation, Angie broached the subject a second time.

  Her father was in his restaurant office doing paperwork when Angie walked tentatively into the room. She closed the door, sat in the chair beside his desk and waited.

  Her father glanced up and seemed to know intuitively what she’d come to discuss. “The answer is no, so don’t even think about asking.”

  “I want you to talk to Mother Superior.”

  “Why? So I can get even angrier?”

  “God is calling me to serve Him,” she said simply.

  Her father glared at her. “Your mother, God rest her soul, asked me to raise you as a good Catholic. I promised her I would—but I never agreed to this.”

  Angie’s voice trembled. “Please, just talk to Mother Superior.”

  “No. Your place is here with me. This restaurant will be yours one day. Why do you think I’ve worked like a slave all these years? It was for you.”

  Although her heart was breaking, Angie held her ground. “I don’t want the restaurant,” she said, her voice a mere whisper now. “I want God.”

  Slowly her father stood, his face contorted with rage. “You don’t mean that. If I thought you could truly believe such a thing, I—I don’t know what I’d do. Now get out of my sight before I say something I’ll regret.”

  Angie’s sobs came in earnest as she rushed from the office. Nearly blinded by her tears, she stumbled past Mario Deccio, her father’s friend and chef. Despite his concern, she couldn’t explain what was wrong, couldn’t choke out the words.

  For two days Tony Marcello didn’t speak to his daughter. For two days he pretended she wasn’t in the house.

  “Daddy, don’t be like this,” Angie pleaded on Sunday night. The restaurant was always closed on the traditional day of worship.

  Her father ignored her and stared at the television screen while Ed Sullivan announced his lineup of guests.

  Disheartened, Angie sat in the chair beside her father’s. She started to weep. He’d never been angry with her before and she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear not having him speak to her. “Tell me what you want me to do,” she pleaded between hiccupping sobs.