“Most likely to become a nun,” Mrs. Gutierrez said, stabbing her bony finger at the text on the page of the glossy yearbook. “We’re a good Catholic family, Father Steven, but… this… and in her high school year book! I don’t want my daughter becoming a nun. She’s all I have, my only child. You have to talk to her, Father.” Father Steven sat across the table from Dolores’s mother and nodded sagely, the way he always did when he was letting one of his parishioners vent. He was actually in full agreement with Eugenia Gutierrez, but was hesitant to elaborate. She pushed the yearbook across the kitchen table to where the priest sat, rattling his teacup in its saucer. The kitchen was cramped and full of shabby knickknacks. Memorial plates, plastic flowers, a parade of little miniature saints and gaudy devotional candles sat on almost every available surface. The walls were hung with images of the Virgin Mary in her habitual blue cloak. One was clutching a baby Jesus to her chest; the other held her hands wide, exposing a lurid pink heart. Over the melamine kitchen table, a plastic shaded lamp gave everything stark, grimy outlines. Looking down at the open book, Father Steven recognized a number of the kids. Each was posed in that awkward school-portrait way: bodies angled sideways, faces staring into the lens, their forms framed by an improbably blue sky with puffy clouds. Dolores Gutierrez was in the second row from the top. A fragile girl with long, dark hair parted in the middle and tucked neatly behind her ears. Brown eyes stared up at him and only a hint of a smile showed on her lips. She had a strong chin, like her mother’s. A pretty girl, as her mother had been until work and grief and dental problems had eaten away at her face. “It’s the same as before, Father. Dolores takes her penance a little too seriously. I thought she’d grow out of it, but…” Father Steven nodded again. “Still at it, is she?” Mrs. Gutierrez looked down into her camomile tea, as if she were the Oracle of Delphi. “I don’t know where she gets it from, all this obsession with saints and martyrs. I know you think I’m to blame, but I didn’t tell her those kind of stories. I’ve always thought those stories were not very nice. My sister, Carmen, from San Diego, says I am too strict with her, that I should encourage her to go out more and have a good time. But look at where we live? I want her to have friends. But not in a gang—no! I want her to be a good girl, and find a nice novio and get married.” Father Steven reached out and patted Mrs. Gutierrez on the hand. “I’ve spoken to her before and I can try again, if you’d like, but she’s of legal age, Eugenia. If she wants to become a nun, and the convent accepts her into the novitiate, there’s not much any of us can do about it.” “It’s because of her father died, isn’t it?” Mrs. Gutierrez stared at her cupboards as if they were some distant horizon. “If Alfonso hadn’t died… if there had been a man around the house, maybe she’d be happy and looking forward to starting a normal life with family of her own. But she doesn’t want a normal life. She wants to be a nun.” Struggling to follow the logic, the priest lifted an eyebrow. “Oh! I didn’t mean to infer that nuns aren’t normal, Father.” Mrs Gutierrez rushed to cover her embarrassment. “The Sisters of the Sacred Heart have been a blessing to our community. I just meant that…” “Yes, yes, Eugenia. I understand. It’s a special calling that few hear and even fewer follow. A mother naturally wants the comfort of grandchildren. I’ll do my very best to make her see reason.” “Oh, thank you, Father. I’m so relieved. I’m sure that you can make her see reason.” The priest stood up from the table, put his dusty black hat on, and allowed Mrs. Gutierrez to help him as he shrugged his big shoulders into his overcoat. “Tell her to come see me on Thursday evening after the Stations of the Cross, in the rectory. I’ll have another chat with her.” On his walk home, Father Steven was thankful of the chilly autumn evening air. The smell of burning leaves curled round the houses like an old familiar cat. He tried to keep the limp out of his gait, but his hip was giving him pain, an old football injury from a time before time when his world had been a diorama of possibilities. That was before he had been called to the service of God. He didn’t regret answering, and now he had even more respect for the people who did, but Dolores Gutierrez had no business becoming a nun. She was just too—it was hard to find a word for what she was—devout? Fanatical? She was too fascinated by far with the harsher aspects of Catholicism. He was a Pentecostal man himself. The neighbourhood had changed and, with it, his parishioners. When he had first been posted to the parish, it had been full of Irish; now there were very few left. The Hispanics had come and brought their strange brand of mysticism with them: miracles and visions and bleeding palms, a calendar like a crown of thorns. Their relationship with God was so—he hated to use the word, but it fit—passionate. They were either shooting each other from moving vehicles, or lining up for communion. Their interpretations were so literal, so cruel. It wasn’t that Father Steven didn’t believe in hell. He just disagreed with most of his parishioners on its location. When Dolores was thirteen, Father Steven had caught her making her way up to the transept of St. Matthew’s on bare, bloodied knees. She was staring up at the crucified Christ with tears streaming down her pretty little face. When he’d asked her what she thought she was up to, she’d told him: “I’m atoning for my sins, Father. I’m paying for them with pain, just like Jesus.” Even now the unnaturalness of those words coming from the mouth of a thirteen-year-old child made him cringe. Mrs. Gutierrez had visited him not once, but twice, worried about her daughter’s fixation with penance. First she complained that the girl wouldn’t eat. Then, later, she said she knew that Dolores was hurting herself, because she had seen the welts on her back one day. Father Steven chewed his jaw as he walked. He felt a little guilty that he’d brushed her off, that he’d not asked more questions. That kind of behaviour was not natural, especially in a girl of her age. At one time, the church would have welcomed her kind with open arms. Now, the priest thought, we’re a bit more responsible. * * * * Dolores smoothed her skirt, tucked her hair behind her ears and knocked on the door that connected St. Matthew’s Church to the rectory. She knew exactly why her mother wanted her to speak to Father Steven, but she wasn’t looking forward to it. “Come in,” the old priest called. Letting herself in, she walked down the short hallway to Father Steven’s office. It was an open-plan affair with rainbow posters sporting numerous doves of peace. A priest’s office should be more serious. After all, he was God’s representative. And shouldn’t an emissary of Christ take more pride in his appearance? His collar was undone, his thin grey hair stuck up in places, and she could see food stains on his jacket. He was a good man, but a little messy, Dolores thought. “My mom said you wanted to see me, Father.” The priest got up and shuffled around his desk, clearing a stack of papers off a chair. “Indeed, indeed. Have a seat, Dolores.” When she accepted the chair and he’d lowered his large, tall frame into his seat, Father Steven laced his fat fingers together on the desk. “So, you’re still interested in entering the novitiate, I hear.” Here it comes, thought Dolores. She sat up straight in her chair and tried to look unswayable. “Well, I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you mean, Father.” The talk took the direction she’d imagined it would: How the fourth commandment was to honour your mother and father; how the life of a nun was only for a very special sort of person; how a good Catholic could serve the church in many ways as a member of the laity. She’d heard it all before, but she made herself listen, trying to keep any annoyance out of her heart. When he finished, Dolores got up. “Don’t you have any response to those objections?” “No.” She gave him a smile she hoped was full of obedience and meekness, as a smile should be. “You’ve given it sincere thought and prayer?” “I have, Father. And I’m not going to change my mind. I know I am called to the church and to serve God.” “How do you know?” She was a little taken aback by the question. She’d used those phrases to explain her decision often, and everyone else had accepted them—well, except her mother. But her mother didn’t understand how strong the call was, couldn’t understand how much she loved God and needed to be with Him. Her mother acted like this was the only case in the world of someone wanting to become a nun. But Saint Catherine had decided to join the sisterhood when she was eleven, and Santa Rosa just a little later. “It would take a long time to explain, Father. And I’m sure you’re busy.” “Why don’t you sit back down, young lady? If you’re going to spend the rest of your life in a convent, you can afford to spare a few minutes with me.” Reluctantly she retook her seat, itching to remind him that very few nuns actually lived in convents anymore. She was pretty sure he knew that. “I’ve prayed and prayed and I just know it in my heart. I’ve attended Mass every day since I could get here on my own, I’ve gone to confession every week since then, I do my penance with joy in my heart. I love Christ, and I want to become his bride.” The priest cocked his head to one side. “What is it you love so much about Christ?” “He suffered for us. He gave his life and died on la Sagrada Cruz to cleanse the world of sin.” “Indeed he did! So there’s really no reason for you to suffer with such zeal now, is there? Unless of course, you think you can do a better job of suffering than our Dear Lord did.” Dolores felt her cheeks burn. This was the trap they could always catch you in when you were devout—the sin of pride. Of course she didn’t think that her sufferings could ever, ever compare with those of Jesus’s. And it irked her that her mother had been sharing her private acts with the priest. “She had no right to tell you about that. That’s between me and God.” “Old as I am, I’m still the shepherd of my flock, including you, Dolores. Making too much of your sins is prideful, you know. And that, if I may remind you, is one of the seven deadly sins. You’re eighteen, for Pete’s sake. Exactly how much sinning could you have done? There’s never been anything in your confessions to warrant the kind of punishment you seem to think you deserve.” “Oh, it’s not just my sins I’m atoning for, Father, but other people’s sins, too. Since they won’t confess or do penance, it’s my duty to do it for them.” It was irritating to have to explain something so obvious, especially to a priest. And besides, it wasn’t just about penance. But she couldn’t tell him that. “And that sort of thing,” said Father Steven, “is exactly why you have no business becoming a nun. That is not accepted Catholic doctrine. No soul should have to pay for any sins except his or her own, other than original sin, of course.” “Eve was a bad woman, Father.” Dolores clutched onto something biblical and familiar. She wanted to get him off the topic of penance and couldn’t think of another way to do it. “She ate from the forbidden fruit. She had carnal knowledge.” “Very few people haven’t. If you’re going to beat yourself for all of us, we should check you into the hospital now.” “But what about Santa Teresa, San Juan, Saint Catherine and Saint Jerome?” Dolores searched her mind for all the saints she’d read about who had practiced mortification of the flesh—there were so many. Just thinking about them and their lives, and the wonderful closeness they had to God, made her want be like them: to run home, strip off her shirt and put on her cilice—the waistcoat made of rough metal wire—that she kept hidden in her closet under a stack of Seventeen magazines. “And…what about Santa Rosa, who wore a crown of thorns just like Jesus, so she could feel his sweet pain?” “They’re all dead.” Father Steven said it as if that’s what they deserved. “We don’t do that sort of thing any more. The church, thank God, has changed somewhat since the middle ages.” “The Opus Dei still practice the discipline, Father. Are they not members of the church?” Let’s see him refute that, Dolores thought, and then chided herself for her impatience and her pride. “I’ve been your priest all your life, haven’t I? Your confessor?” Dolores looked at him, knowing what was coming next. “I presided at your confirmation and I gave you your first communion. I think I’ve more than proved my Catholic credentials to you, yes? This kind of behaviour you’re indulging in is only practiced by a small minority of Catholic extremists—and for good reason. It is generally agreed that mortification of the flesh serves to concentrate the mind on the flesh rather than on loftier, more Godly things, making it a self-defeating exercise. It used to be that we thought it was an admirable thing, but now we know better. We know that people who do this sort of thing are mentally disturbed.” “Disturbed?” Dolores crossed her arms over her chest and dug her fingers into the flesh. “Are you saying I’m crazy? Because I love God? Because I want to be close to Him?” “No. I’m saying that it isn’t natural to beat yourself. And people who do it usually have problems.” Father Steven tilted his head. “I just think that perhaps there is something that is not quite right in your life, Dolores. Is there something you’d like to tell me about?” he said in a softer voice. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. She set her jaw and shook her head. “Nothing, Father. And I’m not crazy. I just want to be like the saints. I want to have a pure soul. Is that so wrong?” Shifting in his seat, the priest closed his eyes. “There is nothing wrong with wanting to be a good Christian, Dolores. But hurting yourself is no longer an accepted form of devotion. This is my opinion on the matter, but I’d like you to talk to someone who has thought about this issue a lot more than I have. Are you willing to do that?” he asked, opening his eyes, as if on doing it, she would have disappeared like a bad dream. How wonderful would it be to talk with someone who actually knew something about the ‘discipline’? The thought sent a delightful tingle up her spine. “Of course I would, Father. I’d like to very much.” “Fine then. I’ll see what I can arrange.” “Thank you, Father.” Dolores stood up and was about to leave when she remembered the reason she’d come in the first place. “And if I still want to become a nun?” Father Steven gave her a tired look. “We’ll see. Now get out of my office, you silly girl. And don’t bleed on my carpet on the way out.”