be âheading downstairsâ on a regular basis, instead of âheading upstairs.â Kacey flashed back to such a moment. Her dad had gathered the family together for a photo. âLook at you!â Kenneth exclaimed. âYou look like rungs on an Irish stepladder!â Focusing his Leica camera, he made sure each of them stood tall and proud, from eleven-year-old Joseph to eighteen-year-old Annie, now dreaming of leaving home.
Kenneth positioned them by the front porch, with the clean white clapboards as background. He looked through the lens again. âWhereâs your mother?â he called out.
âI donât think sheâs feeling so good, Dad,â Joseph said reluctantly. âI saw her heading upstairs a while ago.â
Heading upstairsâthey all knew what that meant. Rose would be bringing a bottle with her, and she would not emerge from her bedroom until much later, if at all.
âWell, so be it.â Kenneth shook his head. A sad memory for Kacey, of an occurrence all to frequent.
In the basement of the convent, another room was filled with rows of neatly arranged footlockers and suitcases. Never very large, always very old. Kacey had peeked in at them during her first visit to the cellar.
In the largest and warmest area, near the octopus furnace, sat the old Maytag wringer washing machine. Clotheslines were strung the length of the room. Lisa stood at the machine. âGive me a hand,â she said as she dipped the short wooden stick into the scalding water, lifting up a dripping sheet. Gingerly, Kacey took the corners and began feeding them through the wringer.
âDamn!â Kacey exclaimed as the sheet bunched up, causing the wringer to shudder and grind to a halt. Kacey threw the release lever, opening the rollers.
âSlow down!â Lisa called out. âYouâre trying to push it through too fast! Whatâs going on with you, Miss Crabby?
Kacey tugged at the sheet, smoothing out the twists, and started it over. Without turning, she said quietly, âI donât know. I just feel irritable. Thatâs all.â
âYou didnât seem so irritated at vespers last night,â Lisa remarked slyly.
Kacey grinned in spite of herself. âOh, that! I could sure use a beer or two!â
Lisa lifted another sheet, and Kacey took it from her, beginning the process again. âAre you going to tell me whatâs making you cranky? We donât have all the time in the world, you know.â
Kacey fed the sheet into the wringer more slowly. âIâm angry,â she said.
âWhat about?â
Kacey turned to face her friend, the dripping sheet still being fed in. âIâm angry I didnât get the name I asked for.â Her voice took on strength as she spoke words that had been eating at her for several days.
âYou wanted Joan.â It wasnât a question. It was a statement.
âYes, I wanted Joan!â Kacey responded sharply.
âMaybe they thought you wanted it too much . Maybe it seemed too important to you.â
Kacey pulled the last edge of the sheet through the other side of the wringer. âI donât think so. Youâre the only one I told. Why didnât I get it? You got the name you requested! â
âWell, maybe nobody else wanted to be named after John the Silent!â
Kacey gave a small laugh. âIt was kind of a strange choice. Whyâd you pick it?â
Lisa pulled over the next basket of dirty laundry. âIt started out as a joke, because I talked so much as a kid. My youth pastor teased me about it. Said I should strive to be more like St. John the Silent. He spent the last seventy-five years of his life as a solitary in a monastery.â
âWow! Youâd go nuts!â
âRight, but Father Kevin thought St. John the Silent might be a good role model for me. You know, think before you speak. That kind of thing. So I decided to go with it. It might
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