After graduating from my all-girl Catholic high school in Missouri, I entered the convent (hey, I was young) and almost immediately felt starved for affection. Though I cried a lot at night, I stuck it out and was soon stationed—that’s how they put it—at an Eastern grade school with a nun from New York, a street-talking, 28-year-old live wire. Something clicked with us, and we were shortly in danger of developing what was censoriously called an "exclusive friendship."
I'd call it a romantic friendship, which culminated several months later. Though no longer living in the same convent, we happily found ourselves at the religious order's lakeside country house, the same July weekend. When we had a couple of hours to ourselves, we took off on the path along the lake, but instead of making the usual right to the man-made beach—where our cohorts, in (of course) modest bathing suits, sat in plastic chairs or stuck their toes in the water—we went left. We knew that past the brook and over the hill was a golden field, far enough away that no one would follow. (Indeed, as we realized, we were probably trespassing.)
When we got there, we picked a spot and stomped down the tall weeds to make a private little room for ourselves. After throwing our veils off, we lay on our backs to sunbathe, though, with our long black habits, only our faces and necks were exposed. As I was lying there, eyes closed, sweating, my friend rolled over on her side and looked at me. We put our arms around each other, and then she rolled back. A few seconds later she moved toward me again, and this time she kissed me—not a tongue kiss, but a kiss on the mouth nevertheless. I could feel the heat of her skin and the dampness of her pixie bangs. She made a little "Mmm" sound, perhaps trying to stamp this as a casual moment, and turned her face again to the sun. But lying next to her in our self-created luminous chamber, I knew that moment for what it was: the rapture.
The next year, my friend and I were stationed together again. Mostly we just had intense conversations, but occasionally, finding ourselves safely alone in the laundry room or the basement, we stole an embrace or a quick kiss. Finally, when that was still not enough to slake my thirst for physical contact (among other problems), I left the religious life. Some time later, she did the same. One summer I was vacationing with my future husband in her coastal town. She and I met at a beach café and, over beers, watched the sun set. As we were talking, I was thinking of a time when to be with her in such a free way—well, it would have been paradise. It would have been rapturous. It was.
