An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries) Page 10

  “Oh, Father, there's just one thing. I called Bridget's Profeffa …”

  “She called and told me, Margaret, that's why I'm here.” The priest opened the door and stepped back to allow her to pass in from of him. She hesitated and looked back into her living room.

  “Take a look at the curtains I just put up, Father. The old ones smelled of cigarettes no matter how many times I washed them. The new ones really brighten up the place, don't you think.”

  “Do you want to leave a note, Margaret?” asked Father Jim.

  “There's nothing to say, Father. Let's just go before I lose my nerve.”

  Sitting off by herself at one of the long oak tables in one of the more remote rooms in the college library, Bridget was half-hidden by the two stacks of books in front of her. In one pile were books on Roman Catholic dogma and theology and in the other books on euthanasia, suicide, and an assortment of articles promoting and/or denouncing the ethics of an individual's right to die. Should anyone come by and ask, she would tell them she was working on an assignment. As she pored over the material she made notes and copied quotes into the back pages of her Humanities and Religion notebook.

  Bridget was gathering information. From her reading and from her upbringing, she knew there was no question that for a Roman Catholic, death by one's own hand or deliberately causing the death of another human being was a mortal sin. But the articles she read by and about the famous “Doctor. Death,” Dr. Jack Kevorkian, showed her an entirely different way of looking at the subject. Euthanasia and physician-assisted suicide were legal in some places in the world. So why wasn't carrying out the death penalty a sin? If it wasn't a sin for a Catholic to kill someone in combat, was it a sin for a person to kill another person who was trying to kill you if you were protecting yourself? And if you already have a huge pile of mortal sins lodged in your soul, will one more make a difference?

  She hastily wrote down the names of the most helpful books and articles in her notebook and shoved it deep into her backpack. Then she cleared off the table, re-shelved the books in perfect order, and went off to meet Olympia Brown.

  Seventeen

  On his lunch break Terry decided to swing by the house and check on Margaret. She'd been acting a little funny since the other night. Ordinarily he never went home in the middle of the day, but he was having an uneasy feeling. His mother would have said it was “the devil nippin’ at his ear.” He couldn't say what it was. When he heard her talking to that professor on the phone yesterday, maybe it really was about Bridget staying with her and nothing else. Maybe she was whispering because she really didn't want to wake me. Maybe I just went over to the college and told that holier-than-thou woman off for nothing. On the other hand, maybe not. And what about those pictures?

  He'd looked everywhere but hadn't found them. He seemed to be forgetting where he put things lately, like leaving the car at the shop last week, the day I came down with the flu. A car was one thing, but those pictures were another. That could be trouble. He had to find them.

  He looked out the car window at the familiar shops and houses in his neighborhood. Spring was in the air, and Easter was a little over a week away. On a whim he decided to stop at the gas station on the corner and pick up an Easter lily.

  The house was dead quiet when he walked in. Margaret usually kept the TV on for company. He set the Easter lily down on the kitchen table and looked through the doorway into the bedroom, thinking she might be lying down. He was mildly surprised not to find her at home. Terry knew she didn't like to go out when she didn't look her best. He scowled, noting she hadn't turned down the heat. She knew was supposed to set back the thermostat when she went out. Terry didn't like wasting money.

  He walked into their bedroom to get a fresh handkerchief and looked around. Something's different. Or was his imagination playing tricks on him again? That had been happening a lot lately as well. He would have a good look around when he got back that night. Terry tucked the perfectly ironed and folded handkerchief into his jacket pocket, checked himself in the mirror, and went back out to the car.

  But when he returned that evening and the house was still empty and the Easter lily was exactly where he left it, he finally understood that Margaret was not there. He gulped down his first drink and looked around for a note saying where she was but found nothing. He had made a new rule for himself: nothing to drink until after work except on weekends when he didn't work. You never know when you might be coming down with something, or how a drink or two might hit you. Terry couldn't take that kind of chance again.

  He opened the refrigerator to see if she had left anything for his supper and cracked out more ice for another drink. There was a pizza place that delivered. Where the hell was the phone book? Terry lit a cigarette and left it dangling out of the side of his mouth as he went to look for it. Stupid bitch was supposed to get me some lighter fluid. By the third drink he'd found the phone book, but he wasn't hungry. He would have a bowl of cereal and some toast later. He knew better than to drink on an empty stomach, especially since he was still getting over that flu. He picked up his unread newspaper and walked into the living room. The cereal and toast could wait. A man needed to relax after a day's work. He flipped the television on to the news, dropped into his chair without spilling a drop, and soon forgot that his wife was gone.

  Olympia and Bridget were at the local supermarket happily pushing a grocery cart up and down the aisles, picking up fresh vegetables and chicken for a Chinese stir-fry.

  “What about you?” asked Bridget, eyeing the groceries in the basket, “will you have enough to eat without the chicken?”

  “I have some tofu at home. I'll throw some of that into my portion.”

  Bridget made a face and dropped a bag of potato chips into the cart. “Okay if I get these?”

  “As long as I can have some, too,” said Olympia, reaching for a package of chocolate chip cookies and adding it to the collection. “I don't know whether the road to hell is paved with potato chips or chocolate chips, but either way, I'm on it.”

  Bridget actually smiled.

  Later, standing side by side in the kitchen, chopping and talking, Olympia decided to try a different approach. She reached across the counter for the bok choy.

  “You know, Bridget, even though I went to divinity school and we learned about the theology of Roman Catholicism, I don't know much about what it's like living as a Catholic. You know, day-to-day stuff.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bridget was teary from the onions and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, “Phew, these are killers.”

  “Slice them under cold water. I learned that trick from a nun, would you believe? She was a piano-playing friend of my mother.”

  “Nuns cook,” said Bridget. “They do laundry, too. We used to sneak peeks behind the convent when I was in grade school.” She giggled, “They wore big bloomers for underpants. We used to try to hit them with mud balls so it would look like poop.”

  She was laughing out loud now. “We were so bad.”

  “Would that have been considered a sin?”

  “That would be a venial sin. You'd have to confess it, but you wouldn't go to hell for it.”

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “It is, but when you hear it over and over, I guess it just becomes part of you. Anything else need chopping?”

  “Nope, that's it, now for the magic.”

  “What's that?” Bridget was perched on the stool beside the counter, watching Olympia.

  “First heat the oil, throw in the vegetables, then add the special sauce; stir like mad, take some out for myself, whomp in your chicken, cover and wait five minutes, and we eat.”

  “Did you make rice?”

  “Crap!” said Olympia.

  As it turned out, there was a box of not-too-ancient instant rice in a far corner of the cupboard, and in ten minutes the two had a complete meal. Bridget commented once again, as she pushed the last bits onto her fork, that
her family never ate like this at home. Once in a while she and her mother and sister would go out to a Chinese restaurant. Then she added that was only if her father was away on business.

  “Your father sounds like a man who insists on having his own way.”

  Bridget looked down at the table. “You might say that, like every minute of the day. We were all terrified of his moods. It was worse when he was drinking.”

  “Did he ever miss work?” asked Olympia.

  “Not really. Sometimes after a bad weekend my mother would call the bank on Mondays and say he'd be late, but he always made it. He said as long as he never missed work, no one could ever say he drank too much. My father went to confession every Saturday, mass every Sunday and every Holy Day of Obligation. He covered all the bases. I suppose in his weird way of looking at things, he thought he was a good Catholic.”

  Bridget crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back, and looked hard at Olympia. “My father is a pig. He's given my mother black eyes, he's pulled out her hair, and he calls her the most awful names. My sister Eileen was smart. She stayed away as much as she could, and then as soon as she graduated from high school, she got a job and moved out. I thought I could protect my mother by …” Bridget stopped herself and looked away.

  “By what, Bridget? How did you try to protect your mother?”

  The space between the professor and her student literally vibrated with Bridget's unspoken words. Olympia could see the tension in the girl's shoulders and the set of her jaw but wisely held her counsel and waited for Bridget to frame her words. Bridget continued to stare at a place on the table between them as she began to speak the unspeakable.

  “My father would come into my room at night and do things to me.”

  “What kind of things, Bridget?” Olympia spoke softly, hoping to hold on to the fragile trust that was growing between them.

  “He said he was coming in to hear my prayers, but once I got into bed, he would make like he was tucking me in, and then he … he would start touching me. Other times he made me touch him. Sometimes…” Bridget couldn't finish.

  “Oh, God, Bridget, how awful—and you've never told anyone?”

  Bridget shut her eyes and shook her head.

  “On the nights when he came into my room, he wouldn't be so bad to my mother afterwards, so I let him do what he wanted. I was trying to help her.”

  “When did it start?” Olympia stopped clearing the dishes and came back to the table.

  “I don't know, Professor. It seemed like he was always coming after me. When I was little, in the bathtub or when I would be getting dressed. He was always there looking at me. Sometimes he would rub himself and start breathing funny.”

  Bridget was crying openly now, letting go of years of buried shame and misery. The two sat long into the night with Bridget pouring out her awful story and Olympia listening hard and saying little.

  “Is it still going on?” asked Olympia when it seemed to her that Bridget had finished.

  “Get this one! When he heard I had started having my period, that's when it stopped. He told me now that I was a woman, and I needed to save myself for my husband.”

  She snorted in disgust, “Can you believe that one? He actually said it was his mission to keep me pure. Some mission. He didn't touch me anymore, but instead, he used to make me look at dirty magazines with him down in the cellar.”

  “What he did to you is not only vile. it is against the law, Bridget.”

  “I know that now, Professor, but it doesn't matter anymore.” She was rolling and unrolling her napkin. “I'm out of the house, and I'm never going back. It's over for me. I just wish I could help my mother. She has no idea about all of this. But taking my father to court would kill her.”

  “There may be a way to help your mother, Bridget, but it's late, and we both need to get to bed.”

  Bridget stood up and placed a timid hand on Olympia's shoulder. It was the first time she had ever reached out.

  “You go. I'll clean up the kitchen. I'm exhausted, but I'm not going to be able to sleep. I never thought I'd ever be able to say any of this to anyone. Thank you.”

  Olympia leaned her cheek against Bridget's hand and smiled up at her.

  “Leave it—go take a hot bath. We can do it together in the morning. My first class isn't until eleven, how about you?”

  “Sociology, at one,” said Bridget. “I'll hang out in the library. I'm working on a project, and it's quiet in there.”

  Because of his side trip to Meriwether, Terry was late for work. When he arrived he backed in through the door of the bank carrying two cups of coffee. Marie looked up and smiled when he put one down on her desk.

  “That's supposed to be my job, Mr. O’Mara. The boss doesn't get the secretary coffee. It's the other way around.” Marie was grinning. “You must be feeling better today. You certainly look better.”

  “Times change, Marie. A boss is allowed to get a coffee for his secretary once in a while, black with two sugars, right? And yes, thank you, I am feeling better.”

  Marie took the coffee and pulled up the lift-off tab, sniffed and smiled. “There aren't any messages, but don't forget you have a branch managers meeting at twelve-thirty at the Codman Square office.

  Terry waved his hand in a half-salute, “Aye-aye, Madame. Guess we all know who really runs this place, don't we? I'll go get the fact sheets, and I might as well take the coffee with me. It's probably the only way I'll get to drink it. You don't let me get away with anything, do you?”

  Marie laughed and blushed and then sipped her coffee. “Someone has to keep your nose to the grindstone, Mr. O’Mara, Might as well be me.

  With her head down and her oversized satchel clutched to her chest, Margaret O’Mara followed Father Jim up a brick path to a brown and white, wood-shingled house in a modest neighborhood in Charlestown. The two crossed the wide porch, walked through the front door, and stepped into a big, comfortable sitting room. Later, Margaret would say how much she liked the rose-flowered fabric on the sofa and the hand braided rug, but right now she stared at the floor, seeing little more than her own feet. A nun wearing a faded, blue denim dress, black stockings and black running shoes stood and held out her hand. She had short-cropped gray hair, and when Margaret raised her head, she could see a small silver crucifix hanging around her neck.

  “Jim, my goodness, how long has it been? And this must be Margaret.”

  She smiled and invited the two of them to sit and be comfortable, then offered to make them a cup of tea and get an ice pack to put on Margaret's still-swollen face. Before she left, Father Jim introduced her as Sister Myra, and Margaret looked into the most beautiful green eyes she had ever seen, eyes that looked beyond the bruises and right into her soul.

  When they had finished their tea and the brief introductory formalities were over, Sister Myra took Margaret to her room and left Jim sitting by himself in the living room. As they mounted the stairs, she assured Margaret that only she and Sister Elizabeth, who helped run the place—and of course Father Jim—knew that this was a women's shelter. Even the next door neighbors didn't know. She further explained that Margaret was welcome to stay for as long as she wished, but she was also free to go. Martha House was not a prison, it was a place of prayer and healing; but if she did choose to go, she must promise never to disclose the location or even the existence of this place to anyone.

  She went on to say that they had group meetings twice a day, and a domestic abuse counselor would meet with her tomorrow morning after breakfast.

  Before she left the room, she paused, cocked her head to one side and said, “You can take off your glasses and scarf if you want to, Margaret. You won't need them here. We've seen it all.”

  “Thank you, Sister, maybe after I put away my things. It's just that I look so awful.”

  “I've seen worse.” Sister Myra reached out and gently brushed Margaret's unbruised cheek with the tips of her fingers

  “I'm going downstairs to sa
y good-bye to Father Jim. Come down when you're ready. I've some hot soup that'll be easy to sip through that cracked lip. Did he break any teeth?”

  Margaret shook her head no.

  “I've got more ice downstairs and Kleenex. Take your time, dear. You've just taken a huge step.”

  After Sister Myra left the room, Margaret sat down on the bed to try and gather her wits but realized there were none to collect. Coherent thought was simply beyond her.

  The bed was covered with a well-washed, yellow and blue patchwork quilt. Ruffled yellow curtains framed the windows, and a picture of the Virgin ascending into heaven hung on the wall. Beside the bed was a painted chest of drawers which doubled as a night stand. The room was small, but she didn't feel closed in, and best of all, it didn't stink of Terry. She was only aware of the dull throbbing ache in her jaw and that she no longer lived at 46 Barrett Street.

  Now, with some time to catch her breath and look around, it was the curtains that finally released the tears. She realized that except for the color, they were exactly like the ones she had left behind. She recalled a book by Virginia Wolfe that she'd read years ago, and if it didn't hurt so much, she might have smiled.

  For the first time in her life, Margaret Theresa Fitzpatrick O’Mara had a room of her own.

  When she did go downstairs she would need some more ice for her jaw, but right now she wanted to be alone. There was so much to think about, but her thoughts wouldn't stay still long enough for her to examine them. If she could make it through to suppertime, it would be enough for today.