An Unholy Mission Page 13

  “Of course I wouldn’t.” Olympia considered putting her hand on Jenny’s arm to reassure her but thought better of it. “Where is this chapel?”

  “It’s in a women’s shelter down near City Hospital.” Jenny paused. “It’s where I live. They give me a room there because I’m the night manager. On weekends different ministers and priests and rabbis come in to do religious services for the residents. The director knows I’m in seminary and asked me to do one, and I didn’t want to say no, but now I’m scared shitless.” Jenny hung her head and rubbed her nose. “Then I said to myself, now what the hell do I do? Your name popped up right in front of my eyes.”

  This time Olympia did put her hand over Jenny’s balled-up fist and said, “Of course, when do you have to do it?”

  “This Sunday,” said Jenny,”or my ass is grass.”

  Olympia didn’t even try to contain the laughter. She certainly didn’t need one more thing to think about after all that had happened today, but the look of desperation on Jenny’s face told her she had no choice. One doesn’t choose these things. Jenny was a chaplain-buddy, and it was the first time she’d opened up to anyone in the group.

  “Do you have a car, Jenny?”

  “You kidding? I got nothing. My clothes, even my underwear, come from the Goodwill. I got a rehab-scholarship from some women’s foundation somewhere to cover my tuition, and I can live and eat free at the shelter.”

  “Let me give you a ride home. We can talk in the car.”

  “I’m on it,” said Jenny. “I can save the car fare. Bonus!”

  A few minutes later the two women stepped out of the elevator into the garage, and Olympia wrinkled her nose. The stale air and acrid rubber tire smell of the place always made her feel claustrophobic. They were walking along behind the rows of cars to where Olympia’s van was parked when Jenny stopped and yelled out, “What the fuck?” Followed by, “Stay where you are.”

  “What is it?” asked Olympia.

  “This your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t look. There’s a mashed rat behind the back wheel. I’ll get rid of it.”

  “There’s some newspaper inside the van,” said Olympia. “We can scoop it up with that.”

  “Gimme the paper, and you stand back out of the way,” said Jenny. “I’ll take care of it. I’ve seen worse.”

  “At least it doesn’t stink,” said Olympia, doing as she was told and looking the other way.

  “Oh, yes it does,” muttered Jenny.

  “It’s been a while since a man invited me to dinner, Jim,” said Sister Patrick Alphonsus, AKA Wanda Marie Theresa Wysocki.

  “And I’m not in the habit, no pun intended, of inviting women out to dinner. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do. How long has it been anyway?”

  Father Jim and Sister Patrick were seated at La Paloma, one of Boston’s nicer restaurants. The deep blue and beige décor was inviting and restful to the eye, and a clergyman would not have to rob the poor box for an excellent meal and attentive service. It was one of Jim’s favorites.

  “I can’t believe we literally walked into each other after all these years,” said Patrick. “On the other hand, we are in the same business. When did you enter the priesthood?”

  “About ten years ago. That’s part of the long story I may or may not get to, and I may still forget and call you Wanda.”

  She held up her two hands. “Not a problem, Jim-boy. I’ve been called worse.”

  He chuckled and then continued. “But tell me what’s going on. I gather it must be serious for you to call me.”

  “It is very serious, Jim. I need advice and I need a sounding board and it may involve you.”

  Jim smoothed his napkin over his knees as the waiter gave them each a glass of ice water that was perfectly garnished with a wedge of lemon and a sprig of fresh mint.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” He held up the wine list.

  “No, thanks, Jim, but I’ll take a rain check for some other time. I need a clear head. I think there’s a problem with one of my student chaplains.”

  “Let me guess, Luther Stuart?”

  Patrick almost dropped her water glass.

  Jim leaned forward and looked at his childhood friend over the top of his spectacles. “Sister Patrick-Wanda Marie, before we say one more word, I need to tell you that Olympia Brown is a longtime clergy-colleague and close personal friend.”

  “Is she now?” Patrick looked dumfounded at first, then cocked her head to one side and raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Is she …?”

  Jim shook his head and gave her an enigmatic smile. “Not hardly, but a best friend and trusted confidante nonetheless. We met in seminary years ago. She’s an incredible woman, and she’s already talked to me about Luther. I’ve actually done a little snooping on the QT to see what I can find out about him. That’s what I was doing the day we bumped into each other, but I’ll get to that in a few minutes.”

  “I see,” said the nun. “Now the problem becomes, who tells what to whom? Olympia is my student, and she’s your friend, and I’ve taken her into my confidence. She’s a pretty extraordinary woman. Anyway, the other day she told me that one of her patients reported that Luther Stuart was touching a patient’s chest when he prayed with her.”

  Jim bit his lip and shook his head.

  The nun nodded and continued. “The next day, I went to get the story first-hand, but the woman who reported it to Olympia died unexpectedly in the night. I took a chance and confronted Luther. He denied everything, but I don’t believe him.”

  Jim signaled for the waiter. “Let’s order, so we can talk without interruption.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’m paying, so indulge yourself, Sister. I know all about that poverty, chastity and obedience stuff, but when it comes to good food, self-denial has never been on my short list.”

  “My kind of priest,” she said, patting her solid midriff and ordering steak au poivre, a green salad and a side of French fries.

  When Jim raised a supercilious eyebrow at her pedestrian choice of potatoes, she responded with a huge grin. “You said to indulge myself. I’m indulging myself. Convent food, or my own cooking, for that matter, is not for the faint hearted.”

  By the time the two finished dinner, they had the beginnings of a plan. Jim was enjoying an Irish coffee while Patrick was awaiting a generous slab of tiramisu with extra whipped cream. Even though she had taken Olympia into her confidence, because of her supervisory relationship with Olympia, Patrick felt it was probably best not to involve her any further.

  They agreed that Jim would try and meet with Luther again and see what else he could find out. Patrick would go up to the Transitional Unit and see what she could learn about the circumstances of Nancy Farwell’s death. Then, in her role as Supervisor of Pastoral Care evaluating her chaplains, she was justified in going over to the hospice unit and asking the nurse-manager how Luther Stuart was progressing in the program. Lastly, she would call the interfaith ministry headquarters in New York and see what, if anything, they might be able to add to the developing picture of Luther Stuart.

  As they finalized their plans, Sister Patrick was plowing through her tiramisu one blissful mouthful at a time. Her expression was one of pure ecstasy as she held up a sticky spoon and wiggled it for emphasis.

  “I have a serious professional conflict here as well as the confidentiality issue, Jim. I have a duty to protect the patients, as well as the other chaplains, from someone who might be abusive. So in order to take any kind of action at all, I’ll need documented evidence. It’s a very delicate line I’m treading.” She shook her head in dismay. “I simply can’t withdraw a chaplain from the program on the word of another chaplain, but the cancer diagnosis changes everything. If necessary, I think I might be able to insist he withdraw for reasons of health, but I’m not sure. I’ll have to check that out, as well.”

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” said Jim. “I suggest you tell
Luther that you accept his explanation, nothing else. That way, he won’t be on guard every minute. Tell Olympia only that we’ve talked, and she is to keep a written record of anything that might be relevant. In other words, business as usual, but watch him like a hawk.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Patrick, scooping the last of the whipped cream off the edge of her plate with her index finger. “Until we have documented evidence there’s nothing anyone can do, and I don’t want to get Olympia in the middle of this if we can possibly help it.”

  “It’s too late for that—and for the record, Olympia knows about the cancer. Luther told her God would never let him die until his work on earth is complete.”

  Sister Patrick shivered, and it wasn’t because of the temperature. “I don’t like any of this, Jim, and the worst part is, I’m not sure what to do next.”

  “I think you’re doing all that can be done,” said Jim. “Call me after you’ve talked to Olympia. Luther may be delusional, but I don’t think she’s in any particular danger. At the same time, we can’t have him coming on to the patients. That’s unthinkable. On the other hand, delusional people can be unpredictable, especially if they feel threatened.”

  “I’m glad I called you,” said Patrick. She began collecting her things. “I feel better, but I don’t mind telling you, I still feel like I’m flying blind. I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before, and I thought I’d seen it all.”

  Jim looked at his childhood friend over his glasses. “Olympia Brown is not and never will be a romantic interest, Sister Wanda Wysocki Patrick, but I’d stop a bullet in her defense. Luther Stuart may simply be a narcissistic weirdo, or he could be so divorced from reality that he’s a danger to himself and others.”

  “Either way, we need to move on this immediately, Jim,” said the nun, standing and shouldering the strap of her black leather handbag. “That’s why I called you.”

  “Turn left here,” said Jenny, “We keep a couple of parking spaces behind the building for staff and invited guests.”

  Olympia did as she was told, and the two sat making small talk for a minute before Jenny got out.

  “I’m not going to invite you in this time,” said Jenny. “It’s better if I tell people you’re coming first. The women here need to feel safe, and a well-dressed stranger dropping in unannounced doesn’t work for them. They’ll feel like they’re being watched.”

  “I understand completely,” said Olympia, “but I would like to come in with you sometime. Maybe I could do something to help these women myself.”

  Jenny grinned. “You’ve already saved my butt, and I owe you. I was afraid to talk about myself in church, but the way you suggested makes perfect sense, especially when you tied it to scripture.”

  Olympia shook her head and chuckled. “I’m hardly a biblical scholar; you just happened to connect with one of the few stories I’m familiar with. We each have our own Goliaths, Jenny, and the five smooth stones will be different for every one of us. I guess it’s knowing where to find them and believing they’ll work once you pick them up.”

  Jenny play-punched Olympia on the shoulder. “Thanks, preacher lady, I’ll remember that. Can I show you my sermon later in the week?”

  “Sure.”

  “But don’t tell the others, okay?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to,” said Olympia.

  Jenny got out of the car and was fumbling in her pocket for her cigarettes. The sound and smell of the inner city made Olympia sharply aware of the contrast between her own life of middle class privilege and the lives of the women Jenny was describing to her.

  Jenny was standing well back from Olympia’s open van window, dragging deeply on her cigarette. “Not yet. Oh, and one other thing. Keep an eye on Luther.”

  Olympia cocked her head at Jenny. “Why so?”

  Jenny held the cigarette behind her back and leaned into the window to speak. “Olympia, I’ve seen and done things you’ve never even heard of. I’ve met and fought and slept with some of the baddest and meanest scumbags that are out there, and I know a two-faced son of a bitch when I see one. He’s trouble, Olympia, and on top of that I think he’s nuts. Be careful.”

  It was not the time or place to confide in Jenny what she already knew, but this helped to confirm her suspicions. Olympia said only, “Thanks for the heads up, Jenny. I can’t say he’s my favorite boy on the playground either.” In response to Jenny’s questioning look she added, “I’ll take your advice.”

  “Code blue 310 Wyman, code blue 310 Wyman.” The alert crackled over the hospital loudspeakers, and the emergency team dropped everything and raced against time toward the room where a patient lay in cardiac arrest.

  Luther Stuart dropped his empty cup in the wastebasket by the door. Even though it was way past supper time, he wasn’t very hungry these days, just perpetually tired. He checked the time. There was one more thing left to do before he left the hospital for the day. Using the back staircases and the less travelled corridors, he made his way to the old part of the building and slipped his handwritten letter of resignation from the chaplaincy program under Sister Patrick’s door. The signal was clear. It was time to begin.

  Olympia and Frederick pulled on their cold weather jackets and went out the kitchen door into the back yard for a breath of fresh air. Each was carrying a cup of after-dinner coffee as much to warm their hands as to drink. The cats, Thunderfoot and rickety old Whitefoot, stayed behind, watching them through the kitchen window.

  Olympia made a great show of sniffing the cold, sharp air. “I swear I can smell snow, Frederick. It’s certainly cold enough. I haven’t heard anything about a storm, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we got a dusting.”

  “You do love a good snow storm, don’t you, Olympia? I would have thought last year’s blizzard would have been enough to satisfy you for a while, although I do admit I’m sorry I missed it. It didn’t stop me from worrying about you from afar, and with good cause, I might add. Speaking about worrying, what’s going on with that Luther character you and Jim seemed to be so concerned about?”

  Olympia shivered and took a sip of her coffee. “The thot plickens, as they say.”

  “Plickens? What kind of an American verb is that?”

  “It’s a spoonerism, Frederick. I really mean the plot thickens. I switched the first letters; I was making a little joke.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  “Then it wouldn’t have been a joke.”

  “It’s still not a joke. A proper joke has a beginning and …”

  “Arghh!” yelled Olympia. “Do you want to know about Luther or not?”

  “Of course I do. It’s just that when you …”

  “Frederick!”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up, Darling.”

  “Oh. All right then.”

  “Let’s go back in, I’m getting cold. I’ll tell you the latest Luther development after I feed the cats, and on another subject entirely, we need to get onto cleaning out that other room for Jim. I think he’s going to be with us over the holidays.”

  “I’m pleased about that,” said Frederick.

  When the two were seated by the fire, Frederick picked up their earlier conversation.

  “Did Sister Patrick tell you what happened after she talked to Luther?” He was idly scratching the cat sitting on the floor by his feet. “Before you answer that, I don’t think this old girl feels very well.”

  Olympia smiled a sad smile in the direction of the ancient animal. “She’s older than dirt, Frederick. I’ve been lucky to have her this long. I suppose one day she’ll go off to that great cat box in the sky. I just don’t like to think about it. Was she acting sick when you came home from the bookstore today?”

  “Not really, but she did seem to be moving even more slowly than usual, and she wasn’t really interested in her supper tonight.”

  “She’s an old lady, and she doesn’t like the cold. We just need to keep an eye on
her. I think she still has some good time left, at least I hope so. We’ve been through a lot together.”

  As if on cue, Whitefoot got to her feet and wobbled over to Olympia, who leaned over and gently gathered her onto her lap.

  “I don’t know how to begin to describe it, Frederick. I went in early and told Sister Patrick what Nancy Farwell said about Luther, only to find out that Nancy died the night before. I didn’t get the details, but I guess she missed getting her liver transplant by hours. What a shame.”

  Olympia sat with her cooling coffee and her cat, staring into the fire and sniffing back the tears. “Do you have a handkerchief? I don’t want to disturb the cat.”

  Without a word Frederick reached into his pocket and pulled out the extra clean, folded handkerchief he always carried with him and handed it over.

  When she had collected herself, Olympia went on to describe the rest of her rollercoaster day, ending with Jenny’s request for help with her sermon and subsequent warning to be on guard around Luther. Almost as an afterthought she added the grisly detail of the dead rat behind her car.

  “Do you think you should talk to Sister Patrick again?” asked Frederick.

  Olympia shook her head. “She’s in charge of what happens next. When we talked this morning, she told me she didn’t want to implicate me, but if she had to, then she would. I don’t even know whether she’s spoken to Luther yet. Nancy Farwell’s death is going to change everything.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked Frederick.

  “The person who described Luther’s inappropriate behavior is dead, and there is no way of proving anything I said. If Sister Patrick confronts Luther and quotes me, it’s going to make him madder than hell.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Frederick. “That does rather queer the pitch, doesn’t it?”

  “If by that you mean throw a monkey wrench into the middle of things, in a word, yes. But enough of that. Whatever is going to happen on the hospital front will take place tomorrow, and there’s nothing more I can do now.” Olympia pocketed the handkerchief and set down her coffee cup with a sharp clink to emphasize the point. “So tell me about your day at Buttonwood Books. Any drama there beyond cranky kids and tired moms? And how’s the truck running, and have you had any word on the progress of your green card?”