An Unholy Mission Read online

  Children, no matter how old and mature they might think they are, have difficulty imagining their parents as sexual beings. Never mind the biological reality of how they both got here, thought Olympia with an internal smirk. That was one of those things her sons preferred not to think about, and she didn’t press the issue.

  Olympia loved having a full house and a full table and wondered what holidays in the past had been like in this historic house of hers. Maybe she’d find something in Miss Winslow’s diary that might open that particular window for her. That, she promised herself, was something she would absolutely do over the long weekend, get caught up on her personal reading. She had been so busy of late with chaplaincy that she’d not made time for it. Sorry, Leanna, I’ve been neglecting you. Then she laughed at the curiosity of it. Not too many people she knew had a house-ghost who was so determined to make herself known and heard, but hers did; and odd as it might have sounded to anyone but Frederick, Olympia was glad she did.

  On Tuesday evening Timothea called to say that if the invitation was still open, she would love to come. She said that she’d called Jenny and learned that on Thanksgiving Day they usually had far more help than they needed. It seemed like everyone in the world who didn’t have a place to go turned up at a soup kitchen or shelter to help out, and should she bring one pie or two on Thursday?

  Olympia chucked. “Well, there’s probably only going to be eight of us, so I suppose one will be enough.”

  “I’ll bring three,” said Timothea, “one for you, one for me, and one for everybody else.”

  “And a gift certificate to Weight Watchers on the side, right?”

  Now it was Timothea’s turn to chuckle. Then she abruptly turned serious. “Say, there, you hear anything from Luther? Did he just sink without a bubble, or what?”

  Olympia shuddered at the thought of her last encounter with him.

  “No, nothing lately. You know, I still feel sorry for him. He’s alone, he’s probably in pain—and if he’s not, he’s going to be. I never did learn if he had any family.”

  “Olympia Brown, I know where you’re going with this, and I don’t want you to even think about it. He made his choice. More than one of us has tried to reach out to him, and he wanted none of it. That man has his own agenda, and whatever it is, I don’t like it. Even though I haven’t seen him for a while now, he still give me da willies.” When Timothea became impassioned over something she would slip back into the phrasing and intonations of her childhood, and Olympia loved it.

  “Okay, my friend, come as early as you want on Thursday and just hang out with us. I’ll be cooking, Jim will be extolling the nose and legs of whatever fantastic wine he’s brought, and Frederick will be irretrievably English. That doesn’t seem to change.”

  “Who’s Jim?”

  “Oh, I guess I haven’t told you about him. He’s my best friend. He’s a priest.”

  “And he likes good wine. M-m-m-m-m.”

  “Timothea, you’re really to going like him. In fact, now that I think about it, in some ways you are both quite similar.”

  When she said goodbye and hung up the phone, Frederick, who had been hearing only her side of the conversation asked if that was the woman she’d grown so fond of and was she coming on Thursday?

  “Yes and yes,” said Olympia. “She’s a very intelligent and perceptive person, and she can be funny as hell when she wants to be. There’s a lot of good woman there, and I mean that literally.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, but on a more serious note, your older kitty is looking a bit dickey on her dardelums. She’s not eaten much in the last couple of days. Do you think there might be something wrong with her?”

  As if on cue, Whitefoot, the old tortoiseshell female, tottered into the kitchen and crouched on the floor beside Olympia. He’s right, she thought. She doesn’t look well at all. She had long ago lost count of Whitefoot’s cat years, but in people years it had to be well into the hundreds, and it was showing. She leaned over and gently lifted the old animal onto her lap and then turned to Frederick.

  “You’re right. Something’s wrong with her, Frederick. Get your coat; we’re taking her to the vet.”

  Later that evening, working side by side in the shaft of light coming through the kitchen window, Frederick and Olympia dug a hole in the garden and buried the grand old lady. She was wrapped in a knitted afghan that Olympia had made for Randall when he was a baby. Frederick, soulmate and comforter, stood by and held her when it happened and kept Olympia supplied with fresh handkerchiefs all the way home.

  “I know it’s for the best,” she snuffled, her breath making wet puffs in the cold November air. “She had no pain at all.”

  “And she would have if we had tried to operate on her or medicate her,” said Frederick. “We both know it’s the kindest thing we could do for her.”

  “Then why does it hurt so much?” said Olympia through a fresh burst of tears.

  “Because you loved her so much, my darling, and she’s weathered more than a few storms with you. In the spring we’ll go and get an English rosebush and plant it over her. Come on, my love, let me make you a nice pot of tea, and we’ll lift a quiet cup to her memory.”

  “I tucked a few cat treats in the blanket with her, said Olympia.

  “So did I,” said Frederick.

  Twenty

  On Thanksgiving night, when the last of the dishes had been crammed into the overloaded dishwasher and the remaining shards of pecan and apple pie wrapped and stowed, Olympia literally threw in the towel. She shooed Frederick, Timothea and Jim into the sitting room for a postprandial thimbleful of the hideously expensive French brandy Jim had provided as part of his contribution to the meal. Now, sprawled in various attitudes of over-full abandon around the sitting room, they were sipping, telling stories and enjoying the sound and smell of the wood fire. Olympia’s two sons stayed long enough to pack up several days’ worth of leftovers and then headed out in an attempt to miss the worst of the holiday traffic. Thunderfoot, Olympia’s remaining cat, was unsettled and kept meowing and sniffing around, looking for his old friend.

  “So what are we each going to do with the rest of the weekend?” Olympia addressed the question to everyone and went on to outline her own plans. “I’m going to do some reading, and when I’m not doing that, I’m going to tackle the storage shed.”

  Frederick made a face and turned to Jim. “This translates as a rather detailed to-do list for yours truly. I only just got your sitting room upstairs cleaned out, and now she’s setting me off on a new dusty and cluttered endeavor.”

  “I can scrape walls and carry junk as well as the next man,” said Jim. “Just because I’m here for a little down time away from holy mother church doesn’t mean I’m incapacitated, you know. In fact, it would be a welcome change to get back to working with my hands. It’s what I did all through high school to make some pocket money.”

  “Jim, I didn’t know you were in the trades. I thought you were born wanting to be a priest. I can’t picture you with a hammer in your hand.”

  “My father was a builder. He used to let me help out when I was growing up. I got good enough that he started paying me. That’s when I was friends with your Sister Patrick, only I knew her as Wanda Marie Wysocki. Two Polacks from the West End. Galumpki’s on Saturday night and mass at St. Stanislaw’s on Sunday.”

  “You knew Sister Patrick?” said Timothea.

  “I did. She could run faster than any of us, and even worse than that, she had the best grades in the school, too.”

  “And you both ended up in the church.”

  Jim nodded, then swirled and sniffed his brandy before speaking. “It’s great being connected with her again. Speaking of that, I know he dropped out of the program, but has anyone seen or heard anything from that strange guy you both were so worried about? Luther somebody or other. I never did manage to have a second meeting with him.”

  “You mean Luther Stuart,” said Timothea.
r />   “Other than when we crossed paths in one of the underground walkways the day he left, not a word,” said Olympia.

  Timothea shivered involuntarily at the mention of the tunnels under the hospital and began rumbling.

  Frederick, who had been sitting and taking this all in, turned to Olympia, who was sitting to his right. “You know I’ve never met the man, but from what you’ve told me, I don’t think you’ve heard the last of him.”

  Timothea rumbled again and said, “Much as I hate to say it, Frederick, I think you’re right. That man gave me the creeps from day one.”

  Olympia held up her hand. “Enough. This is a holiday. We’ve shared a lovely day, we’re winding down in front of the fire, I miss my old cat, and I don’t want to think of anything creepy.”

  Her statement was punctuated by the sound of a double chime coming from the clock on the mantel.

  “Evidently, Miss Winslow agrees with you, Olympia,” said Frederick.

  “That, or she’s telling us to pay attention to something.”

  Timothea looked puzzled. “Miss Winslow? Unless I’m mistaken, there are only four of us here. What you talkin’ bout, Miss Winslow? Who she?”

  “Um, you believe in ghosts, Timothea?”

  Timothea shifted in her chair and cast a nervous glance in the direction of the clock. “’Course I do, only we call ‘em the homies where I come from. They’re the spirits of the ancestors.”

  Olympia stood and started toward the kitchen. “Jim, I think this calls for another drop of brandy all around. Timothea, you can have another drink and stay the night, if you want, or you can have a coffee. You tell me.”

  “I’ll take the coffee, Olympia. I need to be in Boston by nine tomorrow morning with both eyes open.”

  “Let me take care of it, Olympia,” said Frederick getting up out of his chair. “I’m well acquainted with the lady in question.”

  Luther Stuart was not feeling at all well. He declined his landlady’s invitation to have Thanksgiving dinner with her and her husband, saying that he would eat at the hospital. In truth, he spent most of the day on the sofa, alternately napping and reading his Bible. Later in the afternoon, when she turned up outside his door holding a heaping plate wrapped in plastic and ready for the fridge or the microwave, he accepted it with a grateful smile. Not to do so would hurt her feelings, and he would never want to do that. She was such a good heart. They both were. He lifted the cover and sniffed. Slices of turkey, sage and onion dressing, and butter-soaked mashed potatoes—the smells of his childhood. Maybe he’d try some of the potatoes. They’d go down easy.

  In Winchester, Laura Wiltstrom and her mother were standing side by side in the cluttered kitchen of Laura’s childhood home. They were finishing up the last of the dishes from Thanksgiving dinner. Laura loved the look and feel of the Wedgwood plates and the heavy silver flatware that had been wedding gifts to her mother and father. This was as much a holiday ritual as cooking the meal. Hand drying the warm plates and putting them back in the glass fronted china cabinet was something they had done together since Laura could be trusted to hold one of the plates by herself.

  In the next room baby Erica was nestled in the arms of a besotted grandfather. She had been fussy for a good part of the day, but now the two of them were dozing in front of the TV while Laura and her mother moved between the kitchen and the dining room, putting everything back into place.

  “When are you planning on going back to work?” Laura held out the oversized turkey platter to her mother, who smoothed it dry with a linen towel before setting it back in its place on the mahogany sideboard.

  “I’m entitled to three months with full pay. If I want to stay out longer, I can go on half pay for a total of six months. The trouble is, I don’t think I can afford to do that and keep up with the rent.”

  Her mother’s face was a furrowed combination of thoughtfulness and hopefulness. “Well, we haven’t rented out your room, you know, and you wouldn’t be the first adult child to come back to the nest for a little while. Just remember it’s there if you need it, not to mention the fact that we’d absolutely love having you and the baby here.”

  Laura tilted her head to one side and looked at her mother.

  “Oh, mum, thank you, but for now, anyway, no thank you. It’s really good to know I can, and that helps, but I have to do this on my own. I’m trying to work out flex-time and day care right now. I’ve got a good job, and they want me back, so they’re willing to talk. I might even be able to work from home one day a week. A lot of people do that now, you know.”

  “I’m proud of you, Laura, but I know you. You’ve got an independent streak as wide as the Charles River. Don’t get in over your head, honey. Um, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you going to ask for child support?”

  “No.”

  That conversation was over. She knew her daughter was negotiating some pretty rough waters right now, but she also knew she wanted to do it by herself if she possibly could, and the uncertain look on her face made it clear that she had something else on her mind.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes?” She put down her dish towel and turned to her daughter.

  “I don’t know how you’re going to feel about this, but I’d like to spend some part of Christmas with Olympia. I wasn’t ready to go out there until now, but I might not have time when I go back to work. With her being a minister and everything, she probably works weekends. I know she did this past summer.” Laura paused and looked at her mother. “Is that okay with you?”

  “It’s not about me, Laura, it’s about what you feel you need to do, like coming back here or not. You’re a grown woman. These are your choices and decisions. I can’t imagine a holiday without you, but when I think about it, Olympia has had thirty-five years of holidays without you. I suppose it’s only fair.”

  Laura placed her two hands on mother’s shoulders, holding the woman’s evident doubt and worry at arm’s length, but holding it nonetheless.

  “I know it’s my decision, and know that I need to see and be where she lives at least once. I have to go to bed and get up in the same house with her, eat at her table, water her plants and play with her cats, whatever. I need to know her as a person. You’re my real mum, and you always will be, and she’s my birth mother, and I really don’t know her at all. I think for all of our sakes, I need to. I know you’ll always be there for me. I don’t doubt that for a minute. You’ll always be mum, and she’s Olympia.”

  The conversation was ended by a series of mewling squeaks coming from the next room. In seconds it would become an outraged howl. Erica was hungry, and Laura was the only one in the house who could do anything about it.

  Once Timothea had been properly introduced to Miss Winslow, she finished her coffee and was now on her way back to West Newton. A sated and exhausted Olympia said her goodnights and went off to bed, leaving the men to do what men do when women aren’t around. With the sitting room more or less to themselves, Jim and Frederick were sitting companionably by the remains of a fire that was now little more than glowing coals and a clutter of ash. A single cat lay in front of it with all four feet stretched toward the warmth.

  Frederick made a great show of clearing his throat and fussing with a button on his shirt before finally speaking.

  “Lovely day, all in all. I’ve never had pecan pie before. Rather over the top, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m relatively new to it myself. Remember, I’m Polish from Krakow via the West End of Boston. Apple pie might not be Polish, but it’s a lot closer to what I grew up with. Pecan pie is more of a southern specialty, rather than a New England dish, but it’s unforgettable. I could feel my teeth disintegrating with every mouthful.”

  Frederick fussed with a different button. “I hope I’m not being too forward, and I’m not going to ask why, but you’ve said that you’ve come down here because you need a bit of a respite. I’ve not known you for very long, but I know how much Olympia cares for you. Let me ju
st say that if there’s anything I can do to help make this time here more beneficial to you, I’m hoping you’ll tell me.”

  Jim leaned back and tented his fingers over his flat stomach. “I don’t know if Olympia has said anything to you about my health.”

  Frederick shook his head, and Jim responded with a sad smile.

  “I wish she had. If we’re going to be sharing living quarters, it’s time you knew. It might make you think differently—and if it does, I’ll understand.”

  Twenty-One

  Mondays were Women and Infants days for Olympia. She was still feeling overinflated from the Thanksgiving meal itself and from the surfeit of leftovers, which she felt personally responsible to dispatch, especially the pecan pie. Now she was paying the price with buttons that didn’t quite meet and waistbands that felt like tourniquets. She promised herself a more abstemious week on the way into work and congratulated herself when she asked for just a cup of black coffee in the hospital cafeteria before heading over to her mothers and babies.

  Traffic had been surprisingly light, and she found herself with a full half-hour to sit and sip her coffee and prepare to begin the day. Her mind was racing. Too many thoughts were chasing each other round and around inside her head with no conclusions. On Friday she and Jim and Frederick had worked out the logistics of Jim’s time with them. Olympia had suspected for some time that Jim was struggling with more than health issues, and now she had a better sense of what it was.

  Over the summer Jim had told her that he was HIV positive and had been for several years, but until that time he’d been asymptomatic and able to live a fairly normal life. But is there any such a thing as a normal life for a gay priest? If anyone in the diocese or the parish of St. Bartholomew’s did suspect this might be the case, it was never mentioned, and Jim was careful not to do or say anything that might lead to that discussion.