An Unholy Mission Read online

  Patrick shook her head. “He’s as crazy as they come, a true paranoid; but he presents rationally, so you’re right. You can’t touch him without his permission as long as he’s cogent, and that’s debatable.” The nun stood up and smoothed her grey wool jacket over her skirt. “I’m going down to talk with him.”

  “Good luck,” said the nurse. “I don’t envy you.”

  Within the hour Olympia was sitting up in bed and asking for something to eat. Her chaplain cohorts had withdrawn, and she was alone with Frederick and Jim when Patrick and the floor supervisor returned.

  “If you can hold down some food, we can probably release you in a couple of hours,” said the nurse as she removed the oxygen tubes and took the plastic clothespin clamp from Olympia’s fingertip.

  “Gee, I feel better already,” quipped Olympia.

  “You should be resting, Olympia. You need to save your strength.”

  The nurse leaned over and examined Olympia’s pupil reflex with a small flashlight. “Actually, once that stuff wears off, she’ll be fine. They can’t leave half-drugged animals to fend for themselves in the wild. It hits hard and then wears off really fast. Good eye response. You’re almost ready to go. Pass the food test, keep it down, give us some nice clean urine and you’re out. ” She clicked off the flashlight and left the room.

  Olympia now had the use of her arms and legs and was about to try walking when Patrick came back into the room and pulled the door shut behind her. She looked badly shaken.

  “You’re a very fortunate woman, Olympia. Luther Stuart just tried to kill you.”

  “But …”

  “I’d like you all to sit down, and I ask for your complete confidentiality before I say any more.”

  Frederick pulled out a chair for Sister Patrick, and Jim sat on the end of Olympia’s bed. Frederick looked around for another chair. Finding none, he pulled up the commode, closed the cover and sat, waiting for Sister Patrick to continue.

  “This likely will not come out in a court of law, because Luther is probably not going to live that long, although I believe there will be a formal investigation. He believes that God has called him to intervene in situations in which human beings are mechanically kept alive when they otherwise would have died. He tried to kill you because he believed you were going to interfere with his mission. He says he’s helped a number of people find their way home, and as soon as he’s better, he’ll go right back to doing it. There’s no way of telling whether he’s actually done anything or this is all part of his delusional construct.”

  “But from what you said, he’s not going to get better,” said Frederick.

  “I’d say it’s a matter of days—agonizing, horrible days. He won’t accept treatment for the pain because he says God is testing him.”

  “That’s awful,” whispered Jim.

  “The point is, we need to find out for sure if he actually killed anyone while he was sneaking in here, pretending to be a chaplain. We have a record of his attendance, and we have a record of the dates and times patients passed on that floor and in other parts of the hospital when he was on duty. Trouble is, if a death is expected, we almost never do an autopsy. There’s no reason to. He says he’s done it many times. He’s also half out of his mind with pain, but the other half is making perfect sense for a raving lunatic.”

  “So what’s next?” asked Jim. “Do you want me to go in there and offer him the Sacrament of the Sick and Dying?”

  “I already asked. He told me he’s not Catholic, and he’s not dying.”

  Olympia sat up and swung her feet off the bed. “I want to go down and see him.”

  “Good God!” said Frederick. “The man just tried to kill you, and now you want to go visit him? Have you caught it from him? Are you out of your mind, as well?”

  “I need to forgive him, Frederick, and I need to say goodbye. In his own twisted way, he loved me.”

  “Hold on …”

  “No, Frederick, I can do it, and I want to do it alone. You can help me walk down to his room, and you can stand outside the door, if you want, but this is something I have to do.”

  “If she can walk on her own, then let her go,” said Jim.

  That night, seated around the fire in Olympia’s living room, no one was saying very much until they heard something fall to the floor in the kitchen. Frederick got up to find Thunderfoot standing in the middle of an empty pizza box, happily chewing on the remains of a cheesy crust.

  “Anyone want tea?”

  “Actually, my darling, I’d like a huge glass of wine.”

  “Make that two,” said Jim.

  Frederick opened the cupboard in the kitchen and returned with the bottle under his arm, three glasses laced in the fingers of one hand and a corkscrew in the other. Olympia winced, but he managed to get it all to the coffee table without mishap, and in one grand pour he emptied the bottle.

  Olympia took a huge double swallow, blew out a long breath and said, “I needed that.”

  Jim was swirling his wine and holding it up to the light. “Now what? I mean, what can possibly happen next?”

  “Well, the world isn’t going to stop because of what happened today. If I feel okay, then I’m going back to the hospital tomorrow, and at the moment I feel all right. We’ll see. Ask me tomorrow. There are only two more days after that, and then we’re off for the holidays. On Christmas Eve I’m going in to the women’s shelter with Timothea to help Jenny. Then Timothea’s going off to stay with her son for a couple of days. On Christmas day Patrick and Joel are going to be at the hospital, and I’m having a quiet dinner with my sons, you two and the cat. The day after, Boxing Day, both sons and Laura and the baby are all coming here for dinner. That was a brilliant idea, Frederick. It worked for everyone.”

  “I have my uses.”

  “Your sons are okay with it?” asked Jim.

  “They’ve decided they want to meet their sister and their niece.”

  Jim and Frederick simultaneously held up their glasses, and Olympia leaned back in her chair and smiled through her tears.

  “I suppose that means we’ll have to get a Christmas tree,” said Frederick.

  “We can do that this weekend.”

  Jim took a sip of his wine and declared it … tolerable.

  Olympia sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “I keep thinking about poor Luther.”

  “I never asked what happened when you went in to see him,” said Jim.

  “He thanked me for being so good to him, apologized for hurting me and then started to cry.”

  “Poor bastard,” said Frederick.

  “God have mercy on him,” said Jim.

  December 24, 1861

  The hour is late and everyone is asleep. The day has been consumed with Christmas preparations—decorating the house with holly branches and fresh greens, all the while keeping one curious cat and one curious little boy from rearranging it all before our wondering eyes. I hold a new respect for women who have numbers of children. Even with Aunt Louisa’s help I feel I should have more arms and legs than I possess. Meanwhile, I am determined that Jonathan’s first Christmas shall be a happy one. The gentleman from across the street has given us a little Christmas tree and also offered to take us all to church in his carriage. I accepted at once because the roads are rutted with snow and ice, and walking with an active little boy and an unsteady older aunt would have been most difficult. He has shown me many kindnesses and does not ask questions.

  Perhaps one day in the New Year I shall ask him in to tea.

  More anon, LFW

  Sister Patrick called Olympia on Christmas morning to say that Luther Stuart had died just before dawn, and she and Joel had been there with him when he passed. In response to Olympia’s unasked question, Sister Patrick said only that they would have a circle of remembrance in the chapel when they returned in January, and until then, at least, she should consider the chapter closed.

  Twenty-Five

  On Boxing Day, Olympia�
��s antique farmhouse in Brookfield was full to bursting with holiday cheer and the shy curiosity of a newly constructed family trying to get their arms and hearts around what it all meant. Olympia would refer to them eventually as the in-laws, the out-laws, and the by-laws. Mercifully, they arrived sequentially so that each round of introductions went a little more easily than the one before.

  Randall, her younger son, was the first to arrive. He loudly announced himself at the back door and declared he was going to be in charge of coordinating the meal. He prided himself on concocting incredible vegetarian creations for his mother and offered to do that and bring the turkey, as well. The latter he’d stuffed and partially cooked and planned to finish it off while he and his brother Malcolm, also a formidable cook, did the vegetables.

  Jim, of course, was in charge of the wines. Frederick and Olympia spent one of the days before Christmas making traditional apple and mince pies, as well as a genuine English Christmas pudding, complete with silver charms and a lucky sixpence. Laura, when she called to get directions and finalize times, asked if she could bring the appetizers. With the baby and all, she thought they would be the easiest to transport.

  Olympia had the good sense to stand back and let the day unfold as it happened rather than to try and orchestrate it. Her children, all of them, were adults now, and what would be would be. The boys had known Jim for years as the Christmas and Easter uncle who brought the really good wine. Frederick had been in the picture for only a year, but he’d passed all the tests. Even though Olympia had told them all about Laura and shown them her picture, today they would actually meet her in person and come to terms with who and what she was—and oh, yes, by the way, establish their newfound status as uncle to baby Erica. It would be a lot more than just a holiday meal to digest, and it was already giving Olympia a touch of nervous stomach.

  Olympia had not seen her granddaughter since the day of her birth and could barely contain her excitement. The chubby, smiling two-and-a-half-month-old in her red velvet dress with a knitted lace collar instantly became the feature attraction, and Grandma Olympia was duly and justly delighted.

  Laura and the boys took a little longer to relax with one another. At first the conversation was somewhat stiff and impersonal, but as Jim’s liquid contributions to the day softened the edges, they looked for and found more and more common ground. Their genetic similarities were readily observable, but it was the familial gestures and shared speech patterns that had them pointing and laughing with each other by the end of the meal. That was when Olympia finally allowed herself to relax, and unseen by the others, Frederick raised a glass and smiled at her across the table. They had done it.

  After the meal and before the mountain of desserts, Malcolm pulled out his guitar and made a noble attempt at getting them all to sing some Christmas carols. Frederick did a solo version of “Good King Wenceslas” and delighted them all by spooner-izing several of the lines into nonsensical utterings about good King Winklehoff going out on his feets uneven. Randall did his special rendition of, “You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch,” dramatizing it with grand gestures and wonderful tonal inflections. He had a deep, rich baritone voice that everyone wished he would use more often. But it was Laura who surprised them all by taking Malcolm’s guitar and singing, “What Child Is This?” in a clear, lyric soprano that left them all in tears.

  After all of that the Christmas pudding was almost anticlimactic, but not really. Frederick, in his own inimitably British and rambling fashion, explained at length the custom of Boxing Day. Only Jim, smiling, taking a turn with the baby and topping up glasses, was quieter than the others, but Olympia knew that smile and made a mental note to find a time when they could talk about what was on his mind.

  By eight in the evening, Olympia, Frederick and Jim, distended and content, were sprawled around the woodstove. The dishwasher was churning through its second load, and the scents of dried-out Christmas tree, wood smoke, and Christmas pudding laced with cinnamon and cloves were part of the afterglow of a magical family gathering.

  “It’s been quite a day for you, hasn’t it, Olympia? You must be really happy that it all went so well.”

  Frederick was sitting nearest the fire, and Thunderfoot, the lonely ginger cat, was taking advantage of both an ample lap and the nearby heat.

  Olympia nodded and looked at him through half-shut eyes. “There are no words for how I feel right now, but if I had to choose one, it would be … grateful.”

  “Considering how close you came to being an unpleasant statistic last week, that may be an understatement. Have you told Laura and the boys what happened?”

  “I thought about it but decided not to right now. There are still too many unanswered questions. When it’s all settled, maybe I will, but I didn’t want anything even remotely negative near us today.”

  “I don’t think you needed to worry, Olympia. Your granddaughter not only stole the show, but she brought a smile to everyone’s face; and Laura, what a voice. I didn’t know she could sing.”

  Olympia chewed on her lip and looked off to the side. “I didn’t either, Frederick. There’s so much that I don’t know about her.”

  “It’s easy to feel sad about what could have been,” said Jim, “but that was then, and this is now, and you have a future you never thought you’d have. Think of it that way.”

  “Speaking of futures, Jim, I know you well enough to see that you’re thinking about something. What’s going on up there between the ears?”

  Jim leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “I don’t know whether this is a decision or an exaggerated procrastination that will eventually lead to a decision, but the result will very likely be life changing for me.”

  Both Olympia and Frederick sat up to attention as Jim continued.

  “You know I’m struggling with the tension between my sexual identity and the dictates of a Church I love and have served for a good part of my life. Last week I connected with the Abbot of a Monastery in Kentucky, and in mid-January I’ll be going there on silent retreat for two months. They have a wonderful spiritual director there, and I’ll be working one on one with him.”

  Olympia’s concern and implication were obvious. “Will it be safe for you there, Jim?”

  “By that are you asking if can I be myself and not be out-ed from here to hell and back?”

  “In a word,” said Olympia.

  “The answer is yes. I know I’ll be safe, and I know I can be honest. What I don’t know is what will happen after that, but whatever I decide, I will have thought it through with one of the most caring, intelligent and deeply religious men I have ever known. He understands what it is to be human and will not insist that I choose dogma over the calling of God and the human heart. He’s a rare spirit.”

  “Then I’m happy for you, and we’ll be here when you come back.”

  “We’ll see,” was all he said. If he had planned to say more, it was lost in a resounding crack from the woodstove which startled the cat on Frederick’s lap and set him hissing and flying across the room.

  “Well, then,” said Frederick, getting out of his chair and dusting the cat hairs off his trousers. “This is a perfect opportunity to honor my ladies.”

  Olympia looked puzzled, and Jim looked smug.

  “Frederick, what are you talking about?”

  “Be back in a moment, Dearie. I’ve left something in one of the rooms off the kitchen, and I need to go and get it.”

  “Jim?”

  The priest held up his hand. “Just wait.”

  Frederick returned with a covered basket over his left arm and a bright red Christmas rose in his right hand. He made a low theatrical bow and placed the rose on the mantle in front of the clock. “For Miss Winslow, a true Christmas Spirit, if ever I saw one.”

  Olympia was in a fit of giggles when he turned and bowed even lower and more dramatically before her and then placed the basket at her feet. “And for my own Christmas rose ‘ere blooming, un c
adeau pour toi.”

  “A gift?”

  “Un CAT-eau!” re-pronounced Frederick. “I had it delivered a few minutes ago. That’s probably what set off Thunderfoot.”

  Olympia looked down at the basket to see a little black nose, framed by black whiskers and topped by bright green eyes, all on a round little kitten head pushing up from the inside of the basket.

  “Un cat-eau,” repeated Frederick. “Happy Boxing Day, Reverend, Darling. It’s been quite a year, hasn’t it?”

  December 29, 1861

  This year of many chapters is almost at its end…and as I do at the end of every year, I think upon what has been and ponder upon what might come to be. One thing is assured and that is that Aunt Louisa will stay on with us. This is my most treasured Christmas gift. When Jonathan is older, we will spend more time in Cambridge…and with her to look after him and my kindly neighbor across the street to look after the house in my absence, I shall once again present myself to Harvard College and ask that I might be allowed entrance. In the meanwhile, I will continue to write my stories under the nom de plume of C.K. Barrow. I am most encouraged by my unexpected success and may even consider attempting a novel.

  In these twelve months I have given birth to a precious little boy, published my first story, adopted a stray kitten and learned to live with a wounded soul. But life does go on. I learned that, too. Aunt Louisa did ask me if I ever thought of looking for a husband, but I told her that I never wanted one. Not even now with Jonathan. If I became a wife I would lose my land and my inheritance and all that which I will one day pass on to my son. I will not do that to him…or to myself, for that matter

  I told her that I could never be content to be the mindless ornament on the arm of a man. The world holds more for me – and one day I shall find out what that will be. But the fire is guttering and the wind is beginning to stir the branches overhead. I must bring in more wood before the snow flies. By the look of the sky and the scent in the air, it won’t be long in coming.