An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries) Read online

  “Bridget, I have an extra room and two sweet cats who love attention. Would you consider coming home with me to Brookfield for the weekend? It wouldn't be the first time a student stayed with me when she needed a little think time. You could help me with some housekeeping, and you could tell your parents the truth, which is you'd be making a few extra dollars helping one of your teachers. Lots of students do odd jobs for professors. I've got a houseguest coming in a couple of weeks, and I was actually going to hire someone to give me a hand. You could do it, if you want to.”

  Bridget cocked her head to one side.

  “You'd take me into your own home?”

  Olympia nodded. “You need some time to collect yourself after what's happened, and I need some help around the house. If you're up to it you can do some cleaning and dusting, nothing heavy. And if not, that's okay, too. You can just stay with me and play with the cats. I promise I won't ask questions or push you in any direction you don't want to go.”

  Olympia sat, squeaking back and forth on her swivel chair, while Bridget thought about the offer.

  “I probably do need some time. I could call my sister at work and tell her where I'm going to be. If she tells my parents she knows where I am, they won't ask questions. My sister's the tough one, she doesn't take any guff.”

  Olympia wondered what kind of guff the sister didn't take but said only, “Then give her my home number when you call.” She pulled a pencil out of the assortment in the marmalade jar at the back of her desk and held it out.

  But the girl shook her head and waved off the idea with both hands. “It's better if they don't have your telephone number.”

  Olympia knew better than to ask any more. Bridget needed time and a place to begin the healing process without someone pressuring her. These she could provide.

  “Do whatever you think is best. Make the call, and then we'll head out. Let's just hope the traffic isn't too awful. I think we've both had enough to deal with for one day.”

  Olympia held out the phone. Bridget took it and began to dial the number. From where she was sitting, Olympia could hear a female voice at the other end of the line, but she couldn't make out the words.

  “Eileen? This is Brigie. Look, will you tell Mam and Da that I went home with one of my professors for the weekend. I'm going to help her with some housework.”

  Bridget made a face into the receiver. “It's just easier when you tell them, okay? Thanks.”

  Six

  Margaret O’Mara leaned over and peeked into the oven to check on the casserole. The familiar Friday night supper smell of fish, scalloped potatoes and onions filled the house. Dinner would be ready on time.

  “Where's Bridget Mary?”

  Terry O’Mara poured himself a second generous whiskey and was fumbling around in his shirt pocket.

  “You see my lighter?”

  “You said you were out of fluid this morning. If you want, I'll pick some up when I go out tomorrow.” Margaret handed her husband a book of matches and turned back to the stove to check on the peas and carrots. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you, the electrician called this morning. He wants to get started on the wiring in the downstairs apartment on Monday. He said it was in bad shape. I can let him in when he gets here if you want.”

  “I told you to lemme handle it. You gotta keep an eye on ‘em, or they'll rob you blind.” Terry lighted his cigarette and threw the match toward the sink but missed. “Where's Bridget?”

  “She called Eileen at work this afternoon. She said she was going off to do some work for one of her professors. I guess the woman needed some help around the house and asked Brigie if she wanted to make a few dollars.” Margaret was not looking at her husband.

  “So how come she called her sister and didn't call here? Come to think of it, where the hell were you?” He took a long drag of his cigarette and turned on his wife. “She has no business going off without telling us.”

  “Terry, she's almost nineteen, she's in college, and she can come and go where she wants. She doesn't have to come home every weekend. At that age they want to be with their friends. You never checked on her sister like that.”

  Margaret held her breath as she drained the vegetables and stirred in a knob of butter.

  “So, where were you?”

  “I went to the grocery store, then on to the church for the women's sodality meeting. We always set up for the Saturday and Sunday masses on Fridays.”

  Terry frowned and sucked on his cigarette. The smoke curled out of his mouth and nose. “Never did like having mass on Saturday. It's that new priest, Father Jim's, doing. You'll never get me to one of them. Saturday is confession, and Sunday is when you go to mass.” He took a long swallow of his second drink, belched, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “He's not that new anymore, but he certainly has made some changes.” Margaret was filling their plates, careful not to say or do anything to contradict or upset him. Even though the Catholic Church had relaxed the Friday fish rule years ago, Terry insisted they keep to the old ways. This evening Margaret made one of his favorites, codfish and potatoes layered with onions baked in milk. She always sprinkled a handful of cornflakes on the top a few minutes before she served it.

  Terry stubbed out his cigarette in the sink and sat down at the kitchen table. “Too many changes for my taste, but he's the Father. I'm going over there after supper. It's my night for the bingo.”

  Terry and Margaret O’Mara each made the sign of the cross and bowed their heads. Terrence O’Mara rattled through a familiar grace, then both said the “Our Father” and began to eat. For a while, the only sounds in the kitchen were those of their forks and knives against the white china plates.

  Margaret cleared her throat. “About the apartment downstairs. As long as we're re-doing the wiring, do you think we should have it painted as well? We might be able to get a little more rent if it smells nice and fresh.”

  “I told you, I'll handle it. Paint costs money. We'll just wash down the walls and spray a little disinfectant in the corners.” Terry leaned forward and helped himself to more fish and potatoes. “So who's this professor she's staying with?”

  Margaret was keeping her voice low and her conversation agreeable. The last thing she wanted to do on a Friday night was to get him started.

  “Brigie's mentioned her before, says she's really nice. It's her Humanities and Religion professor.”

  Terry spoke through a mouthful of food. “That's stupid. You don't go to college to learn about religion, you get that in church. Is she Catholic?”

  “I have no idea. What difference does it make? I keep saying that if we had one of those telephone answering things, you'd know for yourself what she said.”

  It was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late.

  Terry's face darkened, and his voice began to rise. “I told you that we'd never have one of those goddamn things in this house. If people want to talk to us, they'll call when we're home.” He glared over the table at his wife.

  Margaret stared down at her plate and said nothing. It was Friday night, and the weekend cycle was beginning. By now her husband was on his third drink. After supper he'd go off and make a show of helping at bingo, have a few more drinks at the corner bar, and come home red-faced and looking for a fight. If she was lucky, he'd pass out at the kitchen table. If not …

  Margaret held up the last of the scalloped potatoes, but Terry shook his head and swirled the ice cubes in his glass before tipping up the glass and downing the last of his drink. The sound of clinking ice cubes set Margaret's teeth on edge.

  “When Eileen called she said that her cold is better and she's going to the movies with some of the girls from work tonight.” Margaret was trying to change the subject without being obvious. “She said she might come for dinner Sunday afternoon.”

  Terry shrugged. He had little use for Eileen since she moved out and took no trouble to hide it.

  Margaret stood up from the table and carried
her plate over to the sink where she began to rinse and stack the dishes. She wondered if there might be anything good on television.

  It had gotten worse since both girls moved out. On Fridays after Terry left, she'd clean up the dishes, watch a couple of game shows, go to bed early and try to be asleep when he came in.

  If that didn't work and he insisted she get up, she'd sit at the kitchen table with him and agree with everything he said until he passed out. And if that didn't work, she'd protect her head when he started swinging, put make-up over the bruises the next day, wear the dark glasses for a couple of weeks, and tell people she'd walked into a door again.

  Margaret missed having her daughters at home, but she was grateful they didn't have to witness this misery any longer.

  Terry threw the last of the ice cubes in the sink and fished around in his shirt pocket for another cigarette. Then he lifted his jacket off the hook by the door and was pulling it on as he left. She heard him open the door to the first floor apartment and a little while later heard it click shut, followed by his habitual slam of the outside door.

  Margaret shrugged her shoulders, let out a long breath, and picked up his empty glass. She tried not to think about the rest of the evening. It isn't fair, she thought, automatically rinsing out the acrid smelling glass and setting it down on the drain to dry. But whoever said that life was going to be fair. You get what you get, don't you?

  She looked up at the clock on the wall; it was just after seven. At best she had four, maybe five, hours.

  Seven

  * * *

  Monday, March 19, 1860

  Clear and bright today, but the air is still quite cool for spring. The sun has finally coaxed a few of my crocuses out of hiding, so can the daffodils be far behind? Yesterday I met with The Reverend Jared Mather, who patiently answered my many awkward questions and encouraged me in this endeavor which I shall now most surely pursue. He is a most agreeable man who thought it not at all strange that a woman should be called to the ministry and told me that his own wife had attended a college in Boston for almost two years before they were married.

  I have much to consider in the coming months, but with his enthusiastic encouragement I am convinced that I must continue what I hesitated to start. He asked if we might meet again next week so we that may discuss my plans more fully.

  More anon, LFW

  * * *

  The first thing Bridget asked when they walked through the door was if she could please have a shower. Olympia was grateful that she'd finished most of the bathroom renovations as she pulled out two big towels, a face cloth, and a brand new bar of bright green soap. She showed Bridget where everything was and how it worked and then left her alone in the room that would be hers for as long as she wished.

  Bridget sat on the bed for a few minutes before taking off her clothes. She wrapped a towel around herself and walked across the landing into the bathroom. Once inside, she dropped the towel and stood looking at herself in the mirror on the back of the door. She'd been through an excruciating twenty-four hours and felt dirty and totally shattered. Even though she was alone, she was ashamed at seeing herself undressed. Good Catholic girls didn't look at themselves that way. But I'm not a good Catholic girl, not any more.

  She twisted and tried to examine the insides of her thighs but couldn't really see anything. Then she tried holding a hand mirror to see if there were any bruises down there. That's when Bridget realized that she had no idea what she looked like down there. Her mother referred to her private parts only as “her shame,” no looking, and absolutely no touching.

  She remembered learning about menstruation after she'd had her period twice and was sure she was bleeding to death. She finally went to the school nurse, who gave her a sanitary pad and told her to go home and talk to her mother. When Bridget whispered the secret to her mother, she learned that it was called “the curse” and she could find the sanitary napkins in the linen closet behind the towels where nobody else would see them and not to mention it to her father.

  Bridget shook off the shameful memory and turned on the shower. The bathroom quickly filled with hot, moist steam, and she stepped into the shower to try to cleanse herself. She let the water pound on her back and run down over her shoulders and between her breasts while she considered Olympia's offer. Maybe she could stay with Professor Brown for a little while, at least until that English friend of hers arrived. That should be enough time to get things sorted out. She didn't want to be a burden, but on the other hand, the woman had invited her.

  She recited a “Hail Mary” in the hot, healing waters of the shower. The Blessed Mother had never failed her. She prayed hard, hoping there might be some way she could help her now.

  When she was finished and re-wrapped in the huge soft towel, Bridget rubbed a porthole in the foggy mirror on the medicine cabinet above the sink. Out of curiosity, she eased open the door to see what a lady college professor might keep in her bathroom cabinet. She knew she shouldn't be doing such a thing, but who would know? It wasn't like she was going to take anything.

  Inside she found the usual array of cosmetics as well as a packet of birth control pills and a couple of tampons. At first, Bridget didn't know what feminine hygiene wipes were, but it didn't take long to figure out.

  On the top shelf she found a bottle of aspirin, a bottle of cough medicine, and a brown plastic cylinder of Percocet. Bridget remembered taking some of that when she fractured her wrist playing basketball. It certainly worked for numbing the pain—and everything else as well. She had slept for almost two days.

  Slowly, she reached up for the bottle and opened it. It was almost full and only a couple of months out of date. The words on the label warned, “Take as needed for pain. Do not drive or operate heavy equipment and do not take with alcohol.” Bridget put the bottle back behind the cough medicine and closed the cabinet.

  “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” She repeated the prayer a second time and then went back to her room to put on the blue-and-white-striped pajamas and matching bathrobe that Olympia had given her along with the clean towels.

  Bridget looked down at the discarded pile of clothes on the floor and wished she could burn them.

  Professor Brown has to have a washing machine.

  Downstairs, Olympia was digging around in the refrigerator, looking for something that might appeal to an eighteen-year-old. She ruled out leftover eggplant Parmesan, cold tofu salad, and three ancient, hard-boiled eggs. After a few more unsuccessful pokes, she threw the eggs out for the birds and made a decision.

  Bridget came back downstairs holding a bundle of clothing. She was pink-cheeked from the shower and smelled of soap and shampoo.

  Olympia asked if she liked pizza.

  “We can get two small ones, and that way we each can have what we want. Best of all, they deliver.”

  “I'm not really hungry,” said Bridget, bending over to scratch the ears of a hopeful cat. “Do you have a washing machine? These are the only clothes I have.”

  “There's a washer and dryer in the mudroom off the kitchen.” Olympia pointed in the direction of an unpainted wooden door and turned to consult the clutter of takeout menus on the fridge.

  “I'm going to order two anyway. You might find your appetite when they arrive. How about I get a plain cheese for you and a veggie with double cheese for me?”

  Olympia picked up the phone and dialed a number she knew by heart and ordered their meal. When she came back into the kitchen, Bridget pointed to the cat on the floor.

  “What's his name?”

  “Thunderfoot,” said Olympia. “He's not very bright, but he has a big heart and an even bigger appetite to make up for it.”

  “Okay if I pick him up?”

  “Sure, but don't hurt your back, he weighs a ton.”

  Bridget grunted as she heaved the big, soft cat over her shoulder into the baby-burping position. It was obvious she was comfortable with animal
s.

  “Do you have a cat at home?”

  Olympia was well aware of the neutrality of pets as a subject for conversation and the healing powers of hugging a big, dumb cat that lived only for food and attention and purred like a diesel engine if you so much as looked at him.

  “I had one,” said Bridget in a tight voice, “but my father got rid of it.”

  Earlier in the day Olympia had wondered why Bridget was so adamant about not going home. She was beginning to suspect there might be more than the rape that Bridget didn't want to talk about. For now she could provide hot food, a rumbling cat, and a safe bed. Maybe by tomorrow or the next day Bridget might begin to talk a little more, but Olympia knew better than to push.

  Before long the doorbell rang, and dinner arrived in two red-and-white checkerboard boxes. With them came that wonderful tomato, oregano, and cheesy-hot-cardboard aroma that only a take-out pizza can deliver. Bridget located plates and napkins and laid the table. Olympia lighted a bayberry candle and dimmed the lights.

  The two ate mostly without talking, commenting only on the pizza and the persistence of the two cats pestering at their feet.

  “Does Thunderfoot like pizza?” Bridget was picking at her food.

  “Would you believe he does?” said Olympia, “but he's just like a picky kid. He only eats the cheese off the top.”

  “Um-m-m, exactly when is that English friend of your arriving?” Bridget was handing down bits of cheese to a willing taker.

  Olympia wondered how much of her personal life she should share with a student.

  “It's a long story.”

  “I like stories,” said Bridget.

  “Okay, but let's relocate to the living room where we can relax. The dishes can wait. They've done it before.”