An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries) Page 6

  “He'll kill me if he ever finds out. I put them back, but now you understand why my daughter can't come back.”

  Despite the hot coffee, Olympia's mouth went dry.

  “You need help.” She'd said these very same words to the woman's daughter only days before. “You need to talk to someone, Mrs. O’Mara. Sexual abuse of a minor child, incest in this case, is a crime and is punishable by law. So is domestic violence, wife beating, because that's what he's doing to you. There are people who will help you. Do you think you could talk to your priest about this?”

  Margaret was shaking her head. “Maybe I shouldn't have come to you. Just please keep Brigie. I can usually keep him from getting too bad if it's just me there.”

  “What made you call me, Margaret?”

  “Brigie said you were nice, and she liked you. She said you were a minister. When she left that message with her sister, saying she was going to stay with you, I figured I could trust you. I took a chance.” Margaret dropped her shoulders in an attitude of total defeat and looked directly into Olympia's eyes. “She can never come home again, Professor.”

  Olympia pushed away her coffee. “No one has a right to do things like that to anyone. It is a crime, and it's punishable by law.”

  The woman seated across from her looked up. “I know you're right, and to tell you the truth, I wish he was dead; but he's my husband, and Catholics don't divorce.”

  Margaret sat back and reached down for her purse.

  “Would you be willing to meet with me again?” asked Olympia. “Ministers and priests know where to get help in situations like this. I have names and phone numbers of people who can help.”

  Margaret O’Mara stood up. “Thank you, Professor. Just keep my daughter safe for now, and I'll call you in a couple of days. Whatever you do, don't call me at home or tell Brigie that we've talked. I don't know what I'm going to do next.” She looked hard at Olympia, her mouth a thin, clenched line, “I absolutely hate the man, but he's not worth hanging for.”

  “You need to protect yourself as well as your daughter.”

  Margaret looked into Olympia's eyes and then down at the table between them. “Where there's a will, there's a way, Professor. Thank you for listening. Brigie was right, you are a good woman. Shall I walk you back to the lobby? All these corridors and hallways take getting used to. Even now I can still get lost.”

  The meeting was over.

  The drive back to the college from the hospital took far longer than expected. A dairy truck had turned over on the road between Dorchester and Cambridge, and traffic was backed up for miles. The delay, however, was not without benefit. Sitting alone in her car listening to Beethoven's Eroica gave her time to try and make some sense of everything she had just heard. When she did finally turn into the faculty parking lot, Bridget was sitting alone on the steps of the art building, waiting for her.

  “I was beginning to think you forgot about me,” said Bridget as she pulled herself up into the front seat of the van.

  “Not a chance, the traffic was a mess. There was an accident. Nobody hurt, thank God. A milk truck hit the guard rail and turned over. There were rivers of milk everywhere and not a cat in sight.”

  Olympia knew she was babbling. She wanted to ask Bridget about her mother and about her father but knew it was neither the time nor the place. Speaking of cats, the girl looked like a feral cat herself, ready to bolt at the slightest sound. Olympia knew that if she was ever going to be able to help, it would take more than a weekend. For now, at least, the girl was safe, and Olympia had a new window of opportunity.

  Later that evening in Olympia's big, homey kitchen, Bridget stood on the sidelines watching Olympia assemble one of her quick-time skillet meals. She helped out by chopping onions and peppers and doing what was asked, but otherwise remained withdrawn, safe in her quiet, protective shroud.

  When she finally did say something, it was to tell Olympia that her mother never cooked anything like this, but it smelled heavenly, and she was getting hungrier by the second. Judging from their insistent meowing, so were the cats.

  “Would you like me to feed them?” Bridget pointed to the animal that was standing on his hind legs, pawing at her knee.

  “Cat food's in the cupboard.”

  “I know where it is. Do they have a favorite?”

  “Whatever's in the dish, sort of like me.”

  Olympia was trying to lighten the mood, but she knew that Bridget had far too much on her mind to catch even a little joke.

  The supper was delicious, and Bridget said so. Olympia added some Italian sausage to Bridget's portion and scrambled some feta cheese into her own.

  Over the meal they talked about the food, about the classes each was taking or teaching, about Olympia's forced confrontation with computers. They went on to comment on how cold the spring had been, but wasn't today just heavenly, and tomorrow was going to be even nicer and absolutely nothing personal.

  “This really is yummy,” said Bridget, pushing the last of it onto her fork. “We don't have many vegetables at home. My father doesn't like them. All Mam ever uses are canned vegetables, and those are just for herself and me and my sister Eileen.”

  Olympia helped herself to a little more. “My mother knew how to make three meals, and she usually burnt the first two. She was a disaster in the kitchen. I learned how to cook in self-defense. Now I really enjoy it. My boys turned out to be excellent cooks, as well.”

  Bridget smiled and added a small heap to her own empty plate. “My mother never let us girls help. She said she had to do it exactly right, or my father would get into one of his moods.”

  Olympia deliberately didn't ask about his moods but turned the conversation to her own history. “My father left before I knew what he was really like. I think it messed my mother up pretty bad. He came back drunk a couple of times after they divorced, but she finally called the police, and it stopped.”

  “Your father drank, and your mother got a divorce?”

  “So I'm told, Bridget, but I was so little when it happened, I don't remember. Some times in dreams, though …” Olympia trailed off, shaking her head.

  “Catholics don't divorce.”

  “I know some who have.”

  Bridget was tapping the table top with her fingertips. “Not in my family. They just keep up the battle until one or the other either gives up or dies.”

  Olympia looked across the table at the girl.

  “You don't have to answer me, Bridget, but is that the reason you don't want to go home?”

  “It's one of them, Professor, and now that I'm out I'm never going back. I'd rather die or live on the street. I just wish there was some way I could help my mother. Without me there, she's going to get it all. It's awful. I'm really afraid he'll kill her one of these days.”

  The dam had burst. Bridget hung her head. “I've said too much, Professor, but if I don't tell someone …”

  “Bridget, domestic violence, battering and any other kind of abuse is against the law. There is help available for women like your mother. I have numbers and names of people and organizations.”

  “Professor … Olympia,” Bridget corrected herself, “my mother will never leave the house. My grandmother used to say she was married and done for, and that's my Mam, married and done for. Divorce is a sin, and she's a good Catholic. My mother doesn't commit sins. She just tries to keep out of the way.”

  “Do Catholics ever go to their priest when there's trouble in the family?”

  “Mam tried when it first started. The old priest was a drunk. He told her it was her own fault, said she should go home and do her duty and try not to upset her husband.”

  “Maybe a different priest?”

  “There's a new one in St. Bartholomew's, Father Jim. The young people think he's great. Of course, my father can't stand him. He's made too many changes, and on top of that, he's Polish. I thought about talking to him, you know, confessing what happened at the party, but I don't dare. I kno
w they can't repeat anything they hear in confession, but what if he slipped? The only reason I came to you is because you don't know anybody in my family or my neighborhood.”

  Oh, but I do, thought Olympia, but she said only, “I'm glad you did.”

  Olympia busied herself in the kitchen while Bridget made a show of helping, but it was clear she was distracted.

  “Look,” said Olympia, reaching out and cupping the girl's chin with a soapy hand, “this is a one-woman job. Let me finish up here, and you go check out your homework. If you want to talk later, I'll make us some tea.”

  “I suppose I have to get started some time,” said Bridget, looking up at the wall clock and then back at Olympia. “Getting back to my studies will give me something to take up my mind, and I don't want to fall behind.”

  “That makes two of us,” said Olympia, drying her hands and smoothing the damp dishtowel out on the counter to dry. “I've got a stack of papers myself. Students aren't the only ones with homework, you know. Do you want me to leave a light on in the kitchen?”

  “No, thanks. I know where the switches are. Hey, I just thought of something. When they built this place there was no electricity. Did you have to have it installed?”

  “No, that was done long ago. What I am doing is having it replaced, bit by bit. The wiring was a disaster when I first moved in. It's up to code now, but only just. It's an old house, and I'll be fixing it up as long as I live here, but I'm learning as I go.”

  As Bridget started up the stairs toward her room, she glanced back at Olympia. She was not thinking about electrical wiring or her homework. She was thinking about the bottle of Percocet in the bathroom.

  How much would it take? Is there enough? The thought was tempting, and the pain was becoming unbearable. What difference will one more sin make now? Professor Olympia-good-hearted-Brown means well, but she doesn't know the half of it.

  There are some things nobody talks about, not ever.

  Eleven

  It was not like Jim to be late, and Olympia wondered what might be keeping him. She found an empty bench on the foot path that ran along the bank of the Charles River. A week ago it had been snowing, but today there was the unmistakable scent of spring in the air. The poet e.e. cummings created the word “mudlucious” for just such a day, and the man was right. She filled her senses with the sight and sound and fragrance of the river and the warm, moist earth on a late March day in Cambridge. It was spring, and the earth was bringing forth new life.

  She watched as young people zoomed by on rollerblades and skateboards, and helmeted cycle fanatics, hunched over pencil thin contraptions of wire and steel, flew past her at the speed of sound.

  Olympia was so lost in her people-watching that Jim managed to make it all the way to the bench without her noticing him.

  “You'll never make a very good spy, Olympia. Anybody could sneak up on you. You were a million miles away. Was it nice there?”

  He was wearing his college chaplain uniform: tweed jacket with leather patches, dark, well-creased slacks, black shirt, and his habitual Roman collar.

  “I see you dressed for the occasion.”

  Jim took her hand and pulled her up. “Come on, you, let's walk. The day and the fresh air are just too beautiful not to be up and moving.”

  Olympia groaned. “Gonna make me exercise in spite of myself?”

  “Well, if I can't make you see the light of the true faith, then I might as well try to improve your physical health and well-being.”

  “What a guy.” Olympia sighed theatrically and then fell into pace beside her friend.

  “So, how much can you tell me?”

  “I'll be asking you the same question.”

  “Ladies first.”

  “Obviously, I'm struggling with this, Jim. Ethically, I can't break a confidence, but I can tell you about another person in a similar difficult situation, and maybe you can sort of fill in the blanks and offer some advice?”

  “Tell me the story.”

  Olympia slowed her pace, and Jim stayed close, leaning in to catch every word. “Let's say a colleague of mine has a student who was sexually assaulted at a fraternity party, but she doesn't want to tell anyone or press charges.”

  “You mean raped?”

  “The student made her professor promise not to say anything, but the colleague did manage to get her prompt medical attention and then took her home to stay with her.”

  “I would say your colleague is doing all that can be done under the circumstances.”

  “There's more. How are we doing on time?”

  Jim looked at his watch. “I'm okay. What else?”

  “Then the mother of this same student calls the professor and asks to see her.”

  “And?”

  “She tells the professor that the father of the student is a vicious drunk who beats up the mother and has been molesting the girl for years.”

  “Shit!” Jim punched a fist into his open hand. “I knew there was trouble over there, but I didn't think it was as bad as this. The problem is that none of us can do anything unless or until one of them decides to take action. The family priest, even if he has strong suspicions, is powerless until he has documented evidence, meaning the victim, or victims in this case, come to him directly. In this particular culture people simply do not tell family secrets, Olympia. They just don't.”

  “That's what I was afraid of, but the mother has just discovered the sexual abuse. She claims she didn't know about it until now.”

  “What happened?”

  “She found some Polaroids. They were taken when the girl was around ten.”

  Jim swore again. “So the girl who is staying with her professor confessed what was going on, and then the mother of the girl called that same professor and told her what was going on, but neither of them is talking to the other. And neither of them knows that the other one has been speaking to you.”

  “That's right.”

  “Olympia, you do get yourself into the damnedest situations. What is it with you?”

  “You save souls one way, Jim, and I guess I do it another way, or at least I try to. I guess I always will. Maybe it's the mother thing.”

  “As I said, even the family priest can't do anything until one of them breaks the silence. Maybe that kindly concerned professor could try and make that happen.”

  “You do believe in miracles, don't you, Jim?”

  “We both do, but in this case we might be talking about clergy-assisted miracles. See what you can do from your end, and I'll see if there's anything I can do on mine, and we keep in touch.”

  Olympia shook her head. “What a mess.”

  “At least you're not in it by yourself anymore.”

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  “She's a lovely girl. I knew there were issues when I told you to keep an eye on her when she started at Meriwether. I had no idea it was this bad. Thank God she's found someone she can trust.”

  Olympia squeezed his arm. “I've got to get back. I have a class in less than an hour.”

  “Be careful with this one, Reverend Doctor. I know the father, and he's a nasty piece of work. Besides the alcoholism, as if that isn't bad enough, I've heard rumors he's connected to the Irish mafia.”

  “Thanks, Jim, but if nobody's talking to anybody, how's he going to know?”

  “For a family and a culture that doesn't talk about personal matters, Olympia, it's amazing how word gets around.”

  Twelve

  Father Jim got up from his desk and held out his hand in greeting.

  “Good morning, Margaret. Do come in. I'm sure you know that this room is reserved for the use of clergy, so it's totally private.”

  “Thank you, Father.” She spoke in a hoarse whisper and looked like a wild animal that had come inside for the warmth, but always staying near to the door so she could escape. The tiny broom-closet of a room barely had space enough for two chairs and a desk. A framed picture of Mary, Mother of Sorrows, and a bronze cruci
fix hung side by side on the wall over the desk. Directly across from the door was a single leaded-glass window which Jim cranked open before inviting Margaret to choose a chair.

  Margaret turned and took a deep breath of the fresh spring air that rushed into room and then chose the seat nearer the door.

  Father Jim hesitated before taking his own seat. “It gets so stuffy in here. I can leave the door open a little if you want. I'll put up the In Use sign so no one will disturb us.”

  “It's okay if you close it.”

  Father Jim shut the door, took the other chair for himself and folded his long, smooth hands in his lap. He waited, letting the silence between them soften and finally give way to voice.

  “Margaret, why have you asked to meet with me?”

  “Father … I…” She covered her mouth with her hand and stared at the floor.

  “Try and tell me what's troubling you, Margaret.”

  The priest turned slightly in his chair so she wouldn't have to face him directly. “I have all the time you need,” he said, “and if you can't manage to tell me today, I'll just sit and pray with you, and we'll meet again when you are ready. The most important thing is that you've come to me.”

  “Oh, Father, I don't know where to begin.” She reached inside the cuff of her sweater and pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief and began to twist it so savagely that it started to tear.

  “Trouble at home?” he said softly.

  She nodded.

  “I've seen the bruises, Margaret.”

  “It's not what you think, Father. I'm clumsy. I … I walk into things.”

  “One of the girls then? Eileen? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “I've done the most horrible thing.”

  “Do you feel you need to make a confession?”

  “I do, Father, but I don't know if I can even say the words.”

  “Margaret, when a Catholic makes an honest and true confession and asks God's forgiveness, we are assured that God will pardon us. Would you like to go down to the chapel and use the confessional so you don't have to look at me?”