Magdalene (16 page)

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Busy.”

“Oh, don’t bullshit me. Chick flicks and
Chunky Monkey with Clarissa does not equal busy. We’ll pick you up
and go to the movies or something.”

“Clarissa has a boyfriend at the moment, and
I am not interested in going to the movies with my ex-husband and
husband-in-law.” Even if I hadn’t had plans with Mitch, I wouldn’t
have gone. Watching Nigel and Gordon canoodling made me sick to my
stomach, Gordon all happy and content with the love of his life,
living the kind of life he’d deprived me of, and me with—

Fifth wheel? Not even worthy of being a
beard or a fag hag? Absolutely not. Maybe I could have had that
kind of charmed life if I’d gone to prison after stealing millions
of dollars from my spouse and—

“Seriously, I’m busy. But thanks.”

I hung up before he could say anything else,
pissed and restless, shoving files around as if I were making sense
of them. I jerked open my top drawer and stopped short when I saw
the bright orange iPod. I looked up at the white-and-blue
confection reigning over my desk. I looked over at the two small
paperbacks stacked on another corner.

I picked up the battered and broken
Angélique, Marquise des Anges
, the words “Elder M.
Hollander, 1986, France Paris North Mission” in the top left hand
corner of the inside front cover, and sat, flipping through it,
stopping occasionally when I saw margin notes in English. An Alvin
Ailey performance stub slid from the pages, and I caught it before
it hit the floor. I stared at the stub in thought, losing my focus
until it was a blur of clashing color and thermal print.

Oh, yes. I knew where I’d be taking Mitch
tonight.

* * * * *

The
Heavyweight

Mitch’s phone rang as he strode into the
foundry’s parking garage, already late in getting on the road to
Manhattan. Speeding would be near impossible because of
traffic.

He looked at the caller ID but didn’t
recognize the number.

“Hollander.”

“Mitch.”

He stopped walking.

“Shane.”

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t heard that
voice in twenty-five years. He’d never forget it.

You stay away from my daughter. You hear me,
Elder Hollander?

You got a problem with me, Bishop
Monroe?

I have a problem with poor white trash who
waste the Church’s money by not finishing their missions.

Who’s your daughter again, Bishop?

Wilhemina Monroe.

I’ll remember that.

This couldn’t be good. He started walking
again.

“Meet me at Fogo de Chao in downtown Philly
in an hour.”

Mitch laughed. “Absolutely not.” Stunned
silence. “Did you really think you could call me up, snap your
fingers, and expect me to hop to?”

He unlocked his car, slid in. Turned the
key.

“
What
was that?”

“My engine,” Mitch said mildly, putting his
phone in its cradle.

Reverse. First gear.
Releaseclutchhitgas.

Hard.

Mitch roared out of the garage and up onto
the service road.

“What do you want?”

“I thought that would be perfectly clear,”
the old man said imperiously. “I want to talk to you.”

“Call my clerk. Set up an appointment like
everybody else.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Then I guess whatever you want to talk
about isn’t important. After all, you couldn’t even be bothered to
go to your own daughter’s funeral.”

“Don’t you throw that back in my face,” he
snarled.

“Shane,
you
called
me
, and
considering you managed to get my cell, you must have gone to a
great deal of trouble.” Or not. First Sally, then Shane. Mitch knew
exactly who was giving out his number to people he didn’t want to
talk to.

“I’ve been hearing rumors about you. And
Trevor.”

“Oh, so you
do
know your grandson’s
name.”

“Don’t get smart-alecky with me, you piece
of steeler trash.”

“That’s
Bishop
Steeler Trash to you.
You know how to find my clerk’s name and number, so if you want to
talk to me, you do it on my turf, my terms.”

Mitch hung up, thinking he should be more
forgiving of Shane Monroe because for one, that was his job—to
forgive. It was incumbent upon every follower of Christ to forgive,
no matter what. For two, Mina’s father had always been a small man,
petty, controlling, narrow-minded and rigid, but he wasn’t evil and
he didn’t warrant the energy that carrying a grudge took, no matter
how egregious his behavior. For three, he’d probably had Greg in
his ear all these years, picking at Shane’s pride, trickling poison
into the wound, making his hurt and anger fester. Greg was a master
at manipulation and deceit; Shane couldn’t be blamed for succumbing
to it.

Still lighthearted from his weekend spent
with Cassandra, Mitch’s mood had dampened considerably Tuesday
night at church. Mitch, the last one out as usual, was locking up
after the evening’s activities when Dan Bevan had confronted
him.

“Mitch, we need to talk.”

“Yeah, we do,” Mitch had said immediately,
and gestured to Dan to follow him. “You got a couple of hours? We
can go grab a bite.”

“Sure.”

They’d ended up at a Denny’s some distance
from Allentown and Bethlehem, their drive silent but not
necessarily uncomfortable. They had been seated, waved away coffee,
and ordered before they got down to business.

“I can’t compete with you,” Dan admitted
baldly. “I don’t think moving anywhere will help. Sally’s going to
punish me for not being you.”

Mitch sighed. “Dan, I don’t know what to
tell you. She’s got me cornered.”

Dan looked straight at him for the first
time. “I never thought of that,” he said softly. “She can really
hit you where you live, even if you haven’t done anything.”

“
You
know I haven’t done
anything.”

He looked insulted. “Mitch. We’ve known each
other since we were kids. She’s had a crush on you since before you
left on your mission and she was just too scared of what everybody
would think if she went out with the guy who came home early.”

Mitch said nothing for a long moment. “I
think I always knew that.”

“I thought she was over it when I got back
from my mission,” Dan groused and dug into his meal. “Why is it,”
he asked around a mouthful of food, “that we have to make our most
important decisions when we’re young and dumb? Marriage, career,
kids?”

Mitch laughed wryly. “Because if we waited
until we were smart, we wouldn’t do it at all.”

“What I want to know,” Dan said, “is if you
think I hit her.”

“No,” Mitch said immediately. “You
do
have a bad temper, though, so it’s natural people will be
suspicious—and by the way, you need to calm that down.” Dan nodded
morosely at the chastisement. “But I’ve never seen or known of you
hauling off on anybody, much less a woman, much less a woman you
love.”

It was like someone had let the air out of a
balloon. Dan sagged in such utter relief that Mitch felt sorry for
him. Dan did love Sally. Always had. Mitch realized he was
witnessing the death of a man’s love for his wife—or, no. The death
of the
hope
that she would love him the way he loved her.
Mitch wanted to look away, but couldn’t. This was part of his job
and
he had a vested interest in how this got resolved.

“Would you be willing to say that in
court?”

“Yeah,” Mitch said slowly, “but that could
backfire on you and me both.”

Dan nodded.

“I’ll talk to Louise,” Mitch said finally.
“See if she can get a handle on this.”

“It’s going through the ward,” Dan said
glumly. “Every time I turn around, someone’s glaring at me, turning
her away from me like they’re protecting her. This is... It’s like
it’s more than about you.”

Mitch sat and thought about what to say to
put Dan on the right path without violating confidentiality.
Finally, he said, “You and I are being played. My suggestion—and
I’ll help you—is leave. Take her and go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Far
away. Get her away from me, away from all the people giving her bad
advice based on disinformation. Get her into counseling.”

Dan snorted. “We’ve tried counseling.”

“You haven’t tried it in a place where you
don’t know anybody.”

“Who’s doing this?” Dan demanded. “You
know.”

“Of course I do,” Mitch said, exasperated.
“Like I can tell you? I’m giving you my best advice and offering to
help. On good faith. I need her gone as much as you need to pull
her back to you.”

Dan planted his chin in his palm and drummed
the fingers of his other hand on the table as he stared out the
window.

“All right,” he said finally with a sigh. “I
need to figure out where to go and make arrangements. I hate taking
your money, though.”

“Dan, I didn’t offer out of the kindness of
my heart.”

His shoulders sagged. “Prissy could fix
this.”

“She doesn’t get involved in ward politics
and she doesn’t meddle in other people’s business. You know
that.”

“No, but Sally’s mean to her. I thought—
Maybe—”

Mitch waited, but Dan’s mouth tightened.
“You thought Prissy would crack and cut Sally open, and then Sally
would go running to you for comfort.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking down at his
plate, his face flushed.

Prissy was a sharp woman who found gossip
and ward politics beneath her, worthy only of her contempt, and
carried herself thusly. She also didn’t have an ounce of patience
for people who were catty or cruel and she’d publicly chastised
more than a few people who’d crossed the line of civility.

That was why Mitch would never call Prissy
to any leadership position. She was a vial of nitroglycerin. Never
mind that she had no interest in leading anybody. Or following, for
that matter. Mitch had no idea why she had always held her tongue
in the face of Sally’s cattiness—especially since it was most often
aimed directly at her.

Now, several days later and halfway to
Manhattan, he had an idea. “Prissy?” he asked after he’d dialed her
number. “Mitch. Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“This is between you and me. I’m extending
you a special calling. Unofficial and off the record.”

She was silent for a beat, then drawled
warily, “Okay...”

“I would very much appreciate it if you
would tag along with Sally and...steer her away from...certain
people.”

“Greg.”

“Yes. And...”

“Check her every time she starts running her
mouth?”

“That.”

“How far are you willing to back me up?”

He’d like to give her carte blanche, but he
wasn’t sure exactly how nasty Prissy could get. “Within
moderation.”

She was silent for a second or two. “All
right,” she said finally, decisively. “I’ll do my best. I can’t do
anything about a whisper campaign, except speak up when I hear it,
which means never. And a sudden divergence from the lesson manual
to teach on the evils of gossip would not go over well with the
Relief Society in general.”

Mitch laughed, knowing that was precisely
what she’d do—and he’d hear about it after the fact. It was an
excellent strategy. “No. No, it would not go over well at all. I’ve
got your back, Prissy. Thank you.”

“No,” she purred. “Thank
you
.
Now—”

Oh no.

“Are you aware that Hayleigh Sitkaris has
run away from home? Twice?”

Mitch wiped his hand down his face.
“No.”

Prissy paused. “But you’re not
surprised.”

“No.”

“Then I may as well continue. I also have
reason to believe that all is not right with Amelia, either.”

Of course it wasn’t. “Like how?”

“Can’t put my finger on it,” she said
matter-of-factly. “You know how controlled and unnaturally
happy-happy she is.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s cracking. Little things. I don’t
think I could explain it.”

He didn’t have to have it explained anymore.
“Crying for no reason? Temper showing through? Little slips that
sound paranoid? Flinching at the slightest noise out of place?”

“Yeah, like that. You’ve noticed?”

Mitch sighed. Messes, more messes, one on
top of the other. He couldn’t say the number of them was abnormal,
but these had the potential to be explosive—and all of them at
once...

“Talk to Louise, please.”

“Okie doke. Oh, and congratulations on
outmaneuvering Greg’s last stunt.”

“Made him mad, did it?”

“Steve said his face turned bright red when
he told him you really had okayed the building for his activity. He
got the kids all excited about the activity, but he’d also been
priming them for you changing your mind at the last minute, so when
you didn’t... The kids made it very clear how cool
you
were
for bending the rules for them, while he was scrambling to come up
with an activity he didn’t plan on having.” Mitch grinned. “Mitch,”
she continued gruffly, “I want you to know that you are one of very
few people I truly respect. See you Sunday.”

Click.

In all his years as a bishop, nothing any of
his ward members had said to him meant as much as that.

* * * * *

And We Touch

Because I am a bitch, I made Clarissa answer
the doorbell.

“Good evening, Clarissa,” I heard Mitch say
with as much aplomb as I would expect of him.

“Hi, Mr. Hollander,” she replied,
sullen.

“Be there in a minute!” I called from the
kitchen so I could eavesdrop.

“Won’t you please come in?” Clarissa
said.

“No, thanks.”

“Why not?”

“Propriety.”

“Um. Okay?”

“I don’t know if your mother told you. I’m
LDS.” Pause. “Latter-day Saint?” Pause. “Mormon?... A bishop,
actually. I observe certain...standards.”