Nolan Trilogy (42 page)

“Would you like to stop at Mayflower for some coffee?”  he asked.

“Um...”  She hesitated, unsure.  What she wanted to do most was get home and cry in the shower.  A long, hot, scouring, cleansing shower.

“I thought you might want to talk,” he offered.

“Sure.”  She didn’t know why she said yes, except the look on his face, the genuine concern, the interest there in his eyes.  Maybe she imagined it, but it felt good just the same.

The Mayflower coffee shop was still open and they went inside and got a table.  Father Michael ordered two coffees, his black, hers with lots of cream and sugar.  They sat together at a booth, sipping and looking at each other.  Father Michael was wearing a suit, dark black, and his clerical collar.  It was a stark contrast to Erica’s date night ensemble.

We must look strange,
Erica thought, glancing around.  There were a few other couples sitting at the booths, feeding the pay radio and drinking coffee or hot chocolate or cherry Cokes.  Everyone else was clearly on a date, but she and Father Michael were not.  She felt as if she had brought confession, something done best in the dark, out into the light.  She felt vulnerable.

And of course, there was Leah.  He knew where she was, but he wasn’t going to tell her.  She couldn’t stand the thought he knew something she didn’t.  If only there was a way for her to make him tell.

“So what do you want to talk about?”  Erica dumped another spoonful of sugar into her coffee, making sweet sludge at the bottom.

“Whatever you like.”  Father Michael sipped his coffee, looking over the rim at her.

“Did you know all the girls call you Father Far-out?”  Erica didn’t even know where that came from, she just blurted it out.

“Do they?”  Father Michael’s ears turned a little red.

“They all think you’re super dreamy.  Way cuter than Elvis even.”  Erica smiled at the way his eyebrows shot up at that.  “Why did you become a priest?” 

Father Michael put his coffee cup on the saucer, leaning back in the booth.  “I was an orphan.  I was raised by nuns.  No one wanted to adopt me.  Adoptive parents want whole, healthy babies.” 

“Your limp?”  Erica glanced at the cane propped against the wall.  “The girls all think it’s romantic.  A war wound or something.” 

“No, nothing so glamorous.”  Father Michael smiled and shook his head.  “I had polio.  They didn’t think I was going to live.  But I did.  The nuns took me and raised me, and ultimately gave me over to the rectory.” 

“So you felt obligated to become a priest?” 

“Not exactly obligated.  I was raised surrounded by God and God’s love.  It wasn’t difficult to hear my call.”  Father Michael inclined his head, catching her eye.  “So are you going to tell me why you were walking home?” 

Erica felt the heat in her cheeks.  “I’d be ashamed to tell you.” 

“Why?  Nothing you can tell me would make me love you any less.”  Father Michael saw the look she gave him, replaying what he had said in his head.  She could see it on his face, in his eyes.  That had slipped out, but he meant it.  She couldn’t breathe.  The way he looked at her… How could she have missed it?  Was she mistaken? 

Father Michael cleared his throat.  “Nothing you could say would make God love you any less, that’s what I meant.” 

She decided to tell.  It wasn’t even a decision really, it just bubbled to the surface and sprang forth from her mouth, because he was Father Michael and he gave her something no other man, no other person, ever had.  She felt completely safe with him.

“I was on a date.  And the boy I was dating decided to get fresh.”  Erica drew faces on the table with the wet droplets of coffee.  “Very fresh.  And… I couldn’t stop him.” 

Father Michael’s eyes grew wide.  “Do you mean he...” 

“Oh what does it matter?”  She covered her pain quickly.  “I’m not a virgin.  You know that.” 

She had confessed everything to him last year, everything they had done, she and Leah, and then, giving Bobby Harris her virginity.  Father Michael knew everything about her, you couldn’t hide from a man of God.  At least, she couldn’t.  In the end, she had to confess, and she did.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.”  Father Michael reached across the table and squeezed her fingers with his hand.  “You don’t deserve to be treated that way.” 

She remembered his reaction when she told him everything they had done.  He didn’t scold or chastise or make her feel inferior, instead he had sympathized, he had told her Satan tempts us everywhere, and humans are weak.

“Will you tell me who it was?”  he asked, something flashing in his eyes, something she would have said was anger in another man’s eyes.  But priests were pacifists, they believed in turning the other cheek.  Didn’t they? 

“Father Michael, do you think God really loves us?”  she asked finally.

“Of course He does.  I have no doubts about that.” 

“I do.” 

He smiled.  “I know.” 

“Anyway, thank you for the coffee.  I should get home.” 

“Thank you for confiding in me.” 

Father Michael paid for their coffees, escorting Erica back out to the car.  He drove her home, pulling up to the warehouse, and cutting the engine.  They sat under the halo of a streetlight, the soft orange buzz high above their heads the only witness as Erica leaned over and kissed him.

At first, Father Michael sat still. 
Probably shocked,
Erica thought.  She was shocked too, by her own audacity, swept into acting by sheer instinct, too overwhelmed with feeling to do anything else.  The kiss was far from chaste, it was no kiss on the cheek or his hand or his ring, but it was wonderfully sweet and light and beautiful.

“Erica...”  He whispered her name as she drew back, looking into his eyes, searching there for something, she didn’t know what.

“Thank you.  Just… Thank you,” she whispered.

And then she was gone, out of the car and back in to the warehouse.  It was Friday so Solie had the night off.  She expected her father to be reading his paper in the chair or up in the loft, but he didn’t answer when she called him.

Erica went to her room, stripping off everything and throwing away her stockings— they were full of holes from her walk—and then she showered.  She scrubbed and scoured her body until her skin was red, like a sunburn.  She couldn’t get clean enough.

Her mother’s diaries were hidden under Erica’s bed, and she pulled out the box, opening the diary to where she’d last left off.  She’d been reading them nonstop pretty much since she’d discovered them.  The secrets her mother had been keeping, the secrets she had gone to her grave with, were now resting in her daughter’s hands.

Dear Diary,

He touched me again.  This time I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.  He didn’t just brush up against me or squeeze by me or lightly trace his finger over mine while explaining some essay question.  This time I’m sure Father Patrick touched me, sexually.  We were alone in his office, talking about, of all things, the existence of God.  How can there be a God?  If there was a God, he wouldn’t let such horrible things happen to good people.  I don’t remember his answer, because he came up behind me, I was standing at the window looking down at the court yard, and then he was there, and his hand moved over my belly and up, up, up, cupping my breasts in my blouse.  I couldn’t move.  I couldn’t breathe.  He was touching me, kneading my flesh, rubbing over my nipple.  I should’ve screamed.  I should’ve run.  I was ashamed.  I was ashamed because it felt good.  Because I wanted to.  Because I’d always wanted to.  I did something I never thought I would, I could, ever do.  I turned in his arms and I kissed him.  I kissed him.  I put my arms around his neck, I felt his clerical collar, that tight bond, his vow to God under my fingers, and I kissed him.  And he kissed me back.

It went on and on and on.  His hands were all over me, and mine over him.  I knew it was wrong.  He knew it too.  Somehow that made it even more exciting.  He’s old enough to be my father, he told me so, but he’s nothing like my father.  He’s full of life and passion and love.  I would do anything for him.  I would give my life the way Jesus did, on the cross.  I would die for him.  He tells me I’m special.  Special girl, chosen among many, chosen to be his, to give myself to him.  When?  That’s all I want to know.  When?  He smiles and touches my lips quiet.  He won’t tell me.  God’s will, he reminds me.  I want to tell someone.  I want to tell Patty, she’s my best friend in the world, and I can’t tell her.  I can’t tell anyone.  I’m so full of love for him.  He sees me like no one else has ever seen me before.  I know I’ll never find another like him, and leaving, letting go of this thing we have, would be torture.  I would walk around all the time with a huge void inside of me where he once was.  I can’t live like that.  I will do whatever he asks.  I will serve him, I will be his.  Forever.  xoxo Susan

Erica finally thought she knew what it was to love.  She felt everything for Father Michael her mother had expressed on these pages.  Love wasn’t familiar and comfortable and routine.  Love was that dizzy, sick, crazy feeling in your gut that made you do and say things no sane person ever would.  Her mother had not lived long enough to give her daughter advice, to tell her about men, and love, and all the lessons the life eventually teaches the young.  But she had left her journals.  That was enough.

Erica flipped the page, hungry for more, desperate to find out what, exactly, had been going on between her mother and Father Patrick.  She understood now what Father Patrick was talking about when he told her she looked like mother.  She still couldn’t believe the secrets her mother had kept.  Erica flipped to the next page and found it blank.  The one after that too.  Dammit! There had to be more! She had been working on getting the boxes open—the other ones that were still locked—but her bobby pin had clearly been just luck.  She needed the key.

There was only one place in the house she knew where she might find the key to the lock.  She crept down the hall, stealthy, even though no one was home.  Her father’s loft room and bed were high off the ground, a ladder on one end and spiral stairs leading up on the other.  It was in the center of the warehouse, and underneath his loft was a closet on the right, a walk-in, filled with his clothes and shoes.  On the left was an antique mahogany desk and chair, and in the desk, in the middle drawer, were hundreds of keys. 

Erica, being the curious kitty she was, had once asked her father what the keys were to.  Her father scowled, and told her it was none of her business.  That’s when she knew he was hiding something.  A secret.  Finally, she had found it.  It had been purely by chance.  She had been standing at his desk, writing him a note about Bobby, that she would be out on a date, not to wait up.  She had stopped to fiddle with an earring.  And it had fallen.  He wouldn’t let her get her ears pierced, so they were clip-ons, and they fell off all the time, quite easily.  It rolled and bounced against the wall.  She was down on her hands and knees looking for it, and she lifted up the floor to ceiling Oriental tapestry hanging behind the loft.  That’s when she found the door.

It wasn’t like a regular door.  It had no knob, and only a bolt with a padlock to hold it closed.  Erica couldn’t resist.  She had to know what was in there.  She’d gone on her date with Bobby, with both earrings, but the door haunted her.  It taunted her.  She had to know what was inside.  She couldn’t imagine.  And her imagination had certainly not taken her to the place she arrived when, after systematically trying all the keys in the drawer, she had found the one that worked.  She never, ever could have imagined the secret her father was keeping under his bed.

It hadn’t been long before she had to share it with Leah.  The more they looked at the titillating photographs, the more they craved them.  And then, after discovering the moving pictures, the still photographs paled in comparison.  She wanted more, Leah wanted more.  It had been an avalanche of sin pouring down on them from above, burying both girls under its weight.

Maybe Father Patrick was right,
Erica thought as she gathered all the keys, making a hammock out of her blouse and sweeping them all in.  Maybe
special
meant they were born to be tempted.  If her mother’s diary was any indication, Erica was just like her.  She couldn’t keep her nose out of trouble.  She couldn’t keep her hands to herself.  She couldn’t stop doing what was wrong, because it felt too right.