The Expected One (3 page)

“Wait!” Maureen’s cry rang out in the echo chamber of the massive church, but it remained unanswered. She returned her attention to the painting.

As she leaned closer to the portrait, she observed that the woman wore a ring on her right hand: a round copper disk, with a pattern depicting nine circles surrounding a central sphere.

Maureen lifted her right hand, the one with her newly acquired ring, to compare it to the painting.

The rings were identical.

…Much will be said and written in time to come of Simon, the Fisher of Men. Of how he was called the rock, Peter, by Easa and myself while the others called him Cephas, which was natural in their own tongue. And if history is just, it will tell of how he loved Easa with unmatched power and loyalty.

And much has already been said, or so I am told, about my own relationship with Simon-Peter. There are those who called us adversaries, enemies. They would have it be believed that Peter despised me and we fought for the attention of Easa at every turn. And there are those who would call Peter a hater of women — but this is an accusation that can be applied to no one who followed Easa. Let it be known that no man who followed Easa did ever belittle a woman or underestimate her value in God’s plan. Any man who does so and claims Easa as teacher speaks a lie.

It is untrue, these accusations against Peter. Those who witnessed Peter’s criticism of me do not know of our history or from what source come his outbursts. But I understand and will not judge him, ever. This, above all else, is what Easa has taught me — and I hope he taught it as well to the others. Judge not.

T
HE
A
RQUES
G
OSPEL OF
M
ARY
M
AGDALENE,
T
HE
B
OOK OF
D
ISCIPLES

“L
et’s take it from the top: Marie Antoinette never said, ‘Let them eat cake,’ Lucrezia Borgia never poisoned anyone, and Mary, Queen of Scots was
not
a murderous whore. By righting these wrongs, we take the first step toward restoring women to their proper and respected place in history — a place that has been usurped by generations of historians with a political agenda.”

Maureen paused as murmured appreciation rippled through the group of adult students. Addressing a new class was akin to opening night at the theater. The success of her initial performance determined the long-term impact of her entire body of work.

“Over the next few weeks, we will be examining the lives of some of the most infamous women in both history and legend. Women with stories that have left an indelible imprint on the evolution of modern society and thought; women who have been dramatically misunderstood and poorly represented by those individuals who have established the history of the Western world by committing their
opinions
to paper.”

She was on a roll and unwilling to stop for questions so early on, but a young male student had been waving his hand at her from the front row since she started talking. He looked like he was about to climb out of his skin, but other than that there was nothing very remarkable about his appearance. Friend or foe? Fan or fundamentalist? That was always the question. Maureen called on him, knowing that he would distract her until she dealt with it.

“Would you consider this a feminist view of history?”

Was that it? Maureen relaxed a little as she answered the familiar question. “I consider it an honest view of history. I didn’t approach this with any agenda other than getting to the truth.”

She wasn’t off the hook yet.

“Well, it seems a lot like man-bashing to me.”

“Not at all. I love men. I think every woman should own one.” Maureen paused to allow the female students their chuckle.

“I’m
kidding.
My goal is to bring things back into balance by looking at history with modern eyes. Do you live your life in the same way that people lived sixteen hundred years ago? No. So why should laws, beliefs, and historical interpretations dictated in the Dark Ages govern the way we live in the twenty-first century? It just doesn’t make sense.”

The student responded. “But that’s why I’m here, to find out what it’s all really about.”

“Good. Then I applaud you for being here, and I ask only that you keep an open mind. In fact, I want you all to stop what you’re doing, raise you right hands in the air, and take the following vow.”

The group of night-school students murmured again and looked around the room, smiling and shrugging at each other, to determine if she was indeed serious. Their teacher, a best-selling author and respected journalist, stood before them with her right hand raised and an expectant look on her face.

“Come on,” she prodded. “Hands up, and repeat after me.”

The class followed along, raising their hands and waiting for her cue.

“I solemnly vow, as a serious student of history…” Maureen paused as the students responded obediently, “to remember at all times that all words committed to paper have been written by human beings.”

Another pause for student response. “And, as all human beings are ruled by their emotions, opinions, and political and religious affiliations, subsequently all history is comprised of as much opinion as fact and, in many cases, has been entirely fabricated for the furthering of the author’s personal ambitions or secret agenda.

“I solemnly vow to keep my mind open during every moment that I sit in this room. Here is our battle cry: History is
not
what happened. History is what was written down.”

She lifted a hardcover book from the podium in front of her and displayed it to the class.

“Has everyone had a chance to pick up a copy of this book?” A general nodding of heads and a muttering of assent followed the query. The book in Maureen’s raised hand was her own controversial work,
HerStory: A Defense of History’s Most Hated Heroines.
It was the reason she filled night-school classrooms and lecture halls to capacity each time she elected to teach.

“Tonight, we will begin with a discussion of the women of the Old Testament, female ancestors of the Christian and Jewish traditions. Next week we will transition to the New Testament, spending the majority of the session on one woman — Mary Magdalene. We will examine the different sources and references to her life, both as a woman and as a disciple of Christ. Please read the corresponding chapters in preparation for next week’s discussion.

“We will also have a special guest lecture by Dr. Peter Healy, whom some of you may know from our extension program for the humanities. For those of you who have not yet been fortunate enough to attend one of the good doctor’s classes, he is also Father Healy, a Jesuit scholar and internationally acclaimed expert on Biblical studies.”

The persistent student in the front row raised his hand again, not waiting for Maureen to call on him before asking, “Aren’t you and Doctor Healy related?”

Maureen nodded. “Doctor Healy is my cousin.

“He will give us the Church perspective on Mary Magdalene’s relationship to Christ and reveal how perceptions have evolved over two thousand years,” Maureen continued, anxious to get back on track and finish on time. “It will be a good night, so try not to miss it.

“But tonight, we will begin with one of our ancestral mothers. When we first meet Bathsheba, she is ‘purifying herself from her uncleanness…’ ”

Maureen rushed out of the classroom, exclaiming her apologies and swearing over her shoulder that she would stay after class the following week. She would normally have spent at least another half an hour in the room, speaking with the group that inevitably remained after each session. She loved this time with her students, possibly even more than the lectures themselves, as the lingering few were inevitably her kindred spirits. These were the students who kept her teaching. She certainly didn’t need the pittance that extension teaching provided. Maureen taught because she loved the contact and the stimulation of sharing her theories with others who were excited and open-minded.

Heels clicking in rhythm on the walkway, Maureen picked up her pace, walking swiftly through the tree-lined avenues of the north campus. She didn’t want to miss Peter, not tonight. Maureen cursed her fashion sense, wishing she had worn more sensible shoes for the near sprint required to reach his office before he left. She was, as always, impeccably dressed, taking the same meticulous care with her clothing as she did with all the details in her life. The perfectly cut designer suit fit her petite figure flawlessly, and its forest color accentuated her green eyes. A pair of rather daring Manolo Blahnik heels added some dash to the otherwise conservative outfit — and some necessary height to her five-foot-nothing frame. It was precisely that pair of Manolos that were the source of her current frustration. She briefly considered hurling them across the quad.

Please don’t leave. Please be there.
She called out to Peter in her mind as she rushed. They had been strangely connected, even as kids, and she hoped now that somehow he could sense how badly she needed to speak to him. Maureen had tried to call him via more conventional means earlier, but to no avail. Peter hated cell phones and wouldn’t carry one despite her multiple pleas over the years, and he generally refused to pick up the extension in his office if he was immersed in his work.

She ripped off the offending spiked heels and stuffed them into her leather tote bag as she ran the final length to her destination. Holding her breath as she rounded the corner, Maureen looked up at the second-story windows and counted from the left. She let out her breath in a relieved sigh when she saw the light in the fourth window. He was still here.

Maureen climbed the steps deliberately, allowing time to catch her breath. She turned left down the corridor, stopping when she reached the fourth door on her right. Peter was there, peering intently through a magnifying glass at a yellowed manuscript. He felt rather than saw her in the doorway, and when he looked up, his kind face broke into a welcoming smile.

“Maureen! What a wonderful surprise. I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“Hi, Pete,” she responded with equal warmth, coming around the desk to give him a quick hug. “I’m so glad you’re here — I was afraid you would have left by now, and I desperately needed to see you.”

Father Peter Healy raised an eyebrow and considered for a long moment before responding. “You know, under normal circumstances I would have left hours ago. I was compelled to work late tonight, for some reason I didn’t entirely understand — until now.”

Then he shrugged off his comment with a slight, knowing smile. Maureen returned the expression. She had never been able to account for the connection she had with her older cousin on any logical level. But from the day she had arrived in Ireland as a young girl they had been as close as twins, sharing an uncanny ability to communicate without words.

Maureen reached into her tote bag and pulled out a blue plastic grocery sack, the type used by import shops the world over. It held a small rectangular box, which she handed to the priest.

“Ahh. Lyon’s Gold Label. Beautiful choice. I still can’t stomach American tea.”

Maureen made a face and shuddered to indicate her shared distaste. “Bog water.”

“I believe the kettle is full, so I’ll just plug it in and we’ll have a cuppa right here and now.”

Maureen smiled as she watched Peter rise from the battered leather chair he had fought to obtain from the university. Upon acceptance of his position in the humanities extension department, the esteemed Dr. Peter Healy had been given a window office with modern furniture, which included a brand-new and very functional desk and chair. Peter hated functional when it came to his furniture, but he hated modern even more. Using his Gaelic charm as an irresistible force, he had managed to stir the usually unmovable staff into frenetic activity. He was a dead ringer for the Irish actor Gabriel Byrne, a likeness that never failed to inspire women, Roman collar or no. The staff had searched basements and scoured unused classrooms until they found exactly what he was looking for: a weathered and extremely comfortable leather high-backed chair, and a desk of aged wood that at least looked somewhat antique. The modern amenities in the office were of his choosing: the mini-refrigerator in the corner behind the desk, a small electric kettle for boiling water, and the generally ignored telephone.

Maureen was more relaxed now as she watched him, safe in the presence of a close relative and immersed in the entirely soothing and purely Irish art form of tea making.

Peter crossed back to his desk and leaned down to the refrigerator situated immediately behind him. He removed a small container of milk and placed it next to the pink and white box of sugar resting on top of the fridge. “There’s a spoon here somewhere — wait — here we are.”

The electric kettle was sputtering now, indicating that the water was on the boil.

“I’ll do the honors,” Maureen volunteered.

She stood up and took the box of tea from Peter’s desk, opening the plastic seal with the edge of a manicured thumbnail. She removed two round bags and dropped them into mismatched, tea-stained mugs. The stereotypes about Irishmen and alcohol were dramatically overstated from Maureen’s perspective; the real Irish addiction was to this stuff.

Maureen finished the preparations expertly and handed a steaming mug to her cousin as she sat down in the chair opposite his desk. Her own mug in hand, Maureen sipped quietly for a moment, feeling Peter’s benevolent blue eyes on her. Now that she had hurried to see him, she was unsure of where to start. It was the priest who ultimately broke the silence.

“Is she back, then?” he asked softly.

Maureen sighed with relief. At those moments when she had thought herself truly on the distant edge of sanity, Peter was there for her: cousin, priest, friend.

“Yep,” she replied, uncharacteristically inarticulate. “She’s back.”