The Orphans of Race Point: A Novel (15 page)

Ava smiled with a sorrowful, maternal pride. “
Mee-la
,” she corrected, elongating the syllables into something beautiful. “Named after my sister, Milena. She would have loved her so.”

“
Would have?
Did your sister pass away?”

“I haven’t seen my family in many years, Father—and it’s not likely I will. But I don’t complain. As far as my family is concerned, Robert has been very generous. He bought my mother a home, and my niece and nephews go to the finest school in Bratislava. That is why . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Why you married him,” Gus murmured, finishing her sentence.

“Don’t misunderstand. I wasn’t just—what is that ugly word? A
golddigger.
” She looked toward the window reflectively. “I was a waitress in Robert’s restaurant when we first met, here on a temporary visa. I was flattered by his attention, of course, but also a little bit intimidated. And yet he was so good to me, so very attentive. Though I wasn’t in love, I believed I could make him happy. In his own way, he needed me as much as I needed him. He still does, perhaps even more so . . . It’s just that the cost is so high.”

“But your family—surely, they call. You have contact.”

“On occasion, with Robert listening to every word, and hating them for their claim on me. I have been so alone in this country. You can never imagine. So alone in my husband’s house. But I didn’t come to talk about that. After Mila was born, it seemed I hadn’t lost my family after all. I saw them in the lines of her face, the way she moved. Once again, I had a reason—” She paused for a long moment before she looked up at him directly. “I’m begging, Father. Will you help her?”

“Yes, of course I will, but you must know I can’t help the child without helping her mother as well.”

Ava glanced nervously at her watch. Obviously, she had stopped listening. “We’ve wasted too much time on things that don’t matter. I have already chosen a guardian for Mila,” she said hurriedly. Then she pulled a file from her purse and handed it to Gus. “Instructions for my attorney—everything—it’s all here. Please. Read it.”

“I don’t want that,” Gus said, with mounting anger. “Let me ask you one more time:
Why did you come to me?
”

“I need a witness, Father,” Ava sputtered. “Someone who has respect in the community. Someone who will make sure the court never leaves my Mila with—with him.”

Gus attempted to respond, but she was determined to finish. “There are two things you must know about my husband. Robert has a lot of money and many important friends. No matter what he does, he will never go to prison.”

“The man’s brainwashed you with his own delusions. All murderers think they’re above the law. Invulnerable. And you know what? All of them are wrong.”

Ava shook the papers at him. “You’re not listening. I need someone to help Mila when I’m not here. The last time I was in the hospital, a nurse slipped me a piece of paper with your name on it.”

“So let me get this straight. You come here and show me those marks on your neck; then you expect me to stand aside and do nothing while you wait for him to finish the job?” Gus said.

Ava picked up the photograph of her daughter and tried to hand it to him, but Gus refused to accept it. “Maybe
you
should look at your daughter. That kid has already seen too much. And if something happens to you, her life will never be the same. Never.”

Ava turned her face away.

“Listen, I understand your fear. More than you know, I understand,” Gus said more gently. “But I have friends on the police force, good men who will help you.”

“No,” Ava spat out. “No police. I already told you—my husband has contacts there, too. I’m asking you to save my daughter—”

“If you won’t let me report this, or at least help you and your daughter find a place to stay, there’s nothing I can do for you,” Gus said in frustration. He got up, pushed open the door and confronted Jack, gaping at him from the couch.

Apparently, Gus’s voice had risen enough to be heard through the door.

“So you’re asking me to leave?” Ava’s tone was oddly flat.

Gus passed her the scarf she had used to cover her injuries. “No, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking you to let me help you. And you’re refusing.”

Without a word, Ava deftly restored the scarf to its former position and started for the door. “I’m sorry for interrupting your game,” she said to Jack as she passed him in the living room.

Gus stood in the doorway of the kitchen, silently watching her go. His dark eyes burned with frustration.

“What happened in there?” Jack asked. He walked to the window and lifted the curtain.

“Weren’t you the one who told me that some people can’t be helped? Cases you have to turn over to God? Well, that woman proved your point.”

“And you said you could be detached. Look at you; you’re
enraged.
”

From outside, there was the sound of a car door slamming.

Taking Jack’s place in the window, Gus studied the dark-colored vehicle. He imagined Ava collecting herself before she drove back to whatever waited for her at home.

“
Merda!
” Gus muttered. “I blew it; didn’t I?”

Before Jack could respond, Gus was across the room and out the door. He barely felt the stones under his bare feet as he ran toward the slowly moving car.

“Wait, please—
Ava!
” he called to her.

She accelerated, backing rapidly down the driveway and into the parking lot before turning toward the road.

Gus sprinted after her and hurled himself in front of her car.

The brakes whined as she stopped within inches of him. Flushed with anger, Ava jumped out of the car. “Are you insane? I could have killed you!”

“Now you know how it feels when someone tries to implicate you in their death wish,” Gus said, feeling oddly exhilarated.

Ava’s chest heaved. “You are a madman!” she shouted.

“The nurse who gave you my name should have warned you,” Gus said, grinning. “Let me have another chance, will you, Ava? Not just for your sake, but for mine. I can’t explain now, but if I let this happen again, it will kill me.”

“Again? What do you mean?” Ava said, before she was distracted once more by her watch. “I have to go. Robert will be home any time now.”

“When can you come back?”

She climbed into the car and opened the window. “So you will help my daughter?”

“I already told you I would,” Gus said. “Have you got anything to write with in there? I want to give you my cell number.”

“No. No paper for Robert to find. I’ll keep your number here.” Ava tapped her temple.

“You’ll never remember it.”

“I have an excellent memory for what matters, Father. When I get home, I’ll call and prove it to you.”

Gus recited the number, expecting her to repeat it back to him.

Instead, she again glanced anxiously at her watch. “My God, it’s so late. I have to go.” And then, without another word, she closed the window.

He watched as her car roared out of the parking lot and disappeared.

J
ack was standing in the doorway
when Gus came back inside.

“I tried,” Gus said. Then he ducked into the kitchen to clean out the coffee machine before he heard about it from Sandra in the morning.

After he finished, he was stopped in his place by the photograph Ava had left behind on the table. He picked it up and studied the child’s face. The wisps of hair slipping from her ponytails, the way her head tilted sweetly to one side, made his chest ache. After slipping it into his pocket, he went out to join Jack for the end of the game. But as he stared at the screen, all he saw was the girl’s eyes. He checked his cell phone to be sure it was charged.

The call didn’t come till after midnight. Jarred from sleep, Gus reached for his phone.

“It’s me,” Ava said, her voice low. “I’m sorry I called so late, but Robert . . . he came home early and found me gone. It—wasn’t good, Father; every time it gets worse. But I have memorized your number. And your promise to Mila—I know that by heart, too.”

Then, before Gus could remind her that it was a promise to her as well, she disconnected.

Chapter 16

A
fter the nine-a.m. mass, and before
Gus left for the hospital, he stopped for breakfast in the rectory. Jack read the sports page out loud, leaping to his feet when he recounted how the Sox had bungled a game. Often, he used this time to work in a question about Gus’s ministries, and this morning it was again about “that woman who stopped by the house late at night.”

“It was only nine, and no, I haven’t heard from her,” Gus said, frowning as he wondered if he ever would. Now that three weeks had passed, the question had become less frequent. He shook his head tersely, adding, “Don’t think I’m likely to, either.”

Gus and Jack hadn’t always been so close. Before he came to St. Ben’s, Gus’s priesthood had been considered a “problem vocation.” His heritage had made him a natural for placement in the Portuguese parishes in New Bedford, but a succession of pastors had been troubled by the number of young women who sought counsel from a curate who was both dangerously handsome and excessively sympathetic.

Finally, the diocese decided that St. Ben’s, with its older parishioners and a pastor who’d been an ex-boxer and was known to “brook no nonsense,” was the solution. Jack Rooney, who had run the parish alone since hip surgery ended his vigorous city mission, had hardly been thrilled with the placement. The first day Gus arrived, he looked him up and down before he shook his head and pronounced his verdict: “Why me?”

When Gus thanked him for the welcome, the old priest, who tried to mask his limp with an even more pronounced swagger, pointed toward the stairs. “Your room’s directly at the top. While you’re up there, maybe you can shave your head or something.”

Gus had heard about Jack Rooney’s famous sense of humor, but he could see he was dead serious.

Nor did Gus glimpse much of his jovial nature during the next few months when the pastor found fault with nearly everything he did. If Gus turned down a beer, Jack snapped, “Watching your weight?” When he was particularly kind to an elderly parishioner, the pastor suspected it was because he’d heard about the beautiful granddaughter who visited every summer. Gus bore the needling patiently, mostly because of his growing admiration for the man.

Though Jack never bragged about it and would have been furious if anyone brought it up, his work with the poor in his former parish was legendary. When he first came to Quissett, he’d shocked his well-heeled parishioners by selling the luxurious furnishings in the rectory and replacing them with castoffs from a thrift shop. A
Protestant
thrift shop, no less, a member of the parish council had huffed.

Soon, however, Jack’s passionate homilies and his willingness to live the demands he asked of others had inspired his flock to give more, and do more. They boasted that St. Benedict’s fed more of the hungry, and sheltered more homeless, than any other parish. “No one with a genuine need gets turned away at our church,” they said. “No matter where they come from or what religion they are.”

But when Jack found fault with Gus’s daily runs, the younger priest finally rebelled.

“Can’t you find something better to do with your time?” the pastor heckled one morning when he saw Gus lacing up his sneakers.

Gus looked at him evenly. “To tell you the truth, Monsignor, I can’t.” He opened the door and started outside.

“I’m not surprised,” he shot back. “Vanity first, right?”

Gus slammed the door and faced him. “You want to know the reason I run? It’s my way of letting go of all the bullshit in my life. And since I’ve been here, I probably put more miles on these sneakers than I did in the last five years.”

Jack’s berry-blue eyes opened wide, and he never questioned the morning runs again. But it wasn’t until the now-retired Father D’Souza dropped in for lunch that things actually changed between them.

Gus had been livid when he’d walked in and seen the two old priests sitting at the kitchen table. Father D’Souza had grown so small that he looked like a white-haired child in the seat. Gus and Jack made eye contact, but the increasingly deaf D’Souza didn’t see or hear his former parishioner.

For the next two days, neither Gus nor Jack spoke about the visit, but at odd moments, Gus would feel the pastor’s eyes on him. Jack would turn away or offer a ready complaint every time the younger priest caught him. “Six paper towels to clean up one small spill? Ever hear of good stewardship?” Or “I happened to be in the sacristy during your nine-a.m. mass. Not a very challenging homily.”

On the evening of the second day, Jack unexpectedly asked if he’d like to watch the Patriots game with him. “Thanks, but that little radio in my room is still working,” Gus said.

Gus was startled to feel the old priest’s hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Gus. I think we got off on the wrong foot here—and it was my fault. But if we’re gonna live in this house together, we should—”

Before he could finish, Gus sunk into a chair opposite him and stopped him mid-sentence with the look in his eyes. “You think I don’t know what this is about, Monsignor?”

“It’s Jack. And if you think you’ve got my number, you can think again. Better men than you have tried to figure out this brain of mine—including me,” he said, tapping his fuzzy white skull.

“So this has got nothing to do with D’Souza’s visit and the sad story he undoubtedly told you?”

“
Father
D’Souza to you. I believe the man was your pastor when you were a boy. And sob stories are a dime a dozen. If I let them get to me, I would have floated away on a river of tears years ago.”

Gus studied him. “Okay, if you didn’t invite me to sit on your musty couch and watch your crappy black-and-white TV out of pity for my tragic childhood, then why?”

Jack circled the room the way he’d once danced around an opponent in the ring. “Listen, Gus, I’m gonna say this once and once only. What you went through as a boy or as a teenager—all of that means nothing to me. Hell, I’ve heard worse stories.
Much
worse. What struck me is how you reacted to them. And the boy D’Souza described? The man you grew up to be? Well, he sounds like someone who deserves more respect than I’ve given him. Even sounds like someone I might want as a friend.”

Gus eyed him for a long moment before he said, “Don’t you think you should call him
Father
D’Souza? After all, he’s probably the only priest in the diocese who’s older than you.”

Then he got up and turned on the TV.

But for the past three mornings, neither of them had even opened the paper. Nor did Jack ask any probing questions. They moved around the kitchen uneasily. “You know where she keeps the sugar? The bowl needs to be refilled,” Jack said, staring into the cupboard.

“Nope. And we’re out of butter, too.”

Neither wanted to admit what really worried them. Sandra had been hospitalized for the third time in six months; and each time she returned to them, she was a little thinner and a little paler, though still as feisty as ever. During the four years she’d been with them, she had done so well on her drug regimen that it had been easy to pretend she wasn’t sick.

“I thought people weren’t supposed to die of HIV anymore,” Jack grumbled as they sat down at the table and stared at the phone. Gus was about to call Liam Gallagher, to ask his medical advice. “You need to ask him why she keeps getting sick.”

“Whoa, Jack. You sound like it’s Liam’s fault,” Gus said, defending the friend who had conferred with Sandra’s doctors as a personal favor.

His eyes nervously glued on Jack’s, Gus picked up the phone. He was close enough to see the broken capillaries in the pastor’s passionate blue eyes as he spoke.

“It’s liver disease that’s killing AIDS patients these days,” Liam explained when Gus relayed Jack’s question. “And unfortunately, Sandra hasn’t responded to treatment.”

“You helped that guy from home get a liver transplant,” he said. “What was his name?”

“Ray Lima,” Liam supplied. “I referred him to a surgeon in Boston.”

“So why can’t you refer Sandra?” Gus asked impatiently. “Use your influence and get her name up the list. Something. The woman’s got a daughter to raise, Liam. A
fine
daughter, I might add.”

“Ray Lima didn’t have HIV, Gus. Unfortunately, Sandra’s not a candidate for a transplant. We’re hoping that will change, but right now . . .”

“
Unfortunately
. That’s his favorite word,” Jack said after Gus hung up. Both priests peered through the French doors at Julia, who was on the couch, studying, an eclectic mix of music blaring in the background, Stella nestled comfortably in her lap.

Though she had always been an excellent student, in recent months Julia spent more time studying than usual, losing herself in complex math formulas and the predictability of the periodic table.

“She’s too serious,” Jack said, his brow furrowing.

“And shy,” Gus added. “The other night she turned sixteen shades of red when we ran into a boy from school at the store. Then she went out and hid in the car.”

“She doesn’t exactly fit in with the kids around here; her mother’s dying and she lives in the apartment over a church rectory. How’s she supposed to make friends?”

They kept their voices low, but Julia got up from the couch and sauntered toward the doorway. “You two whispering about me in there?”

They both did their best to deny it, but finally Jack said, “How did you know?”

“You’ve got the same worried look on your faces that Mami gets,” she said.

Sandra had forbidden the priests to discuss her illness in front of Julia, and with equal determination, the girl seemed to resist knowing. Even when she visited her mother in the hospital, she carried her books with her, holding them against her chest, as if they could protect her.

O
ne morning over coffee, Jack scowled
as he put down the sports page. “I stopped at the hospital to see Sandra last night when I was out.”

Gus looked up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because she looked like hell, that’s why. I didn’t feel like talking about it.”

“Worse than ever,” Gus acknowledged. “I caught her doctor in the hallway the other day and—”

But when Julia appeared with her backpack to say she was off to school, the conversation abruptly ended.

“Not without breakfast you don’t, young lady. How do you expect to ace that history exam without proper nourishment?” Jack roared.

Immediately, Gus was up, pouring the last of the orange juice, digging up an overripe banana, and a package of instant oatmeal.

After one bite of the banana, Julia tossed it into the trash. “That was mush. And don’t even bother with the oatmeal; the milk’s almost sour. This, I’ll drink,” she said, quaffing the orange juice. “Just to keep my two
dads
happy.”

Jack cringed. “As if the church didn’t have enough problems.”

The men trailed her to the door, followed closely by the dogs. As she walked down the drive, Gus called, “Do you have your lunch money?”

“Will you be home after school?” Jack added, maneuvering himself into the doorway. “You can invite a friend over if you want.”

“Yes, and maybe. I’ll call,” Julia said impatiently, but her sly smile showed that she enjoyed their awkward ministrations.

When they returned to the kitchen, the gloom returned. “What’s going to happen to Julia when her mother’s not around?” Jack said, finally broaching the question they’d avoided. “Sandra’s the only family she’s got.”

“She’ll stay here, of course. Julia’s had too much instability in her life already. And besides, you heard her. She thinks of us as her two dads.”

“That will go over great with the bishop. Are you out of your mind, Gus?”

Gus sniffed at the milk they had used in their coffee. “She’s right,” he said, pouring it into the sink. “This is on the verge. I can’t believe we didn’t notice it.”

“Incredible,” Jack said. “And I’m not talking about the milk. You actually think we could keep her here, don’t you? If it came to a fight, you’d probably give up your vocation rather than send the kid to a foster home.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t send Julia to a foster home—no matter what. And neither would you. But don’t worry. She’s only got two more years of school, and her mother has vowed to see her graduate. No matter how bad she looks, Sandra’s got some major willpower going for her.” He cleared his coffee cup, and a half-eaten piece of toast. “If you pick up something for dinner, I’ll cook. How’s that for a deal?”

“Lousy. You know I can’t find anything in that damn grocery store. And I’ve experienced your cooking . . .”

Gus was leaving the kitchen when Jack stopped him with his rusty voice.

“I almost forgot. Yesterday when you were at the hospital, you had a call.” By his tone, Gus immediately realized who it was. Her name, as well as the dark moons beneath her eyes and the bruises on her neck hadn’t left Gus’s mind for a moment, but it was the thought of her child that affected him most. From the night he first found it, he’d carried her picture in his pocket wherever he went.

“Ava Cilento. Did she leave a number?” he asked.

“She just about hung up on me when I asked for one.”

“She’ll probably call back,” Gus said, wondering why she hadn’t tried to reach him on his cell. Then he remembered the silent message that had been left on his phone the night before.

As if he expected the ailing Sandra to appear at any moment, Jack surveyed the cluttered kitchen and glanced down the hall before he sat down with his coffee. “I just hope it’s not in the next couple of days. I’m going out to Notre Dame to receive that damn award, and I don’t think you should meet with her alone.”

The
award
Jack referred to was the Laeture Medal, one of the highest honors the Church bestowed. This distinction, like all the ones he had received before, would be accepted with grousing embarrassment, then tucked away into a drawer or an attic. “Why the hell did they pick me?” he would say. “There’s so many others who do more.” If his humility were not so utterly genuine, it might have been cloying.

“You saying you don’t trust me, Jack?” Gus asked.