Third Degree (17 page)

When it came right down to it, this dark, musty, and cobweb-filled basement was almost nicer than my living room. It certainly didn’t belong to Ginny Miller, driver of a beat-up Subaru and hider of recyclables.

I put my head between my knees trying to figure out my next move. I suddenly had an upside-down yet full view of a collection of antique fencing sabers behind me. I jumped from the chair, pushing it aside, and grabbed a long and pointy foil.

I had been kind of a shy and moody teen, so in an effort to connect me with other shy moody teens, my mother had enrolled me in fencing classes in Elmsford, not far from where I grew up. Every Tuesday, from four in the afternoon until six, I would advance, rapelle, lunge, and do a bunch of other things long forgotten in a white jumpsuit and face mask. I was a fair to middling fencer and did not make one friend. But I did fall in love with Gilles, my very French and very married fencing teacher who always called me Abigail and was not attracted to me in the least, and I never competed in any fencing competitions. Generally, fencing class had been a giant waste of time. But I did learn how to manipulate a foil and that had made my mother somewhat happy. I gripped the foil in my hands and lunged forward. Yes. This would do the trick. I still had my old moves even if it felt as if I’d dislodged a vertebra in the process.

Movement overhead, along with the sound of muted and muffled voices, put me on high alert. I stood at the bottom of the stairs, hiding behind the giant mahogany dresser, and waited while I heard someone unlock the door and start down the stairs. As the sound of the footfalls got closer, I lunged out from behind the dresser and posed with my foil. Instead of shouting “En garde!” out came “Lydia!” and I was surprised and then not surprised that my captor was Carter’s widow.

Lydia grabbed her chest, almost losing her breath at the shock of seeing me jump out from behind the dresser with her antique foil. “Oh, Alison. Put that thing down,” she said. “You scared the life out of me.”

I don’t know why, but I was inclined to do what she said. I rested the foil against the dresser and crossed my arms over my chest. “So this is an interesting twist. What the hell am I doing here?”

“Would you like dinner?” Lydia asked. “Chef has made coq au vin. I know it’s a bit early in the season but I had a yen.”

I
was
kind of hungry. The Riviera’s chicken piccata was a distant memory. “No,” I said definitively. My growling stomach was a dead giveaway. “Kind of.”

“Why don’t you come upstairs?” Lydia asked, as if my coming here had been my idea alone.

“I think I’ll stay here,” I said, realizing how ridiculous it sounded.

Lydia regarded me with something akin to pity, but not quite. “Suit yourself,” she said, starting up the stairs.

“Wait!” I called and followed her up the stairs. When I got to the top, I was back in the kitchen with the spectacular view of the Hudson that I had been in only days before while offering my condolences for Carter’s death. Elaine was seated at the granite counter, drinking the same chardonnay that I had found in the refrigerator below. She was in head-to-toe cotton, her purple sweat suit accentuating the big roll of fat around her waist. I had a hard time buying these two women as sisters; they were polar opposites. Also at the counter was a giant man who reeked of the same cologne as the man who had brought me here.

Lydia made introductions all around. “You remember Elaine,” she said, holding a hand out. Elaine gave me a sullen nod. “And this is Clark, Elaine’s husband.”

I held my hand out to Clark as if meeting him under these circumstances were the most natural thing in the world. Clark, you need to lay off the cologne, brother, was what I wanted to say, but I shook his hand politely. I surreptitiously brought the hand up to my nose. Yep. It smelled like cologne. That was some pretty potent stuff and, most certainly, not a lady killer. Clark was a hulking mass, not unlike Max’s Neanderthal husband, but while Fred was bald, Clark sported a slicked-back black ponytail that hung below his massive shoulders.

Lydia reached into a cabinet and brought out an expensive-looking wineglass. My guess was Baccarat. These were some fancy people, these Wilmotts. “Do you want some chardonnay? It’s Conundrum. One of their special vintages and one of our favorites.”

“Thank you,” I said graciously, until I realized I no longer had to be gracious. We could pretend all we wanted that I was a guest who had come to sample the special vintage from the Conundrum vineyard, but I was essentially a hostage. I had been brought here with a burlap sack over my head. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. “No! No chardonnay. What I want are some answers.” I stared at Lydia in her usual white shirt and pricey designer jeans. “What am I doing here?”

“Have some wine,” she said, pouring me a healthy glass of this special vintage.

I took a sip. I had to admit: it was excellent, far better than anything I had ever purchased. But even that didn’t alleviate the stress I had felt being kidnapped and brought here under duress. I banged the glass onto the counter and demanded some answers. Elaine jumped a little bit.

Lydia looked at me sadly. “We’re just trying to help you.”

“Help me? With what?”

Elaine recited some kind of gobbledygook about denial being the first stage of something or other.

“Alison,” Lydia said gently. “We all know what’s going on.”

“Well, then could you let me know?” I punctuated my outburst with a long slug of wine. Clark eyed me but didn’t say a word.

Lydia gave me that pitying smile again. “The eye. The wrist.” She looked down at the counter. “The abusive cop boyfriend.”

The eye, the wrist, the abusive cop boyfriend? What in God’s name was she talking about? Who in God’s name was she talking about?

Elaine took over. “Alison, we’re part of an organization called WIMP.” When I looked at her blankly, she explained. “Women in Major Peril. Well, it’s actually Women and Children in Major Peril but we didn’t want to add any letters.”

Lydia jumped in. “You see, Alison, Elaine and I know what it’s like to live in fear. Our father was a police officer, too, like your boyfriend, and he was very violent. We grew up in a small town in upstate New York, not unlike this one, and everyone thought that he was a wonderful man. But we knew what he was: a drinker and an abuser. We decided that if we got out of our house alive, we would devote our lives to helping other women and children in similar situations. That’s why we started WIMP.”

I stepped back from the counter, still holding my wineglass. “You’re kidding, right?”

Clark spoke for the first time, his voice a jarring and uncharacteristic high tenor. “I wish we were.”

It all came together: Lydia’s obvious dislike of Crawford, a man she didn’t even know; the lavender-scented note cards imploring me to get it up or pick myself up or something to that effect; and Jane’s reference to Lydia’s all-encompassing volunteer activities. Lydia and her bizarre cohorts—Clark and Elaine—were part of some militant, underground organization that tried to help battered women. By battering them, it seemed. Because if slapping duct tape over someone’s mouth, putting a hood over their heads, and carrying them from their homes qualified as anything, it was
battery.

Lydia attempted to explain what she considered all of the good works that they undertook after they had kidnapped and battered their clients. “We give women places to stay, money to get started, and a chance at a new life. We do very good work, Alison. We are very well intentioned.”

“You kidnapped me,” I said.

“Sometimes we have to resort to desperate measures to make sure that the women we seek to protect accept our help.”

“You are all completely insane,” I said, and placed my wineglass back on the counter, but not before sucking down every last drop of the lovely and delicate white wine. “And what kind of legitimate organization could you be if your phone number doesn’t even work?”

Elaine shot Clark a dirty look. “I told you that you need to fix that.”

Clark cowered slightly at the wrathful gaze of Elaine and promised that he would get on it right away.

“You’d better,” she said.

Lydia grabbed my arm. “Alison, please. Just hear us out.”

“You hear
me
out,” I said. “I’m not an abused woman, nor was I ever. True, I married a lying, cheating piece of pond scum, but he never abused me. And Crawford would never lay a hand on me.” The idea that they would even consider Crawford a batterer made me sick; talk about jumping to conclusions based on nothing. I pointed to my black eye, slowly fading into a light green and purple miasma of color. “This is from your husband.”

Lydia gasped.

“Yes. Carter and George Miller flung the door open during their stupid fight and it knocked me silly. That’s how I ended up with a black eye.” I held up my bandaged wrist. “And this? I fell at school, something I do about once every two months.” I straightened up to my full height and smoothed down my T-shirt, trying to regain some sense of composure. “I’m sorry I had to tell you that, Lydia, particularly on the day when you buried your husband, but it’s the truth.” I prepared to leave. “And let me just add that ‘WIMP’ is a spectacularly bad acronym for a battered women’s rescue group. And lay off the cologne, Clark,” I added. This day felt like it had been a thousand hours long. I took one last look at the gorgeous Hudson view—I thought it was a pretty safe bet to assume that I would never be invited back here—and strode from the house onto the dark street.

“Women in Major Peril.”

“Still, no.”

I was sitting on the edge of my bed, attempting to fasten the strap on my pumps while talking on the phone. It wasn’t going well and I gave up. I had to leave for school in ten minutes but I wanted to give Crawford an update on what had happened after we parted. Yes, it was Saturday but since classes began in a few days, it was “all hands on deck.” Etheridge had designated this entire weekend for extra orientation and expected everyone to be in their offices to attend to any students who might have questions or concerns before school officially started.

Crawford’s first reaction to my story? “That’s what happens when you lie about being sick to your boss,” an “I told you so” that I didn’t appreciate one bit.

“WIMP is an underground battered women’s rescue operation and, apparently, Lydia, her creepy, sweatpants-wearing sister, Elaine, and some castrato named Clark are deeply involved with them.”

Crawford was in his car on his way to work. “I must have misunderstood you. Did you call someone a ‘castrato’?”

“I did.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. They think you’re a batterer.”

“What?”

“You know, the black eye, the taped-up wrist.”

He interrupted me. “I hope you disabused them of that notion.”

“Of course I did.”

“So you’re not hurt, and they’re not too sinister, and all’s well that ends well?”

“I guess.”

“Do you want to press charges?” he asked.

I thought for a moment and decided that I didn’t.

“Okay. Take the screen off the back window and bring it to the hardware store. And keep that back window locked, all right?”

“Got it.” I managed to thread my shoe strap through the buckle and fasten it. I worked on the other one. “Hey, Crawford?”

“Yes?” he said in his comic, deeply serious voice.

“See you soon?”

“You bet.”

I wasn’t sure why he had come around, and so quickly, but I decided not to push it and ask for an explanation. It seemed that we were falling back into our old pattern and I was happy about that. The question was: how long would he be happy?

I thought back to our conversation about WIMP. We’ve had a lot of these types of conversations, and the fact that he still cares enough to hear the details, as ridiculous as most of them are, was a testament to his gentle nature. The idea that Lydia and company could consider him a wife beater was absolutely preposterous but I decided that there was no reason to try to convince them that they were way off the mark. But I would tell Jane that her friend Lydia was a certified nutcase.

I stood up in front of the full-length mirror on my closet door and assessed my appearance: black eye fading? Check. Wrist almost fully mobile? Check. Stockings unsnagged and without runs? Check. Things were looking up. I put on a pair of diamond stud earrings—the remaining material vestige of my marriage—and headed downstairs to let Trixie know that I was on my way out.

She still wasn’t talking to me after last night’s debacle. See, I didn’t think I’d be gone for as long as I was, but then again, I hadn’t counted on being mistaken for a battered woman and being kidnapped. By the time I arrived home, she was beyond manic, pacing back and forth in the guest bedroom where Clark had stowed her after he had broken in and lured her away with a giant bone. I don’t know how she interpreted that to be my fault, but she was cool and distant when I came down to the kitchen and refused to look at me before I left.

“Suit yourself,” I said, leaving money on the counter for the dog walker.

It was another hot and humid day and I prayed that the weather would break before the semester actually began and I had to start teaching. My office was air-conditioned but most of the classrooms where I taught were not. And to top it all off, most of the windows in the nearly one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old building didn’t open so it made for some interesting teaching experiences. Fortunately, today would be spent in my office, my presence at school a mere formality. Classes hadn’t started and I didn’t have any more prospective English majors to interview. I was going to get myself organized for the new semester and make sure I could hit the ground running. Or so I thought.

Dottie was waiting for me with a look on her face that radiated glee. She was happy to report, before I had even fully set foot into the office area, that Dr. Etheridge was looking for me and that I was to see him immediately upon arriving at school. I wanted to smack the smug look off her face but good sense prevailed and I only thanked her for the message and exited the space by her desk as quickly and as gracefully as I could. No reason for her to know that even hearing Etheridge’s name made me break out in a cold and clammy sweat.

Fran Voigt, Etheridge’s gal Friday, was typing at her computer when I arrived on the fourth floor, her back to me. Fran is one of those people with eyes in the back of her head. Without turning around, she said, “Hi, Alison. They’re waiting for you.”

They? Who was “they”? I didn’t have to wait long because I opened the heavy wooden doors leading to Etheridge’s office and was confronted by the president himself, and a short, baby-faced man in a Roman collar and with a thick shock of perfectly coiffed black hair, artfully arranged into a semipompadour. This wasn’t going to be good. I stopped short. “Good morning,” I said.

Etheridge waved me into one of the guest chairs in front of his desk. “Alison, good morning.” He gestured to the priest standing beside the other guest chair. “Let me introduce you to Father Dwyer.”

I shook hands with Dwyer, noticing instantly that he had hands as smooth as a baby’s bottom. This was a guy not accustomed to hard labor, that was certain. “Nice to meet you, Father,” I said, still not sure what the purpose of this meeting was or who this chubby little mystery priest was.

“Likewise, Alison. I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.

Once again, that couldn’t be good.

We sat down in the guest chairs and Etheridge began his spiel. “Alison, I’ve invited you here to meet Father Dwyer because he will be replacing Father McManus as chaplain of the university.”

“You did? He will?” was all I could get out.

“I told Father Dwyer about your special relationship with Father McManus—”

“We’re friends!” I protested, turning to Dwyer. “We’re friends,” I said more calmly. “We’re just good friends,” I threw in for good measure in a whispered tone.

Dwyer nodded at me in probably the same way that he would nod at a patient in a mental hospital who had told him he had just seen the Holy Trinity.

Etheridge stood, indicating the end of the meeting. “I hope you’ll do everything in your power to make Father Dwyer feel at home.”

“Of course I will.” Was he really that concerned that I wouldn’t? Etheridge really did think I was kind of a sociopathic lunatic if he thought I wouldn’t be nice to the new priest. I had a modicum of class. And I was afraid of going to hell.

Father Dwyer smiled serenely. “I’ll be making a few changes to the liturgy in the coming weeks and the faculty will be apprised of what those might be.”

I felt the hair go up on the back of my neck. “Changes?”

Dwyer clasped his hands in front of him. “Small things. Little changes.”

“Like what?” I asked, my smile insincere and frozen on my face.

Dwyer bared his teeth in a facsimile of a smile. “Well, for one, we’ll be having a daily rosary.”

Okay … that didn’t sound terrible. I like the Blessed Virgin as well as the next lapsed Catholic. She’s a mother, something I hoped to be someday before all of my eggs dried up. And the rosary is always a good excuse if you’re putting something off, e.g., I’ll grade these papers after I say the rosary.

“We’ll also be offering a Latin mass once a week. For our more tradition-minded students,” he said.

I couldn’t think of one student I had who would attend a Latin mass but didn’t think now was the right time to offer up that little nugget of information. I looked at Dwyer who seemed like he wanted to add something else, but couldn’t.

He hemmed and hawed for a few seconds, almost prompting me to prod him to “spit it out.” I wisely kept my mouth shut. “We’ll be changing the demographic of the altar-serving population.”

I tried to diagram that sentence in my head but was having a hard time. I managed a “Huh?” instead.

“We’ll be doing away with female altar servers.”

That one was hard to stomach. I looked at Etheridge. “Does Sister Mary know about this?” Mary might be a pain in the ass when it came to being my boss, but she was a feminist of the first order. And the altar-serving program was hers alone; she coordinated the whole thing and used it as a way to reevangelize students, and in particular, female students, who may have become lapsed in their faith. She wasn’t a convent pusher by any stretch of the imagination and I had lived through many convent pushers during my time here at St. Thomas. She just felt strongly that it was a way of involving young women in their faith and in the liturgy. Her program had other aspects but this was a main component. She was a smart cookie and had created a successful model for other Catholic schools in the area.

Etheridge waved his hand toward the door, trying to usher me out, but I wasn’t having any part of it. “Everyone will know soon. We’ll be issuing a release on our new regulations.” He tried to smile but was unsuccessful, something I noticed only happened around me. “So we’re done here.”

I stood. “We’re really not.” I turned to Dwyer. “How can you do that? That can’t be … legal,” I spat out, for lack of a better word.

“Alison,” Etheridge said, from behind me. “We’re done.”

I looked into Dwyer’s beady eyes and decided that there was nothing there that was remotely Christian and turned on my heel to exit. Fran raised her eyes slightly above her monitor and gave me a look that said “I know.”

Before I reached the doors to the hallway, I heard her mutter, “If only my son hadn’t decided on that masters, I’d be outta here already.” St. Thomas grants the students of all employees free tuition for undergraduate and graduate work, so I understood Fran’s conflict.

I stepped out into the hallway, undecided about which way I wanted to turn. If I went right, I could hit Mary’s office and let it all out. But if I went left, I could head straight back to my office, pick up my briefcase and keys, and leave the premises before I did any damage.

I went with option B.