Charisma
sheets. He had laughed out loud when they’d arrived by overnight priority
mail. When pressed, Kevin had confessed to his mother that what he missed
most about home - other than Tuesday night’s corned beef, cabbage and lime
Jello soufflé - was his own bed. Kathleen had run right over to
Bloomie's and spent nearly five hundred dollars on bedding.
Why she
had thought that sheets more luxurious than had ever been seen at the O'Neil
house would remind him of his own bed, Kevin couldn't imagine. He merely
thanked God she hadn't tried to Fed Ex Tuesday night's leftovers as well.
Or a Perfect
Sleeper mattress.
The O’Neil
patriarch hadn’t yet been told about the extravagant purchase. Milo would
find out soon enough. Kevin had chuckled again when he thought about the
storm that would follow the arrival of the VISA bill.
As if Milo’s
bellows could make a dent in the devotion of an Irish mother to her youngest
son.
A son who
would be a priest in four short years.
The cool
satin of the woman's skin warmed against him now and Kevin stretched with
a languor he’d never have managed had he been awake – had the woman in
his small bed been made of real flesh.
Nightly,
he saw her unutterable beauty, reveled in her solid softness, smelled her
scent. She was real enough for a dream.
Was she
a dream lover conjured from fear and doubt about his vocation? Or simply
from need? Kevin didn’t know. He thought he should probably be worried
about the dreams - the unbridled sexuality of them - but he could not seem
to summon the appropriate concern. Not about this. Not about her. She was
too wonderful.
She was
too right.
He could
not bring himself to confess the dreams to Father Otero. Eventually, he
might have to do so, but not yet.
She was
too much his. Kevin would not share her.
And he
sure as hell wouldn’t give her up.
After all,
it wasn’t as if he was actually breaking any vows of celibacy. Or even
as if he had taken any vows of celibacy. They wouldn’t ask that of him
until he was actually a priest. Still, Father Otero wouldn’t approve of
these fleshly imaginings. Not at all.
"Kevin,"
she murmured against his lips. "Now is not the time to be thinking about
that fat old man."
He smiled
before rolling the woman onto her back, nestling her deep into the softness
of the sheets. Of course she knew what he was thinking. She was a creature
of his own invention.
She was
perfection.
"Forgive
me," he said as he found her hidden place, the safest, yet most exciting
place he had ever known. "I forgot myself."
"You haven’t
forgotten yourself yet, love," she laughed. "But you will."
I
"Father
Kevin! Father Kevin, look at me! Father Kevin!"
The slender
black haired man broke off his conversation with Vincent Sarano and shaded
his eyes against the glare of the noonday sun - just in time to see five
year old Melody Marie Theriault's cartwheel wobble, overbalance, and send
her splat onto her back. The priest excused himself from the long-winded
parishioner, set his paper plate down on the grass, and hurried to the
child.
"Sweetheart,"
he said gently. "Are you all right?"
"Yes,"
Melody Marie snuffled, still spread-eagled on the thick lawn. She gazed
up at the man she had known since birth – and scowled.
Kevin frowned
back, not understanding. "What?" he said.
"I did
three good ones before you even looked," she complained. "I only fell 'cause
I got tired."
"I see.
So this little tumble is all my fault then, is it?"
"Uh huh."
"Hmmm.
In that case, Melody Marie, you have my most sincere apologies. Forgive
me. What could I have been thinking? Eating potato salad at a church picnic
when I should been keeping my eye peeled for future Olympic gymnasts?"
"Um," the
child said, now confused herself. Father Kevin was smiling, his blue eyes
crinkly and kind, but she knew what he was saying was just silly. She blinked.
"Are you teasing me, Father?"
"Me?" Kevin's
mouth dropped open and his hand flew to his heart. "Would I do such a thing
to such a one as you?"
A shadow
dropped over the priest and the child. "Melly, are you pestering Father
O'Neil again?"
"Nuh uh,
Mama."
Alvie Theriault
knelt down, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter's brow. "Then for
heaven's sake, sit up. We've been watching you turn your cartwheels from
over there." She pointed to a large oak tree which shaded a plastic lounge
chair and the middle aged woman seated in it. Mrs. Duffy waved cheerily.
"And you know perfectly well you aren't hurt."
A younger
woman sat in the grass near the lounge chair. She didn't wave, but she
did smile, dipping a forefinger into her paper cup of lemonade and brushing
the cool dampness of it across her lips. She was a stranger to Kevin. The
parish was large, to be sure, but, although she had the flavor of familiarity,
he was sure they had not met. A visiting daughter or niece, he thought.
Alvie tilted
her head to address Kevin. "Melly really is fine, Father. She's been practicing
and falling like this all week long and we haven't seen so much as a bruise
or a scrape on her."
"She's
not a pest at all," Kevin said. "Are you, MM?" He rose and helped the little
girl to her feet.
"Nope.
Not a pest, Mama."
"Did you
remember to ask Father O'Neil to dinner on Thursday?"
Melody
Marie looked up at the clear sky, squinting against the sun. "Ya…um…" she
began.
Kevin bent
down to whisper in the child's ear. "Forgetting is better than fibbing,
MM."
"Kay,"
she whispered back. She re-directed her eyes to her mother's face. "I was
gonna remember, but then I fell down and then I didn't."
Alvie suppressed
her amusement. "I see."
"Sorry,
Mama."
"Nevermind,
Melly. You can ask him now."
Once dinner
arrangements had been made, Kevin took his leave of the Theriault women
and slowly meandered through friends and parishioners back to his abandoned
plate.
It was
no longer there. But then, neither was Vinnie Sarano. Father O'Neil rolled
his eyes heavenward. "Thanks. I appreciate the intervention," he murmured.
"Not to mention the dinner invitation."
His gaze
shifted to the lovely young woman who was still sitting in the grass near
Moira Duffy. Alvie and a few other young mothers had joined the group.
They chatted with zest and good humor. It was a lovely spring day, a perfect
day for Our Lady of the Palms' annual picnic on the lawn. It was a day
for forgetting all the little niggling troubles, a day for which to be
profoundly grateful. It was a day which the Lord had made.
Father
Kevin O'Neil turned his attention to the massive array of Tupper- and Corningware
set out on six redwood tables. His potato salad was gone for good, but
there were at least twelve more gallons of it to be had. And perhaps one
of the ladies had thought to bring lime Jell-O soufflé. In the fifteen
years he had spent at Our Lady, not one of them had ever done so before.
Still, it might be worth investigating. He ran a few steps to catch up
with a couple of teenage boys who were already headed to the tables for
seconds – or possibly thirds.
He did
not see the lovely young woman watch him go.
I – A
The boys
veered off in the direction of the dessert tables while the priest maintained
a steady course for the region of the heavy side dish.
He was
peering intently into a large plastic container. It hadn't been on the
table when he'd made his previous visit. The salad seemed to consist of
the requisite potatoes and yellowish sauce, but there were also unidentifiable
flecks of red, purple, and black tossed into the mixture.
"Not that
one, Father," a voice hissed in his ear.
Kevin spun
round, narrowly avoiding a solid head clunk with Emma Baggerly the sixty-something
widow who had been his administrative assistant for over a decade. She
was a tiny woman with a thickening middle and hair that must have been
fiery red in her youth. These days, she kept her hair cut very short and
the flame had been tempered by streaks of white. Physically, Emma was completely
unlike Kevin's statuesque, raven-haired mother. Temperamentally, they might
have been twins.
"No?" Kevin
asked.
She frowned
and gave her head a small shake. "Erin Smith made that one," she said quietly
– as if that would explain everything.
"And?"
"Not enough
salt. Too much mustard. The potatoes are undercooked."
"Oh."
"And no
one has ever been able to figure out what the purple stuff is."
"Not cabbage?"
"Definitely
not."
Kevin leaned
toward her, matching Emma's conspiratorial tone. "Why don't you ask her
what the purple stuff is?"
"She says
it's her grandmother's secret recipe." Emma lifted an eyebrow. "And that's
all she'll say."
"Thanks
for the tip." He turned to resume his salad survey. "So which one do you
recommend?
"Actually,
Father," Emma said in her normal voice. "I can't recommend any of them
to you."
"Oh? Oh.
Really." Kevin knew what was coming next. They'd been down the cholesterol
road before.
"Really.
All that starch and mayonnaise isn't good for your heart."
"My heart
is fine, Emma."
"Why don't
you try some of the three bean salad I brought? It's right over there."
She pointed to an enormous green plastic bowl. "It's fat free and the beans
came from my own back garden. I picked them fresh this morning."
"Emma,"
Kevin said, lifting his chin in gentle warning. "I already have a mother."
She looked
sharply up into his eyes, which were more than ten inches above hers. "So?
I already have a child, but neither of them happens to be within two hundred
miles of this parish."
The compromise
consisted of three level tablespoons of Loretta Comden's potato salad (made
with light sour cream and chunks of raw vegetable) and half a plateful
of Emma's beans.
The tall,
slender priest and his less tall, less slender assistant ambled companionably
in the direction of an unoccupied redwood bench. "Speaking of grandmothers,"
Emma began.
"What?"
Kevin said around a mouthful of beans. "Were we speaking of grandmothers?"
She paused
and gave him a speculative look. "Ginko Biloba," she said.
"What?"
"I'll bring
you some on Monday morning. It'll do wonders for your memory."
She waited
for him to challenge her again.
"And speaking
of grandmothers?"
"Oh! Oh
yes." Emma brushed away a few stray blades of dried grass and sat down
on the bench. "You remember my Alice, of course."
"Isn't
she the one I married to a computer genius a few years back? Your only
child? The one that moved to Seattle right after the wedding? Sure, I remember
her." A corner of his mouth twitched. "Even without the Ginko."
Emma chuffed.
"If you're all finished being ironic, I can tell you that Alice and Martin
have finally been blessed."
The smile
that broke open Kevin's face was one of those heart melting ones, a smile
that was honest, uncomplicated and somehow managed to convey a sense of
strength and vulnerability at the same time. He was completely unaware
of the effect it had on the beholder.
"That's
wonderful news, Emma, for them and - for you." Still holding his heaping
plate of low-cal beans, Kevin gave the woman a brief, but enthusiastic
one-armed hug. "When's the baby due?"
"Late November
is what she says."
"Give me
her address on Monday. I'd like to write my congratulations."
II
"The body
of…" The priest before the altar bent his head to the golden chalice to
pick up the Host, moving down the line of communicants at the same time.
It was God's business as usual until the blessing rolled over and died
in his throat.
Her scent
reached past his immortal soul and nudged his more basic - more Earthly
– self.
It was
a dusky, essential, female fragrance and Kevin remembered it as well as
he remembered his own shoe size. At the moment, he might be a little rocky
as to anything less tangible, including his lifelong love affair with God.
But that
scent – her scent… After nearly twenty years, he still knew it. It still
drew him.
Of course,
this was impossible. Dream lovers do not make dramatic comebacks in the
middle of Holy Communion. What this was was a synapse misfire in his brain
or an hallucination or … Kevin could not imagine why carnal sense-memory
would be the Will Of God, but there were always those Mysterious Ways to
consider.
He stared
fixedly into the Golden Chalice. He did not want to look up. He certainly
didn't want to identify the owner of the evocative emanation. Even if the
scent were imaginary, the woman was not. What would be good, what would
be easy, would be to keep his head down, dispense the wafer and the blessing,
and move it along.
Unfortunately,
what would be good might not be best.
Kevin looked
up.
Before
him stood the woman who had haunted - had delighted - his nights so many
years ago. More than that, she was the woman he had noticed and failed
to recognize across the lawn just yesterday. She gave Kevin a strange little
half-smile, turned away, and walked slowly back up the aisle. Apparently,
she hadn't been at all interested in the body of Christ.
III
"Please
let him know that Kevin O'Neil called. He has my number."
Kevin thanked
the teenager at the other end of the phone line and disconnected. Early
in his career, he had realized that Father Otero's habit of hiring two
or three high school juniors and seniors to answer phones, type letters
and maintain his schedule would not be the wisest course of action at Our
Lady of the Palms. Unfortunately, it had taken a tearful reproach from
a concerned member of the congregation followed soon after by a light smack
upside the head from Bridget O'Neil Cook to drive the realization home.
"You're
too handsome by half, you dimwit!" his older sister had told him. "I don't
know what the good Lord was thinking about - wasting all those black curls
and baby blues on a priest when I could have put them to far better use."
"You got
all the brains," he'd said, grinning broadly.
"Apparently!
Did it really never occur to you that one or two of those little girls
working closely with you would begin to moon over the new priest?"
"Of course
it didn't. Why would it?"
Bridget
shook her head of perfectly acceptable chestnut hair. "Oh, Kevin!" she
laughed, "You're hopeless."
Now, although
no longer quite so young, darkly handsome, or in danger of inspiring close
proximity puppy love and the subsequent parish gossip as he had once been,
Kevin continued to rely on Emma Baggerly to run Our Lady's office. On top
of being assertive and impertinent, Emma was bright, energetic, hostile
toward the new computer system, and unflaggingly loyal. They were comfortable
and worked well together. And she certainly didn't have a crush on him.
An unopened
and slightly dusty bottle of Jameson 1780 Old Irish Whiskey stood on the
lowest shelf of the bookcase to the left of his desk. It had been a gift
from John and Moira Duffy, something he really should take home one of
these days. Kevin swiveled in his chair and reached for the bottle. He
had no objection to strong drink. Indeed, he had told the Duffys that a
truly good Irish might be one of God's more inspired gifts.
Still,
having a solitary tipple in the church office was not a great idea. Someone
could walk into his office. Emma would smell it on his breath. And anyway,
now would be a particularly bad time to muddy his thinking, even for the
medicinal purpose of de-fraying a nerve or two.
And it
was only ten in the morning, after all.
Sighing,
Kevin brushed the dust from the bottle and was returning it to the shelf
when the telephone rang.
"Father
O'Neil," he said into the receiver.
"Kevin,
this is Rudy Otero. Is everything all right?"
"That was
fast, Rudy. I just hung up the phone."
A plumy
chuckle ran down the phone line. "The girls conspired to give me a pager
a few months back. They insist I keep up with the times."
Hearing
the lightly accented, kindly voice of his former instructor, Kevin felt
a knot at the base of his skull begin to relax. He hadn't realized it was
there. "Do they now?" he said.
"Moreover,
they insist on seeing it clipped to my belt whenever I leave the office."
Kevin smiled.
"It sounds like you've mellowed, Rudy. The seminary instructor I used to
know would never have let three teenage girls push him around."
"Mellow?
Perhaps. Forgetful, certainly. The truth is, I am glad to have the contraption.
Somebody beeps me whenever I am supposed to be somewhere or meet someone."
The older priest laughed. "It is wonderful. I hardly have to think at all
anymore." He paused and went on in a different tone. "Now tell me what
is wrong, Kevin. Maria Pillar says you sounded odd when you spoke to her.
That is why she beeped me. Usually, only telephone messages from the Bishop
are given such exalted consideration. You must have caused her great concern."
Closing
his eyes, Kevin put his elbows on the desk and leaned into the palm of
his hand. "Do you remember the dreams I told you about? The ones I had
nearly every night for the first three years I was in seminary?"
"Certainly
I do. What is it, son? Have they begun again?"
It was
a moment before Kevin could respond. "I think I need to see you, Father."
"I shall
be there in an hour."
No questions
asked. No explanations required. Kevin thanked God for Rudolpho Otero.
"Come to
the rectory," he said. "That'll be best. I'm headed there now"
"All right,
Kevin. I will not be long."
In the
outer office, Emma made a little coughing sound as Kevin rounded her desk.
He paused, composing himself, before he turned to smile at her.
"Where
are you going, Father?"
"Home,"
he said briefly, hoping to make a swift escape.
"Home?
But you just got in!" Emma sat back in her chair and gave her priest a
quick visual once over. "You aren't coming down with something, are you?"
she asked, frowning equal parts concern and accusation. "I heard you left
the Theriault's before dinner was even served last night."
Kevin sighed.
Of course Emma had heard. The news of his abrupt and poorly excused departure
might easily be all over the parish by now. The anxiety he'd felt earlier
tightened his chest and made him feel impatient - as though he were moving
just a few ticks faster than the rest of the world. He took a deep breath
and tried to shake it off.
"Alvie
phoned me this morning," she went on. "She said you were looking very pale
when you left."
"I'm fine,
Emma. Really. I have a meeting with Father Otero in an hour."
"I see."
"We're
less likely to be interrupted at the rectory."
"All right."
"If anyone
asks," he said, attempting lofty good humor through the anxiety blur, "please
feel free to report my excellent health."
"All right."
She waited,
patiently maternal. Emma would not ask directly about the Theriault dinner.
She knew that he knew that she wanted to know, but inquiring into his health
was as far as she would go. Father Kevin was her priest. He was her employer.
His personal business was his own and she wouldn't intrude on his privacy.
Either he would explain or he wouldn't.
With a
parting smile, Kevin turned toward the exit.
"Father
O'Neil," she said. "Before you go, there's another matter… You said you
have an hour before your meeting, didn't you?"
This conversation
would not be a secretarial reminder or nutritional advice. Something was
up. Emma never called Kevin 'Father O'Neil unless she was out of temper
with him or something was up. He'd seen Emma's angry face often enough
and this face wasn't that face.
"Sure,
I have a little time. Do I need to sit down for this?" he asked lightly.
"You might."
The outer
office was provided with four heavy oak captain's chairs. Kevin dragged
one of them closer to the large secretary desk and sank down into it.
"Shoot,"
he said mildly.
"Would
you like some coffee, Father?"
"No," he
said. "Would you?"
"Uh," Emma
said.
Cut-to-the-chase
Emma was stumbling. Something very bad indeed might be up. Kevin tamped
his own disquiet down in favor of Emma's. He rose and, with deliberate
slowness, crossed the room to the coffee credenza. He poured out two cups
of the half-caff coffee Emma insisted upon, stirring a blue packet of powder
into one and leaving the other black.
He placed
the sweetened coffee in front of her and reclaimed his hard chair. "Shoot,"
he said again.
"It's my
daughter Alice."
Kevin shifted
forward in his chair and reached for Emma's hand. "The baby's all right,
isn't it?"
"Oh!" she
gasped. "Oh yes, Father. As far as we know the baby's fine." With her free
hand, Emma gave the priest's hand a light pat before gently pulling away.
She picked up a mechanical pencil and fiddled with the lead. "But she needs
me, Father."
"I see."
"You know
she married late – she was thirty-six."
"I remember."
"Alice
is forty now and she's already had two miscarriages. The doctor wants her
to stay in bed for the rest of the pregnancy." Emma put down the pencil
and looked into Kevin's eyes. "She needs me. And…"
"And you
want to go. Is that it?"
"Yes, Father.
I love my work here, but my house is empty. I'm tired of being alone."
"Emma,
if you want to go, then you should go."
"But Father…"
"You mustn't
stay here for a job. Not if it means missing out on your life."
She looked
at him through narrowed eyes. "You're taking this too well. Why is that?"
Unhurriedly,
still trying to get back in sync with the rest of the world, Kevin tasted
his coffee. Apparently, he was putting up a better front than he'd imagined.
The truth was Emma shouldn’t go at all. There was far too much going on.
Far too much that he didn't understand. At the moment, Emma was one of
the few threads by which Kevin was frantically hanging on.
"What you're
seeing is just relief. I thought you were going to tell me that someone
was dying or ill." Kevin sipped again from his cup. "Compared to that,
being abandoned doesn't seem so bad."
"Abandoned!
Oh for heaven's sake!" Emma picked up the stapler, opened it, and inspected
its contents.
"I haven't
even begun to think how we'll get along without you."
"I have,"
she said.
"Oh?"
"And I've
got the perfect replacement."
IV
She listened
as the phone at the other end of the line rang four times followed by the
click of the answering machine.
"This is
Father O'Neil," it told her. "Please leave a message after the beep."
"You left
so early last night," she said in a low and intimate tone. "We hardly got
a chance to talk at all. I've missed you so much, my love. Haven't you
missed me the least little bit?" She laughed softly into the receiver.
"I won't leave you a number now, but I'll call again and see if I can find
you in next time. Maybe we can see each other again soon. 'Bye for now,
Kevin."
The lovely
young woman hung up the telephone and turned to gaze out the window of
Kevin's church office. "This really is a nice view," she said aloud. "Such
a shame to have to give it up."
