My Very Best Friend

by Cathy Lamb

  Toran walked in my door that night, work boots on, and stopped.

  My legs were shaking. I had chosen the red negligee with lace and garters, and the heels with the fluffy furry thing. I knew I would hardly be able to walk with those suckers on, so I stood still.

  “Hello, Toran.”

  He didn’t speak for a second, but he did slam the door behind him. His eyes traveled all over, up and down and to the side. I stuck a hip out and put my hand on it. I think I stuck it out too far, as my back briefly cramped.

  “This is a surprise,” he said, eyes wide. “The best surprise. You are . . .” He waved a hand. “You are . . .” He shook his head, his voice rough, low. “Charlotte . . .”

  I was still shaking as he strode up like one of the chivalrous men in my books, wrapped those long arms around me, and pulled me to that muscled chest. He bent his head and kissed me, and that kiss was a long one. The long one went into another long one, and a longer one after that, and we ended up on my couch, limbs all entangled and panting.

  He knew how to get that piece of red silk off me.

  Damn, I thought later, laughing to myself. He was quick.

  Afterward, Scottish Warrior grabbed a blanket to put over us, kissed me, and we took a nap.

  I am a fan of naps. Catnaps. Even Silver Cat was napping.

  I woke up from my catnap on top of Toran and gave him a kiss on his cheek. The cheek on his face, not the cheek on his buttocks.

  “You have beautiful eyes that follow me around every day, Char. I can hardly concentrate on my work at all anymore.”

  “I couldn’t concentrate on my work before I came back to Scotland, and now I can’t concentrate at all.” I thought about that. “I think concentrating is overrated.”

  He laughed. “Ah, me too.” He kissed me slow and easy, then ran his hands up, and down, and up, and down, all over my body. “I liked the lacy stuff. It was . . .” He made a groaning, happy sound.

  “It was?”

  “Sexy. Like you, Charlotte. The second I saw you, when you arrived from the States, I thought, ‘That is one sexy woman.’”

  “You’re joking.” I thought of my hair, my broken glasses, and my clothes.

  His brows came together. “No. Why would I joke about that?”

  “I wasn’t sexy.”

  “Oh yes, honey. You have always been sexy. Put that red . . . whatever you call it . . . back on. I want to see you.”

  “That contraption is rather tricky.” He helped me. I tried to walk in the heels. That went poorly. Toran caught me on the way down.

  It was Japanese night, so I made hibachi steak, shrimp, and fried rice in the red lingerie and my cheetah flats, to feel animalistic. No need to break an ankle.

  We didn’t make it to dessert immediately, which was peppermint creams dipped in chocolate. We ate them in bed later. He ate two creams off my breasts. I ate one off his missile. The missile took off again.

  “Magic Four Power, begin!” King Toran, Queen Bridget, King Pherson, and I, Queen Charlotte, put our fists in a circle, then spun around. When we were done spinning we were new and improved children, superhero royalty!

  Our goal: rescue three children who had been captured by a towering, English-speaking scorpion who ate children for dinner. We ran down to the ocean and threw rocks at him, then sprinted up the beach and into the hills, where we fought him with swinging tree branches and our mighty fists.

  King Toran and I climbed a tree. He pulled me up with one hand and made sure I wouldn’t fall off while he yelled, “Victory to us all!”

  I thought he was so cool. So handsome.

  “Victory to us all!” I shouted back. When I wavered on my branch in the tree, Toran stabilized me again and said, “Now, don’t fall off, Queen Charlotte.”

  “Okay, King Toran. I won’t.”

  And I didn’t fall off. But that’s because his hand was there, making sure that I didn’t.

  Dear Charlotte,

  It was delightful to see you in the village on Thursday. Thank you for offering to bring me one of your butterfly bushes. It will be a complementary foil to my pink valerian and my cuckoo flowers.

  Sincerely yours,

  Chief Constable Ben Harris

  A friend of your parents, may the bagpipes of heaven surround the soul of your father, my friend.

  PS Gitanjali and I had a splendid dinner at my house, in the garden, two nights ago. We sat under the clematis vine, next to a new barrel of petunias I planted, pinks and magentas. I bought ravioli, spaghetti, lasagna, and manicotti from Luigi’s. She said she might like Italian food, so I wanted to give her a sampling. I do believe she liked it.

  She was thrilled with the elephant tea set, and I received a kiss on the cheek.

  She has consented to have another dinner with me. She did insist on making it. I don’t want to trouble her, but I must say I am delighted.

  Thank you, Charlotte, for putting in a good word for me.

  Toran and I talked about Bridget. We worried about her. When Toran had first told me he didn’t know where she was, I had paid a Swiss detective for three weeks to search in Europe. He couldn’t find her. He was apologetic, offered to give half the money back. I declined. I had gotten his report and I knew he’d tried. He even worked four days longer than I’d paid him.

  “She may be living under another name or under a bridge. I was able to trace a few trails, even found that she’d been in and out of two hospitals, one in London, one in Paris, but nothing came of it. . . .”

  I knew Bridget was never far from Toran’s mind. He himself made a trip for three days, in the midst of so much work on his farm, the apples needing shipping and delivering, and found no trace of her.

  “God in heaven, Charlotte, I hope that Bridget is not dead.”

  I hugged him. I hoped she wasn’t, either.

  Dear St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group,

  We continue to talk and talk and talk until my head splits about what to do for this blasted fund-raiser, and we have not even decided on who, or what, should get the money yet, not that we’ve had impressive financial results in the past, anyhow.

  But I think the answer is simple: we should sell marijuana plants.

  We can do it in my barn next to the pigs with grow lights, or we can use my greenhouse. We’ll make a fortune.

  Olive Oliver

  Remember, sign your name to this letter, then pass it around to the rest of the ladies. Rowena, try not to spill so much wine this time.

  To the ladies of Garden Gobbling Groupies,

  I agree with Olive. We should sell marijuana plants.

  How illegal is it really, when one gets down to it?

  I would like a joint. The Arse told the children that I had broken up our marriage because I was grumpy. He neglected to mention that he was bedding The Slut for a year before I knew anything. The Slut dropped by yesterday with one of the kid’s coats and told me I needed to “give it a go and get over it,” and “quit being vindictive,” and “let them (The Arse and The Slut) be happy in their newfound love,” and I was a “bitter and unhappy witch.”

  I threw a ceramic toad at her. It broke. Missed its target. So fun to watch her run with those fake boobs, so I threw a second toad at her.

  I do think a joint would help me calm down, and I will be our first customer.

  I sold ten of my Scottish rock necklaces to Kacie’s boutique. They all sold. She has ordered twenty-five more. I am in business.

  Rowena

  To Garden Gabbling Gob Women,

  Is this a joke that I am not in on? We’re not seriously thinking of selling marijuana for the fund-raiser.

  We can’t. We’ll be arrested. We’ll be fined, have to go to court, maybe jail. Intent to distribute, possession, that sort of thing. No one is going to do well here in jail, especially Lorna. Everyone will hate her. (When you sign this note, do not send it to Lorna.)

  No to pot. I’ll lose my job, and I like using surgical tools on peop
le’s bodies, cutting them open, taking things out, trying not to get sprayed with blood. The human body is an endless thrill for me.

  And for heaven’s sake, Gitanjali is dating Chief Constable Ben Harris. She can’t grow pot.

  Perhaps we can sell our husbands? You know, like they do in the movies? Put your husband up in a kilt on stage and see if someone will buy him. No peeking up the kilt unless you buy him.

  Kenna

  Ladys,

  Marijuana is herb. I read on it. Now I know this. I growing herbs. I be part of marijuana grow. I put in soups.

  With peace and love,

  Gitanjali

  Ladies,

  Perhaps we should sell poppies instead. Pretty, and not illegal unless one makes them into opiates. This is a complicated process and we might have to work with frightening killers, so I would vote no on manufacturing and distribution and yes on selling the poppies as is.

  Charlotte

  I truly had no idea what to sell for a fund-raiser. This isn’t my field.

  13

  ST. AMBROSE DAILY NEWS

  FIFTEENTH ANNIVERSARY

  OF MISSING PRIEST

  Part Three

  By Carston Chit, Reporter

  The disappearance of Father Angus Cruickshank from St. Cecilia’s Catholic School for Girls more than fifteen years ago, on Wednesday, May 14, 1975, has always been a mystery.

  The murder theories continue to abound.

  When I first started researching this topic I asked myself, “Who would want to murder Father Cruickshank?”

  The question later became, “Who wouldn’t?”

  Yes, there were many people who might have taken aim.

  Who, you ask?

  And why?

  Ah, that.

  First you need to know of Father Cruickshank’s upbringing.

  Angus Cruickshank had a difficult childhood. He was born in County Cork, Ireland, to a single mother who had a series of boyfriends.

  In fact, it was rumored that his mother was a prostitute, at least some of the time. There was no known father, and no other siblings, though Cruickshank repeatedly mentioned visiting a brother when he periodically left St. Cecilia’s for vacations.

  Cruickshank was tall, and hardy, which came in handy when he had to defend himself. By the time he was twelve, he had been arrested for stabbing one of his mother’s “friends.”

  When he was thirteen he was arrested for beating another one of his mother’s “friends” until the man was a bloody pulp.

  In talking to a number of people in County Cork, who knew him as a boy, the responses all seemed to follow the same theme.

  A local grocer, Boyd McDonagh, who employed Angus, said he was a “hard worker, but his head turned round at the girls, and the girls did not return the lad’s affection. It infuriated him, damn popped him, that it did.”

  A teacher, Caileen O’Coughlin, remembers him as a boy with a temper. “He had a quick switch, my Lord he did. He could be polite as could be, don’t you know it, then he would fly into a rage. That’s why he was expelled.”

  Darker stories persist. Two women spoke to me about their experience with Father Cruickshank.

  They told the same story. When Father Cruickshank was no more than eighteen, he cornered all of them and molested them.

  One woman, who wanted only her first name, Keela, used, for fear of Father Cruickshank locating her again, said, “I still have me nightmares. I was thirteen, my wee back against a brick wall and he shoved himself inside of me, then put his hand around me neck and squeezed and said if I told, he would kill me and me brother. You see? How I’m sweating now? I am still afraid of him.”

  Another woman, Riona, who also refused to allow her last name in print, said that Father Cruickshank used to wait until school got out, then he would chase her to her home. Once he pulled her into an alley, another time to a park. “When my father found out, he beat the living tar out of Angus. He didn’t bother me after that. He went after my poor friend, Gwen. Gwen killed herself about three years after that, poor thing. I still feel it was my fault.”

  There are unconfirmed rumors that he strangled two women, both still unaccounted for and both of whom had rejected his advances. At some point, Father Timothy Borho, of County Cork, took the young Cruickshank under his wing.

  Cruickshank was distraught at his mother’s death, of pneumonia, according to her sisters. He was twenty-two. He then entered the priesthood at the encouragement of Father Borho.

  “He never should have become a priest,” Riona said. “Obviously the Vatican didn’t do its job.”

  There are other reasons to believe that the Vatican did not do their job.

  We’ll cover that in Part Four.

  After I read the article, I picked up Bridget’s letters again.

  September sometime in 1973

  Dear Charlotte,

  Six months.

  That’s how long they kept me in the crazy insane asylum for crazy people. I was not crazy going in, but I think I am crazy now. I cry all the time and I can’t think and all these pills they make me take. Pills and pills. Screaming fighting throwing punching wall people.

  My parents came to get me.

  I ignored them even though they both looked old and tired and pale. We left and I did not speak to them. They made me come home and I am not even Bridget anymore.

  My father said to me, “I hope you can live a more Godly, virtuous life now, Bridget. I’ve been praying for you and when we’re home we will pray together until you understand what redemption means. You will be at home with us as we cannot trust you to keep your skirt down around boys. You will do penance and spend your time in prayer, reading the Bible to purify your soul and mind. Your virginity is gone, you will be worthless goods to most men, but we’ll hope one day a man can look past this mockery of our faith and our church.”

  My mother said, “I love you.”

  I didn’t answer them. If my mom loved me she wouldn’t have taken away my baby my baby my baby and sent me to the crazy insane crazy asylum. I turned around and screamed. My father hit me in the face and told me to shut up or he would take me right back into the crazy asylum crazy insane.

  When we got home, I went straight to my room. All that money that my mother’s parents gave me for my birthday? I took it. I left that night when they were asleep.

  I will miss Toran. I love him. I called him before I left. He didn’t know what had happened. He was at university, and in the summer my parents said I was still with the nuns learning how to be a nun. He knew they were lying to him. He said what happened what happened where are you. I couldn’t tell him, though. I’m dirty. Slut. Bad. No baby.

  I hate my parents. They took my baby my baby my baby. They locked me in an insane asylum crazy because a priest said I was crazy. I will never see them again. They will never be able to do that to me again.

  I want my daughter. I will go to Our Lady of Peace, A Home for Unwed Mothers first and ask who has her and go and get her back. I did not say they could take her. Never. My baby is my baby.

  Love,

  Bridget

  Still in September in 1973. A bad time.

  Dear Charlotte,

  I took a bus to Our Lady of Peace but the nuns said they didn’t know who took my daughter. I told them give me the papers give me the papers give me the papers and they said that Father Cruickshank had taken some of the paperwork. I cried and cried and they held me and said, “Poor dear, poor dear.”

  I went to St. Cecilia’s to see Father Cruickshank and make him tell me. Sister Margaret asked me if Father Cruickshank had raped me and was he the father of the baby, and I said yes. She hugged me and said she was sorry sorry sorry. She said she was trying to get him punished, that there were other girls, that she was trying to get the police involved, but the police were not cooperating and neither was the Vatican.

  She said he had been in Belfast before his placement at St. Cecilia’s, and she had called a nun up there, a friend
, and they had had problems with him, too, at another girls school. He had been in Limerick before that. Problems there, too. The nuns in both places had reported him to the church, but nothing was done. Nothing was done. Nothing.

  I asked her where my daughter went and she said she didn’t know. She said that a lot of their own paperwork was missing. She thinks that Father Cruickshank burned it. He was not there when I was there. He was visiting his brother.

  Sister Margaret said that my parents called and asked if I was there and another nun, not Sister Margaret, said yes, and my father was coming. Sister Margaret gave me some money and she drove me to the bus stop to get away. She said, “I’m so sorry, Bridget. I’m sorry. God bless you, child.”

  I am leaving. I hate my father. I hate my mother. I hate Father Cruickshank. My parents would never believe me if I said Father Cruickshank did it. Pound. Rip. Blood.

  No one will. Then he would kill Toran.

  My father thinks I’m a whore. He said that, “whore.”

  Gone. I am gone.

  I saw Father Cruickshank’s silver cat. I hope it still bites him.

  Love,

  Bridget

  November 20 or 24, 1973

  Dear Charlotte,

  I am in Edinburgh. There are babies in strollers with blue eyes and they could be my baby. I cry all the time. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t have anywhere to sleep, and I have no money for food. I know I look homeless but that is because I am.

  I saw a man who was fat like my father and I hated him. He walked by me when I was leaning against a wall and then he walked back and said are you okay and I said I am and he said you don’t look okay and he went away and came back with pasta and I ate it and I said he reminded me of my father who took the baby from me and he said he was sorry and I said it’s okay and I ate the pasta.