The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2)

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Jessica carefully tore the times and places from the paper. As an afterthought, she decided to take the Bishop’s picture, too. Before she folded it up, she looked long and hard at his face, searching for the truth of Tim’s words. She expected to feel a connection, in the same way she expected to feel the soles of her feet take root when walking around the shores of Lough Neagh. Feeling nothing did not mean there was nothing to feel. Only that she didn’t have a way to decipher it. She shoved the clippings into her pocket and produced the “Women Helping Women” sheet of phone numbers.

  She walked inside and stood at the counter with its assortment of candy bars and gum, shuffled her feet and cleared her throat to gain attention. She bit her lip and gathered nerve.

  The oily-faced clerk shifted his heft. “Yeah?”

  Lifting her chin slightly, she looked him in the eye and asked, “Mind if I make a call?”

  BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND

  “YOU’D BEST PUT yourself in the emergency shelter for the night, and we can find a better solution for you in the morning.” A woman dominated by a mass of wild red hair spoke the words in a soft voice made forever hoarse by a broken larynx. Her diminutive frame made her look more like a child than a woman in her mid-thirties. She wore a faded yellow t-shirt, green skirt, and oversized hoop earrings and a nametag proclaiming her as “Thea.” “I’m glad you called when you did. The A8 by Newtownabbey gets awful jammed. We were lucky to make it back into the city before the thick of the traffic started.”

  Jessica stared at the walls of the room, wondering how many women had sought its shelter. A poster of a woman with a heart-shaped bruise around her eye proclaimed, “Love should not hurt.” Another admonished, “Stand up. Stand out. End abuse.” She shifted the ice pack off her cheek and ran a finger along the crusted bruise. A television was on in the corner, tuned to a local news show. A radio could be heard playing soft music in another room. Tables and chairs held scattered magazines and newspapers.

  She felt self-conscious and horrible sitting in that office, having a flock of women with worried and understanding expressions tend to her. They had provided her with the ride she needed, and that was all she wanted from them. They asked her a barrage of questions, and she gave only a mute stare in response, respecting them more than to give a phony name and address. The rules of running and staying hidden in a foreign country were different, and there were few safe moves. Hiding her American accent was one. They took her silence as trauma, but the mention of spending a night in a shelter brought her to attention.

  “Shelter? What kind? Where?”

  The staff women exchanged glances, happy that she was finally talking. “It’s the Central Shelter. You’ll only be there long enough for them to find you a place in a women’s home. Might be a night. But being a weekend, I’m thinking it’d be two. Most places have a room freed up on Mondays.” She gave a huge smile, trying to exude reassurance and making spending the night in a homeless shelter sound like a class trip. The other women milled around, anxious and expectant, wordlessly begging Jessica to fold into their waiting arms.

  “No.”

  “You’re safe,” she pressed. “The facilities are very clean and very secure. There’s nothing to concern yourself with. You’ll go, have a meal, and a room to yourself. Someone will help you with the process of finding aid. Men and women are strictly separated. You’ll be quite safe.”

  “I’m not going.” The women had no way to know that what Jessica feared was not an abusive husband or a boyfriend. Her memories were still fresh of being found in a shelter in Boston where the Charity was a presence, where its network thrived on greased palms and satiated addictions. Michael would remember what tricks she used in the past to evade detection and would no doubt have the shelters covered. Discovery was only a matter of time before one of his people walked through the front door of “Women Helping Women” and saw her sitting there.

  Thea pulled her chair up beside Jessica. “You can’t go back to him. You both need time to sort things out.” She pursed her lips and hesitated, groping for the right words. “He’s done this before, and he’ll do it again unless he gets help.” She gently touched her own chest in the same area where Jessica’s open shirt exposed the fading bruise. “I’ve been there,” she rasped. “You’ve taken the first step. You’re stronger than you think you are.”

  Before she could stop herself, Jessica scoffed and squinted her eyes shut before she rolled them. Thea had no idea who Jessica was and her words sounded more like platitudes rather than inspiration. Jessica could not say yes or be enveloped in their care because to do so put them at risk as well. They provided a safe ride to Belfast. She’ll repay them with a hefty donation. Anonymously. But she would not stay.

  “You called us, no one else. That’s tellin’ me you want things to change.”

  Jessica responded, infusing her words with a brogue, careful to sound less American, not fake Irish. “I’m sorry. I cannot. Too many people there. Too much in and out.”

  Thea nodded slowly as she received silent urging from the other women. “We have another bed available. The facility is very safe, but doesn’t have all the amenities you might like. The setup is more dormitory style. Bath is shared. No kitchen to speak of. The woman who’s there now is one of our aid volunteers. You’d only need to lay you head. The room’s not grand, but comfortable.”

  Jessica looked around the offices of mismatched furniture and worn rugs occupied by women who could only heal if she allowed them to help. “Any television or radio?”

  Thea grimaced and shook her head. “No. ‘Fraid not. We’ll give you a couple of books to keep you happy ‘til Monday morning, though.”

  “I like that better.”

  “And we come ‘round to fetch you bright and early before anyone else arrives.”

  “Arrives?”

  “Yes. The shelter is in a church. The first service is at nine. We’ll get you at eight if you don’t wish to attend mass and bring you back here while we sort things out. We don’t usually place people there, but if it’s between that and going back to him, I’d like to see you take the bed.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m very nervous around people. Do you have another place?”

  “I’m afraid not on such short notice. The sleeping quarters are quite separate from the sanctuary where the services are held. That section of the cathedral’s not open to the public.”

  She stared at a spot on the floor. “Cathedral? Which one?”

  “The basement of Saint Peter’s Cathedral on the edge of the Catholic district.”

  Jessica raised her head and searched their faces for any guile. All she saw were wringing hands and worried brows. “Okay. Sounds perfect.”

  SAINT PETER’S CATHEDRAL

  THE RECEPTION IN the community hall at the cathedral was exactly what one would expect for the retirement of a beloved priest. Parishioners of all shapes and sizes wandered about the large room while the usual battalion of volunteers—ample bosoms behind flowered aprons—replenished and prepped the trays of food brought in by willing hands. Women moved about with familiarity and ease while most of the men stood stiffly to the side, uncertain of how to behave so close to God’s house and wishing they had a nip before leaving their flats. Other men, elbows of jackets shiny with wear, counted the chairs set at tables and determined if tonight’s party needed more.

  A steady stream of generations lined up at the buffet tables, steaming with potluck favorites. Grandmothers clucked and cooed over children dressed in their Sunday bests. Great-grandfathers pecked their way through the buffet, judiciously filling plates for themselves, still amazed at their fortune, saucers filled for the impatient toddlers at their knees. Mothers and fathers sat in tight circles, happy for the brief respite of diligence, knowing that helping hands were all about.

  Father Storm shuffled his way into the room and was barely over the threshold before well-wishers surrounded him. Memories and stories flowed.

  A man with brillia
nt red hair stepped up. “My gran-mum was christened in this church and you christened her children and grandchildren. Thirty-seven O’Learys at last count, Father! Two more on the way! We make it easy on you with all the twins we got. One baptism, two souls saved. Can you stay a few more months?”

  “No one has the Word like you do, Father. You’ll be sorely missed.”

  “You’ll come visit us at Christmastime, won’t you, Father?”

  “You married my sister, and she never forgave you!” Peals of laughter and a face reddened. “I mean you performed my sister’s ceremony to a drunken idiot. She thought all the marriages you did were blessed with luck. But he upped and died when he fell on ‘is head and left ‘er a house, so I guess she was right.”

  “My brother lives up the coast. We’ll come for a visit once you settle into your new home. I heard Father Casey was a bit frail these days but still seeing visitors. You’d like a visit, wouldn’t you, Father?”

  “I was shakin’ in my boots when you found me behind the rectory, Father. But you took me in, cleaned me up with a few kind words and a meal. I never forgot your kindness.”

  “The Sisters of the Holy Cross have always relied on your kindness. We’ll be certain to maintain our monthly solicitations for them. The Reverend Mother sends her love tonight. She and a few of the sisters will be at your service tomorrow.”

  “I was crazy with grief when the RUC shot him, Father, and your words gave me solace.”

  “The little ones don’t understand what a sad day this is for us, Father. Don’t be bothered with them running about. Kids are different nowadays.”

  The well-wishers formed an impromptu receiving line, each waiting patiently to say their carefully chosen words, knowing they may not get another chance to tell him how loved and respected he was. Each sentiment received a nod of his head, their own hands clasped between his misshapen knuckles. Some were lucky enough to have the sign of the cross made with his thumb across their forehead.

  Eventually, someone brought him a chair and a plate of food. The stresses of the night became apparent as the height of the chair and the stoop of his back forced him to twist his head upward. The sensitive among them saw his discomfort and motioned for the congregants to kneel or sit beside him to give their wishes and blessings, and shooed them on to keep things moving.

  The celebration was all a blur to Father Storm. He hid his confusion and fear behind the habits and manners forged in years of public ceremony. The craic of the night was high and only love was felt. He looked into the faces and the eyes of the people who had become his family and did not see the expected worry and loss. They were losing their shield and seemed not to notice that evil stood ready to enter their homes. The warning he gave last week didn’t energize them to action. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he would tell the world of the lies they had been told.

  The activity shifted from serving steaming food, to gathering up plates and empty casseroles, to stacking tables and folding chairs. Father Storm looked into the ruddy faces and milky eyes of the remaining volunteers and nodded to himself that it was always the same white heads and the same hands that did the lion’s share of the work. His parishioners had aged with him, and he wondered who would take their places as decisions were made as to who would take his. He wondered who was more irreplaceable.

  He was lost in fatigue and memories when he felt a strong hand at his elbow. “Father? Father Storm? Are you all right?”

  Father Storm craned his neck upward and was surprised to see a figure dressed in black clerics with a formal white tabbed collar standing over him. He blinked several times, wondering how much time had passed. “Yes. Yes. Quite. Just enjoying the moment.” This had become his standard response when someone questioned his daze, learning that fragility is forgiven if it sounded intended. He let himself be pulled to his feet, steadied, and wondered how long he had been sitting.

  “Half of Belfast was here today. We expect tomorrow’s service will be packed to the rafters. You should get some rest.”

  He grasped his colleague’s hands. “You’ve come. You needn’t have.” He looked around at the empty buffet tables, wiped down by two women with spray bottles and rags. “You must be hungry. I’ll have a plate made for you.” He shuffled his feet toward the kitchen.

  Kavan kept hold of Father Storm’s hands, looked at the faces in their group, and cleared his throat with a nervous cough. “Thank you for your kindness, Father. I’ve been quite well tended tonight. The food was as brilliant as the stories shared. It’s been a most memorable evening to be here with you. But it’s time to walk back.”

  Father Storm blinked as he tried to make sense of it all. “You’re not hungry?”

  “No, Father,” he said and gave a sad smile. “These good people have put in a long day and are looking forward to returning to their homes. We’ll see them again at mass in the morning.” Kavan accepted their nodded good-byes as he supported Father Storm’s shuffling steps to the door. “I thought we could say our evening prayer in the sanctuary.”

  The old priest squinted, head cocked in confusion as he let himself be led through the hallway connecting the community center to the side door of the cathedral. The polished floors made for easy passage, but he hesitated several times and looked at Kavan with widened eyes.

  An ancient iron stand of votive candles flickered in the corner of the nave. It was close to ten o’clock at night and the sun was setting. Enough of its rays lit the interior, allowing the men to make their way to the front pew and kneel, the creak of the kneelers loud in the empty cathedral. Centered behind the large expanse of the altar sat the empty Bishop’s Chair. It was tall. Almost throne-like. Its mahogany wood dark with age and its red velvet cushion faded, but not worn. Flanked by two chairs similar in design but smaller in scale, the wood freshly oiled for Sunday’s celebration. Bouquets of white flowers graced each alcove; color symbolizing new beginnings.

  Father Storm shifted himself so that he half sat, half knelt as he blessed himself and began to move his lips in silent prayer. Kavan intoned a blessing, seeking union in a shared prayer. At first, the words did not flow for the elderly priest, but habit overcame age and the words that drifted from his mouth were the same as when he was a young ordinand, starting out and examining each word for meaning.

  Tonight, the words flowed, but he didn’t turn them over and over in analysis, content that by their very utterance, blessings and protections were his. They lapsed into silence, and he glanced over at the bishop. Kavan’s eyes were shut in deep concentration, mouth sucked in as he focused on his private conversation. At times, he nodded his head, as if agreeing to some truth, and other times he murmured, sinking his head to his chest, the very image of a man in torment. He waited until the concentration lifted before he spoke.

  “I no longer have the strength to fight off the demons, Your Grace. The willpower needed to honor the sacramental seal between priest and penitent is weakening.”

  “Please. It’s just us. Call me Kavan.”

  “Kavan.” He spoke the name as if finally recalling it, with half relief and half frustration. Father Storm labored to sit up in the pew and drew Kavan’s hands into his. His eyes grew unfocused as distant memories eclipsed the present.

  “You’re troubled, Father?” Kavan spoke gently, trying to reroute the flow of thoughts.

  “I have heard confessions of liars and thieves and given the Last Rites to murderers. I’ve absolved the sins of all. But what you have asked of me is the heaviest load I have ever carried.”

  “Father,” Kavan began, voice low and measured, “you’ve had a busy day after a very long week. You’re tired. What I have asked of you is no different from any who have sat in your confessional. You have been the sole person I have trusted, and I have given all I could thanks to you. You have helped me become a better priest.”

  “Priest! You confessed to me your sins and continued to live your lie. I have seen fathers and husbands writhe in their guilt and shed th
e skin of sin, but not you.” Father Storm grew agitated. “You confessed your burdens to me and continued to live in your deceit, hiding in the open and deceiving us all. Where could I have gone to relieve mine? To keep your secret was to live my own lie as you ascended to bishop. What you have done is a violation of the very core of our vows. For those who have looked to you as a pillar of strength you have cheated them by not admitting your weakness. The weight of it is too much for me.” His voice, high-pitched and thready, echoed. He struggled to his feet, and shuffled to the vestry, hands tapping at his head as if to jar loose a memory.

  Kavan followed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Didn’t know? Father Storm, winded and reddened from the sudden exertion, stood in front of the huge rosewood armoire and pointed a gnarled finger at the top. “There. There is where your lies are held. Take it out of here. I can no longer bear the weight of its existence.”

  Kavan stood in the center of the sparsely furnished room and looked around. He opened the door of the armoire, searched inside. The smell of lemon oil mixed with roses. He found only the freshly starched vestments for the next day’s services. He did not have to ask what to look for. He needed only to know where.

  The old priest’s breathing labored. Beads of sweat bubbled up on his forehead as his fingers continued their frantic tapping. “No! No! To the left! The center!”