Till Death

by William X. Kienzle

  She nodded. “For a while I thought we’d never see each other again.”

  Another drawn-out pause.

  “I didn’t sleep last night.” Her voice was tight.

  He began to grow uneasy.

  “I spent all day yesterday and most of today trying to find a way of telling you …” She paused an infinitesimal moment. “I guess there is no way but bluntly: I’m pregnant.”

  Her last two words were a thunderclap. Limitless lines of faces passed before his memory. All the people who had spoken the same two words. They had come to him as their father confessor, their spiritual guide, the hope in their desperate need. Pregnancy meant the end of their world. The end to college dreams. The end of their hope for a new house. A catastrophe as planned as a tornado.

  Generally he had responded with sympathy rather than empathy. It wasn’t his problem. It never was his problem. It never would be his problem. He could be objective and helpful.

  Now, for the first time, the words “I’m pregnant” meant that he would be a father in every sense of the word. His impulse was to question the condition before denying it. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. Do you think I would kid around about a thing like that?”

  “But it was only once—one time! And I was drunk!”

  “Neither condition would prevent fertilization. For the past couple of months I’ve put on a little weight. Most of all, I’ve missed two periods. And this from a woman who could set her clock by the regularity of her periods.”

  “That’s all? That could be caused by any number of things.”

  “I’ve been to Dr. Green. He’s been my ob/gyn for years. He’ll be glad to see you.”

  “You told him about me!”

  “He’s my doctor. I’m his patient. He isn’t going to talk.”

  Briefly, Rick thought of the trouble he’d gone to with his Last Will and Testament just to avoid another party to his secret bequest. Lawyers and clients had protected relationships as well as doctors and patients.

  If she’d gotten a diagnosis of pregnancy from a doctor, that pretty well nailed down the truth of her condition. Although, just to be sure, he would contact her Dr. Green.

  However, there was another logical question: “Are you sure I’m the father?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  Wait, there was one other clutchable straw. “What about Jerry Anderson? I heard you were going with him.”

  She cleared her throat. This was embarrassing. All these demeaning questions. But, she told herself, she’d better get used to it. There were going to be a lot of demeaning, embarrassing questions.

  “I dated Jerry” she admitted. “I tried Jerry. He’s a lovely man, but he’s not my man. And, so far as Jerry’s being the father, my doctor says conception was about eight weeks ago. About the time of the Ursula meeting and our intercourse. A full month before I began dating Jerry. If there’s any further doubt, we can get into DNA. If you want to know it, you’re my man. You were from the beginning.” She made an instant decision not to mention her visit to him when—bent on seduction—she’d worn a habit, a bathing suit, and nothing more. She had to focus on the here and now. “I dated Jerry. I didn’t live with him!”

  There was something about the way she stated the final sentence. Did she know about Lil? The question was irrelevant at the moment. There was a baby to deal with. The question was: What are we going to do about the baby? And the answer was: I don’t know. All he knew was that he had never before felt so trapped.

  “So,” she said, “what are we going to do?”

  He didn’t know. Several options occurred. But none clearly. Actually he felt faint.

  “You aren’t thinking of abortion, are you?” she charged.

  “No!” Although, honestly the word had popped to mind. “What about adoption?” he offered.

  She cocked her head to one side. “Would you really want to have a stranger raise your child? I would not.”

  He had used about all his options. There was only one more possibility before he had to face what he most feared. “What if,” he said, “you have the child and I support the two of you?”

  She hesitated. “I was about to say you couldn’t do it. Not on your salary. But then I remembered, you have Tom Becker in your corner. So, okay, you probably could pull it off. But I would be joining the ranks of single mothers. Our baby would grow up without a father. Do you really want any of these things for your child?”

  He hung his head. “All because I got drunk at a party! And you insisted on driving me home.” He looked at her accusingly. “You orchestrated the whole thing.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to dump it all on me. Tully was in his rectory when someone had to drive you home. Koesler might just as well been at home. He stayed there overnight. There was one driver. Me. Not only could I get you home, I was going in your direction anyway.

  “I could have dumped you on this couch or on your bed. I thought you might be sick during the night. That’s why I undressed you. Why did you undress me?”

  The argument might have continued. But it was going nowhere. He faced the final option.

  He gazed into her eyes. “This has been an unforeseen bombshell. I need a little time, Dora.”

  “How much time?”

  “A little. Honest. A little.”

  “All right.” She stood. He did not.

  “I can let myself out,” she said. And she did.

  The early evening sun warmed the rectory. He sat back in the chair. He removed his clerical collar and twirled it on his finger.

  Thirty-five years. A career. A long time to do exactly what he’d always wanted to do. Five years away from retirement if he were in the real world. Ten years to achieve the status of Senior Priest.

  He thought of all the parishes he’d staffed. The marvelous people he’d met and served and guided.

  Again he thought of all those frightened faces, the trembling lips that spoke of pregnancy “I’m pregnant.” He’d done for these people what he thought was his best. If he had to do it again, after what had happened today, how much more compassionately he would have reacted. How much more honest he would be in mouthing that cliché, “I feel your pain.”

  He remembered how fearfully he had gradually intensified his association with Lil. There had been so many opportunities to alter the course of their relationship.

  From the first time they’d met, on one of his return visits to St. Ursula’s, she had been in awe of him. No, not him so much as his role as a priest. Their relationship had deepened to progressively more friendly and intimate levels. He had been conscious of this deepening. At any level he could have called a halt. Perhaps it had been selfish of him not to keep their closeness merely platonic. He’d heard the phrase, “theologizing a swollen prick.” Was that what he had done?

  But there had been other things going on. There was the exhilaration of Vatican II. It encouraged questions rather than blind rote obedience.

  Was celibacy that precious? That necessary? Was he denying himself the intimate company of a woman for no good reason? Had he been born too early in the ecclesial scheme of things?

  How much had been selfishness? How much had been common sense?

  Slowly he became aware of place and time. Early evening had given way to late evening. Shadows were lengthening. He smiled sardonically. It was over, finished, done.

  When Dora announced her pregnancy, he knew. He knew his dream was finished. He had launched a series of defense mechanisms, fighting off the inevitable. Deny the pregnancy. Deny his role in it. Deny his responsibility for it.

  Finally, with all denial spent, relax into reality. His time as a priest was ended. Of course he would do the “honorable thing.” No matter that doing so would cause lots of unhappiness to lots of people. That frequently was the cost for accepting responsibility.

  Again, he was being selfish. He was forgetting Lil. All their years together. Their marriage without paper. Her trust and faith in h
im and what he had told her as he had led her step by step into intimacies she had considered forbidden.

  He would have to tell her. He would have to tell her before there was the slightest possibility she might hear it from someone else.

  In all his life he had never dreaded anything as much as he shrank from this.

  He let himself into their apartment. He could hear Lil humming a show tune. She had a sweet voice. Almost no vibrato—like a boy soprano. One of the many, many things he loved about her. One of the many, many things he would sorely miss.

  “That you, honey?” she called from the kitchen area.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you eat yet? I’ve got some stir-fry going. Just take a few minutes.”

  He made no response. He was swallowing emotion that rose in his throat like bile.

  “Did you hear me, dear? Are you hungry?”

  “No. Don’t bother yourself.”

  She caught the tone of his voice. Something was wrong. She stepped toward the door so she could see him. She was wearing shorts, a tank top, and an apron. She was carrying a hand towel. And she looked very concerned. “Honey?”

  Instead of standing up straight as he usually did, he slumped. His shoulders drooped.

  “What is it, Rick?” Whatever it was, clearly it was serious.

  “Sit down, please,” he said as he, in turn, sat down.

  Neither said anything for several moments. The verbal ball was in Rick’s court, but he couldn’t return it.

  “Sweetheart,” he began. “Remember a couple of months ago, the Ursula meeting?”

  “Of course.” She thought all this had something to do with their quarrel earlier that day when she had demanded to be put ashore. But that was now long over. They had spent a trouble-free vacation together. Nothing but good had happened between them since then.

  No, it couldn’t be that quarrel. It had to be something else.

  Maybe her worst fear had come true: They had been seen together in some compromising situation and reported!

  Part of her wished he would just spit it out while the rest of her didn’t want to hear it.

  “Maybe,” he said falteringly, “you noticed that I was putting away the booze pretty heavily.”

  “You were putting it away like you owned the distillery.” She smiled, hoping the smile would somehow alleviate the doom she felt.

  “You didn’t see the worst of it. In the time it took you to get from the basement to your car, I downed almost as much as I had drunk previously that evening.”

  She gasped. “You could have killed yourself!”

  “It might have been better.” This was no exaggeration. He meant it.

  “After you and the others left …” He stopped. But he had to go on. “There were four left. Me—in a near stupor, I guess—Koesler, Tully, and Dora. The question was who was going to take me home.”

  “Why didn’t they put you in a guest room and let you sleep it off?”

  “A good question. Neither Koesler nor Tully could know whether I had anything scheduled early the next day. They didn’t know whether I had morning Mass. They thought it a good idea to get me home. Whatever. Anyway, Tully was home already and Koesler had a room there. That left …”

  “Dora,” Lil supplied. “Dora Riccardo.”

  He didn’t have to go any further. Lil knew. Suddenly she realized that being found out was not the worst thing that could have happened.

  Rick went on to explain what had happened that night once it was determined that Dora should chauffeur him home. What he knew—outside of a few moments in bed—was largely hearsay.

  Lil did not interrupt again. Numbly she half heard his narration. Dora was pregnant, bottom line, exclamation point, the tragic, tragic end. One single act of intercourse and all the years of double and triple prophylactic protection were as nothing. The years she had devoted to Rick—wasted. Their relationship—over.

  All this and more thundered against her consciousness.

  He must be finished; he had stopped talking. After she realized that Dora was pregnant and Rick was the father, Lil didn’t care about any of the details. She knew it must have all been an accident. She knew Rick did not love Dora. She knew that Rick loved her.

  But that didn’t matter—none of it mattered. Rick would marry the mother of his child, that Lil knew. She did not know the battle Rick had fought within himself to submit to that marriage.

  All the while Rick had been explaining the situation, choosing his words as carefully as he could, she had been absently twisting the towel in her hands. In so doing, she had exerted such pressure and friction that the skin of her left palm had broken. There was blood on the towel.

  Rick’s mouth continued to move. But she was oblivious.

  “Honey! Honey!” Rick was shouting. Lil looked directly at him. But she didn’t seem to comprehend anything he was saying.

  Rarely had Rick seen anyone in a catatonic state. This, he was convinced, was one of those times. He shook her, then abruptly stopped. She was hurt, injured somehow inside. Shaking her might further damage her.

  He was out of his league. He dialed 9-1-1. An emergency crew was on the way.

  He held her close. He spoke to her as quietly and reassuringly as possible. After all, his guts also were wrenched.

  When the E.M.S. arrived, he stepped back to let the professionals take over.

  A crew member took down essential information. Rick was not dressed as a priest, nor did he identify himself as one. Lil, now on a gurney was being wheeled to the ambulance. She would be delivered to Warren Emergency Hospital. Rick would follow along in his car.

  The place was terribly busy. But he was able to ascertain that Lil had arrived and was behind the curtain in one of the cubicles. He identified himself as a friend, a friend who had given her cataclysmic news that undoubtedly triggered her present condition.

  An emergency room doctor informed him that the initial diagnosis was an acute reaction similar to schizophrenia with a catatonic state.

  At this point, Rick was abandoning the situation. He gave them the address and phone number of one of Lil’s aunts. The two women weren’t close, but they were related. He did not get further involved because he was certain his news had caused her reaction. He was the last person in the world she needed right now.

  This assessment tore him even further apart. It was a self-contradiction: She needed his shoulder to cry on—but it was he who had caused her tears.

  In a daze, he drove back to the rectory. He did not care what happened to him. But he had already done grave harm to the woman he loved; he did not want to cause injury to any one else. That caution alone made him drive as carefully as possible under the circumstances.

  After debating briefly within himself he phoned Koesler. Rick gave the older priest a bare bones summary of what had happened, starting with Dora’s volunteering to act as chauffeur. With no detail, Rick admitted having sex with Dora. He told of her pregnancy, his decision to do “the right thing,” his finally telling Lil, and the tragic result of that revelation.

  “She’s in Warren Emergency?”

  “Yes. I left her there.”

  “You left her!”

  “If she comes out of this, I’m the last person she’d want to see.”

  “I understand. You want me to look in on her?”

  “No,” Rick demanded. “Not look in on her. Be there for her. I gave them the name of one of her aunts. I did it in a moment of panic. They hardly know each other. She hasn’t got any one else. Well …” He thought again. “Maybe her assistant principal, Jenny Roberts. But would you be there for me?”

  “Of course. I’ll keep you posted.” Koesler paused. “What are you going to do?”

  “Me? I’m going to do what I should have done with Lil. Get married.”

  Twenty-one

  There was no reason to delay the inevitable. Within days, the red tape having been tied in an orderly bow, Rick and Dora became Mr. and Mrs. Richard Casser
ly. The presiding minister was Judge Timothy Kenny, a nice guy. Rick decided that if they couldn’t have a priest witness their marriage, they might as well go for a nice guy. Judge Kenny was a friend of Rick’s. The judge understood the groom’s desire for a quiet, simple ceremony. And so it was. A few of Dora’s coworkers at Oakland Monthly were present in the judge’s chambers. Two of them acted as official witnesses.

  There was little chance of any hoopla discomposing the summary nature of this ceremony. Unlike Jerry Anderson’s headline-grabbing wedding of dual celebrities, Rick married Dora—both commoners. And the time had long passed when priests getting married, was, in and of itself, considered newsworthy.

  Among those present was Oakland Monthly’s editor, Pat Lennon. She was at a loss to know what to think of it all. Dora didn’t blend with this guy, Casserly. She was intended for Jerry Anderson. Even Pat’s old buddy Father Koesler had confirmed that connection.

  Intraoffice small talk had it that somehow Dora had engineered this merger. If that were so, Lennon did not know what to make of it all. Without doubt Jerry Anderson had set his cap for Dora. Dora seemed to be reciprocating. The dip in her office efficiency was attributed to her flirtation with Jerry, who would, according to rumors, marry and make a housewife of his beloved.

  Since Dora’s announcement to the magazine’s staff a few days ago, Jerry Anderson had been conspicuous by his absence. What to make of that?

  Better that Lennon stay abreast of developments. If Dora’s work continued to slide, for whatever reason, this could be time to warn Dora that she might have to find work elsewhere.

  True to his pledge, Father Koesler kept Rick Casserly informed as to Lil’s medical condition. Her doctor attributed her remarkable progress to a strong will, good overall health, and a determination to cooperate in her treatment. In a matter of a few days she was well enough to be discharged. However, she remained hospitalized an additional two days for observation.

  She had made no attempt to contact Casserly.

  Immediately after their wedding, utilizing their combined Christmas card lists, Rick and Dora sent out a simple notice of their marriage. No matter how they were informed—by word of mouth or by U.S. Postal Service—recipients had varying reactions to the news.