The One That Got Away

by Leigh Himes

  We were almost free of them when Mr. Brindle turned back, suddenly remembering something. “Oh, Abigail, I forgot to ask. How did you like the seats last Sunday? Helluva night, huh?”

  Last Sunday? Last Sunday I had been home watching the Eagles get crushed by the Giants as Jimmy threw things at the TV. I guessed he meant the game?

  “I know! What a disaster. Heads are definitely going to roll for that one.”

  The group turned silent; then Alex jumped in. “Oh, I don’t know, doll. I know it’s not the philharmonic, but I thought the new strings were terrific.”

  Huh? “Oh! You meant the symphony! Yes. Terrific.”

  Alex laughed. “What did you think we were talking about?”

  “I thought you meant the Eagles.”

  A confused-looking Mrs. Brindle spoke next. “Who?”

  “The Eagles. The Philadelphia Eagles.”

  The woman looked at her husband and then back at me. “Excuse me?”

  “She means the professional sports team, Edith.”

  The old lady and I stared at each other without speaking, she still confused and me stunned. To not know Katy Perry or Finding Nemo or Blue Man Group, I understood. But to live in Philadelphia and not know the Eagles? Unbelievable.

  The couple smiled and walked off, leaving me a few seconds to take in the room and everyone in it before the next conversation. These people were the last of the great robber barons and society matrons of the Main Line, a group of people so out of touch with reality, so protected in their own tweed- and mahogany-coated world, it was like they were their own species. Or a lost tribe—hidden not by jungle but by high stone walls and curling iron gates. And lots and lots of money.

  And here was I—or some symphony-loving, cottage-designing, estate-visiting version of me—living among them.

  Or “mucking through,” that is.

  After another twenty minutes of “fines,” “greats,” and “uh-huhs,” plus a lot of napkin dropping, drink refreshing, and talking about the weather—so much so you’d have thought a fifty-five-degree day in late October was like a snowstorm in July—I realized I had better get away from Alex. Even though he was so polite it was hard to tell what he was thinking, I had made so many gaffes, he had to be suspicious. Or think I had suddenly turned into a moron. Thank God I could always fall back on my “head injury” if I needed to.

  I excused myself and made my way slowly through the crowd, examining the world around me. There were so many people jammed into the large room—more than one hundred guests, all drinking heavily, barking orders at servers, and crowding around two bars (one raw, one wet)—that no one seemed to notice me. Adding to the commotion were three loping Irish wolfhounds, which mingled along with everyone else, knocking into knees and begging for bits of Camembert when not lounging like furry maharajas on the flowered couches.

  Across the room, I spied Alex’s sister and mother, both at ease in their natural habitat. There was no sign of a father, and no one mentioned one, so I figured he must be dead or out of town. Not that I was one to question a broken home; I hadn’t heard from my dad in more than twenty years.

  I moved into a corner, eager to further examine my in-laws. Alex’s sister was Aubyn, much younger and even more patrician looking than her brother. She was tall, ballerina thin, and very pretty, but her preppy pink sweater and plain black pants made her look matronly, dull. Her eyes were just as azure as my husband’s, and her chestnut hair was thick and glossy, piled on her head like a Gibson Girl painting come to life. She could use a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a hair out of place, I thought as I took a seat beside her on a long leather bench. When she rose and walked off just seconds after I sat down, I began to understand our relationship. She hated me.

  Alex’s mother, Mirabelle, on the other hand, showed only sheer delight in all her guests, including me, treating each of us with warmth and rapt attention. She had dark hair like her children, but hers had touches of silver and was cut in a soft bob that curled up under her chin. Her skin was smooth and rosy, suggesting she wasn’t above a good facial or two, but with enough laugh lines to indicate she viewed Botox as vulgar. An impeccably tailored suit accentuated her petite frame. Her shoes were stylish but not too high; her jewelry was expensive but tasteful; and her hair shone as if it had been brushed with a good fifty strokes.

  I watched her move from group to group, making each person feel welcome with her direct gaze, easy smile, and quick wit, social skills no doubt honed with decades of practice. With no patriarch around, I deduced Mirabelle was used to being the sun around which this family orbited. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was mesmerizing.

  Not only that, but she was so different from my “other” mother-in-law. I couldn’t help but think of tonight compared to the first night I met Jimmy’s parents. That night there were certainly no staff, no suits, no shrimp tower.

  It began with Jimmy driving me home after our first night together, which I would have liked to call a date but was really a one-night-into-the-next-day stand. I’d met Jimmy at his brother’s bar in Bryn Mawr when Jules and I snuck out of a client event early and hightailed it across the street. Though this was certainly not a detail I was proud of or planned to tell our children, I had spent the entire night and the next morning and afternoon with Jimmy in his cluttered one-bedroom apartment above the health food store in Ardmore. I remember it smelled like patchouli and peppermint, the scents making our drunken sexcapade seem more exotic than it was.

  That afternoon, my clothes slightly rumpled from twenty-four hours of wear, Jimmy had insisted on stopping by his parents’ house to pick something up. They lived in Upper Darby, a working-class neighborhood below the Main Line that was on the way back to my apartment in the city. After being stuck behind a trolley for fifteen minutes, we turned onto a narrow street of tiny row homes, their identical brick facades interrupted only by alternating Flyers, Eagles, and Phillies flags.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” I told him as we pulled up to a tidy house with a white metal fence and overflowing window boxes. A painted sign marked “Fáilte” hung instead of a wreath on the door. As Jimmy shoehorned his truck into a tiny spot effortlessly, then jumped out, I slumped in the seat so no one could see me. He went inside but then burst back outside a few moments later. Next thing I knew, he was opening my door and pulling me out.

  “My mom saw you from the window and is insisting you stay for dinner,” he said. Mortified, I yanked back my arm and scrunched down even further.

  “Don’t try to hide from her; she won’t take no for an answer,” he said, laughing. “She has a radar for any female within a hundred feet of our house.”

  I cringed and shook my head, wanting to disappear into the upholstery.

  “Why don’t you have mercy on a mom of four boys and come in?” Jimmy begged.

  “Oh God, no!” I remained immobile, but my eyes made contact with his oak brown eyes, and I knew going into the house was inevitable, the same way I had known the night before, after just a few hours of talking, that I was going home with him.

  “Tell her that we met at lunch today,” I implored. “Don’t you dare tell her I met you last night.”

  “Right, okay, I’ll tell her I met you pounding shots at lunch,” he joked. “That’s definitely classier.”

  I laughed in spite of myself, then sighed. I’ll never see this guy again, I reasoned, so I might as well enjoy a free meal. I tucked my wrinkled work blouse into my skirt and stepped out of the truck.

  Four hours and four thousand calories later, I was enjoying myself as Jimmy’s one younger and two older brothers regaled me with tales of their hockey triumphs, their Catholic school misadventures, and their hundreds of adolescent fights. Jimmy’s adorable, auburn-haired mother, Jane, brought so many dishes out of her tiny kitchen, I wondered if more people were supposed to show up. There were enough clams, pasta, ham, green beans, potatoes, and rolls for the entire block.

  I didn’t say much, but I laughed the
entire time: at Jimmy’s impersonation of their drunken uncle Seamus; at older brother Chris’s tales of selling telephone cable to mobsters in Atlantic City; and at father Miles’s Irish-brogued rendition of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable.” For just an average Sunday night at six thirty, it was pretty rollicking, and certainly different from the silent, heat-and-serve meals my mother and I ate in front of Entertainment Tonight.

  All of the Lahey brothers were handsome in their own way, but Jimmy’s younger brother, Patrick, was just plain hot. Where Jimmy was more rounded out and soft-spoken—with thinning dark blond hair, warm brown eyes, and broad shoulders perfect for leaning on—Patrick was bad-boy handsome, with a wiry, muscular build, thick black hair, and an icy green gaze that suggested he knew exactly what was under your clothes. He also had several tattoos, rode a motorcycle, and tended bar, hitting the twentysomething-party-girl trifecta. To say he was good with the ladies was the understatement of the year, but to me, his brand of bad-boy sex appeal was a little scary. I knew just where that would lead. Jimmy was more comfortable, warmer, and, back then, really funny. Like that favorite sweater you look forward to wearing every fall.

  Luckily, Patrick never let on how drunk we were the night before, or that when I stumbled out with his brother after last call he was pretty sure what was going to happen. I guess it was a brothers’ code, or perhaps a bartender’s: never kick a gift one-night stand in the mouth. And never deny your poor daughterless mother the chance for female company, even if she might never see the young lady in question again.

  Not that Jimmy’s mother ever acted as if I was anything less than a formally invited guest. Despite having just met me a few hours earlier, she laughed at all my jokes, asked me lots of questions about work, and insisted I take the first piece of homemade key lime pie.

  After several hours and an after-dinner Irish coffee, I realized I’d better get back home, and we said our good-byes. I don’t know if it was the booze, the stories, the Nat King Cole, or the carbohydrates, but by the time we’d climbed back in the truck and started making out over old coffee cups and the parking brake, I knew I was in love.

  When I heard my name this time—“Mrs. van Holt?”—I answered readily. It was yet another server, touching me on the arm and pointing to Alex, who was waving me over. He was standing beside a handsome young couple, one of the few here under forty, and perhaps friends of ours. I couldn’t do it, though. If I made any more missteps, he would be suspicious, and I couldn’t risk him getting worried and sending me back to the hospital. I held up my finger to indicate I needed a minute, then went in search of a bathroom.

  The server directed me toward “the main hall,” but the promised powder room proved elusive. I looked around and eventually made my way toward the back, where the light from the large chandelier didn’t quite reach, making it hard to see. I tried a few doors, but each glass knob led to a closet, a long back porch, and an even darker stairway, respectively.

  I spun around and tiptoed back to the front, confused. Maybe this wasn’t the main hallway? Maybe there was an even bigger, grander hall somewhere else? One with more ancestral oil paintings, bigger black-and-white marble tiles, and an even taller wood-paneled staircase?

  Suddenly, a portrait underneath the stairs swung toward me, the van Holt ancestor it depicted coming at me like a Scooby-Doo ghost. I gasped and stepped back, making room, then steadied myself. From behind the painting stepped a tiny white-haired clergyman in a dark suit and collar, his eyes bright and blue. Seeing me in the hall, he held open the door from which he had just emerged and gave a little courtly bow: “It’s all yours, madam.”

  “Oh, that’s the bathroom?” I asked. “I… I forgot where it was.”

  “These old houses are a lot like churches. Hidden doors. Secret hallways. Little Scots that jump out from under the stairs.” He winked and gave me a mischievous grin.

  “Well, thank you for the warning,” I said, laughing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  I snuck around him and into the hidden bathroom under the stairs, ducking my head to avoid the slanted ceiling. When I came back out, the man was still there, gazing up at a painting of a shepherd fighting off a snarling wolf.

  He felt me walk up beside him, then held out his arm without turning toward me. “My mother told me a lady should never enter a room by herself,” he said. “May I escort you?”

  “Funny, my mother will only enter a room by herself,” I replied, thinking how Roberta always preferred all eyes on her. “But yes, thank you.” I put my hand on his arm and we rejoined the party, finding a quiet space near the window. He introduced himself: “I’m Father Ferguson. I was hoping to speak with your husband, but he’s been occupied for the last hour. Though it’s quite possible he’s avoiding me.”

  “Oh? Why would he do that?” I asked, intrigued.

  “He knows why.”

  “Well, why don’t you fill me in?”

  “Your husband promised to speak with his uncle in the state senate to see if we could help my little community center qualify for state funding,” he explained. “But that was before he was running for Congress.”

  “Well, my husband’s got a lot on his mind,” I said, remarking how I’d just referred to Alex as “my husband” so easily. “Maybe he plans to help you after the election?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But I’m running out of time. And money.” He sighed, then sat down on the edge of a sofa and patted the space beside him. “Perhaps you would like to come to the center and see what we’re all about?”

  “I would love to, but we have campaign events scheduled every single second from now until next Tuesday,” I told him in a tone that I hoped sounded as elegant as Mirabelle’s. “I’m sure you understand.” Plus, I am not sure how much longer I’ll be living in this dreamworld.

  “But we’re only five minutes from Center City. It’s the Holy Rosary Settlement House on Pine and Fifty-Eighth.”

  “Holy Rosary?” I asked. “You do know this is a Presbyterian event?”

  “Well, we won’t tell anyone, will we?” he said, holding his finger to his lips. “You’d be amazed the places this collar can take you.” Then quieter, in a confiding tone: “Besides, I’ve never been afraid of the Calvinists. They’ve got it easy. It’s suffering, not salvation, that toughens us. Right?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Oh, for some reason I thought you were Catholic.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  He was sort of right. Though I was raised without any formal religious training, Roberta being an agnostic, Jimmy was Catholic, making me one by marriage. I changed the subject, asking my new friend how he came to be a priest.

  Father Ferguson, or “Fergie” as he insisted I call him, seemed less socially awkward and more worldly than the priests I knew in Grange Hill, so I wasn’t surprised to learn he had come late to his ministry. In fact, he’d been married once—to his high school sweetheart, who he claimed was the great love of his life. They lived together “blissfully” until 1972, when she and their son, his only child, were killed by a drunk driver. He spent two years trying to drink himself to death, finally got sober, joined the priesthood, and made it his life’s work to help poor children and their families, asking the church to place him in the most crime-ridden sections of southwest Philadelphia. It was a tough job, full of heartbreak, but he credited it with rescuing him from despondency and keeping him sober these past twenty-five years. In his words: “It brought me back to life.”

  He told me one story of a four-year-old boy who showed up on Holy Rosary’s doorstep too weak to stand. Turned out the boy had scurvy from a diet of oatmeal, mac ’n’ cheese, and soda, the only foods his parents could afford—or, frankly, find—in the “food desert” of far West Philadelphia. Today, the boy was strong and healthy, and now about to graduate with a degree in economics from La Salle University.

  “Growing up in South Philadelphia, we never had mu
ch, but we always ate,” he said. “I can’t bear the thought of kids going hungry. Have you ever seen the look in a mother’s eyes when she knows her little ones are starving but there is nothing she can do about it?”

  I shook my head. Even in Grange Hill, where people lived paycheck to paycheck and the bank owned at least one house on every block, no one ever went hungry. I promised to visit Holy Rosary later that week and made a mental note to talk to Alex about his promise. From across the room, I could see my husband watching us, but he made no move to come over. I told Father Fergie I had to go.

  He reached up and touched my face, turning it toward him to ensure my complete attention: “Abigail, I’ve appealed to every person in this town and they’ve all let me down. Now I’m putting all my hopes in your sweet face,” he said.

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “That’s all I ask.” He smiled widely and clapped his hands together, as if his job was done. Then, more quietly, he added, “I’m just sorry we haven’t met before.”

  “Well, we might have,” I said quietly, not wanting to lie to a priest. “You see, I don’t really know. In fact, I’m not really who you think I am.”

  He chuckled as if I’d made a joke, and leaned in close to whisper in my ear: “None of us are, dear.”

  He stood up, lifted my hand to kiss it, like a knight kissing a lady after a tournament, and then walked out the door.

  Standing up, I noticed the crowd had thinned, but only slightly, with most people still drinking and laughing, some in heated discussions, saliva spraying as they spoke, while others lounged their bodies across couches, almost motionless, their bellies full of red wine and oysters. I noticed a few folks still clustered by the raw bar and my stomach growled, and I realized then just how long it had been since I had eaten. But when I reached them, I saw that the bar was picked clean, the mound of ice bare except for a few lemon wedges and some frozen dill fronds.

  Not easily thwarted, I strolled around the room searching for some leftover crudités or for a server passing a tray. But all I could fine was a solitary silver dish of dry brown crackers on a sideboard in the corner. I shoved a few in my mouth, grateful for any sustenance. Then I looked for Alex, figuring it was time for me to go.