“Same as always. Bs.”
“Okay, well, here’s a thought. As long as they stay Bs, what if you’re allowed to stay up until ten-thirty during the week, though not in the bedroom because Reese can’t be staying up that late. How does that sound to you, Vivienne?”
“I suppose that would be alright,” Mom mumbled.
“And I want to talk longer on the phone. You simply cannot have a decent conversation in thirty minutes.”
“Okay, same condition, but if anyone else wants to use the phone, you have to hang up.”
“That’s two conditions, not one. But yeah, okay.” She paused. “And I want to smoke…openly.”
Mom wagged her finger at Kit. “Now look, young lady, if you think I want our neighbors seeing you with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth like some cheap—”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!” FD kept his stop-signal hand in the air until the huffing subsided. “Look, if Kit wants to smoke so badly, we have two choices. We can forbid her and she’ll do it anyway. And Vivienne, she’ll make sure the neighbors see her.” He flashed a teasing smile at Kit. “But what if we compromise? What if Kit is allowed to smoke openly…but only in the house?”
Mom came forward and opened her mouth to say something. FD’s eyes stayed on Kit as he squeezed Mom’s arm signaling her to hold off. Both Mom and Kit looked at him, then at each other, some kind of truce transpiring.
“And it goes without saying that the smokes come out of your babysitting money,” FD added. “Deal?”
Kit waited for Mom to object. She didn’t.
“Deal.”
“Well, then, as James Bond, Agent 007 would say, I believe our work here is done.”
Kit popped up and ran from the kitchen. Thirty seconds later, purse in hand, she waved in our direction and was out the door.
FD looked at Mom with a big, self-satisfied grin. “I give her two weeks.”
A slow smile came over her face in pure adulation.
That’s when I understood. The final piece fell into place. Mom and FD weren’t play acting. They had constructed a parallel universe, a world in which they were free of the responsibilities and expectations that shackled them as wife and priest in this one.
They weren’t cheating anyone—not Dad, not me and Kit, not God. Father Donnelly and Mom had justified their actions in some sort of skewed conviction that God had brought them together as His way of saving our family. “The end justifies the means,” Mom liked to say.
It all made sense now. She was no longer miserable with long days alone and long nights with Dad. She knew her other life, her true life, was as real to FD as it was to her. My father no longer existed. It was FD and Mom—husband and wife, parents to me and Kit.
That day in Greg’s bomb shelter, I told him my dad didn’t believe there would be a nuclear attack. In Dad’s mind, he didn’t need to protect us from what he didn’t think would happen.
I didn’t know who was right about the war. What I did know that afternoon while Kit was buying cigarettes was that a bomb had been dropped on our family.
Dad hadn’t protected us. We were all breathing fallout. Destruction was a matter of time.
Mom was happy. That was all that mattered.
*
Kit’s smoking lasted more than two weeks. As a by-product, my sister saved the red flip-top boxes from her Marlborough’s. She glued them on our bedroom ceiling in the shape a giant red K. Like Kit, the letter would leave a lasting mark.
In late spring Mom finished her graduate program in Marriage and Family Counseling.
In addition to his afternoon visits, FD came over after dinner once or twice a week. He and Mom would set up camp in the living room. Dad would wink at me and say, “C’mon, Peanut. We can take a hint. We know when we’re not wanted.” That was my cue for our exit to the garage, Dad’s escape of choice. He and I had become buddies in exile. We never talked about it out there, the soothing voice of Vin Scully announcing a Dodger game our pretext for ignoring the truth.
Mom’s degree had legitimized the collaboration with FD. In her twisted universe she was serving the church like any missionary, only her cause was closer to home. The woman standing in the kitchen on this Friday afternoon, chattering with FD about some client or other, sure didn’t look like a missionary to me.
This woman dripped with sensuality, from the way she carried herself to the clothes she wore. I watched Mom in operation, watched her use body language as seductive power. She poured FD a fresh cup of coffee, then leaned against the counter with hands shoved deep in her pockets, ankles crossed. In typical contradictory style for someone who considered herself both a feminist and an intellectual, Mom’s cashmere turtleneck hugged the contours of her breasts, sculpted into tantalizing cones with help from a MaidenForm bra. To accentuate her hourglass figure, Mom cinched the belt of her gabardine slacks. The fabric detoured over her hips before falling in a graceful drape to her feet.
Mom considered this her new professional look. Now that she was a career woman, she said the nonconformist style of Katharine Hepburn with slacks and turtlenecks suited her better than the womanly full-skirted dresses of a housewife.
Goodbye Miss Manners. Hello Betty Friedan.
*
Spring gave way to the warm days of summer. Like most kids in town, the Pacific Ocean became my new address. As head of the Youth Group, FD often showed up at the beach. The guys treated him like a celebrity. They spent hours body surfing or lying on their towels in deep discussion about school and sports and girls, FD an expert in all three, at least as far as giving advice. The peal of raucous laughter would announce to anyone within earshot that FD had shared his latest corny joke, the hush of low voices that they were discussing Life.
Summer also meant baseball season. Dad and I had high hopes for the L.A. Dodgers. He surprised me with tickets to a Sunday game against the team’s chief rival, the New York Yankees.
Friday afternoon on game weekend, Dad walked in from work and found the usual gang of three in the kitchen— me and FD discussing the problems of high school social life while Mom whipped up a cake for The Twilight Zone. He set his watch and keys in their usual spot on the counter next to the mail. “Well, this looks like a happy gathering. Hi Jack, Reese, Sweetheart.” Mom leaned to the side as he planted a perfunctory kiss on her cheek, the bowl of chocolate batter whirring on the Mix Master.
“I told FD that we’re going to the game, Daddy. He’s going to listen to the broadcast after Mass.”
Dad sat down at the table. He looked down in the mouth. “Reese, about the game, I’m afraid it’s off.”
“Why?” Mom spun around and asked over the whirring noise.
“There’s a powwow in New York with some big wigs who want to see the handle I designed for the X-15 rocket. Their endorsement could help Rezolin nail the next contract.” He turned to me. “I’ll have to take an afternoon flight on Saturday to get the straw out of my head before the meeting Monday morning.” He sounded deflated enough for both of us, though I also knew he was excited about unveiling his latest product.
“It’s okay, Daddy. Maybe we can go to another game.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” FD said in mock insult. “There’s more than one Dodger fan in this family. What if I take Reese to the game?”
I perked up. FD and I waited for Dad to answer. Mom turned around too.
“That would be great, Jack, if you can trade with Father Sebastian for an earlier Mass. I was going to ask Carson Williams to take my place for our golf game in the afternoon, so if you take Reese to the game you’d have to miss that.”
“Truth is, Walker, I’m not any too keen about facing Murray and Giroux on the links with Williams instead of you. This change of plan would kill two birds with one stone.”
That Sunday, I took my place riding shotgun in the passenger seat of FD’s black sedan. We concocted crazy explanations why Reese Cavanaugh would be in Father Donnelly’s car in case any parishioners recognized
us. They wouldn’t though. In matching Dodger hats, Father Donnelly and I could have been any father and daughter in any Chrysler.
Dodger stadium was much bigger than it looked on TV. The outer corridor to our section was thick with fans. Everyone bumped and shoved in a hurry to get seated. We peeled away toward the field. I halted, stunned by the sight.
A cathedral opened up before me, the nave a carpet of lush grass groomed to perfection in a crisscross pattern of light and dark green stripes. A swathe of combed red clay separated the infield from the outfield. In the stands the smell of Dodger dogs and beer wafted through the air to the sound of Take Me out to the Ball Game, the lyrics playing on a jumbo screen so everyone could sing along.
FD nudged me. I was blocking impatient fans. We moved along until we found our seats. The players warming up on the field looked like miniatures. Dad had joked that our seats were in what he called the peanut gallery. As far as I was concerned, they were box seats, front row.
It took ten innings for the Dodgers to beat the Yankees. By then I was hoarse from cheering. I couldn’t wait to tell Dad all about it when he got back from his trip. FD and I rehashed highlights during the half hour it took to inch our way out of the jammed parking lot. At last we were on the freeway, breezing toward the ocean and Pacific Palisades.
The car took a sudden veer to the right. FD rolled down his window to listen. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, not now!” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands as the car pulled sideways.
“What’s wrong?”
“We have a flat tire, that’s what. I have to find a call box.”
The black sedan crawled in the slow lane until we spotted an emergency callbox. FD eased onto the shoulder and parked. He told me to stay in the car.
“Well, there we are, Miss Cavanaugh,” he said. “The cavalry will be along in twenty minutes or so to rescue us.”
“What cavalry?”
“The Auto Club Roadside Service, that cavalry.”
“Don’t you have a spare tire?”
“Of course I have a spare tire.”
“Can’t you change it?” I paused. “You know how, right?”
His voice dripped with sarcasm through the trademark grin. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t know how to change it.” He leaned over. “And I should probably warn you: I don’t carry a Swiss army knife either. If you and I are stranded here we won’t survive the night because I can’t rub two sticks together to start a fire so I can cook the wild beast I butcher with the Swiss army knife I don’t carry.”
I smirked, embarrassed that I had asked.
“Disappointed?”
“No. I just thought—” What I thought was that every grown man knew how to change a flat tire. Dad could swap out a whitewall in fifteen minutes. FD read my mind.
“Not all men are like your dad, Reese. He and I grew up very differently.”
“Didn’t your dad teach you how to change a tire though?”
He watched out the driver’s side window. The sedan rocked side to side each time a car whizzed past. “He’ll be coming from this direction. I’d better put on my emergency lights.” FD took a deep breath. “No, my dad didn’t teach me how to change a tire. He didn’t teach me much of anything. In fact, I didn’t know my father. He died when I was a baby and my mother went to live with a cousin. I grew up with Aunt Amanda and Uncle Carlton in Monrovia.”
“You mean…you don’t know your mom?”
“She came back to get me when I was five. By then my aunt seemed more like my mother than my mother. So I stayed put. She died ten years ago.”
“That’s so sad.”
“It would only be sad, Reese, if I wasn’t happy now. Which I am. I have my God, my Church, and one very lovely young lady I consider to be a daughter right next to me.”
It struck me how little I knew about Father Donnelly. His life had started the day we met. I’d never thought beyond that.
“Did your aunt and uncle want you to become a priest?”
He studied his hands on the steering wheel, those soft hands with the impeccable fingernails. “No. That was my decision.”
“What made you decide?”
“Who are you, Barbara Walters?” He chuckled. “I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do after high school. College was out. My aunt and uncle couldn’t afford it. I didn’t want to go into the military or learn a trade. I knew my career would somehow involve people. So I joined the seminary, just to see if I was cut out for the life. From the moment I entered, I knew I’d found my calling.”
“How old were you?”
“Eighteen as a new seminarian. I was twenty-two when I took my final vows. That was eight years ago. Seems like yesterday.”
“And once you’re a priest, you’re a priest forever, right?”
“Right.”
“Are you still glad you’re a priest?”
“Of course I am. God has led me to a life where I can serve Him best by counseling couples whose marriages are in trouble.”
“Did you ever think about getting married?”
“No,” he said dismissively. “Where’s that tow truck?”
“So you’ve never been in love?”
He snapped around, a split second of uncertainty on his face. “No, I’ve never been in love. God has tested me in other ways. Through prayer and diligence I have survived His tests. Now, I hope this version of the Spanish Inquisition is over because if this Auto Club guy doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to collapse from hunger. What do you say we head to Zucky’s for a burger? I’ll phone your mom from there, tell her about our little crisis.”
For the first time since FD had come into our lives, I was grateful Dad was my dad. As fond as I was of FD and had even wished a few times that he had been my father, I knew sitting next to him in his Chrysler on the freeway west of Dodger Stadium that the man beside me could never replace my father. Dad may not have been people smart like FD, or care about the finer things in life like wine. That was okay with me. There was something honest and true and sincere about my father. Even though FD had answered my questions, I was certain I would never really know this man.
I also knew—though he could never tell me, or maybe even admit it to himself—that in fact he had been, and still was, very much in love.
*
School started in September. I was a sophomore in second year Honors English with Brother McPherson. I was excited to tell Mom about the books on my reading list in hopes we might establish something in common.
Saturday morning was my opportunity. At exactly ten o’clock, I poured a cup of coffee and delivered it to Mom, as was my routine. On those lazy mornings she let me perch at the foot of the bed for a few minutes and talk.
Mom stretched and took the mug, which nearly spilled when I plopped on the bed. Even in the morning my mother looked beautiful with her auburn hair and cobalt eyes. In a good mood, she lit up inside and there was no one like her, the draw she had that made you want to be in her presence. I hoped this was one of those days.
“Mom, we got our reading list for Honors—”
“Hold on, Clarice. Your father and I want to talk to you and your sister.”
Mom and Dad talking to me and Kit was never a good thing. My stomach tightened.
Kit walked in, huffing in annoyance. Dad filed in behind her. He yanked the chair out from Mom’s desk and flipped it around, straddling the thing, arms crossed in front. His eyes were downcast, shoulders hunched. Kit positioned herself next to Mom on Dad’s side of the bed. She shot a glance at me, probably thinking the same thing I was: we were in for another walloping.
“So what the hell’s going on?”
“Must you swear, Katherine? It’s ten o’clock in the damn morning.” Mom drew her knees up under the covers and wrapped her arms around them, scowling at Dad, who didn’t look up. The air was heavy with apprehension. No one made a sound as we waited for Mom.
She took a sharp breath. “Your father and I have something to tell
you.”
Kit burst in, “Don’t tell me you’re pregnant. I’ll die of utter and complete humiliation!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Katherine, and get your mind out of the gutter.” Another pause and another sip of coffee. “Your father and I…well…we’ve been having problems lately. The tension has been affecting all of us, even you girls. We can’t go on living like this.”
Both Kit and I visibly tightened and waited for the other shoe to drop.
“He and I are…well, the fact is…your father and I are going to separate.”
My stomach flip-flopped, the same sensation I got in an elevator. “Separate? What does that mean? Like a divorce?”
Kit piped up. “No, dummy. It’s a practice divorce.”
“That’s enough, Katherine,” Dad said in a flat voice.
“Your father will be renting an apartment in Santa Monica, closer to work.”
Silence.
“What about us?” I asked.
She shot daggers at Dad. “Well, I can see your father wants me to be the bad guy here.”
“Vivienne—” Dad grimaced and hung his head.
“No, it’s alright. I’ll tell them. I’ll be staying in the house. Katherine, you’ll go live with your father in his apartment.”
Silence. I stared at Mom and tried not to panic. “Then I’m staying here with you, right?”
“No. Clarice. Your father and I…and Jack…are enrolling you in boarding school…in Arizona, St. Joan of Arc.”
I jumped off the bed. “Boarding school? Why do I have to go away? Arizona’s a whole different state! Why can’t I stay here with you?” Nausea turned my stomach to mush.
“Clarice, settle down,” Mom said in a measured tone. “This is for the best. Jack has offered to help your father and me during this difficult time…he’s…well, he’s agreed to be your legal guardian. He can support you, financially…and be in a position to make decisions about your welfare. You know how much he loves you.”
“My legal guardian? FD? You can’t give me away! You’re my parents! How can you decide to make him my parent?”
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s called a conservatorship. Families do this sometimes in short-term situations, like illness, if there’s only one parent, or if one parent is gone and the other has to work out of town a lot. It just means temporarily handing legal authority to a relative or a friend of the family who’s willing to take over temporary custody. Jack is paying for this school, which I assure you, is not in any category even remotely feasible for us. With no family of his own, it’s not a stretch for him.”
The Road at My Door Page 6