“If it’s important, we can talk now—as long as you don’t mind a little baseball in the background,” Jack offered.
But Ava continued to speak to Gus as she pressed her lie. “I told you I could only come in the evenings—when my husband is out. You suggested tonight.”
If they had met, Gus knew it couldn’t have been on Sunday. He’d been in New Bedford for the funeral of a former parishioner the previous weekend. Politely, he shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Obviously, I’ve knocked on the wrong door. Please forgive me for the . . .” She searched for the right word, then pronounced it with emphasis. “Intrusion.”
“If you’d like to schedule an appointment, I have my calendar in the other room,” Jack said.
Still looking at Gus, Ava replied curtly. “No, thank you. Obviously, I made a mistake coming here.” She turned to Jack and gave him a taciturn nod. “Goodnight, Father.”
Later, Gus thought how easily that might have been the end of it. But as she turned to go, she bit down on her lip so fiercely that blood pearled at its edge. Instinctively, Gus pulled out the handkerchief he carried with him everywhere.
When he’d first arrived and asked for advice on his hospital ministry, Jack had told him simply, “Always carry a handkerchief, and make sure it’s clean.” Gus had nodded politely, but he laughed inwardly. A handkerchief? Did they even sell them anymore? Over the years, however, it had proven remarkably useful.
Appearing embarrassed, Ava accepted the white cloth and blotted her lip. “I’m sorry . . .” she muttered, looking down at the smear of blood, her disdain transformed into palpable despair. “I didn’t know I—”
“How could I have forgotten?” Gus said. “Last week after the noon mass, you stopped me. You said you could only come in the evening when your husband was out.”
As Gus repeated her lie almost verbatim, Ava Cilento closed her eyes, expressing a mixture of gratitude and anguish. “I knew you would remember.”
“We can talk in the kitchen,” Gus said, directing Ava to the right.
As he made a move to follow her, he felt Jack grasp his arm. “Mind if we have a word?”
“Make yourself comfortable,” Gus said to Ava. “I’ll be right there.”
“We both know where you were last weekend,” Jack began when they were alone. “Exactly what—”
“Weren’t you the one who told me to regard anyone who came through that door as Christ?” Gus interrupted.
“Don’t use my pious quotes against me. You know what I meant.”
“So you’re saying those are nice words in theory, but in practice—”
“I meant those words literally, and you know it, Gus. But when Christ comes in the form of a good-looking broad, you’ve got to be careful.”
“A good-looking broad? What I see is a woman on the edge. Did you catch what happened out there? She’s so distraught she didn’t even know she’d bitten her lip.”
“Now you’re really starting to make me nervous.”
“Why?” Gus peered in the direction of the kitchen. Whatever had driven the visitor here, it had taken her an extraordinary amount of courage to come; and he knew she might bolt at any moment.
“Because whenever you get that sympathetic look in your eye, someone or something else moves into the house.” Jack gestured at the dogs. “Exhibit A. And we won’t even talk about the girl who just called me ‘Dad.’ What’s next?”
“Tell me Sandra’s not the best housekeeper we’ve ever had,” he said, speaking of the woman he had first met when she was in the hospital, trying to outrun her addictions, a lifetime of bad relationships, and the health issues that had resulted from both. Since then, she had licked two out of three.
“You know I love Sandra and Julia; hell, even the mutts have grown on me, but that’s not the point. In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t the MSPCA, or the shelter in Hyannis. This is a parish rectory, Gus.”
“Okay, I promise not to offer the woman your room. Feel better now?”
“Let me leave you with one word,” Jack said sternly.
Gus cocked his chin in the old priest’s direction.
“Detachment. Detachment with love. It’s an old AA slogan.”
“That’s three words,” Gus said as he started toward the kitchen. “Do I get to choose the one I want?”
“Nobody likes a wiseass, Gus. You hear me. Nobody likes a wiseass.”
Ava Cilento was seated at the table, her hands folded, when Gus entered. He began the ritual of making coffee, attempting to make her comfortable with small talk.
“Nothing to drink—please,” she said, nervously glancing at the door. She got up and began to pace. “This is not a . . . social visit.”
“If you want reconciliation, we can close that.”
“Reconciliation? You mean confession?”
“Whatever you prefer to call it—”
To Gus’s surprise, tears appeared in Ava’s eyes. “With all my heart, I wish I still believed a man had that power. A long time ago, when I was a little girl in my First Communion dress, I felt that kind of trust, but no more, Father.”
Gus sat down at the table. “Then why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here. How can the Church help you?”
“Not the Church, Father. You.”
“But we’re strangers,” Gus said though he was increasingly convinced he had seen her somewhere before. “Why did you lie about having an appointment with me tonight?”
“You lied, too. Does that mean we both need to do penance now?” There was a new hint of defiance in her voice—and something else, perhaps the determination he’d sensed in the foyer.
“I need penance every day, but this isn’t about me. You obviously needed to talk to someone pretty bad. Why you chose me, I don’t know—”
“Talk,” Ava said with obvious scorn. “You Americans think that talk—words—can fix everything. Sometimes you are so naïve.”
Gus raked a hand through his black hair in frustration. “Let’s make a deal, okay? You don’t stereotype me or tell me what I believe and I’ll extend you the same courtesy. Now, if you want to—”
Instead of responding, Ava lowered her eyes in shame, and pulled the scarf from her head and neck, revealing a necklace of purple thumbprints around her throat. “This, Father,” she said, still unable to meet his eyes. “This is why I came to you.”
It felt as if the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Gus could almost hear the Portuguese rhyming song his mother had taught him as it mixed with the sound of his father’s rising voice. Even on the nights when Codfish didn’t touch her, the violence of his movements, his steps, his intonations had made mother and son quake. Until this moment, Gus had almost forgotten how it felt.
He got up and closed the door, sealing himself and Ava in the kitchen that Sandra had already set for breakfast. The cracked coffee cups and mismatched spoons mocked him with their promise of semi-predictable days as he took in her bruised neck.
“Your husband?” he asked, attempting to mask his own reaction as he rejoined her at the table.
Ava barely nodded.
“Bastard—” Gus snapped before he could stop himself. “Do you need a place to stay?”
Despite his promise to Jack, Gus was already thinking of Sandra’s crowded apartment above the garage. Ava could even sleep on the couch in the living room—at least until morning, when he would find a shelter for her.
“Don’t you understand?” she said, her voice both tremulous and vehement. “There is no safe place for me. Not here. Not anywhere on this earth. I’ve made my peace with that.”
“The man tried to kill you. You don’t make peace with something like that.”
“You are the hospital chaplain, Father. Surely, you see terminal cases. Diseases that have no cure. Patients who wait too long . . .”
“But you don’t have a disease.”
“Disease isn’t the only terminal condition, Father. But I didn’t come he
re to talk about myself.” She rifled through her purse, her hands trembling more violently as she pulled out a small photograph. She shoved it in his direction. “She’s the only one who matters now.”
Gus stared into the bright face of a girl who looked to be about six or seven. The resemblance to Ava was unmistakable. The same green eyes. The same thick chestnut hair, though the child’s was divided into two ponytails. He turned the photo over and read the name written in pencil on the back: Mila. “Milla?” Gus pronounced.
Ava smiled with a sorrowful, maternal pride. “Mee-la,” she corrected, elongating the syllables into something beautiful. “Named after my sister, Milena. She would have loved her so.”
“Would have? Did your sister pass away?”
“I haven’t seen my family in many years, Father—and it’s not likely I will. But I don’t complain. As far as my family is concerned, Robert has been very generous. He bought my mother a home, and my niece and nephews go to the finest school in Bratislava. That is why . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Why you married him,” Gus murmured, finishing her sentence.
“Don’t misunderstand. I wasn’t just—what is that ugly word? A golddigger.” She looked toward the window reflectively. “I was a waitress in Robert’s restaurant when we first met, here on a temporary visa. I was flattered by his attention, of course, but also a little bit intimidated. And yet he was so good to me, so very attentive. Though I wasn’t in love, I believed I could make him happy. In his own way, he needed me as much as I needed him. He still does, perhaps even more so . . . It’s just that the cost is so high.”
“But your family—surely, they call. You have contact.”
“On occasion, with Robert listening to every word, and hating them for their claim on me. I have been so alone in this country. You can never imagine. So alone in my husband’s house. But I didn’t come to talk about that. After Mila was born, it seemed I hadn’t lost my family after all. I saw them in the lines of her face, the way she moved. Once again, I had a reason—” She paused for a long moment before she looked up at him directly. “I’m begging, Father. Will you help her?”
“Yes, of course I will, but you must know I can’t help the child without helping her mother as well.”
Ava glanced nervously at her watch. Obviously, she had stopped listening. “We’ve wasted too much time on things that don’t matter. I have already chosen a guardian for Mila,” she said hurriedly. Then she pulled a file from her purse and handed it to Gus. “Instructions for my attorney—everything—it’s all here. Please. Read it.”
“I don’t want that,” Gus said, with mounting anger. “Let me ask you one more time: Why did you come to me?”
“I need a witness, Father,” Ava sputtered. “Someone who has respect in the community. Someone who will make sure the court never leaves my Mila with—with him.”
Gus attempted to respond, but she was determined to finish. “There are two things you must know about my husband. Robert has a lot of money and many important friends. No matter what he does, he will never go to prison.”
“The man’s brainwashed you with his own delusions. All murderers think they’re above the law. Invulnerable. And you know what? All of them are wrong.”
Ava shook the papers at him. “You’re not listening. I need someone to help Mila when I’m not here. The last time I was in the hospital, a nurse slipped me a piece of paper with your name on it.”
“So let me get this straight. You come here and show me those marks on your neck; then you expect me to stand aside and do nothing while you wait for him to finish the job?” Gus said.
Ava picked up the photograph of her daughter and tried to hand it to him, but Gus refused to accept it. “Maybe you should look at your daughter. That kid has already seen too much. And if something happens to you, her life will never be the same. Never.”
Ava turned her face away.
“Listen, I understand your fear. More than you know, I understand,” Gus said more gently. “But I have friends on the police force, good men who will help you.”
“No,” Ava spat out. “No police. I already told you—my husband has contacts there, too. I’m asking you to save my daughter—”
“If you won’t let me report this, or at least help you and your daughter find a place to stay, there’s nothing I can do for you,” Gus said in frustration. He got up, pushed open the door and confronted Jack, gaping at him from the couch.
Apparently, Gus’s voice had risen enough to be heard through the door.
“So you’re asking me to leave?” Ava’s tone was oddly flat.
Gus passed her the scarf she had used to cover her injuries. “No, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking you to let me help you. And you’re refusing.”
Without a word, Ava deftly restored the scarf to its former position and started for the door. “I’m sorry for interrupting your game,” she said to Jack as she passed him in the living room.
Gus stood in the doorway of the kitchen, silently watching her go. His dark eyes burned with frustration.
“What happened in there?” Jack asked. He walked to the window and lifted the curtain.
“Weren’t you the one who told me that some people can’t be helped? Cases you have to turn over to God? Well, that woman proved your point.”
“And you said you could be detached. Look at you; you’re enraged.”
From outside, there was the sound of a car door slamming.
Taking Jack’s place in the window, Gus studied the dark-colored vehicle. He imagined Ava collecting herself before she drove back to whatever waited for her at home.
“Merda!” Gus muttered. “I blew it; didn’t I?”
Before Jack could respond, Gus was across the room and out the door. He barely felt the stones under his bare feet as he ran toward the slowly moving car.
“Wait, please—Ava!” he called to her.
She accelerated, backing rapidly down the driveway and into the parking lot before turning toward the road.
Gus sprinted after her and hurled himself in front of her car.
The brakes whined as she stopped within inches of him. Flushed with anger, Ava jumped out of the car. “Are you insane? I could have killed you!”
“Now you know how it feels when someone tries to implicate you in their death wish,” Gus said, feeling oddly exhilarated.
Ava’s chest heaved. “You are a madman!” she shouted.
“The nurse who gave you my name should have warned you,” Gus said, grinning. “Let me have another chance, will you, Ava? Not just for your sake, but for mine. I can’t explain now, but if I let this happen again, it will kill me.”
“Again? What do you mean?” Ava said, before she was distracted once more by her watch. “I have to go. Robert will be home any time now.”
“When can you come back?”
She climbed into the car and opened the window. “So you will help my daughter?”
“I already told you I would,” Gus said. “Have you got anything to write with in there? I want to give you my cell number.”
“No. No paper for Robert to find. I’ll keep your number here.” Ava tapped her temple.
“You’ll never remember it.”
“I have an excellent memory for what matters, Father. When I get home, I’ll call and prove it to you.”
Gus recited the number, expecting her to repeat it back to him.
Instead, she again glanced anxiously at her watch. “My God, it’s so late. I have to go.” And then, without another word, she closed the window.
He watched as her car roared out of the parking lot and disappeared.
Jack was standing in the doorway when Gus came back inside.
“I tried,” Gus said. Then he ducked into the kitchen to clean out the coffee machine before he heard about it from Sandra in the morning.
After he finished, he was stopped in his place by the photograph Ava had left behind on the table. He picked it up and studied the
child’s face. The wisps of hair slipping from her ponytails, the way her head tilted sweetly to one side, made his chest ache. After slipping it into his pocket, he went out to join Jack for the end of the game. But as he stared at the screen, all he saw was the girl’s eyes. He checked his cell phone to be sure it was charged.
The call didn’t come till after midnight. Jarred from sleep, Gus reached for his phone.
“It’s me,” Ava said, her voice low. “I’m sorry I called so late, but Robert . . . he came home early and found me gone. It—wasn’t good, Father; every time it gets worse. But I have memorized your number. And your promise to Mila—I know that by heart, too.”
Then, before Gus could remind her that it was a promise to her as well, she disconnected.
Chapter 16
After the nine-a.m. mass, and before Gus left for the hospital, he stopped for breakfast in the rectory. Jack read the sports page out loud, leaping to his feet when he recounted how the Sox had bungled a game. Often, he used this time to work in a question about Gus’s ministries, and this morning it was again about “that woman who stopped by the house late at night.”
“It was only nine, and no, I haven’t heard from her,” Gus said, frowning as he wondered if he ever would. Now that three weeks had passed, the question had become less frequent. He shook his head tersely, adding, “Don’t think I’m likely to, either.”
Gus and Jack hadn’t always been so close. Before he came to St. Ben’s, Gus’s priesthood had been considered a “problem vocation.” His heritage had made him a natural for placement in the Portuguese parishes in New Bedford, but a succession of pastors had been troubled by the number of young women who sought counsel from a curate who was both dangerously handsome and excessively sympathetic.
Finally, the diocese decided that St. Ben’s, with its older parishioners and a pastor who’d been an ex-boxer and was known to “brook no nonsense,” was the solution. Jack Rooney, who had run the parish alone since hip surgery ended his vigorous city mission, had hardly been thrilled with the placement. The first day Gus arrived, he looked him up and down before he shook his head and pronounced his verdict: “Why me?”
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