by Luanne Rice
“Under Eleanor Marie’s pillow, like you said?”
“Maybe,” Annie had said, dimpling. “But if it’s not there, I can think of another place. It’s behind the grate, as you say. And I don’t have the keys to it. Eleanor Marie keeps them close at all times. None of us gets in there without her.”
“We will tonight,” Bernie had said. “Tom will get us in.”
“But it’s locked tight!”
“We’re always locking ourselves out at the convent back home,” Bernie had said. “Locking keys in the car, or the truck…Tom can break into anything.”
“Well, he can walk right through the front door here. I’ll open it for him,” Annie had vowed.
She had kept that promise, and now they were moving silently down the hall to the offices. Although the office door was alarmed, Annie had disarmed it with the master code. She didn’t have a key to the heavy door, and looked up with helplessness in her eyes. Tom brushed her aside, removed a set of lock picks and a small pry bar from his back pocket. Bernie glanced up at him, saw the concentration on his face. Only Tom would come to Ireland and know how to lay his hands on burglars’ tools.
He tried two picks before the lock opened; it took eight seconds to get inside. They hurried in, quietly closing and locking the door behind them. Bernie started to turn on the light, but Annie stopped her.
“Someone might see,” she said. “Both Eleanor Marie and Theodore sleep right across the courtyard.” She ran to the windows, pulled down the blinds. But even so, Bernie worried that light would be visible through the slats.
“Don’t worry about it yet,” Tom said. “Where’s the iron grate you told me about?”
“Over here,” Bernie said. She took his hand, led him through the dark room. She bumped into Eleanor Marie’s desk, banging her hip, and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out.
The wrought-iron grate, heavy and tall, was locked tight. Bernie grasped it, holding on to the ornate curlicues with both hands, giving it a swift shake.
“Patience, Sister Bernadette Ignatius,” Tom said, trying the picks on the lock. They didn’t work; it was very old, and Bernie remembered the skeleton key it took to open it. She started to tell him, but he’d moved on to a cruder method. He held the pry bar between the wall and the grate, wedging it into the space, working it down. One hit, and the lock popped with a crashing sound. Bits of plaster rained down on the floor.
“We’re in,” he said.
“But we can’t see anything,” Bernie said, peering into the darkness.
“Hang on,” Annie said. Knowing her way in the dark, she rushed into the outer office, returned with a handful of devotional candles and a box of matches. “Here,” she said nervously.
Bernie grabbed her hand. “Annie, you’ve done enough. Let Tom and me take it from here.”
“No,” she said stubbornly. “I believe in this, and you. I want to help you find him.”
“You’ve helped us already. Please, you have to live here. When Eleanor Marie finds out, there’ll be hell to pay. It’s for me and Tom to deal with. Please, Annie. Go upstairs. I’ll come find you when we have it.”
“Go, Annie,” Tom said. He had lit his candle, and was giving her a look of deep gratitude. “I’ll never forget you for this.”
“Okay, then,” she said reluctantly. “I don’t want to leave you, but I know that this is your mission. Bless you both.”
“Thank you,” Bernie said, giving her friend a hug. Then Annie slipped out of the office, letting Bernie lock it behind her. Hurrying back to the vault, she took a candle from Tom.
“How much time do we have?” Tom asked.
“Two hours,” she said. “It’s just before one, and matins are at three-fifteen.”
“Let’s go, then,” he said.
Bernie led him down the long row of old wooden filing cabinets. They passed the S’s, where she had already looked. Annie’s idea had been to look in the drawers containing folders for the adoption agency homes: St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Augustine, and St. Maurice. The very last cabinet in the aisle was labeled “Institutions.”
Tom stared at the drawer, ran his hand over the fine wood. Bernie knew how much he admired the craftsmanship, hated the idea of damaging it. But in went the pry bar, and the lock popped open with one crack. He had done it with almost no damage to the wood, but the lock was ruined.
He held the candle, and Bernie started to rifle through. They pulled the folders out, spread them on the floor. She brushed aside anything before 1983, concentrating on the first months of their child’s life. January, February, March, April. Name after name: Ardigeen, Bannon, Bower, Charles, Darigan, Geary, Howe, Killeen, Mahoney, O’Brien, O’Byrne, O’Malley, Reilly, Sullivan.
Bernie’s heart pounded. She pulled open the file, read through the first lines, Tom looking over her shoulder.
“Rosaleen,” he said. “Wrong Sullivan.”
“It has to be in here,” she whispered.
May, June, July…
More names, no more Sullivans. They looked through documents from each home. St. Thomas Aquinas in Blackrock, St. Augustine’s in Phibsboro, and St. Maurice behind St. Stephen’s Green.
“Phibsboro,” Tom said, gazing into the drawer that held the information for St. Augustine’s. “That’s where we lived after the cliff…”
“I know,” she whispered.
“I hope he went there,” Tom said. “I hope he was in Phibsboro for a while. So he could feel us. Even though we’d already gone, our love was there, Bernie.”
“Shhh, Tom,” she said.
“There’s nothing here,” he said. “Not one paper with his name on it. Maybe she really does sleep with it under her pillow. Could it be in her desk out there? I’ll jimmy every goddamn drawer.”
“It’s just a writing desk,” she said. “There’s no room to store a file. She was telling the truth. She destroyed it.”
Silently they started cleaning up. Bernie felt overwhelmed. She hadn’t known the whereabouts of their son all this time. But the desire to know was so powerful; once it took hold, it just kept growing. She felt it pouring through her body, a sense of desperation and helplessness, the feeling that he was right here—just an arm’s length away, if only she knew where to look.
Tom replaced every file in its proper folder, stuck them back in the drawer, closed it as best he could. Splinters of wood around the broken lock glinted white in the candlelight. They started down the aisle, and Bernie knew Tom’s heart had to be as heavy as hers. She put her hand on his arm. Her fingertips prickled, and she knew there was something she had to say to him.
“What is it?” he asked.
She felt dizzy. Emotions flooded through her, and she leaned back, hand behind her for support. Tom stood there, frowning, concern in his dark blue eyes. She saw them glinting in the candlelight. Years melted away, and for a second she imagined them back in time, together, in love.
“Tom…” she said.
“What’s wrong, Bernie?”
And then she saw. She’d never know what made her stop right there, at that precise spot in Eleanor Marie’s record room. Over Tom’s shoulder she saw a drawer in the highest row, and she knew. Their baby’s records were in there.
“Open it,” she said, pointing.
“Bernie, what are you talking about? Why?”
“Look, Tom,” she said, and he followed her gaze.
The drawer was marked with the letter K.
“Kelly,” he said.
He wasn’t careful this time. He jammed the iron bar in, hit it with the heel of his right hand, and the fine wood splintered loudly. Pulled the drawer open so hard, all the contents spilled onto the floor. Bernie’s heart was racing so hard; she kept standing, while Tom crouched down to look.
Baby Boy Sullivan. That was the name used by the hospital. But Bernie had called him Thomas, after his father. Eleanor Marie had said he was a bastard child, but she couldn’t deny his Kelly lineage, and she had found it a convenient pl
ace to hide the records.
“Here he is,” Tom whispered, slowly paging through the file. Looking up, he met Bernie’s eyes. “Our son is right here. Thomas James Sullivan. Filed under ‘Kelly.’”
Bernie nodded. She had to look away to stop herself from shaking, and to keep from seeing the tears running down Tom’s cheeks. He reached for her hand, pulled himself up. He blew out their candles and held her, their son’s file pressed between them, and she let him.
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside. Heavy thumping, followed by a lighter pair. By the time the door to the outer office flew open and lights were turned on, Bernie and Tom had broken apart, stepped over the pile of shattered wood and mixed-up files, placed the smoking candles in a brass wastebasket, and started to leave.
“What do you think you are doing?” Sister Eleanor Marie asked, her voice booming.
“Taking what’s ours,” Tom said.
“How dare you!” she exclaimed, flying at him, trying to wrest the file from his hand. Bernie watched him hold her off, holding the documents out of her grasp.
“Those belong to the order,” Sister Theodore said, sounding panicked but almost apologetic, both at the same time.
“They’re about our son,” Bernie said.
“I’m calling the garda,” Sister Eleanor Marie said. “And then I’m calling Rome. You’ll be sorry about this, Bernadette. You’ll regret it until the day you die and beyond. Your days as a Superior are over. I hope you know that.”
“We’re leaving,” Bernie said. Her voice was so choked, she could barely speak. Her thoughts were whirling, and she could barely register the determination on Tom’s face, the triumph on Sister Eleanor Marie’s.
“You’ll hear about this,” Sister Eleanor Marie said. “You’re a fraud. I tried to help you back then, and I saw it in your eyes. Coming to this convent twenty-three years ago, you had hidden agendas. Didn’t I tell you, Theodore?”
Sister Theodore nodded, but didn’t speak. Bernie saw sadness in her eyes.
“You came in here to hide from something,” Sister Eleanor Marie said. “To bury your shame. What better place to avoid facing yourself than a house without mirrors? You should have looked more deeply into your soul—I consider it a shortcoming of mine, that I didn’t force you.”
“Bernie, come on,” Tom said, sliding his arm around her shoulders. She trembled, holding back a sob.
“I want that file,” Sister Eleanor Marie said, blocking the door.
“You’d have to kill me for it,” Tom said, staring her down.
“Dial the gardai,” Sister Eleanor Marie ordered, and Sister Theodore fumbled the phone, rushing to obey. “You’re not leaving with that file.”
“We’re not leaving without it,” Tom said. He started to turn away, and Sister Eleanor Marie stepped between him and Bernie.
“You’re a whore,” Sister Eleanor Marie said, staring into Bernie’s eyes.
Bernie felt a surge of rage and despair, but before she could say a word, she felt Tom stop, turn, and face Eleanor Marie. She sensed him lunging forward, just like a wave rearing up from the ocean’s depths.
“How dare you?” he roared, grabbing Eleanor Marie by the throat. Bernie saw the satisfaction in her eyes, as if she’d provoked him just to see him reveal the baseness of man.
“No, Tom,” Bernie shouted, hauling him away from Eleanor. “It’s not worth it!”
His eyes flickered, and she knew that he heard. He stepped away, but still—as if he couldn’t stop himself—he brushed Eleanor Marie aside, swatting her off like a fly. She tumbled down, crying out with a sort of masochistic triumph.
Tom held on to Bernie, led her right past the fallen nun. She felt him trembling as he bent down to pick up the boots he had kicked off.
Bernie looked around. This was her home—not this building, but the sisterhood. She had been a Sister of Notre Dame des Victoires for nearly her entire adult life. It was her sanctuary, her refuge, her life. She had believed herself called here by Mary, and she stood in front of the small alabaster statue now. Her heart raced, and she looked for a sign. Anything to tell her what to do.
She saw only white marble, a pretty expression, open arms carved by an artist in another century. Tom’s arm tightened, and he said her name. Bernie glanced up the stairs, saw Sister Anne-Marie standing on the landing. Behind her, Sister Eleanor Marie shouted for Theodore to call the gardai.
“Annie,” Bernie said.
“I love you, Bernie,” Annie cried back.
“We have to go,” Tom said.
Turning from her friend to look up into Tom’s eyes, Bernie tore the veil from her head and dropped it on the floor. And she touched the folder he held in his hand, and she followed him out the front door, down the stone steps, through the iron gate, and she left the convent.
PART TWO
Seven
Oakhurst was tiny as Newport mansions went, but try telling the family that. To them, it might have been The Breakers, or Marble House. Granted, it had a fine address, right on Bellevue Avenue. But it was at the wrong end—closer to the shopping center, with the grocery store and Brooks Drugs, than to Ocean Drive and Bailey’s Beach. And it was faced with white clapboard instead of limestone, the material favored by the Vanderbilts, Astors, and most other self-respecting robber barons.
The white house had eight bedrooms, formal living and dining rooms, parlor, library, and flower-arranging room. The kitchen was in back, with a huge stove and refrigerator, for all the entertaining the family did; it reminded Kathleen of an institutional kitchen, something she was quite familiar with. There was an enormous butcher-block counter for chopping, and a center island with six stools around it, although very few people ever sat there. The kitchen window overlooked a carriage house that held the family’s silver Rolls-Royce, their Mercedes station wagon, and the two sons’ matching Porsches.
The house sat on a small piece of property—about a quarter acre—nearly filling every inch, so that there were just two patches of grass, one in front, by the avenue, one in back, between the kitchen door and carriage house. The namesake oak tree rose from the backyard, shading the peaked roof, keeping the downstairs rooms so cool the air-conditioning rarely needed to be turned on.
The help lived in the attic, under sharply sloping eaves. There was no air-conditioning up here. Even with all the windows open, it was oppressive. Kathleen had her own room, and she had bought a fan for it, which she kept going almost all the time. The heat bothered her terribly. She wasn’t used to humidity like this; they didn’t have anything like it in Dublin. She had noticed a boarded-up section of the attic, just across the hall. Sometimes she imagined breaking down the door, opening any windows inside, just to get a cross breeze.
As the family’s cook and upstairs maid, she had somewhat exalted status among the other help. In the hierarchy of service, she was right up there. The other servants were Beth, a local girl, hired to be the maid who answered the front door; Miss Langley, the nanny for Wendy’s children; Samantha, the babysitter for June’s children; and Bobby, the chauffeur. The staff shared one bathroom, with a stall shower whose water never quite got hot.
The family relied on Kathleen for all their meals, as well as for the parties they gave. Kathleen lived for the nights they entertained, when she could cook lobster with black truffle porridge; cinnamon-braised short ribs; potato soufflé ricotta bruschetta topped with marinated grapes. Cooking for the family was another story. “Plain” was too adventurous a word to describe their culinary tastes.
The first day Kathleen started working for them, Mrs. Wells had taken her aside to explain how she liked things prepared. “The employment agency said you are a very good cook, and that’s why we hired you—for parties. We like to be known for our table.”
“Then you shall be, madam,” Kathleen said, with pride.
“When it’s just us, however, we like things just so.”
“Anything you like, I can prepare.”
“Beef,” Mr
s. Wells said. “Roast beef, steak, and hamburgers. Mashed potatoes every night, with a side dish of mixed vegetables. We like Birds Eye.”
“Excuse me?”
“Birds Eye vegetables.”
“But they’re frozen,” Kathleen said, thinking she must have misunderstood.
“I know. We prefer the mild flavor. Get the kind with the sauce packet.”
“I can make any sauce you would like,” Kathleen said. “Béchamel, hollandaise, Mornay…”
“We like the sauce packet,” Mrs. Wells said steadily. “Now, as for potatoes…”
Kathleen had listened politely, with growing alarm, as the woman told her how to make potatoes: “Use instant,” she’d said. “But not powdered—the flakes. Use plenty of butter, and half-and-half. Not milk, understand?”
“I don’t mind peeling real potatoes,” Kathleen had offered, hiding how appalled she was by this suggestion.
“They don’t taste any better,” Mrs. Wells had said. Small, tan, with neatly turned-under blond hair and wearing her customary abundance of diamonds, she sounded perfectly confident.
Kathleen had nearly quit right then. Frozen vegetables with a sauce packet? Beef every night of the week? Those were strange enough, but insisting that instant potatoes tasted as good as real ones? That nearly did Kathleen in. The woman was delusional. What other insanities lurked in her mind?
“And peeling takes too much time. Just make sure you use the butter and half-and-half—delicious. Now, I’ll need you to pitch in with the housework when you’re not cooking. It will be your job to make the beds after breakfast. I need Beth downstairs, to answer the door in case people come to call.”
Kathleen had nodded. The family was all about show. God forbid a visitor would arrive while Beth was upstairs, slapping clean sheets on a bed. She had to be somewhere in the front of the house, tidying up with her feather duster, dressed in her black uniform and white apron. Since Kathleen’s domain was the back of the house, her uniform was white, simple, not so formal.
The boys noticed her. There were two of them, Andrew and Pierce, ages thirty-one and twenty-nine, respectively. They were playboys, two of the most eligible bachelors in Newport. When they got home from parties at night, they fought each other viciously for first crack at the Social Register, to look up the women they had met, to see if they were listed, worthy of being called.