“Come in,” said the voice that I had loved for so many years.
Father McCarthy was seated at his desk, engrossed, I presumed, over the homily for the following Sunday. He stood when I entered.
“Helen,” he said, surprised to find me here at this unusual time. “Please close the door and have a seat.” He gathered papers that were strewn upon the sofa and gestured for me to take a seat. “Tea?” he offered.
“No, thank you.” I could hear every sound in the room. The tempo of the wall clock. The low volume of the classical music from his radio upstairs. The chair as he slid it over by my side.
“All right, then,” he said as he sat down. He folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned in toward me. “What can I do for you?”
His nearness made me feel faint, and I almost forgot my purpose. I looked at him at last and cleared my throat. “You asked me several weeks ago why I don’t participate at your Mass.”
He leaned back. “Yes, I remember.”
“I’m ready now,” I said.
“I see. May I ask what changed your mind?”
“I suppose I would like to be able to be a part of it after all. I thought I should tell you so that I didn’t just show up for Communion one morning.”
He smiled. “Well, I’m glad you came to me, then. It’s not as simple as just getting in line.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when you receive Communion and say ‘Amen,’ you are assenting to everything that this faith embodies. Not just that moment. It usually takes a year of study. Catechism. History. Theology. And then the catechumen receives the sacraments for the first time at the vigil of Easter Sunday.”
Time was not my enemy. Here in Charcross, the calendar crawled lazily, marked only by funerals and sparsely attended feast days.
“So how do I get started?”
He threw his hands up and smiled. “If you’ll have me, I can be your teacher. A poor one, I’m sure, but as they say, beggars can’t be choosers. And we don’t exactly have a resident catechist nor a wait list of students.”
The possibility of spending so much time with him delighted me immeasurably, and I quickly agreed.
This began months of study and a new routine that filled me with anticipation throughout the day. We went about our regular duties and spent most evenings bent over books or reviewing lessons. Often we’d get lost on tangents, though we never shared anything too personal, each keeping our guard.
But there we were, two otherwise lonely people, sharing meals, talking and laughing. We settled into a comfortable friendship once again.
It occurred to me that if the war had not entered our lives, this might be the picture of how we would have ended up anyway. Of course, there was not the affection of a marriage nor the sharing of goods and a bed. But twenty-five years of marriage would probably have looked something like this.
One of the greatest joys of this time together was the rediscovery of the kind and loving God that Kyle had never doubted. His faith stayed true through such sufferings. Mine had not, but I saw now that it was I who deserted God. Not the other way around.
By midsummer, though, I noticed a change in him. Our lessons continued, but they became perfunctory in nature. Father McCarthy wouldn’t meet my eyes and began to sit across the table from me instead of next to me, as had become his habit. I wondered what I had done wrong.
On the first evening in August I knocked at our usual hour. I had made a cranberry-and-walnut loaf to share, and I could feel its heat through the foil.
“Miss Bailey,” he said, reverting to a formality that we had long since discarded.
I looked at him as I found my seat. He held a letter in his hand.
“Miss Bailey, I hope you know that I have enjoyed these months of study with you, and your years of service at All Souls has brought life into this otherwise desolate place.”
I braced myself for what might follow the setup of these kind words.
“I have just received word from my bishop that I’m being transferred. As you know, priests rotate through here every few years, and now it is my turn to move on.”
“Yes,” I protested, “but you received a letter like that several years ago and were able to defer it. You said that no one wants to be out here.” My heart beat faster. What was to become of me now? What would become of the new “us” that had just begun?
“You’re right, of course,” he continued. “But the time has come, and in hindsight we’re often able to see the wisdom of these things.”
The bread escaped my trembling hands, and we bent down in our seats to pick it up at the same time. Our hands brushed, but he moved away faster than I did.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, pulling the loaf into my lap.
“I’ve already corresponded with the new priest on your behalf, of course.” He got up to walk over to the stove and busied himself with the teakettle as he spoke. “Father Brown from Merseyside will be taking my place. I’ve told him that you are an excellent cook and housekeeper, you don’t ask for much, and it would be my recommendation that he keep you on. If you prefer that, naturally.”
I nodded out of mirrored politeness. “And where are you going?” I asked.
“Crosby,” he answered. “It’s north of Liverpool.”
“And just beyond Bootle,” I murmured.
His head snapped to look at me. “Yes, Bootle.” Our eyes locked. See me, I thought once again. But he looked away.
“The transfer is almost immediate, I’m afraid. I’m leaving next Saturday. Father Brown will be here in time to conduct that Sunday’s Mass.”
“And there is to be no good-bye?” I asked. “To your congregation, I mean?”
“You mean the trickle of people who come for their weekly obligation or the few regulars who are just one step away from becoming permanent residents?” He looked out the window at the vast graveyard and turned back to me. “No, Miss Bailey. I don’t expect to be missed here, and as long as it’s for the best, it might as well happen now.”
“And my studies?”
“Yes, I have already spoken to Father Brown about that, too. Your progress has been excellent and will no doubt continue under him. He is a very learned man, from what I gather, and you will be in good hands. You’ll still receive your sacraments on time in the spring.”
He said this with the dismissive tone that told me there was nothing else to speak about. I stood up and pushed in my chair. It echoed in our silence. I couldn’t speak, lest the tears that had gathered behind my face make an unwanted appearance. I gave him a curt nod in farewell and left to my side of the rectory.
I paced the room before I crumpled into a heap on the floor. My hands balled into fists, and I covered my head as I cried.
Surely this wasn’t the end. To have lived so long in despair. To have found hope and even happiness. To have my daughter restored to me only to have my husband taken away. Was there no place in this world where all could be right, if only for a little while? Was there some great balance that had to be righted by pairing grief and joy? Kyle would have told me some drivel about true happiness being found only on the other side of life. Was it so wrong to hope that happiness could be lived on this side?
I stayed in the house for three days and didn’t emerge for any of my regular duties. Twice I saw from behind the curtain that Father McCarthy came up to my door and paused, but he never knocked.
By Friday my bags were packed. I didn’t know where I would go, but the nomadic lifestyle had served me well enough in the past. There was no way that I could stay here in this place without the presence of this man who was my everything. Father Brown would be an imposter, an interloper, and I could not stick around to live a charade of contentment.
A charade. I stopped when the word entered my mind. Hadn’t that been what I’d been living for decades now? Had I believed that coming to Charcross and living as the housekeeper to Father McCarthy somehow mitigated the lie I’d begun o
n that Christmas morning in Liverpool? Was it not a charade to stand near him day by day and to keep this secret?
I thought again of Lily’s wedding and the vows once spoken and broken by me. I was not merely seeking absolution from a priest or a church or a God. My penance had been great, but it was not complete. My confession needed to be made to my husband.
Chapter Thirty
Father McCarthy liked to hear confessions on Fridays. Some churches did it on Sundays, where one priest celebrated Mass while another heard the sins of the faithful. But there were no other priests here. He liked Fridays, though, in remembrance of the sacrifice on the cross.
The day drew the same faces every week. He told me once that hearing the sins of the elderly who came so devotedly was like being pelted with feathers. Their transgressions were so minimal, so scrupulous, that nothing merited more than a couple of Hail Marys as penance until they returned the following week.
I left my two suitcases, dusty from disuse, at the foot of the door of the church. Ellis had followed me outside as I locked my house for the last time.
“Stay,” I said, and he lay down and rested his head on his paws.
I opened the door. The church was dim, save for the streams of sunlight that illuminated specks of dust, which danced like glitter. The confessional stood at the side of the church. I’d cleaned the nooks of its carved scrolls so many times, and I knew the imperfections of its wood as well as those of my own hands. It had always looked mysterious to me, this depository of wrongdoing. But at this hour the light from the windows poured on it and I understood how people saw this as a kind of gateway to salvation.
I did not know if salvation or condemnation awaited me on the other side of its curtain. But for certain I would at last lift the shroud of lies that I’d told.
Three people stood in the queue before me, standing far back from the confessional itself, offering privacy to the penitent who knelt in front of the maroon curtain that separated him from the priest on the other side. Father McCarthy had told me that the changes happening at the Vatican might include a more informal, face-to-face sacrament in the future, but for now the guise of anonymity was safeguarded. For this, I was grateful. To speak these painful words to the person against whom the hurts had been committed would inflict a pain I had not known since my hands and face had felt the first rush of scalding water.
Two people remained, examining their consciences with booklets that helped them recall their shortcomings. One stepped forward. Then the next.
Then I was alone. My arms shook and my heart quaked as I approached the kneeler. I looked back at the door to see if there was a last-minute arrival who could spare me this agony just a few minutes longer, but none came.
My knees bent as my hands rested on the wooden ledge. The thick velvet curtain was hung on rods that rippled its fabric. I could hear Father McCarthy breathe behind it. I imagined him there, waiting for yet another mundane admission. He might be tired, taking off his spectacles, rubbing his eyes. Looking at his watch and counting the minutes until the last person had been heard. This was my final chance to back out. My suitcases were at the door. I could spare the priest from this purgation, and I nearly convinced myself that it would be selfless to do so. But it was false altruism that had led me here in the first place, and it had to end. Now.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I began, in the words that Father McCarthy had prepared me for in our studies.
“And of what do you accuse yourself?” he asked routinely.
“I have lied,” I said.
“Mm-hmm. And are you speaking of a venial lie or a greater one?”
“A greater one, Father. Much. I have lied to my family, my husband, my friends.” I paused, then whispered, “My child.”
I heard him shift in his seat.
“No sin is greater than the forgiveness that can be bestowed upon the sinner. Now, what is the nature of this lie and whom did it hurt?”
My pulse rushed, as I said the only word that needed to be said: “Kyle.”
The silence on the other end was total.
“Kyle,” I said again, this time through the tears that would no longer be barricaded. My head fell to the mantle, and my shoulders heaved.
I felt the curtain flutter, and I looked up. His hand slipped out beneath it and searched until it found my own. He squeezed it tightly and didn’t let go. The feel of his hand on mine was overwhelming, sending tremors throughout me as I tried, poorly, to keep my composure.
“Kyle,” I cried again. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for what I’ve put you through. I don’t know what else to say.”
All the words I’d prepared. The litany of offenses I’d rehearsed. Every thought left me as our hands explored one another’s.
Then he pulled away suddenly, and I heard the creak of the floor as he stepped out of the confessional.
I was hunched over the kneeler, but turned to him as he stood next to me. He fell to his knees and pushed my hair away from my face.
“It is you,” he said. “I had imagined it before, but thought that I was going mad. I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
He tucked a lock behind my ears and brushed his fingers down my ruined cheeks. I blinked as I saw him through water-filled eyes.
We reached for one another until our hands, our arms, found one another and, at last, our lips.
Our kiss was a frantic one, and I sank into the familiarity of Kyle that had haunted my dreams for over half of my life. Our breaths were one, hurried and demanding, and interrupted only by the sound of the church door. He jumped back. I leapt to my feet and smoothed my hair and face. But the door didn’t open, and I realized that it was only Ellis scratching to get in.
We looked at one another and laughed. He leaned on the pew for support, and I wrapped my hands around my stomach.
“Oh my goodness,” I said at last when our breathing had returned to normal. “Just imagine if someone had walked in! The priest and the housekeeper!”
Kyle smiled and stepped back toward me. This time he reached his arms around me and I nestled my head into his shoulders.
“My gorgeous girl,” he said. “My sad, my broken, my darling girl.” I felt the heat of his breath in my ear as he whispered, “What happened to you?”
Ellis scratched again.
“Maybe we should continue this at your house?” I suggested.
“Let me lock up. I’ll meet you there.” He placed a gentle kiss on my forehead.
I nodded and walked outside. Ellis jumped up to me.
“Silly, unromantic dog,” I said. I picked up my suitcases and walked over to Father McCarthy’s side of the house. I waited at his kitchen table and looked down at my nails. How I’d let myself go. I’d sunk wholly into this dowdy persona I’d created. Once I had cared about setting my hair, painting these nails, wearing colors that complemented me. Through the years I’d lost myself so entirely.
He arrived a few minutes later and, without speaking, closed the curtains of all the windows. He pulled the white collar from his cassock and set it on the table. Then he walked over to me again, pulled me to my feet.
“Julianne,” he said as he wrapped his arms around me again. He held me there, our bodies swaying gently as we stood. At last, he stepped back. He looked at my face and down at my hands. He placed delicate kisses on each and then led me to the sofa. “Please tell me everything.”
I shared with him, then, the story of Helen Bailey. I talked and talked. He listened and looked at me with those malt-colored Kyle eyes that were changed only by the slight wrinkles that encircled them. He held my hands the whole time, rubbing his thumb along their scars. I told him about Lucille and my parents and Charles and Roger and Abigail, and even about Jane and Lily. His hands tightened and his face hardened when I told him about our child, and I even confessed that it was her wedding that he’d presided over.
“A daughter,” he said.
He stood up, running his hands through his hair, and walke
d around the room several times before joining me again. He sighed, deeply and wearily, assimilating this great new hurt.
“How could you do that?”
“Kyle, I’m so sorry,” I pleaded again. “I didn’t know if you would come back from the war, and it seemed like the only chance I could give her. You have to believe me that it was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.” I started to cry at the thought of what might have been and how my decision had separated them all these years.
He walked over and took me in his arms. My tears wet his shirt, and he brushed his fingers through my hair.
“Shh,” he said. “I know you did what seemed right at the time. I was just not expecting anything like that.” He kissed my head before stepping back. “I’m partially to blame, though. I knew it. I looked for you for several years. I wouldn’t believe that you were gone. I thought that if you were gone, some piece of me would sense it. And there was no body. But there you were, all along, in that hospital. I went to that hospital. And every hospital in the area. How could I have missed you?”
“You missed me because I didn’t want to be found. I thought that I was being punished for taking you from the seminary, and I thought this would let you go back to what you were supposed to be in the first place. And I was right. Look at you!”
“Look at me? Julianne, did you never hear anything I said to you? I was meant to be with you. You were my vocation—do you remember me telling you that?”
I looked down, speaking softly. “I do. And now everything has changed because of me.”
Kyle gripped my arms. “Nothing has to change. Nothing has to be different.”
“How can you say that? Look at you! Look at me!”
“Do you see my collar over there?”
I looked in the direction that he was pointing, and I saw the stark white tab gleaming against the old dark wood of the table. I nodded.
“I couldn’t be a priest now even if I wanted to be. I’ll have to write to my bishop, and he will tell me that my marriage is an impediment to Holy Orders. That through no fault of my own, those vows are invalid.”
The Memory of Us: A Novel Page 35