“I think I’m getting a cold,” Mallie told Troy, who asked matter-of-factly what was wrong with her. When she finally fell into her bed that night, she passed into oblivion from the emotional exhaustion of the day.
David knocked on her door Sunday morning. “Mom? Are you awake?”
For a moment, Mallie was not sure where she was, or even if David’s voice was real. Was she dreaming?
“Are we going to church?”
No, absolutely not, she wanted to say. Mallie couldn’t bear the thought of going to church. Certainly not to St. Michael’s. Or even to Holy Trinity. She couldn’t bear the thought of getting out of bed—of facing the day. Sleep had been a refuge. The recollection of the day before—the locked door—made her head throb.
“No,” Mallie said just loud enough for her son to hear. “Sorry, David. I don’t feel well.”
“Anything I can do?” he asked.
So like David to be concerned about her. “Thanks, darling. No. I’ll be okay,” she said. “I think I just need a little more sleep. Will you get yourself some cereal? And don’t forget to feed Bingo.”
“Sure, Mom,” he said. “Hope you feel better.”
When Mallie woke again, she felt groggy and confused. Was it still Sunday? The blackout shades were pulled down to the window ledge and it was hard to tell whether it was day or night, morning or afternoon. There were no sounds in the house. She punched the illuminating button on top of the clock on her bedside table. Twelve thirty. The boys had probably not had lunch, or if they had made something, there would be a mess left in the kitchen. She would have to force herself get out of bed. She would have to get through the rest of the day. On Monday morning she would try to figure out what to do about what had happened with Tom. Maybe she would call Terry. Or Jenny. No, she should not call Jenny—at least not yet. Terry was the right person to know what to do.
Chapter Forty-five
On Monday morning Mallie fixed the boys breakfast and waited until nine o’clock before dialing the number of the chapel.
“St. Michael’s, Terry speaking,” the familiar voice said.
“Thank God you’re there,” Mallie said, sinking down on the floor of the kitchen with the telephone in her hand, unsure of what to say next.
“Mallie? Is that you? Is something wrong?” Terry had clearly recognized the distress in her voice. When there was no response, she said, “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” Mallie said simply. “I’m here. Is there any chance we could meet someplace? I need to talk to you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Terry said, “Actually I was on my way out the door to go to the post office. Tom’s not in the office this morning. Where would you like to meet?”
Mallie couldn’t think of any appropriate place near St. Michael’s. She wanted to make it convenient for Terry. “Any place that’s easy for you,” she said.
“How about the Dobbs House on Union Avenue across the street from the Methodist Hospital? Have you had breakfast?”
“Not really,” Mallie said. Other than a lukewarm bowl of Chicken and Stars that she had made herself finish the night before, she had not eaten more than a few cookies since Saturday lunch. She had no appetite. “The Dobbs House is fine.” She had passed it many times and knew exactly where it was located.
“How soon can you get there?” Terry said.
“I’ll leave as soon as I get dressed. It should take me twenty-five minutes or so.”
Terry was already seated in a booth when Mallie walked into the restaurant. Her smile and the smell of fried bacon and waffles provided momentary comfort. Since she was a child, Mallie had gone occasionally to The Toddle House on Saturday mornings with her father. He loved waffles but her mother wouldn’t allow him to have them at home. Bad for his weight problem, Joan Malcolm said. Going out for breakfast had been a special treat for Mallie and her father.
Mallie slid into the cracked, red leatherette seat across from Terry without removing her dark glasses. She didn’t want to reveal her swollen eyes right away.
“Mallie, whatever has happened?” Terry spoke in her softest, most nurturing voice.
“Coffee, hon?” An older waitress, wisps of her coarse blondish hair sticking out of her nylon hairnet, stood next to Mallie with a small pad in her hand. “You having breakfast?”
“Coffee. Yes. Thanks. No breakfast.” She was grateful that words came out when she opened her mouth. She had been afraid that she would try to talk to Terry and choke with tears—assuming that she had any tears left.
“How about you, hon?” The waitress turned to Terry.
“I’ll have some orange juice, whole wheat toast, butter on the side, and coffee. Thanks.”
The waitress trundled off with a minimum of notes written on her pad.
Mallie looked at Terry for a few seconds without words. She had to trust her. There was nowhere else to turn. In spurts, she blurted out the whole story of Saturday’s experience at St. Michael’s: her morning walk with Tom, his declaration that he was taking his wife to the Crafts Fair, her idea of cleaning up the church yard as a surprise for Tom, Henry, his sons, the truck—and then Marilyn Jamison meeting Tom—and the locked the doors. The locked doors.
Terry listened without changing her expression. When it was over, she reached across the table and took Mallie’s hand. “I was afraid something like this was coming, Mallie,” she said. “I’m sorry it happened this way.”
“What was coming?” She knew the answer without asking, but she needed for Terry to say the words.
“I saw you falling in love with Tom,” she said. “You and the others through the years.”
Mallie felt a stab of anger in her stomach, a nauseating, bitter taste in her mouth. “The others? There are others besides Marilyn Jamison?”
Terry leaned slightly forward. “He’s been close to Marilyn for years—actually from the time she had all that trouble with her husband and decided to go to seminary. I can’t tell you how close. I don’t know. He sees her a lot and I know he cares about her. I also know he cares about you, too, Mallie.”
“But—others? There are others?”
Terry did not take her eyes from Mallie, penetrating the blackness of her dark glasses. “Yes, Mallie. There’ve been periodic complaints to Bishop Wagner from women who counseled with Tom. Two years ago a rejected husband threatened to sue the church with all sorts of wild claims against Tom. So far the bishop’s backed Tom in every situation.” She hesitated. “I have to tell you—I know Tom’s meeting again with the bishop this morning. Something must have happened recently. This is the first time the bishop’s asked to see me.”
“The bishop wants to see you?”
“Yes.”
Mallie had an instant sense of panic. In spite of all the pain, all the rage of the prior day and a half, she realized in all of its absurdity that what she had wanted Terry to say was that there was nothing to her suspicion of Tom’s romantic relationship with Marilyn Jamison—and there were no other women in his life but her. But, of course, she knew that was not so.
Maybe she had called Terry because she subconsciously wanted to punish Tom, to get back at him for lying to her, for choosing Marilyn Jamison over her—for locking her out. Was she telling Terry the story to hurt Tom, to destroy him in her eyes? What a vile thought. Mallie had never been vindictive in her life. Not even with Larry. From childhood, her father always told everyone that his daughter Mallie did not have a mean bone in her body. But that was not true. There were no human beings without a mean bone. It was a matter of being tested. Mallie thought of Palm Sunday, how as a response to Pontius Pilate asking whether to crucify Jesus in the dramatized Gospel reading, she was part of the crowd in the congregation that shouted “Crucify him!” She had shocked herself then. Maybe that was what she was doing now. Crucifying Tom. But Tom Matthews wasn’t innocent. He was not Jesus. In spite of all of her belief in him, her trust, he had betrayed her. He wore a collar, but he was a man, a man no different f
rom Larry.
“What do you think the bishop wants to see you about?” Mallie asked Terry.
“Last week, just before time for me to leave on Thursday, there was a huge scene in Tom’s study,” she said. “It was so loud I could hear the voices at my desk.” She hesitated. “He was with that young woman, Julie Mason—the one who started counseling with your husband last year. She’s been seeing Tom alone quite a bit lately.”
Mallie took her glasses off and squinted in the light. The shock of Terry’s revelation about Julie Mason made her want to look directly into Terry’s eyes. She had forgotten Julie’s last name—had not thought of her in months. At the time of her separation from Larry, Tom told her that he was counseling both Julie and Larry. His simplistic explanation had been that Larry needed a younger woman to make him feel superior, and Julie needed a father figure. Tom was working with them, separately as well as together. It had not occurred to Mallie at the time that Tom’s revealing any details of those he was counseling was an unforgiveable breach of professionalism. Mallie had been flattered that he shared the information—as if it were a clear sign of trust between her and Tom. She had not asked and Tom had not mentioned Julie in many months. She had heard through the grapevine that Larry was seeing other women as well as Julie. Mallie had stopped caring, or even thinking, about either one of them. She tried to picture the scene with Julie in Tom’s office.
“My God, Terry, what was the scene about?” A crazy thought entered her head. Maybe there was something going on between Tom and Julie—Larry’s girlfriend, Julie. No. It was not possible.
Terry ran her fingers through her curly red hair, raising her chin. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she said. “I couldn’t hear specific words. But whatever the trouble was, you can bet she didn’t plan to keep it to herself. She slammed the side door shut and sped off in her car.”
“Would she have called the bishop?”
Terry shrugged. “Well, he’s concerned about something urgent. I’m sure of that. He called me right before your call and asked me to come in to his office this afternoon at two. He sounded very serious. Tom had already left me a message on the machine that he would be in late this afternoon, that he was seeing the bishop this morning.”
Mallie felt dizzy with added confusion. Whatever was going on, she knew that Terry had been well aware of her feelings for Tom for a long time. Still, she recoiled at the idea that Terry might reveal them to the bishop.
“Terry, you wouldn’t tell the bishop about me—about Tom and me—would you?” But, even as she asked the question, she felt torn. On the one hand she would love to march into the bishop’s office herself and tell him everything about her relationship with Tom—about Tom’s lies. She would love to see the bishop’s expression, to see Tom punished for what he had done to her. On the other, she felt frightened, as if she would be the one who would somehow be punished for her involvement with him—as if it had been partially her fault.
Terry shook her head. “I don’t know what he wants to talk to me about—specifically. But I certainly wouldn’t tell him anything about you—not if you ask me not to.”
Thank God. “What about Marilyn Jamison?” Mallie said her name as if it filled her mouth with rat poison. “Do you think the bishop knows about her?”
“I truly don’t know what he knows or what he’ll ask me. I know he’s a good guy, a fair person. He’s been proud of the success of St. Michael’s and he has always supported Tom. But this time—I don’t know.” She reached out and took Mallie’s hand. “No matter what the bishop says or does, Mallie, I would urge you to forget about what happened on Saturday. You need to understand that Tom—oh, what can I say? You need to try to forget about Tom, Mallie—as much as you can. Whatever it takes—you need to get on with your life.”
The two women sat in silence for a few seconds. Mallie withdrew her hand. Get on with your life. What life? Her divorce would be final in a matter of weeks. Tom had become her life.
“You have those wonderful boys,” Terry added, “and haven’t you started going to art school?”
Mallie nodded. The Art Academy seemed so small, so far away from where she was, as if it were only a tiny piece of her life. But no, that wasn’t true. The Art Academy was so much more than a tiny piece of her life. When she was in her drawing class, time stopped. She lost track of everything. She knew that she was completely absorbed in her work. During one of her recent sessions, Bailey Smith had spent more time with her than with any of the other students. He had used Mallie’s work to demonstrate chiaroscuro to the class. What Mallie had done instinctively, he explained from a technical point of view, was the correct solution. Mallie had floated out of class, convinced, for the moment, that she really could be an artist.
And yes, she had her boys. Her boys were certainly more than just a piece of her life. They were vital to her sense of herself as a person. Through them, she was part of a continuum, a link from one generation to another. She loved all three of them. She talked to Sammy at St. George’s every Sunday night. He was becoming a young man who thought for himself. “Mom, I met Senator Edward Brooke tonight,” he recently told her. “He came to school to speak at Vespers—he’s so smart! I really admire him.” She thought it was a sign of his education and development that, in spite of living with the racial divide in Memphis all his life, Sammy did not even mention that Senator Brooke was black. Troy and David still took an inordinate amount of her time. She provided meals and drove carpools and went to a basketball game at Holy Trinity for one or both of them at least three days a week. She did homework with them every night—except for math. She had no idea what they were doing in math. But she knew that they needed her to be there. “Being there” was a part of love, she was certain of that. At Faith at Work, Dave Stoner had written those very words in his definition of love. But she suddenly remembered that Tom had often told her that he would “always be there.” Once again, he had lied. She fought back tears.
“Mallie, you must stop and think about it. You have so much to be grateful for in your life, so much ahead of you,” Terry said. She spoke as if trying to coax Mallie back from some distant planet. “It’s in that scripture passage about faith, about believing in that which we cannot see.”
Mallie dropped her head without responding. How could she explain to Terry that she had believed in Tom? How could she believe in something that she could not see—or touch?
“Do you have a good friend you can talk to? I think you should be with a friend today,” Terry said. She reached over to take Mallie’s hand again. “I’m so sorry about all of this—and I hate to leave you, but I do have to go back to work. I’ll call you later, after I’ve seen the bishop. Will you be at home this afternoon?”
Mallie nodded again. She squeezed Terry’s hand and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
Chapter Forty-six
Mallie avoided her usual route home. She consciously forced herself to drive on the other side of town, as far away as possible, from St. Michael’s Chapel—and the cathedral. The thought of possibly seeing Tom in either place turned her stomach. She planned to call Jenny the minute she got home. She could not bear to be alone.
“Of course, I’ll come over,” Jenny said immediately. “Are you okay?”
“I need you,” Mallie said. She had dialed her friend’s number as if calling the fire department. Her mind was in flames.
“I’m coming right now.”
Just hearing Jenny’s voice had a calming effect. Mallie put water on the stove and took two mugs out of the cabinet. At least she could offer her a cup of tea. She turned on the small television on the kitchen counter, anything to break the oppressive silence of her house. It was just before noon, time for the news and weather. She had no interest in either. The voices, the urgency with which they reported a local traffic accident annoyed her. She turned it off. The box of Fruit Loops from the boys’ breakfast sat gaping open on the counter. The milk carton, left out of the refrigerator all morning,
was already at room temperature. She thought of her unmade bed, her damp towel in a wad on the bathroom floor. She was a messy person. Her life was messy.
It was Monday, the beginning of a new week, the day she usually felt that anything could happen, anything was possible. Normally, she would be looking forward to seeing Tom on Tuesday, making preparations for what she would wear, what she would say, how she would feel when he kissed her. But there would be no more Tuesdays in Tom’s study. No Tom.
She had a class at the Art Academy on Wednesday night. She wondered if she would have the energy to go. She wondered what was happening in Tom’s meeting with the bishop. What did it matter? Actually nothing mattered. Maybe her class mattered. The boys mattered. She absently closed the cereal box and put it on the shelf, the milk in the fridge. She walked up to her bedroom to make the bed.
“Mallie?”
From her room upstairs Mallie heard the side door slam and Jenny’s voice calling to her. “Where are you?”
In the twenty minutes that it had taken Jenny to get to her house, Mallie had made her bed and straightened up her room and her bathroom.
“Be down in a minute,” she said. “Would you turn off the kettle in the kitchen?” She could hear the steam whistling. She glanced in the mirror. Her eyes could barely focus. They were rimmed in red and squinting. Her skin was colorless. She looked away. She knew Jenny wouldn’t care about her appearance.
“What on earth has happened?” Jenny reached out with both arms when Mallie came into the kitchen. “Are the boys okay?”
“They’re fine,” Mallie said. “It’s not about them.” She hugged Jenny and let go quickly before the tears started again. She took a step toward the stove. “Let’s make a cup of tea.” It was difficult to know where to begin to tell Jenny her story. They had been together so much, talked about so much, and yet, she had kept the biggest piece of her life a secret from Jenny.
Valeria Vose Page 21