Valeria Vose

by Alice Bingham Gorman

  They took the tea to the library, the same room where she had seen Lee Harvey Oswald shot on television, where Larry had told the boys he was leaving, where she had stripped off her blouse in front of Tom. She told the story straight through, as if it were about someone else. In that moment, it felt as if it were about someone else. The Mallie Vose she described was a naïve, foolish woman who had jumped from a life of lies with her husband to a life of lies with her counselor—her priest.

  Jenny listened without flinching or saying a word. Finally, when Mallie paused after telling her about Marilyn Jamison and the locked door, she said, “Mallie, I can’t believe you think I didn’t know about some of this. I’ve watched you and I could see this happening. I’m hardly surprised.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Mallie said.

  “I had to wait until you were ready to talk about it before I mentioned it. What do you think would have happened if I’d warned you about what was going on? Would you have believed me? Would you have stopped seeing Tom?”

  That was a question Mallie couldn’t answer. She thought again about Father Jon and her conference with him at the church in Arundel on that Saturday afternoon. “You have been blessed by your priest,” he had said. She thought of Martin Israel’s words about “being a fool for love”—about learning about oneself through betrayal. “It just hurts so badly,” she said. “Oh Jenny—I’ve been such a fool.”

  “What you need, my friend, is to wake up to the truth,” Jenny said. “You’re right that your life is out of control. You’re in a mess. You tried to make your marriage perfect. It wasn’t. You tried to make a relationship with Tom Matthews perfect—and it certainly wasn’t. Maybe it’s time for you to have another counselor—a real counselor—and get your life straight. This is not about the men in your life. It’s about you.”

  Mallie shook her head. The truth was that since she could remember, she had tried to be perfect—to do everything right. The fear of not being loved if she were not perfect had driven her to be a performer throughout her life. Only with Tom, in the intimacy of his study, had she been able to let go of the fear. Her desire for him had allowed her to forget everything else. She had been a fool for love.

  Jenny got up and put her arms around Mallie. “You’ve become human, Mallie. I don’t know why so many of us are born not knowing what it means to be human. We seem to have to learn it the hard way.”

  Jenny’s words felt like soft rain. Merciful. Real. Mallie suddenly had a flash picture of Tom in his meeting with the bishop. “What’s going to happen to Tom, do you suppose?” she said.

  “Nothing is my guess,” Jenny said. “Whatever might be his problem now has been his problem all along, and I’d bet the bishop’s been aware of it. I doubt anything will change at St. Michael’s. It’s you who has to change.”

  Mallie slumped in her chair, depleted. The lively energy that her secret life with Tom had provided for months was gone.

  “How do I do that?” she asked. Suggesting that she change her life made her feel like a child asking for someone to help her learn to tie her shoelaces while she was walking. Or maybe, it was more like telling her she needed to learn to swim as she was falling out of a boat.

  “I have an idea,” Jenny said. “There’s a new pastoral counseling center that just opened in East Tennessee—near Knoxville, I think—in the mountains. I’ve met the man who started it at a Faith-at-Work Conference several years ago. He’s trustworthy and smart. I think you should go over there.”

  “What about the boys—and my art classes?”

  “Mallie, they’ll be fine. They’ll still be here when you get back. This is something you need to do for yourself. Now. It’ll be important for the boys, and maybe for your art, too.”

  What Jenny said made sense. Mallie knew she would need to give up Tom and all that he had meant in her life. She didn’t want to talk about her situation with him to any other counselor in Memphis. It would be impossible to find someone in town who didn’t know him. “Do you think the place could take me right away?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll call you when I get home and give you the number. It’s worth a try.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  It was nearly seven o‘clock when Mallie received the call from Terry. She had finished cleaning up the kitchen after the boys’ dinner. Troy was in the basement working on a science project. David was doing his math homework upstairs.

  “It’s been a long afternoon,” Terry said, the cadence of her voice slower and more deliberate than Mallie had ever heard her speak. “A very long day.”

  “What happened? What did the bishop say?”

  “I’m not talking about my time with the bishop,” Terry said. “That was brief and to the point. I spent most of the afternoon with Tom in his study.”

  Mallie felt her pulse rise, her mind race. “Tom?” She said his name as if she might be referring to someone who had died and unexpectedly reappeared.

  “The chapel’s going to close its doors, Mallie. Tom’s resigned as chaplain.”

  Mallie felt an enormous weight on her heart, as if someone truly had died. In spite of what had happened only two days before, St. Michael’s Chapel had been her life’s blood. She felt certain that she could not have survived the trauma of her humiliating rejection by Larry and her divorce if it had not been for the chapel—if it had not been for Tom. She knew the place had been important to many other people too. Something catastrophic must have occurred for the bishop to want to close the chapel. She waited for Terry to speak again.

  “This is to go no further than you—at least not until I speak with the bishop again and it’s all finalized. You understand that?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That young woman, Julie Mason, has accused Tom of ‘improper sexual advances’—that’s the term the bishop used with me.”

  Mallie felt sickened. Dear God, surely Tom could not have made sexual advances toward Julie Mason.

  “What did Tom say to the bishop?” Mallie asked.

  “Tom walked out of the bishop’s office without really defending himself,” Terry said. “All he said was that it was not true—that if the bishop believed that young woman’s story, he had nothing more to say to him. He resigned on the spot. He came back to St. Michael’s and we talked for the rest of afternoon. He was distraught, Mallie. He told me that her charges were ridiculous, absurd—that the girl had been rejected by her own father. Tom had been seeing her twice a week trying to help her get over a final rejection by your former husband. She had actually tried to seduce Tom in his study. When he tried to stop her, she screamed at him, accused him of leading her on. I guess that was all the commotion I heard from my desk on Thursday.” After a brief silence, Terry said, “I have to say, Mallie, I believe him in this case.”

  Mallie closed her eyes. She could not imagine Tom Matthews with Julie Mason trying to seduce him in his study. She saw the scene in her own library when she had tried to seduce Tom. That had been months ago. It was all so confusing. As angry as she was at Tom, she struggled to exonerate him from the charge by Julie Mason. She believed his story too. Mallie had never met the girl, but she knew enough about her and her rashness—the affair with Larry, the phone call, and the attempted suicide—to know that she was capable of extreme drama. “What did you say to the bishop?” Mallie asked Terry.

  “I told him I thought the girl was lying—that she was off-balance,” Terry said. “He said it didn’t matter, the time had come to close the chapel. It’s become an expensive operation and the diocese can’t afford to keep it open and pay Tom’s and my salary any longer.”

  Mallie had wondered from time to time how St. Michael’s survived without taking in any annual parish pledges and still giving free counseling to anyone who came to see Tom. Certainly, it couldn’t survive on donations in the plate on Sunday mornings by the medical students and nurses and the small group of Tom’s followers. She had never given more than five or ten dollars on a Sunday morning
herself.

  “What will happen to you, Terry?” Mallie asked.

  “The bishop offered me a new job at the cathedral. He said that the chapel would probably be sold before the year was over.”

  “Well, thank heavens you have a job,” Mallie said. “What will happen to Tom?”

  “The bishop called him this afternoon while I was still in his office and suggested he take the summer off. He said the whole business of Julie Mason was unfortunate, but that on rethinking the situation, he understood the girl was ‘somewhat off-balance.’ He said he would like to have Tom join the staff at the cathedral to teach Bible study classes in the fall. He assured him no one would ever know what happened at St. Michael’s. The explanation for closing would be the prohibitive expense of running the chapel. Opening St. Michael’s had been the bishop’s idea. He would take full responsibility for the decision to close it.”

  “What did Tom say to that?”

  “Well, thank God, he’d calmed down enough to tell the bishop he’d think about it. I was afraid he’d explode on the phone.”

  “And what about Julie Mason? What did the bishop say to her?”

  “He didn’t tell me specifically, but it seemed to me that he apologized for ‘the church.’ It sounded as if he told her how very sorry ‘the church’ was for anything negative that happened to her at the chapel—that he was personally sorry—that she could come to talk to him anytime she felt she needed to talk to someone—that he would take care of Father Matthews. She apparently left his office satisfied. Who knows what it was really all about for her.”

  Mallie stiffened. The response of the bishop felt so phony, so trivialized, such a pandering to both Julie Mason and to Tom Matthews. Was the reputation of the church and one of its priests worth the protection of the bishop’s office—worth his telling lies? She wondered what the bishop would think if she told him her own story—about the months of personal turmoil that she had lived through with Tom Matthews. And what about Marilyn Jamison? Or maybe he did know about Tom’s involvement with women in his study. Maybe if she went to talk to him, he would apologize to her as well. She had no use for an apology. An apology would change nothing at this point. Mallie had wanted nothing in her life beyond being with Tom—nothing beyond believing that he loved her. But she finally understood that the love he professed for her was not the kind of love she thought she needed, certainly not the kind of love she felt for him. She felt deadened, as if the world as she knew it had ceased to exist.

  “Are you still there, Mallie?” Terry had waited for a response.

  “I’m here,” she said quietly, not sure where she really was.

  “I’ve been so concerned about you all day,” Terry said. “Did you call a friend?”

  “I was with Jenny Bolton this afternoon,” Mallie said. “She’s advised me to go to this new counseling center in East Tennessee—it’s run by a man she knows from Faith at Work. I called them a little while ago. Luckily, they had a cancellation for next week and they have a place for me.” She stopped to take a breath. By saying the words aloud, she was admitting that she had really committed herself to going to a counseling center for an entire week.

  “Good, good,” Terry said. “And the boys—can you make arrangements for them?”

  “I called Larry. He’s keeping the boys. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

  “I’m so glad you’re going,” Terry said. “So glad. That’s a good solution. Perfect timing.”

  Nothing about it was perfect in Mallie’s mind. She hated asking Larry to keep the boys, even for a night, much less for a week. She hated asking him for anything. And in some ways it felt like she was running away. She should be able to figure out her life on her own—her mother would never rely on anyone else to tell her how to fix the problems in her life. She wasn’t sure she had the energy, or the courage, to go alone to an unknown place at the other end of the state and put her life in the hands of unknown people. A week at the center was expensive. She was not sure how she was going to pay for it. The only thing she knew for sure in that moment was that she had to make some major changes in her life or she would die.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The drive on Sunday afternoon to the James A. Preston Pastoral Counseling Center in eastern Tennessee took six and a half hours. Mallie followed the directions to the old horse farm situated in the rolling countryside just outside of Knoxville. She could see the blue haze of the Smoky Mountains in the distance. Large oak trees lined the driveway and punctuated the pastures; white picket fences cordoned off fields where groups of horses and cattle were grazing. She felt as if she were in a museum looking at a Corot painting. There was a comforting serenity about the place.

  At the end of the driveway, manicured vegetable and flower gardens surrounded a large, white clapboard house and several outbuildings. Before Mallie could get out of her parked car, a middle-aged woman in high-heeled shoes and a short, flared skirt waltzed out the side door of the white house and waved to her.

  “Hi there! You must be Mallie Vose,” the woman said, smiling.

  Mallie was instantly put off by her shiny red lipstick and fingernail polish. Not at all what she had expected to find at a pastoral counseling center. For the whole trip from Memphis, alone in the car, she had been anxious, grimly persevering, as if preparing herself for an arduous mountain climb. Whatever was ahead of her would be difficult, but she would stay the course. Her need was serious. She expected the place to be serious. Surely the woman who greeted her was not a counselor. She was too made-up and too cheerful.

  “I’m Angie,” the woman said, her voice high and chirpy. “I’m the receptionist here. Let me help you with your luggage.” She opened the rear car door and reached for Mallie’s suitcase. “How was your drive? A lot of traffic?”

  Mallie panicked and put her hand up to stop the woman from taking her suitcase. “Could I have a few minutes by myself?” she said. “I’d like to just be here alone for a few minutes. It’s been a long drive.”

  Angie shut the back door and took a step away from the car. “Of course,” she said. Her demeanor changed quickly. “You just take your time. No one’s in a hurry here. Stay as long as you like. I’ll be inside if you need me.” She turned and walked toward the house without looking back.

  Mallie scooched down into her seat, looking over the fields where the puffy white clouds almost touched the earth in the distance. The serenity she felt when she drove in had been replaced with dread. She wanted to start the car and drive away. But where would she go? She couldn’t go home. The situation at home was the reason she was there. There was nowhere else to go. It had been her decision to come, her desire to change her life. She thought of Tom’s words to her on her first visit to his study. He told her that by coming to see him she had made “a decision to live—whether or not she could save her marriage.” She had been unaware of the scope and the consequences of such a life-changing decision. Well, this time she was aware. This time she knew she was not there to save her marriage. This time she needed to save herself. She had her boys and her art—and she wanted to live. This place, this pastoral counseling center, as she understood its mission, was supposed to offer her another chance. She closed her eyes. Please dear Lord, she whispered, if you are there, help me. I need you.

  After taking a deep breath, Mallie opened her eyes, got out of the car, and reached into the back seat for her suitcase.

  Angie stood waiting for her at the side door. “We’re glad you’re here, Mallie,” she said softly, an entirely different tone from her original greeting. “I’ll show you to your room. You’re in Cabin B.” She pointed to one of the smaller houses. “There’ll be a group session here in the White House—that’s what we call this building—with James at five o’clock. That’ll give you a little time to relax and meet your roommate.”

  They walked silently together to Cabin B. Angie held the screen door for Mallie and spoke to the woman inside. “Helen, this is Mallie Vose, your roommate for
this week. Mallie, meet Helen Brady.”

  Helen Brady was propped up on her bed with pillows behind her, a book in her hands, half-glasses down on her nose. She spoke to Mallie in a lifeless voice, a stark contrast to Angie’s cheerleader greeting.

  Mallie put her suitcase down and looked more closely at her roommate. The woman had to be nearly her age, obviously not a young bride, but she was pregnant. Helen Brady had large streaks of gray hair and swollen, crusty bare feet. Mallie immediately felt that something was wrong. The woman was depressed. Was the pregnancy a mistake? Or maybe Helen Brady wasn’t married. Instinctively Mallie felt compassion for her.

  “We’ll see you all at five. Okay?” Angie said. She closed the door quietly behind her as she left.

  Mallie checked her watch. Four twenty. Not much time to relax. “Is this your first time here?” she asked Helen Brady.

  “Yes,” the woman said, placing her open book upside down over her swollen stomach. “I’m from Charlotte, North Carolina. This is my third child. My husband was killed in a small plane crash six months ago—it was his friend’s plane—they were going to Las Vegas. I begged him not to go. I didn’t—we didn’t—know I was pregnant when he left.” She took off her reading glasses, as if to make the final point. “I’m forty one years old.”

  There it was—all the facts out there at once. Mallie sat down on her bed. She wasn’t sure what to say. “My God,” she said. “I’m so sorry. How terrible for you.”

  “Thanks,” Helen Brady said. “I’m here to figure out how to get through this for my other two kids. I’ve got a boy fifteen and a girl twelve. They need me and I’m a mess.” Her eyes had dark circles underneath them and there was a sense of despair about her. “I know I should want this baby—it’s Lennie’s baby too. Lennie was my husband. He never even knew about it.” She swallowed audibly, as if a huge burden were stuck in her throat. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m just blurting out everything to you and I don’t even know you.”