An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries)

by Judith Campbell

“I'll do the dishes,” said Bridget getting up and tucking in her chair. “Just tell me where to find the dishpan.”

  Olympia waved her away. “Not this time. There's a cat somewhere in serious need of a lap. Go find him and put him right. I haven't washed a dish in twenty years, and I'm not going to start now. The dishwasher needs to earn its keep.”

  Olympia hoped her attempts at light humor would ease the situation and make the sad-faced girl feel more at home. Bridget rewarded her with a faint half-smile before heading into the living room.

  By Sunday evening, Bridget had almost smiled a few more times and had paid both cats lots of attention, but any conversation about the rape, seeing a counselor, or pressing charges against the man who assaulted her produced a wall of silence, a change of subject, or an outright retreat to another room. Beyond that she was an easy houseguest, eager to help, good with the cats, and she picked up after herself. Bonus!

  Over the course of the weekend, Olympia explained that her gentleman friend was named Frederick Watkins, and he would be there as soon as he could tunnel his way through a tangle of English and American red tape. What she chose not to tell Bridget was that this might be a trial run for a more serious and permanent living arrangement, but that remained uncertain. Very uncertain.

  What she did say was that she'd met Frederick the previous summer. They had been writing back and forth since that time, and this past Christmas he'd come over and stayed with her and the cats in Brookfield. Bridget asked no further questions, and following the girl's lead, Olympia offered no more on the subject of Frederick Watkins.

  Despite the veil of sadness that surrounded her, Olympia realized that she was going to miss Bridget when she returned to the college. But return to what?

  Olympia decided to try one more time to reach out to this terribly wounded young woman. On Sunday evening she suggested they team up in the kitchen and make spaghetti with real meatballs for Bridget and soy-balls for the vegetarian Olympia.

  Generations of women have confided in one another over their cooking pots, and Olympia hoped that the shared activity might make that possible tonight. So while Olympia stirred and tasted the concoction, Bridget set the table and offered to make a salad. To this they would add ice cream and frozen strawberries for dessert.

  Olympia lighted the candle and reached across the table for Bridget's hands. “Mind if I say grace?” she said. “Somehow the pizza and the Chinese take-out we had last night really didn't inspire me. But we actually cooked this meal ourselves, and somehow it feels more special.”

  Bridget held out her hands and bowed her head. Olympia said a short prayer of thanks for the food before them, then added, “And please, God, let there be peace in the world and in our hearts. Amen.”

  Bridget repeated the amen and made the sign of the cross, touching her forehead, breast bone, and each shoulder with the tips of the fingers. “Not a very Catholic prayer, Professor,” she said with another half-hint of a smile.

  “How so?” Olympia sensed an opening.

  Bridget picked up her fork and twirled up a few strands of spaghetti. “A Catholic prayer would be about how sinful and undeserving we are. Then there would be a really fast “Our Father” and maybe a “Hail Mary.” Then you'd get to eat.”

  She sniffed the food on her fork and took an exploratory nibble of the single soy-ball Olympia suggested she try.

  “Hey, these are good.”

  “Vegetarians don't have it so bad. People think we live on roots and twigs, but with a little planning and imagination, we eat very well.” Olympia patted her rounded middle. “Too well, I'm afraid.”

  “Do you eat fish?” asked Bridget.

  ‘Fish are animals as far as I'm concerned, so the answer is no. But speaking of fish, has it been hard for you Catholics with all of the recent changes in the Church? Like the no-more-fish-on-Friday thing and some of the saints being down-shifted?”

  Bridget shook her head and reached for the salad bowl.

  “Not in my house. My father keeps to the old ways. We still have fish on Fridays, and he still keeps a Saint Christopher medal in the car and a …” She started to say something else but caught herself mid-sentence and said, “Heavenly life insurance, I suppose.”

  Bridget's tone of voice had changed, and Olympia noticed a faint shrug of her shoulders but made no comment.

  “I'm interested in how people live their religion at home. I've been protestant all my life, so there's a lot I don't know about being Catholic that I won't ever find in a book. You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but what's it like with all these changes?”

  “I can't say as I've noticed. I know too many people that go to confession on Saturday, receive Holy Communion on Sunday, and then go home, get drunk and beat up the wife and kids for the rest of the week. Then they run back to the priest on Saturday afternoon, clean up for twelve hours, and start all over again.”

  Bridget put down her fork and began twisting her napkin. “Of course not everyone is like that. At St. Bart's, that's where we go, there's this new priest, Father Jim. The young people really like him.”

  “St. Bart's?”

  “St. Bartholomew's really, but we call it St. Bart's. Anyway, there's this really nice priest there, Father Jim?”

  Olympia kept her voice steady. Bridget was talking about her best friend. I wonder if he knows anything about her home situation. I need to call him.

  Bridget seemed more animated now. “He's really nice. It's kind of funny, him being Polish in a mostly Irish parish. There's a lot about the Irish that he just doesn't get.”

  Don't be so sure about that.

  “He actually has two jobs. He's the chaplain at Allston College in Brighton, across the river from Cambridge. He told us it's because of the shortage of priests these days.”

  I know that, too.

  “What about the older people in the parish?” Olympia desperately wanted to keep Bridget talking, about anything.

  “They liked the old priest, Father Donovan, but he was getting pretty feeble, and the Bishop retired him. He started falling asleep during mass, at least that's what it looked like.” Bridget lowered her voice even though there was no one else to hear. “We all knew it was the communion wine, but nobody ever said anything. We're lucky to have Father Jim, even if he is Polish.”

  “Priests aren't the only religious people with drinking problems. It must be a very hard job.”

  “It's not something we talk about. He's ‘The Father.’ We don't ask.”

  By the look on Bridget's face and the set of her jaw, Olympia knew the subject was closed.

  After supper the two took their ice cream and strawberries into the great room next to the kitchen. Olympia sat in her accustomed spot opposite the woodstove, and Bridget pulled the rocking chair around to the front, where she could stare into the fire. The cats curled up on the rug between the two of them, purring for no apparent reason and soaking up the comforting heat.

  For a while, all that could be heard was the clinking of their spoons and the hiss and snap of the wood fire. Eventually Thunderfoot, the ginger tomcat, got up and pawed at the rim of Bridget's bowl.

  “He loves ice cream,” said Olympia.

  “He can have the rest of mine,” said Bridget, leaning over and starting to put her plate on the floor. “Okay if I give it to him here, or should I take it to the kitchen?”

  “Here is fine. Don't get up, I want to ask you something.”

  Bridget's guard came up instantly.

  “What do you want?”

  Olympia took a deep breath. In for a penny in for a pound, Frederick would say. Might as well just say it.

  “I know I promised not to bug you, Bridget, but I wonder if you should be going back to the dorm so soon? Do you think you're ready? There's a reason why you didn't want to go home this weekend and a reason why you didn't want to give your family my phone number. I'm not going to ask why, but I will say that I'm concerned for you.”

  “I ha
ve friends at school. I'll be okay.”

  Bridget was wiggling her foot and looking down at her hands. Olympia set her empty bowl on the table beside her chair.

  “I'm wondering if you might like to stay on here with me for a little while longer.”

  Bridget looked up but said nothing. Olympia swallowed and continued.

  “I told you on Friday this isn't the first time I've invited a student to come and stay with me. You know I've got the room, and the cats have certainly taken to you, and frankly, I enjoy having you here myself. It's a little too quiet since my sons, Randall and Malcolm, moved out. Think about it.”

  “It's very kind of you, Professor,” said Bridget. “Can I tell you tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” said Olympia, “It would only be temporary, just until you feel ready to go back, but if you do say yes, I'll take care of informing the dean and the residence director at the college. You can stay for as long or as short a time as you want, but I'm convinced that a few more days here with the three of us would do you a world of good.”

  “The three of you?”

  “Me and the two cats.” Now was not the time to mention Miss Winslow.

  This time Bridget really did smile.

  “You don't have to tell me until tomorrow, and if you say yes when you get up and then change your mind again by the time we get back to the college, that's okay, too.”

  “Gee, Professor …”

  “Go on upstairs to bed, Bridget. I'll take care of the dishes, but I need to make a couple of phone calls first. I'll shut the door to my study so I won't disturb you.”

  “I …”

  “It's okay, Bridget. We'll talk about it in the morning, and whatever you decide will be what we will do.

  Bridget nodded. “Okay if I have a shower?”

  “You don't ever need to ask.”

  After her shower, Bridget Mary O’Mara sat on the edge of her bed, running her fingers over the measured lines of stitches on the patchwork quilt folded at the bottom of the bed. She was packed for the next day and was considering her professor's generous offer. It certainly was tempting. She knew she couldn't go home, and Professor Brown was right, she really wasn't ready to face the girls in the dorm. Both Olympia and the doctor at the treatment center had told her she should talk with a rape counselor, but what good would that do? Insist she press charges? That would mean going to court, and then everyone would know what happened.

  Then her father would know.

  Bridget knew how to keep secrets. She would just throw it onto the pile with all the others. She remembered the night her father had told her he'd kill any man who ever laid a hand on her and that he'd kill her, too, if he found out she had encouraged him. Of course he was drunk, but she knew he meant it.

  Bridget hated her father. She hated him for his drinking, for beating up her mother, for terrorizing the family in his drunken rages. Most of all, she hated the sound of him in the night sneaking down the hallway toward her room.

  Bridget went back into the bathroom to brush her teeth and rinse out her underwear. If she did stay on for a while, she would need to get some more of her clothes. When she'd finished and hung her underpants and bra over the shower rail to dry, she opened the door of the medicine cabinet and took out the Percocet for a second time. There were fourteen tablets remaining.

  Hail Mary, full of grace …

  Downstairs, Olympia went into to her bedroom, shut the door behind her, and dialed Jim's private number. On Sunday nights he was usually at the rectory resting and getting ready for the coming week. She knew his habits.

  “Jim, this is Olympia. We've got a problem.”

  “By the sound of your voice, it's a biggie. Not another religious cult stalking one of your students, I hope.”

  “Probably just as bad, but there's a confidentiality factor that could pose a problem. I'm not sure how much I can say to you directly. Do you remember the girl from your parish who entered Meriwether last fall? The one you told me to keep an eye on?”

  “You must be talking about Bridget O’Mara. She's a lovely girl. Is there a problem?”

  “The short answer is yes, and that's where the confidentiality issue comes in. She's confided something to me, and I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone, but it's serious, and she needs help.”

  Jim's next words were carefully constructed so as to allow Olympia to read between the lines.

  “There are occasions when clergy may speak of things they hear in the confessional to another member of the clergy if a person is in grave or mortal danger. Could this be this one of those occasions?”

  Olympia sighed. She had been afraid of this, but ethics were ethics, and both she and Jim tried to hold the line.

  “I don't know yet. It is very serious, but I don't think she's in mortal danger. I can tell you that she's come to stay with me for the weekend, and only her sister Eileen knows where she is. Bridget refused to speak to her parents directly to say where she is.”

  “I'm pretty sure there are some domestic abuse issues, probably alcohol related,” said Jim. “The father comes to the mass every Sunday and every holy day, and he's always helping out at the church, but I don't trust him as far as I can throw him. Any chance we can have a coffee early this week and see what else we can't tell each other? Meanwhile, I'll do a little asking around and see what I can find out. The family is very close mouthed. How long is she going to stay with you?”

  “That's the point, Jim. I don't know yet.”

  Olympia was twisting paperclips into squares and then linking them into a chain. It had been years since she smoked, but she still needed something to do with her hands when she was on the phone.

  “I've invited her to stay as long as she wants, but she hasn't yet said whether or not she'll accept. She's going to let me know tomorrow. I can tell you one thing, she's damn sure not ready to go back to a dorm full of shrieking college freshmen.”

  “This really is serious.”

  “I told you it was. Right now she's upstairs with a full belly and a cat to tell her troubles to if she doesn't want to talk to me. It's the best I can offer, and so far she's been willing to accept it.”

  “Let me do a little nosing around here and see if I can turn anything up. I'll call you if or when I do.”

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  After Olympia broke the connection with Jim, she looked at the clock on her desk. Despite the five-hour time differential, she began dialing a long string of familiar numbers. As she did, she heard the distinct sound of a single chime coming from the clock on the mantel in the next room. Olympia knew that sound well. It was the clock that Miss Winslow used to get her attention, and Leanna Faith Winslow was not given to idle chatter. I wonder what she's trying to tell me. Olympia raised her eyebrows and called out into the empty air.

  “I need a clue, Dearie. You're going to have to do more than that.”

  As if in response, the clock chimed a second time.

  Just as Frederick picked up his phone, Bridget called down from upstairs. “Somebody here? I thought I heard you talking.”

  “I was just thinking out loud. Go to bed, honey.”

  “Do you do that with some frequency, Reverend Doctor?”

  “Only when I'm calling someone in England. Hello, Frederick, I know it's late, but I just needed to hear your voice.”

  * * *

  Tuesday, March, 27 1860

  The weather continues warm. The last two days feel more like June than the end of March. I swear I could actually see my flowers growing, and before nightfall I counted three more daffodils in full bloom.

  Reverend Jared came to my door today and offered to lend me some of his theology books. He said he was in the neighborhood and chanced that he might find me home. He said I could keep them as long as I had need of them and then stayed on for tea, and we had a most agreeable conversation. He is a very learned man. I count myself fortunate to have engaged his interest.

  Easter is very early this year, less than
two weeks from today. My own little church is making preparations for a special music and flower service, but in truth, I have little heart for it. Reverend Jared suggests that I might be more Unitarian or Universalist in my thinking than the Congregationalist people here in Brookfield. I know so little of all this now, but I am determined to know more.

  More anon, LFW

  * * *

  Eight

  It was just after midnight when Terry O’Mara crashed through the front door of his second-floor apartment on Barrett Street. Margaret lay in bed, rigid, pretending to be asleep. By the sound of him, tonight was going to be one of the bad ones. She heard him fumble at the refrigerator, followed by the familiar pop-hiss of a beer can. From the silent darkness of their marriage bed she listened to a crash followed by a roar of pain and then the sound of him kicking something across the kitchen floor.

  “Margaret? Goddamnit, Maggot, Saint Margaret the Miserable, I know you're awake in there. Get the fuck out here.”

  He burped and then gagged.

  “I said get out here. Where the hell's Eileen?”

  Margaret sat up and reached for the bulky terry cloth robe she kept at the end of the bed. She learned long ago that on nights like this wearing something thick and heavy helped. Her hands shook as she pulled it close around her and double-knotted the sash so he couldn't yank it off.

  Her husband was sitting at the kitchen table in the chair that wasn't lying on the floor near the sink.

  “While you're up, gimme a beer.”

  He was at the red-eyed, slurring stage and kept missing the cigarette he was trying to light.

  By the look of him, there was a good chance he'd pass out. Margaret looked at her husband, knowing if she could just manage to keep him talking and not aggravate him, she might get lucky and escape the worst of it.

  She pulled open the fridge, located a beer, opened it, and set it down on the table in front of him.