An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries)

by Judith Campbell

  He gave thought to calling Olympia, but considering the hour and his adolescent mental state, he dismissed the idea and decided instead to order a bouquet of flowers to be delivered to her door. He congratulated himself on his developing perspicacity as he reached for the telephone.

  Tomorrow he would call and see if there was anything else Olympia would like from jolly old England besides a blue-eyed, middle-aged man who talked funny and worshipped the ground she walked on.

  In her room, Bridget sat at her desk considering her options. Her mother's disappearance had affected the sequence of her plans. She desperately wanted to have one last conversation with her mother, but that might not be possible. She briefly considered the idea of waiting a few more days but decided against it. Best just get it over with.

  She had chosen the Easter weekend because most people would be out of the dorm for the holiday, and nobody would notice her absence until it was finished.

  Maybe I will call Father Jim.

  She thought it curious that Olympia should suggest that she talk with him, but she had given it no further thought until now. If she did speak to him, maybe she could sort of say some things to him without really saying everything.

  Bridget wanted to make her confession to a priest, but she needed it to be one she didn't know. She wanted to ask if she could be forgiven for something she was going to do if she confessed it ahead of time. On the other hand, priests were forbidden to repeat what people said to them in the confessional, weren't they? So maybe Father Jim would be okay. She always did like him.

  She opened the top drawer and took a piece of paper and a pen out of her desk drawer. She would write the note to her mother and then, when she knew he father wouldn't be home, go back to the house and leave it in a place where only her mother would discover it.

  But as quickly as she had worked out that plan in her mind, she cancelled it. She was having difficulty organizing her thoughts. As much as she wanted to go back to the house one more time, she didn't dare risk meeting her father or his finding the letter first. She would take Olympia's advice and ask Father Jim if he knew where her mother was. If he did, she would also ask him if he would deliver the letter. If he didn't know where she was, maybe he would remember to give it to her after the funeral.

  With her house clean, the supper dishes in the dishwasher, both cats fed and no Bridget to fuss over, Olympia found herself at loose ends. From an earlier conversation with Jim, she knew he had a Holy Thursday service that evening but hoped she might have time to catch him beforehand. She wanted to tell him that Bridget knew about her mother leaving home and suggest it was time to tell the girl that she and Jim were good friends, and they were trying to help everyone concerned. Olympia decided against a second glass of wine. Instead, she opened the box of chocolates she kept for emergencies and picked up the phone.

  “Jim? This is Olympia. Got a minute?”

  “Only a few,” said Jim. “What's up?”

  “Bridget came in today. She knows about her mother.”

  “I wondered when she'd find out. How's she handling it?”

  “Not the way I might have expected,” said Olympia.

  “What do you mean?” Jim sounded thoughtful.

  “Right after she told me, she went quiet. Then she said she wanted to give her mother something but didn't say what it was. She said maybe she'd go back to the house and leave it when she knew her father was at work. I suggested she might call the family priest, that maybe he might know something.”

  “What did she say then?”

  “She said she wasn't sure, that she didn't want you or anyone to know family secrets.”

  “Damn! Anything else?”

  “Just before she left, she seemed to change her mind and said she'd think about it. I guess that's better than nothing. You know, Jim, I think it's time to tell her about our personal connection and our mutual interest in all of this.”

  “You're right, but how in God's name do I open that conversation?”

  “In God's name, Jim, that's how. When I'm flying blind I'm not above calling on a higher power.”

  Olympia paused, thinking back to the visit. “I think she might be getting back on her feet a little more, but it's hard to tell. At first she seemed okay, but now that I think about it, she had an odd look on her face. She did say she'd think about calling you. Then she left.”

  “Let's hope she calls,” said Jim, “but you know, Olympia, we may have gone as far as we can go with this.”

  “What do you mean?” Olympia eyed a chocolate-covered Brazil nut and wondered if she could eat it without the crunching being heard over the phone.

  “Think about it. The battered wife is out of the house. The molested daughter is out. That may be the best we can hope for. Bridget has years of practice in keeping everything in and putting on a good face. From what I know about this family, unless something even worse happens, it's unlikely they'll carry it any further. I'm afraid it's out of our hands.”

  “I'll give her a call over the weekend,” said Olympia. “No reason why I shouldn't. Just to check on how she's getting on and see if she feels like talking.”

  “I wouldn't push it, Olympia.” Jim's voice carried a warning tone. “I've had more experience with this family than you, and because I'm their priest, I'm in a slightly better position to gain their confidence. But even then, it's tricky. I'll be talking to Margaret in the next couple of days, but I need to get through Holy Week first. You've done all you can, my friend, and she's safe where she is.”

  “I'm sure you're right, Jim, I just wish …”

  “I do, too, Olympia, but we've made significant progress. Much as I'd like to see more, we can't play God, we can only serve Him.”

  “Or Her,” said Olympia, grinning at the receiver in her hand.

  “That is a different conversation,” said Jim.

  Twenty

  Where had the week gone? It was Good Friday morning, and Margaret O’Mara was standing like a schoolgirl before Sister Myra asking permission to go back to the house and get some more clothes. She explained that her husband's routine was clockwork predictable. On Good Friday he went to work until midday and then directly to the passion liturgy at St. Bartholomew's. After that he came home and got drunk. He had done this ever since they had moved to Dorchester, and she saw no reason why he wouldn't do the same today.

  “If I see his car, I simply won't go in,” she said.

  “Don't you think it might be good if one of us went with you? Sister Elizabeth has a few errands she needs to run. It wouldn't be far out of her way, and she can drive you.”

  “Thanks, but no thank you, Sister,” said Margaret. “I've come a long way since I walked away from Barrett Street, and I'm never going back. I've still got the dark glasses. I'll borrow someone else's coat and wear a kerchief. If I do see him, he'll never recognize me. He never was observant.”

  “You're sure? It's not that you can't leave here any time you want to, but what if someone recognizes you and tells Terry?”

  “I'm stronger than you think, Sister. I survived the last twenty-three years, didn't I?”

  The nun stood looking at Margaret with wise concern.

  “It's just that sometimes when a battered woman goes back into the home, she can revert. I'd hate for that to happen.”

  “Besides the clothes, there are some personal things I need to take care of. If I go right now, I can be back by lunchtime.

  “Paying attention to how you look is a positive sign,” said the nun. “When you first came in last week, all you wanted to do was hide.”

  “I don't know if it's so much about my appearance, but I know I'm ready for more than a two sets of underwear and two blouses.”

  The nun smiled and put her two hands on Margaret's shoulders. “I believe you are ready, Margaret. Come on, get yourself together, and I'll drive you to the train.”

  Bridget re-read the letter to her mother one last time, slipped it into the envelope, and tucked it int
o her purse. She watched herself in the mirror as she pulled on her jacket and tugged the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Who was that person? Her everyday routines had turned into isolated vignettes, each having a starting and ending point with little connection between one and the next. Someone other than she was turning off the overhead light, smoothing the bed, closing the door, and wiggling the handle to check the lock. Who is this person? Have I already died?

  She had to get over to Dorchester while her father was in church for the Good Friday vigil. She needed to be back so she could get her supplies in order and prepare herself for what lay ahead. The next day, Holy Saturday, she would enter the church in the line of people going to confession. Later, as the others were leaving, she would slip off and hide in an empty confessional booth and complete her unspeakable mission. Someone would surely discover her body before morning and get it out of there before the first mass on Easter Sunday.

  Bridget couldn't think beyond that. There was no longer any reason to.

  The empty hallway of the freshman dormitory echoed her footsteps as she walked past all of the closed doors and left by the main entrance. Out of habit she looked both ways, crossed the nearly deserted street and began walking toward Harvard Square. The bright spring day seemed far too beautiful for someone about to end her life. The outermost tips of the forsythia were beginning to flower, and daffodils seemed to be poking out of anywhere they could. Wisps of their delicate scent caught Bridget unaware and added to the bittersweet perfection of the day. Somewhere in the back of her mind she believed that such a solemn day as Good Friday should be grey and rainy and preferably cold. The warm sun and abundant new life seemed so incongruous compared to what she was about to do. The stage was set for a resurrection, and Bridget Mary O’Mara was descending into the tomb alone.

  She was grateful Father Jim hadn't asked why she wanted to see him when she called the night before. He assured her he had all the time in the world but encouraged her to come early so they wouldn't be disturbed. Bridget said nothing about her mother being gone and wondered, as she neared the subway station, if he already knew. If he didn't, should she tell him or leave it for them all to sort out later? In the dazzling sunshine she was finding it hard to think about anything beyond purchasing two subway tokens and making sure she got onto the right train.

  Father Jim called Olympia and told her that Bridget had made an appointment to see him that morning, and he would call her back when he could. After checking his calendar one last time, he went back to the rectory kitchen and asked the housekeeper if she would please make him a pot of tea. He had a meeting with a parishioner at ten that morning, and they would probably both be ready for a little something by then, like maybe a couple of slices of that wonderful Irish soda bread of which she was so justly proud.

  Terry O’Mara looked at the single piece of charred toast lying on the counter and tossed it in the general direction of the overflowing wastebasket. He settled for a can of Coke and a cigarette. He was grateful that it would be a quiet day in the office. The stock market was closed on Good Friday, and that had a trickle-down effect all the way to the neighborhood banks. He felt like hell and wondered if this year he should skip the Good Friday passion vigil and just come back home and go to bed. He'd decide at lunch, when the office closed. It was possible he might have had a bit too much to drink last night. On the other hand, he might be coming down with another case of flu.

  Terry wasn't used to fending for himself, and the house looked it. This was all Margaret's doing, but he knew she couldn't stay away much longer. With no clothes and no money, she would come crawling back soon enough. By God, he'd give it to her then. Terry eyed the whiskey bottle next to the sink, then shook his head, grabbed a second can of Coke and headed out the door. The cold bubbles seemed to help clear his head when he felt like this. He would take some more aspirin when he got to work.

  By ten that morning, Margaret O’Mara had slipped off her dark glasses and kerchief and was standing outside the door of her apartment on Barrett Street. She flinched at the sharp crack of the heavy bolt as she turned the key, and the door gave way to the pressure of her hand. She took a deep breath, stepped inside, and took one last look at her former life.

  The familiar stink of spilled whiskey and cigarette smoke was suffocating, but the sour smell of the food-caked dishes on the kitchen table and in the sink was new. So were the flies. She walked past the mess into her old bedroom, looked with disgust at the unmade bed, and pulled open the door to the closet. She was relieved that Terry had not damaged any of her clothes. She made a quick selection of a few favorites and folded them into the borrowed suitcase she'd brought with her. She crossed the room to the dresser and took all of her underwear, a second nightgown, and a travel bathrobe still in its plastic carrying case. It had been a gift from Bridget for a birthday far too many years ago that she'd never had occasion to wear. It all felt so strange, like she was a burglar in her own home. After she packed the necessaries she wandered around the rooms where she had lived with Terry and the girls for the last twenty-three years. She moved slowly, touching the backs of chairs and running her hands along the already dusty surfaces of tables and chairs.

  In the dining room she opened the china closet and took out a single Waterford goblet. It was all that was left of a set that had been a wedding gift from her grandmother—the protestant one. Over the years Terry had smashed all the others. She wrapped the lone survivor in a linen napkin and tucked it into her purse. She picked up the Belleek sugar bowl and cream pitcher that had come from her other grandmother. They were so fragile and so cool when she held them against her cheek. As a child she loved to hold them up to the light and admire their whisper-thin translucency. But time was running out. Margaret wrapped them both in a second napkin and nestled them in beside the goblet. Then she went back into the bedroom and took her half-full bottle of Yardley's English Lavender eau de cologne.

  She thought about using the toilet while she was there, but one look and sniff through the open door changed her mind. She walked back into the living room and took one last look at the curtains she had so recently put up. They had been so pretty last week when she'd unwrapped them; but like everything else in the place, they were already tinged with a brownish cigarette haze.

  On the floor next to Terry's chair, covered in ashes and cigarette butts from the overflowing ashtray, was a week's worth of newspapers, a TV Guide, and too many empty glasses to bother counting. Margaret shuddered at the look of it and hoped no one would see it in this condition. Automatically she began to gather up the papers and tidy around the chair, then stopped herself and let the papers fall back where they had been. This is his mess now.

  There was one last thing she needed to do. Margaret turned and went back to the bathroom. She could feel her heart thudding against her chest as she opened the door of the linen closet and reached in for the box of Kotex. She slipped her fingers down the inside and underneath the sanitary napkins. The envelope was still there. She lifted it out without looking inside, wrapped it in toilet paper, and pushed it down between the Belleek and the Waterford goblet. Now she could leave.

  As she opened her front door for the last time, the reality of all that had happened in the last seven days swept her away, and her chin began to quiver. Stop it, woman, you are leaving this. It doesn't matter what it looks like or smells like or what other people think ever again. As she pulled the door shut behind her, she made the sign of the cross and started down the stairs. Standing alone on the sidewalk, Margaret lifted her face into the sun and inhaled a long, deep breath of the spring day that was bursting into flower all around her.

  Father Jim Sawicki was sitting at his desk when the housekeeper brought Bridget O’Mara to his door.

  “Come in, Bridget.” Jim stood and smiled. “My heavens, how long has it been? Let me think. I believe I saw you over Christmas break but not really long enough to talk to. Sit down. Would you like a cup of tea? I've got a fresh pot right here.�
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  Bridget looked around the office before taking the offered chair. “No, thank you, Father. I've never been in here before. It's really nice. I don't know why, but thought it would more …”

  “Stark?” said the priest, taking a chair opposite her.

  “I didn't know what to expect. These chairs look like ones my grandmother used to have.”

  “They belonged to my Polish grandmother. She brought them with her when she came to America. But tell me how you're doing at college—Meriwether isn't it, in Cambridge?”

  “It's okay I guess. No, I mean it's really nice.”

  “What are you majoring in?” Jim was making small talk. He knew that her studies had nothing to do with why she wanted to see him.

  “Father, did you know my mother's left home?”

  “I didn't think it was my place to say anything until one of the family told me in person. How did you find out?”

  “My sister Eileen called me at school yesterday afternoon. She called home to talk to Mam and got my father. That's when he told her. He said she's been gone almost a week. Do you have any idea where she is?”

  “Priests know things they can't repeat, Bridget.” He looked at her with something that might have been a smile.