by Janet Cooper
For the next fifteen minutes or so, his elders recalled common experience from their mutual past. Jeff watched both men’s faces. Mary was right. Each was helping the other. Jeff listened and laughed at some of the tales.
Eventually, his dad said, “Although I can’t help much physically right now, my ears still work.”
Doc nodded. “I do have a question or two.”
Trey bobbed his head encouraging his friend.
Jeff spoke up, “Would you prefer me to leave?”
“No, no.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’ve been like a son to me.” Martin said.
“Have to agree. At times, I wondered if my darling wife had an affair before your birth, boy.” A hearty chuckle burst from Trey.
“Dad!” Jeff felt his face redden.
Martin blushed. “Let’s not go there, Trey.”
Although Jeff glanced from one to the other, neither added any additional information nor did they appear truly embarrassed. Suddenly, his elders dissolved with laughter.
Finally, when he controlled himself, Trey said, “A total misunderstanding, but the tale will wait for another day. What’s your question?”
“Julia Ann. I can’t talk to Taylor or even Mary about this.” Doc stared at the scene outside the window. “I adored her for so many years, cared for her, protected her. But in the last five years, we met infrequently.”
Trey nodded his head, as if Doc’s comment was well known to him.
In a small town little gossip remained a secret. Jeff thought.
“From various people, I learned she still favored the hangouts from our youth, the type with loud music and lots of noise. She favored people I no longer saw or cared to see. With my busy practice and working a couple of evenings, I preferred dinner at home. We seldom saw each other. When I heard she’d joined AA, yet again, I didn’t hold out much hope. But, she succeeded. I did call and congratulate her. She misunderstood, accusing me of never believing in her.” He paused, placed his hands between his out-stretched knees, and bowed his head, as if avoiding their faces. “Right now,” he stopped, shifted his gaze from the floor to the wall, and cleared his throat. “I almost have a sense of relief.” Martin wiped his knuckles across his eyes.
Jeff wished the men had excused him; he shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Martin, you did everything you could for Julia Ann. You rescued her from many an uncomfortable situation. Not wanting to be unchristian, but that woman loved stirring up a beehive.”
Doc started to speak.
Holding up his hand, Trey continued, “Let me speak. Even in high school, she fermented trouble. Most of the ideas for the riskier high-jinks came from her. I remember …” He cleared his throat. “Not with the boy present.”
Jeff’s eyes and ears opened wider.
“So, your emotions are understandable.”
“We never really mended our life.”
“I suggest you talk to Father Mike about that. My view is while she lived, you did everything possible to help. With her passing, your job is to say prayers for her and not lament what you could not change.”
“Mr. Trey!” Taylor burst into the room. She dashed to his side, knelt down and threw her arms around him. “You look wonderful!”
“Martin, your daughter certainly can stretch the truth.” He returned her hug, sat back in the chair and touched her hair. “Darling, girl, never forget I’m here for you, too.”
Sitting back on her haunches, she managed a smile and nodded. A mischievous look filled her face. “If you’re Trey,” She looked from Jeff’s dad to Jeff, “Why aren’t you Fourth?”
“I am the fourth.” He frowned at her.
She nodded. “But no one calls you ‘fourth’ or quarter.” She giggled and the men groaned.
*~*
After finishing a light dinner on the deck, which neither Taylor nor her dad did justice too, the doorbell rang.
“Stay, Dad. I’ll find out who’s here.” As she approached the back screen door, she saw their guest. “Father Mike!” She hurried down the hallway just as he stepped inside. Running into his arms, Taylor sobbed. The last time, she’d seen him was on her wedding day. She knew he’d talked to her dad that day. He’d visited twice since then. Each time, she’d missed him. Perhaps, if she hadn’t, she’d have more peace now.
He held her and patted her back in a paternal manner. “Sorry I missed you before.”
The comfort of his hug gave her additional strength. Her father depended on him for spiritual help, plus considered him one of his best friends, while she regarded him as a loving uncle.
She blotted her eyes with her palms. “Dad and I are out of the deck. Come join us for a glass of tea.” A nanosecond later, she heard the back door slam close followed quickly by her dad’s welcome.
“Father Mike. Good to see you. Come join us on the deck and enjoy the lovely breeze.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Beautiful weather tonight, low humidity, great temperature, and no mosquitoes, I hope.”
They all laughed.
Once seated and relaxing with their sweet tea, Father Mike spoke. “Are there any questions about tomorrow?”
Taylor and her dad shook their heads, no.
“Good. Any other questions?” He glanced from one to the other.
She and Martin peeked at each other. Taylor gathered her courage. “Dad, may I speak to Father Mike for a minute or two, alone?”
Her dad stood up. “I’ll carry these dishes to the kitchen. Come get me when it’s safe to return.” He smiled.
As the door closed, Taylor moved forward in her seat. “Father Mike? Do you believe in people in love having a connection with one another?”
“Definitely. Many couples understand without speaking what their partner is thinking. Others, especially those married a long time, sense problems with their spouse before the issue is identified. Some even say they can sense if their other half is in danger. However, almost an equal number say just the opposite. Personally, when I lost my wife and our two children in the auto accident ten years ago, I recall feeling a sense of loss. This was before being notified by the police. Whether this was God’s way of preparing me …” He shrugged his shoulders.
Taylor knelt at his side and stroked his hand. “I remember that after losing them you came back to Beaufort.”
Father Mike placed his hand over hers. “St. Alban’s rector had just retired and the congregation sought a new priest. The Bishop suggested I throw in my hat. Returning home to dear, old friends and, of course, my sister, Mary, eased my grief.
“Enough about me. Tell me what’s troubling you.” He helped her to rise and to settle back on the padded, wrought iron chair.
“Rod.”
He waited.
“They’ve called off the search for him.” She stopped. “I’m not naïve. I know they think he’s gone.” She blinked back the tears filling her eyes and surveyed Father Mike. “Wouldn’t I know if he’d … died?” Her throat threatened to close. “Wouldn’t my heart tell me?”
Standing, and then moving directly in front of her, he gently grasped her shoulders with his large hands. “Dear child, I can’t answer your question.” He lifted her chin and focused entirely on her. “Each of us is an individual. We face situations in life in totally diverse ways, because we are unique. Our ways of handling circumstances differ. What we experience internally and externally vary greatly. Why do you love riding? Why does Martin love being a chiropractor? Why does Mary prefer taking care of you and your dad to teaching? For me, only God understands our exclusive natures, characters and emotions.
“I’m sure my comments don’t answer your question, but I can’t give you a definitive response.” He stood quietly.
Reluctantly, she bobbed her head. Had she truly expected an answer?
“Any other things troubling you?” he asked in his gentle voice.
She nodded and he sat once more.
“I’m so angry with him. Wh
y did he go out on such an important day, especially with the spitting rain? Was fishing more important than our wedding?” She spit out the last words.
“Taylor, Rod always cared for his own wants before anything else. Remember when you and he were in pre-wedding counseling, and you both filled out all those forms?”
She shook her head yes.
“One of the issues was putting himself first. He didn’t change. He wanted to go fishing, so he did. That’s part of his personality. Something he can or won’t change. When we discussed this in one of our sessions, you didn’t challenge him.”
Taylor wanted to speak, yet Father Mike stated the facts accurately.
Perhaps sensing her need, the priest held up his hand. “Another thing, his childhood was quite different than yours. When we discussed the wedding and I asked about his parents, he told me they won’t come. He inferred there was a problem.”
“When he was a sophomore in college, they moved. When I asked where, he told me didn’t know and didn’t care. Everyone in high school knew he didn’t get along with his parents, but not why. I asked when planning the wedding, but he shut me down.”
Mike nodded. “You had a difficult time with your mother, but you had a loving family. In his case, he had only himself. When one lives alone, one becomes much more self-reliant and in some cases selfish. He was both.
“Dear girl, I’m not trying to be cruel. What I’ve stated is simply the truth.” He reached across and patted her hand, which clenched the armrest.
“I know.” She rose as did he, then they hugged each other. Taylor gave a quick squeeze and stepped back.
Father Mike let her go. “Think about what I said. He didn’t act out of disregard for you. He followed his natural desires.”
She needed time to reflect on his comments, forcing a smile she said, “Thanks, Father Mike. I’ll send Dad out.” Taylor planted a kiss on his cheek then headed inside.
*~*
Strolling out to the porch, Martin asked, “Can I get you more tea, Mike?”
“I’ll just finish what’s here.”
Martin walked to the steps leading to the Camellia garden. How to start? “Beautiful night.”
“You said that earlier,” Mike’s tone noncommittal.
Ideas flowed through Martin’s head, but none struck the right cord.
“Sit down, Martin.”
He did.
“Although I’m a few years younger than you …”
“Hold on there, Mike. As we get older, two years is nothing.” Martin tried to lighten the mood.
“As I was about to say, talk to me, tell me what’s troubling you.”
Martin leaned forward, bowed his head, placed his elbows on his knees, and allowed his grasped hands to swing, slightly. Failing to gather his thoughts and keeping his attention on the flagstones covering the porch, he decided to say what ate at his gut. “Julia Ann.”
“Yes.”
“Mike, my heart and mind are confused.” His gaze remained on the rectangular shaped flagstone directly in front. “I adored her. When she left twenty years ago, my heart broke. Each time she sobered up then fell off the wagon, my soul cracked. If she caused a scene, I would strived to prevent her from making a bad situation worse. When she embarrassed Taylor, my whole body ached to protect my daughter, not my wife. For the past four or five years, I tucked Julia Ann into the furthest reaches of my mind. Days went by and I didn’t think about her at all.” He pushed off the chair and renewed his aimless pacing.
“When I learned of her death, instead of grieving, I experienced relief. Relief that my wife had died!” He kept his attention on anything except his friend. “What kind of man am I?”
Martin felt Mike’s hand on his right shoulder. He hadn’t heard the priest approach. “Come back to the table.”
Following like a puppet, Martin collapsed in the chair, folded his arms on the table top and bowed his head.
“What are you experiencing now?”
His head remained buried in his arms. “Regret, anger, rage, guilt and relief.”
“Let’s talk about these one by one. But let’s start with guilt.”
Taking a deep breath, Martin shifted his position and sat back in his chair staring at the star filled sky. “Perhaps, I didn’t do enough. I’m very aware of AA’s steps. I’ve had professional counseling, still I wonder …”
“Could you have changed anything in your life to prevent Julia Ann’s addiction?”
Martin waited a few minutes, not changing his focal point, while he reviewed his actions and his wife’s. “Logically, no, but …”
“All right,” Mike interrupted. “Anger.”
“At Julia Ann. At Rod, for disappearing and being a primer for the events that led to her death. At myself for, who knows what else. The anger, maybe resentment is a better word, that I bare and bore her hurts like a festering sore.” He looked directly at his friend.
“For a goodly portion of your life, you hid your inner hurt—protecting where necessary, soothing when needed, and keeping a stable environment for Taylor. My telling you that you did all you could, won’t solve the inner ache. You must acknowledge and accept the truth and reality of those facts.”
Martin listened. Can I accept that? He wasn’t sure.
“Regret.”
As he stared off into the open space that separated the porch from the river, he wondered how to answer. Finally, he said, “Regret because of what we might have had.”
“Oh. Rewriting life. All of us wish we could do this, some more often than others. When I lost my family, I blamed myself for not driving them to the game. Didn’t matter, that the field was halfway between home and my church and that we’d planned to meet at the game. The guilt lay heavily on me. Almost everyone wishes he or she could change the past. No one can. Does that prevent us from wishing to? No. Regret is another part of the healing. The hardest one is next relief.”
Silently, Martin prayed for strength to continue. “Relief that Taylor and I no longer have to live in fear, and I do mean fear, of what Julia Ann will do. As the saying goes, ‘waiting for the next shoe to drop.’ For years, I expected a phone call from the police or the hospital. Fortunately this didn’t happen until the other night. That woman lived a charmed life.” He shook his head as he mentally recalled some of the stories he’d heard or some of the events he’d witnessed.
“Please don’t misunderstand what I’m going to say next.”
“Priests hear many things. We listen and try not to judge.”
“With Julia Ann’s passing, I can have my own life. While she lived, every day was restricted for fear of what would happen if I wasn’t here. If I want to take a vacation, I can. If I want to move, I can. I never divorced her because I worried about her survival.
“I don’t believe I have loved her for a very long time.” He allowed his inner emotions to show.
“Martin, unrequited love only works in novels. Love doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Love is a give and take, a sharing of everyday activities, a desire to be a part of someone, to help, to laugh or cry with them. If none of these exist or haven’t existed for years, love can’t survive.
“Time and prayer are truly the only healers. When I lost family, I almost lost my religion, too. My relief was because they hadn’t suffered, but all of the other emotions you express filled me as well. My whole being ached with hurt. Talking does help. I’m always here for you and yours. Don’t be ashamed of your feelings. Accept them. Live with them. Acknowledge them, but don’t dwell on them.
“Any other problems or questions?”
Martin shook his head.
Mike stood. “I’ll see you tomorrow. My prayers are with you.” He gripped Martin’s shoulder with one hand, before turning toward the door.
Martin remained in his chair thinking.
Chapter Seven
The long, black, funeral limo’s tires screeched on the dirt and stone driveway as it pulled up to the front steps of the Harris home. Taylo
r had been standing at the screen door waiting. She’d worn the black, silk, sheath many times before, but after today, she would give the dress away. The memories from this day would totally over shadow the happier times. “Dad, the car’s here.” Taylor heard her father’s footsteps on the stairs. She turned around and looked. He seldom wore a suit, probably didn’t have more than two or three, preferring an open-necked, short-sleeved shirt and Dockers. Today, he wore a black suit with small, almost invisible, white stripes. His face showed little emotion, but Taylor recognized this expression. When he faced an unpleasant situation, he wore a mask. She took his hand. Leading the way, they walked out the wide front door and entered the back seat of the limousine.
“Good morning, Aunt Bertha,” Taylor and her father said in tandem, as they sat opposite her. Her aunt had been picked up first. She sat facing the driver wearing her funeral dress, so called since only for those occasions was the outfit worn. How old the dress was or what style, Taylor had no idea. However, the skirt filled almost the entire rear seat and the hat and short veil reminded Taylor of old pictures of Dwight Eisenhower’s wife, Mamie.
“Good morning, my dears. Although why we say ‘good’ on such a day, I have no idea.” She opened her purse and pulled out a black handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. Taylor had asked about the hanky and was told it belonged to Bertha’s grandmother. Why am I thinking about such trivial things? I should be praying for my mother.
Taylor found her father’s hand and held it for the twenty minute drive to the church. The only sounds in the car, the occasional whirl of the air-conditioner fan clicking on and off and an occasional sniffle from her aunt.
Cars, SUV’s, and trucks packed the parking lot across the street from the church. The spaces in front, plus those on the side streets and in the back of the building, would also be occupied. Taylor recognized this as a tribute, not so much to her mother, as for her father. She glanced at him. He was a good man. He deserved better than Julia Ann. Perhaps, with her gone, he might find the peace that her mother had denied him. A terrible thought, but true.