“He only recently shared with us the story of how his mother left him—abandoned him, actually—in a church here in Savannah. It was the first time he’s completely opened up to any of us about this. Naturally, my sisters and I wanted to follow up and get to the truth.”
“Naturally.” Debbie nodded.
“He told us that the priest in one of the churches in town found him under a pew when he was an infant after mass one Sunday morning.”
Debbie’s face registered her disbelief. “But that’s horrifying.”
“Shocking,” Felicia put in. “We had no idea.”
Debbie looked from Felicia to Lizzie, obviously puzzled. “Who is this?”
“Oh, uh, that’s my sister, Felicia. From Florida.”
“Half sister,” Felicia corrected. “Same dad. Different mamas.”
“Same for me,” Brooke said.
“Three daughters by three different women? How unusual,” Debbie said.
“Anyway, the three of us, we’re at that time in our lives, we really need some answers. For our peace of mind, and of course, to find out about our family medical history,” Lizzie went on. “You can empathize with that, can’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Before Dad dies,” Lizzie said.
“Ticking clock,” Felicia added.
“Dad told us the parish priest who found him took him to a Catholic orphanage here.”
“From the sound of it, that would be St. Joseph’s. It closed in the mid-1950s, and the children were moved over here to St. Elizabeth’s,” Debbie said.
“You still have all the records though, right?” Felicia said eagerly.
“As I said, those records are sealed to the general public.”
“But we’re not the general public,” Lizzie said.
“If you bring your father in here, with some proof of identity, we’d be happy to share the records with him,” Debbie offered.
“Not possible,” Felicia said.
“Or his authorized representative. If you could bring in a notarized letter, signed by your father, I could speak to my supervisor and I think we could possibly work something out,” Debbie said.
“But we want it to be a surprise,” Lizzie said.
Brooke had an idea. “Daddy said he’d heard that the priest’s name was Father Ryan? Maybe Charles Ryan? He’s the one who turned him over to the nuns at St. Joseph’s. We know it’s a slim chance, but maybe if Father Ryan were still alive…”
“What year did you say this was?” Debbie asked.
“Nineteen forty-two. We think,” Felicia said.
“I’m sure Father Ryan is long gone,” Debbie said.
Lizzie sighed heavily. “Is there, like, a roster or something in your computer that you could check?”
Debbie’s fingers danced over the keyboard of her desktop computer. “Well, just as I suspected. Father Ryan, God rest his soul, passed away in 1982. According to our records, he was pastor at Church of the Apostles until his retirement in 1976. Unfortunately, that church was closed in 1987, and its parish was absorbed into another church.”
The three women looked at each other, waiting for an idea to occur to their self-appointed leader.
“I just wish, for Dad’s sake,” Lizzie said dramatically. “I wish there were some way to find out if the story is true, about him being found under a pew. I mean, it’s so bizarre, you’d think somebody who was around back then would remember.”
“It was a very long time ago,” Debbie said.
Lizzie snapped her fingers. “All right. Let’s try this from another angle. After a good bit of prodding from us, Dad said he’s always believed his biological mother was a woman named Josephine Bettendorf Warrick. Would it be possible to see if she was a parishioner?”
“I can check, but not all the parishes in the diocese kept good records. And in some cases, when churches closed, their records were simply destroyed, which I think is a shame, don’t you?” Debbie began typing. “Spell that name, please?”
Lizzie spelled it out, then repeated it.
“No. Not in our database.”
“Dad has an old newspaper clipping from that time,” Brooke said. “He showed it to us. It shows Mrs. Warrick at the orphanage at Christmastime with a child identified as Charlie Anthony on her lap. Dad says he remembers she came every year to donate toys and gifts, and every year, he got special gifts the other children didn’t.”
“That’s right,” Lizzie said. “Why would Josephine do that, if she didn’t have a connection to our dad or to the orphanage or to the church where Dad was left?”
“Right.” Debbie’s brow was wrinkled as she considered the question. She chewed on the end of a pencil. “Maybe…,” she said slowly. “I think you should go speak to Sister Theresa. She’s the oldest nun still living in Savannah from that time. She’s ninety-nine and almost blind, but she’s still sharp as a tack. If anybody would remember this story, it would be Sister Theresa.”
“Perfect,” Felicia said eagerly. “How do we find her?”
“She lives at the Rose of Sharon Apartments, in midtown.” Debbie spun the wheel of a Rolodex and plucked a yellowing card. “One of the younger nuns from her order does all Sister’s shopping and acts as a sort of de facto caregiver. Let me call Joan and see if she thinks Sister is up for visitors today.”
A moment later, Debbie scrawled an address on a scrap of paper. “Joan says Sister loves company, and you’re welcome to go see her right away, if that’s convenient.”
“Oh!” Lizzie exclaimed. “God bless you, Debbie! We’ll all keep you in our prayers.”
“My pleasure,” Debbie said, blushing.
* * *
“Laying it on a little thick back there, weren’t you?” Felicia asked as they climbed back into the Volvo.
“The Lord moved me,” Lizzie said with a broad wink.
49
Sister Theresa Monahan’s grip was firm as she greeted each of her visitors. “I’m so pleased to meet you,” she said in a quavery voice that still bore traces of a Boston accent, despite having lived in the South for more than seventy years. “Now, Joanie says you girls have some questions for me?”
She was a short, plump woman, and she wore a navy-blue St. Vincent’s Academy sweatshirt and navy sweatpants. Her bright blue eyes were clouded, but her round face was miraculously unlined. She sat in an overstuffed armchair in a neat but sparsely furnished studio apartment. The television was turned to a Braves baseball game but she pointed the remote at the set and turned down the volume.
“Now. I’m all set. Ask away.”
Lizzie repeated the pertinent parts of their pretext story.
Sister Theresa nodded sympathetically. “I’ll put your father in my devotionals,” she said. “Charles Anthony, you said his name is?”
“He goes by C. D. now,” Lizzie said. “He has some memory of the nuns at St. Joseph’s telling him he was named after the priest who found him, Charles Ryan.”
“Of course. I knew Father Ryan.”
“The sisters gave him the last name of Anthony, after their favorite saint,” Brooke added.
“Goodness. I haven’t thought of this in years and years!” Sister exclaimed. “Now, I don’t remember the baby’s name, I’m afraid, but at the time, back in the war years, I went to St. Joseph’s once or twice a week to teach music to the little ones, and I do remember the story about Father Ryan finding an infant in that church. He was a scrawny little thing.”
“Yes?” Lizzie said anxiously.
Sister hesitated and picked up a string of well-worn rosary beads. “Now, I would never want to speak ill of the dead or call dear Father Ryan a liar, but I will say that we always wondered if that story was completely truthful.”
“Why is that?”
Sister Theresa smiled. “Of course, we take vows of poverty when we accept our vocations, you know. I think Father Ryan came from a very, very impoverished part of Ireland. But when he came to the States, and Savannah, he
discovered he had a taste for the nicer things in life. Things that don’t come easily when you’re the pastor of one of the poorest inner-city churches in Savannah.”
“He had a black parish?” Felicia asked.
“Yes. That’s right. Many of his parishioners worked for some of the wealthiest families in Savannah as maids or gardeners or handymen. Wonderful people, but of modest means. So it did raise some eyebrows when Father started driving a shiny new Packard. Coincidentally, right around the time the sisters took in that poor little baby you mentioned.”
“Did Father Ryan say how he was able to buy such a nice car?” Felicia asked.
“A generous gift from an anonymous benefactor,” Sister said with a mischievous glint in her sightless eyes.
Wow! Felicia mouthed.
“And you and the rest of the sisters, you didn’t really believe that story?” Lizzie said.
“We might have been nuns, dear, but we weren’t dummies,” Sister said tartly. “We did wonder what Father Ryan did to deserve such a splendid gift.”
“What do you think he did?” Brooke asked.
“It was just speculation, you know. We all assumed one of his parishioners, who worked for one of those very wealthy families, was asked to be the go-between between the baby’s mother and Father Ryan—and that Father Ryan was handsomely rewarded in return for his discretion,” Sister said.
It was Brooke’s turn now. “Wow,” she whispered.
“Sister? Did you ever know a woman named Josephine Bettendorf Warrick?” Lizzie asked.
The nun smiled. “I never did have the pleasure of meeting that great lady, but of course, we were all very gratified when she donated the money for the new nursery wing at the children’s home. Such a lovely gesture, especially considering she wasn’t even of our faith.”
“She paid for a wing at the children’s home, yet she didn’t have children and she wasn’t Catholic?” Lizzie asked.
“Oh no. I believe her family attended St. John’s Episcopal. As for the children part, I don’t believe she was married at that point. The new wing was named the Bettendorf Nursery.”
Brooke spoke up, choosing her words carefully. “Was there, well … was there any speculation, at the time, about the baby Father Ryan claimed he ‘found’ in his church? Were there any rumors that the baby could have been Josephine Bettendorf’s own baby? Maybe a child she had out of wedlock? Could Josephine have been the anonymous donor of the Packard? And could that be the reason she donated the money for the nursery at the home?”
“You think baby Charlie was Josephine Bettendorf’s?” The idea seemed to intrigue the elderly nun.
“We’ve heard a story to that effect, but we don’t have any real proof,” Lizzie said. “That’s why we came to you.”
“I don’t think any of us, at the time, thought anything like that,” Sister Theresa said. “We all just assumed Josephine was a wealthy young lady from a good family who’d been raised to perform good works. Although, now that I think about it, I remember one of the sisters was always puzzled about why Miss Bettendorf made such a point of visiting the home and spending time with the children, especially at Christmas, when she was so very clearly uncomfortable around little ones.”
“Good question,” Felicia said.
Sister nodded. “Is there anything else I can help you with? I’ve really enjoyed our visit, but I’ll confess, I’m anxious to get back to my ball game. I try never to miss a Braves game. Can one of you tell me the score?”
Brooke stepped closer to the television. “Looks like it’s the top of the ninth, and it’s all tied up, and the Braves are at bat.”
Sister clapped her hands gleefully. “Who’s on deck?”
“Um, I can’t pronounce that name,” Brooke said. “Lots of consonants.”
“Never mind. That must be Vlad. He’s my favorite.” She put down the rosary beads and picked up the remote, turning the volume on high.
“Goodbye, Sister Theresa,” Lizzie said, leaning down to give the old woman a peck on the cheek. “We’ve enjoyed talking to you, and really appreciate the information.”
“Entirely my pleasure, I assure you. Come again, anytime. I always enjoy talking about the old days.”
“We’ll do that,” Brooke said, heading for the door.
“One more thing, girls!” Sister called out. “Something I just thought of. You said the nuns named Charlie after St. Anthony because he was their favorite saint. I’m afraid that’s wrong. I’m quite sure he was named that because Anthony of Padua is the patron saint of the lost. And that poor baby was definitely lost.”
“Excuse me?” Felicia said.
“Obviously you’re not Catholic.” Sister chuckled. “My late mother, God rest her soul, whenever she misplaced her pocketbook or house key, she would always make us children get down on our knees and pray to St. Anthony for assistance. I can still remember the prayer. ‘Tony, Tony, turn around. Something’s lost and must be found.’ Probably highly sacrilegious, but I still pray to St. Anthony when I can’t find my doggone remote.”
50
The women sat in the parked Volvo in the parking lot at the rebranded Good Shepherd Academy.
Felicia gestured toward the manicured grounds dotted with moss-hung towering oaks, head-high azaleas, and redbrick buildings. “This place doesn’t look at all like a children’s home. I’ve been on college campuses that don’t look this impressive. Hell, I’ve worked at campuses that weren’t this nice.”
The bronze plaque over the door told them they were looking at the administration building and visitor’s center.
“Remind me what we’re doing here?” Felicia asked.
“We’re trying to dig up the truth about C. D.’s origin story,” Brooke said. “That orphanage he was taken to as an infant is long gone, and this was his next stop. He says he lived here from the time he was six until he was sixteen. To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure what we’re looking for.”
“After what Sister Theresa said, I think we might be on the right track,” Felicia said. “That sweet old lady wouldn’t lie, would she?”
“I believed her. And now I’m thinking maybe there really is something to C. D.’s story. It’s just weird enough to be true,” Lizzie agreed.
“I don’t know,” Brooke said. “Josephine was so intent on making amends with her oldest friends, and by extension, us. Right up until the night she died. But if she wanted to make things right, why wouldn’t she mention the fact that she’d given a child up for adoption? Why wouldn’t she try to find him?”
“Not just given him up. Abandoned him,” Felicia said. “And bought off a priest in the process to keep her secret.”
“Of course, we don’t have any proof of that,” Lizzie reminded them. “Just an elderly blind nun’s suspicions.”
“You know what I’ve been wondering?” Felicia said. “What’s C. D. been using to prove his identity all these years? Does he have a birth certificate? Social security card? How’d he get those things if he was supposedly the equivalent of a Catholic Cabbage Patch Kid?”
“Good question,” Lizzie said. “Maybe I can look it up online.”
“Except you can’t,” Brooke said. “Privacy issues again. Only the holder of the birth certificate, or a first-degree relative, or a duly authorized representative of the party in question, like a guardian or attorney, has access to those records in Georgia.”
“So what’s our approach when we get in there?” Felicia asked. “Is Lizzie still our liar in chief?”
“Same general pretext,” Lizzie said. “I’m probably just going to wing it. So nod and agree with whatever I say. I think the aim is to see if we can get a gander at C. D.’s records.”
Brooke had been staring at the administration building, trying to recall some obscure detail that had been nagging at her since she’d driven through the Good Shepherd entrance arch. Something C. D. had said.
She got out of the car and walked toward a nearby building, a brick one-st
ory affair. A brass plaque proclaimed it the Halberg Cottage. She turned and got back in the car.
“What was that all about?” Lizzie asked.
“Just remembering something C. D. said. It was the morning Josephine died when he came to tell us he was Josephine’s son. He said he’d come to a reunion here at Good Shepherd and bumped into a man he’d known all those years ago. Somebody who’d been at St. Joseph’s and then transferred here to Good Shepherd, the same way C. D. had, when he turned six. He was the one who told C. D. he could look up the old records at the archdiocesan offices.”
“Did he mention a name?” Felicia asked.
“I don’t think so,” Brooke said. “If he did, I don’t remember it. Maybe this man could corroborate C. D.’s story.” She pulled out her cell phone and found Louette’s number in her contact list.
Louette answered on the third ring. “Hey, Brooke. How you doing? Finding out anything up there in Savannah?”
“We’ve made some progress, but I’d like to ask C. D. a couple of questions. Do you have his phone number, Louette?”
“I got a number for him, but he don’t ever use a phone,” Louette said. “Half the time it’s turned off or he’s left it behind somewhere.”
“Can you tell me the number anyway? It’s worth a shot. And if you see C. D., will you ask him to call me?”
“I will, but I don’t know where that man’s got to. Haven’t hardly seen him at all this week.”
After she disconnected from Louette, Brooke tried C. D.’s number. Her call went directly to voice mail. She left a message. “C. D., it’s Brooke. I’m in Savannah, trying to track down any records that might prove you’re related to Josephine. Call me, please, as soon as you get this.”
* * *
A small sign in the lobby of the administration building directed visitors to the upstairs offices. It was late afternoon, nearly four, and the open space with office cubicles lining the outside walls was mostly deserted.
“Hello?” A trim, middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee walked out of his office with a smile. The placard on the wall said DON SMALLS, DIRECTOR OF DEVELOPMENT.
“Anything I can do for you ladies?”
The High Tide Club Page 30