by Selena Kitt
“I have a secret to tell you.” He leaned in, whispering into her ear. “You’re a very special girl, Erica. Just like your mother.”
Erica remembered the words from her mother’s journal. Father Patrick told me I was special, that God had marked me in a way only Father Patrick could see.
“Do you think God has a divine purpose for me?”
Father Patrick searched her face, clearly satisfied with what he saw there. “I’m sure of it.”
“I want to join the Mary Magdalenes, Father Patrick.”
“You’re a curious little kitten, aren’t you?” Father Patrick smiled, reaching out and grasping Erica’s wrist, encircling it. He just held her there, not squeezing, not rough, but holding her still.
“It’s very secret, Erica.” Father Patrick leaned down, he was a tall man, and whispered again into her ear. “You couldn’t tell anyone about it. Even your father. Especially your father.”
“I understand.” The rush of adrenaline through Erica’s limbs at the thought of uncovering such a secret society made her tremble. The journalist in her was chomping at the bit. Father Patrick noticed, misinterpreting and commenting on it.
“You don’t have to be afraid. It’s for good girls. The best girls. Special girls.”
“Why am I special?” Erica wondered out loud.
“You were chosen.” Father Patrick chuckled, his thumb stroking the inner part of her wrist. “I chose you.”
“Father Patrick?” Father Michael approached them, carrying Father Patrick’s long, black wool coat. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, thank you.” Father Patrick allowed Father Michael to put his coat over his shoulders. He looked at Erica, still smiling. “Call my office, Erica. Set up an appointment for the meeting we talked about with my secretary, Mrs. Ketchum.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good night, child.” Father Patrick reached out and touched Erica’s cheek, stroking the backs of his fingers along her smooth skin, a familiar gesture, a blessing, but Erica shivered.
“Good night, Father Patrick. Good night, Father Michael.”
“Good night Erica.” Father Michael took the older man’s elbow, steering him through the crowd, the lame leading the infirm.
What, exactly, had just happened? Erica wasn’t sure. She noticed Father Michael’s limp, more prominent than usual. He leaned heavily on his cane as he steered the older clergyman through the crowd. No one knew why Father Michael limped. He didn’t talk about it, but the rumors ran rampant. Girls whispered dreamily that it was an old war wound, but Erica was sure Father Michael was too young to have been in any war, unlike her own father, who had served in World War II.
“Erica, was that Father Patrick you were talking to?” Her father appeared at her elbow, making her startle for the second time in ten minutes.
“Yes.” She watched the two of them making their way through the crowd.
“What were you talking about?” he asked.
“Oh nothing.” Erica shrugged. She wasn’t about to tell him she’d found her mother’s diaries and read them. Nor was she going to tell him, ever, what had happened between Father Patrick and the woman he had married. “He recognized this dress.”
“Your mother’s dress.” He frowned, looking at it.
“He said he remembered her wearing it. At my confirmation.”
Erica remembered it clearly herself. Erica and Leah had been confirmed together, and their mothers had picked out matching gowns, as if they were practicing for a future wedding, all white satin and lace, elbow length white gloves, complete with a bride-like veil ending at their waists. Both girls had been given real gold crosses to wear around their necks.
Erica had felt like the bride of God that day, kneeling in front of Father Patrick to take her first communion. She had wondered if that was what it felt like to become a nun. Or, the worldly equivalent, to marry a man. Erica liked to joke about Catholic school, and their guilt ridden Catholic faith, but some deep part of her connected to God through the church. Maybe it had just been ingrained, but folding her hands and sinking to her knees always brought an overwhelming feeling of calm and peace in her.
“Funny, I don’t remember that one.” Her father interrupted her reverie.
“You were overseas, remember?” she reminded him.
“Oh right.” He frowned, thoughtful. “Your confirmation, I’m so sorry I missed that.”
“At least you came home.” Erica remembered that time in her life, when her father had been away, in bits and pieces. She remembered rationing, and how sad her mother had been. She remembered war rallies. She remembered church collections for the poor, and other girls’ mothers entering the workforce while their husbands were at war. Some girls had fathers who never came home. “I remember Mom crying a lot. And she was all alone when I had my appendix out. She was scared without you. Lonely, I think.”
Her father looked sad. “I miss her. Your mother was very special.”
“That’s what Father Patrick said,” Erica mused.
“Did he?” Her father’s eyebrows shot up.
“Excuse me, Daddy. I need to use the ladies.”
Erica weaved her way through the crowd, finding the long hallway to the back entrance. That’s where the bathrooms were. She’d been in the gallery enough to know it inside and out. There was a line of women waiting to use the restroom and Erica was at the end of it. There were only three stalls and one mirror. She knew it could be a long wait.
Across the hall, the men’s room had no line at all. She had downed three cherry Cokes—her father had forbidden cocktails. She really had to go. Erica slipped away from the crowd of women, glancing up and down the hall, no one masculine insight. The only danger remaining might be a man at the urinals inside.
Thankfully, the men’s bathroom was empty. Erica went to the last stall, going in and locking it. She had just finished and was straightening her stockings when the door opened. She froze in place, aghast at the thought of being caught using the men’s toilet. Her father wasn’t the type to lecture, but he made his disappointment known with long, cold silences and awful glares over his morning newspaper. She knew he would disapprove.
Erica sat back down, hugging her knees and pulling her feet up out of sight.
“Patrick, I told you to leave her alone.” Erica recognized his voice immediately. It was her father’s.
“I didn’t approach her. She approached me.”
“I don’t want her involved in this. We had a deal.”
“She’s of age, Robert,” Father Patrick reminded him. “She can choose for herself.”
“I’m warning you, stay away from my daughter.”
Erica knew the tone in her father’s voice well. He was very angry. Father Patrick, on the other hand, sounded incredibly calm, even amused.
“She’s special, like her mother.”
“I’ll send her away if I have to.”
Erica’s stomach dropped at her father’s words. Send her away? Where?
“No you won’t.” Father Patrick sounded smug. “She’s all you have left.”
“Leave her alone. I mean it.”
“You’re paranoid, Robert. Is that what you dragged me in here for? I don’t need Erica. There are plenty of girls who are thrilled to serve.”
Serve? What were they talking about?
“You might not need her, but you want her. And you can’t have her. Do you understand me?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Not yet.”
“I have the power to crush you like a bug.” Now Father Patrick sounded angry.
“Don’t overestimate yourself, Father.”
“Father Patrick, are you all right in here?” Father Michael’s voice grew louder as the door opened and he entered the men’s room.
“Just fine,” Father Patrick replied. “Nice talking to you, Robert.”
“Just remember,” Erica’s father said in a low voice. “I meant every word I said.”
; “So did I,” Father Patrick assured him.
Erica heard the door open and close, three sets of footsteps walking away. She sat there, shaking and trying to catch her breath, she didn’t know for how long. She didn’t understand what had transpired between her dad and Father Patrick, but whatever they had been discussing, the tone between them was adversarial. She had never seen them argue before. Father Patrick was a regular guest at the Nolans, and so was Father Michael. The nuns too, sister Abigail and sister Agnes. She had been raised surrounded by clergy, taught by them, praised and petted by them, and yes, punished by them as well.
But in those years, all the experience she’d ever had with priests and nuns, she had never heard one speak the way Father Patrick had to her dad. She sat there, paralyzed, for a long time, until the door opened again, and a man entered. She waited, hearing him urinate, wash his hands, and leave. Then she got up, cautiously opening the stall door, quickly washing her hands at the sink, and slipping out into the hall.
The line at the women’s bathroom had dissipated, so she slipped down the hallway unnoticed, heading toward the exit. She just needed a little air to clear her head. She couldn’t quite process what she had overheard. It was like one of those giant puzzles her mother used to like, all the pieces spread out on a card table, the picture only clear once you had pieced it all together. Her mother used to say that looking at the front of the box, at the whole picture, was cheating, but Erica wished she had a clear picture to look at now.
Outside, it was growing dark. She shivered in the September wind, but she lifted her face to it, taking in long, deep breaths, clearing her lungs and her head. The parking lot was full of cars, more than they could handle, some in third rows, blocking others in. She imagined it was the appearance of Elvis, however last minute and low-key the announcement, which had drawn the crowds. She still didn’t understand why Father Patrick and Father Michael had come to this particular show.
Erica sat on the little bench beside the door. From here, she could hear people going in and out the back, but they couldn’t see her, as she was screened by the tall bushes flanking the back entrance. She still couldn’t make heads or tails of the conversation she’d overheard, but her curiosity had been piqued and when Erica’s bloodhound nose got involved, she went after the facts like nobody else. Father Patrick had suggested she call his secretary to set up a “meeting” and that’s just what she intended to do. The “secret society” he’d spoken of had to be the same one her mother had written briefly about in her journal. But who were they and what did they do? Was it like a sorority? St. Mary Magdalene’s had never sponsored sororities, deeming them too controversial and cliquish.
“He’s very valuable to us. A generous benefactor.” Father Patrick’s voice carried over the bushes and Erica shrank back, trying to make herself small in the dusky light. “I would hate to have to terminate our relationship.”
“I understand that.” Father Michael sighed, holding the door for the older man. “But you have to admit, the business with the Wendt girl was problematic.”
“I thought we took care of that?”
“Of course we did. But he persists. He may find out where she is eventually.”
Erica perked up, breath held. Father Michael knew where Leah was?
“Is what Patty Wendt told you true?”
“I don’t know. I’m looking into it.”
“If it is true, he won’t pursue the Wendt girl once he knows. If it isn’t true… well by that time it’ll probably be too late to do anything about it. I know her mother isn’t pleased with the situation, and she has the girl well under control.”
“I suppose...”
If what was true? What were they talking about? Erica sat, brain churning, a thousand puzzle pieces in her head, not one of them fitting into the other. If she could only make a clear picture…
They were too far away, walking through the parking lot, for Erica to hear any more. She sat there in the cold, goosebumps rising on her arms, prickling the hair at the back of her neck, but she wasn’t sure if it was the cold, or the conversation, that had elicited the response. She might have frozen to death trying to work it out in her head if her father hadn’t come out to find her.
“There you are!” Her father smiled, holding out his hand. “Aren’t you freezing?”
“A little.” Erica’s teeth were chattering. She hadn’t noticed until that moment.
“Your lips are blue.” He frowned, pulling her into the building, and rubbing his hands up and down her cold arms, creating warm friction. “You’re going to catch your death and Solie will have my head.”
“Can we go home now?” Erica shivered, letting him enfold her in his arms. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Poor Lovey. I’ll get our coats. You wait here.”
Erica did as she was told, her mind still trying to piece everything together to form a clear picture. It was maddening.
“Oh Dad! Elvis! I almost forgot...”
“Don’t worry.” Her father grinned. “He’s left the building.”
“Aww I missed him.” Erica let him help her with her coat, and she wrapped it tight around her as they walked out to the car. The limo that had brought Elvis, parked beside the gallery on the street, was gone. She had met Elvis Presley, an event she once would have ranked in the top three things she wanted to do in life, and yet somehow the experience paled in comparison to the eavesdropping she had done that day.
“My autograph!” Erica had just remembered.
“I have it.” Her father reached into his jacket and the photograph of Elvis appeared. “Did you get some good pictures?” He nodded at the camera hanging around her neck. She had forgotten that too. She remembered the picture she had taken of Father Patrick shaking Elvis’s hand and grinned.
“I have some great shots on here.”
And I intend to use them, she thought, no matter what Sister Agnes’s objections might be.
Erica stayed after class, waiting for the rest of the girls to drop their papers off on his desk and file out, holding their books to their chests, laughing and talking and heading to the cafeteria for lunch, already complaining about the mystery meat. We used to do that, she thought, the sting of the memory burning her chest. If Leah were here…
“Father Michael, can I talk to you?”
“Sure.” He was gathering up papers on his desk as Erica approached and he glanced up, giving her the same warm, welcoming smile he always did. The girls called him “Father Far-Out” behind his back, and he earned the title. He wasn’t just handsome, he was also young and far more progressive than most of their teachers.
“Do you know where Leah is?” She blurted it out, not thinking at all, not following the carefully laid plans she’d made in her head.
He reacted like she was a snake that had bitten him, the papers spilling out of his hands in a waterfall, littering the floor at her feet.
“Clumsy,” he mumbled, stooping to gather them up, and Erica squatted down to help him, their hands touching briefly.
“You know something, don’t you?” She’d suspected it before, but she was sure of it now. After overhearing his conversation with Father Patrick, there could be no doubt.
He took the papers from her, shaking his head as he stood. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a sin to lie.” Erica smirked. “At least, that’s what I’ve been taught around here.”
Father Michael tucked the papers into his briefcase, snapping it definitively closed. “I can’t tell you anything, Erica. I’m sorry.”
“Can’t… or won’t?” She cocked her head at him, eyes narrowing.
He shrugged, throwing his hands up, helpless. “Even if I did know anything… and I’m not saying I do… priests aren’t allowed to talk about certain things they’ve been told in confidence… you know that...”
“You don’t understand...” Erica was trying hard to control her tears. Her throat was closing up, he
r chest tight. “She’s my best friend, my best friend in the whole world, and she’s gone. She just disappeared. It’s like she vanished into thin air, like some sick magic trick. I have to find her. I need to know where she is. Please, Father Michael, please, please, please... Please tell me.”