by Selena Kitt
She decided to tell. It wasn’t even a decision really, it just bubbled to the surface and sprang forth from her mouth, because he was Father Michael and he gave her something no other man, no other person, ever had. She felt completely safe with him.
“I was on a date. And the boy I was dating decided to get fresh.” Erica drew faces on the table with the wet droplets of coffee. “Very fresh. And… I couldn’t stop him.”
Father Michael’s eyes grew wide. “Do you mean he...”
“Oh what does it matter?” She covered her pain quickly. “I’m not a virgin. You know that.”
She had confessed everything to him last year, everything they had done, she and Leah, and then, giving Bobby Harris her virginity. Father Michael knew everything about her, you couldn’t hide from a man of God. At least, she couldn’t. In the end, she had to confess, and she did.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” Father Michael reached across the table and squeezed her fingers with his hand. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way.”
She remembered his reaction when she told him everything they had done. He didn’t scold or chastise or make her feel inferior, instead he had sympathized, he had told her Satan tempts us everywhere, and humans are weak.
“Will you tell me who it was?” he asked, something flashing in his eyes, something she would have said was anger in another man’s eyes. But priests were pacifists, they believed in turning the other cheek. Didn’t they?
“Father Michael, do you think God really loves us?” she asked finally.
“Of course He does. I have no doubts about that.”
“I do.”
He smiled. “I know.”
“Anyway, thank you for the coffee. I should get home.”
“Thank you for confiding in me.”
Father Michael paid for their coffees, escorting Erica back out to the car. He drove her home, pulling up to the warehouse, and cutting the engine. They sat under the halo of a streetlight, the soft orange buzz high above their heads the only witness as Erica leaned over and kissed him.
At first, Father Michael sat still. Probably shocked, Erica thought. She was shocked too, by her own audacity, swept into acting by sheer instinct, too overwhelmed with feeling to do anything else. The kiss was far from chaste, it was no kiss on the cheek or his hand or his ring, but it was wonderfully sweet and light and beautiful.
“Erica...” He whispered her name as she drew back, looking into his eyes, searching there for something, she didn’t know what.
“Thank you. Just… Thank you,” she whispered.
And then she was gone, out of the car and back in to the warehouse. It was Friday so Solie had the night off. She expected her father to be reading his paper in the chair or up in the loft, but he didn’t answer when she called him.
Erica went to her room, stripping off everything and throwing away her stockings— they were full of holes from her walk—and then she showered. She scrubbed and scoured her body until her skin was red, like a sunburn. She couldn’t get clean enough.
Her mother’s diaries were hidden under Erica’s bed, and she pulled out the box, opening the diary to where she’d last left off. She’d been reading them nonstop pretty much since she’d discovered them. The secrets her mother had been keeping, the secrets she had gone to her grave with, were now resting in her daughter’s hands.
Dear Diary,
He touched me again. This time I’m sure it wasn’t an accident. He didn’t just brush up against me or squeeze by me or lightly trace his finger over mine while explaining some essay question. This time I’m sure Father Patrick touched me, sexually. We were alone in his office, talking about, of all things, the existence of God. How can there be a God? If there was a God, he wouldn’t let such horrible things happen to good people. I don’t remember his answer, because he came up behind me, I was standing at the window looking down at the court yard, and then he was there, and his hand moved over my belly and up, up, up, cupping my breasts in my blouse. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. He was touching me, kneading my flesh, rubbing over my nipple. I should’ve screamed. I should’ve run. I was ashamed. I was ashamed because it felt good. Because I wanted to. Because I’d always wanted to. I did something I never thought I would, I could, ever do. I turned in his arms and I kissed him. I kissed him. I put my arms around his neck, I felt his clerical collar, that tight bond, his vow to God under my fingers, and I kissed him. And he kissed me back.
It went on and on and on. His hands were all over me, and mine over him. I knew it was wrong. He knew it too. Somehow that made it even more exciting. He’s old enough to be my father, he told me so, but he’s nothing like my father. He’s full of life and passion and love. I would do anything for him. I would give my life the way Jesus did, on the cross. I would die for him. He tells me I’m special. Special girl, chosen among many, chosen to be his, to give myself to him. When? That’s all I want to know. When? He smiles and touches my lips quiet. He won’t tell me. God’s will, he reminds me. I want to tell someone. I want to tell Patty, she’s my best friend in the world, and I can’t tell her. I can’t tell anyone. I’m so full of love for him. He sees me like no one else has ever seen me before. I know I’ll never find another like him, and leaving, letting go of this thing we have, would be torture. I would walk around all the time with a huge void inside of me where he once was. I can’t live like that. I will do whatever he asks. I will serve him, I will be his. Forever. xoxo Susan
Erica finally thought she knew what it was to love. She felt everything for Father Michael her mother had expressed on these pages. Love wasn’t familiar and comfortable and routine. Love was that dizzy, sick, crazy feeling in your gut that made you do and say things no sane person ever would. Her mother had not lived long enough to give her daughter advice, to tell her about men, and love, and all the lessons the life eventually teaches the young. But she had left her journals. That was enough.
Erica flipped the page, hungry for more, desperate to find out what, exactly, had been going on between her mother and Father Patrick. She understood now what Father Patrick was talking about when he told her she looked like mother. She still couldn’t believe the secrets her mother had kept. Erica flipped to the next page and found it blank. The one after that too. Dammit! There had to be more! She had been working on getting the boxes open—the other ones that were still locked—but her bobby pin had clearly been just luck. She needed the key.
There was only one place in the house she knew where she might find the key to the lock. She crept down the hall, stealthy, even though no one was home. Her father’s loft room and bed were high off the ground, a ladder on one end and spiral stairs leading up on the other. It was in the center of the warehouse, and underneath his loft was a closet on the right, a walk-in, filled with his clothes and shoes. On the left was an antique mahogany desk and chair, and in the desk, in the middle drawer, were hundreds of keys.
Erica, being the curious kitty she was, had once asked her father what the keys were to. Her father scowled, and told her it was none of her business. That’s when she knew he was hiding something. A secret. Finally, she had found it. It had been purely by chance. She had been standing at his desk, writing him a note about Bobby, that she would be out on a date, not to wait up. She had stopped to fiddle with an earring. And it had fallen. He wouldn’t let her get her ears pierced, so they were clip-ons, and they fell off all the time, quite easily. It rolled and bounced against the wall. She was down on her hands and knees looking for it, and she lifted up the floor to ceiling Oriental tapestry hanging behind the loft. That’s when she found the door.
It wasn’t like a regular door. It had no knob, and only a bolt with a padlock to hold it closed. Erica couldn’t resist. She had to know what was in there. She’d gone on her date with Bobby, with both earrings, but the door haunted her. It taunted her. She had to know what was inside. She couldn’t imagine. And her imagination had certainly not taken her to the place she arrived when
, after systematically trying all the keys in the drawer, she had found the one that worked. She never, ever could have imagined the secret her father was keeping under his bed.
It hadn’t been long before she had to share it with Leah. The more they looked at the titillating photographs, the more they craved them. And then, after discovering the moving pictures, the still photographs paled in comparison. She wanted more, Leah wanted more. It had been an avalanche of sin pouring down on them from above, burying both girls under its weight.
Maybe Father Patrick was right, Erica thought as she gathered all the keys, making a hammock out of her blouse and sweeping them all in. Maybe special meant they were born to be tempted. If her mother’s diary was any indication, Erica was just like her. She couldn’t keep her nose out of trouble. She couldn’t keep her hands to herself. She couldn’t stop doing what was wrong, because it felt too right.
Erica took the keys back to her room, hoping and praying she could find the one to unlock her mother’s secrets. She had to know. If there was one axiom or motto that Erica lived by, it was that.
She had to know.
Chapter Seven
It was a strange bookend, how it had worked out, the youngest and the oldest in their group becoming fast friends, probably because they were both about the same maturity level. Lizzie had just turned fourteen, and Jean, no longer the “new Jean,” was almost thirty, but her mental facilities put her around Lizzie’s age. Jean couldn’t sew, she couldn’t knit, but no one wanted to risk her skills, or lack thereof, in the laundry, so Jean tagalonged with Lizzie, doing everything she did, “helping” her throughout the day.
The nuns didn’t quite know what to do with Jean, but because Lizzie had taken her under her wing, such as it was, they allowed the friendship because it kept Jean occupied and out of their hair. Besides, Jean seemed to have some sort of extrasensory perception when it came to the nuns. She knew when they were coming down the hall or up the stairs even before anyone heard them. It was kind of creepy, but useful. She always came up to the turret with them now.
Lizzie and Jean were cutting up teen magazines in the corner of the turret while Leah talked to Marty and Frannie, the latter two girls sharing a cigarette. Lizzie bought the teen magazines instead of snacks at the movie concessions while they were in town, smuggling them in under her dress, tucked into her underwear. The two of them had their heads together, giggling over boys, cutting out their faces, and pasting them into a notebook. Lizzie wrote things underneath like I “heart” Elvis and Lizzie + Elvis 4ever.
“So you were really a dancer, Lily?” Marty asked, eyes wide at the thought. Leah had let it slip somehow, mentioning her scholarship at the American School of Ballet in New York. The scholarship she’d never auditioned for, because she ended up pregnant.
“Like Ginger Rogers?” Frannie asked.
“Mostly ballet. Classical. Not like Ginger Rogers.”
“I wanted to be an actress.” Marty snorted, attempting a smoke ring and failing. “So much for dreams.”
“We can all go back to our old lives. Isn’t that the point of Magdalene House?” Leah asked.
“No.” Marty rolled her pretty brown eyes. “The point of Magdalene House is to minimize the shame and scandal of an unwed pregnancy.”
“You could still be an actress, Marty. You’re gorgeous.” Leah blushed when Marty looked at her askance.
“You’d have to dye your hair.” Frannie reclined on the floor with a groan, one hand on her belly, the other propping herself up on her elbow. She was getting bigger every day. “Hollywood likes blondes. Marilyn Monroe. Jane Mansfield. Blondes with big tits. Redheads are just comic relief. Look at Lucille Ball.”
“What about you, Frannie?” Marty asked. “What did you wanna be?”
“Rich and famous.” Frannie giggled. “Isn’t that what everyone wants?”
“I thought I wanted to be a dancer.” Leah glanced up, keeping an eye on Lizzie and Jean in the corner, still methodically cutting out pictures. “But then I met him, and got pregnant, and love kind of changes you. I wish...”
“I know.” Frannie sighed. “I wanted to marry him. Too bad he was already married.”
“My mother never would’ve let me marry him,” Leah confessed.
“What about it?” Marty scowled. “You’re over eighteen. You can choose.”
Leah shook her head. “It’s complicated.”
“What isn’t?” Frannie replied, rolling to her back, her belly rising up, mountainous. She put the ashtray on top, giggling. “Watch this.”
Her whole belly moved, like tectonic plates shifting, the ashtray riding the wave. “I swear, there’s more than one baby in here. But the doctor keeps saying he can only hear one heartbeat.”
“It’s twins for sure.” Marty took the ashtray back, tapping the cigarette into it. “Dr. Glum is an idiot.”
“You know, one day we’re all gonna be grown up and married with kids. Not these kids obviously. It’s just weird to think if I’d been a few years older, and he hadn’t been married...” Frannie put her hands on the mountain of her belly.
“I know, I think about it sometimes.” Leah rubbed her own belly, where her little man was boxing her ribs. “This little fantasy runs through my head, that he’ll come rescue me from this place like some knight in shining armor, and we’ll run off together and get married and have this baby.” She rubbed her belly over and over, like a talisman. ”And live happily ever after. Is that so much to ask?”
“The ghoul would have your head if she heard you say that,” Marty noted. “And don’t assume were all gonna get married. I don’t want to have anything to do with men after this.”
“Oh, hey, I told the ghoul it wasn’t true.” Lizzie called over to them from her spot on the floor. “I told her it wasn’t my father’s baby. I told her I lied, so don’t say anything, okay?”
Marty frowned. “Well what did you go and do that for?”
“Because I wanted him to be adopted by a good family,” Lizzie said simply.
Leah nodded. “That makes sense.”
“And I guess she called my parents.” Lizzie’s face flushed red. “My dad was furious. He denied it, of course.”
“But it’s true?” Leah asked.
“Yeah.” Lizzie looked at the floor. “But it’s easier to lie.”
Marty was still frowning, disapproving. “But if he really did that to you, then the ghoul might be able to help you find another place to be, away from him, so it doesn’t happen again.”
“It’s bad enough my baby has to go live somewhere else,” Lizzie exclaimed. Her eyes filled up with tears, her little rosebud mouth trembling. “I don’t want to have to do that too. Then what has all this been for?”
“I guess.” Marty relented, seeing the pain on the little girl’s face.
Jean’s head shot up, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, head cocked as if she was listening to something, although Leah heard nothing. It was as if she heard sounds at a higher frequency or something. They all froze, waiting. Then Jean put her head back down, turning her attention to the little scrapbook she Lizzie were making.
“False alarm,” Marty noted.
“Speaking of false alarms...” Frannie rolled to her elbow, propping herself up. “I have been having the worst pains. The doctor says they’re practice for labor. If this is practice, I don’t think I want to play this game.”
“No choice now.” Marty gave a wry little laugh. “We’re all in.”
“I wonder which one of us will pop first,” Frannie wondered aloud.
“So Lily, why don’t you dance for us?”
Leah shook her head. “I don’t have any music.”
“We have a radio.” Lizzie grabbed the transistor, flipping the station from Tom Clay on the rock station and finding something classical. “See?”
“No you guys, really. I’d be embarrassed,” Leah protested. “Besides, my belly throws my whole balance off.”
“Aw come on,” Marty
pleaded. “If you do it, I’ll sing for you guys. I was taking voice lessons before I came here. Our choir director said I sing like an angel. Too bad I don’t act like one.”
“More like a fallen angel,” Leah teased.
“That’s me, just call me Lucifer.” Marty dragged Leah to her feet, twirling her around, the girls holding hands.
Leah laughed, relenting. “Okay. But if I fall...”
“You’re not going to fall,” Marty scoffed, taking a seat next to Frannie on the floor. Lizzie and Jean were hurriedly putting away their magazine clippings.
“I heard a good fall down a long flight of stairs can take care of our little problem,” Frannie piped up.
“Frannie!” Marty stared at her, aghast.
“What?” Frannie shrugged. “It’s true. Don’t tell me none of you have ever thought about it.”