by Robert Price
Chapter Twenty
Melanie learned a long a time ago that drinking had an unfavorable effect on her. But she still flirted with the idea that when used as a social lubricant alcohol had its benefits, and that perhaps, at times, one drink wouldn’t necessarily hurt.
Though in truth, many times her own life experiences had proven her wrong.
By her mid-twenties, she was already traveling down the path of a drunkard. In fact, before her mother died, one of their last conversations was about the drinking. Her mother insisted that Melanie had inherited her “love for the bottle” from her father. “That man drank with determination,” she’d said. “Like you.”
Now, at her cousin’s memorial reception, Melanie decided to have only one beer, just to loosen the tongue, smooth out conversational nerves, and fit in.
She sipped the beer. Its bitterness expanded in her mouth. It tasted just like yesterday, even though it had been two years since her last drink.
Looking out the rain spotted window, she watched the mourners in the driveway as they huddled with jackets over their heads, smoking cigarettes. One couple waved good-bye and pulled up hoods before scurrying down to the street. Melanie’s attention shifted back into the room when she saw in the window’s reflection a short, bald man approach the bar where she was drinking. Recognizable from his dome, glasses and collar, Melanie had hoped to steer clear of him. Apparently that was impossible, so she simply hoped he would not notice her.
Father Hilliard spotted Melanie’s boxy shoulders and hair and recalled her aunt’s profile of years ago. That rectilinear look, like a figure drawing from the early twenties, had always attracted him. Before approaching, however, he pretended to busy himself looking for a bottle of whiskey to fill Mrs. Hubbard’s cup. As he did, he brushed against Melanie’s back several times. When she moved, he sniffed hard to catch the scent of her perfume. Then, letting the side of his arm rub against the bottom of her spine and the top of her behind, he enjoyed the sudden straightening of her posture.
“Excuse me, dear,” Father Hilliard said and placed his hand in the middle of her back. Melanie pulled away and defensively turned toward him, ready to fend off advances. “Melanie!” Father Hilliard exclaimed. “I didn’t recognize you. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Father.”
“Melanie,” Father Hilliard folded his hands together in front of his chest. “I am so sorry. It has certainly been trying on the family. I must say though that your Aunt is holding up well under the circumstances.”
He reached forward with both hands and wrapped them around Melanie’s free hand. Rubbing it, he looked up and into her eyes. He relaxed his face into an expression of empathy and masterfully asked, “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” Melanie said flatly and withdrew her hand. Averting her eyes, looking down at the beer, she wondered: Did he know I stopped drinking? Who else might know? My brother, Tony; what would he say? Maybe Billy and Jeannine … and Aunt Casey? But that’s it, unless Aunt Casey told Elizabeth. Fuck, so what? And so what if Father Hilliard knows? Who gives a shit?
“Tom will be greatly missed.”
“Right.” His touch lingered, burning into her hand. She ignored the temptation to wipe it off.
“I’m sure your aunt will be happy to see you. Have you spoken to her?”
“No, I just got here.”
“She’s asked for you.”
Melanie shifted weight from one leg to the other as Father Hilliard leaned closer. The bar, window and wall behind trapped her. He tried to force her to look at him. She refused. Raising her head, she looked off to the left and focused on the caterer as he served her stocky cousin Billy Quinn and his wife, Jeannine.
Face reddening and jaw tightening, Father Hilliard examined her profile.
“If you want to talk about it, Melanie, my door is always open.”
She wanted to scream, “I’ll bet it is!” but she was unprepared for the amount of discomfort she still felt around him and she froze.
It happened one summer morning in the rectory after a church event, when she was eleven and her breasts, to her embarrassment, had begun to show. He had started by slowly massaging her neck and talking to her sweetly about how nice the day had been. Then he quickly slipped his hand down her shirt and cupped her chest. His deliberate hand was cold, wrong. She tried to scream, but her voice shrunk in fear as he enveloped her.
Later that night, ashamed of herself, Melanie went to her mother and told her about the Holy Father’s behavior. To her shock, her mother said nothing and just looked at the floor.
“Times like these are trying for all of us, Melanie,” Father Hilliard said softly, voice laced with concern. “Many of us find it helpful to share our feelings in order to come to terms with our loss. And, prayer … prayer helps many of us, too.”
He paused, hoping she would turn and face him. But Melanie continued to stare off to the left. He read her rigidness as an expression of anger at the situation—the war, Tom’s death—anything but him. He had convinced himself over the years that she must have forgotten that time he’d had his way with her when she was a child.
Changing the subject, he asked in an upbeat tone, “Are you still living on Old Towne Road? I hear they’ve started building on those lots. I remember when your father wanted to sell that property off. It was a good thing your mother kept an eye on him. Your father, rest his soul, had many talents, I think. But money, or, well, holding onto money, wasn’t one of them. You know, your mother, bless her soul, once told me that she thought you took after him in many ways.”
“What about my father?” Finally, Melanie turned and looked directly at him. She had loved her father, and despite all his shortcomings as a man—a drunkard that couldn’t keep a job, an unfaithful husband to her mother—still, Melanie played the dutiful daughter, willing to defend him to the end. More angry than intimidated now, she drank off her beer.
“I thought your father was a wonderful man,” Father Hilliard said cheerfully. “At times you have his delightful temper. I remember that from when you were a girl.”
“That’s what you remember?” Melanie was flabbergasted. “You remember my temper from when I was a girl?”
“You and Tom, the two of you together, a couple of real fire crackers. You could really work all the children up into a tizzy.”
“A tizzy?”
“I remember one Sunday morning, I believe Tom had served at communion, and, if I recall correctly, you and he had worked Billy Quinn into a froth. He was ready to—”
“You talking about me, Father?”
Billy Quinn appeared on cue holding a plate of rice and chicken. He offered Father Hilliard his free hand to shake. “Mel, you made it,” he said. “Go see your aunt.” Then, noticing the beer in Melanie’s hand, he frowned.
“Hi, Father!” Jeannine said sprightly. She held a plate of chicken and salad off to one side and innocently allowed Father Hilliard to embrace her. “Melanie,” she said, picking a fork off the corner of her plate and stabbing at a cherry tomato, “sorry I was so short earlier when Billy called you, but you wouldn’t believe it, he drove through a humungous puddle and soaked some poor woman getting out of a car.”
“No!” Melanie replied enthusiastically, relieved Jeannine and Billy had interrupted her conversation with Father Hilliard. If there is a God, she thought, then someday the old creep will get what’s coming to him.