by Ann McMan
Julia discreetly extended her hand beneath the table and gave Evan’s thigh a gentle squeeze.
Stevie seemed to think Evan’s question over before answering.
“Is that what you did?” she asked her mother.
“Me?” Evan pointed a finger at herself. “Well. No . . . not really.”
Tim laughed. “That’s for sure. You kind of exploded out of the closet and took most of the house down in your wake.”
“Yo, Chuckles?” Evan gave Tim the finger. “Not helping.”
“Why do you need help?” Stevie complained. “It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”
“Not for me,” Evan pointed out. “But it can be for you. That’s why you need to take your time before you decide.”
“Why does anybody have to ‘decide’ anything? Why can’t we just be however we are and be done with it?”
Evan looked at Julia with an unspoken question: Will you please help me out here?
Julia didn’t really feel like it was appropriate for her to wade into anything this important between the two of them, but she gave it a shot anyway.
“Few things in life are binary,” she said. “The more we live and grow, the more we all realize how fluid most things are. What we know. What we believe. What we desire.” She glanced at Evan. “Who we love. So, Stevie, if you’re sure—if you and Desiree are both sure—then for right now, that’s the only thing that matters.”
“Amen.” Tim raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
Evan shook her head in resignation before raising her own glass. “Me, too.”
They all clinked rims.
“Wow.” Stevie collapsed back against her chair. “That sure went a lot better than I thought it would.”
“Yeah?” Evan asked her. “Well, hold your applause, because I have a revelation of my own.”
“You do?” The way she asked the question made it clear that Stevie knew her mother well enough to be suspicious.
“Oh, yeah.” Evan reached over and took hold of Julia’s hand. “How would you feel about Ms. Hottie McFlak-Jacket coming here to live with us?”
Stevie’s mouth fell open. She looked back and forth between them. “No way . . .”
“Way,” Evan said.
“With your permission,” Julia quickly added.
“My permission?” Stevie looked incredulous. “Are you kidding?”
Evan held up a hand. “Don’t get too excited. She’s not sharing your room.”
“Ex-cuse me?” Julia glared at Evan. “For your information, I am not a commodity. Nor will I be sharing anyone’s room until Stevie says it’s okay.”
Evan looked at her daughter. “Is it okay?”
“Of course it’s okay!” Stevie jumped up from her chair and rushed around the table to hug Julia. “This is totally awesome.”
Julia hugged her back. “I’m glad you think so.”
Evan was all smiles. “She has a few conditions.”
Stevie loosened her stranglehold on Julia. “What conditions?”
Evan began to tick them off. “We have to get a new coffee-maker,” she began.
“Praise God, hallelujah.” Tim raised both hands toward heaven.
Evan glowered at him.
“What? he asked. “We haven’t had a bona fide miracle in this parish for more than two centuries.”
“Wherever would you be without your fantasies?” Evan faced Stevie again. “And we will be adding on to the house. Julia needs her own office space.”
“Cool.” Stevie was plainly jazzed by the news. “When we do that, can we tack on a new bedroom for me, too?”
“Why the hell do you need a new bedroom?”
“Because,” Stevie regarded her mother with wide eyes, “when Des comes over to spend the night, I’d rather not be across the hall from you two.”
“Wait a minute, Miss Thing.” Evan was stupefied. “You are not gonna be hittin’ it with anybody under this roof. Not for at least another couple of years.”
“Mom! Gross!” Stevie sounded horrified. “I wasn’t talking about me—I was talking about you and Julia.”
“Julia and me?” Evan sounded confused.
“Duh. Yeah.” Stevie looked over at Tim. “Trust me . . . nobody wants free tickets to Pound Town.”
“And on that note . . .” Tim pushed back his chair. “Got any more wine in this dump, Evan?”
Evan rubbed a hand across her forehead. “Good idea.”
Julia didn’t know whether to laugh or slide beneath the table.
Stevie returned to her chair and sat down. “So, now that we’ve settled all of that, how about we start talking about my college applications?”
“Okay,” Evan agreed. “Where’s your list?”
“What list?”
“The one we discussed,” Evan reminded her. “The one you’re supposed to have worked on.”
“I did work on it. It’s in my head.”
“Your head?”
Stevie nodded.
“Were we all supposed to intuit it?” Evan asked. “Or did you think we’d receive it through osmosis?”
Stevie looked at Julia for support. “Mom doesn’t think anything has value if it’s not written down someplace.”
“Sorry, Stevie,” Julia said, apologetically. “You’re preaching to a publisher, here. Writing things down is kind of my life’s work.”
“It’s a conspiracy, kid.” Tim had rejoined them and was opening another bottle of wine.
“You, too?” Stevie asked him.
He shrugged. “At least I come by it honestly. My people started with the Dead Sea Scrolls.”
“How about we compromise?” They all looked at Evan. “How about we each make lists? Then we can compare and look for common denominators.”
“Great idea,” Stevie said morosely. “Are you sure I can’t have more wine?”
Julia laughed and got to her feet. “I’ll go get some paper.”
“I’ve got a new pack of notepads on my desk,” Evan called after her. “Bring some pens, too.”
Julia could hear them continuing to banter and barter about the wine as she made her way to Evan’s small office. As she crossed the living room, she thought for the millionth time about what a charming house this really was.
She loved it here. It was such an inviting place—a simple, fieldstone farmhouse that had sat on this unspoiled swath of rolling land for generations. Evan once explained that her grandfather had inherited it from his father, who had operated a ferry on the Brandywine River until the area’s first bridge was constructed in the early 19th century. After that, the Reeds mined clay for the kaolin processing mills that had sprung up all over Chester and Delaware Counties. As a consequence, the house was filled with white porcelain and stoneware dishes, all made from clay mined by Evan’s ancestors.
She heard renewed peals of laughter from the dining room. That was the real magic here: laughter. Something that had never been part of her everyday life: not until she found Evan. And Stevie.
She grimaced when she reached Evan’s old rolltop desk and saw the piles of folders and papers stacked on top of it—likely all of her research on Judge Cawley. What a nightmare that job was turning into. Especially after Evan related the new information Ben Rush had given her about poor Edwin Miller.
She tried to be careful as she sifted through the piles of paper to search for the notepads. Finally she saw them, squirreled away in a tidy stack behind some files. Her sleeve caught on the edge of a manila folder when she reached back to retrieve a few of them and the contents of the folder spilled out and landed on the wide plank floor.
Great . . .
The folder had contained sheets of lined paper, all filled with notes in Evan’s characteristic, all caps handwriting—and a couple of photographs. Julia collected the items and tried to restore them to order before placing them back inside the folder.
That’s when she saw it. What the hell was Evan doing with this?
One thin
g was certain: however it had made its way into her research, it couldn’t be good news.
Should she take it back into the dining room with her?
No. That wouldn’t be appropriate. She could ask Evan about it later, at the end of the evening—after Stevie had gone to bed and when they were alone together.
She rethought that scenario in the light of recent revelations.
Alone together—being quiet . . .
She was slipping the photograph back into its folder when she heard Evan’s voice from the doorway.
“Hey? What’s taking so long? I was afraid maybe you got lost—or came to your senses and laid a patch getting out of here.” Then she noticed what Julia was holding. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Close,” Julia agreed. “I accidentally knocked this folder off your desk while I was trying to reach the notepads.” She opened it and withdrew one of the two photos it contained. “Can you tell me where you got this, and why you have it?”
Evan took it from her.
“This is a picture Dan sent me when I first got the vetting assignment.” She met Julia’s eyes. “Do you recognize anyone in this?”
“Oh, yes.” Julia didn’t say anything else, but Evan could sense her mounting agitation. “Why did he send you this?” she asked.
“Because this is Judge Cawley.” Evan pointed him out. “And this man is Edwin Miller.”
“Oh, dear god.” Julia peered more closely at the image.
“I haven’t been able to identify anyone else except Bishop Szymanski,” Evan pointed at the cleric, “and this young man. The photo was taken in 2005. I have no idea where.”
“I can help you out with that.” Julia looked at her. “I know exactly where this was taken.”
Evan appeared genuinely flummoxed. “You do?”
Julia nodded. “This is a private room at the Galileo Club on South Broad Street.”
“Are you certain about that?”
“Absolutely certain. I’ve been there more times than I care to remember.”
Evan took some time before asking her next question. “Do I want to know why?”
“You tell me.” Julia pointed at a bearded man dressed in an immaculately tailored tuxedo. He stood just behind Judge Cawley. “That’s my father.”
Chapter Seven
Once he got home, Tim had time to think about how the evening in Chadds Ford had gone. All things considered, everything had gone extremely well.
Better than well, actually—at least, for Stevie. And even for Evan and Julia.
It was remarkable what a little bit of openness and honest discourse could accomplish.
And how easily, too.That was the perverse part.
If only the Church could embrace that behavior. How much better and richer could all of their lives be? How much more relevant, purposeful and effective a ministry could they achieve?
Tim didn’t understand why so many people were consigned to hobble through life, dragging monster-sized loads of fear and shame behind them like ship’s anchors. They lived and died without access to hope—never finding release from the twin shackles of shame and self-recrimination. And that curse was perpetuated because they had never been shown the power that derived from speaking their truths aloud, as Stevie and Evan had done this very night.
My name is Legion, the man answered, when Jesus asked his name.
Jesus wanted the possessed man to name his demons. Because Jesus understood that naming them took away their power.
Why were so many denied the wisdom of these simple truths?
Why had he denied himself?
Fear and shame. These were the greatest deterrents to grace. For too long, they had been his constant companions. For too long, he had pampered them . . . hidden them away and protected them like private treasures. His pearls of great price.
Stevie had told him he was struggling like someone trapped in a broken marriage. How profound that insight was. But between Tim and the Church, it was a toss-up to determine which one of them had been unfaithful. Hadn’t they both broken their vows?
And was there any way out—for either of them?
He looked around his tiny apartment in the rectory at St. Rita’s. It was spartanly furnished—mostly appointed with just his books and some reclaimed pieces of furniture. Some of those belonged to the Church, but most of them were things Evan had helped him collect through the years. That had always been a favorite pastime of theirs, especially during their graduate school days. They spent countless Saturdays together scouring junk stores and flea markets, looking for bargains and rare finds. Well-used mission-style tables. Worn woven rugs. Chipped but still serviceable bits of mismatched pottery. Even after Stevie had been born, the three of them would take off for daylong jaunts to farmer’s markets in Middletown or Carlisle. They’d find shady spots along the road to park and eat the enormous picnic lunches Evan would pack. They’d splurge on fresh raspberries, apples, or peaches—whatever fruits were in season and on sale by roadside vendors. Tim would rock Stevie and croon old torch songs to her in what Evan called his “lame-ass baritone.”
How familiar all these souvenirs of that time were. And yet, how unfamiliar they now seemed. And how perfectly they encapsulated the patchwork quilt of his life. These disparate relics and mismatched mementos of other people’s histories—all stitched together in a jumbled pastiche of . . . what? Anonymity? Isolation? Confusion?
For the first time, he understood what it must be like for witnesses in criminal cases who were given new identities and placed in relocation programs. They surrendered their pasts and became strangers to their futures. And not because of anything they had done—but because of things they had borne witness to.
Because of things they told the truth about.
Was that the end of this? Was becoming a stranger the penalty for making things right? For making amends to God and to the people he’d wronged by his silence?
He honestly had no idea.
And he knew he wouldn’t find the answers to these questions tonight. Yet he tarried, and continued to find things to do. Busywork. Anything that could stave off his fear of sleep—of the nightmares certain to become his companions in the hours remaining before dawn.
He was actually relieved when his phone rang. As late as it was, he knew it was probably a Church matter. Likely, the call would be about some kind of family emergency—somebody sick or in need of other pastoral care. He practically sprinted across the room to answer it, feeling ashamed for the rush of adrenaline he got from the distraction. He didn’t recognize the number.
“This is Father Donovan,” he said.
“It’s Joey,” a man’s voice said. Tim could hear other sounds in the background. Beeping noises—like trucks backing up.
“Joey? Are you all right?”
Disgusted laughter. “Oh, yeah. I’m great.” He coughed. Tim thought he could hear him spit.
“Where are you?”
“I’m . . . some fucking place.” The beeping sound stopped. It was followed by an engine noise and a loud bang.
Tim jerked the cell phone away from his ear. “What was that?”
“Dumpsters.” Joey coughed again. “They’re picking up the trash.”
Tim’s mind raced to come up with the right things to say—things that would keep Joey on the line. There could only be one reason for his call at this hour . . .
“It’s cold tonight.” How lame. That was the best he could come up with?
“Not where I’m headed.”
“You’re going someplace?”
“Aren’t we all . . . Father?”
“You can call me Tim, Joey. I’m just a guy, like you.”
“Like me? Oh, yeah? You wanna count the ways you’re just like me?”
“I can if you want me to.” Tim could hear Joey’s labored breathing. It sounded almost like he was panting. There were sporadic traffic noises, too. Cars. A siren in the distance. Two sirens. Joey was walking somepla
ce. “Do you want to come here? Come inside and get warmed up?”
“Not there.” Joey bit off the words. “I’m never coming back there.”
“Okay. That’s all right. Someplace else, then? Anyplace you want.”
Joey snorted and spat again. “Pancakes.”
“What?”
“I said I want fucking pancakes.”
“Okay,” Tim said. “I could eat.” He looked at his watch. How many places that weren’t bars were still open at midnight?
“I thought about what you said.”
Tim was unprepared for Joey’s comment. “You did?”
“I’m tired of this bullshit. I don’t give a fuck about the money. I just want to be done with it.”
“You don’t have to live with it anymore, Joey. I’ll help you. I’ll go with you. You won’t be alone.”
“They don’t give a shit about us, Tim. They don’t care about what he did—what they all did. They just want to cover it up.”
Tim closed his eyes. “I know, Joey. I’m sorry about what happened to you. I care about what happened to you. I want to help you. I promise to help you.”
“I’m ready to talk.” He gave a bitter-sounding laugh. “I tried earlier tonight. It didn’t work out.”
“What happened?”
“I went by their high-class hangout. Some of their hired goons tossed me out on my ass. That’s what happened.”
Tim wasn’t surprised. He could tell Joey had been drinking. Probably a lot.
“Let’s meet someplace,” Tim said. “Let’s get some food.”
“Now?”
“Now is good for me.”
Tim heard voices and laugher. The blare of a car horn. Joey must’ve been walking past a bar. Where was he?
“How about the Melrose Diner?” Joey suggested.
That would work. With no traffic, Tim could be there in five minutes. “That’s perfect. When?”
“I’m walking, but I can be there in about ten minutes.”
“I’ll get us a table. Joey?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you called me tonight.”
“Really?” he said. “You won’t be.”
He hung up.
