Redemption

by Nancy Geary

  I had been the patient’s therapist for more than nine months before she chose to share with me the tragic and traumatic events that transpired between her and her father. Prior to her recitation of her full history, we had explored numerous issues involving self-loathing, self-destructive behavior, shame, and other feelings of intense inadequacy. It is clear to me that the patient’s history had severely damaged not only her self-image, but also her ability to trust.

  Although the patient repeatedly expressed that the sexual relationship with her father ended when she was hospitalized for complications related to a terminated pregnancy, I felt that my obligations under section 51A were triggered nonetheless. This patient went to severe lengths to attempt to cover up the abuse that had been inflicted upon her. In doing so, she had caused herself irreparable harm. Yet on several occasions, she relayed that she’d found the sexual experience pleasurable. She missed the intimacy with her father.

  I am not confident of her accuracy as a reporter. In my professional opinion, were the relationship to begin anew, she would not come forward. Disclosure in my opinion was warranted to protect her future safety.

  Her reading was interrupted when she heard the click of a lock echo in the empty room. She turned to see Father Whitney and Adelaide enter the building together. The minister held her arm and almost seemed to be keeping her righted. He glanced around and smiled as he recognized Frances. They shuffled over to where she stood. Adelaide sank into the empty bench.

  “Your aunt needs you to take her home now,” Father Whitney said. Adelaide pursed her lips, and Frances couldn’t tell whether she was about to speak or cry.

  Frances nodded. “My car’s outside.”

  “I know this has been a very difficult day for all of you. These are trying times.”

  “I gather Adelaide’s told you what’s transpired.”

  “She needed comfort and prayer. I fault myself for not better ministering to Hope. The sins Bill committed are egregious. The betrayal of a child’s trust is difficult for us to even comprehend. I had spent so much time with Hope that I would have thought she could share her struggles, but I was wrong. Her confessions were incomplete. She kept the full truth hidden from everyone but God. Today Adelaide has spoken for her.”

  Adelaide’s eyes were closed. It seemed as if she were present in body only. Her face registered no comprehension of the conversation.

  “Adelaide and Bill have a difficult path ahead. But the Lord forgives us all. Even those who inflict terrible harm.”

  Frances wanted to object. She understood rationally that Father Whitney’s role as clergy was to console, but she found it impossible to believe that anyone could forgive what Bill had done to his daughter. It was the worst kind of violation. What about the wrath of God, the God who punished? When did that God appear?

  “She also shared with me developments in the investigation. I’m saddened to hear that a murderer is still free in our community.”

  “Me too.”

  “Are you certain Carl’s not responsible?”

  Frances shrugged. “I’m not sure of anything. But I’ve heard his story, and we may be able to corroborate at least a part of it. He loved Hope; I am convinced of that. And she trusted him, apparently even with her closest secrets.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She confided in him things that no one else knew— the abuse and betrayal she’d experienced in her life. I believe there’s a lot he’s still hiding because he wants to protect her.”

  “Such as?”

  “You mentioned her incomplete confessions to you. As far as I can tell, she confided in Carl and in her diaries. That’s it. Not even Adelaide knew how much she was suffering. We haven’t found the journals other than the one you gave us, but they have to be somewhere. We have to find out what happened, and I’m now wondering whether they could help.”

  He rubbed his nose with his knuckle and furrowed his brow. After a moment he spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “I want to believe in the innocence of all mankind, but I haven’t heard you say anything that would convince me Carl didn’t murder her.”

  “Maybe I just want to believe in his innocence and I’m really wrong, but something tells me I’m not.”

  “Perhaps you put too much faith in the fact that he loved her. But don’t let him blind you. Crimes of passion occur over and over, and all the love in the world won’t stop them. Only faith can do that. Faith is our healer, our redeemer.”

  If only it were that simple, Frances thought as she reached for her aunt’s hand.

  30

  Frances sat on the edge of the bed and dialed Sam’s number on her cell phone. She hadn’t spoken to him for two days, and she needed to hear the sound of his voice, the solace he would inevitably provide. She listened to the ring over and over, but there was no answer. He wasn’t home, and Luddite that he was, he had no answering machine. Disappointed, she dialed her house. Perhaps he had gone to feed the dogs. But when her own voice came on to announce that she was unavailable, she refrained from leaving a message.

  She was about to turn off the power when the little envelope in the lower-right-hand corner of the phone’s screen indicated she had a message. She retrieved it. “Frances, this is Carl. There were some things that I couldn’t say the other day in front of Teddy, but I think we should talk. I have Hope’s diaries. Please come alone.” His voice cracked and she heard a cough in the background. “My phone’s out, so I’m calling from a pay phone. But I’ll be on my boat if you can make it here.”

  The message had been left at 5:34.

  She replayed it, wanting to decipher clues from the intonation of his voice, but the static on the line and his monochromatic tone gave her no hints as to what he might have to say. She got up, walked to the window, and looked across the expanse of lawn leading to Teddy’s cottage. A part of her yearned to go sit with her grandmother, to hear the familiar rattle in her voice, to smell her menthol cigarettes, and to enjoy the inevitable offer of a glass of wine or a vodka tonic.

  Why couldn’t she and Teddy believe in the police work that had been done? Why was she digging up the horrors of Hope’s past? She was struggling for some connection, some way to order the mysteries she’d uncovered, but so far she’d only been saddened and defeated by what she had learned. Nothing had brought her any closer to finding the killer. She, like her aunt, needed closure, to put the investigation behind her and return home to her life. What could another trip to Gloucester achieve? Could Hope’s diaries help in this roundabout investigation? What could Carl have to say that he hadn’t shared with Teddy, the only person who had believed in him from the very beginning?

  The fishing pier seemed unusually quiet even for the late hour. Other than a green Oldsmobile and a black truck with a rusty body, the parking lot was empty. Unlike her last visit, this time there wasn’t the activity of boats unloading and trucks loading the day’s catch. Frances headed down the walkway to the dock where the Lady Hope was tied, wishing all the while that there was some evidence of human life besides herself and the temperamental lobsterman she was about to meet.

  “Carl?” she called as she approached his boat. Other than a stretch of police tape dangling off one side, the deck looked just as it had before, with an array of tools scattered near the entrance to the interior cabin and a collection of lobster traps stacked at the stern. “Carl,” she said again, but there was no answer.

  Frances glanced back up toward the parking lot, wondering for a moment if he’d come to meet her. Or perhaps she’d arrived too late. Or maybe she should have checked his apartment. But he’d specifically said that he would be on his boat. She’d replayed his message on the drive north and had no doubt about his precise words.

  She debated going aboard but thought it best to wait, to not be too intrusive. She glanced at her watch: 8:13. Trying to will the minutes to pass, she paced back and forth along the dock, gazing down at the black water below. Go home, said a voice inside her. She’d doubte
d the wisdom of this journey before she’d ever set out for Gloucester.

  She’d paced back and forth on the slightly swaying dock for nearly half an hour and checked her watch one more time. He’d invited her to his boat. Could there be any real harm in taking a look around? She doubted that the police would have missed anything when they’d executed their warrant, but she was curious to see for herself. She swung her leg over the side and stepped aboard.

  She opened the swinging doors and peered inside the cabin. A tin pot smoked on a small burner in the galley kitchen. An opened and empty can of tomato soup rested on the counter, but its contents had been reduced to a blackened tar on the bottom of the pot. She shut off the flame and looked around. Other than a radio handset dangling from its cord, the interior of the cabin seemed undisturbed. A collection of maps and navigational documents, a kerosene lamp, and a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets were arrayed on a table surrounded by a banquette. A small washboard-style door at the far end of the cabin was ajar, and as Frances approached, she could see the boat’s enormous engine. “Carl,” she called again, uneasy now. She looked inside. Nothing seemed out of place. A greasy rag and a screwdriver on the ground evidenced Carl’s efforts to fix something. She remembered the clanging and banging she’d heard the last time she’d been on his boat.

  She moved to the head and opened the latch. Nothing seemed disturbed. She peered inside a mirrored wall cabinet and scanned the contents of the two shelves: shaving cream, a razor, Band-Aids, nothing unusual.

  Just then she heard footsteps on the walkway. She hurried out to the deck and saw a figure descending to the float. A baseball cap obscured the face, and she felt a momentary rush of panic. “Carl?” she called.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” said the male voice. To her surprise, it sounded familiar.

  “Father Whitney?”

  “Yes,” he replied, removing his hat.

  Relieved, she climbed out onto the dock, quickly approached the reverend, and extended her hand. “Good to see you,” she said, realizing that she truly meant it. The eerie quiet of the fishing pier, the discovery of the burned pot, and the mysteriousness of Carl’s message had conspired to make her imagination race. Seeing the minister calmed her.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, taking Frances’s hand and holding it in both of his.

  She realized the same question could be posed to him. “I’m meeting Carl.”

  He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “And I, too. He called me at the parish house earlier today and asked me to come here this evening. He said he wanted to meet with me to discuss some things about Hope’s passing, some details he thought I should know.” Father Whitney removed a watch from his pocket that was attached to his belt loop with a gold chain. “I’m a little late, but I couldn’t get away earlier. We have many parishioners who are anxious to talk. They need to talk. The Lawrences are special people. It’s times like this that we need to come together as a church family.”

  “Did he tell you what he wanted to talk with you about?”

  “He said nothing beyond what I’ve just told you. Was he more expansive with you?”

  “No.” Frances scanned the boats once more.

  Reverend Whitney walked to the Lady Hope and leaned over, peering onto the deck. “You’re sure this is his boat?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  The minister held on to the handrail and lowered himself onto the deck. Having climbed on, he remained still, adjusting to the slight sway of the boat in the water. Then he moved to the cabin entrance and stuck his head in. “There’s something cooking,” he remarked. “Or at least there was. It appears rather burnt.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I had the distinct impression that there was some urgency to this meeting. I do hope the man’s all right,” he said when he reappeared.

  Frances perched against the stack of lobster crates. She agreed with the reverend that something felt amiss. The charred soup only heightened her uneasiness. She scanned the black sea, searching for an answer in the tide.

  “What did Hope tell you about him?”

  Father Whitney turned to face her. His expression was difficult to read. “Hope was a member of my parish, an important one, although I shouldn’t draw distinctions because everyone is important. She and I spoke often. I was very fond of her.”

  “Many people were.”

  “Yes, that’s true. As for Carl, I believe that Hope had very complex feelings toward him, feelings tied up with both his age and her family’s disapproval. Based on what Adelaide confessed to me yesterday, I now suspect her difficulties were closely related to Bill’s conduct. But our discussions centered around how attached to Carl she was and yet how sinful, how unclean, she felt when she was with him.”

  “In what way?”

  “She didn’t want to elaborate, and it’s my role to hear only what she chooses to tell me. God hears all, though, and she knew that. We’re all mortal, I told her over and over, but she was her harshest critic by far. Just this spring she asked me to perform a reconciliation of the penitent, which we did together.”

  “Which is?” Frances asked. Then she thought to add, “Sorry I’m not as up as I should be on my Episcopalian ceremonies.”

  He smiled. “No reason you should be if the church isn’t a big part of your life. Frankly, even many who profess to be good Episcopalians couldn’t tell you much about rituals or liturgy. They come to Sunday services, but they don’t understand. In any event, reconciliation is a pastoral service to help parishioners seek forgiveness. It’s a spiritual cleansing of sorts. Hope told me she had squandered the inheritance of our Lord’s saints and wandered far in a land of waste. The reconciliation was a way to bring her back.”

  “Did Carl talk to you, too?”

  “I’ve never met him. That’s why I find it confusing that he thought to call me. If anyone, he should speak to Adelaide and Bill.”

  Frances shrugged. A silence fell, and her eyes wandered back and forth over the deck, looking at the assortment of buoys, ropes, lines, crates, bait buckets, all the equipment to catch a lobster. As she looked, she noticed a rope, one end of which turned several times over a metal cleat while the other end disappeared into the water below. An anchor line seemed unlikely given that the Lady Hope was well fastened to the float. A lobster trap so close to the dock seemed similarly implausible. She took hold of it and began to pull, dragging it slowly out of the water. The task grew more difficult with each hoist. The wet rope was slippery, and she had difficulty maintaining a grip.

  “Could I offer assistance?” Father Whitney asked.

  She nodded. Although it felt awkward to ask a priest for help with such a laborious endeavor, she had no alternative. No one else was around.

  He positioned himself between her and the water, leaned in, and grabbed hold about a yard below where she held. His long sleeves were wet, but she watched him wrap the rope around his strong hands, securing a grip. Together they pulled. Harder. She felt the sweat of exertion break out on her forehead despite the cool breeze.

  Suddenly the rope emerged. They stumbled backward from the release of tension. Reverend Whitney held the frayed end in his hand. There was nothing attached.

  “I’m sorry,” Frances said. “I don’t know what got into me. I should have left it alone. And now you’re wet.”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” he said, leaning over and gently kissing the top of her head. The familiarity of the gesture startled her, but she had to admit that there was something soothing about the tender touch of a paternal figure. He stood and rolled up his wet sleeves.

  Just then her eye caught something, a flat bluish white surface. She gasped. “Oh no!” she heard herself scream, but the voice sounded far away. She closed her eyes, knowing full well what the ocean was about to disgorge. A body. Blue jeans. A bare torso. Bare feet. Dark hair on the back of the head, swaying in the water like seaweed. Carl had been wrong. Men did float facedown, pointing into the
black abyss of their own destiny. Or at least he did.

  “Dear God.”

  Her legs couldn’t support her weight, and she collapsed. She heard the splinter of wood as she crushed a lobster crate and felt a sharp pain in her side. It didn’t matter. Sinking down, she put her head between her knees, struggling to breathe, and felt wetness seep into her clothing. She heard Father Whitney scrambling on the deck, the clatter as he untied a line hook to drag the body out of the sea, and the thump as the lifeless form landed on the boat.

  She glanced up only once, long enough to see a reddish brown stain covering most of the back of Carl’s head. As the world went dark around her, she heard the minister’s breathless voice, “May your rest be this day in peace and your dwelling place in the paradise of God.”

  31

  Frances and Elvis stood on the deck of the Lady Hope, listening to the sound of yellow police tape flapping against the side of her deck. The harbormaster had moved the boat to a slip away from the marina’s main activity until such time as the police released her and she could be sold. In the meantime, she rocked gently beside other seemingly lost vessels. The salty air blew cold on Frances’s cheek, and she felt a sorrow saturate her skin as she scanned the horizon. If Carl hadn’t made bail, he’d be alive today.

  After the emergence of his body, events of the previous night blurred. Father Whitney must have called the police, because she remembered sounds of sirens, flashing lights, and people moving about the deck of the boat. Someone had escorted her into an ambulance, taken her pulse and vital signs, but the faces and specifics escaped her. It wasn’t until she’d returned to Smith’s Point that she remembered Carl’s words. I have Hope’s diaries. That’s what they were here to find.