The Altar Girl: A Prequel

by Orest Stelmach

  He frowned. “What’s a manual transmission?”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No, I’m not kidding you. But how hard can it be?”

  I stammered through an incoherent answer.

  “Of course I’m kidding you,” he said. “Buckle up, Danica. I did the two-day course at Lime Rock. It was a gift from a parishioner. He supplies them with tires. Let me show you how this thing’s supposed to be driven.” He wiped the traces of good humor from his expression. “And then we’ll talk.”

  Fifteen minutes and an equal number of hairpin turns later, I was almost searching for a sick bag. The engine wailed as we raced down I-91 toward New Haven, carving up every minivan in sight.

  “And she’s on the cell phone too,” Father Yuri said, as he passed one of them, finger pointed at the driver.

  I clung to the armrest on the passenger door.

  “What a machine,” he said, as he slowed down to sixty-five. He merged into the right lane and blended with traffic. He took a deep breath and exhaled with satisfaction. “Thank you for that, Nadia.” Then he glanced at me with the look of a man who was used to standing in God’s place. “Now tell me, exactly what do you think you’re doing?”

  His question knocked the breath out of me. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play with me. This is your health and welfare we’re talking about. Why are you digging around into things that are none of your business?”

  A shiver ran through me. “How do you know what I’m doing?”

  “It’s an insular community, Nadia. You know that.”

  “Who told you I was asking questions?”

  He cocked his head at me as though I should have known better than to ask. The priest-penitent privilege protected any communication between Father Yuri and anyone who’d confided to him in confidence. He didn’t need to reveal what he knew to the police, and he certainly wasn’t going to share the source of his knowledge with me. I couldn’t even be sure it was only one person involved. There could be multiple degrees of separation between his source and one of the people who knew what I was doing.

  “I presume you called me because you have some questions of me,” Father Yuri said. “I may know the answers to some of them. I may not be able to answer others. But I will not be party to putting your life at risk.”

  I could hear my heart pounding as though someone had stuck a metronome behind my ear. “Is my life at risk?” I knew the answer, of course, but hearing someone else state the obvious was far more terrifying than believing it myself.

  “Is Bohdan Angelovich using crutches?”

  Father Yuri knew about Donnie Angel. He knew what I’d done to him, which meant he must have known that Donnie had kidnapped me. Only three people knew about that incident: Donnie, Roxy, and me. Except that was a guess. I had no idea how many people knew about it. Roxy, Donnie, the two guys in Donnie’s van, or their boss could have been the source. I couldn’t infer anything with certainty.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t seen him for a few days. Is my life at risk?”

  “Didn’t your mother teach you to keep matches away from straw?”

  “No. She sent me to PLAST camp where I learned how to put matches to birch bark. It burns just as fast.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Someone has to.”

  “Nonsense. Prying into an unlikely death will not bring back the departed. Why do you care so much?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I said. “I just know I have to follow this through to the end.”

  “Nonsense. You have a choice. You can walk away now.”

  “You of all people, Father Yuri, should understand the concept of a calling.”

  He slipped into the lane for the last exit in Hartford. It would deposit us at the border of Wethersfield, a mile away from the Uke National Home.

  “Fair enough. We’re about ten minutes away from church. For those ten minutes, in appreciation for allowing me to use this sublime piece of machinery, I’ll discuss those things I’m permitted to discuss with you. I won’t discuss anything else, and you won’t mention this subject ever again once we get back to the church. And we will do so against my better judgment, as tribute to your generous heart and kind soul. The parish and I remain grateful for your donations.”

  His thanks only served to remind me I was unemployed. I was glad it was dark and he couldn’t see me blush. I wondered if my financial situation would ever allow me to be generous again. Then I asked him if he’d seen any evidence of a surge in my godfather’s disposable income or a change in lifestyle.

  “The church never saw any of that money, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

  “So you knew he’d become rich?”

  “He took me to Fleming’s Steakhouse once.”

  “Where he had a regular table and the waitress knew his name.”

  Father Yuri looked shocked. “How did you . . .”

  “The church never saw the money?”

  Father Yuri shrugged. “I didn’t say I didn’t get a free meal out of it. Porcini-rubbed filet mignon. Definitely heaven-sent. I think he wanted me to know he was doing well. Which meant he wanted the community to know he was doing well, but I didn’t see any increase in our collections.”

  “That was rather inconsiderate of him.”

  “I should say so.”

  “You’d think he’d understand even spiritual enterprises run on cash.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you?”

  “I love a pragmatic priest.”

  “As well you should. Believe me when I tell you, religion is a business, too. Prayers don’t pay the electricity bill. You mind if I pass this lollygagger?” He downshifted into third and blew past a late-model BMW, glaring at the driver as he passed. “Why buy a sports sedan if you’re going to drive ten miles below the speed limit?”

  “Did you ask him how he’d come by his good fortune?” I said.

  “I don’t pry. I remember telling him, ‘Business must be good,’ and he said ‘Never better. If you live long enough, anything can happen. Ukraine can gain independence, you can turn a profit on the past, and even an old scrounger can get lucky.’”

  The last two lines caught my attention. “You’re sure that’s what he said? ‘You can turn a profit on the past and an old scrounger can get lucky?’”

  “My memory is infallible once fortified by a steak and a good Napa cabernet. He wanted to order French but I told him it was unpatriotic.”

  “Says the priest driving the German car.”

  “It’s not my name on the registration.”

  The light turned, he mashed the pedal and turned right onto Wethersfield Avenue headed toward Hartford.

  “Did he offer any other clues?” I said. “About how he was earning the money.”

  “No, but there were rumors.”

  “What rumors?”

  “It’s hard to keep a secret in a small community.”

  “Such as?”

  “There were rumors he was making money along the lines of his usual business. Art and antiquities. But that he had a connection in Ukraine. And he was getting rare artifacts into the country with the help of some questionable characters and selling them for big money.”

  “Questionable characters?” I said. “Anyone I know besides Bohdan Angelovich?”

  “You have enough to worry about with him, don’t you?”

  I couldn’t argue with Father Yuri on that score. The rumor he’d shared with me jibed with Mrs. Chimchak’s revelation about his life changing since he’d visited Crimea. I imagined a dispute arising about profit. I could picture my godfather demanding a higher cut, or Donnie Angel insisting on part of my godfather’s cut. Donnie could have pushed him down the stairs himself, or had an accomplice do it. The horror was that I could
n’t be sure my brother wasn’t that accomplice.

  A minute later, Father Yuri pulled into my original parking spot in front of the church. He slid the gear into neutral and lifted the emergency-brake handle, but left the engine running. It was his way of telling me he wasn’t inviting me into the rectory to answer any more questions. Instead he turned toward me with a stern look.

  “Walk away,” he said.

  I avoided his eyes and stared at the glove box.

  “Walk away while you still can and go to the police. Ask for their protection.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? I’m still not clear on that. I know you loved your godfather and all, but please. Be real.”

  “I can’t walk away. That’s all I know.”

  He sighed, closed his eyes, and said a quick blessing, making the sign of the cross in my direction as he spoke. It was a quick request for God to watch over me. I crossed myself and thanked him.

  He pushed the seat back as far as it would go and flung the driver’s door open. I stepped out of the passenger seat while he hauled himself out of the vehicle.

  “Anything else you can tell me, Father?”

  He hesitated.

  “Anything?”

  Father Yuri considered my request. “I still remember when we were left with one altar boy. When your father suggested a girl, I thought, why not? You, with your excellent Ukrainian, perfect manners, and that boyish haircut. Will I see you at the blessing of the Easter baskets tomorrow?”

  I hadn’t even stopped to think about it. I remembered Donnie Angel telling me he used to attend with his mother. Of course, his mother had passed away and he was now a completely unrepentant criminal. The odds he’d be there were zero. Still, I couldn’t see how attending the ceremony was going to help me find my godfather’s killer.

  “I’m sure your mother would be thrilled if you and your brother came,” Father Yuri said, before I could answer. “And it would be a great opportunity for you to talk to your brother.”

  Father Yuri’s words struck fear in my heart. I’d asked him if he could tell me anything else that would help me, and he’d just done so. He’d told me to talk to Marko. It was the advice I needed but didn’t want to hear.

  “Yes,” I said. “You’ll see me tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 23

  I TRIED TO find my brother before returning to the motel. First I called Brasilia. A woman told me he wasn’t working, which I found strange. I assumed Friday night was a profitable night in the strip club business, and that an owner-operator would want to be present. When my call to his house rolled to the answering machine again, I decided to drive to Willimantic and see both places for myself. My drive was for naught. The lights were off in his house and no one answered the doorbell. Meanwhile, Brasilia overflowed with breasts, butts, and beer-guzzling revelers, but Marko wasn’t among the men maintaining order.

  On Saturday morning I called my mother at 7:00 a.m. sharp. I had a personal rule not to call anyone before 8:00 a.m., but I’d long since passed the point of worrying about etiquette. Much to my shock, my mother welcomed the call. She’d been up all night baking paska—the special Easter bread—and babkas. Yes, she said, Marko had promised to be at the school hall behind the church for the blessing of the Easter baskets at 2:00 p.m. I told her I was coming over to her house and driving her to Hartford, and hung up before she could answer.

  I got to within a mile of her house when I saw the white Honda parked discreetly beside a Dumpster at a twenty-four-hour food mart. It was one of the two modified cars I’d seen idling outside my godfather’s house. Then, after visiting my mother, I thought I’d spied it again as I’d raced up the entrance lane to the highway. The suspension had been lowered close to the ground, fiberglass skirts had been added to the body, and the wheels were black. I suppose there could have been a third such car in the Hartford area, but it would have been an incredible coincidence.

  I could see two figures inside the car as I took my turn perpendicular to the corner where they were parked, but the windows were tinted and I couldn’t make out their faces or bodies. By the time I reached my mother’s house, I’d deduced that either Donnie Angel had multiple teams of men covering my likely destinations, or he knew where I was going this morning. The only way he could have known where I was going was if my mother had told them. No one else knew I was coming to pick her up. No one.

  I was prepared for some verbal punishment for hanging up on her, but when I stepped inside she hugged me as though we were soul mates. For a brief moment, all my concerns vanished. The white Honda, Donnie Angel, my godfather’s death, Marko’s possible involvement in his business or murder, my job loss, and the personal dissatisfaction I had to overcome every morning to get out of bed. None of it mattered as my mother held me. Only when she let go did a voice of reason remind me she had to have had an ulterior motive for her most uncharacteristic display of affection.

  “I’m so happy to see my beautiful daughter,” she said. “You know, my children are my pride and joy. I’m so thrilled you’ll both be with me at the blessing today. The entire community will see us as the family we are. The other women will be so jealous of me. Come in, my kitten, and help me arrange the basket.”

  I realized her enthusiasm was a function of appearances. Or perhaps a combination of love and appearances. Yes, I thought. This sounded more logical. I understood it might have been a delusion, but I settled on it nonetheless. After all, it was the day before Easter.

  We went to the kitchen.

  “You said both of us will be joining you. Did Marko call? Did he call to confirm?”

  “He told me a few weeks ago he’d be there today.”

  “You mean he didn’t call to confirm?”

  “Your brother’s a con artist, a bum, and a degenerate sinner, but he’s my son and I have no reason to doubt his word. You want some green tea?”

  I shook my head. “So you didn’t call him.”

  My mother looked at me as though I were an idiot. “Do I ever call my children? I don’t want to bother either of you. I don’t want to be one of those old women who’s a pain in their children’s butts. You think we should take all these colored eggs or leave the black one out?”

  “You painted an Easter egg black?” I’d never heard of or seen such a thing.

  She held it up. It was black as tar.

  “My hairdresser has all the magazines,” she said. “Black is the new black, didn’t you know that? I’m just trying to bring fashion into the Easter basket. I thought you, Miss New York, would understand.”

  Only the Black Widow would put a black egg in her Easter basket, I thought. “Of course, Mama. You’re right. Take the black egg. It works for you. But we’re going to leave my car and take your Buick, okay?”

  Her face fell. “Why?”

  “I’m low on gas. I didn’t have time to stop at a station, and I don’t want to take any chances. I know how you hate it when a car isn’t fully fueled and there’s a risk of running out.”

  “Shame on you for not planning ahead. The one time your mother gets a chance to drive in a sexy car . . .” She bit her lip. “Pity. I would have looked so good in it pulling up to the church.”

  It was a lie, of course. There was plenty of high-octane in the 911; I wanted to switch cars. I doubted it would be of much help. Even if I lost the boys in the white Honda, I was headed straight to the heart of the Uke community. I couldn’t have made myself more conspicuous. Still, the mere thought of being in another vehicle lowered my blood pressure. At least I was changing my routine a bit. At least I was doing something differently.

  We arranged the breads, colored eggs, ham, sausage, a mixture of horseradish and beets, butter, cheese, and salt in a wicker basket decorated with an embroidered cloth. My mother spent no less than fifteen minutes rearranging the items until the presentation met with her approval. Afterwa
rd, we packed the car and I drove us to church.

  I held my breath as I approached the food mart where I’d seen my followers, but the Honda was gone. It was also nowhere to be seen in the rearview mirror. I wondered if a second car would pick up my trail any moment, and if there were even more than two vehicles following me. Then I wondered if they knew my mother drove a Buick. Perhaps I was alone for the first time in days. Perhaps I’d actually lost them.

  My mother may have liked the idea of sitting in a sports car, but she didn’t enjoy traveling at high speeds in any car. She scolded me twice and told me to slow down before I ever got on the highway. I apologized and reduced my speed. I needed her to be cooperative. I also wanted to ease into my intended topic of conversation but couldn’t figure out a way to do so quickly. I had no time for small talk.

  “We were talking about the DP camps the other day,” I said. “Someone told me quite a few priests made it out of Ukraine during the war and ended up in the camps. I imagine Easter had special meaning back then. The resurrection of Christ, the Savior. It was probably a big deal in camp, wasn’t it?”

  She glanced at me as though I was trying to poison her. “You’re going back there again? Give me a break. I thought I’d be sitting pretty in that little Porsche of yours. Like James Dean’s girlfriend. But no. You want to go cruising down memory lane in my old American jalopy instead.”

  “That makes two of us. Wanting to cruise down memory lane.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re going to the blessing of the Easter baskets. Together. Where all your friends will see us, Mama. And remember us as a family growing up.” My mother was the world heavyweight champion of quid pro quo. I was certain she’d understand. “Was Easter a big deal in the DP camps?”

  She turned away from me and looked out the window. I glanced in her direction and saw her fidgeting in her seat, her head bobbing sideways and making little circles the way it did when she was irritated, digesting bad news, or contemplating something serious. In this case, it was all of the above, I suspected.