The Road at My Door

by Lori Windsor Mohr

  Their voices died down. Victory. It had taken Mom longer than usual to get rid of the priest. I made a checkmark in the air next to Father Donnelly. His name would be included in today’s count on the growing list of people Mom had alienated the first two weeks in our new town.

  There was no need to listen for the familiar exit, nervous laughter followed by a closed front door. I stood to leave my post. An unusual noise caught my attention.

  It wasn’t nervous laughter. The front door hadn’t closed. The sound on the other side of the wall was…laughter. Mom and Father Donnelly were laughing!

  Thank you, God, thank you.

  That’s how I knew. I knew that even if she turned back into stone, Mom had come to the same conclusion I had: Father Jack Donnelly was special.

  Another hour later the front door did close. I knew he would be back for another visit.

  It wasn’t long in coming.

  *

  The next morning I was first out of the house, just steps ahead of Kit. I piled into the new Ford and took my position in back. Kit sashayed across the lawn as only my sister could, assured of her status riding shotgun. This morning I didn’t care. Greg Stewart might get to school early. He would see me dropped off in the Ford instead of rushing from the corner bus stop.

  Kit opened the door as if it were any old car, a restraint commensurate with her sophistication as a sophomore, along with the condescension. I leaned over the front seat and twirled the steering wheel. She clicked her tongue at my imitation of the salesman on TV.

  “It’s a Fooooord,” I howled in prolonged pronunciation of the manufacturer’s name. Dad’s deep voice had sounded better yesterday afternoon. He’d left work early to drive it home from the dealership so he could surprise Mom. She thought the executive perk wouldn’t be available until the first of the year. Dad had led her outside with eyes closed, the Ford imitation a giveaway hint.

  Kit honked the horn. “I’m going to be late meeting Jackie.”

  Mom checked to see if any neighbors might be watching, which Kit said was the real reason she left the Ford in the driveway instead parking it in the garage. Mrs. Ellery’s wave from the kitchen window across the street proved Mom’s strategy worthwhile.

  Mom said new was the best smell in the world. She drove ten miles under the speed limit to make sure no one missed what Dad referred to as Mom’s new status symbol. Mom insisted the new car was absolutely required if they were going to keep up with the Joneses in a neighborhood full of Joneses, all of whom drove late model cars and disappeared into an attached garage instead of parking in the driveway, direct evidence of a somebody rather than a nobody living there.

  Sounds of a quarrel jarred me back to earth.

  “Give me one good reason why I can’t go see Lolita with Jackie?”

  “Lolita is rated X in the Legion of Decency and Jackie’s parents are divorced. I’m sure she has no supervision at home.”

  “I can’t have a friend with divorced parents and the Catholic Church decides what movies I can and can’t see? That’s just bitchin’.”

  “Don’t swear, Katherine. If you give me anymore sass your father will hear about it.”

  Kit folded her arms. “Fine. I’ll go to the library after school and check out Peyton Place. You can’t spy on me twenty-four hours a day.”

  Mom’s hands tightened over the steering wheel.

  I could’ve predicted my sister would find the one friend Mom wouldn’t approve of. Like an automatic pool sweep, you could set Kit down anywhere and she’d gravitate to the edge.

  We drove in silence the rest of the way to school.

  Things at home may not have been different. School was another matter altogether. It was as if the world had closed, then opened up again, everything brand new. I had made another friend besides Greg. Francesca Cantello, or Francie as she preferred to be called, was also in first period Honors English.

  I slid into my alphabetically-determined seat behind Francie, both surnames starting with ‘C’. A fellow recent transplant, she and I had become instant allies. Francie with Italian coloring was an exception to the fair-haired prototype filling the halls. That alone made me like her, even though I was one of those blondes. Five minutes after meeting each other she confessed her crush on our teacher, a Jesuit brother.

  The second bell rang. Greg threw me a quick nod on the way to his desk.

  Brother Timothy McPherson waited at the lectern. It wasn’t hard to see why Francie had a crush on the man. He was gorgeous. He looked the same age as the seniors. I was sure he had to be at least twenty-four. I wondered why he had chosen the life of a cleric instead of being ordained a priest. Francie had looked up the difference in the Encyclopaedia Britannica. She said it was a dumb way to get out of saying Mass if that was all he wanted, because Brother McPherson had to take the same vows of poverty, celibacy, and obedience. I told her maybe he was escaping a torrid love affair with a married woman. This beautiful guy with hazel eyes that zoomed right into yours must’ve had lots of girls falling for him. If he hadn’t ruined his life he could’ve had his pick.

  Whatever his reason for entering religious life, it didn’t matter to me. In two weeks Brother McPherson had become my favorite teacher of all time, which had nothing to do with his looks. There was something in his manner. I wanted to be in his presence, absorb his knowledge so I could be on the same plane; understand what he understood.

  “Fire and Ice. Only nine lines long, this little poem, a brilliant example of Frost’s concisely ironic literary style. Let’s take the first two lines. Reese Cavanaugh, if you would enlighten us. What emotions is Frost referring to in this metaphor?”

  “I think he’s using fire to mean passion and ice to mean hatred.”

  “Right. He doesn’t tell us which of these elements is more likely to cause destruction but tells us that in his personal experience, it will be fire. Then he goes on to tell us hate also makes a good argument for destruction of the world through ice.”

  A hand went up in the front row. “He didn’t mention nuclear war. That’d work.”

  A giggle rippled through the classroom. Brother McPherson stepped away from the lectern to the desk and leaned against it.

  “Ah! Andy makes an important point. But is Frost talking about the literal world? Couldn’t he be talking about a relationship? Too much desire and passion can consume a relationship, while cold indifference and hate can be equally destructive. Isn’t that what our narrator is saying?”

  During that one hour of English, Brother McPherson took us into another dimension, a world in which literature related to real life. He spoke directly to me, I was sure of it, those hazel eyes peering deep into my soul.

  In poetry he taught us words were symbols to be deciphered. Once we knew how to do that, a whole deeper meaning would be revealed, meaning you couldn’t find in Webster’s dictionary. Symbolism was the secret to unlocking lessons in loneliness, loss, despair, love, even if we hadn’t experienced the emotions. That’s how Brother McPherson made me feel like an equal. I got the sense he hadn’t experienced them either.

  But he understood them. That put him one step ahead of me.

  That made him a mentor.

  *

  At home our new life was off to a bumpy start. The Lolita argument was ancient history, or so I thought.

  Dad called me and Kit to the kitchen for lunch. The normal tension in the house had been amped up. Dad looked glum. He instructed us to be quiet and eat our Campbell’s Bean with Bacon soup. My stomach tightened. The crunch of Saltines and the sipping of soup were the only sounds at the table.

  Dad finished his lunch. He explained in a flat voice that after Kit and I finished ours we would be getting a whipping with his belt.

  Kit shot back. “Why? What for?”

  “On general principles.” Dad didn’t look at her.

  Kit glared at Mom, who didn’t look up, her Revlon lips pursed as she tested the heat before each sip from the spoon.

 
“Dad, what did she tell you? Whatever she said, she’s lying. Can’t you see that? Mom, I didn’t go see Lolita! And you can’t spank me. I’m in high school!”

  Silence.

  “You’re gonna be so sorry. You’re gonna pay for this.” Kit picked up her spoon and mimicked Mom with exaggerated sips, the chill between them cooling our steaming bowls.

  My stomach churned as soup bobbed up and down with indecision. Dad nodded toward the living room. My sister calmly folded her napkin, slammed the spoon on the table, and marched with head high to the living room.

  I sat transfixed at the sounds as I visualized the scene. Dad drew the drapes. Kit lowered her jeans and knelt on the floor, elbows propped on the couch. I didn’t have to imagine anything for the next part. Dad yanked the leather belt from his waist with a snap.

  Sccchhhlappp. Sccchhhlappp. Sccchhhlappp. Sccchhhlappp.

  Kit didn’t utter a sound. I held my breath until the whipping stopped. I waited for the aftermath I knew would follow. The force of the slammed bedroom door sent every window in the house rattling in synchronized anger all the way to the kitchen.

  Mom didn’t flinch.

  My turn. I shot a silent plea to Mom. She refused to meet my eyes.

  In the living room I whispered to Dad. “I didn’t do anything. Why should I get punished, Daddy? You and I both know this is between Mom and Kit.”

  His face was drawn in torment. “Let’s get this over with, Clarice.”

  Tears blurred my vision. I knew pleading for exemption was useless. Had there been any way out of this spanking Kit would’ve been the one to accomplish a reprieve.

  I tried to act brave like Kit. As soon as the bedroom door was shut, I hopped up and down from the sting. It was only after inspecting for blood and finding none that I noticed the open window.

  Kit was gone.

  On the ladder of rebellion sneaking out of the house even for two hours was a cut above talking back. I crossed my fingers for Kit to return before Mom found out. If my sister was going down, I would be going down with her. Our new life would be dead in the water.

  That night in bed I wondered why Dad had done it. Was going along with Mom’s demands the price of preventing divorce? I shivered under the covers. We were all at the mercy of Mom’s whims, Dad included. Maybe Dad most of all.

  I tried to remember life when I was little, a time when Dad would play his harmonica in the hallway at night until Kit and I fell asleep, a time when Mom and Dad were happy. A time when I felt safe. And loved.

  2 Better than God

  Father Donnelly began visiting on a regular basis, which improved Mom’s mood far more than spanking me and Kit had. Wednesday, his day off, he showed up earlier and stayed later. Wednesday was also Greg’s longest track practice. We wouldn’t be hanging out playing ping pong.

  Any other Wednesday I would be looking forward to seeing Father Donnelly for our regular chit-chat before getting The Look, my cue from Mom to go away and leave them to their ‘adult conversation’. I assumed that meant talking about sex in some context or other. Today that was fine. I was in a rotten mood. The forty-three minute bus ride home took forever. I wanted to get the chit-chat over with and disappear in my room.

  A hit to my social life paled in comparison with the prospect of divorced parents. I tried to keep some kind of perspective. That wasn’t easy. Tension at home clouded my view of everything, like trying to see through dirty glasses.

  I cracked open the back door. Mom’s and Father Donnelly’s voices carried from the living room. Time to walk the gauntlet. I gave them a breezy hello and kept walking toward the hall. Their conversation dwindled to a halt.

  “Whoa, whooooaaaaaa. Hey. You don’t speak to your friends anymore?”

  Caught. I offered a perkier greeting.

  Father Donnelly got up from the couch where he and Mom sat facing each other. “Hmmmm. Well, this won’t do. Nope. This won’t do at all.” He took my hand and started toward the kitchen. “C’mon, Vivienne, we’ve got a crisis.”

  Father Donnelly and I sat at the table. Mom swished past in her full skirt to make a fresh pot of coffee.

  Father Donnelly leaned close. “Now, you want to tell me what’s happened to take the beautiful smile off your face?”

  I fell into his blue ocean eyes, gold flecks flickering in the depths. Everything about Father Donnelly told me I could confide in him. Mom and Dad are on the brink of divorce. You have to do something. Mom will listen to you. You’re the only person who can help. “Stephanie Hamilton is having a big sleepover Friday night. I mean, she invited everyone…even Francie.” I bit my lip to calm the quivering.

  “And she didn’t invite you.”

  Silence.

  Father Donnelly waited until Mom started the coffee grinder. He spoke in a low voice, a teasing grin of confidence rather than ridicule on his face. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Greg Stewart, would it?”

  My blush was answer enough. Father Donnelly had noticed me and Greg on the back patio playing ping pong more than a few times. Since Mom had never asked me about Greg, I assumed he hadn’t told her. The coffee grinder stopped. Father Donnelly shifted his voice loud enough for Mom to hear now that he had made clear we were conversing in code.

  “Isn’t Stephanie Hamilton that boy-crazy girl who’s always cornering …what’s his name…Greg something…every Sunday after Mass? She practically throws herself at the poor guy. It’s common knowledge she’s been after him since they were fifth graders. He’s the one feather she doesn’t have in her cap.”

  I didn’t know if it was common knowledge or not. It didn’t matter. Father Donnelly knew something about everyone in the parish from what I’d gathered eavesdropping on his conversations with Mom. They were constantly gossiping about so and so. He continued.

  “That girl thinks just because she’s rich, she’s better than everyone else. No matter how much her family donates to the Church, it doesn’t give her license to be mean. And it’s just plain mean spirited to exclude one person if she’s invited the whole circle of friends.”

  Mom leaned against the fridge with a look of disinterest and studied her fingernails. Her presence felt intrusive in what was a private discussion.

  Father Donnelly took a long sip of coffee. “Do you really want to be friends with someone like that?”

  I grimaced at his typically-adult question. “Kind of.”

  Father Donnelly laughed so hard I could see his tonsils bobbing up and down. He slapped the table with a terrible thwack. “Wrong answer. But honest.” He looked me in the eye. “Dear girl, I’m going to let you in on an important life secret.”

  I wondered how much of a secret it could be with Mom standing there.

  “Real friends come to you. They may not be the people you expect, the popular kids who like everyone to think they have it all. In fact, most popular kids don’t have close friends, they have a bunch of people they like one day and drop the next. Now here’s the secret.” He glanced beyond me to Mom, the message directed to her as much as me. “When you’re lucky enough to have a real friend, the thing that makes them real is that they want to be your friend as much as you want to be theirs.”

  He trapped Mom in his gaze as she handed him fresh coffee. Message sent and received.

  “Now, if you’re the smart girl I think you are I know how you’re going to answer my next question.” He sipped from the steaming mug, eyes twinkling over the rim. “Do you honestly want to be friends with Stephanie Hamilton? Or are your feelings hurt because you’re left out. They’re two different things.”

  My smile came out a conciliatory smirk. “I guess it’s being left out.”

  “Well, young lady, you are in business. That we can fix!” He slapped the table again. “You don’t need Stephanie Hamilton to have a good time. You know what we’re going to do?” He looked at Mom again, this time drawing her into the plan. “We’re going to have our very own party. After hearing confession Friday night, I’m coming rig
ht over here. At ten o’clock, you and I are going to watch The Twilight Zone. Your mom will bake us one of her famous chocolate cakes and we’ll stay up until eleven watching TV, just the two of us.”

  “You mean it?” I sat up straight.

  “I do indeed. Of course, if you want to invite your dad or Kit or your mom that’s okay too. Nobody can join us unless you invite them. I promise you, we will have the best Friday night there ever was in the Cavanaugh residence.”

  And that’s exactly what we did. Friday night FD, our new code name for him, came straight over after confession. All of us—Dad, Mom, me, even Kit—gathered in the living room, Kit and I on the floor, elbows propped, and watched The Twilight Zone.

  It was without question the best party ever.

  That’s how the tradition began. Friday nights would find Mom, Dad, Kit and me in the kitchen at nine o’clock with hopes our fellow parishioners hadn’t sinned too much. Mortal sins had a tendency to extend confession, which cut into our pre-Twilight Zone powwow. It went without saying that no one outside the family was to know about these Friday night rendezvous. Gossip in the parish would threaten future parties. We swore to keep FD’s visits a secret.

  For the first time I could remember, our family was united around a cause.

  It would be the first in a long trail of secrets that would bring our family together. In the end those secrets would doom us—leave us pounding for shelter at a door that would be locked from inside.

  *

  Mom finished packing Dad’s suitcase for another trip back East to update the government on his company’s defense projects. The silence on her end told me Mom was in a bad mood. Big surprise. I was on the verge of ditching my eavesdropping post when Dad mentioned how he hated leaving the three of us girls alone in the house, how he would feel a lot better if a man were here. What did Mom think about Jack Donnelly spending a few nights?

  The low giggling and kiss that followed told me she liked the idea.

  A phone call from Dad was all it took and the sleepover plan was in place. FD joked that nosey parishioners would have a field day noticing his car parked overnight in front of the Cavanaugh’s. That was easy enough to solve, Dad said. Why didn’t FD keep his garage door opener? Arrival in stealth should guarantee secrecy, especially in the dark.