The Road at My Door

by Lori Windsor Mohr

  I pretended not to hear. At the stairs I waited for a family of four to reach the bottom. The kids charged across the beach. The parents followed, dropping their gear close to the water. The mom laid out a blanket while the dad opened an umbrella and stuck the post deep in the sand. The kids rummaged through a beach bag and retrieved plastic shovels and buckets before scrambling to the water, squealing with delight as their parents watched.

  If only I belonged to them.

  9 Family of One

  Mom gave birth to a healthy boy in early August. She would be home mid-month after her body had regained some semblance of her pre-pregnant shape.

  It was getting harder every day to hide my depression beneath the mounting weight of this new secret on top of the old one. Maintaining a low profile with a few friends during summer was a far cry from fooling the masses, which was exactly what I would be trying to pull off once school started in a few weeks. What a horrible way to begin my junior year.

  On a Saturday morning I watched through the kitchen window as Dad’s car disappeared into the garage. A moment later Mom walked through the same door FD had walked through so many times in another life. She stood facing me in all her coiffed magnificence, her long, loose hair replaced by an obedient pageboy. Other than that, she looked the same as when she’d left seven months earlier. For a moment I imagined she was walking in from Sunday mass and had never left home at all.

  “Hello, Clarice.”

  I ignored her and grabbed a Coke from the fridge.

  “I see a few rules have fallen by the wayside. Is Coke an acceptable beverage now?”

  “Guess so.”

  Mom set her purse on the counter. She faced me with the same cucumber cold composure she’d had the morning she claimed she and Dad would never get a divorce, the morning I’d blown my cover as Kit put it.

  “Clarice, we might as well get a few things straight. For your father’s sake, I want this to work out, but I will not tolerate any sass from you. I know you two have…have leaned on each other these last several months, but I’m warning you—do not force his loyalty.”

  “Like you would know what the word means.”

  Her mouth twisted in a sardonic grin. “So this is how you want to play it? Young lady, you might do well to remember our discussion about boarding school last year. Do you understand what I’m saying? Don’t push me, Clarice.”

  I glared at her, my face a mask of defiance. Her threats couldn’t hurt me. She was the intruder now. This was our home, mine and Dad’s.

  A door slammed. Dad squeezed in from the garage with a box of books and an exaggerated smile. “Ah. I see you two have said hello. Vi, these go in the bedroom?”

  Mom flinched at his use of her nickname and kept her eyes on me. “Yes, in my office.”

  As Dad walked out of the kitchen I spun on my heels and followed him.

  *

  School started the first week in September. I slid under the radar of my social circle and concentrated on getting through classes. Assignments that had once come so easily now required massive effort. Had anyone noticed my dark circles I was ready with a story about a neighbor’s barking dog keeping me awake at night. By the end of the first week, no one had noticed anything wrong, a testament to my performance as a live human being.

  Latin class ran ten minutes over and I had to stop at my locker. There was still a chance I could catch the early bus. The bell rang. I was halfway through the door when Sister Dorothea touched my arm. She waited to speak until the classroom was empty.

  “I’d like a moment, Clarice. Sit down, will you?”

  Glancing in the direction of my locker, I resigned myself to missing the bus and let the book bag slide down my shoulder. I sat in a front row desk. Sister Dorothea leaned against hers with a face full of concern. Her arms were folded beneath the habit, which gave her the appearance of not having any limbs at all. I used to laugh about it with Francie.

  “Clarice, this is the third year you’ve been in my class. I can usually count on you for kicking off a good discussion. This first week of school you’ve hardly said a word. The few times I’ve called on you I’ve had to repeat the question because you’ve been so preoccupied. Is everything alright?”

  My throat went dry. “Yes, Sister.”

  “I haven’t seen you with Francie. You two used to be inseparable.”

  “We’re…not as close as we used to be.”

  “I see. Everything okay at home?” She searched my face for an honest answer, her caring expression reassuring me that I could confide.

  Oh yeah, everything’s peachy. My mother had an affair with Father Big Celebrity Donnelly, got pregnant. She left me and Dad while she went to have the baby. My dad fell apart. She just came home and he thinks we can just pick up where we left off, like the whole thing never happened. I can’t confide in a living soul about Father Donnelly or my parents. These secrets are eating me alive.

  “Yes, Sister. Everything’s fine.”

  “I know college is important to you, Clarice. You have nothing to worry about with your grades. Perhaps a little more social life might take the edge off the pressure you’re putting on yourself. You have dark circles under your eyes and you’ve lost what, ten pounds over the summer?”

  The barking dog story came in handy followed by another about jumping on the Mayo-Clinic-Grapefruit-Diet bandwagon to account for the weight loss. Her face told me she didn’t buy either story for a minute.

  “May I go now, Sister? I don’t want to miss the bus and I still have to go to my locker.”

  “Yes, you can go.”

  I leaned over to grab my bag and got up. She came away from the desk and took me by the shoulders. “Clarice, I hope you know you can confide in me. I may be able to help. We could talk somewhere else where you wouldn’t be seen. No one would have to know.”

  How I wished she would wrap her arms around me, take me home for a dinner of roast beef and mashed potatoes and green beans with people who hadn’t poisoned each other with toxic secrets. After dinner she would draw me a hot bath and visit while I soaked. She would tuck me into bed between fresh sheets and sit close until I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The next morning I would wake and my life would be normal. Mom and Dad would pick me up in Mom’s new Ford. She would be happy, not because of the Ford. She would be happy to see me.

  Kit would be with them, never having been pregnant. We would still share a bedroom and the big Marlborough K would look down on us. FD would come over Friday nights to watch The Twilight Zone. He would be my friend, Kit’s friend, Dad’s friend. Mom would be his real reason for coming over and she would flirt because she’s Mom, but they wouldn’t be lovers.

  He would be a real priest. God wouldn’t have abandoned me. I would go to UCLA, become a writer, marry a man I loved and live in a Father Knows Best house with three kids and two dogs. My life would have meaning. I would grow old and die surrounded by family.

  “Yes, Sister, I know I can talk to you if I need to.”

  A look passed between us, both of us knowing I would never confide in her.

  *

  At home we had settled into our usual, pre-baby routine, the pre-baby designation usurping FD’s pre and post arrival in our lives as the new line of demarcation in the family chronology. Sometimes I thought I might be going mad. The way everyone acted I wondered if I had gone over the edge. No one else had changed, at least not in how we acted with each other. I had to remind myself that these last seven plus months hadn’t been fantasy, they had been very real. Mom, Dad and FD had been able to put it behind them. I was the one stuck in a time warp. One of us was in an alternate reality. It must’ve been me.

  This particular afternoon I walked in from school to find Mom and FD in the kitchen in deep discussion about Kit. They glanced at me and kept talking. I grabbed an apple as my eavesdropping cover. From what I gathered washing the fruit, Mom had opened a letter addressed to Dad. Kit had invited him to Bogota to meet his
five-month-old grandson.

  For a moment I thought I’d heard a tinge of sadness in Mom. By the time the apple was dry familiar fumes of fury filled the air, even with Kit three thousand miles away.

  “Walker will go to Colombia over my dead body, grandson or no grandson.”

  “Vivienne, the man wants to see his first grandchild. That’s understandable. Why don’t you go down there with him, bury the hatchet?”

  “That’s a great idea, Jack. Kit would love nothing more than my showing up on her doorstep so she could flaunt that damn maid. No thank you.”

  “I’m sure Walker won’t mind going alone.” FD was teasing her the way he always had.

  “I’ll say it again. Walker will go to Bogota over my dead body. I’m sure by now Kit has bored everyone within earshot with tales of her evil mother. Her father showing up alone would only make them believe if they hadn’t already.”

  “Vivienne, forget about Kit for a moment, forget about Aida. You have a grandchild.”

  “Yes, and I have a right to see that grandchild. If I know that girl she’ll do everything she possibly can to prevent that, even if they were to visit Carlos’s uncle in Santa Monica. Kit would jump at the opportunity to humiliate me.”

  “I didn’t know you even liked babies, Mom.”

  Daggers shot from those cobalt eyes. “For the love of God, Clarice Cavanaugh, where on earth did you ever get that idea?”

  “I once heard you tell FD that if you’d had the Pill you wouldn’t have had kids.”

  “Young lady, what I say to Jack is none of your business, and for your information we were talking about a hypothetical situation. When you eavesdrop all you get is misinformation. Now why don’t you take that apple and go to your room.”

  I grabbed a napkin and started walking. “Do you know his name?”

  “Whose name?”

  “The baby… do you know his name?”

  “Carlitos. We will be referring to him as your cousin Carl, if we refer to him at all.”

  Nobody went to Colombia to meet the baby. As far as Mom was concerned, Kit and Carlitos didn’t exist. She never mentioned their names and Dad was careful not to either.

  By now I would’ve thought Mom and FD would be finished taking on joint projects, the baby being the grand finale. I was wrong. Their next endeavor would be their last. It would also mark the beginning of the end for me.

  FD arrived as usual for Sunday dinner. If the tacit agreement to bury the past had been designed to ease the strain of what those months had cost, it wasn’t working. The tension between my parents felt thicker than ever. Pre-baby Dad had worried about Mom leaving. Post-baby there was no doubt. Dad was keenly aware of the devastating impact such an event would exact on his well-being.

  Mom set the dining room table with French linen and polished silver on Sundays for FD’s benefit. Tonight was the same, so I didn’t see it coming. Dad’s place at the head of the table was the only remaining vestige of his role as head of the family.

  FD stood near the buffet and studied a wine label as he explained his choice in a professorial tone, as if it mattered to anyone but Mom. He had assigned himself sommelier—selecting, buying, serving the wine—and performed his role with great ceremony. I wondered if the wine he’d consecrated at the altar that morning had given him near the satisfaction of the spectacle that followed at our table.

  FD popped the cork and took a long whiff, then wrapped the bottle in a tea towel and carried it with both hands to the table. For a moment he looked like a man with a newborn, the responsibility of carrying something precious and fragile informing every step. It was a shock to my system each time I remembered FD was a father.

  Had he and Mom held their baby, experienced the wonder of bringing a new life into the world? Had they felt the joy of being a family before handing the baby over for adoption?

  A clinking noise broke my daydream. The Waterford wine glasses had been a gift to Mom, who now followed the Wine Steward’s lead as aptly as any seasoned acolyte on the altar. She lifted the glass and flicked her fingernail against the rim. A sickening smile confirmed that FD had chosen well and signaled her pleasure at the clear, high-pitched ring of fine crystal.

  Dad and I exchanged glances to steel ourselves for the final nauseating phase. The lovers offered vivid descriptions of the Chateauneuf du Pape—the rich color, the scents of vanilla, red fruit, and cinnamon, the perfectly controlled blend of grape varieties, the full-bodied texture—all the while knowing such nuances were lost on Dad.

  FD shuffled to my side of the table. With a wink he filled my glass half-way. “Your mother says teenagers in France drink wine at every meal. I expect you could handle a small glass with dinner.”

  “Mom would know all about drinking habits in France after her long stay with Aunt Bordeaux.” I lifted my glass in an air toast to Mom. Her face turned as red as the wine.

  Liquid gurgled as FD poured with one hand and squeezed her shoulder with the other. “Let me finish my official duties here, then Reese, we have something to discuss with you.”

  My fork hung mid-air. “Oh, no.”

  “Dear girl,” he said with trademark grin, “you have no faith, that’s your problem. Did it ever occur to you this might be good news? Vivienne, do you care to take it from here?”

  “Last Wednesday I went with Jack on his weekly visit to Our Lady of the Angels convent in downtown Los Angeles.”

  “So? What does that have to do with me?”

  “Be careful, Clarice.” Her measured tone had an edge. “I was given permission to accompany Jack as he counseled these nuns. Now bear in mind, cloistered nuns have taken vows of silence, chastity, and poverty. They own nothing. Well, it just so happens one of these nuns has wanted to leave the Order for a very long time. She has no money, no family, that is, none to speak of. She literally has no home to go to. I doubt you can even begin to imagine what that must feel like, Clarice, not having a family to turn to.”

  I tilted my head with indifference. Dad kept his eyes on the roast beef, a reluctant participant in whatever he knew was coming.

  “So Jack and I, and your father, of course, thought the least we could do, now that Kit’s gone I mean, is offer her our home.”

  “A nun? Here?”

  “She wouldn’t be a nun anymore. That’s the point.”

  “Won’t she get excommunicated?”

  “Jack is helping her compose a letter to the Vatican to request dispensation from the Pope. That may take years. In the meantime this is a matter between her and God.” Mom lifted her glass and inspected the bottom for any that might drip on her dress.

  “Well, if French kissing is a mortal sin, a nun breaking her vows must be a ticket straight to hell.”

  “Clarice Cavanaugh! You watch your smart-aleck mouth!”

  “Vivienne—”

  Mom took a slug of Bordeaux.

  “Reese, this nun, Petra, has thought about this grave decision for three years. If Pope John Paul grants her dispensation, she’ll still be in the Church. Either way, she has chosen to leave the Order. The best way we can help is to support her decision. She’s stepping into the world after fourteen years of cloistered life. Can you imagine how intimidating that must feel?”

  “Okay, so she’s leaving the convent. And you guys want her to live here. Is that it?”

  “Not quite. Your mother and Dad and I are in need of your help. We know you’ll do all you can to help Petra adjust, which won’t be too hard because she’ll be bunking with you.”

  “ME? You’re asking me to share my room with some old NUN?”

  “I cannot think of a better person than you. Petra will need companionship. She’ll need to learn about life on the outside, the music, the clothes, the behavior of a young single woman. And she’s not old. She’s only thirty-two.”

  “She’s closer in age to you guys. Why stick her with me?”

  “In chronological age, yes, she’s closer to our age. You have to remember she’s been cl
oistered since she left high school at eighteen. Emotionally, that makes her closer to you. That makes you the perfect influence for assimilating her into our youth culture. Besides, you have a natural compassion, a sweetness. She’ll need that most of all.”

  “I’ve changed. I’m not so sweet anymore.” I tossed the fork across the Nortaki china plate.

  “Ah, Reese, but you are sweet. I knew that the moment I met you. It’s who you are at the core. That you cannot change. Accept it, dear girl, you’re a very special soul. And we need you right now. So, what do you say, old friend?”

  Old friend. Did he think I was born yesterday? The man had a remarkable ability to sound sincere even when he wasn’t.

  There was no point arguing about it. We both knew there was only one answer. The nun would bunk with me.

  10 The Final Nail

  I got to work on the bedroom. Mom bought new sheets and comforter. I cleared space in the closet. My movie magazine pictures of a shirtless Troy Donahue went into a desk drawer. I finished off the face lift with strategic placement of new throw pillows for pops of color. Mom and I had to admit the room looked inviting with sunshine flooding through the Venetian blinds. Stage set.

  Sunday afternoon FD’s car slipped into the garage. Dad and I waited in the kitchen for my so-called protégé. The trio emerged with FD in the lead with his big goofy grin.

  “Ah! And here, Petra, is the incomparable, indefatigable Miss Reese Cavanaugh: Youth Ambassador to the Stars.”

  Petra and I faced each other. It was impossible to tell her age. She wore dowdy clothes, polyester pants and a baggy sweater that probably came from a donation bag like the ones we filled from our closets for the church. Petra had apologetic eyes and the biggest dimples I’d ever seen.

  She might’ve been thirty-two, but didn’t look much older than Kit with her short stature and flawless skin. Dad noticed right away she had the same youthful quality as FD, the one he said came from not paying a mortgage or having any stress. Fourteen years praying couldn’t have had any stress either. Petra probably stopped aging when she entered the convent at eighteen.