by John Ayang
Fr. Cletus was taken aback by the inside of the hotel. Contrary to the outside of the building, the inside was neat and clean, furnished to high taste with antique, but solid, furniture, and the curtains were brocade fabric lined with white, almost transparent, lace material. There was a plasma TV on the wall and the concierge gestured to him, indicating the various plug outlets for his electronics. The concierge also pointed to a set of printed numbers on the dresser which Fr. McCarthy understood was the Wi-Fi pass key. Fr. Cletus thanked and tipped the concierge. Watching the concierge smile and repeat grazie, signore many times, Fr. McCarthy knew he’d given him a generous tip. Later that day, Fr. Cletus and Jennifer went out to lunch alfresco under an umbrella-covered patio at a nearby bistro. It wasn’t very warm, but it wasn’t terribly cold, either. So, they’d make do because they wanted to savor the street view of the environment. Since they were not due to visit St. Peter’s Basilica for two days, they decided to pay a short visit to the Borghese Gallery and Gardens, where an expert tour guide entertained them with a detailed history of every piece of artwork, ranging from Bernini’s Apollo, Daphne and David, to Caravaggio’s Sacred and Profane Love, John the Baptist, etc., in perfect English, which Fr. Cletus appreciated and admired.
At the end of the day, Fr. Cletus and Jennifer were tired, so they decided to grab a quick supper and head back to the hotel. They needed to get a good night’s sleep since they had more places thy wanted to visit the next day, including the Colosseum, the Quo Vadis Church, and the live theater. As Fr. Cletus got ready for bed after exchanging good-nights with Jennifer, he thought it had been a good day, a good start to their trip. He had thoroughly enjoyed himself and, for the first time in two weeks, felt relaxed and safe. He was grateful that Jennifer had convinced him to take the vacation, and to Rome, no less! As he reached to turn off his bedside light, he wondered what was going on back home in Houston. It was 9:20 p.m. Roman time, and 4:20 p.m. Houston time. He reached for his phone to check on his parents, but hesitated. Then he decided against it, pulled the comforter over his head, turned over as he closed his eyes, and, in slow motion, dove into a very restful sleep.
Houston, Texas
December 21, 2012
BACK IN HOUSTON, it was a great reunion for Dr. Josef Horacek and Dr. Edidiong Eshiet. It seemed like ages since they parted ways after completing their residency with the Jones’s at Norfolk General Hospital. At Dr. Eshiet’s insistence, Dr. Horacek had gone with Barbara and Crystal to visit him, partly because Dr. Eshiet was consumed with curiosity about the woman who had finally captured Dr. Horacek’s heart. He knew his friend and former colleague had not remarried after his wife’s death. Most importantly, Dr. Horacek had told him in their phone conversation that he knew how to trace the surrogate mother of the priest he was suing. If he could connect with her again, quite apart from having a corroborating witness in his suit, it would satisfy his curiosity to set eyes again on the woman who was part of their success story after Elizabeth Jordan Carr. Carr’s conception and birth was not their project, but that of their mentors, Georgeanna and Howard. The young woman who came in to be a surrogate was their project, under the supervision of the Jones’s. And because Carr’s case was the first success story of an IVF baby in the United States, it overshadowed the second of such cases that followed on February 27th, just barely two months after her birth. Because of the peculiar legal circumstances surrounding their project and the prospective parents requesting absolute anonymity and protection from the media, the birth of baby Doe, who would grow up to be Fr. Cletus Nicholas McCarthy, was not publicized. Nobody knew what the parents named him after claiming him and paying the agreed contract charges for surrogacy. They had whisked him away from his birth mother and disappeared without looking back.
If Dr. Horacek did, indeed, know her whereabouts, Dr. Eshiet was curious and excited at the prospect of seeing her again. He surmised that she would be in her fifties now and wondered how she would feel when he would tell her that he had discovered who her biological son had grown up to become. He did not permit himself to agonize too much about the ethical implications of his actions, given that thirty years had passed and nobody would really mind the ethicalities of the issue that much. Although he felt like he had been unduly vindictive since he litigated his public humiliation from being denied Holy Communion, he had no regrets about it. For him, it was a matter of principle, in keeping with his longstanding personal decision not to suffer any injustice silently from anyone, especially the white man. So, he felt justified in his action. He brushed aside the thought of the litigation and braced himself to welcome his visitor and former colleague for an evening of camaraderie and catching up on the latest developments in OB/GYN. He stepped on the gas pedal to make sure he got to his house on time. Unfortunately, he ran into an accident scene on Highway 59 and was stuck in backed-up traffic for nearly forty minutes.
Luck was on his side. He got to the house just at the nick of time and, as he parked his car in the garage and entered the sitting room, he spotted a black Mercedes Benz sedan wheel into his driveway. He had no doubt it was the Horaceks.
“Honey, they’re here,” he announced to his wife, who was also emerging at that time from her room where she had been grooming herself, getting ready for the meeting.
To Dr. Eshiet’s surprise, watching Dr. Horacek through the open curtain of his window, he thought Dr. Horacek had not aged much, as he had expected that he would have. Apart from a few white hairs around the base and a considerable thinning on the crown of his head, Dr. Horacek looked quite fit and handsome. Two beautiful ladies also got out of the car with him, one slightly younger looking than the other. Dr. Eshiet surmised that the older of the two would be Dr. Horacek’s wife. She, too, looked younger than he had expected her to. Dr. Eshiet wondered if he himself was the one growing old. His doorbell rang as he reached and grabbed the knob, turned and pulled it open.
“Behold the eminent California 249!” Dr. Eshiet announced with obsequious ado. “You son-of-a-gun. You look great! Welcome to my home, my little piece of God’s own terra firma. Come in, please,” Dr. Eshiet said as he ushered them in to the sitting room.
“Well, well! If it isn’t the Crown Prince himself. The highly favored son of Annangland,” Dr. Horacek replied, trying to match his host’s giddy exuberance. “You’re living well, my friend. What a mansion you have!”
“God’s handiwork, my brother,” Dr. Eshiet demurred. “I feel He has blessed me in many ways. Welcome, ladies! I am Edidiong Eshiet and this is my wife, Ima. Welcome to our home. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
Dr. Eshiet and Dr. Horacek shook hands, held on, and bumped shoulders with each other in their old frat style. Then they shook hands with the ladies, pecking them on the cheek in gentlemanly gestures. The ladies shyly and half-heartedly hugged one another, exchanging their names and hellos.
“Please, have a seat,” Dr. Ima Eshiet showed Barbara and Crystal to their seats and asked graciously, “Can I offer you something to drink? Soda, juice, lemonade…”
“Oh, water is fine. Thank you,” Barbara replied.
“Are you sure you want just water,” Ima felt slightly disappointed at Barbara’s choice. “And you, young lady. What can I offer you?”
“Yes, water will be fine for me,” Barbara confirmed.
Crystal declined the offer and was going to ask about her friend and classmate, Edo-Mma, but changed her mind and decided to wait for the right moment. She had notified her by text massage that she and her parents were visiting.
“What about you, Doctor?” Ima inquired of Dr. Horacek. “What can I offer you?”
“I’ll settle for a glass of water, too,” he replied, taking a seat beside Barbara.
“Hold on! Hold on!” Dr. Edidiong Eshiet interjected. “Nobody settles for just a glass of water at my house. Certainly not you, Doctor. Let’s start again. This time, I’m going to offer you something exotic: African palm wine
,” he announced and then called out, “Edo-Mma! Bring the palm wine from the fridge in the pantry room.”
“Honey, Edo-Mma went on an errand. She’ll be back soon, though,” Ima Eshiet replied. “I’ll fetch the wine myself,” she added and glided gracefully out the door, heedless of the token protests of their guests. Barbara thought she looked elegant in the embroidered African maxi dress she wore. She spotted a slight bump, too, a tell-tale sign of a woman halfway through her second trimester of pregnancy.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Doctor,” Barbara said, approvingly. “Patients who have passed through your hands cannot hold back praising your unique style of care. And now, I’m so pleased to finally meet you in person.”
“Don’t believe everything they say, Barbara,” Dr. Eshiet demurred. “Sometimes patients exaggerate, especially when the outcome of an intervention exceeds their expectations. We do our best, though. I’m quite sure Dr. Horacek does a lot of great things up in Norfolk. After all, that’s the seat of cutting-edge tech in OB/GYN.”
“More like the cradle than the seat, Doctor Eshiet,” Dr. Horacek demurred in his turn. “You guys are probably doing more down here than we do up there. And besides, I work in my private clinic most of the time, not in the mega-arena of Norfolk General. I do get to work there once in a while, though, when I need to use their facility and equipment.”
Ima emerged at this juncture bearing a tray with bottled drinks. And in tow was Edo-Mma bearing a similar tray with wine glasses. Both set down their burdens on the coffee table and Crystal and Edo-Mma proceeded to hug and greet each other boisterously, as classmates and bosom friends often do. Then without wasting any time, Edo-Mma gave a decisive excuse for why she and Crystal would disappear and then dragged her friend in the direction of her room, where they could have their girl talk away from the curious ears of the adults. Dr. Ima, who was about to send Edo-Mma on another errand, got cut short by Edo-Mma’s excuse and unceremonious departure. Dr. Ima rolled her eyes and sighed exasperatedly.
“Well, I used to do that when I was their age, too,” Ima said, vexed and amused at the same time.
“The excitement of seeing each other outside of school,” Barbara said. “But you’re right. It’s an adolescent thing.”
“Honey, what do you need? I can help,” Dr. Eshiet offered and then threw in some humor. “I am available for honey dos, remember?”
They all laughed at Dr. Eshiet’s attempt at humor.
“Get the opener for the bottles, please, honey,” Dr. Ima said, and proceeded to pitch her items of hospitality to her guests. “Try our African palm wine. You’ll like it. Some of our friends here in Houston are all but addicted to it.”
“And you still insist we try it?” Dr. Horacek asked, making a joke of it to the ladies’ enjoyment.
“Oh, no! I didn’t mean it that way,” Dr. Ima said, sweetly embarrassed. “I meant that it is so good, you would want to drink it often.”
“Don’t mind, him, Doctor Eshiet,” Barbara interjected, sounding formal.
“Call me ‘Ima’,” Ima corrected.
“Oh, thank you, Ima,” Barbara replied graciously. “And please call me ‘Barbara’. He’s just pulling your leg. That’s what his daughter, Crysie, does to me. She puts a joking twist on every little slip of the tongue I make.”
“Well, I guess the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Dr. Horacek said, glancing at Barbara with a mischievously knowing smile.
Dr. Eshiet came in from the kitchen with a bottle opener and proceeded to open the bottles of palm wine and, after inquiring what the conversation was about, and being filled in, he joined his wife in praising the salutary benefits of the African palm wine, saying he would stake his stethoscope on proving that it was rich in yeast and good for the eyes.
He didn’t have to stake his stethoscope, after all. Dr. Horacek was the first to praise what a good drink the African palm juice was. Barbara concurred and they almost got lost in small talk about wine, cheese, gourmet coffee, and cookies. Then, without even realizing that it had happened, the conversation wound its way back to the subject of their profession and the latest innovations in rep tech. Dr. Eshiet described for the benefit of his guests how he finally decided to use Preimplantation Genetic Screening (PGS) in the process of conceiving a child with Dr. Ima.
Being a “good catholic,” Dr. Eshiet had agonized over the issue for a long time, and had had sessions with his pastor, the Rev. Cletus McCarthy. Then, during one of their conversations, the Reverend had advised him to consider adoption. He went so far as to indicate that he himself was adopted and that Catholic morality accepts adoption.
“When he mentioned Norfolk General as the hospital where he was adopted,” Dr. Eshiet continued his story, “something rang a bell in my memory. His family name, his age, and the place of adoption all sounded quite familiar. That was when I decided to make a few phone calls and search my personal notes and records of the clients we served and the patients we worked with during the two years within which he would have been born and put up for adoption. I recalled that there was no information about any male child who was born and put up for adoption within that period during when he could have been born. I recalled, too, that there was a young lady we worked with, who was a surrogate for a young couple by the last name of McCarthy. But the young couple, being shy, did not want to deal directly with the surrogate. You can recall, Doctor, that as soon as we delivered the baby and the hospital management closed the deal between the couple and the surrogate mother, they vanished, as it were, and we were strictly forbidden from following up or maintaining contact with the receiving parents because they had requested in their contract to remain anonymous.”
“Yeah. I can quite remember,” Dr. Horacek concurred. “But we had the address and phone number of the McCarthys, remember? And we thought we would follow up privately, despite the injunction. But I lost mine and then I lost interest in them because after we completed residency, I was fighting to get my clinic off the ground. I don’t know which I lost first, their contact information or the interest in following up.”
“That’s where I’m heading,” Dr. Eshiet interjected to resume his story. “Fortunately, I had saved the information on my old laptop. I retrieved it and read through my notes. As I said, everything checked out. I traced their movement from Norfolk, through a friend who worked in the post office there, and their migration ended here in Houston, Texas, in 1988. When I looked into the matter and was satisfied that there was no other McCarthy couple who moved from Norfolk to Houston in 1988, and no other McCarthy couple who joined Our Lady Queen of Peace Catholic Church in 1988, except the McCarthy couple I have been seeing in church, I asked our priest casually during one of our conversations and he confirmed that they had, indeed, lived in Norfolk, but had moved to Houston when the boy child was about seven years. I confronted him with the information that he himself was conceived through IVF, and by a surrogate. I asked him why it was acceptable for his parents to use that method, but it wasn’t acceptable for us.”
“What did he say?” Dr. Horacek seized the pause in Dr. Eshiet’s story to pitch the question.
“He vehemently denied it and kept insisting that he was born the normal way and was adopted at birth by his present parents,” Dr. Eshiet replied. “He got very upset with us that we should even think of challenging his pastoral authority by daring to make such unfounded assertions. He literally warned us that if we went ahead with our plan to conceive a child using IVF, he would stop us from receiving Holy Communion in church.”
“Oh, God!” Dr. Horacek exclaimed. “That must have aroused the ire of the African lion!”
“You know me well,” Dr. Eshiet said, affirmatively. “As a matter of principle, I wasn’t going to let anyone, most especially a priest who is supposed to be the embodiment of justice and fairness, bully me around. As I used to say when we were at Berkeley, I had had enough of that with
the white missionary priests back home.”
“There you go,” Dr. Horacek said.
“Nope, you don’t understand, Doctor,” Dr. Eshiet countered. “Years ago, while I was still at home, I had a conversation with a peer of my dad who used to be an elementary school teacher and also doubled as the Church station catechist. He was fired from his job by the parish priest because he attended the African traditional moonlight dance. Friends of my dad got excommunicated from the Church because they took part in the traditional masquerade play of the people’s culture. When I grew older and travelled to Europe, I saw priests attend ballroom dances and still said Mass the following morning. In Europe and here, I have witnessed the Church celebrate Halloween with masquerades and nobody gets excommunicated from the Church. In those days, back home, under the missionary priests, if your marriage fell apart, you were not given the chance to have that marriage dissolved so you could be free to marry again. You were condemned to the ‘dead’ marriage in perpetuity and stopped from receiving Holy Communion, and if you died during such a time, the priest would deny you a Church funeral service. Here in the U.S., I’ve lost count of people who were divorced, lived with another spouse in a common-law marriage, and, at the time of death for one member of the couple, the Church buried them as a matter of compassion. My maternal uncle sacrificed almost everything he had for the Church for twenty-seven years. When he died, he was denied a Church funeral service and burial rites because, according to the white priest, he did not do his Easter duty shortly before his death. And this was someone who had been very sick in the previous two years of his life and could not even walk, and never once did the priest visit him….”
