by Selena Kitt
“Yeah, well, I think my mother was sick of all the time I spend at St. Casimir’s using their typewriters to write.”
“What do you write?”
“Oh everything.” He sounded rather proud. “I’m in charge of St. Casimir’s school paper, but that’s the least of it. I’ve got two other top-secret projects I’m working on.”
“Top secret?” Erica perked up, her curious kitty nose already twitching at the scent of a mystery. “That sounds interesting.”
“It is. Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday,” he teased. “Hey, I forgot to ask... about last night... er, well, I guess it was really this morning...”
“Yes?”
Clay cleared his throat and asked, “Are you… you know… okay?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I’m fine.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you,” he said. She could hear banging and the sound of little kids’ voices.
“Me too,” Erica said, saying the words perfunctorily but finding out they were true. “Sounds like you’ve been found out.”
“Yeah, can I let you go? Sorry…”
“Sure. See you later.”
They said goodbye and hung up and Erica stood staring at the phone, thinking about the reason she’d accepted Clay’s invitation in the first place, and how things had snowballed from there. Her only intention had been to make Father Michael jealous, and she was sure she would accomplish that when Clay showed up for Christmas dinner, but now that she’d actually invited him, she regretted it. Not because she didn’t want to see him, but because she didn’t know which one she looked forward to seeing more—Clay or Father Michael.
That was a problem.
* * * *
Father Michael and Father Patrick arrived first. Erica was still in her room getting ready when she heard his voice down the hallway and she felt her knees get weak at the sound of his laugh. Solie had opened the door to let them in but her father was close by, greeting them and asking what they wanted to drink. Erica stood looking at herself in the mirror over her dresser, wearing a brand new designer dress, her hair set in soft blond waves, curling prettily around her ears and pink cheeks. She didn’t even have to apply rouge, she was already flushed with excitement. She flattened the collar on her dress, the combination of black silk and pink roses and white lace making her fair complexion stand out like cream, waiting for them to congregate in the living room, waiting to hear her father drop a record on the new stereo he’d bought them for Christmas. She waited to make an entrance, waited for Father Michael to have time to think about her, wonder where she was, maybe even ask.
She clicked down the hallway in her stilettos on the hardwood floor, reminding herself to breathe, to smile and act casual when she saw him, because no one knew, no one could ever know. just how much in love with him she really was.
Her timing was perfect. Father Michael was holding a highball glass in his hand, saying something to Erica’s father—the three men were standing next to the bar—and his glass immediately stopped its motion toward his mouth when he saw her coming into the room. Erica met his eyes and swallowed, feeling his gaze sweeping her, drinking in her nearly perfected feminine beauty, far more heady than whatever was in his glass from the look on his face. She had elicited the reaction she wanted, and instead of buoying her up, it sank her like the Titanic, a slow, inevitable death. She saw the look in his eyes, the longing and pain in them, and felt instantly sorry for being the cause. What was she thinking?
“There’s my girl.” Erica’s father held out a hand and she went to him, glancing at Leah, who was sitting on the sofa with a highball glass of her own. She looked quiet and sad, her usual demeanor since she’d come home.
Erica said her hellos but was glad when her father asked her to go to the kitchen and inquire about Solie’s hors d'oeuvres. She found Solie standing over a roasted goose, using a baster to glaze its already golden skin before putting it back into the oven. It made the whole place smell darkly delicious.
“Daddy was wondering about the hors d'oeuvre?” Erica said, sneaking two olives from the relish tray and eating them before Solie could turn back around.
“Goodness, I’m busier than a one-armed paper-hanger!” Solie nodded toward a tray on the table. “Can you give me a hand and fill those tomatoes?”
Erica sat, beginning to fill the hollowed-out cherry tomatoes with a mixture of green onion, cream cheese and garlic. It smelled so good her stomach rumbled in protest.
“Is everyone here?” Solie asked, sitting beside Erica with another spoon, the job moving much faster with both of them working on it.
“Father Patrick and Father Michael are here.” Erica shrugged. “I don’t know who else Daddy invited. I have a friend coming.”
“Do you now?” Solie raised an eyebrow at her.
“Just a friend.” Erica popped one of the cherries into her mouth, avoiding the slap of Solie’s protesting hand with a deft grace acquired from years of practice. She’d been sneaking food off Solie’s trays since she could walk. “Can I take these out now?”
“You go ahead. Make sure Miss Leah gets some of those stuffed celeries. Those are her favorites.”
“Okay.” Erica balanced one tray on one hand before sliding the second off the table with her other.
“She’s doing better, Miss Leah is?” Solie inquired, a worried look in her eyes.
“Hard to say.” Erica sighed. “She doesn’t talk much.”
She took the hors d'oeuvres out and put them on the coffee table. Everyone was seated on the living room sofa and chairs, her father next to Leah on the sofa, arm around her shoulder. Father Patrick had taken the wing-back chair, which left the space next to Father Michael on the loveseat the only one available. Erica sat beside him, crossing her legs and watching them all eat stuffed cherry tomatoes and celery and make small talk, while her heart was beating so hard it threatened to burst out of her chest. It wasn’t fair that broken hearts were allowed to still beat for the things they so loved and wanted.
“You look lovely, Erica.”
She glanced up at Father Michael’s soft words, spoken just to her, for her ears only. Her father and Father Patrick were discussing Eisenhower quite loudly and Leah—she was still off in her own little world.
“Thank you.”
“I miss our Mayflower mornings.”
They had met for coffee every morning at the Mayflower cafe for months, but then, after Leah had come home, after things had progressed between Erica and Father Michael to the point where neither of them could deny how they felt anymore, he had just stopped coming. No warning, no nothing.
She couldn’t forget the tender press of his lips against hers, the way her heart leapt at his touch. The heart just didn’t lie, and her heart had beat for him since. The Mayflower had been their little refuge, and when he’d finally stopped coming, she had lost something much worse than her broken heart could bear. She’d lost the only man she had ever truly loved.
“Me too,” Erica admitted. “I wish...”
But of course he knew what she wished. She knew he wished it too.
“I have something for you.” He cleared his throat, taking a sip of his drink. “A small Christmas gift. I meant to give it to you last night, after midnight mass...”
Erica remembered the way he’d looked at her, how he’d frowned when he saw Clay bending down to whisper something into her ear to make her laugh, how her already broken heart seemed to shatter again to bits. Just when she thought it couldn’t break anymore, it happened again, as if her heart could continue to split into the tiniest pieces, the smallest atoms. He’d motioned for her, but she’d ignored him, turning to Clay instead, pretending not to see, not to notice. She was punishing him, punishing them both, but what else could she do? She wanted him, he wanted her, but they couldn’t be together. What more did he want from her?
“I thought maybe we might have coffee at the Mayflower on Monday. Just this once?”
Erica hesitated, bitin
g her lip. She knew she shouldn’t.
He leaned in, whispering, “Besides, I have some information for you, Nancy Drew.”
She couldn’t help the smile that spread over her face. Whenever they had put their heads together to solve a mystery, whether it was finding missing Leah’s whereabouts or unraveling the secrets of the Mary Magdalenes, Father Michael had made jokes, calling her Nancy Drew and saying he was just one of the Hardy Boys.
“Okay.” She told herself she shouldn’t do it, shouldn’t give in, it was only prolonging the torture for both of them. But she couldn’t resist, she couldn’t say no, in spite of her better judgment. Besides, she never could resist a secret.
That’s when the doorbell rang and Erica’s stomach dropped, knowing it was Clay, and she didn’t think she could bear the hurt look in Father’s Michael’s eyes when he saw who Erica had invited to Christmas dinner. Solie came bustling out of the kitchen at the sound of the doorbell, a sound that echoed off the high ceiling in the warehouse, but Erica stood, shooing her back toward the kitchen.
“I’ll get it, Solie. You take care of the goose.”
Erica went reluctantly down the hall like a man taking the walk on death row toward his own demise. She took a deep breath and put on a smile as she opened the door, but that disappeared the instant she saw who it was.
“Hello Erica.” Leah’s mother stepped past her into the warehouse, already shrugging off her coat, shaking stray snowflakes onto the floor. It was still snowing outside. “How have you been?”
“Hi Mrs. Wendt.” Erica blinked at her, thinking maybe she was dreaming or delusional. She heard her father’s voice, his steps down the hallway, and turned to him for rescue as he approached.
“Hello Patty.” He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek she offered toward him. “Merry Christmas. So glad you could come.”
“You invited her?” Erica blurted before she could even think. They both gave her a look that made her feel like crawling into a hole. Instead, she shut the door against the cold, leaning back against it.
“Merry Christmas to you too, Erica,” Patty Wendt said sarcastically.
“Does Leah know?” Erica whispered, glancing down the hall toward the living room where her best friend sat, quiet, probably still mildly sedated—the doctor had sent her home with some heavy prescription medication—and likely unsuspecting. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.
“She will in a minute. I’m sure Leah will be happy to see her mother. It is Christmas, after all.” Erica’s father put an arm around Patty’s shoulders, giving Erica her coat to hang up before guiding Leah’s mother toward the living room.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Erica whispered under her breath, watching them with a sinking feeling in her gut. She hung up Mrs. Wendt’s coat, anything to draw out her walk down the hallway to the living room where disaster was just waiting to happen.
But when she surreptitiously peeked around the corner, she found everyone sitting, Mrs. Wendt next to Father Michael, holding her own drink and chatting away. Erica practically tiptoed into the living room, edging around the furniture until she was standing next to Leah’s mother on the loveseat. Leah was still sitting quietly next to Erica’s dad, sipping her drink. There was no expression on her face—no anger, no surprise, no enthusiasm. Nothing. It was like she was there, but not.
Erica watched in disbelief as Leah accepted a gift from her mother. She even opened it—a new watch—and apologized for not having anything for her in return. Erica didn’t understand it. Leah had been adamant about not wanting to have anything to do with her mother after Grace had been taken. Leah seemed to believe—and Erica had no idea if it was true or not—that Mrs. Wendt had somehow plotted, planned or orchestrated the kidnapping with the social worker. Leah’s mother denied it, of course, and there was a time when Erica would have believed her, but Erica also never would have thought Mrs. Wendt would secretly sequester her daughter in a maternity home for unwed mothers and refuse to tell anyone where she was either, and she’d done that, so...
Erica didn’t move when the doorbell rang again, and this time it was Solie who answered. The surprise of Clayton Marshall Webber III in the mix of dinner guests didn’t faze anyone by then. Although she saw Father Michael scowl at the way Clay stood so close to Erica, close enough he could whisper things to make her laugh, and Clay managed to snag the seat next to Erica before Father Michael could.
They all sat down to dinner and Father Michael said the prayer, which was beautiful enough to make Erica’s throat develop a lump she had to swallow down, and she thought, as food got passed and the goose got eaten, along with Solie’s mashed potatoes and sweet potato pie, that this strange, surreal Christmas dinner might actually pass without incident, something she never would have expected when she answered the door and found Leah’s mother on their doorstep.
But that was before Father Patrick and Clay got into an argument about desegregation.
“Are you telling me you don’t believe institutions like schools and churches should be desegregated? What about Brown vs. the Board of Education? It’s the law!” Clay leaned his elbows on the table, looking across it at Father Patrick.
The old priest shook his head. “The letter of the law and the practical implementation of that law are two different things. We have all sorts of laws on the books, son, but we enforce some more than others.”
“I think there’s room in God’s house for everyone,” Father Michael interjected.
Clay sat back in his chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “If we don’t desegregate our schools, our restaurants—yes, even our churches—we’re going to have race riots again like we had back in the ’40’s. Mark my words.”
Father Patrick chuckled. “How many black Catholics do you know, son?”
“Solie, wouldn’t you like to go to midnight mass with the Nolans every year?” Clay turned to the black woman to his left who clearing the main dishes to make room for dessert and Solie froze, blinking at him in surprise. “I mean, you make this beautiful dinner for them on Christmas, and I’m sure Mr. Nolan pays you a decent wage. But you can’t shop for food in the same stores. Your children can’t go to school with his. You can’t even go to church with them.”
“I like my little church,” Solie said with a laugh. “We have a lovely choir.”
Father Patrick smiled in triumph, wiping his lips with his napkin as Solie went back to the kitchen. “You see? Even blacks don’t want what the letter of the law tells us to do. Desegregation is just not enforceable.”
Clay wouldn’t drop it. “There are plenty of blacks who do want it. And I bet even Solie would change her mind if her wage didn’t depend on what she says.”
“Now wait a minute…” Robert Nolan tossed his napkin on his plate as Solie walked by. “If you’re implying—”
“They segregated the babies in the nursery.” Leah spoke up for the first time during dinner. Her voice was small, but they all heard her and stopped. “It was kind of sad to see all the little black babies on one side and all the white babies on the other. There was a window between them.”
“It’s not sad, it’s necessary,” Leah’s mother interjected. “Who knows what sorts of diseases those babies might pass on?”
Erica winced, feeling Clay stiffen beside her, and she met Leah’s incredulous stare, seeing the anger coming to a boil just under the surface. This wasn’t going to end well.
“What I mean is, they’re different.” Leah’s mother realized her mistake, trying to defend her original assertion. “They have different immune systems.”
“So white babies might catch something from the little black babies, Mrs. Wendt?” Clay asked. “I just want to be clear about what you’re saying. The white babies have inferior immune systems?”
“No…” Leah’s mother flushed, looking flustered, searching the table for someone to rescue her.
Father Patrick made the attempt. “I know what you mean, Patty.”
“I wish I was a
black girl.” Once again, Leah stopped the rest of the conversation, looking across the table at her mother, who gaped at her in shock. “Do you know why? Can you guess?”
No one said anything. They didn’t even move. They were all looking at Leah.
“Because all the black girls, they got to keep their babies. It’s true! But all the white girls, they had to give theirs away. Why is that, I wonder?”
“Leah…” Rob put a hand on her shoulder.
“Oh I’m sorry, we’re all supposed to pretend, aren’t we?” Leah snapped, glaring across the table at her mother. “We’re all supposed to pretend that I wasn’t sent away, that I didn’t have a baby. That my baby wasn’t stolen from me and given to some rich couple who could afford to give a very generous donation to the church!”
“Leah, stop.” Patty Wendt tossed her napkin on her plate. “No one wants to hear this.”
“You want me to stop? Why should I stop? Why? You don’t want everyone to know the shame I’ve brought on you? Please, Mother. What was my crime?” Leah stood, tears filling her eyes. “I fell in love. I got pregnant. I had a baby. In the end, the only difference between me and you was a wedding ring and a marriage license. And yours were fake anyway, weren’t they?”
“Leah!” Patty sat back in her chair like she’d been punched in the stomach.
“I’m going to be married, Mother. Does that finally make you happy? I have a ring.” She waved it under her mother’s nose across the table. “Does that make it better? I’m going to be married in the church like a good Catholic girl. And my marriage license will be real.”
“Leah.” Rob stood, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Enough.”
Father Patrick stood too, pointing a gnarled finger at her. “Not in my church, you’re not!”
“What?” Rob turned to look at the old priest, incredulous. “What are you saying?”
“Your child was born out of wedlock,” Father Patrick reminded her—reminded them all. “I have a right and a duty to guard the sacrament of marriage. You could never get married in the church. You have sinned in the eyes of God. And even if you do find this child, she can never be baptized in the faith.”
