“Where the hell's Eileen?”
There was a drop of spittle hanging off his chin.
“She doesn't live here anymore, remember? She moved out last summer and got an apartment with two girls from work.”
“Shut up,” said Terry, his voice thick with beer, cigarettes, and rage. “And my little Brigie's not in her bedroom either, is she.” It was not a question.
Terry glared up at his wife, trying to focus. “S’all your fuckin’ fault y'know, Maggot, f'you were mor'va of a wife …” Terry smashed his fist on the table and began to cry. “Tol you she shouldna gone to that goddam collish. My beautiful Brigie's gone.” He dragged in a great snuffling breath and slumped forward on the table.
From experience, Margaret could see he was at the point where he'd either throw up or pass out. She prayed he'd pass out so she wouldn't have to clean up the mess. She also knew that if she woke him now it would get ugly. So she sat, listening to the rattle of the refrigerator motor, the ticking of the clock, and slap-hiss of his wet snoring against the top of the Formica table. When she was absolutely certain he was asleep, she carefully slipped the burnt-down cigarette out of his fingers, washed the stink off her hands, and crept back to bed.
The next morning the pent-up fury and sorrow hung in the air between them like poison gas. Neither of them spoke or made reference to the previous night. Margaret made the coffee while Terry gulped down a Coke with a handful of aspirin and lighted his first smoke.
Margaret was lucky. She had fared better than she might have done. This time she wouldn't need the dark glasses and the extra makeup.
Nine
* * *
March 28, 1860
Winter has returned. I awoke to three inches of snow this morning. The daffodils were a sight peeking through the melting snow all dressed up in white lace bonnets. On mornings like this I wish I had the poet's gift, but I must be content with present sight and memory. No time for reading theology today, I must find someone to mend a leak in the roof that seems suddenly to have become much worse.
More anon, LFW
* * *
Bridget shivered in the morning chill of the drafty old house. She pulled her still damp underpants down off the shower rail and tugged them into place. The smell of fresh coffee and the sound of the whistling kettle told her that Olympia was already up and busy in the kitchen. She smoothed the quilt on her bed, retrieved her backpack from the top of the dresser and started down the stairs. Maybe the professor was right. Maybe she did need more time.
Olympia turned as the girl entered the kitchen. “Ready for some scrambled eggs?” In a few minutes Bridget would let her know whether or not she was going to stay. There was no doubt in her mind that this was turning into another one of her human-salvage projects. Nope, too late, it is already a well-established salvage project.
Olympia was driven to rescue women who were being victimized, and she knew it. Was it because she had been powerless over her own life those many years ago when she was just about Bridget's age? Would she be forever atoning for the loss of her daughter? More importantly, would she ever find that daughter, and what would she do if she did? Olympia willed away the empty ache and poured the egg mixture into the sizzling frying pan. When in pain, keep busy.
Bridget gave each of the cats a morning ear-rub and then poured herself a cup of tea. “I thought a lot about what you said last night, about staying here for a while.”
“And,” Olympia scrambled harder.
“Well, if it wouldn't be a bother …”
Olympia looked up and pointed at her with a dripping spatula, “Bridget, I wouldn't have asked you if I thought it would be a bother. I told you before, I'm a mother hen, and my two boy chicks have flown. You can stay in my empty nest as long as you want.”
Bridget chewed on her bottom lip, ““Well, then, maybe just ‘till your friend comes.”
Olympia sensed a positive turn of the tide. “As a matter of fact, I talked to him last night. He won't be here for at least a month. More red tape, I guess. It got complicated, and I was too tired to take in all the details, but he said he's looking forward to meeting you.”
“I should have things taken care of by then. Will there be any problem as far as my tuition or anything if I'm not staying in the dorm?”
“I don't think so. I'll talk to the Dean. He'll understand.”
Bridget's eyes grew wide, and she took a step backward, shaking her head in disbelief. “You promised …”
“Bridget, I told you I wouldn't tell anyone about what happened, and I meant it. I'm not going to say why you're here, just that you are. Dean Jackson knows that students come and stay with me sometimes. I won't ever say anything unless you give me permission. That hasn't changed. Now have some eggs.”
Bridget took the plate, sniffed the buttery pile, and smiled. “How long before we leave?”
“About twenty-five minutes. Eat your breakfast. When you go back to the dorm for your things, all you need say to anyone that asks is that I needed some help around the house. It's the truth, and nobody needs to know anything more.”
Bridget scooped up a forkful of eggs.
“That works. I wasn't sure what to tell the kids in the dorm. I don't need anyone asking questions or feeling sorry for me.”
Olympia was pleased to see the girl with a bit of color in her cheeks and even more so to see her filling those cheeks with her legendary, butter-drenched scrambled eggs.
“Another thing, Bridget.”
“Yes, Professor?”
“If you are going to live with me, for heaven's sake, call me Olympia.”
“Yes, Professor.”
Olympia rolled her eyes and looked at her watch. “Five-minute warning. Need anything from upstairs?”
Bridget shook her head, scooped up the remaining eggs, and swallowed the last of her tea as they both heard the sound of a clock chime coming from the next room.
“What was that?” asked Bridget, turning in the direction of the sound.
Olympia fiddled with the spatula. What do I tell her? She has enough on her mind, and this is not exactly the time to introduce her to Miss Winslow.
“Mmm, I think it might have been the clock on the mantle over the woodstove.”
“But you told me it didn't work.”
“It doesn't, but sometimes it chimes, like just now.”
Bridget made a quizzical face. “Well, that's weird.”
You don't know the half of it, dear child.
Olympia started fussing at a button on her sleeve, “Actually, it seems to have a mind and a personality all its own. I found it a few months after I bought this place. In a way I feel it connects me to the people who lived here long before me.”
“I feel that way when I'm holding my grandmother's Irish Belleek teapot,” said Bridget. “She died when I was ten, but sometimes I think she's watching over me. Does that sound weird?”
Olympia smiled at the young woman standing before her.
“Not at all, my girl, not at all. You ready?”
“I'm ready.”
“Zip your jacket,” said Olympia.
Now it was Bridget's turn to roll her eyes.
Olympia left Bridget out at the college library, parked the van, and grabbed a quick coffee before going to her office. There wasn't time to call Dean Wilbur Jackson and let him know about Bridget's living arrangements. She would do that later when she could speak with him in person. The dean didn't like it when she took matters into her own hands. Their professional relationship was strained on the best of days. When she did sit down with him, she would tell him only enough to keep him from asking further questions. It was going to be a delicate balancing act, but she'd done it before. If everything went according to her latest master plan, this would be her last year on this particular tightrope, and after that, screw him and the horse he came in on.
Olympia tossed her class notes and attendance folder onto the desk, but just as she reached for the phone to call Jim, it r
ang and scared her half to death. Damn!
“Professor Brown?”
“This is she.” Olympia started wiggling her foot, hoping this would be a quick call.
“Professor Brown, my name is Margaret O’Mara. You don't know me. I'm Bridget O’Mara's mother.”
Olympia went on red alert.
“How do you do, Mrs. O’Mara?”
“I know my daughter spent the weekend with you, and I, uh, wonder if I could make an appointment to talk with you.” There was something in the woman's voice.
“Of course, Mrs. O’Mara, but you need to understand that because of student privacy and confidentiality regulations, there are things I may not be able to discuss with you.”
“I understand,” said Margaret O’Mara. “It's not about the college, well, not exactly anyway.”
“Well, then, my office hours are …”
“Professor, if you don't mind, it would be best if I didn't come to the college. I don't want Bridget to know I called you. If I come there, she might see me. Could we meet somewhere else? I know I'm asking a lot, but right now I don't know what else to do.” There it was again, a catch in her voice, or was it the hint of an accent?
“If you're a mother concerned about her child, you're not asking too much. I'm a mother, and I'd go to the ends of the earth for either of my boys.”
“You don't have daughters then?”
Olympia smiled into the phone. “No, just two sons, Malcolm and Randall. They're a couple of years older than your Bridget. Where would you like to meet?”
She hesitated, “Would it be too much to meet me in the chapel at Carney Hospital in Dorchester? I go there every week to visit the sick in the parish. Nobody will think anything of it if they see me there.”
Olympia thought it strange the woman didn't mind being seen meeting a stranger at a neighborhood hospital, but an inner voice told her to do as she was asked. She already suspected that Bridget had more troubling her than the rape. Now, maybe she'd find out what it was.
“I have a car,” said Olympia, “but I have to get back to the college in time to pick up your daughter. She's going stay on for a few more days helping me around the house.”
“That's why I called you, Professor. If my daughter trusts you, I figure I can.”
“Whatever it is, I'll do my best to help,” said Olympia.
“Would it be possible for you to meet me at around two tomorrow afternoon?”
“I can do that.”
“Oh, thank you, Professor. I'll wait for you in one of the back pews. And don't worry if something comes up and you can't make it. Whatever you do, just don't try and call me at home. I'll call you, and we can do it another time. Thank you again, Professor.”
Later on, Olympia caught Jim in his office at Allston College and summarized the call from Bridget's mother. They agreed to meet in two days’ time at the footbridge next to the Harvard boating shed on the Charles River. Spring was trying its best to break loose in Cambridge, and after a long winter Olympia was desperate for some fresh air and exercise. A leisurely walk along the river with her best friend would serve both purposes.
With that accomplished, she picked up the phone again, tapped in the Dean's extension and asked if he had a few minutes, because she had something she needed tell him.
Later, driving home with Bridget staring out of the window beside her, Olympia was so deep in her own thoughts that she almost missed her exit. Gotta watch that, girl!
As she flicked the signal for the turn off the highway, she glanced over at her passenger. Bridget Mary O’Mara was slumped forward with her two arms wrapped around her backpack, fast asleep.
Ten
At a quarter to two on the following day, Olympia left her car in the hospital parking lot and followed the signs past the candle-scented gift shop and the life-sized statue of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrows to the cool, hushed interior of the hospital chapel. In the dim light she could see a woman sitting in the back row. Painfully aware of her squeaky boots on the polished floor, Olympia walked as quietly as she could and slipped into the pew beside her.
“Mrs. O’Mara?”
The woman nodded and slid her rosary beads into a black velvet pouch. She smiled and whispered, “Thank you for coming, Professor. We can talk in the cafeteria.”
Olympia followed Bridget's mother along the polished marble floors through the maze of corridors and stairwells. As they walked, Margaret O’Mara nodded greetings to passing nuns and medical personnel. It was clear that Bridget's mother was well known here, but unclear why she would choose such a public place for what was likely to be a very private conversation.
She could hear the clatter of dishes and smell the coffee as they rounded the last corner. Once inside she saw doctors and nurses, nuns and visitors, sitting in pairs and in clusters over cups of coffee and plates of sandwiches at bright yellow, plastic tables.
“Can I get you something, Professor?” Margaret smiled shyly at Olympia.
“Oh, yes, please,” said Olympia, “I'd adore a cup of high-test coffee. I usually grab one about this time, but I didn't want to be late.”
“High-test?”
Olympia chuckled. “Sorry, I mean leaded, I mean coffee with plenty of caffeine.”
Now it was the other woman's turn to chuckle, but the laugh was strained and sounded more like she was choking on something. She cleared her throat and pointed to a table in a far corner by a sunny window.
“Why don't we sit over there? I'll get us both a nice hot drink and a little something to go with it.”
When she returned, she was carrying a cup of tea for herself, a large coffee for Olympia, and an even bigger cream cake with an extra plate and two forks. Olympia stood and pulled out a chair for her companion.
“I hope you're not minding that I brought two forks for the one pastry. I can never get ‘round a whole one myself.” Margaret O’Mara paused, picked up a paper napkin, and looked around the room before taking her seat.
Olympia smoothed a paper napkin on her lap.
“That's what I always do. Otherwise I'd eat the whole thing myself.”
Margaret made a great show of cutting the confection in half and offering Olympia first choice.
“So, my Bridget Mary will be helping you around the house for a few days, will she?”
Olympia chose the nearer piece of pastry.
“That's the plan. I've got a guest coming in a few weeks, and things at home got ahead of me. I bought an old house, and I'm restoring it, but it seems like every time I get one thing finished, something else falls apart. As a result there's dust and projects everywhere you look.”
Olympia smiled at the woman seated across from her. “She's a good girl.”
Margaret twisted her napkin until bits of it littered the table. “Uh, how long might she be staying with you? Her father …”
Olympia noted a change in Mrs. O’Mara at the mention of Bridget's father, a tensing in her jaw and neck muscles and a downward glance.
“What about her father? Surely he won't mind if Bridget spends a few days with me. We'll be driving to the college every day. It's not as if she'll be missing any classes or anything.”
“Will she be there next weekend as well?”
“Most likely. Why, is something special happening at home?”
“Well, it just that, well, her father worries if she can't get to church and…”
Olympia suspected this had nothing to do with Bridget going to church on Sundays, but over the years she had learned to listen and bide her time.
“There's a Catholic church she can walk to in less than ten minutes. I even know the priest, Father Russo.”
“But her father …”
Olympia decided to risk it. She leaned forward and placed a steady hand on Margaret's fidgeting ones. Then she took a deep breath and stepped full weight onto the thin ice between them, “I know we've just met, and you don't really know me, but I think there's something you're not telling me—something you w
ant to tell somebody that has nothing to do with Bridget's going to church on Sundays.”
Margaret nodded slightly and then looked away. “How long can Brigie stay with you, Professor?”
“As long as she wants, I suppose. Is there a reason why you want her to stay on with me?”
Margaret nodded again. Her face was a mask of sadness.
“Difficulty at home?” Olympia was choosing her words with extreme caution, being careful not to probe too deeply and frighten the woman off.
Margaret shut her eyes and then whispered, “The Irish don't talk about family matters outside the house. It's enough to say that it's better if Brigie doesn't come home on weekends for a while.”
“Is Bridget at risk?”
“Let's say that her father …” she paused as if looking for the right words. “Her father isn't always himself, especially on the weekends, and if he's been at the bingo, well …”
There was no turning back now.
“Margaret, does your husband drink too much?”
“Sometimes.”
“More on the weekends?”
Again she nodded.
“Does he get violent or abusive?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does he hit you?”
The look in her eyes told Olympia that he did.
“Does he hit Bridget?”
Margaret shook her head and then mouthed the word, “Worse.”
“Oh, my God,” said Olympia.
Margaret's neck and her cheeks were turning a blotchy red. “That's why I don't want her to come home. When she was younger, I thought maybe something was wrong, but it was too awful to think about, so I put it out of my head. But yesterday, when I was putting away the ironing …”
“What happened, Margaret?”
“I found some pictures under his shirts. They're awful. Terry, that's Bridget's father, he must have taken them when she was around ten.” Margaret clenched her jaw, fighting for control.
An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries) Page 5
