An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries)

by Judith Campbell

“No, Father.” She hesitated. “This is better. I'm here. I'm afraid if I get out of this chair, I won't come back.”

  The abject woman made the sign of the cross and began to speak the familiar words of the Act of Contrition, the words recited before confession and reconciliation, and then she began to tell the priest how she was responsible for allowing her husband to molest their younger daughter, Bridget. When she finished, she crossed herself again and looked up and into the kindly eyes of the man sitting across from her and saw not the disgust and condemnation she was expecting but tears of sadness.

  “You have not sinned, Margaret, so there's nothing for God to forgive. It's your husband who's committed the sin. He belongs here, not you.”

  Jim paused and looked hard at the woman sitting across from him. “The man belongs in jail, Margaret. What he has done is not only a sin, it's a crime.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Father,” said Margaret, “you'll not be tellin’ him I've come.” In her distress, she slipped into the lilting cadences she learned from her West Country Irish mother.

  “I've taken a vow never to repeat what is said to me in the confessional, but I want you to tell me more about what's happened. If it is as you described it, your daughter needs professional counseling—and you need help as well. Domestic abuse is punishable by law.” Father Jim rubbed his chin. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  Margaret was fidgeting with the shreds of her handkerchief, smoothing them on her lap, then folding and re-folding them. “I called Bridget's professor when I had heard she'd gone to stay at her house. I wanted to meet her, and when I did, I just started talking. I couldn't stop myself. Her name is Professor Olympia Brown, Father. She teaches religion and something at Bridget's college, and she's the chaplain, too. She's a good woman, Father, even if she is a protestant.”

  Margaret looked at the man sitting across from her. “I think it was easier for me to say it to a woman first. She's the one who told me to call you.”

  “So you told her about your husband and your daughter and the photographs?”

  “She promised not to say anything. Bridget doesn't know I found them or maybe even that he still has them.”

  “And now you've told me.”

  Margaret bowed her head and whispered, “I have.”

  “You've done the right thing.”

  Margaret turned away from the priest. “The O’Maras don't talk about their troubles outside the family.”

  Jim leaned forward.

  “You couldn't possibly have known this, Margaret, but Professor Brown is a good friend of mine. We've worked together in the past when someone needed help and didn't want to call the police. Would you consider meeting with the professor and me?”

  “She's a friend of yours?”

  “A very good friend—even if she is a protestant.”

  Jim winked and smiled, hoping the personal aside would ease the tension in the room.

  Margaret shook her head in obvious amazement. “What good would that do, Father?” She balled up what was left of the hankie and pushed it under the cuff of her sweater.

  “I'm not sure, but you've just told me that your daughter has been sexually molested. That took enormous courage. And I've seen the bruises on you. Now that you've come this far, I wonder if three heads might be better than two. We're both college chaplains, and I have a very high opinion of her.”

  She hesitated, “I don't know. I don't see how …”

  “Think it over, and come and talk to me again in a couple of days. People are used to seeing us in these halls. There won't be any raised eyebrows.”

  Margaret smoothed her skirt and stood.

  “I'll think about it. Thank you, Father.”

  “I'll pray for you, Margaret, for all of you.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Later that day, sitting at his desk in the rectory, Father Jim was rubbing his temples and wondering if it would be possible to help these women without breaking confidentiality? Where was the line, and who drew it? Was he a priest or a mandated reporter? What was the price of all this silence, and who paid it?

  He looked up at the crucifix hanging over his desk and asked himself how important was unquestioning obedience when human beings were being violated and abused. He'd had this discussion with himself before and likely would have it again. In his heart of hearts Jim wanted to be a good priest, but what was a good priest? Did a good priest obey the rules, or did a good priest move beyond the rules of the church when they no longer served the common good? Did he break his vows if another human being was in peril and by speaking out he could intervene? In truth, Jim knew the answer, but like so many things in his life, it was an ongoing struggle and would likely continue until he finally chose to come to terms with it.

  In the college library, Bridget Mary O’Mara had two books lying open on the long oak table in front of her. One was published by the Hemlock Society, the other by Doctor Death, Jack Kevorkian.

  After her meeting with Father Jim at the hospital, Margaret returned to the apartment she shared with Terry and looked at it with new eyes. She was thinking about what the priest had said to her that morning. She hated Terry, but take him to court? Humiliate the family? She couldn't do it. Terry was her husband. All those years ago when she promised to love, honor, and obey, she'd had no idea how awful a sentence she had imposed upon herself. Margaret bit into her lower lip. What's done is done. There's no turning away now. Her own pain and suffering were nothing compared to what Jesus suffered on the cross, so who was she to complain?

  She got out the scouring powder, walked into the bathroom and knelt down on the cool tile floor in front of the toilet. Terry would make life so much easier for everybody if he'd just fall down the stairs and break his neck some night after the bingo. God knows he's had the opportunity.

  Margaret shook the gritty powder onto the rag and plunged her hand into the icy water. She liked the fresh bleachy smell even if it was coming out of a toilet, and cleaning her house always made her feel better.

  Olympia taught her afternoon humanities class badly because she was so preoccupied. She wanted to help Bridget and Margaret, and at the same time she wanted to rip the blinders off them and breathe some sense into the two of them. In the end, would it do any good? It was an awful situation, and there was the real possibility of making it even worse if she interfered any further and Terry got wind of it. But could she back off now? It was, of course, a rhetorical question.

  Sitting alone in his office, Terry was even more irritable than usual. He knew something was up and feared Margaret might have seen the pictures he'd taken of Bridget all those years ago. He cursed himself for leaving them where she could find them, but when he heard her coming down the hallway he'd shoved them under his shirts and then forgotten where he put them.

  Tomorrow, he'd get them out of the house, but for now he was certain she would never look for them in his missal. And if by chance she did … The back of Terry's neck and ears flushed red, and his thick fingers curled into a hard fist.

  Even though the office door was closed, Terry double-checked before opening the bottom drawer of his desk and slipping a half-empty pint bottle of vodka out from under the file folders. He didn't like taking a drink in the middle of the day. Only alcoholics did that, and he was not an alcoholic. But sometimes, if he felt agitated, a quick drink steadied his nerves and vodka doesn't linger on the breath.

  He listened for any sounds outside his office door, then unscrewed the silver top and took a long gulping swallow. He wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand. The comforting warmth in his belly made him want another, but he thought better of it. Maybe later, before he left for home, just a little one for his nerves. He returned the bottle to its hiding place under the folders next to the bottle of peppermint mouthwash.

  Outside the office, his secretary, Marie Foggiano, poked her index finger into the basket of flowers on her desk to see if they needed water. The arrangement of pink roses and white d
aisies had been a birthday gift from her boss. She smiled and wiped the water off her finger. He's always so thoughtful.

  But behind the closed door of his office Terry O’Mara was not feeling well at all. The medicinal sip of vodka had not been enough, and by mid-afternoon he'd finished the bottle. He realized when he had trouble punching the correct numbers into the intercom that it might be prudent to go home. Not that anyone would ever know. Still, being at work and all, he'd better not take any chances. He tried using the intercom again, and when Marie picked up he told her that he might be coming down with the flu or something and he was going to leave early.

  After clearing off the top of his desk, he slipped the empty bottle into his trouser pocket, stepped out into the reception area and started walking toward the door. As he passed in front of the desk where Marie was sitting, he missed his footing and hit the corner of her desk and grunted, more in surprise than pain.

  “Marie, I thought I told you to get the carpet tacked down, I almos’ tripped, s‘dangerous.”

  “The men from maintenance came in and did it last week, Mr. O’Mara. Hey, you are flushed. I think you might have a fever.”

  Terry lifted an unsteady hand to his forehead. “I don't feel too good. You know me, I never g'home early.”

  The secretary nodded. “Anything you want me to finish up for you?”

  “Nah, jus’ call the men for the carpet.”

  “Certainly, Mr. O’Mara.” Marie lowered her eyes. “Get some rest and drink lots of fluids, that's what my mother says when I'm coming down with something.” She turned back to the pale blue screen of the monitor on her desk and lifted her hands to the keyboard.

  “G’night, Marie.”

  “Good night, Mr. O’Mara.”

  Outside in the corridor, Terry stayed close to the wall as he made his careful way to the stairway. Once outside, the cool air helped clear his head as he looked around, trying to recollect where he'd left his car. It was only when he reached into his pocket for the keys and found the crumpled claim check that he remembered his car was in the repair shop, and he had taken the bus to work. Fuck!

  “I am coming down with something,” he mumbled to himself. “A little drink or two doesn't usually affect me like this.” He shook his head and started toward the bus stop. If he made the right connection, he'd have time for a quick one at the Shamrock and still be home in time for supper. Didn't Marie just tell him to drink plenty of liquids?

  Margaret wouldn't know that he'd left early. Stupid cow doesn't know anything. Terry was mumbling to himself and staggered slightly when he raised his hand to signal the oncoming bus. But somewhere in the vodka-soaked recesses of his brain was the awful possibility that maybe she did know.

  Thirteen

  On Friday morning Olympia sat alone in her office, trying to sort out the issues needing serious attention. Bridget Mary O’Mara dwarfed everything else at the moment. Then there was the unfinished letter of resignation, and with it, questions about her post-academe future. Would that future include a certain blue-eyed Englishman, or would it not?

  The biggest future unknown was, of course, her daughter and thirty-five years of looking into the eyes of every girl near her age and wondering, are you my child?

  The wait since she'd learned that her daughter had opened the file was excruciating. At least I know she's alive, thought Olympia, and that's more than I knew before. That's something.

  She pressed her fingertips against her eyes and waited until the fierce wave of longing subsided.

  Now that she knew that Frederick wouldn't be coming for a while, she could put him on the back burner. Even the thought of him returning to her house—and more specifically, to her bed—caused Olympia to blush. As the heat from the blush traveled south and suffused her entire body, so much so that she broke into a profuse sweat, she chuckled to herself. Guess I miss him more than I thought. But when the internal heat surge didn't subside, Olympia realized this was not all sexual desire but more likely part hot flash. She made a note on the back of a used envelope to call her mother and ask her advice.

  Olympia fanned herself with a handy manila folder and wiped her face and neck with a crumpled tissue. She had less than ten minutes before Bridget would be there, and she needed to talk to Jim.

  He picked up on the first ring.

  “Hi, Jim, it's Olympia. I've just had a very disturbing conversation with the mother of a student we have been concerned about, and frankly, I don't know what to think or do.”

  “We can talk openly, Olympia. I've told her we know each other.”

  “Good God, when did that happen?”

  “This morning, and good God is right, but I would rather not say any more on the phone. Any chance you're free tomorrow morning?”

  “I am. Where do you want to meet?”

  “Not here, too many students popping in at odd hours. And the rectory's out, all of St. Bartholomew's eyes and ears are there.” He paused. “I know, how about the Gardner Museum? It's hardly private, but we can look at the pictures and talk without raising any suspicion. Around this time of year nothing lifts my spirits more than seeing the flowers in the courtyard and inhaling that wonderful smell of moss-covered rocks.”

  “That's where I met my children's father, but I still like going there.”

  Jim chuckled. “You rarely talk about him. Maybe you'll tell me more about him sometime. Is ten o'clock okay? We can have lunch at the Fine Arts Museum afterwards if you like.”

  “I like! You've made me an offer I can't refuse, Father. Tomorrow at ten by the orchids at the foot of the staircase.”

  “It's a date,” said her best friend, “but I'll wait for you at the door.”

  Olympia suddenly felt better, cooler and better.

  With that done, she sat waiting for Bridget and looking around the room that had served as her office for twenty-seven years. Maybe it was because she knew she was leaving that she was seeing it with new eyes. She fingered the pink-flowered curtains she'd made to brighten the place when she first arrived, now faded and dusty.

  She looked up at the clutter of the phone numbers, political cartoons and business cards layering the bulletin board above her desk and nodded agreement with herself. It is time to move on, but it's going to be hard to let go of so much personal history.

  Next week she would begin clearing out a little at a time so it wouldn't be such an overwhelming job in June.

  But first, I need to tell them I'm going.

  Bridget's arrival ended Olympia's bittersweet reverie. After a few moments of gathering papers and notebooks, the two were ready to join the swarm of weary commuters inching out of the city toward home.

  Once they were on the highway headed south, Olympia told Bridget she'd be going into Boston the next day and asked if she minded staying in Brookfield by herself.

  “No problem.” Bridget turned and looked out the window. “I like being alone. It gives me time to think.

  “I'll be off right after breakfast, so how about I grab a take-out for supper on the way home?” Olympia looked over at the girl and asked for a second time. “You're sure you don't mind?”

  “Like I said, it gives me time to think. Besides, you wanted to get started on the downstairs windows, didn't you? Can't wait to get to that now, can I?” Bridget cocked a wry eye in Olympia's direction.

  Although she didn't dare mention it, Olympia wondered if she was beginning to notice a subtle change in Bridget. What was it? The little hint of a joke just then or that she almost smiled more often? Maybe she was beginning to get past the worst of it.

  Olympia drove on, hoping one day she would know but grateful for now, at least, that Bridget looked to be marginally more relaxed and not so much like a frightened rabbit.

  That evening, after Bridget had gone to bed, Olympia was far too keyed up to do the same. She made herself a cup of cocoa with rather more than several mini-marshmallows, settled down in her favorite chair, and opened Miss Winslow's diary.

  * *
*

  Friday, April 13, 1860

  The air outside is mild and sweet. It is rich with the smell of sun-warmed earth and the delicate scent of my beloved daffodils. In truth, I am most elated. This very morning I received a letter from Jared informing me that he has learned of a woman by the name of Olympia Brown who is seeking ordination as a Universalist minister. If she succeeds, then she shall certainly be the first in this whole country to have achieved such an honor. I feel so inspired and encouraged hearing of her. Perhaps I shall follow in her footsteps and be the second. What a dear and thoughtful man he is. He has even included her address that I might write to her. I cannot think of how I might thank him for his interest and generosity to someone who is not even a member of his congregation. Yet I am sure the opportunity will present itself.

  More anon, LFW

  * * *

  Olympia read the passage a second and then a third time, shaking her head in amazement at discovering yet another personal connection to Leanna Faith Winslow. She had been named for that same Olympia Brown by her staunch Universalist mother, Eulalia Brown. She had admired the earlier woman's determined efforts to achieve universal suffrage and unrestricted educational opportunities for women, and she had named her daughter in her honor. Eulalia even took her to visit the little white wooden church in South Weymouth, Massachusetts, where the first Olympia had once served as Pastor. This was more than mere coincidence. The present Olympia was convinced of that. But what was the significance of it and where was it going to lead?

  Too many questions and not enough answers, thought Olympia as she reluctantly closed the soft brown volume and placed it on the table beside her. As she did so, the clock on the mantel chimed as if in response to her unspoken thoughts.

  “Give me a break, Leanna. I don't know about you, but I've had enough for one day. ”