The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one

by Leonard Foglia

  “Is that what she told you? Lies, lies! It has always been nothing but lies with that girl.”

  “Hannah’s not the one who’s lying. Don’t you understand what these people are doing to her?”

  Ruth was not of a mind to entertain questions. “She is not going to devastate that poor woman. I know how she feels not to be able to have a child of her own. I won’t sit back and let Hannah bring more pain into their lives with her selfishness!”

  “These people are taking advantage of her.”

  “They paid her $30,000, fed her, clothed her and gave her a place to stay. You call that taking advantage?”

  “But they locked her up. Didn’t she tell you that?”

  “Lies, more lies.”

  “Okay! Just tell me where they went.”

  The gloating gave way to a chilly pause. “I didn’t ask. I don’t meddle in other people’s business, Mrs. Zito, if I can help it.”

  “Not even when it concerns your own niece?”

  “She’s a self-centered brat, who made her bed and now she’s got to lie in it. That’s all I have to say on the subject.”

  “And do you know what you are? A remarkably stupid woman! And I could say a helluva lot more on that subject, believe me!” Teri slammed down the receiver. She had to go to the kitchen for a glass of water to cool herself down. Fifteen minutes later, she was in her car, racing north.

  When she got to East Acton, the adrenaline was still pumping and she was ready for a brawl. But as soon as she turned into the driveway off Alcott Street, the fighting spirit went out of her. There were no automobiles, the garage door was down, and the house itself had a deserted air. She shut off the motor and got out of her car, but no one came forward to greet her or, the more likely scenario, chase her away. In the backyard, a few sparrows took flight at her approach.

  She pressed her face up against the windows of the sun porch. It was dark inside, but it looked as if the Whitfields were in the process of moving out. Things had been packed away in boxes and the rugs were rolled up. She crossed the lawn to Jolene’s studio and was not surprised to see that it had been stripped bare. It was like a bad joke: What if you stormed the castle and nobody was there?

  Left with her anger and nothing to vent it on, Teri turned it inward. Great friend she had proved to be, instructing Hannah to sit tight and stay calm. She had failed her totally. She got back in the car and pounded the steering wheel in frustration.

  For the second time in as many days, Teri found herself knocking at the rectory of Our Lady of Perpetual Light and asking for Father Jimmy. This time, she didn’t have to persuade him of the gravity of the situation.

  “It’s Hannah, isn’t it? Something’s happened,” he said, before she had opened her mouth.

  “She’s missing. I don’t know where she is.”

  Teri quickly brought him up to date on events of the previous day, after Father Jimmy had dropped Hannah off in Fall River. “Once she knew the Whitfields were in town, looking for her, she was terrified to be alone. I tried to calm her down on the phone. I should have just left work. Fuck! Fuck Bobby, fuck that diner and fuck every blue plate special in it! … Oh, I’m sorry, Father. It’s just that I hate myself for not taking her seriously enough. She said I didn’t know how dangerous these people were and that she would fill me in later. Is that true? Are they dangerous?”

  “They’re very disturbed.”

  “Great! I leave my friend at the mercy of some psychos, so I can deliver hamburger specials to Mrs. McLintock and her three beady-eyed brats!”

  “There was no way for you to know what was going to —”

  “What are you talking about, Father? I know when my husband Nick has been eyeing another woman, don’t I? I know when one of the twins has punched out a girl in the schoolyard. It’s a sixth sense. You have it, if you’re a mother. So why didn’t I know my best friend was in trouble? Shouldn’t we go to the police.”

  “No, not yet. Trust me. As long as she’s carrying the baby, we’ve got to believe that no harm will come to her. That gives us a little time. The Whitfields are bound to surface sooner or later. Or Hannah will find a way to get in touch with one of us. In the meanwhile…”

  “What?”

  “We keep looking…” Under his breath, Father Jimmy added, “and praying.”

  He did, too. At odd hours, he checked the house on Alcott St. for signs of activity. Late one night, he thought he saw a light in one of the rooms, and so he parked his car across the street and kept watch, until a policeman stopped mid-morning to ask if anything was wrong. (A neighbor had apparently reported a suspicious person lurking in the area.) Father Jimmy said something lame about waiting for one of his parishioners, which didn’t reassure the policemen as much as the clerical collar did.

  One day, he went by the post office and inquired if the Whitfields had left a forwarding address. The clerk said they hadn’t. His calls to the airlines, requesting information about a passenger named Hannah Manning, who could have been on a flight to Miami within the past few days, met with curt rejection. Thanksgiving came and went, Christmas decorations appeared in the shops of East Acton, and still no word from Hannah.

  He was unable to put her image out of his mind - not the luminescent Hannah, but the drawn and frightened woman he’d driven to Fall River the night of her escape. He could still see her, her head up against the car window, watching the lights of the oncoming cars play across the windshield like fireflies, saying little, looking more fragile than ever.

  What did these people have in store for her and the baby? As the Monsignor had warned, the potential for demagoguery and exploitation was immense. Forget the old Christ, here’s the new Christ. The ancient prophecies have been fulfilled. Leave your churches and come worship him. He will take you triumphantly into the new millennium! Follow him. Follow him. Follow!

  How had this happened? He went back to the folder of information he’d accumulated on the sudarium, Oviedo and DNA. He was leafing absently through the sheaf of papers, when it hit him! The National Shroud Society! Heart racing, he sorted through the pile again, until he found it - the computer print-out with Judith Kowalski’s picture on it.

  Not just Judith Kowalski’s picture, but her mailing address!

  Waverly Avenue in Watertown was a non-descript street, lined with non-descript two-story houses. Number 151 was no different from its neighbors - a solid wood-frame residence with a small front porch, a parking pad and mini-van to one side, and a yard in the back, surrounded by a low chain-link fence.

  Nothing that would make you take a second glance, which, Father Jimmy reflected, as he drove slowly by, was probably the point. At the end of the street, a gas station, a small drug store and a Seven-Eleven serviced the basic needs of the neighborhood. He parked his car in front of the drug store and went inside. A couple of scarred Formica tables and vinyl chairs were all that testified to a once-thriving luncheonette business. Father Jimmy ordered a cup of coffee and, prepared to wait, took the table closest to the window. It afforded him a good view of 151 Waverly.

  It wasn’t long before the door swung open and about thirty people streamed down the front steps, talking in hushed tones. A meeting appeared to have just broken up. He scrutinized the faces, hoping to see someone familiar. But they struck him as a largely unexceptional group if you excluded the woman with blonde braids, which she wore piled up on the top of her head, and another elderly woman who carried an excessively large floral carpet bag, slung over her shoulder. Most of the others could have been paper-pushers in the office buildings of Boston. They had the palor of accountants and clerks, who work too long under florescent lights.

  They dispersed quickly, pausing only to exchange the sort of sober goodbyes that characterize funerals and wakes. A few people hugged one another. Some seemed to be crying. The street grew still. He wondered if the house was empty now.

  Twenty minutes later, he was about to give up his watch, when the front door opened and a woman came
out. After securing the top and bottom locks, she slid behind the wheel of the mini-van. As she drove past the drug store, Father Jimmy saw that it was Jolene Whitfield.

  He tucked a dollar bill under the coffee cup, crossed the street and walked briskly in the direction of the house. There wasn’t anybody in sight. Most people, who lived in this neighborhood, were still at work, and those who weren’t, hopefully, were glued to their television sets or taking a nap. When he got to the driveway, he ducked down and darted around to the back of the house. Partially concealed by the shrubbery, he edged up to a window.

  Seated on a wooden chair, his back to the window, was a man with salt and pepper hair. He was reading aloud. (Father Jimmy could hear enough of the words through the glass to know the book on his lap was a Bible.) Every now and then, the man lifted his head to check on a woman lying on a couch. Her face was turned to the wall, but her blonde hair, although badly matted, was immediately recognizable.

  Father Jimmy watched the body until he could make out the rise and fall of the swollen belly. At least, Hannah was alive and breathing. Beyond that, he couldn’t judge her condition. Her due date had to be any day now. He was suddenly aware that several minutes had passed. Feeling conspicuous, he pulled back from the window and retraced his steps.

  A round Italian woman with a faint mustache nodded to him cheerfully on the sidewalk. “Merry Christmas, Father.”

  He was inside his car and had the motor running, before he realized that he had failed to respond to her holiday greeting.

  1:45

  “Dear Lord, I’ve always been so sure of your steady hand guiding me. Until now. Give me a sign.” Father Jimmy’s prayer was no louder than a whisper.

  Monsignor Gallagher came upon him by the altar rail. Out of breath and panting, he failed to notice the anguish on the young man’s face. “There you are, James! I saw your car and searched the rectory from top to bottom. Funny, this was the last place I thought to look! Have you located the girl?”

  “I have. She’s in Watertown. I think she’s being held there.”

  “Watertown? Will she come away with you?”

  “If I can get the chance to talk to her.”

  “You must. I’ve spoken to some church officials in Boston about her case. I needn’t point out that it caused quite an alarm. But everything’s been arranged now.” He reached into his cassock and pulled out a slip of paper. “This is the address where you can take her, when she’s ready.”

  Father Jimmy looked at the paper in the monsignor’s hand. “Take her here?”

  “Yes. They’re fully aware of the situation. They will know what to do.”

  “I don’t understand, Father.”

  “They will take care of her and the baby.”

  “What does that mean? Will she be able to keep it?”

  “James, lower your voice. You know that is not possible. This is how it must be.”

  “But who will raise the child?”

  “The child will be given a proper home and be raised by a loving couple, who will have no idea of its origins.”

  “Hannah won’t allow it, Father.”

  “Then you must convince her. Unless you think the Whitfields should bring up this baby and the rest of us suffer the consequences.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Make her see that this is best for the baby, best for her, and best for the church. You do believe that, don’t you, James?”

  The older man’s eyes scoured Father Jimmy’s face.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. I will be happy to accompany you.”

  “No, Father. It would be wisest if I went alone.” He took the address from the monsignor and put it in his pocket. “I’ll meet you in Boston.”

  “As you wish. I have every confidence in you, James.”

  Using the rectory phone, Father Jimmy telephoned Teri shortly afterwards. They talked in hushed tones for fifteen minutes. Then, steeled to what lay ahead, he went to his room and pulled a satchel down from the top shelf of his closet. He looked to be in another world.

  Hannah was not allowed out of the house, Letitia Greene’s house and the relocated offices of Partners in Parenthood, except there was no such person and no such organization. They had been created for the single purpose of finding the ideal surrogate mother, and once that purpose had been accomplished, they had been dissolved. Partners in Parenthood survived only as the letterhead on some old stationery. Letitia Greene had reverted to Judith Kowalski. Ricky, Letitia’s freckle-faced son, the joy of her life and the inspiration for her crusading zeal, had never existed to begin with.

  Hannah knew that now.

  She also knew far more people were involved. Several large meetings had taken place in the basement. Locked in her room, Hannah had been unable to make out what was being said, except for an occasional collective “Amen.” But as she watched from her window, while the group filed out the front door, she realized every one of them had been at Jolene’s art gallery opening. Jolene’s paintings were not on display that night. They had all come to see her, “the vessel.”

  The house itself was strictly utilitarian and devoid of personal touch. The basement was given over to meetings and the ongoing business of the National Shroud Society. The first floor was offices. The living quarters on the second floor were furnished in motel modern and spotlessly maintained, which, curiously, only enhanced their drabness.

  Hannah stayed to her bedroom most of the time, and Jolene and Marshall took turns watching over her. She suspected that she was being mildly sedated. The rebelliousness seemed to have gone out of her and she felt lethargic a lot. She slept and ate and slept. Sometimes, she walked from room to room, never far from the sight of her keepers, though, and stared out the windows.

  The street was unfamiliar to her. One moment, she’d been in Fall River at Ruth and Herb’s, and the next moment, she was here. Wherever here was! The house across the street had Christmas lights strung across the porch, which made her wonder how much time had gone by. The baby was due before long, because the other night, she had overheard Dr. Johanson and the Whitfields talking about the possibility of inducing labor.

  “The sooner she’s out of the picture, the better,” Marshall had said.

  “But what if the baby is harmed?” Jolene had asked.

  Doctor Johanson had assured them that wouldn’t be the case.

  “Still it’s not right to induce labor,” Jolene had continued, “It’s not supposed to happen this way.”

  Then Marshall’s response, which had chilled her: “From the very first visitation, we knew there’d be a fight. We have no choice now. The girl is a threat to us.”

  A threat?

  Hannah felt his eyes trained on her right now, as she looked out the window.

  All day long, the sky had hung low with the promise of snow that was just now beginning to fall. Dusk had overtaken the street, the only illumination coming from the arc lights of the corner gas station, which blazed like an operating room. One of the attendants, Hannah noticed, was already going after the snow with a push broom, and two customers, standing under the overhang, appeared to be evaluating the weather. Hannah figured the snow and light were playing tricks on her, because from a distance the couple looked like Father Jimmy and Teri.

  Was that possible? The man had black hair and Teri owned a hat similar to the woman’s. Her impulse was to open the window and scream, but she restrained herself. Instead, she walked calmly back to her bed and rested her head on the pillow. If it was Father Jimmy and Teri and they were this close, it meant one thing: they knew where she was and they had a plan to rescue her.

  1:46

  “What do you mean? You don’t have a plan?”

  Teri kicked her boots against the gas station air pump, ostensibly to dislodge the snow on the soles, but also to alleviate her frustration. She hadn’t come all this way to stand around and wait for divine inspiration. Father Jimmy’s calm unnerved her.

  “We’re goin
g to take Hannah away from here,” he said.

  “That much, I’m clear on, Father. But how?”

  “I guess I will have to talk to them.”

  “What?” she said, wondering if she had heard correctly. “You’re going to march over there and announce you’ve come for Hannah, and these people are going to say, ‘Oh, sure, padre, what took you so long?’ Excuse me for thinking this, but are you nuts?”

  “God will guide us.”

  “Oh, swell! God may guide you, father. But I don’t think he’s got too many plans for me.”

  “The least they can do is talk with us.”

  “I hate being a party pooper, but is a social visit really what’s called for?'”

  “Sometimes, you have to trust that things will work out.”

  “Okay, I trust! I’d trust more if we had a plan. But, hey, I trust!”

  They drove their cars mid-way down the block and parked in front of 151 Waverly.

  The doorbell sounded sharply through the house. Hannah lifted her head off the bed, as Marshall got up and went downstairs. Jolene met him at the foot of the stairs, puzzlement spreading over her face.

  “Be quiet and don’t answer the door,” he said.

  The doorbell put out another stab of sound. “Hello?” Father Jimmy called out. “Is anyone there? I want to talk with Hannah Manning.”

  There was no reply.

  “I know she’s here.” He rattled the doorknob several times. He could sense people on the other side, just as a mugger can sometimes be sensed in the shadows, even though he’s dressed in black and standing immobile.

  “Look, I’m not leaving until I get the chance to talk to her, so open the door now.”

  A muffled voice finally spoke up. “Who is it?”

  “Father James Wilde. I’m here to see Hannah Manning.”