Uncross My Heart

by Andrews

  She managed a light laugh. “I’m a Roman Catholic.”

  “Well, as you know, I’m an Episcopalian, which is Catholic lite.”

  I tried to put her at ease.

  “My baby is very ill—”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “And in case she doesn’t make it, I want her to be baptized.”

  “I understand. We’ll see that she’s baptized, and if you need help with her care—”

  “I just need her baptized Catholic.”

  “I’m certain Father O’Shane will do that for you. Have you spoken to him?”

  “I’m not married to the baby’s father, so the baby can’t be baptized by a Catholic priest.” She broke down in tears. “My baby could go to purgatory because she’s—”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Angela, your baby will be baptized. Father O’Shane and I are friends. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you.” Her anguish and joy intermingled—the oil and water of man’s religion adding to her burden rather than relieving it. She had already scurried out of the room before I could say more.

  * * *

  “You can’t mean that,” I said as I paced around Dennis’s cramped office, so covered in papers and folders and old lunch cartons that it troubled me to linger. Dennis sat silently, looking as if he were merely waiting for my drama to subside so his rational mind might get its point across.

  “She’s not married,” he whispered. “She just told you that.”

  “Who cares?”

  “The church cares. Have you forgotten we serve a church? At least I do.”“That was a sanctimonious remark. Interesting that ‘the church’ wants everyone married while on earth but doesn’t really give a damn in the afterlife, telling us there are no husbands and wives. Odd how schizophrenic we’ve made God out to be.” I paced and fumed as Dennis watched. “What’s wrong with you? Just do the damned baptism. Please.”

  “What’s wrong with you? How do you get off bending and tweaking and taunting the religious beliefs we signed on to support?” Dennis rose, for the first time seeming to be in a huff, and exited. Unable to summon the courage to throw me out, he’d obviously chosen to leave.

  Before I could go after him, my cell phone rang and Eleanor ordered me to appear before Hightower. This time I had no idea what I’d done, and I was too upset over Dennis’s betrayal to really care.

  I strode across the open courtyard, the wind whipping around me and autumn leaves beginning to coast to the ground like golden ships coming into harbor. It seemed to “blow the stink off me,” as Eleonor would say, and I was winded, but less angry, by the time I arrived at Hightower’s office door.

  “What now?” I asked Eleonor.

  “I don’t know, but you’re lookin’ so good you got to be up to somethin’ and I wish you would share.” She grinned as she buzzed his office to tell him I had arrived. I opened his door upon hearing that I was to enter.

  For once, Hightower wasn’t pacing but was planted firmly in the middle of the room, a big smile on his face. “Dr. Westbrooke, I just wanted to call you over personally and tell you ‘great job.’” My look of dismay made him chuckle. “True, doesn’t happen often.”

  “What have I done to warrant this praise?”

  “Vivienne Wilde contacted me. Yes.” He punctuated his surprise.

  “Called me on the phone. Said she wanted me to know what a fine representative of the school I had in you. We talked for fifteen minutes and I think her siege on our seminary has ended. I don’t know what you said or did, but it worked.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, well done. Despite the headaches you often provide me, when you set your mind to it, you do this institution proud.” He shook my hand and I gave him a warm smile before exiting, believing that when things are moving in the right direction, I should never overstay my welcome.

  “How did it go?” Eleonor asked.

  “Okay. Do you know a Catholic priest who’s friendly to Claridge and might baptize an illegitimate child?”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “No. But thanks for asking.”

  I stormed off toward the McGuire Building, where my office was tucked away at the end of a long corridor. As I approached, I saw something low to the ground propped up against the locked door. As I got closer, golden orange roses came into view. I stopped a few yards from them as if they were explosives. A young girl swept past me.

  “Pretty flowers, Dr. Westbrooke.”

  Robbie Renthrow, a young seminary student, was right behind her and, emboldened by her presence, added, “Ooh, long stems, serious stuff.”

  I gave him a smirk and quickly unlocked my office door, scooping up the flowers to get them out of sight. I set them on my desk and marveled at the intense hue of each perfect petal, a veritable blaze of orange—the color of roses and sunsets…and wild longing.

  Uncharacteristically, I went back and clicked the dead bolt on my door, leaving me alone with the fragrant blossoms. It had been a long time since someone sent me flowers.

  I tentatively reached for the card and opened it, then sighed when I saw the large W on the cover. Inside only one line. Will you call me?

  Viv. The diminutive was suddenly so intimate. Viv. I smiled at nothing or perhaps at everything. She wasn’t one to say, “Had a great time, enjoyed the moment, loved being with you.” No, she was on to the next moment. There can’t be a next moment, my mind snapped nervously at me.The phone rang, nearly startling me out of my shoes. I picked up immediately and tried to modulate my voice to one of academic professionalism. “Dr. Westbrooke.”

  “I’m so glad you’re there. I was trying to compose just the right voice-mail message and couldn’t quite come up with something that would be appropriate for anyone to hear and yet convey my desires,” Vivienne said.

  “The flowers are really beautiful. They’re the color of your hair.”

  I said the last part involuntarily. Even I could hear that my voice was dreamy.

  “Not by accident.”

  I chuckled at how openly she owned her actions.

  “The color chosen to remind you of what you so unceremoniously deserted. Have dinner with me and, this time, don’t run away.” I made a sound to protest and she quickly cut me off. “Lunch, then.”

  “Viv—” I could barely breathe but I was determined not to fall under her spell again, which meant staying away from her, at least in private settings.

  “Coffee, ten o’clock at Cavendar’s, the deli near your campus, outside table in the open air, in full view of the world. You’ll be perfectly safe.” She was mocking me, but somehow she had tapped into my core. I didn’t feel safe around her. I felt I might, well, do damned near anything.

  “Viv?” Silence. “I do appreciate the roses.”

  “Appreciate is good. But did your heart beat faster when you saw them? That’s the effect I was striving for.” My heart was beating faster right now and I swooned back in my chair, weak all over. She told me good-bye in a sultry fashion, leaving the endorphins in my body to sort out what to do next.

  A timid knock interrupted my mental confusion, and I scrambled to my feet and unlocked the dead bolt to find Angela in the doorway.

  “My mother called and my baby is worse.”

  “I’m so sorry, what does the doctor say?”

  She held her hand up as if to say she couldn’t talk about that now.

  “Please, I can’t sleep at night knowing she is not baptized. Have you talked to Father O’Shane?”

  “Angela, your baby isn’t going to purgatory because you didn’t marry her father. God loves every baby—”

  “I know you want me to feel better, but that isn’t the way—”

  “Angela, God will not send your innocent baby to purgatory.”

  “Don’t lie to me, when you know that’s not true. No one will help me.” She ran from my office as I called after her.

  “Damn it.” I rang Dennis’s office and cell ph
one but he didn’t answer. In between counseling sessions and grading papers, I tried again.

  He finally answered, speaking his own name by way of greeting.

  “Get me a Catholic priest to baptize Angela Hernandez’s baby.”

  “Look, I’ve thought about it. You can baptize the baby,” he said, not unkindly.

  “In case your rosary is missing a bead, I’m not Catholic.”

  “I’ll book the campus chapel for you—”

  “The baby is apparently very ill and may not wait for the campus chapel roster to open up, but might instead merely need a priest who gives a shit to baptize her.”

  “You get the girl and her family or friends or whatever and we do the baptism right away.”

  “We?”

  “You. But I’ll stand nearby in my robes looking priestly.”

  I let out a long sharp sigh of exasperation. “This doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to officiate at any mass beyond this one.”

  “Does it always have to be about you?” He goaded me into smiling.

  “Only because I know how you are. So for the record, my officiating is a one-time, emergency-conditions deal.” My flippancy was cover for the embarrassment of admission that I would no longer allow myself that privilege. “No regalia. I’m only wearing a stole.”

  “You can wear bouffant hair and pumps for all I care, darling.”

  “Humf.” I hung up and began hunting Angela’s number in the student directory.

  Moments later Dennis phoned back to tell me that tomorrow morning, both he and the chapel were available if Angela was—which meant I couldn’t meet Vivienne. I paused before telling Dennis the time would work for me. God is intent on keeping me out of trouble when I’m too weak to do it for myself. I picked up the phone and dialed Vivienne’s office number and left the message that Thursday would no longer work for me.

  I then located Angela’s number and called, intending to tell her that I would be the celebrant for her baby’s baptism tomorrow, along with Father O’Shane, which was stretching it a bit since he was only planning to be present. She answered the phone crying and, when I delivered the good news, said only that it no longer mattered. She’d arrived home to find her baby worse and believed she was dying. Her sobs prevented any longer discussion.

  “Where do you live?” I demanded, and she rattled off an address that I scribbled on a pad. “I’ll be right there.” I unlocked the closet next to my desk, snatched a stole from a hanger, and slammed the door shut again. Scooping up the Book of Common Prayer and my keys, I locked my office door and ran to my car. I backed out of the parking lot so fast I nearly creamed a red Toyota pulling out across from me and waved my apologies.

  Moments later, as I sped down the freeway toward a blue-collar area of town populated by migrant workers, I wondered what had convinced a girl like Angela to choose a school like Claridge.

  I pulled up in front of a small clapboard house in need of major repair in a neighborhood full of tan-skinned men in white T-shirts leaning over the hoods of parked cars that spilled off the curb and into their front yards. All eyes turned as I got out, and a stocky man whistled in my direction. I ignored him and placed the ecclesiastic stole around my shoulders and knocked on the door. A tall, middle-aged Hispanic matron with sorrowful eyes and a troubled brow opened the door and stared at me for a long moment.

  “I’m Alexandra Westbrooke from Claridge Seminary. Angela asked me to come and see her baby.”

  She stepped back and I entered. The house was dark and moldy, and I found my way to the baby’s bedroom on my own. Angela hung over the crib, her hand on the baby’s damp brow.

  I placed my hand on Angela’s head in the same way she touched the baby’s, and I told her I was sorry. Foolish words, but I couldn’t come up with something more meaningful.

  “I will miss her too much,” she said to the baby, her English only slightly broken in comparison to her heart.

  “Do you want me to baptize her?”

  She stared at me for a long time, perhaps deciding what sway a tall woman priest, not of her faith, would have with her God, but then finally nodded.

  “What’s the child’s name?” I opened the Book of Common Prayer to the baptismal prayers.

  “Maria Estrella.”

  The baby was gasping and gurgling now. I decided this was an emergency baptism—one without frills. “Maria Estrella, I do hereby baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” I said as I sprinkled her small, hot forehead with holy water I had carried in a vial in my pocket.

  Afterward, I led Angela and the woman who had greeted me in saying the Lord’s Prayer. And then I ended the brief ceremony with,

  “Maria Estrella, you are now sealed by the Holy Spirit in baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the two women said in unison.

  “Thank you,” the older woman said solemnly. “Even though you are a woman, it still counts with God?”

  “Mama.” Angela’s voice was slightly reprimanding.

  “The baptism? Yes, of course. Especially since I am a woman. Christ protected and cared for women.”

  She nodded, seeming to contemplate that remark. A young, muscular Hispanic man entered the room and glanced at the baby. He put his arm around Angela and I thought perhaps he was the father.

  “My brother, Ortiz,” Angela said.

  I extended my hand. “What does the doctor say about the baby?”

  “There is no doctor.” His voice was harsh.

  “He stopped when we could no longer pay,” Angela said, without malice.

  “Did you ask for assistance?” I inquired, stunned at the matter-of-fact way they accepted the child would die for lack of funds.

  “We do not need help.” Her brother’s voice was final.

  “I know you don’t, but the baby—”

  “The baby is one of us.”

  “Angela, let me call a doctor friend and at least see if she can help.”

  Angela’s eyes darted to her brother. His look clearly said no.

  “It’s too late.” Her voice was devoid of emotion, as if the fatigue of caring for and about this sick child, and dealing with the apparent machismo of her brother, had distanced her from reality.

  I bowed my head and said a silent prayer different than the one that came from my lips. The prayer in my head was Let this man get out of the way. I said out loud, “Heavenly Father, we thank you for the life of this child, Maria Estrella, entrusted to the care of her uncle Ortiz and her dear mother, Angela. Help Ortiz and Angela love and nurture Maria Estrella that she may grow up and do all that is intended for her before reaching your eternal kingdom. Help Ortiz find in his generous heart the ability to save her, for the sake of your dear son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  Ortiz had tears of frustration in his eyes as he whirled and left the room.

  I reached for my cell phone in the pocket bearing the holy water, thinking both had their place, and called Madeleine Montgomery, a pediatrician I had known for years—our friendship born at the bedside of Madeleine’s dying mother.

  Angela bundled the baby girl up, and she and her mother got into my car. As I drove them to the hospital, the baby made distressing sounds that forced me to wonder if we would get her there alive or if I would merely be delivering her small dead body.

  “Do you drive children to the hospital as part of your work?”

  Angela’s mother asked, seeming to want to drown out the choking sounds we were incapable of treating.

  “I do whatever is needed,” I said, picking up speed and swerving in and out of traffic.

  “Then you are a saint,” she said in a matter-of-fact way.

  “That I’m definitely not.”

  “My grandmother always said the saint is the one who looks most like God. Tonight, for me, that is you.”

  Tears gathered in my eyes and I prayed, God, please save this little girl.

  We pulled under the mass
ive hospital ER portico and rushed inside with the baby, who was whisked out of our arms and into those of a waiting nurse, the kind of treatment no one gets unless they have a friend at the factory.

  Mother and child now having been handed off to someone who might help, I headed back to the parking lot alone and confused.

  After all these years, I was still troubled by moral issues of faith, and today had been full of them—Dennis’s remaining on the sidelines choosing the tenets of his faith over the needs of a poor family to feel their baby was safely baptized, the baby’s family letting male pride stop them from getting help for their dying child, and me choosing to baptize the baby first rather than get her immediately to the hospital—soul-saving taking precedence over life-saving. I questioned my own belief system that put covenants over common sense, and that questioning made my heart heavy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I was walking across the commons early Thursday morning when Harold Hightower intercepted me. From the way he glanced left and right and tried lamely at small talk, I could tell this wasn’t a casual conversation, but one he’d been waiting to have and had now found an opportune time. He inquired about my health since I’d fainted in his office and tried to blend in remarks about the stress of working for a seminary.

  “Are you trying to get to something, Harold?” I invoked a familiar tone I rarely took with him unless I no longer cared about the consequences.

  “Two things, actually. One, we are putting together succession plans for me—”

  “Why?”

  “It’s time.” His tone sounded as if someone other than he held the stopwatch. “I’ve contributed a great deal but I have other things I want to do. You were mentioned, on a very long list, I might add, as leadership material. If you care about that sort of thing, now would be the time to be particularly careful in your associations. The conference, for example—which I hear went well—”

  “It did, if ancient sex turns you on.”

  “Speaking of which, spending the evening with a known…lesbian, even when traveling, doesn’t go unnoticed.” He’d lowered his voice and glanced furtively as he spoke.