by Robert Price
Chapter Twelve
Father Hilliard poked his bald head into the small reception room where Mrs. Hubbard, shawl draped over her shoulders, sat alone, meditatively sipping a glass of whiskey. She seemed lost in thought, watching the cackling fire in the fireplace. Father Hilliard approached slowly, allowing his old eyes time to adjust to the dimly lit room. He peered down at her frail form in the chair. He had known her since first assuming duties at the church over fifty years ago.
“Here you are,” he said, gently touching her shoulder.
Glancing up into his soft face, she, too, thought of their decades-long association. “Please, Father Hilliard, join me.” She offered her hand, which he took. “Thank you, Father, you did wonderfully today.”
“How are you holding up?”
Her fingers were thinner and colder than he remembered. Her eyes looked foggy. The deep blue pools he had once longed for were now filled with grayness and uncertainty. He had carried this woman through many hardships, guided her through the death of parents, the death of a husband, the death of a brother and sister and now this, the death of her son.
The first time she had reached out to him was shortly after his arrival to his new congregation in Newbury. He had responded to her with a sympathetic ear. Her husband was serving in Korea. And although she prayed for her husband’s well being, she felt terribly hopeless and full of worry. She had witnessed the effects a war can have on a person. Her own father had returned from World War II a changed man. Would this war do the same to her husband? Would Edward return the same as the man that left? Would war make him calmer, or even more prone to late night explosions of anger?
Father Hilliard had listened to her concerns. And when she broke down and cried he put an arm around her as any priest might. As he did, he felt the softness of her sweater and smelled the sweetness of her perfume, so he pulled her tighter against him.
She had said, “No.” But he persisted.
She tried to push him off. But he forced himself upon her.
Overpowering her, Father Hilliard pinned her to the couch, pushed up her skirt and told her she simply longed for her husband and that he could help. She cried as he climbed on top of her.
“I guess I’m holding up,” Mrs. Hubbard said, looking into the fire and then at Tom’s photo on the mantel. “Would you sit with me, Father Hilliard?”
He patted her hand in a show of support and then sat in a chair next to the couch.
The next time he raped her, she was still without child. That was ten years later, on a late Saturday afternoon.
She was alone in the function hall in the basement of the church. He was uncertain as to why she was there alone, but he remembered that she had been cleaning the large silver coffeemaker. He slid up behind her and massaged her neck. Then he slowly began to kiss behind her ear. She struggled to break free, but once again he persisted. As he subdued her, he told her he knew she longed for him. And that through him God could do what her husband couldn’t. When she finally stopped struggling, he pushed her back onto one of cold metal tables, took off her slacks and pushed himself deep inside.
“We’ve been through a lot together, you and I,” Father Hilliard reflected, following Mrs. Hubbard’s gaze to the photo of Tom.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hubbard spoke as if from a distant memory. “You know, he saw you once.” She took a sip of whiskey. “In the vestry. He was just a little boy.”
“So long ago … I thought that was all behind us now.”
“But I never told him what really happened. Even when he was older.” Mrs. Hubbard continued. “Even when he asked me about it. He wanted to know why I had cried and if it hurt. I told him it was nothing. That Mommy had a sore back and Father Hilliard was only helping her to straighten it. I don’t know if he believed me or not, but he never asked about it again.” She bit on the corner of her lip. “What if this is the Lord’s way? What if what happened between us, and now Tom’s death, is the Lord’s way of—”
Father Hilliard interrupted, “Casey, he was just a boy. I’m sure he believed you.”
He paused and asked God for guidance before he spoke again. “Why punish yourself for the past? The Lord is powerful, yes, but forgiving. Our Lord, a loving God, didn’t take Tom from you. He called upon Tom for a higher service—a position which Tom was most worthy to accept.”
He reached over and placed a hand upon her knee. “Casey, Tom is now in the service of the Lord.”
“I know, Father,” she said, glancing toward the fire again. “When Tom was here he used to light fires in these fireplaces. There hasn’t been a fire in this house in years.”
