An Unholy Mission (17 page)

“Sure.”

“But don’t tell the others, okay?”

“Not if you don’t want me to,” said Olympia.

 Jenny got out of the car and was fumbling in her pocket for her cigarettes. The sound and smell of the inner city made Olympia sharply aware of the contrast between her own life of middle class privilege and the lives of the women Jenny was describing to her.

Jenny was standing well back from Olympia’s open van window, dragging deeply on her cigarette. “Not yet. Oh, and one other thing. Keep an eye on Luther.”

Olympia cocked her head at Jenny. “Why so?”

Jenny held the cigarette behind her back and leaned into the window to speak. “Olympia, I’ve seen and done things you’ve never even heard of. I’ve met and fought and slept with some of the baddest and meanest scumbags that are out there, and I know a two-faced son of a bitch when I see one. He’s trouble, Olympia, and on top of that I think he’s nuts. Be careful.”

It was not the time or place to confide in Jenny what she already knew, but this helped to confirm her suspicions.  Olympia said only, “Thanks for the heads up, Jenny. I can’t say he’s my favorite boy on the playground either.” In response to Jenny’s questioning look she added, “I’ll take your advice.”

“Code blue 310 Wyman, code blue 310 Wyman.” The alert crackled over the hospital loudspeakers, and the emergency team dropped everything and raced against time toward the room where a patient lay in cardiac arrest.

Luther Stuart dropped his empty cup in the wastebasket by the door. Even though it was way past supper time, he wasn’t very hungry these days, just perpetually tired. He checked the time. There was one more thing left to do before he left the hospital for the day. Using the back staircases and the less travelled corridors, he made his way to the old part of the building and slipped his handwritten letter of resignation from the chaplaincy program under Sister Patrick’s door. The signal was clear. It was time to begin.

Olympia and Frederick pulled on their cold weather jackets and went out the kitchen door into the back yard for a breath of fresh air. Each was carrying a cup of after-dinner coffee as much to warm their hands as to drink. The cats, Thunderfoot and rickety old Whitefoot, stayed behind, watching them through the kitchen window.

Olympia made a great show of sniffing the cold, sharp air. “I swear I can smell snow, Frederick. It’s certainly cold enough. I haven’t heard anything about a storm, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we got a dusting.” 

“You do love a good snow storm, don’t you, Olympia? I would have thought last year’s blizzard would have been enough to satisfy you for a while, although I do admit I’m sorry I missed it. It didn’t stop me from worrying about you from afar, and with good cause, I might add. Speaking about worrying, what’s going on with that Luther character you and Jim seemed to be so concerned about?”

Olympia shivered and took a sip of her coffee. “The thot plickens, as they say.”

“Plickens? What kind of an American verb is that?”

“It’s a spoonerism, Frederick. I really mean the plot thickens. I switched the first letters; I was making a little joke.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Then it wouldn’t have been a joke.”

“It’s still not a joke. A proper joke has a beginning and …”

“Arghh!” yelled Olympia. “Do you want to know about Luther or not?”

“Of course I do. It’s just that when you …”

“Frederick!”

“Yes?”

“Shut up, Darling.”

“Oh. All right then.”

“Let’s go back in, I’m getting cold. I’ll tell you the latest Luther development after I feed the cats, and on another subject entirely, we need to get onto cleaning out that other room for Jim. I think he’s going to be with us over the holidays.”

“I’m pleased about that,” said Frederick.

When the two were seated by the fire, Frederick picked up their earlier conversation.

“Did Sister Patrick tell you what happened after she talked to Luther?” He was idly scratching the cat sitting on the floor by his feet. “Before you answer that, I don’t think this old girl feels very well.”

Olympia smiled a sad smile in the direction of the ancient animal. “She’s older than dirt, Frederick. I’ve been lucky to have her this long. I suppose one day she’ll go off to that great cat box in the sky. I just don’t like to think about it. Was she acting sick when you came home from the bookstore today?”

“Not really, but she did seem to be moving even more slowly than usual, and she wasn’t really interested in her supper tonight.”

“She’s an old lady, and she doesn’t like the cold. We just need to keep an eye on her. I think she still has some good time left, at least I hope so. We’ve been through a lot together.”

As if on cue, Whitefoot got to her feet and wobbled over to Olympia, who leaned over and gently gathered her onto her lap.

“I don’t know how to begin to describe it, Frederick. I went in early and told Sister Patrick what Nancy Farwell said about Luther, only to find out that Nancy died the night before. I didn’t get the details, but I guess she missed getting her liver transplant by hours. What a shame.”

Olympia sat with her cooling coffee and her cat, staring into the fire and sniffing back the tears. “Do you have a handkerchief? I don’t want to disturb the cat.”

Without a word Frederick reached into his pocket and pulled out the extra clean, folded handkerchief he always carried with him and handed it over.

When she had collected herself, Olympia went on to describe the rest of her rollercoaster day, ending with Jenny’s request for help with her sermon and subsequent warning to be on guard around Luther. Almost as an afterthought she added the grisly detail of the dead rat behind her car.

“Do you think you should talk to Sister Patrick again?” asked Frederick.

Olympia shook her head. “She’s in charge of what happens next. When we talked this morning, she told me she didn’t want to implicate me, but if she had to, then she would. I don’t even know whether she’s spoken to Luther yet. Nancy Farwell’s death is going to change everything.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Frederick.

“The person who described Luther’s inappropriate behavior is dead, and there is no way of proving anything I said. If Sister Patrick confronts Luther and quotes me, it’s going to make him madder than hell.”

“I see what you mean,” said Frederick. “That does rather queer the pitch, doesn’t it?”

“If by that you mean throw a monkey wrench into the middle of things, in a word, yes. But enough of that.  Whatever is going to happen on the hospital front will take place tomorrow, and there’s nothing more I can do now.” Olympia pocketed the handkerchief and set down her coffee cup with a sharp clink to emphasize the point.  “So tell me about your day at Buttonwood Books. Any drama there beyond cranky kids and tired moms?  And how’s the truck running, and have you had any word on the progress of your green card?”

Just as he was about to respond to the interrogative barrage, the phone rang.  Frederick reached for it, greeted the caller and handed the receiver to Olympia. “It’s “Sister Patrick.

“I’ll take it in the bedroom, Frederick. Will you ask her to hold?”

In Olympia’s absence Frederick busied himself in the cluttered, comfortable kitchen. The ever-persistent cats circled around his feet. He noted there was still half a serving of cat food on the floor, but the soft-hearted Englishman was an easy mark and gave them each a couple of kitty treats before rinsing and stacking the dishes in the dishwasher. Once the machine was loaded, he smacked the start button with a flourish and watched a grim-faced Olympia come into to the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?”

“Patrick talked to Luther this morning. He denied everything, and then he told her about the cancer and that he was not going to undergo any medical treatment for the illness. Then this afternoon she found his letter of resignation from the program tucked under her office door.” Olympia rubbed at her forehead in disbelief. “I don’t believe this, but she’s asked me to come in early again tomorrow morning.”

“Do you think you should call Jim?”

“Let me talk to Sister Patrick first and see what she has to say. She’s nobody’s fool, and she’s the boss.”

Timothea Jones came in through the front door of her condo, dropped her purse and keys on the coffee table and picked up the jangling phone before the answering machine caught it. It was set to pick up on the sixth ring because she wasn’t quick on her feet, and it took a while if she wasn’t right next to it.

“This is Timothea Jones.”

“Timothea? This is Luther Stuart. Am I calling at a bad time?”

Timothea made a quizzical face at the receiver and then replied in her measured cadence, “No, I just got in, but I can talk.”

“I understand you were the chaplain called in last night to minister to Nancy Farwell’s family after she passed.”

“That’s right, Luther.”

Luther hesitated. “I know this might sound odd, Timothea, but I was wondering if you knew what exactly happened to her? I visited her that morning, and it was clear that she was very ill, but I always believed she’d last long enough to get the transplant. So the news that she died came as a shock.”

Timothea cleared her throat, stalling for time and composing her response. “I didn’t ask for the details, Luther. My job was to comfort the family. All I know is that when I got there, her body was still in the bed and everybody was in the room with her. She was at peace, Luther. That’s all I can really say.”

And that’s all I’m going to say, she added silently. Sitting alone in her living room, Timothea set her face and body against any further dialogue with this man, even though he couldn’t see her.

“How was the family?” he persisted.

“How is any family when they lose a wife and mother? They were in shock and distraught.”

Why is this man so interested, and why didn’t he come to the meeting this afternoon? Timothea wondered. She was feeling annoyed and uncomfortable but tried to keep it out of her voice. “Luther, a family’s grief is a private affair. There really isn’t any more I can tell you.”

 And even if I could, I don’t think I want to.

Sixteen

December 3, 1861

Success—and then a bittersweet mystery. On Tuesday of this week, I received a letter from the editor of Godey’s Ladies Book saying she will publish my story in the June issue and will be sending me a bank draft in payment under separate cover.

Merry Christmas, CK Barrow, nee Leanna Faith Winslow!

I do confess that I was so consumed with actually completing the story and posting it that I gave no thought to what I might be paid should it be accepted. I have much to learn about this writing business. But there was far more to unfold on this auspicious day. Later in the day a second missive was delivered to my door, and it was not one that I was anticipating or expecting.

This envelope had no return address and contained only a draft for a sum of money folded into a single sheet of paper. At first I assumed it was payment for my story and upon inspection thought the amount was rather large for so short a story. But more curious were the words that accompanied it. There was nothing about my writing, only the chapter name and number of a Bible verse, “Isaiah 9:6. Once I looked it up, the mystery was solved. “
For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given.”

Tears flow … words fail,

LFW

For the second day in a row, a bleary-eyed Olympia was up, dressed in her chaplain clothes and creeping out of the house well before Frederick and the cats were out of bed. She stopped at the nearest drive-through for a mega-coffee and a breakfast sandwich without the sausage and munched and lurched her way through the very worst of Boston-bound commuter traffic. If there were no tie-ups, she’d have plenty of time to run to the ladies room and then into the hospital cafeteria and refill her coffee.

As she pulled into the dimly lit garage, she remembered the dead rat Jenny Abelard found the day before and made a point of double-checking the floor outside the driver’s side door before getting out. Olympia knew that city rats and mice had a communal life of their own beneath the city streets but preferred that it not intersect with hers. She opened the door, looked down and breathed a sigh of relief. No rats.

When she entered the supervisor’s office, Sister Patrick greeted Olympia by holding out the toffee tin and raising her own steaming cup of coffee; but once Olympia was seated, the nun set the coffee down on her desk and went over to lock the door.

Olympia said nothing, but the look on her face must have prompted the nun to say, “This needs to be a very private conversation, Olympia. I spoke with Luther yesterday morning, and he denied everything and then told me about his cancer. That afternoon I found his letter of resignation on the floor of my office.  He must have pushed it under the door while we were in our meeting.”

Olympia could feel her pulse thudding against her temples. “Did my name come into the conversation?”

Sister Patrick bit her lip and then nodded. “I had no choice. With Nancy Farwell dead, there was no way I could confirm anything with her, but I can’t let this kind of situation, real or imagined, go without investigation. Talk about a rock and a hard place.”

Olympia gripped her own coffee and wondered what in the world was coming next.

“How did he react?”

“Before I get to that, I need to tell you I talked with our mutual friend, Jim Sawicki, last night. We had dinner together.”

At the mention of his name, Olympia couldn’t help but smile. “I can’t believe you know each other.”

“It’s a small world, Olympia, especially the world of Boston-born Catholics who enter the church and stay close to home.”

“I suppose.” Olympia glanced towards the door. “What did he say about all of this? I haven’t talked to him for a couple of days.”

Sister Patrick looked down and began twisting her ring. “It should come as no surprise to you, Olympia, that we have a major ethical dilemma. Patient safety, confidentiality and possible sexual misconduct, all of it unsubstantiated. There’s a lot at stake here.”