Authors: Lynn Austin
“Um . . . Thomas O’Duggan. I’m up from the city for the week.”
“Nice to meet you. What kind of work do you do there?”
“I . . . I’m a priest . . . a Catholic priest.” Patrick’s answer was barely audible.
“You’re here on vacation, then? The fishing sure is great in this river, isn’t it?”
“I . . . uh . . . I haven’t caught any fish yet,” he said with a nervous laugh.
“I’ll give you a couple of mine if you want. I caught my limit already. My wife doesn’t even like fish.” He rambled on and on about nothing and never seemed to notice that Patrick’s answers were short and clipped. “Well, I guess I’ll be going,” Alan said at last. “Come on down to my boat and help yourself to some fish.”
“Sure . . . thanks.”
“And if you don’t mind, I’ll just tie Dad’s boat behind mine and take it home.”
“That’s fine.” I heard them tromp down the stairs, then a few minutes later I heard the door creak open again as Patrick returned. I didn’t come out of the wood pile until Patrick said, “He’s gone.”
I limped from my hiding place, brushing sawdust and bark from my clothes, my leg numb and tingling. Patrick stood in the open doorway with his back to me. When he finally turned around his face was white, his eyes wild with horror. I knew before he even said a word that he would never hold me in his arms again.
“What have I done?” he whispered. “Dear God . . . Emma . . .
what have I done
!” It was a cry of utter anguish.
“It’s all right, Patrick. We-”
“No! It’s not all right! It will never be all right! Oh, God . . . Oh, god . . . what have I
done!
” He staggered out the door toward the privy, but he didn’t make it. He dropped to his knees along the path and was sick.
I watched him through the window for a long time as he knelt there, retching. At last he struggled to his feet and came back inside. He couldn’t look at me, as if he no longer saw my face but his own sin and guilt and shame.
“Emma, I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry. . . .”
“I’m not.”
“Will you ever forgive me for this?”
“I don’t need to forgive you. That was the happiest night—”
“No . . . stop!” he moaned. “Don’t say it! I’m a priest! I broke all of my vows to God! How can I ever face Him? How can I ever partake of the body and blood of Christ again?”
“Patrick, listen. . . .”
“And if that wasn’t bad enough, I . . . I slept with a married woman! God help me, I took another man’s wife!”
“Were you lying to me when you said you loved me?”
“No . . . the Lord knows it’s the truth.”
“I went to you willingly, Patrick. You never promised me—”
“Oh, God have mercy on both of us! Don’t you realize what we’ve done? We’ve committed adultery!
Adultery
! All my life I’ve hated that word, and I’ve hated my father for committing it, and now I’ve done the very same thing! I even used my father’s name to cover my guilt. I told Metzger I was Thomas O’Duggan.” He hid his face in his hands.
I knew there was nothing more I could say. We stood in the silent cabin, and the sounds that drifted through the open door were no longer gentle, but harsh and mocking—the raucous cry of a crow, the grating of locust wings, the scrape of a tree branch against the roof.
“You’ll have to row me back to shore,” I said quietly. “Alan took the boat.”
“I’ll never forgive myself for this,” he murmured. “Never.”
“Will you forgive me for wanting you?”
He stumbled from the cabin without answering. I let him go. A long time passed as I sat on the bed, unmoving. I could understand Patrick’s guilt, but I didn’t feel any of it, not even when I thought of Karl. Patrick hadn’t stolen a thing from Karl, because Karl had never allowed me into his heart. Nor had he given me any part of himself. Patrick knew my heart more intimately in one day than Karl had in almost five years.
When Patrick finally returned, I was surprised to see that it was evening. I felt empty inside but not hungry, even though I had eaten nothing all day.
“I’ll row you to shore now,” he said. His red-rimmed eyes were hollow against his pale face. He still wouldn’t look at me, nor did he lift his gaze from the floor of the boat as he rowed away from the island. We sat facing each other, but neither of us said a word.
The oars swished in rhythm as he pulled them through the dark water. They seemed to ask,
Why? . . . Why? . . . Why?
There was no answer. He rowed faster and faster, as if I would burn a hole through the bottom of the boat if he didn’t put me on shore quickly. As soon as I felt the hull scrape the gravel of the riverbank, I stepped out and waded onto dry land.
“Emma . . .”
I heard Patrick calling me, but I didn’t reply. I kept walking.
“Emma . . . I’m sorry. . . .”
I didn’t look back.
THIRTY
When Karl returned home from his trip, I could scarcely tolerate his embrace. I didn’t want his nearness to erase the memory of Patrick’s. My skin crawled every time Karl touched me or pressed his lips to mine. The next few nights I lied, saying I was indisposed, so that he would stay away from my bedroom.
I hated my life. The only escape from an eternity with Karl, an eternity without Patrick, was death. When the September rains ended the drought, I comforted myself with the thought that once the river rose to its normal level, I would leap from the railroad bridge and die. But before I had a chance to carry out my plan, I discovered that I was pregnant.
I knew the child was Patrick’s. And I knew I would protect that new life with every ounce of strength I had. I could tolerate a lifetime with Karl if I could hold Patrick’s baby in my arms. But I had failed to consider Karl’s need for control. A child wasn’t in his plans.
The morning after his abortion attempt failed, Karl drove me home from my sister Sophie’s house in icy silence. I wouldn’t look at him. I didn’t want him to see that I was terrified of him and would run from him again the first chance I got. I had to make him believe that I had forgiven him.
Karl grasped my elbow in his iron grip as he walked me from the car to our front parlor. “Sit down, Emma,” he said as he led me to the sofa. He hovered over me, his dark eyes alive with rage like two smoldering coals.
“I know that the child you’re carrying isn’t mine.”
“Wh . . . what are you talking about? Of course the baby is yours.”
“
Liar!
” He struck me across the face so hard that my head hit the back of the couch.
In my terror, the only thing I could think to do was to pacify him. “Please, Karl . . . you have to believe me. The baby—”
“
Don’t
lie to me again!” He poised his clenched fist in front of my face. His entire body quivered with restrained rage. “I haven’t been preventing conception,
Emma. I am
unable
to father a child. Now, you
will
tell me who the father is.”
I believe he might have tried to beat the truth from me if he hadn’t heard a knock at our back door. We both knew that it was our Irish housekeeper, Katie. As quickly as he’d lost it, Karl regained control. “You’re a mess!” he said. “Go upstairs and clean yourself up before she sees you.”
I staggered up the steps to my bedroom and locked both doors. I wanted to curl up in a corner of my closet and weep in terror, but there was no time. Karl would probably go downtown to open the pharmacy at nine o’clock and let his employees inside, then return home to finish with me. The next train to the city left at 9:10 this morning. I had to be on it. I dumped my knitting out of a carpetbag and began stuffing it with clothes and toiletries. There was no time to change into another dress. I peeled off my ruined hose and pulled on ankle socks and an old pair of shoes. I quickly counted the money in my purse, then added the few dollars I’d hidden in my jewelry box. If I had pawned all the necklaces and rings Karl had given me, they would have been worth a tidy sum, but I slammed the lid shut again, refusing the temptation to steal from him.
My bedroom overlooked the street in front of the house. I watched through the curtain until I saw Karl drive away. I was about to unlock my door when Katie knocked on it, startling me.
“I brought you some tea, Miss Emma,” she called from the other side. “Mr. Bauer said you weren’t feeling well. . . .” I jerked open the door. Katie saw my wild eyes and disheveled hair and backed up a step. “Oh, Miss Emma!”
“Please help me, Katie. Karl is coming back in a few minutes, isn’t he?”
“Y . . . yes, he said he was going to open the store and fetch some medicine for you. He asked me to watch over you until he got back.”
“There’s no time to explain, but I need to get out of Bremenville before he comes back.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. I’ll disappear in the city somewhere.”
“My brother Ian lives there. You can tell him I sent you and that you need a job and a place to stay.” She set down the tea tray and scribbled his address on a scrap of paper. I saw the words
St. Michael’s Parish
—Patrick’s parish—and felt rescued already. I grabbed an old coat from the closet and hugged Katie good-bye. I didn’t feel safe until the train had chugged out of town and was steaming away from Bremenville at full speed.
On the long train ride to the city I made plans. I would find Patrick and tell him about our baby. I needed his help. I had no place to live, no money, no job skills, and a baby coming in seven months. Patrick was unhappy with the priesthood and had probably resigned already by now. I remembered how he’d said he would never be able to partake of the body and blood of Christ again. We would run away together as we’d planned to do a long time ago. When my divorce from Karl was final, Patrick and I would be married.
My biggest fear was that Karl would outrace the train in his car and would be waiting on the platform for me when I arrived. I tied a kerchief over my hair and offered to help a harried mother in the third-class coach with her brood of children. Clutching one child by the hand and another one in my arms, I hid in the crush of passengers as we disembarked. I saw no sign of Karl. When I was sure the coast was clear, I hired a cab to take me to St. Michael’s church. The new priest could probably tell me where Patrick had gone after he had resigned.
The taxi dropped me off in front of the gray stone building. I gave the driver the last of my dollar bills. I had only a handful of coins left to my name. I climbed the church steps on shaking legs, tying the kerchief over my head again, as I’d seen Catholic women do. I had never walked through the doors of a Catholic church before.
Inside, the sanctuary was shadowy and serene. I slipped into a pew and allowed the peaceful atmosphere to calm me. There was a mass in progress, and the sound of somber chanting echoed off the wood-panelled walls like a voice from heaven. The priest wore a long black robe with purple vestments and stood with his back to the church, reciting the mass in Latin. Even though I sat in the last row, I knew by the broad sweep of his back and shoulders and the way his golden hair glinted in the candlelight that it was Patrick.
When he turned, holding a chalice in his hands, I saw a look of quiet reverence on his face. I heard the brokenness and humility in his voice, even though I couldn’t understand his words. Papa’s voice had sounded the same way after the war, after Eva’s death, after he had finally accepted all that the hand of God had dealt him. Patrick lifted the bread, the body of Christ, as an offering to God. He had told me he would never be able to partake of it again, but I watched him do it. Somehow, Patrick had made peace with God.
I had heard Papa recite the communion service hundreds of times, and I knew by heart the words Patrick was chanting in Latin:
Take, eat; this is my body, broken for you . . . This is my blood, which is shed for the complete for giveness of all your sins
. . . .
I remembered the look of shame and horror on Patrick’s face when he’d realized his sin, and I knew I couldn’t take his peace away from him a second time. I loved him too much. As the handful of congregants filed forward to receive the symbol of Christ’s sacrifice from Patrick’s hand, I quietly left the church. Patrick would never know that he’d fathered a child.
I stood outside on the steps of St. Michael’s, wondering what to do next. If I was going to begin my life over again without him, I would have to find a way to support our baby on my own. As people began to emerge through the church’s doors after mass, I remembered the scrap of paper Katie had given me. I pulled her brother’s name and address from my pocket and showed it to an old woman. “Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to King Street?”
“Why, that’s King Street right there, at that intersection.” I found the store around the corner, about a half a block down.
That’s how I met Booty Higgins, Katie’s brother. I walked into his dusty, jumbled store for the first time that day, and he greeted me with a warm smile. “Afternoon, ma’am. May I help you?” All of a sudden the shock of seeing Patrick as a priest for the first time hit me like a tidal wave. I broke down in tears. “Hey, now . . . it surely can’t be as bad as all that, can it?” Booty laid his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and patted my back awkwardly. I struggled to pull myself together.
“I’m sorry . . . .”
“That’s okay, ma’am. I’m sure there’s a good reason for . . .”
I thrust the piece of paper Katie had given me into his hands. “I’m looking for Ian Higgins,” I said.
“You’ve found him. That’s me.”
“I’m a friend of your sister Katie. She said you could help me.” He stared from the paper to me and back again, blinking in confusion. “I came down on the train from Bremenville this morning. I need a place to stay.”
“Well, I . . . I don’t know what to say. . . .”
“Please, Mr. Higgins.”
He smiled kindly. “Call me Booty. Everybody does. And your name is . . .”
“Emma. Emma Bauer.”
I saw by the change in his expression that he recognized the name of his sister’s employer. “Well, Mrs. Bauer, it so happens that I do know of a little place where you can stay. Why don’t you . . . uh . . . go on out front there and wait for me while I get my wife to mind the store for a while. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He led me toward the door as he spoke and held it open
for me. I watched through the dusty window as he disappeared into his apartment behind the store. A moment later he hurried outside to join me, lighting another cigarette.