Pulling Home (24 page)

The eyes never lie.”

“Doris—”

“Hush, Corrine.” She clasped Audra’s hand and squeezed hard, settling back in

the rocker with a creak. “I won’t tell.” She rocked back and forth, a tiny smile cracking her lips. “I never tell secrets, you know that.”

***

When Bartholomew Benedict stepped on the altar of St. Peter’s church to perform

10 o’clock Mass as he’d done for twenty-one years, the congregation noticed two things.

The incense which he’d insisted upon despite complaints from asthmatics and allergy sufferers, was absent. That, of course, created a mix of delight and concern among those in attendance. Had the priest simply forgotten? If so, why? He was too young for dementia or Alzheimer’s. Wasn’t he? And yet, perhaps Donald Tindell’s threat to write the bishop about the right of a parishioner to breathe clean air had come to pass and this was the result. Still. The young altar boy responsible for disbursing the incense buried his hands so tightly against his thin middle, the parish worried he’d perform an involuntary Heimlich.

The absence of incense was not as startling as the priest’s vestments. For a man of God who had taken vows of poverty and humility, Bartholomew Benedict loved color, cut, and cloth of varying design that made a statement. Once he’d even appeared in
Catholic Digest
as one of the clergy’s best-dressed men. But this morning, Father Benedict wore a simple garb of coarse cotton belted with tapestry roping. It was an outfit befitting a monk, not the pastor of St. Peter’s parish.

“What’s gotten into him?” Tilly asked, leaning over so she could whisper in

Alice’s ear. “He’s usually primping like a peacock on a festival lawn and now he’s looking like a drab old crow in a chicken coop.”

Alice shrugged and whispered back, “Maybe he’s getting over the flu.”

“He needs to get over that fat head he’s been carrying around for too many years.”

“Shhhh.” Marion cast a
no talking in Church
look at her.

Tilly mumbled under her breath and scratched her pointy chin. “Something’s not

right.”

She finished her words as Mabel Parker, the church organist for the past twenty-one years, stroked the last notes of
Faith of Our Fathers
. The next several minutes were ritual Catholic routine—up, down, sit, up, down, sit. When the calisthenics ended, Father Benedict stood before the pulpit and gazed out at his congregation.

“He looks pasty,” Alice whispered.

“Did you hear his voice quiver when he said the
Glory Be
?” Tilly asked.

“Shhh.” This from Marion again.

Then the sermon began and the congregation forgot their pastor’s appearance and

the incense-free church. Their attention fell on his words as they hovered, swooped and pierced each soul with a vibrancy they’d not heard before.

“We’re all familiar with phrases such as ‘Judge not lest ye be judged’ and ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ His cloaked arms swept the congregation as he stepped from his pulpit and approached them. “But what does that truly mean? We’ve heard these phrases all our lives, but do we live them or are they meant for someone else?” His deep voice rose with the conviction reminiscent of a newly-ordained priest.

“Do we choose those to be judged or those who may cast a stone? And if we do, are we not committing a sin far greater than the sinner? Are we not by doing so, the greater sinners?” His dark eyes scanned the pews. “Many of you know a member of our community has been the subject of recent tabloid fodder with accusations damaging not only her reputation, but that of an innocent child, and the good standing of her husband’s family. This same woman has suffered banishment from our community in the form of rejections and judgment for years. Who are we to behave in such a manner?” he bellowed, his pale face bursting into patches of red. “What gives us the right to destroy another with petty musings and blasphemy? Look around, each of you. What have you done to help her? If the answer is nothing, you are as guilty as the person casting the stone.” He bowed his head and clasped his hands to his chest.

Tilly nudged Alice. “He’s talking about
her
.”

Alice nodded. “Audra,” she whispered, clutching her rosary beads.

Father Benedict raised his head and swept his arms toward the crowd. “There is a way to correct these sins,” he said in a voice which didn’t quite reach the microphone.

“There is a way to repent. Stop the damage now, as you would a bleeding wound. No more gossip. No more insinuations or accusations. No speaking to newspapers or radio talk show hosts or any other individuals bent on damage and destruction. It’s time to rebuild our faith, our spirit, our
souls
. It’s time to show one damaged woman we are indeed Christians, with hearts and consciences who care for our fellow sister. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he said, raising his hand in the sign of the cross.

“Amen.”

Tilly shook her head and pulled a church envelope from her purse. “I never

thought I’d see the day Father Benedict talked about repentance as though he’s the sinner.”

“Shhh.”

“Oh, Marion, shhhh yourself. Is he crying? I think he is,” Tilly said, squinting.

Alice sat very still, staring at the gold chalice on the altar and wondering if God had punished her for judging the Valentines, wondering also, if her soul were too charred to forgive and be forgiven.

Chapter 27

“Was he a good husband?”—Jack Wheyton

Until ten minutes ago, he hadn’t obsessed about Audra in four whole hours. That

was a first. Of course, there’d been an occasional pinch of lust but he’d squelched it before it consumed him. The only time he didn’t think about her was when he was in surgery but he wasn’t Superman, so he couldn’t spend his life in the operating room.

“Jack. Baby, come on. Relax.”

Damn.
Leslie and her quick hands and quicker tongue were after him again. What used to be exciting and adventurous had become an obligatory struggle which he could master only if he imagined Audra on top of him. Or under him. It wasn’t as if Leslie were a moose. But she wasn’t Audra. What the hell was wrong with him? Lusting after a woman who had recently proven once again she was a liar.

“I know what you need,” Leslie purred in his ear as she trailed her fingers down his belly. “A little massage, front and back. How’s that sound?”

Like work.
“Great.”

“I just bought some new oils. Jasmine, bayberry.” The stroking inched toward his crotch. “And cinnamon-clove. Your personal favorite.”

Actually, it was Leslie’s personal favorite. She liked to spread it on her breasts and rub herself against him while she nipped his neck and told him he tasted just like pumpkin pie. When had the sex become a series of acrobatics which required such effort to get through the act? It wasn’t that way with Audra. It had never been that way with her.

Whap.
Leslie threw a pillow at his head and sat up. “I could get more response from a cadaver right now than what I’m getting from you.”

“Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

Her dark eyes narrowed. “You used to be able to do three surgeries back to back, pleasure me until my head exploded and still wake up in the middle of the night, wanting it again.”

What could he tell her? Even cotton candy gets too sweet after a while? That

wouldn’t be true. The sex was great, and would still be great if he could just get that damn woman out of his head.

Leslie tossed a chunk of hair behind her ear and waited. “Say something, damn

you.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Tell me I’ve gotten flabby, or you don’t like the massage oils, or I talk too much. Anything. Just say anything.”

He reached up and stroked her arm. “It’s not you, Leslie. It’s me.” That much was true. “I’m having a rough time right now. I need to get a few things straight, that’s all.”

She held out her left hand. “You gave me a ring that should mean you want to be

with me for the rest of your life.” Her eyes glistened with fresh tears. “All you’ve done since you put this on my finger is avoid me. What’s going on?”

“Leslie—”

“Is it someone else?”

Yes! Her name is Audra and she’s haunted me since the first time I laid eyes on
her. She’s like a fever that won’t let go and I don’t know what to do.
“There’s no one else,” he said. If he mouthed the words long enough maybe they’d come true.

Leslie’s full lips pulled into a sad, soft smile. “She’s yours, isn’t she?”

“What?” Panic stole through him in tiny jolts but he forced himself to remain

calm.

“Kara. The tabloids were right. She’s yours.”

This time it wasn’t even a question, but a mere acknowledgement. “Leslie, it’s

more complicated—”

“Don’t! I just want the truth, Jack. Can you at least give me that?”

He owed her that much. He’d asked her to be his wife though a psychologist

might say it was an attempt to barricade his true feelings with a diamond wall. Well, it hadn’t worked, had it? “She’s mine.”

“God.” She drew in three sharp breaths and let out a garbled cry.

“I’m sorry.” He tried to touch her but she scooted out of reach.

“She stole Christian from me but she was already pregnant with your child?”

“I never knew.” At least that was the truth.

“What about Christian?”

When he didn’t answer, she bit her lower lip and pressed her fingers to her

temples. “He knew, didn’t he?” she whispered. “That’s why she never came back, isn’t it? She couldn’t face you.”

“Maybe.”

“You never even wanted a child.”

“That seems a moot point now, doesn’t it?”

“You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?”

“No. This has got to stay between us. You understand that, don’t you, Leslie?”

She sniffed and her smile brightened. “Of course, I do. I understand perfectly.”

***

News of Father Benedict’s sermon traveled up and down Main Street and reached

Audra by way of Doris, whose cleaning lady had attended Sunday Mass. The cleaning lady said Father Benedict had been possessed of the Holy Spirit and when he spoke his simple white vestments actually glowed. Some claimed his voice transformed into a power befitting the Holy Father. Others said he appeared more humble than Mary Magdalene. And still others compared him to St. Peter. No matter the presentation, the most shocking of all was the subject matter. Oh, the priest might not have spoken the name but every person in those pews knew he was talking about Audra Valentine, knew too Father Benedict had taken a stand to protect her from the newspaper and television reports, and he expected them to do the same.

The whole town enveloped Audra in a cocoon of silence. When
The Sentinel

contacted the Mayor’s office for a statement, he replied,
no comment
. When Cindy Kay of WXBG stuck a microphone in the postmaster’s face, he puffed out his chest and sang The National Anthem. On and on it went, from the cashier at Kroger’s to the accountant at H&R block, to the mailman delivering across town. As the questions rolled in, the reply remained the same.

Who is the real father of Audra Valentine Wheyton’s child? No comment.

Why do you think Audra Valentine Wheyton wanted to keep her identity a secret?

No comment.

Do you think Jack and Audra were having an affair all these years? No comment
Do you think Audra and Peter Andellieu are more than friends? No comment.

Audra had no idea why a priest who had spent years perfecting his superiority

would suddenly cast aside such aspirations and embrace someone who had been labeled
whore
and
evil
. It made no sense.

Unless he wanted cleansing for the sin of lusting after Corrine Valentine. Audra hadn’t seen Father Benedict since his confession and had no desire to see him now, though she was grateful for his intervention. The man’s words clamped the mouths of the whole town, a sign of just how powerful religion could be.

She half expected a similar sermon from Pastor Richot, but it didn’t happen.

Surprising, considering he was clearly the town favorite. Perhaps he didn’t believe in preaching for modern day causes. Since he’d given her tidbits about her real father, she’d been scouring the streets, pumping Doris for married men with families her mother might have known. Doris tried to come up with a few names but ended up with nothing, which left Audra praying Kara’s illness was healed.

Jack said little about Kara’s condition letting Bernie handle most of the visits, which had dwindled to one every other week. Since Jack discovered he was Kara’s real father, he’d only visited once and that was a brief encounter in which he’d flopped on his words and tried unsuccessfully to teach Kara to throw a Frisbee. If Kara were in the hospital hooked to tubes and monitors he’d have no problem opening up to her, but a flesh and blood, almost healthy child, now that seemed to make Jack very uncomfortable.

It was late afternoon and Alice and Kara had coerced Joe into going to the market with them to buy Cortland apples for pie. Fall hugged the trees, shifting colors from green to yellow and orange. Kara would start school in two weeks, either here or on the west coast. Peter called every night and often during the day, patient yet subtly persistent in his desire to have them back in San Diego.
Christian would want it this way,
he said.

Would you, Christian?
The sudden need to escape the Wheyton household and the memories haunting her in Jack’s bedroom smothered her. She snatched the car keys and headed for the outskirts of town, up the winding hill toward St. Peter’s cemetery. When her mother first died, Mrs. Mertigan drove Grandma Lenore here every Sunday to water the geraniums and pray the Our Father. Most times, Grandma Lenore dragged Audra too.

Corrine’s grave was on the far side of the cemetery, a tiny plot with a tinier headstone which read
Beloved Daughter, Loving Mother Who Left This World Too Soon
.

Once Grandma Lenore died, Audra stopped coming to the cemetery, preferring to