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“Oh, Tom, that’s such wonderful news!”
Anna’s grin is wider than mine was when the Archbishop told me Saint Clare’s was going to get its Nashville Dominican. “I know you never thought it would happen,” I chuckle.
“I always knew it would happen eventually. I just never thought it’d happen this quickly.”
“Me neither, honestly,” I say. “I just knew come February, we’d be advertising in the Baltimore and D.C. Catholic papers for a Director of Religious Education. We’d receive resumes, and I’d have to look through each one, interview some, and have Helen run a thorough background check on the one I chose.”
That last was particularly important. I mean, I couldn’t risk hiring another DRE who turned out to be the psychotic daughter of a serial killer and shot Helen.
“Talking about the Dominican–what’s her name?” Anna asks.
“Sister Maria Angelica,” I say. “We should be receiving her dossier by email in a couple of weeks. But according to the Archbishop, her specialty is administration.”
“So she’ll be perfect for both the DRE and for getting the Saint Francis center up and running.”
“That was the Archbishop’s opinion exactly,” I say. “We do have one problem. There’s no place for her to stay.”
“Oh,” she says with a wave of her hand, “She can stay with me. She can have Joan’s old room. It will be nice having someone there, especially in the evenings.”
“Yes,” I say with mock seriousness. “I’ll be more comfortable knowing that you and Bill are properly chaperoned.”
“There’s no need for that, Tom Greer,” she says firmly. “Bill and I always act with the utmost decorum.”
I laugh as I stand up to leave. “Oh, I don’t doubt that at all,” I say.
“Good,” she says before turning back to her computer. I’m almost at the door when she adds, “We spend most of our time at his apartment, anyway.”
***
I’m in the middle of preparing for a meeting of the center’s fundraising committee when Anna knocks on my door. “Tom, are you busy?”
I look up from the papers spread on my desk. “Kind of. I’m trying to be ready for the meeting tonight. Is someone here?”
“You didn’t hear the bell ring?”
I shake my head. “No, I guess I was too focused on trying to make sense of these figures.”
“And I know how much you love numbers,” Anna says with a smirk. “Anyway, Bridget Davis is here. And before you ask, no, she does not have an appointment. But I think you need to take the time to see her.”
Sitting back in my chair, I say, “Something I need to know about?”
She looks over her shoulder and walks closer. Leaning across my desk, she whispers, “She looks like she’s been crying.”
“Oh, I see,” I say. “Send her in.”
She leaves, and I take a quick look to make sure my box of tissue is adequate. One of the earliest pieces of advice one of my instructors gave us in Seminary was always to make sure you had a box of tissue handy. “When someone comes to you to relieve their burdens, tears often accompany them.”
I may not know everything as a parish priest, but I think I at least offer a listening ear, a kind face, and a box of tissues.
As soon as I see Bridget, I see what Anna means. She’s smiling, but her emerald green eyes are ringed red from crying. This is a woman who’s seen more than her share of tragedy in her young life, who shed an ocean of tears over an alcoholic and abusive husband, who sobbed when said husband beat and almost killed their ten-year-old son, and even cried at his funeral. I can only imagine what new sorrow she is facing now.
“Father Tom,” she says. “Thank you for taking the time to see me. I know what a busy man you are.”
“Bridget,” I reply with a smile, “I am never too busy to meet with a member of my parish. In fact, one of the things on my ‘to do’ list is to check in on you. So tell me, how are things going?”
“Pretty well, I think,” she says quietly. Her curly red hair frames a pale, freckled face that is silent testimony to her heritage. “Terry is almost back to normal, at least physically. Mae Trent is still seeing him once a week, and they’re making progress working through all that happened.”
“I imagine that’s quite a lot.”
She nods. “You know, it's not just the trauma of what happened the day Rusty attacked him, there’s also all that led up to it. He saw–or at least heard–Rusty beat me for years. At the same time, there was losing his father altogether, especially in the way it happened. I mean, when you think about it, he basically died trying to kill an innocent young woman–and not just any young woman, one who’s dedicated her life to helping people in tragic circumstances. Everyone in town knows that, and it carries a certain stigma.”
She’s looking at her hands as she says this, not meeting my eyes, her actions testifying to the shame and guilt she still feels. “I hope no one from the parish has been unkind to you and your family,” I say slowly.
“No, Father,” she says, looking up and shaking her head. “Well, not really. Some of the kids taunted Terry about his dad, but Catherine Conway and her brothers put a quick stop to that. And I see the funny looks I get sometimes at the grocery store. ‘There’s Bridget Davis, the one who let her husband nearly beat her kid to death.’ I don’t really hold it against them, because I know if I were in their place I’d probably think the same thing. No, Father, most people go out of their way to be extra kind.” She pauses, then adds, “And that's something of a stigma also.”
“I am sorry. If you need me to talk to anyone, maybe deliver some remarks in my homily–a general exhortation to kindness and mercy towards our neighbor–”
“No, at all. Really, people have been so much more generous and gracious than I could ever imagine. No, that’s not why I’m here. It's another, more delicate matter, I’m afraid.”
I say, “OK,” and then wait silently while she takes the time she needs to pull herself together to tell me what’s on her mind. The same instructor who counseled a full box of tissues also hammered into our heads the importance of silence. “The person who’s come to you needs it to gather their thoughts. You need it so God can prepare you for what’s to come.”
In the quiet, I hear the front door open. From the sound of soft flats on the floor, I know Helen’s come in. I quickly glance at the clock on the wall.
It’s just a few minutes after 3 p.m. I wonder why she’s home?
Bridget clears her throat, and I pull my focus back to the hurting woman sitting in front of me. Finally, she looks up at me with those sad green eyes and whispers, “Father Tom, I’m afraid I’m falling in love with a man I can never have.”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Steve?”
She nods. “Before we go any further, Father, I want you to know that he has been very clear from the beginning about his sexual orientation. I mean, it’s no secret around town that he’s gay. He has never led me on in any way or done anything that would imply he has a romantic interest in me.”
I say nothing. What she’s telling me matches what Steve told me a couple of months ago. When Steve started doing some needed repairs around Bridget’s house, I became concerned that she might misconstrue his kindness for romantic affection. Steve assured me that he’d made things clear to her, that they were just friends, and that’s as far as their feelings went.
Of course, I’ve come to have my doubts about Steve.
“So what started with him coming over to fix things Rusty was either too drunk or too lazy to take care of when he was alive, much to my surprise, grew into a deep friendship. I mean, we always have so much fun when we’re together. It's been years since I’ve had anyone in my life, much less a man, who I felt really understood where I am coming from. When we’re together, I feel happier and more content than I have in a very long time. But when we’re apart, it's like I’m in some sort of limbo waiting for him to come back. Sometimes, I’m afraid he won’t.”
I understand what she’s saying, and it concerns me. For better or worse, I understand all too well how two people can start out intending to have a purely platonic relationship, but find themselves wanting more. I also know how difficult it can be to reorient a relationship that has gone down this path.
The question now is, what do I advise her to do next?
“Bridget,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “I am very sympathetic to how you feel. Steve is a great guy. I know he has been very helpful and attentive to your family, and kind and generous to you personally. You cannot help but find that attractive, especially after all that you have been through in the past few years.”
I pause here and take a moment to collect and organize my thoughts. “Since Steve’s been very clear about his orientation, the question you have to ask yourself is, what do you do now?”
“That’s why I've come to see you, Father. I don’t know what to do,” she whispers.
“Unfortunately, Bridget,” I say with a smile, “I can’t give you a clear-cut direction. One option would be to cut off your interaction with Steve completely, though if you do so, charity demands that you explain to him why you’re doing it.”
“I’ve thought about that, but the idea of not having him in my life at all just hurts too much.”
“Well, another option would be to continue the relationship as it is now. But if you’re going to do that, you should work on reorienting your own thinking to put up some clear-cut boundaries about how and how much time you spend together. That is more challenging, but it does keep the door open for at least some sort of relationship.”
She takes a deep breath. “OK. I’ve thought about that, too.”
“There is a third option–and I think in your case, it’s the best one–is to cut back some on how much you are together while at the same time cultivating other interests. You’re back teaching again, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am. I started back full time at Myerton Elementary after the Christmas break ended.”
“Perhaps you could cultivate some friendships among your fellow teachers,” I say. “There are also a number of committees in the parish that could always use help. In fact, you would be a wonderful addition to the St. Francis Learning Center Steering Committee, if you have the time.”
“I’ve heard so much about your plans for it,” she says, “and I know how enthusiastic you are. Yes, I’d like to serve on the committee.”
“Good. I’ll ask Anna to loop you in on all the meetings and other information.” I pause and then say, “Bridget, if I may speak frankly, being in love with someone that you can never have completely is something I know a little about.”
She nods with a slight smile as I continue, “Unfortunately, that means that I also know there are no easy solutions. I will pray for you and for Steve, that together you can work out some sort of arrangement that meets both your needs, as well as those of your family.
“That being said, there is also a significant chance that your feelings may be more of a crush than anything else. Certainly all that you’ve been through would create a desire for some sort of special relationship with a man. If this is the case, it's a fair bet that these feelings will pass on their own. Then at some point, you’ll be ready, if God wills, to meet and form a relationship with someone who can reciprocate your feelings. I'll pray for that, too.”
“I appreciate it, Father.” Bridget hesitates, then asks, “Do you think I should tell Steve how I feel? I mean, I don’t want to trap him or make him feel uncomfortable. And it’s not like I have to ask him how he feels about me.”
I think for a moment before saying, “I honestly don’t know, Bridget. I’d say that’s something you’re just going to need to figure out on your own.”
Bridget laughs. “I guess expecting you to have all the answers was a bit too much.”
“Well,” I say, now laughing myself, “Helen would say I rarely have any of the answers.”
“Did I hear her come in?” Bridget says as she stands up. “I’d like to say hello.”
“Yeah, she’s probably in the kitchen,” I say. Shaking her hand, I say, “I hope I helped.”
She takes a deep breath. “You did, Father. I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do yet, but I’m not going to risk a friendship I value.”
Bridget walks out of the office, and I mutter to myself, “Easier said than done.”
I’ve returned to work when I hear the front door close. A moment later, Helen appears in my doorway.
“You’re home early,” I say.
“I didn’t realize you had a meeting,” she says with a smile. “I thought I’d surprise you.”
“Oh? Well, I’m free now,” I say with a sly smile.
“Cool your jets, Father,” she says. “It wasn’t that kind of surprise. I’m here at Dan’s request. He’s returning to the station for the first time, and he requested you be there to see him make his triumphant entrance.”
“He’s got a bit of an ego, doesn’t he?”
“Well,” she grins, “he is a man. Apparently, he’s still waiting in the parking lot at the station.”
I roll my eyes. “Well,” I say as I stand, “let’s go applaud the great man’s return.”
***
“How’s Bridget?” Helen asks as we drive back to the station.
I glance at her. “Fine. She’s joining the education center steering committee.”
“Wonderful,” she says. “With her teaching experience, she’ll be an asset.”
“That’s what I thought when I asked her.”
We drive along in silence for a moment. “She told me Terry’s doing better, thanks to Mae,” Helen says.
“She’s very good with kids,” I say.
We drive along a little further. “Apparently, Steve takes up a lot of time with him.”
“Steve’s a good guy. Probably the first positive male influence in his life.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Helen says. She drives along in silence again, then says, “Tom, I think Bridget’s falling for Steve.”
I take a deep breath and say a non-committal, “Oh?”
She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t you think that’s a problem? I mean, since he’s gay?”
Since my beloved bride is obviously not going to take a hint, I sigh and say, “Helen, you know I can’t say anything about what Bridget or Steve may or may not have told me.”
“Ah,” she says with a smile, “that’s why she was talking to you.”
“Helen,” I say firmly. “You know the rules.”
“I do, and I’m not asking you to break any confidences. But would you like an opinion as a woman who’s been in a similar situation fairly recently?”
“Actually, yes,” I say. “What’s your opinion?”
She pulls into the station parking lot and turns into her space. Putting the car into park, she turns to me and says, “When I see them together, I’m reminded of us. The way we were just a little over a year ago. Trying to ignore what was pretty evident to everyone else. And you know what happened–well, almost happened.”
“You’re thinking about the cabin,” I say quietly. The cabin near my mother’s house in Florida when we finally confronted how we really felt about each other–and were almost consumed by our desires.
“Yes,” Helen says. “Now, I’m not going to tell you how to do your job anymore than you tell me how to do mine, but darling, they need to figure out what’s going on before they do something they’ll both regret.”
I nod as she gets out of the car. I’m getting out when I hear her exclaim, “What the–Dan?”
“What is it?” I say. I turn, and see every one of Helen’s officers standing by the Conways’ van. I also notice a carefully covered car parked at the end of the line of cars.
Somebody must have gotten a new baby for Christmas and wants to take good care of it, I think, trying to keep my envy at bay. I hurry to catch up to my wife, who’s striding toward her assembled officers.
“What is this!” she yells. “I don’t remember ordering an assembly in the parking lot.”
“Chief,” Officer Hallstead replies, “Detective Conway asked that we gather here to applaud his return.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Helen says. “And where is Detective Conway?”
As if on cue, Officer Thompson opens the rear doors of the van. Dan’s sitting on the floor, his leg out in front of him, with each of his older children hanging off of him like monkeys.
“Thank you all for joining me here today, especially you, Father Tom and Chief,” Dan yells with a grin.
“Dan,” Helen says, “are you high on pain pills or something? What is this?”
“This, Chief, is a demonstration by each and every one of your officers of the high regard and deep affection we hold for our former Chaplain,” Dan says. “Father Tom, it has come to our attention that your car, once a source of inconvenience, traffic upset, and overall irritation for you, your congregation, and members of this police force, mainly our illustrious Chief, was recently pronounced terminal. Even before that sad event, the men and women here assembled determined to give you a gift on your departure as our Chaplain. Because of factors beyond our control, we were unable to give you that gift until today.
“Father, in gratitude for your service to us, the officers and employees of the Myerton Police Department put together the funds necessary to buy you the following.”
With this, Dan signals Hallstead and Potter, who grab the cover off the car that I saw when I came in and snatch it off to reveal a shiny black 2018 Ford Mustang Shelby GT350 with a white stripe painted up the center of the hood. The vanity license plate reads FRGREER.
The assembled officers and staff cheer and applaud, joined very loudly by the Conway children. I stand there absolutely speechless as Helen says, “I can’t believe this.”
Finally, I catch my breath enough to say, “Guys, I–I don’t know what to say. This is way too generous. I mean, this is an amazing automobile. I am grateful, I really am. But I can’t accept something so expensive.”
“Sure you can, Dad,” Gladys squeals.
Helen has a frown on her face as she says, “No, I am sorry to say, he really can’t. There are limits on the price of gifts I or members of my family are allowed to receive from those under me. And I have no doubt that this violates all of them.”
“Au contraire,” Dan chimes in, making me wonder if he’s still on pain medication. “The limit is $50 per year per person, and no one chipped in more than that.”
“I have the records to prove that, Chief,” Thompson says.
“Dan,” Helen says, shaking her head, “I’d love to believe you, but if we accept this, the ethics commission will have my head on a plate.”
“Not after I forward them a copy of this receipt,” he says, handing Helen a piece of paper.
Looking over Helen’s shoulder I read, “Paid to the City of Baltimore Police Department, $730.” In the memo portion, it gives a description of the car along with a note: “Abandoned. Evidence. Released.”
“I don’t understand,” Helen says. “I’ve been to several police auctions and no car like this would ever go for so little.”
“That’s where I come in,” Nate says, stepping forward. “You see, it turns out people are really not very interested in purchasing a car that housed a dead body in its trunk through much of the summer, especially when nothing has been done to clean said trunk. This is really silly, of course, because all you need is bleach mixed with a bit of–”
“That’s enough, Nate,” Dan insists before turning back to Helen. “Nate is not an employee, and he graciously volunteered his services. Cooper’s uncle–also not an employee–added the white stripe so that we can spot him from a distance and stop committing whatever sin we are engaged in at the moment, and here we are.”
I am still standing there, stunned, when Dan yells, “Catch, Father,” and tosses me the keys. “For the next hour,” he continues, “I believe my colleagues will be too busy fighting crime to monitor traffic. I can’t vouch for the State Police, but this might be a good opportunity to take her out for a test drive.”
***
Ten minutes later, I am headed out of town at what I consider to be a perfectly reasonable speed for the circumstances while my bride of less than a month screams, “Slow down, Tom! You’re going too fast!”
“You drive this fast all the time,” I reply to Madame Hypocrite.
“Yes, but I am trained in high speed chase tactics. You are not.”
“But I’m not chasing anyone.”
“Tom, so help me, if you don’t slow down, I’m going to arrest you for reckless endangerment!”
“Of whom? There’s almost no one on the road this time of day.”
“Of me! In fact, since I’m a police officer, if anything happens to me because of your driving, I think I can get you for assaulting an officer in the performance of her duties.”
“What duties?”
“Arresting you. You really don’t pay attention, do you? NOW. SLOW. DOWN!”
“Oh, all right,” I mutter, deciding to comply not so much out of fear of legal repercussions as marital ones.
The needle on the speedometer drops to just a hair above the posted limit. Even though I’m not going as fast as I want to, I’m in heaven.
A leather-upholstered, smooth-riding, precision-engineered heaven.
Next to the woman in the seat next to me, this is the best gift anyone’s ever given me.
“Helen,” I say, “you’re sure this won’t get you into trouble?”
“I’ll look into it some more, but I think we’re within the rules–barely. You won’t have to give her up.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
Helen’s phone plays the theme from Camelot. “Hi, Gladys,” she says.
“How’s Dad like his new toy?” she giggles.
“Your Mom’s being a wet blanket,” I call.
Rolling her eyes, Helen says, “He loves it. Now what did you call about?”
“Well, the sketch artist went to see Gloria MacMillan this afternoon,” she says.
“Was she able to give us something based on her description?”
“Oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” she says. “By the way, you’ll need to hire another sketch artist. She quit. I think Mrs. MacMillan made her cry.”
I laugh while Helen grimaces. “But she was able to do a sketch.”
“I’m sending it to you now, Chief,” she says. “Have fun!”
Gladys hangs up and Helen’s phone beeps. She opens the text from Gladys and whistles.
“What is it?” I say.
She turns her phone so I can see it. “This is the person Gloria saw trying to beat down Deacon Derek’s door.”
On her phone screen is a sketch resembling Todd Raleigh.