The Buried Bride

Four

Four

PROMPTLY AT 6 P.M.—OK, it is ten after, Helen’s never on time—I open the Rectory door and find her standing on the stoop, holding a large carryout bag from my favorite barbeque joint.

“Hi,” I say, with a smile.

“Hi,” she replies.

And like that, we’re two shy teenagers.

“I was surprised to get your call,” Helen whispers as I help her off with her coat. “We agreed to see each other only once a day.”

“I was surprised to call you.”

“And this was really Anna’s idea? Why? She’s not exactly been friendly to me the last few months.”

I look her in the eyes. “I told her. Everything.”

Helen’s eyes get big. “How did she take it? What . . . what does she think of me?”

“Tom?” calls a chipper-sounding Anna from the kitchen. “Is that Helen?”

“Yes, Anna,” I reply, looking at Helen with a smile. For her part, all the blood drained from her face and she’s as white as a sheet.

She looked more composed when we saw the Archbishop.

Anna emerges from the kitchen, sees Helen, and opens her arms. She approaches her with a smile, saying, “Helen, I’m so glad to see you!” and gives her a big hug. It takes a bit for Helen, who’s gone from panicked to shocked, to hug her back.

She looks at me over her shoulder, confusion still on her face. All I can do is smile to see the two most important women in my life like this.

Maybe this can work out.

“Now,” Anna says, “I bet you two are hungry. We’ll eat in the kitchen, then spend some time together in the living room chatting. I’ll take this, Helen.” She takes the bag of barbeque from Helen and takes it. “You two just sit at the table, and I’ll get everything we need.”

Following her into the kitchen, Helen leans close to me. “What’s happening?” she whispers.

“Something good,” I reply.

A short while later, we’re sitting at the table, enjoying ribs and smoked chicken and regaling Anna with tales of our exploits down in Florida. She listens intently as we tell her about what we found out about Sonya, about The Belvedere, about the girls we were able to save.

We also talk about Mom, including the remarks she made about Helen’s weight.

“You know, Helen,” Anna says when we finish, “I don’t want to speak ill of Tom’s mother, but that woman sounds like a real piece of work. Saying something like that to such a pretty woman like you. Here, why don’t you take this last piece of cornbread.”

“Oh, no, thanks, Anna, I’m stuffed,” Helen replies, grinning from ear to ear at the offer.

Finally, our plates piled with the chicken and rib bones and the table littered with sauce-stained paper towels, Anna stands up and says to me, “Tom, why don’t you leave Helen and me to clean up?”

“Oh, no, Anna,” I say. “I’ll—”

“No, you’re still recovering from your concussion,” she insists. “Why don’t you go set up the card table and get the Monopoly set out?”

Now there are two things in this world I avoid like the plague—hard boiled eggs and board games. I get nauseous in the presence of both, but at least hard boiled eggs have the virtue of only having a short-term presence in my life. I have never liked playing board games, except for Risk when I was a kid.

And the game I like least is Monopoly. I mean, who actually enjoys a game where mortgaging properties and going bankrupt are part of the fun?

But as I open my mouth to protest that I am certain that would exacerbate my concussion, Helen claps her hands and says gleefully, “Oh, I love Monopoly and haven’t played in years. Tom, I think you and I played it in college, didn’t we?”

Her coquettish smile and slight blush reminds me.

Yes. Yes, we did.

I swallow the memories and place my fist to my chest. Helen does the same thing, and nods slightly.

Anna looks at us and asks, “What was that?”

“Huh?” I say, standing. “Oh, nothing, nothing. I’ll get everything set up. Mind if I’m the banker?”

I drag the card table out of the hall closet, and grab the game off the shelf. Setting up the table and getting some chairs, I organize the board, then make myself comfortable in the recliner to wait.

After twenty minutes, I begin to wonder what exactly is going on in my kitchen. I’m just about to go find out when Anna and Helen walk in, not quite arm in arm, but close together.

They’ve both been crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, slightly worried.

“Oh,” Anna says, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “Nothing. We were just talking. Right, dear?”

Helen smiles at me, then looks at Anna. “Right. We were talking.”

I look at them, trying to figure out what’s going on. Failing that, I stand and say, “OK, let’s get this over with.”

For the next two hours, the two of them laughed and bought and sold and thoroughly beat me out of every dime I had. Admittedly, I didn’t try very hard to win. I consider survival enough of a goal, and the easiest way for me to survive is to exit the game as quickly as possible.

With relief, I leave the table and sit on the couch. I grab the remote and am about to turn on the TV.

From behind me, I hear Helen playfully scold, “Oh, Tom, don’t do that. It's not nice. Besides, I thought you were giving up TV for Lent?”

Before I can answer, Anna chimes in, “Good for you, Helen. He spends way too much time in front of that screen. And not always watching programs that you would think a priest ought to watch. He swears he's just doing research for his homilies, but he’s not fooling me.”

They both laugh at this, so I decide to turn the tables. “By the way, Anna,” I say, “how is everyone on ‘From Dark to Dawn?’ Did they ever find out who fathered Cheryl’s baby? I know you were really worried about that when I left for Bellamy.”

“Oh, Tom,” she says, “I don’t pay any attention to that old soap opera. It's just something I watch once in a while to pass the time.”

“‘From Dark to Dawn’? I used to love that show in college,” Helen says, “though I have to tell you that they did things on that show that I’ve never even seen undercover with the vice squad.”

“Isn’t it a disgrace?” Anna says.

“It is a total disgrace,” Helen replies.

I smile at the sight of them getting along so well.

“Hey,” I call out, “You two know what else is a disgrace? Holding a private conversation when another person is nearby. Why don’t you both just call it a tie and come keep me company. It's already after nine o’clock.”

“Is it?” Anna says with a shocked tone. She stands up from the table as Helen leaves it and sits in an armchair opposite me. “Why, it's past my bedtime,” she adds. “ Just leave the board up, Tom, I’ll put it away tomorrow.”

I prepare to tell her good night and to drive carefully, but instead of heading to the secretary’s office to get her things, she goes to the stairs. She’s halfway up when I snap out of my confusion long enough to ask, “Wait, I thought you were going home?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Anna asks. “Hmm, I just assumed he had told you.”

“Who told me what?”

“The Archbishop. He called me a few days ago and asked if I would be able to start staying over at the Rectory at least a few nights a week. He said he was concerned about you being alone after your head injury and, you know, losing your sister and everything. He asked if we could try it for Lent and then see how things were going.”

“Oh, I see,” I say, glancing at Helen. “And when did he ask you this?”

“I don’t know, Tuesday morning, I guess. He said I didn’t need to make any particular schedule, just stay over if the mood struck me.” She then looks at me and asks, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “Good night, Anna.”

“Good night, Tom, Good night, Helen.”

“Good night, Anna.”

With that Waltons-like end to the evening, she disappears upstairs, even as Helen and I both fall over in a fit of silent giggles.

“Well,” she finally says, “I guess His Eminence thinks we need adult supervision.”

Still chuckling quietly, I say, “I suppose so, though I myself take that as a compliment.”

“Come to think of it, so do I.”

We sit quietly for a minute, just basking in each other's presence. We’ve had a good amount of physical distance between us all evening, a combination of Anna’s presence and our own decisions. But I feel closer to Helen at this moment than I ever have.

Even that time in the cabin near Mom’s house.

“So,” I finally say quietly, “you and Anna took a long time in the kitchen.”

Helen nods. “Yes. We . . . talked.”

“Oh? I thought you two had been crying.”

“It was a rather intense conversation.” At my worried expression, she says, “Oh, no, Tom. Nothing like that. Anna apologized to me for how she’s treated me over the past few months. She told me all about her being afraid I was intent on taking you away from the priesthood, from Saint Clare’s.” She pauses. “From her.”

“I know, she told me the same thing earlier.”

“Remember in the hospital, you told me after your confession that you didn’t realize how much your behavior had hurt me? I didn’t realize how much my behavior had hurt Anna. That’s what I apologized to her for, after assuring her I had no intention of seducing you. That it had never been my intention.”

At that last sentence, I raise an eyebrow. One of the things we promised each other was total honesty about our feelings and our intentions, past, present, and future.

Helen catches it and takes a deep breath. “OK, yes,” she says as she quietly blows it out. “I can’t say that it never crossed my mind.”

I choose not to pursue her statement further. Instead, I say, “I’ve hurt a lot of people over the last few months.” I look at my hands. “I’ve apologized to you. I’ve apologized to Anna. That just leaves one more apology.”

“The parish?” Helen asks. I nod and she continues, “How are you going to do that?”

I look at her. “There’s really only one thing I can do,” I say. “I’ll tell you because you have a right to a heads up.”

I go over with her what I have in mind, even though my plan is still not fully formed.

“So that’s it,” I say. “I don’t know what I’m going to say yet. I may not even know until the last minute. But I wanted to find out—I need to know you’re OK with this.”

She smiles. “Tom, not only am I OK with it—I’m just so proud of you. To do something this hard, I don’t know any other man who would make himself that vulnerable.”

I’m about to say more when the clock chimes ten. Shortly after the last chime, Anna calls from upstairs, “Don’t forget to lock up, Tom.”

“You have to go,” I whisper.

“What?” Helen says.

“New house rules. All female visitors must depart by 10 p.m.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to get in trouble with matron,” Helen laughs.

I walk her to the door and help her with her coat. She turns to me. “Good night, Tom.”

“Good night, Helen,” I say, embracing for the three-second hug we have agreed to allow ourselves each time we part for the day.

She opens the door and slips out into the chilly, starlit night.

It's still cold outside, but I feel more and more certain that spring is coming.