The Fatal Fall

One-1

One

“TOM,” HELEN SAYS TO me over lunch on the first Sunday of November, “what are we going to do for our first Thanksgiving together?“

This question catches me off guard. “Well, I hadn’t thought much about that,” I say. “I mean, I guess I thought that we’d just do what we did last year and help with the community dinner. Don’t you remember?”

Helen blushes at my question and takes a sip of sweet tea. “Ahem, yes, I remember.”

I’m a little curious about her reaction. “You were there with a few other officers from the police department, right?”

The redness in her face deepens, and she takes a sudden interest in the remains of the shepherd’s pie on her plate. “Yeah,” she says without looking at me.

I stare at her, not comprehending why she’s acting this way. “What is it?” I ask. “Why are you blushing like that?. Did something happen that I don't know about?”

She takes a deep breath. “Tom,” her gaze still fascinated by the gravy on her plate, “last Thanksgiving was not my finest hour. Not by a long shot.”

“Really? I don’t remember anything embarrassing happening to you.”

She finally looks up at me. “Tom,” she says with a slight smile, “I have a confession to make.”

“Shall we go into the Church, or is this not that kind of confession?” I say with a grin.

Helen takes my hand and casts her eyes downward. “I really don’t know. Maybe, maybe not.”

“OK?” I say slowly.

She pauses for a minute, as if deciding whether she’s going to admit something to me, and finally says, “Tom, I know that my actions that day were good, but my motivation was far from it.“

I stare at her until she continues. “I came up with the idea of the department participating so that I could spend the day with you. It was a very difficult time for me, and I didn’t want to be alone. I also didn’t want to have to fend off offers from sympathetic people who were only asking me because I was a widow or otherwise just pitiful. I will not say that my feelings for you at that moment had reached a level of potential sin, but I was certainly on my way, and I should have stopped then.“

I really don’t know how to respond. Obviously, I can say that everything worked out for the best since I have been dispensed to marry.

But it could have turned out very badly.

We both know it almost did.

“Helen,” I say, squeezing her hand, “one thing I’ve learned in my decade in the priesthood is that God does a great job taking the things we get wrong and making them right. Our situation is one of my favorite examples.”

She smiles. “Of course you’re right about that. But still, we were taking a terrible chance, or at least I was. I would not recommend it to anyone else.“

“I agree, and I would not recommend what we have done to anyone else. We are very fortunate in how our story has turned out, but then again we also made some hard choices in the beginning.“

We both sit and contemplate this for a moment or two before Helen says, “You know how much I love the holidays, Tom. And I want this to be special for us.”

I have some information that I need to share with her that she is not going to find amusing. Trying to ease my way into the topic, I ask, “Helen, how important is it to you that we cook a whole turkey for ourselves?”

“Just for us?” she asks, incredulously, “Not that important. I mean, I don’t particularly care for endless leftovers. Why do you ask?”

Instead of answering her question, I ask, “So, suppose we got a tray of pre-cooked sliced turkey and then you made whatever side dishes you wanted to go with it? It could be just us, or we could invite Gladys and Nate and Anna and Bill.”

“I’m liking this idea better and better, Tom, but I suspect there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Only this,” I say, taking a deep breath, “We’ll have to eat in the evening because St. Clare’s is hosting the Community Dinner this year.”

Helen is only briefly crestfallen before admitting, “I remember that, now. Look, Tom, we’ll have plenty of other Thanksgivings together. We can just—”

“We can just offer to do the heavy lifting the day before and in the early morning. Then we can excuse ourselves as soon as we finish serving. In fact, you don’t have to be there at all.”

“Oh, yes, I do. Not just as your future wife, but as the Chief of Police. No, I can’t ask my people to volunteer for something that I’m not doing myself.”

“And that, my darling, is one of the things I admire about you. But,” I add, “you can still certainly leave early, and I can get to the Rectory as soon as I can.”

“It’ll be a long day but I can do a lot of the prep work in the days leading up to Thanksgiving.”

I sit up as something occurs to me. “Wait a minute. I just remembered. Will you have to work Thanksgiving? I mean, I know that Dan has a lot of family that comes to town.”

“Miriam has a lot of family,” Helen corrects me, “including several sisters who blame Dan for the size of their family and are often after him to ‘get snipped.’”

“You’re kidding?”

“Not at all. Now, beyond issues related to Church teaching, he finds the idea both frightening and appalling, as he ends up telling me at some point every Thanksgiving weekend. So the upshot is that he works on Thanksgiving, taking a long lunch break when everyone’s eating and inclined to have their mouths too full to say much. Then, I work on the day after so that Dan can stay home and redeem himself in the eyes of his in-laws by watching the kids while Miriam shops the Black Friday sales.”

“OK, so are we set then?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll start looking online for recipes.”

“Please,” I insist, raising my hand to make my point, “just don’t read them to me. My mother used to do that and it drove me crazy.”

“Speaking of your mother, shouldn’t we invite her for Thanksgiving?” Helen asks. “I mean, she is alone now.”

“No!” I cry, putting my hands over my face. “Please, no, not that.”

“Tom,” Helen begins, obviously warming up to lecture me about being nicer to my mother, the way adult orphans love to do.

I decide to stop her by saying, “Helen, do you really want my Mom here watching every forkful of food you place in your mouth and commenting on it on Thanksgiving?”

She pauses at this, obviously remembering that my mother is more than a little obsessed with Helen’s weight. Finally, she smiles kindly and says with obviously false generosity, “Well, I suppose it would be a bit much to ask her to fly up here twice in less than a month.”

“It would,” I agree.

“We’ll send her a nice flower arrangement instead.”

“She’ll like that.”

I look at her plate. “Do you want any more?”

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t eat another bite. That was delicious.”

“Why, thank you, my dear,” I say, inclining my head. “I’ll clear.”

Helen stretches and asks, “So, what time’s the race this afternoon?”

“Not until later,” I say, placing the plates in the sink. “Last one of the season.”

“Oh, dear, are you going to be OK?” she asks with mock seriousness.

“Well,” I say, bending over her, “fortunately, this off-season I’ll have plenty to keep me occupied.”

“Oh? New hobby?” she grins.

“No,” I whisper as I lean in to kiss her. “A new job I’m very much looking forward to.”

***