The Buried Bride

One

One

“WHAT, NO CINNAMON ROLL?”

Helen and I are at The Perfect Cup on the Thursday after Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the most important season on the Church calendar.

For us, after our conversation with the Archbishop in my office yesterday, it could be the most important Lent of our lives.

Certainly, it’s going to be the longest.

Helen waggles her eyebrows at me and says, “Well, Father Tom, Lent began yesterday, or have you forgotten already?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten,” I say, displaying my right thumb. It is still gray from placing ashes on the foreheads of the men, women, and children of Saint Clare’s—including hers. “I’m just surprised to see you without a cinnamon roll.”

“I know,” she sighs, looking down at her cup of black coffee, “but I thought giving up sweets would be a good penance this year.”

I narrow my eyes. “This isn’t because of the things Mom said to you when we were there,” I say, “because she’s—”

“Oh, no,” she says, her eyes still fixed on her coffee. “This isn’t a weight thing. This is an ‘avoiding sources of temptation and exercising self-discipline’ thing.”

“Oh,” I nod. “I see.”

We look at each other across the table, not quite certain what to say next. Part of our agreed upon Lenten discipline was to avoid talks of intimate things—both emotional and physical.

“So, I told you. Now you tell me. What are you giving up?” Helen asks, breaking the tension with a much needed subject shift.

“You know, I haven’t completely decided yet,” I say, sitting back and throwing an arm over the back of my chair. “Traditionally, I give up eating in restaurants. But I’m certainly not doing that this year for obvious reasons. So, I’m thinking maybe television?”

“What?” Helen says in mock horror, “just as the NASCAR season starts again?”

“Well, you see,” I reply, “one of the great things about being a NASCAR fan is that Catholics are never supposed to fast from anything on Sundays, not even during Lent. It's always a day of celebration because of the Resurrection.”

“I thought it was also supposed to be a day devoted to family and spiritual pursuits?”

I laugh. “Helen, I am a Cathoic priest in a small town in western Maryland. My parish is full of some of the most fertile couples I have ever known. Every day of my life is focused on family and spiritual pursuits. I don’t think a few hours a week devoted to men firing engines in anger is going to hurt my soul.”

I sip my coffee. “That reminds me,” I say, pulling out my phone and checking my email. “I need to add the Richards to the list of baptisms for the fall.”

“The list of baptisms?” Helen says. “How many baptisms do you have?”

I look at my calendar. “Twelve.”

Helen slams her cup down. “Twelve! There are going to be twelve more babies in the Church? Where do they all come from?”

I get a tight smile and lean forward. “Well, you see Helen, when a man and a woman—”

“Oh, stop it, you know what I mean!”

I chuckle. “You remember that blizzard just before Christmas? Closed everything down for three days? Well, some of them had a lot of time on their hands.”

I start to laugh at my own joke, but my laughter fades when I see the look on Helen’s face.

I close my eyes. “Sorry, Helen,” I say. “I wasn’t thinking.”

She clears her throat. ‘It’s OK,” she whispers. “It just reminded me, you know?”

Looking directly at her, I put my fist to my chest. She smiles, then does the same thing.

It’s our secret signal, the one we agreed on. It lets the other person know that we’re sorry we broke one of our Lenten commitments.

“All right,” she says, changing the subject again, waving her hands in surrender. “Far be it from me, a lowly, though now Chief Detective, to argue theology and spiritual discipline with you.”

“Good,” I say “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, what’s on your calendar for today?”

“Not much. I’ll go check in at the office when I leave here, but then I’ve got to go to Dulles to pick Gladys up.”

“Oh, she’s getting back in today? It hasn’t been that long since we left.”

“I know, but she said that she’s done all she can for the FBI and, since she got The Belvedere’s files unlocked, they can take it from here.” Pulling out her cell phone and tapping the screen, Helen adds, “She also said, and I quote: ‘I’ve gotta get out of here before Dad’s mother drives me completely crazy’.”

I roll my eyes. Mom has that effect on people.

“I can’t believe she stayed on with Mom after we left,” I say.

“I can’t either,” Helen says, shaking her head, “but, as she pointed out, it was either there or at the brothel they were investigating.”

“Knowing Gladys, I’m still surprised.”

“Apparently she did ask, but the FBI said it was an active crime scene so they couldn’t let her.”

“Well that explains it then,” I say, nodding. “Still, Mom seems happy to have had her there. Well, at least as happy as Mom can ever be.”

“Oh yeah, according to Gladys, they’re having a fine old time. Nola keeps trying to give her your sister’s old clothes.”

I nearly choke on this. Sputtering, I say, “Wait a minute. Mom’s been trying to give Gladys the clothes that Sonya bought while she was working as a madam?”

“That’s right,” Helen says, nodding. “Your mom has said to Gladys on more than one occasion,” she picks up her phone again, “and this is also a direct quote, ‘Most of them are really expensive and it's not like Helen would ever be able to fit into them.’”

“Oh, boy,” I say, trying to figure out how to tell Helen once again how lovely she is without breaking our Lenten promise for the second time today.

And it’s not even 10 a.m. yet.

“Oh, Tom,” Helen laughs playfully, “if I was ever going to worry about my weight, it wouldn’t be because of something Nola Greer said.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. So is Gladys going to take any of them?”

“I doubt it. You know she doesn’t like wearing anything made after 1968.”

This is certainly true. Gladys Finkelstein is known around Myerton for three things: her 186 IQ, her bright teal wheelchair, and her tendency to dress like Jackie Kennedy. In other places, her light blue hair might also make her stand out, but since this is a college town, that’s not really a big deal.

I am contemplating with horror the idea of Gladys wheeling around town in a gold lame business suit when Helen’s phone rings.

She answers it and says, “Hello? Oh, yes, Chief, what—wait, today? But that’s awfully short notice.” She pauses and listens. “OK, I get it, Chief. So what time is our meeting with him.” When she gets this piece of news, her eyes get big. “But that’s in an hour! What does he—OK, OK, I’ll have something intelligent to say. Where shall I meet you?” She nods as her boss says something. “OK, I’ll come by your office and we can walk over together.” There’s a bit of loud talking on the other end, causing Helen to pull the phone away slightly. “Of course, sorry Chief, don’t know what came over me.” Hanging up, she tosses the phone lightly on the table.

“Well,” she huffs. “That’s. Just. Dandy!”

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“Oh, the new President of Myer College has requested a meeting to discuss the department’s role in campus security. Apparently, he’s concerned that we’re not giving the College sufficient protection. He wants to meet with the Chief and me today at 11 a.m..”

I shrug. “So? You just go and act like your usual charming self,” I grin.

“Hah! Have you forgotten who this guy is?”

“Oh, Helen, some things are impossible to forget.”

Like the fact that Myer’s new president, who is forty-eight, “dated” Gladys when she was at MIT.

When she was eighteen.

Gladys graduated with a Masters at twenty, and she’s only twenty-four now.

“Do everyone a favor,” I say. “Leave your gun in the car. And by gun, I mean both of them.”

“Oh, I’m not going to shoot him,” she says, as she takes another drink of coffee.

I extend my hand across the table. “And why don’t you just give me the knife?”

“You’re just asking because you still want to know where I keep it.”

I’m about to deny that when she stands and announces, “And anyway, I don’t have it with me.”

“What?” I say. “No knife?”

“No, Tom, I only carry the knife when I’m undercover. I am very much hoping not to need it during a meeting in the office of the President of Myer College.”

“Is there anything I can do?” I say.

“Actually, there is one thing, if you feel up to it. Since I don’t know how long this guy’s gonna keep us, could you possibly pick Gladys up?”

“Oh, sure. I don’t have any appointments. Just text me her flight info.”

“Are you sure you feel well enough?” she says, worry etched into her face.

I spread my hands. “The doctor said I could drive on Thursday. I’ll take it easy, avoiding the Beltway and driving the back route. If I feel funny, I’ll pull over. Promise.”

“OK,” she says with a smile. “Thanks so much, sweetie.” She stops suddenly and catches herself. Then she briefly brings her fist to her chest. I give her a smile and a small nod to let her know I saw. Then she turns and is on her way.

As she walks away, I find my eyes following after her. I force myself to look at something else, then briefly tap my own chest.

Yes, a very long Lent indeed.