The Defining Decision

Two

Two

I WAKE UP THE NEXT morning and wonder for a horrible moment if it was all a dream.

I take another shower, hot this time, and stumble down to the kitchen for coffee, waiting for some sort of sign that I didn’t imagine everything. That sign comes in the form of Anna’s beaming face and big hug as she says, gleefully, “Oh, Tom, I am so happy for you both!”

“So you know,” I say. Kind of a dumb thing to say, I know, but then I haven’t had my coffee yet. “I thought it's supposed to be a big secret.”

“Oh, it is,” she says conspiratorially. “In Myerton, only the three of us know. After all, someone’s gotta keep an eye on you two.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, a little offended.

I mean, after all, Helen and I are adults.

And we’ve exercised self-control in the past.

Sort of.

“Don’t get mad,” she says, shoving me toward the table that is laden with a delightful bounty of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and, can it be? Can it really be? Grits! The comfort food of my homeland. Anna never makes grits because they take so long to cook.

“Anna,” I say, overwhelmed, “you made grits.”

“Yes, well, when the Archbishop called me last night and told me the good news, I went ahead and put them on in the slow cooker. I knew we’d have a lot to discuss.”

“The Archbishop called you last night?” I ask, incredulous.

“Of course he did. He has been calling every week, just to check in and see how I thought you two were doing.”

“So you knew all during Lent what was going on and were reporting on Helen and me to the Archbishop?”

She sits down and folds her hands. Clearing her throat, she says, “Tom. I think now you have the right to know something. And I hope you don’t hold it against me that I kept this from you. But Walter and I both agreed it was the best thing.”

Did Anna just call the Archbishop by his first name? “Walter? Anna, what do you need to tell me?”

She smiles. “Tom, Walter and I are old friends. We practically grew up together, even attended the same high school. Oh, don’t look at me that way—there was never anything romantic between us. I always thought of him as a brother. He knew he was becoming a priest, and I was very careful not to get my heart broken. But we’ve kept in touch over the years, and have remained friends.”

She hesitates. “Remember I told you he called me the Tuesday after you got back, asking me to stay at the Rectory because he was concerned about your concussion?”

“Yes?”

“Well, that’s not the only reason. After swearing me to secrecy, he told me what was going on—including the possible opportunity that lay before you. He asked me what I thought of you, of Helen, and your relationship. And I told him what I honestly believe, that you two will always be better together than apart, no matter what happens. That’s when he asked me to serve as his Mata Hari, his eyes and ears.”

I shake my head. “I have to tell you, Anna, I feel a little like my privacy has been violated. You should have told me!”

“The Archbishop asked me not to.” I open my mouth to protest, when she puts her hand up to stop me. “Tom, it felt wrong to me at first, too. But this was the only way that you and Helen could have a chance to work things out. I wanted you to have that chance, and so I agreed.”

“It just doesn’t seem right,” I grouse, even as I spoon eggs and grits onto my plate.

“Doesn’t it, Tom? The Archbishop is giving you and Helen a chance, a real chance for happiness together and even marriage in the future. But he is also taking a tremendous risk. If this goes wrong, it could not only destroy your and Helen’s futures, but that of other men in your position who might want to marry someday.”

“Well,” I say, reluctant to give up my argument but really anxious to have the cup of coffee she’s holding, “I sorta see his point, and I think I could see it even better if I have some coffee.”

She hands it over, then joins me at the table.

“So how’s Helen?” she asks. “Is she excited?”

I remember the look in her eyes last night, but manage to say with some level of discretion, “Oh, sure, yeah, definitely.” Then I add, “The only question I have now is, what do we do next? I mean, I can’t just ask her to marry me, not after all the time we’ve spent avoiding that issue. And anyway, I’m not free to ask until the paperwork comes from the Vatican, and there’s no telling how long that will take. To make matters worse, we still can’t be seen in public together as more than friends. It's kind of a mess.”

“OK, Eeyore,” she says playfully. “Stop trying to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory. If you ask me, or even if you don’t, I think you should ask her out on a date.”

“A date?” I ask, a bit surprised.

“Yes, Tom, a date. Surely you remember what that is. Dinner, a movie, putt putt golf?”

“But we can’t be seen doing anything like that here.”

“No, you can’t. You’ll have to sneak around, go out of town. But how fun will that be?” she says with a twinkle in her eye that reminds me she wasn’t always my dead wife’s mother.

Joan.

Oh, my God. I forgot about her.

I haven’t thought of her all night. I didn’t pray for her soul. I didn’t whisper goodnight to her before I fell asleep. What kind of man am I?

I look at Anna, who is staring at me curiously, no doubt wondering how I fell from the heights to this so quickly.

“What’s wrong, Tom?” she asks gently.

“Joan,” I whisper. “I forgot about her last night.”

She pats my hand with tears in her eyes. “Tom, Joan is in heaven with Jesus. I very much hope that she thinks about you from time to time, but I also hope that she spends most of her time thinking about and praising Him. You are still here, on earth, and Jesus is not here with you in the flesh, except for those few sacred moments each day at the altar. It's not just OK that you don’t think about her all the time. It’s right and healthy that you don’t.”

I don’t disagree with Anna but I don’t really feel like talking anymore. I am suddenly overwhelmed again with everything that has happened in the last 12 hours. I finish my breakfast more or less silently, making small talk but not discussing anything important.

I plan to go upstairs and change, but before I can get there, Anna says, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Leslie asked if she could come by at 8:00 a.m., since, as she said, she ‘would have completed her morning run by then.’”

I glance at my watch. It's 7:55 a.m. I realize I don’t have time to change into my clericals so I decide to finish my coffee instead. It's not like I’m in pajamas. I had slipped on some old sweat pants and a t-shirt before I came down.

At precisely 8:00 a.m., the front door bell rings. I answer it to find Leslie standing there, dressed in a pair of crisply pressed black slacks and a pale gray sweater.

“Good morning, Father,” she says, coming inside. “I am glad to see I’m not the only one who believes in the health benefits of morning exercise.”

I’m confused by this until I catch a reflection of myself in a mirror. Yeah, I do look like I’ve been outside doing something. There are even some old grass stains from the last time I tried to mow the lawn.

“‘Fraid not, Leslie. I just threw these on before coming down to breakfast. I’m almost done here. Would you care for some? There’s plenty left.”

“No, thank you,” she says, glancing at the bacon and the biscuits still piled on platters in the center of the table. “I am a strict vegetarian and also avoid gluten as much as possible.”

“Coffee, then?” I ask, still trying to be friendly.

“No, thank you. I don’t drink caffeine.”

“OK, then,” I say, giving up and escorting her into my office. For the next 30 minutes, she fills me in on the progress she is making in recruiting teachers for the coming school year’s religious education program. While she originally planned to arrive the Monday after Easter, things with her aunt took a sudden turn and required her to relocate to Myerton sooner. After a short, serious illness, her aunt died, leaving her home on the edge of town to Leslie.

Once here, she threw herself into overhauling Saint Clare’s religious education program which, she had commented, “was hardly up to date with the latest thought concerning the catechesis of children.” I had no argument with that, nor really with her. Leslie’s weird character traits drive me crazy, but I can’t find fault in the way she does her job.

After being given a complete verbal report and a binder full of information, I thank Leslie and send her on her way.

No doubt she’s busy calculating how many days my poor diet and exercise practices will allow me to continue to live.