Miles considered himself fortunate that he was not given to addiction. He drank beer regularly, but only one at the end of the day—maybe two if it had been unusually stressful. (He also considered himself fortunate that, despite this routine, he retained a trim physique even in middle age, still wearing trousers with a thirty four inch waist and carrying well under two hundred pounds on his six-foot, one inch frame.) His pastoral work had exposed him amply to the ravages of alcohol abuse, so he had an intellectual and practical incentive to complement his genetic and psychological advantages. The evening he spent alone in the rectory after Rachel delivered herself of her dreadful burden afforded him both motive and opportunity to self-medicate, but his conditioning prevented him. As an alternative, he watched a mindless made-for-TV movie, and fell asleep in front of the ten o’clock news, reclining in the same chair which had been his station during Rachel’s revelations. He knew that nothing could ever again be “normal” after the events of that day (but for that matter, what had been “normal” about any of the events of the past nine months?). He knew that it would not behoove him to simply be passive about any of it, to take refuge in the ordinary demands of his life and work. He would be the first to demand of himself a more proactive stance. But not all at once, and not right away. He roused himself from his chair as the entry way clock struck midnight, whereupon Belle reminded him that there were some things left undone that he ought to have done. At such an hour, he discharged his obligation by simply letting her out the front door on her own recognizance; she considered it a treat and never abused the privilege. As he collapsed into his bed, stenciled geese still keeping their silent vigil, he caught a glimpse of his leather bound day-planner open on the top of his dresser. It was a comforting sight. Its contents, in their sheer dailiness, would buffer the stress inherent in coming to terms with the way in which his bishop and his daughter had each re-defined his reality.
The next day was a Friday. Father Coverdale arrived in his study at St Alban’s, as was his custom on weekdays, around seven forty-five. He logged on to his computer to check his electronic mail. Aside from the usual array of forwarded internet humor, there was a belated note of condolence from a seminary classmate from whom he had not heard in years, and a general mailing from the diocesan office reminding the clergy of various coming events and meetings, including the Committee on Vision and Structure, of which Miles was a member. (He double-checked his day-planner to be sure the event was properly entered.) After perusing a couple of message boards which he habitually haunted—it had been months, before Sharon’s death, since he had actually submitted a post, and wondered why he still made the effort to check them, but it was an ingrained habit —it was then time to head for the Chapel of the Annunciation, an alcove extending from the south wall of the church’s nave, where he was scheduled to officiate at the daily recitation of Morning Prayer. About a half-dozen parishioners, drawn from a likely pool of around thirty, joined him for this simple twenty minute devotion on any given morning. This group usually included the curate, but Friday was Justin’s day off. Following the service, it was back to the office for breakfast at his desk—invariably juice, coffee, a cheese Danish, and a bowl of cereal—which time he used to catch up on a few pages of reading in one of the various journals and newsletters to which he subscribed. In the meantime, Donna had arrived, and usually wanted to confer with him on one thing or another as it affected the day’s schedule. Only then, at around half past nine, did he feel himself ready to face the “to do” list.
Today’s agenda contained a new item, however, one which trumped the others on his previously carefully-prioritized list. It involved saying something to Audrey Newhouse—but just what, or how, or to what end, Miles was much less clear on. All he knew was that, during the subliminal stewing of a fitful night’s sleep, her name and visage figured prominently. He considered the visceral reactive feelings which surfaced as Rachel repeatedly cited her therapist as the authorizing agent for her mission of confrontation. As a para-clinician himself, he was aware of the standard emotional dynamics which underlay Audrey’s advice, Rachel’s execution of that advice, and his own response to that execution. It was all quite predictable. As a father whose grown daughter had just accused him of virtually criminal negligence which had inflicted on her a gaping psychic wound, however, none of these professional insights mattered. What mattered was that he was now beset with the task of essentially re-learning the last dozen years. Every time his wandering consciousness alighted on some event in Rachel’s life—her wedding, her college career, recitals she had performed, ordinary family times—he felt himself driven to reinterpret his memory of that event in the light of his staggering new knowledge. Rachel’s strange behavior at the time of Louis Ewald’s funeral suddenly made perfect sense. The fact that she was willing to spend those idle weeks with
He picked up the phone to call Audrey, but checked himself. What was he going to say? That he needed to see her professionally for assistance in assimilating and integrating the knowledge that his daughter was a victim of sexual abuse and that she held him and his poor dead wife largely responsible? Somehow, it didn’t seem quite appropriate. First, there would be an impression, at least, of a fiduciary conflict on Audrey’s part, as the clinical issues which Miles would present to her involved the same raw material over which she was already engaged with Rachel. Second, though Miles hated to admit it to himself, there was the matter of his own ego. He was Audrey’s pastor, and outside that framework, he thought of their relationship as quasi-collegial, as he had referred a couple of dozen counselees to her for more specialized help over the years. To approach her as one in need of the same sort of help now struck him in very much the wrong way. But neither of these objections, he realized, expressed the core of his reluctance. Miles was, in fact, angry with her. Why couldn’t she have just fixed the problem between Rachel and Greg in five minutes, like some radio call-in shrink? Why did she have to go digging around the areas of Rachel’s psyche which were nicely scabbed over, and might just as easily have been left alone? Burying a wife is difficult, but, as surely as the earth fills the grave, there is “closure” to the experience. Dealing with an over educated, drug-addicted, and unemployed son is nobody’s idea of good fortune, but it’s a hand that can be played. Trying to help a grown child through a rocky spot in a marriage is almost a ubiquitous parental experience. Learning to be politically coy with a bishop is a skill most clergy develop without even thinking about it. But crawling out from under a twelve-year pile of missed cues, illusions of well-being now exposed as chimeras, innocent but tragic mistakes in judgment, words which deserved to be spoken never given voice, deeds which demanded execution left gloriously undone—breaking free of these bonds was going to be excruciatingly painful, and Miles knew it, and Audrey Newhouse was a convenient object of blame. He didn’t even need to look up the number; she was one of the select few on the speed-dial list of his office phone. Dr Newhouse agreed to see her priest and friend and para-colleague and father of one of her more troubled clients as long as he agreed to watch her eat a turkey sandwich and an orange between therapy appointments at half past eleven that morning.
Miles arrived promptly at the suite of offices occupied by Lakeside Mental Health Associates downtown on High Street. Audrey’s office opened, through a sliding glass door, onto a deck directly overlooking the lake. It was a pleasant morning by the standards of mid-July in northern
“Well…”—he smiled ruefully—“…I guess you could say that.”
She responded quickly, “A little rough, was it?”
An innocent enough remark, perhaps. If he were a neutral third party watching two other people have this conversation, he might have thought nothing of it. But, in fact, it grated. “You could say that,” he replied, this time without the smile. “Acutally, it was pure hell. I don’t know that I’ve ever been through anything quite as devastating. Even
“I’m sorry, Miles.” Audrey looked up from the orange she was peeling and right into his eyes. “I really am.”
Miles felt a sub-aural rage begin to well up from the foundation of his soul, like the lowest notes of an organ’s thirty-two foot pedal stop. He paused to collect himself, then queried, “Sorry? For some reason, Audrey, that strikes me as an odd choice of words. Just what is it you’re sorry about?”
His unsuccessfully disguised ire caught her off balance. “I’m … just … sorry … What do you mean? … I’m sorry—sorry you have to be in such a difficult place as you’re in.”
A boat engine sputtered to life somewhere across the lake, subliminally catching their attention, and momentarily delaying Miles’s response. “Are you sorry for anything you did? Anything you said to Rachel?”
“Well, this is awkward, isn’t it—treading a little close to the client confidentiality line?”
Miles was intentionally cryptic. “I don’t know. Is it?”
Audrey swallowed the segment of orange she had been working on, set the rest of it down on her plate. “Miles, I have a PhD in clinical psychology and thirty years of experience as a therapist, but it doesn’t take any of that to tell me you’re annoyed, and not just generically—you’re annoyed at me.”
Now Miles took refuge is self-deprecating sarcasm. “I’m that transparent, am I?”
“Well, I do know you pretty well!” Audrey chortled.
“Look, I’m a bundle of undifferentiated emotion today, and I’ll admit it—you’re not only in my path, you’re my primary target. I got the feeling yesterday…” He hesitated. “I know this can sound a little…well…self-serving, I guess, but I got the feeling yesterday that I really wasn’t talking to my own daughter. I felt like I was talking to somebody who was…well…acting out a script. I guess I’m here today trying to track down the playwright.”
“And you think that might be me, I presume?”
“Ah, you’ve figured it out. You are, in fact, Dr Newhouse, my prime suspect.”
“And what was your first clue, Father Detective Coverdale?” There was a patina of levity in both their demeanors and voices, but neither one doubted that severe remonstrance was on call and available at a moment’s notice.
“Oh, let me see,” Miles answered. “I guess it was the phrase ‘Audrey said’ that kept popping up about every other sentence.”
“Look, Miles, I will neither hide nor apologize for the fact that I strongly suggested that Rachel have that conversation with you…”
Miles interrupted, “Conversation? Conversation?” The volume of his voice exceeded emphatic but stopped short of shouting. “That’s a rather bizarre spin, I would say. Conversations are usually two-way, aren’t they?”
Audrey sighed in a way that was clearly indicative of impatience. “Miles … whatever … call it what you will. I put her up to it, OK? Guilty as charged. Take me downtown and book me. Is that what you’re looking for?”
He parried this attempt to steer the meeting toward a conclusion. “Audrey, tell me, what does turning my daughter against me for something that happened years and years ago and over which I had no control—what does any of this have to do with trying to fix her relationship with her husband, which, as I recall, was the reason I sent her to you in the first place?”
Audrey was momentarily flummoxed, suggesting incredulity that Miles would even pose such a question, that someone of his position and experience would display such ignorance of the therapeutic milieu and how a person’s life issues are organically connected to one another. “Miles, I can see that you’re still in reaction to the shock of learning about Rachel’s sexual abuse. I know that’s a horrible blow. I can understand your anger.”
“Understand my anger?” Miles looked away from Audrey and out over the lake, straightening his back, unaware that his right fist was clenched. “Understand my anger?! Don’t patronize me, Audrey! Don’t pander to me!”
“Miles, forgive me, I don’t know what to say.” Audrey still gripped the orange she had not yet begun to peel. “I used my best clinical judgment. Sometimes that judgment is wrong, heaven knows, but I have to tell you, I don’t think it was in this case. I think I did the right thing in having Rachel confront you. You’re my friend, and it grieves me to see you hurt, but it was the right thing to do.”
Miles stood as he turned to face his interlocutor. “This isn’t going anywhere, is it? You exercise your ‘clinical judgment’ and I lose a daughter. I guess that works for you, but it sure as hell doesn’t work for me.” Saying nothing further, he headed through the doorway back into the office. He was subliminally aware of Audrey remonstrating with him as he left (the word “please” was the only vestige of her plea that eventually floated to the surface of his consciousness), but he did not break his stride until he was touching the door handle of his car.
Arriving back at the parish office, he immediately retrieved the mail from the cubby-hole arrangement on the counter just inside the door. As he thumbed through the stack (mostly fundraising pleas from various social service agencies and other assorted causes), Donna Lessing overlooked his discourtesy in completely ignoring her presence. “Father, Tracy Lindholm just called confirming her one o’clock with you. Is that still on?”
Miles did not want to admit that he had completely forgotten about the counseling appointment he scheduled two weeks earlier—seemingly an eon before his bruising encounter with Bishop Landry, and the crushing revelations of his beloved firstborn child. “
Miles got back into the gray Mercury and, after making a mental inventory of the contents of his refrigerator—or, more precisely, the lack thereof—he headed toward Bea’s, the Italian Beef place on the south edge of town. But no sooner had he made the left turn onto
Tracy Lindholm was a forty-year-old divorced mother with custody of her three teenage children, whom she supported creatively on the salary of a kindergarten teacher. Their father was long out of the picture, and while child support was mandated by the court, the order was unenforceable because he could not be found. The family did not have long roots either at St Alban’s or in the Episcopal Church, but had been hanging around the fringes of parish life for about five years. More recently, the youngest child, Kelsey, had decided to become an acolyte, adding an element of discipline to their previously erratic Sunday attendance patterns, and providing the parish clergy with an opportunity for some informal pastoral interraction with her. Kelsey’s two older brothers—Alan and Dustin (only thirteen months apart from one another in age)—had been showing up at youth group activities, a motivation which was less religious than hormonal, both responding to the magnetic appeal of two particular young ladies already active in the group. The increased level of her children’s involvement at St Alban’s gave
Due to his aborted eating plans, Miles arrived back at the parish office ahead of his appointment, and had time to continue a volley a telephone tag with a colleague on the diocesan Vision and Structure committee. Was this the third time he had talked to Oksanna Brown’s answering machine? Or was it only the second?
“So what you’re telling me, Father, is to ‘hang in there,’ to ‘keep on keeping on?’”
“Well …”—Miles was taken aback by the bluntness of her question—“when you put it that way, it does seem platitudinous, I realize. But…yes, actually. Very often we quit doing the right thing too soon because it doesn’t yield immediate results. Sometimes there isn’t just a simple cause and effect. Sometimes there’s a long delay between the cause and the effect, so we quit doing constructive things too soon because there’s no payoff, or we keep doing destructive things too long because there are no negative consequences. But it all catches up with us in the end.” Miles was simultaneously impressed with this outburst of wisdom, and congizant of the fact that it fell way short of its mark.
Miles was not ordinarily uncomfortable with extended silence in such situations, but this time he was more than uncomfortable; he felt the silence as foreboding, portentous, and elected to break it. “
“Father Coverdale,” she responded, her facial muscles suddenly relaxed, “I thought you would never ask.”
“Well,” Miles responded after an appropriate pause, “I am, as they say, ‘all ears.”
“What I haven’t told you, Father, goes deeper than the stuff we’ve been talking about, I’m afraid.” She took a deep breath, then exhaled vigorously. Miles was silently attentive. He was relieved that their conversation seemed on the verge of no longer being stuck in the same cycling loop, but too emotionally weary himself to care very intensely what it was Tracy was about to reveal. “I’m an incest survivor. My grandfather abused me from before I can remember until I was a young teenager.”
“
“Father Coverdale, if I knew the answer to that, I’d be a hell of a lot happier, now, wouldn’t I? I mean…I’ve done pretty well considering the hand life has dealt me, huh? I have a college degree, and I do my job well. But I guess I wouldn’t be sitting here taking up your time if I weren’t pretty well messed up, right?”
“‘Messed up’ is a relative term,
Tracy Lindholm smiled broadly, and wiped a tear from the corner of one eye. “Thank-you, Father, thank-you. I feel like I have such hope now!”
