This Gorgeous Game (15 page)

“I don’t think anyone will see the collar the same way ever again,” Father MacKinley says, resigned. “We live in a different era now. Priests aren’t regarded as they used to be.” The sadness in Father MacKinley’s eyes—sadness mixed with kindness—seeing it makes me want to weep and I can’t help but wonder,
How could anybody ever accuse someone like him?
because it is simply unimaginable. Impossible that he would do something so awful.

I look around and notice that everyone has stopped eating. Even Ash and Jada. Each of us look back and forth between Father MacKinley and Father Mark, like at a tennis match, watching the two priests in the two collars, conspicuous now at either end of the table.

Father Mark takes a sip of wine. “I’ve spoken to the Bishop about the situation.”

“And?” Father MacKinley sounds hopeful.

“The Diocese of Boston keeps my royalties in a trust.” Father Mark takes another sip, dabbing the side of his mouth with his napkin. “That’s how Olivia’s contest is funded.” He pauses, smiling at me, and my stomach churns. “But I’ve asked that they open the account to parishes in danger of closing. After all, it’s not as if I have any use for the money and it’s a waste to the faithful just sitting there. St. Theresa’s might be the first parish to benefit.”

“Oh, Father! That is so generous.” Mom beams.

“It’s priests like you that will help our Church get back on its feet,” Luke states with conviction.

“Mark, what a good thing you’ve done for that community. What a wonderful idea.” Father MacKinley shakes his head, like he can’t find the words to fully express his gratitude.

Greenie, on my left, leans forward, gazing at Father Mark like he’s some kind of hero, and I notice that everyone else does the same—Luke, Mom, Father MacKinley, Sister Mary Margaret, Ash, and Jada. They are absorbed in his every word, drawn to him as if he is a magnet.

And I know what they feel. I’ve felt his pull, too. From the very first moment.

Only Sister June is unmoved. She looks at me now, looks at me hard, like she’s trying to see something, find something in my eyes.

“It’s really nothing,” Father Mark says, deflecting the adoration flowing toward him, though I can tell he’s enjoying it. “Let’s turn toward happier subjects. I’m sorry I brought up something so dark at what’s supposed to be a party for my protégé.”

I force a laugh, feeling self-conscious when everyone turns to look at me when Father Mark calls me “his” as if I am a possession.
His
possession. Again I meet Sister June’s eyes, her eyes searching mine, and a lightbulb switches to
on
and for a moment I am blinded by doubt and terror and the unfinished questions
could I, am I, is Father Mark, is he?
emerge from somewhere buried deep, but before they can become fully formed Jada steps in, taking Father Mark’s comment as an invitation for funny Olivia anecdotes, and soon Ash joins her and the somber mood that has fallen across the dinner party lightens up again. Waves of relief wash over me, relief that Jada saves me from following those questions to their end, and the light that went on so bright, so quickly, switches back to
off
and those horrible suspicions that make me a terrible person for even thinking them, half-alive as they are,
were
, scurry back into their hiding place, and I wish for them to never come out again.
Never.

THE NEXT EVENING FATHER MARK AND I SIT NEXT TO
each other on chairs that are tightly packed into this intimate space where everyone listens with rapt attention to James McDaniel, the famous Irish writer, memoirist, who reads from his newest work of creative nonfiction.

I clap along with the rest of the audience in between one selection and the next.

The celebration is invitation only, which Father Mark kept reminding me in the car on our way here, but I don’t realize how exclusive, how fancy it is until we arrive. I feel strange to be among the chosen, the writers, editors, publishers, and professors, the Boston intellectual elite, in this beautiful room with its glittering wall sconces, its shelves that reach the ceiling packed with the rarest of rare books, the Persian carpet soft, luxurious under our feet, and the air with its musty smell of greatness and history.

I don’t belong here. I am out of place. Too young, too inexperienced. Too insignificant. I haven’t earned the right to a spot in this room.

Father Mark’s arms rest one on each thigh, parallel to his legs, his hands gripping his knees. McDaniel’s voice, his words are released into the room one after the other like a strand of pearls, and Father Mark turns to look at me sitting in the antique wooden chair next to him, the chair with the curved armrests on which I refuse to rest even an elbow. I don’t understand or listen to McDaniel and only my ears alert me that he is speaking because I am concentrating on the hem of my dress, how it doesn’t quite cover my knees when I sit, and how the capped sleeves leave my arms almost bare. I should have dressed differently, more appropriately, worn a suit, a pantsuit, even though it is late June and hot and sticky and I don’t even own a pantsuit but I should have bought one for tonight. Instead of professional and appropriate I feel yet again like a girl, a little girl at her first communion, a girl in a frilly party dress among the adults who know better, who are learned and wise, who must know something that I don’t know because what I do know is that something isn’t right, though I can’t put my finger on it, can’t quite articulate what
it
is.

What
is
it?

The other thing of which I am painfully, uncomfortably aware is that I am here by the grace of Father Mark D. Brendan, as his guest—this he does not let me or anyone else forget. Over and over, he says to everyone who stops to say hello to him, to congratulate him on this or that most recent award he’s won, “This is Olivia Peters. She is here with me, as my guest.” They smile, shake my hand, and then walk away. As if they
know
. As if they are uncomfortable with my presence, too. This lack of belonging,
my
lack of belonging, registers fully as McDaniel continues to read, each word adding another pearl onto the long, glamorous strand that I can not appreciate in this moment, though I wish, I
wish
I could.

Something is very wrong.

I look over at Father Mark, I study his face, his chin tilted slightly upward, his eyes, closed now, as if to better hear the words traveling toward us from the podium. On his lips, a smile. He seems enraptured. A chandelier hangs overhead and he is bathed in soft light, the top of his thick hair turned silver under a cascade of crystal.

His eyes pop open and in less than a blink he turns to me, catches me staring, watching. Instead of being flustered or even annoyed he is gleeful to see I have been taking him in, and his smile broadens until it is almost frightening.

I am frightened. Father Mark frightens me. This is what is wrong.

This.

In this moment—this very particular moment, with me reddening and him smiling—I see something a tad sinister in his eyes, calculating, measuring,
appraising
me like I am a bauble, a jewel with karats, clarity, cut, a
possession.
Something moves inside me, turns to ice, and a small, cold bead of warning lodges itself in the bottom curve of my heart and I think,
How have I not noticed this before?
and
Maybe I didn’t allow myself to
and
Why did it take me so long to see?

“What’s the matter, Olivia?” he whispers, leaning close, so close I can feel his breath on my ear, reminding me of Jamie and his breath on my cheek and my neck, and I want to shove Father Mark away because he should not remind me of anything having to do with Jamie because Jamie he is not and I don’t want memories of Jamie tainted with Father Mark. But his hand, Father Mark’s hand, brushes across the back of my dress, and his hair presses slightly into mine.

I can feel it. All of it. It is all so clear.

And I freeze, determined not to move. It would be weird to shift away, like he was doing something other than simply asking whether I am okay. Then he would know I know something is wrong, if I move away. So I stay still, feel his warm breath, his body leaning toward mine, and I whisper, “Nothing, nothing at all, Father Mark,” and he whispers, “Good,” and sits back upright, closing his eyes again, enraptured again, by the reading.

Is it really the reading that has enraptured him? Taken him?

I sit there, next to Father Mark, wishing away this reading, this event that I was supposed to love, soak up, feel lucky to attend. I cannot lose myself in the words or the moment or Father Mark’s presence,
because
of his presence. I want to bolt, run away, run as fast as I can as far as I can but I don’t. Leaving would be strange, would call attention to that sharp-edged, frosty crystal that has taken up residence in my heart.

When McDaniel stops reading and the questions finally stop coming and everyone gets up and there is a reception, I stay because I’ve no other choice even though what I want is to go home. I think about calling a cab but decide it would be too conspicuous. I am afraid to call attention, to make everything worse than it already is, and Father Mark is my ride and I know, I know he will be upset and offended if I leave in a cab. So I smile and I mingle and I try to remember that these people are wonderful connections and Father Mark introduces me like I am some rising star and I know I should feel grateful, I should feel gratitude, I know I should, but for some reason this time, this awkward feeling and wishing I am elsewhere doesn’t go away and what I do feel isn’t anything resembling gratitude at all.

I plead with myself,
Olivia, you are wasting this opportunity and for what? Some indescribable feeling you get when Father Mark smiles? That is just plain stupid, Olivia.
I swallow this advice and try to pull myself together and nod thank you when I get congratulations and someone compliments me on my dress, the dress I wish I had not worn because it makes me stand out among everyone else in the room and the last thing I want is to be noticeable, and worse, noticeable in a girlish way, but there you have it.

Finally, after what seems like hours, it is over.

Time to go.

“Come on, Olivia,” Father Mark says, turning to me, smiling again, a smile I don’t want to read because I don’t want to know what lurks behind it or how to understand its meaning. “Let’s go to the car so I can get you home.” He looks at his watch, pulling back his black shirtsleeve. “You have work to do, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” I say, mustering a small laugh. “Of course,” I say, forcing myself to sound enthusiastic even if my enthusiasm about my writing, about
him
, is not just faltering anymore but gone.

We get to his car, his modest car given him by the church, and he opens the passenger door for me.

“After you,” he says, which immobilizes me for a second, because I don’t like the sound of this or the order of things, and wish he would just get into his side of the car first and not let me in like it’s some, like it’s a…I don’t know. I just don’t like this.

In the car, on the ride home, I am silent.

Father Mark, though, he talks. He talks about the classical music that plays on the CD, with its beautiful, haunting cello and violin, telling me how he thought I would like it, that he chose it especially for me, that he knew I’d be in the car and he wanted me to listen to it, that when he listens to this piece in particular he thinks of me.

As the strings sing their melancholy notes I want to disappear, to become invisible. I want to press Eject, take the CD and break it in two. Instead, I count the blocks and shut out his voice, his comments, his romantic classical music that makes him think of me. Three…two…one more block and we are idling in front of my house.

“Thank you,” I say, without looking at him, avoiding his gaze, opening the door to let myself out, to welcome the warm, humid air that already sticks to the right side of my body, my foot on the sidewalk, telling myself, cheering myself, that I am almost home. “I’ll see you in class.”

His hand grabs my left arm, holding me, stopping me from leaving.

I stop, pause, wait.
Maybe he’ll just let go.
But he doesn’t. His grip burns.

“Olivia! Look at me.” A demand, not a request.

One foot on the sidewalk, one foot still inside the car, I give up and turn to him.

In his hand is an envelope, a manila envelope. He takes a deep breath. “What I have for you is something very dear to me. A story. A special one. My newest. Still unpublished. In fact, I’ve just written it, very quickly, over the last few weeks. No one else has seen it—”

“I hope your editor loves it,” I interrupt, trying to stop him from continuing.

He is undaunted.

“—and I wish you to read it. I want to discuss it soon. I
need
you to read this—”

Needs
me to?

“—it is very important to me, that you do this. Do you understand?”

I say nothing.

“Olivia!”
Oh-liv-ee-aah!

I do nothing.

But his hands, rough, violent, they push, shove, force the envelope at me. It sits there for a second, against my body, threatening to slide to the ground before I grasp it and turn away.

“Olivia,” he says again because he won’t stop saying my name. Refuses to. “Promise me you’ll read it.”

I nod yes.

“Promise me out loud,” he commands.

But I don’t. Won’t.

“I’ll see you in class,” I say, and get out of the car, feeling suffocated, dying to get into the house and out of his view and to stop, by all means, stop any contact, praying with every fiber of my being that he’ll forget about me, drop this charade, and
just let me go
.

I do not want any more of it. Of this. Of
him
.

This I know. I know this now. I am certain.

I refuse to look back, to wave at him from the front door, though I hear the sound of his car idling, waiting, watching for me to disappear inside.