Vengeance Is Mine (4 page)

As Michele walked down the hall to the small refrigerator in the conference room, she mentally reviewed Cindy's file. Cindy was fifteen, the only child of a broken marriage. Vera Kline was remarried and lived in Wisconsin with her new husband. She hadn't contested Dale's suit for custody, and Cindy had visited her mother only once in the four years since the divorce. Cindy had told Louise that her mother didn't seem interested in her.

Michele opened the refrigerator door and took out two Cokes, diet for her and regular for Cindy. Louise had made a personal note on Cindy's file. The Klines were regular churchgoers. That meant Michele had to be cautious about discussing abortion. The Pro Choice Clinic was a real thorn in the side of the clergy.

By the time Michele returned, Cindy looked much calmer. She had stopped crying, and she looked composed and determined.

“I have to get an abortion, Miss Layton. And nobody can know about it. Especially my dad.”

“That's one option.” Michele nodded. “Do you think your boyfriend will be able to help you financially?”

Cindy shuddered. “I—I can't tell him. He wouldn't help anyway. There's no way.”

“That's up to you, Cindy.” Michele nodded again. “But before we start talking seriously about abortion, I want to tell you about some other alternatives. Will you just listen and try to keep an open mind?”

Cindy nodded. Her lips were set in a stubborn line, and Michele knew she was wasting her time, but she had a duty to explore all the options with her patients.

“There's an excellent boarding facility in southern Minnesota. It accepts pregnant girls from thirteen to eighteen and has a staff of accredited teachers. You could have your baby and give it up for adoption without missing any time in school.”

“No.” Cindy was adamant.

“How about talking to your father, then? I'll be glad to help you with that. He might be a lot more supportive than you think he'll be.”

“You don't understand.” Cindy took a deep breath and gripped the arms of her chair. “I can't talk to my dad. He's the one that got me pregnant.”

CHAPTER 4

Sister Kate arranged an assortment of cookies on a silver platter and poured steaming water into the teapot to warm it. The coffee was already perking, and the aroma made her feel a little less tired. This had been a long afternoon. Poor Gustie was still upset over the pope's refusal to ordain women in the church as priests. She had told Sister Kate that she'd always dreamed of being a father. And Major Pietre had moved all his furniture in front of his bedroom door as a barricade against the Communists. It had taken her forty-five minutes to talk him into moving it back again. Monsignor Wickes had just started to give his Ferrari a second coat of paint when Father Murphy dropped a glass in the connecting bathroom. Now there was a large splotch of candy-apple red enamel on the rug that would never come out. And then, in the midst of the chaos, the archbishop had arrived. Thank goodness Bishop Donahue had diverted him with a game of chess.

“Sister Kate? I'm sorry to interrupt, but I really must speak to you about something very confidential.”

Mother Superior stood in the kitchen doorway, looking grim. She was fingering her rosary, and she was obviously upset.

“Come and sit down, Mother. I'll pour you a cup of coffee.”

“Oh, no, thank you. I'll wait for everyone else.” Mother Superior took the chair across from Sister Kate and leaned forward conspiratorially.

“It's Sister Cecelia. I've been praying for her, you know. I'm terribly afraid she's endangering her immortal soul.”

“Sometimes I can't sleep at night, so I stand vigil. Sister Cecelia has been meeting Bishop Donahue in his room. They close the door, Sister Kate, and that's a breach of decorum.”

Sister Kate nodded. Mother Superior was obsessed with the notion of sex between nuns and priests. It was easy to guess which direction this conversation would take.

“I'll speak to Cissy and remind her to leave the door open, Mother. And I'm sure she'll be very grateful for your prayers and your concern.”

“Thank you, Sister Kate.” Mother Superior smiled. “Do you really think His Holiness wore a ski costume like the one you put on my paper doll?”

“I'm sure he did.” Sister Kate nodded. “We tend to forget that he was once a boy.”

Cissy came into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Everything's quiet upstairs. Monsignor Wickes is washing his rug with turpentine. It smells terrible, but it looks like it's coming out. Should I tell him to sleep in the extra room tonight?”

“That's a good idea, Cissy.”

“I asked what everyone wanted. One coffee, two teas, and one Bloody Mary. That's for the monsignor, but he was just kidding. He really wants plain tomato juice. And the major found a new game to play on the computer, something about foxholes. He wants a grape Nehi, just like Radar drinks on
MASH
. Gustie says she's too depressed to want anything.”

“This cinnamon rusk might change her mind.” Sister Kate handed a small china plate to Cissy. “Tell her she can have chocolate milk if we make it with artificial sweetener.”

The teapot was warm. Sister Kate dumped out the water, filled the ball with the special English blend that Archbishop Ciminski liked, and poured boiling water over it.

“Could you carry the cookies, Mother? I'll bring everything else. And would you like to pour today?”

“Oh, I'd love to.” Mother Superior beamed. “I used to do a lot of entertaining, you know. Faculty teas, sponsors' dinners, that sort of thing. And I promise I won't spill tea on the archbishop again.”

 

 

Dale Kline ushered Michele into his office and waited until she was seated in the leather chair opposite his desk. Then he pressed down the intercom.

“Hold all my calls, Helen. If Al Reinholz stops by to pick up his will, have him sign both copies and witness it. And give Jim a ring. Set up an appointment on Monday for the property settlement. Oh, yeah. Helen? Does Ray Perini have any outstanding balance on the books? Good! Find out who's handling his funeral, and send flowers with my business card. See what you can get for twenty that doesn't look cheap.”

Dale turned to Michele with a smile.

“Well, Michele, what can I do for you? Is somebody finally suing the Pro Choice Clinic?”

“No, this time it's personal, Dale. Cindy came in to see me this afternoon. She's pregnant.”

“Oh, Christ!”

Dale's face turned white, and he swallowed hard.

“I knew I shouldn't have let her go to that dance. When they get to be teenagers, you've got to watch them every minute.”

Dale's hands were shaking as he ran them through his carefully styled hair. He looked down at the desk, unable to meet Michele's eyes.

“Did she tell you who the boy is?”

Michele sighed deeply. Did Dale really think she'd buy a stupid story like that?

“She told me everything, Dale, and I do mean
everything
. I've already arranged for an abortion this afternoon. Now give me three reasons why I shouldn't go directly to the police. Incest's a crime, just in case you've forgotten your legal training.”

“I never meant to.” Dale's voice was muffled as he covered his face with his hands. “You've got to believe I tried. She looks just like Vera. And she pranced around the house in those skimpy little clothes! I—I got drunk one night. And she cuddled up to me on the couch. She said she was lonesome and she wanted me to hold her. Honest to God, I couldn't help it.”

Michele shifted in her chair, made tense by her emotions. She felt nothing but loathing and rage for any man who seduced his own daughter.

Dale looked up. He had an earnest expression on his face, and his eyes were moist.

“I know it was wrong. I just don't know what got into me. I give you my solemn word it'll never happen again.”

“That's not good enough, Dale. I've heard that line before.”

“What do you want me to do, then?”

“I've got a friend who teaches at a girls' school in Connecticut. I want you to enroll Cindy right now. We'll keep her at the clinic tonight, and she'll be ready to travel by tomorrow.”

“Okay, I'll do whatever you say. You're not going to tell anybody about this, are you, Michele?”

“Not if you hold up your end of the bargain.”

Dale looked sick as he watched Michele dial a number and push the phone across the desk to him. He took the phone gingerly, almost as if he were afraid to touch her fingers. Michele almost smiled as he cleared his throat and made the arrangements. It was about time somebody laid down the law to Dale Kline.

A moment later it was done. Cindy would leave by plane in the morning and arrive at the school in time for dinner.

“Uh . . . thanks, Michele.” Dale replaced the phone with shaking fingers. “If there's ever anything I can do for you . . .”

“Sure, Dale.”

Luckily Dale's secretary was away from her desk. Michele hurried through the deserted reception area and down the stairs. Her legs were shaking, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she pushed open the door and stepped out into the freezing air. Thank goodness that was over!

The clinic was only two blocks away, and Michele didn't bother to zip up her jacket. Something about being so close to Dale had made her feel contaminated. The cold air helped. She almost ran the last half block to the clinic door.

“That bad, huh?” Louise raised her eyebrows as Michele closed the door to her office and leaned against it, breathing hard.

“Worse. I threatened to turn him over to the police if he didn't cooperate. And I didn't have a shred of evidence. Cindy told me she'd never sign a complaint against her own father.”

“So you bluffed him.” Louise grinned. “Maybe you ought to take up playing poker, Michele. I think you're a natural.”

“I don't know what I would have done if he'd denied everything. But it's all set, Louise. Twenty-four hours from now Cindy'll be starting a new life in Connecticut.”

Louise looked concerned as she noticed Michele's shaking hands.

“Maybe I'd better take your last appointment. You don't look like you're in any shape to handle the lady from Foley.”

“I forgot I had another appointment.” Michele poured herself a hot cup of coffee. “What's her problem, Louise?”

“She's twenty-nine years old, and she's got eleven kids. She wants to know if we can make her husband board up the bedroom window. He told her that inhaling night air causes pregnancy.”

“Oh, no.” Michele sighed deeply. “Give me a minute and then send her in. I'm fine now, Louise. Really.”

“No, you're not.” Louise opened the door and turned to look back. “You just added cream and sugar to your coffee and you drink it black.”

 

 

“There's no chicken leg on this wall, Brian.”

Judith Dahlquist stood on top of a chair holding a Kentucky Fried Chicken ad in her hand. A collage of vegetables, desserts, breads, beverages, and entrées covered three walls of Brian Nordstrom's big kitchen on First Avenue. Even though the fourth wall was far from completion, at least half of the bright pink enamel was covered. Judith could understand Brian's rush to redecorate his kitchen. It was impossible to cook in a room that looked like the inside of a Pepto-Bismol bottle.

“It's there somewhere.” Brian was firm. “Greg glued it up last night. Did you look behind the refrigerator?”

“If it's behind the refrigerator, no one's going to see it anyway.”

“Maybe not, but I'll know it's there. If you put up another chicken leg, it'll destroy the artistic integrity of my kitchen.”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, Brian! Art is nothing but appearance. You don't get what you can't see.”

Judith climbed down and faced Brian angrily. He glared back at her.

“Maybe you can't see the other chicken leg, but it exists, and we both know it.”

“It doesn't exist for me, Brian. It's like the tree that falls in the forest. It makes no sound if no one's there to hear it.”

“Oh, Judith!” Brian sounded exasperated. “That's an entirely different case. You never did understand Berkeley.”

Greg Hendricks looked up from the picture he was trimming. It sounded as if Judith and Brian were gearing up for one of their classic arguments.

“Hey!” Greg held up his hands in a time-out sign. “Don't start shouting at each other. We've got neighbors next door.”

“It's all right, Greg.” Brian grinned at him. “We've got the windows closed, and nobody can hear us. It's not like the apartment.”

Judith laughed out loud. Brian had almost lost the lease on his apartment after one of their marathon debates on artificial intelligence. The manager didn't seem to understand that art professors like Brian were born to argue.

“Here, Judith.” Brian handed her a picture of a giant walnut. “Ditch the chicken leg and put this up.”

Judith bit back her retort about the appropriateness of nuts. There was no use starting anything with Brian now. They didn't have time before the WinterGame meeting.

“Less than half a wall to go, and we're through.” Judith brushed lacquer on the back of the picture and slapped it into place. “Actually it's looking good, Brian. Maybe your idea wasn't so crazy after all.”

Brian had made an offer on the four-bedroom house across from the campus Newman Center more than four months ago. Even though the price was right, Brian hadn't expected to get the house. He and Judith had co-founded GALA, and the community wasn't very accepting when it came to homosexuals and lesbians.

Luckily the owners of the house had been more interested in Brian's credit rating than his personal life. The papers had been signed last month, and since then Brian and Greg had put all their free time into making the place livable.

The first thing they'd done was cut an archway between two small upstairs bedrooms to make a large office for Greg. Bookcases lined the walls, from floor to ceiling. They held all of Greg's history books with plenty of room for new acquisitions.

The attic, stretching the full length of the house, was perfect for Brian's studio. They had found a type of spray insulation that could be mixed with paint, and now the rafters and walls were covered with a coat of fuzzy white that reminded Judith of freshly fallen snow.

Greg glanced at his watch. “You two had better get cleaned up if you want to make that meeting on time. I'll keep at it until it's time for my night class.”

“I'll come over tomorrow and help you with the final coat of lacquer,” Judith said. “Toni's not coming back from Chicago until next weekend, and that big old loft of mine is lonesome.”

Brian wiped his hands on a rag and ran water in the sink. “We'll throw a homecoming party for Toni on Saturday. She's going to
plotz
when she sees this kitchen.”

“That'll be fun, Brian.” Judith began to smile. “We can spend all night arguing the ontology of the chicken leg.”