Till Death (26 page)

She threw a sheet over him. She pulled the coverlet up about his shoulders. It was a fairly cool night.

She dressed and left the rectory, making sure the front door was locked.

She would not sleep tonight. Not a wink. She felt cheap, used. And yet, she wondered, was this God’s will? Could it possibly be God’s will?

At one point she felt that she had been manipulating him, at another that he had been using her.

Certainly lovemaking was not all that she had expected. In most of the romance novels she’d read, there was passion, deliberateness, tender, loving concern for one another. The lovemaking she’d seen on the screen—movies or TV—frequently was explicit. But unless it was a rape, filled with violence, it usually contained at least some of the romance qualities.

She couldn’t stop thinking of the song: Is that all there is?

Well, clearly, tonight’s adventure was not typical of what the experience could be were both parties sober.

She began to think that this really had not been the will of God. Maybe she had manipulated God. She had wanted Rick Casserly so much and for so long a time that her desire had muddled her normally dependable reasoning.

On the other hand, who was she to, in effect, second-guess God? What this could develop into over time no one could know. She recalled the aphorism, If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.

Still, a long time ago she had decided that Rick Casserly was the only man for whom she would undress. And so it had been. If only he had been abstemious early in the evening.

On the other hand, if he hadn’t been drunk it was safe to assume nothing between them would have happened.

So, the ice had been broken. It only remained to be seen who would fall in.

He woke with a start. Where moments before he had been deep in a dreamless sleep, now he was instantly wide awake.

He looked at the clock on his nightstand. Eleven o’clock,
A.M.
or
P.M.
? The sun was shining brightly—
A.M.
How could he have slept so long? The last time he had slept to midday was … last summer’s vacation.

He hated this feeling. He was completely vulnerable. He didn’t know what had happened. He didn’t know how he had gotten into his bed. He threw back the covers and tried to stand. He staggered backward onto the bed. His head throbbed. He wouldn’t try that again right away.

He lay back on the bed slowly and carefully. Gently he lowered his head to the pillow. Gradually, the events of last evening came into focus.

The St. Ursula gathering. The food was good. The alcohol better. Argumentation and debate. The clash of Morgan and Anderson.

Becker broke up the party by announcing that he and Peg had a long trip ahead of them.

That was it. He remembered watching everyone leave. And then things got fuzzy.

Was it possible he had actually driven himself home? In such a condition? If he really had done it, it had to be a major miracle or the prayers of his dear late and sainted mother, Bridget Casserly.

Cautiously, he raised himself again. Last night’s clothing was flung carelessly on top of previously worn clothing. He might have been able to do that. If he were lucky enough to have driven himself home, disrobing would have been child’s play.

He looked down and studied himself. Dried, caked semen. What could have caused that? He hadn’t had a wet dream for ages.

Had someone driven him home? Probably. Was someone responsible for all the rest of this? Probably. But who? Who would know?

He dialed Father Koesler. Good old dependable Father Koesler.

“Bob,” Casserly began, “you’re going to find this hard to believe, but I just woke up.”

“I believe that to the same extent that I believe Zack Tully is going to have to replenish his liquor supply You drank almost all of it.”

Casserly groaned. “What happened after everyone else left?”

“You were pretty well out of it by then.” Koesler went on to explain the discussion between himself and Father Tully concerning how to dispose of the body—Casserly’s. He concluded by citing Dora’s offer to take the body home. “So that,” Koesler said, “is how you got from here to there. Don’t you remember any of it?”

“Pieces. And that not very clearly.” Casserly had no intention whatsoever of mentioning that he was naked, nor the bit about the semen. “Look, Bob, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about messing up the party.”

“Actually, you didn’t. You contributed rather nicely from time to time. It was as if you timed it carefully. You were holding your own—albeit a bit marginally. The ultimate damage was done as the guests were leaving. You were left alone in the basement with Dora. You filled a glass with whiskey and downed half of it before anyone could stop you. Zack and I arrived too late to call a total halt.”

“Half a glass of booze!” Casserly said it with almost a sense of awe.

“Take it easy today, Rick. Time is about all that will help.”

“I don’t think I’m capable of anything more. Oh, by the way: My car?”

“In Zack’s parking lot next to the church.”

“Thanks. All I can say is you
can
teach this old dog new tricks. I’ll never let this happen again.”

They signed off.

Things were getting a bit clearer. Not anywhere close to normalcy. But improving.

Dora! Dora, Dora, Dora! So she brought me home, he thought. Armed with this essential information he tried once again to put the pieces together. For quite a long time, though in the end fruitlessly, he tried to recall the drive home. Nothing. He must have been completely unconscious.

Okay. She got him home, somehow. He remembered how difficult it had been for him to walk to the rectory and up those stairs—even with help. That must have been Dora.

After climbing the stairs there was another blackout.

He remembered feeling cranky initially when someone made him stand while peeling off his clothing. That very definitely was Dora. At the time he remembered wanting to participate and he had focused all the concentration available to do just that. Now, hours later, he had to concentrate again to recall what had happened.

But now he cut through to it. He remembered reciprocating.

She had looked terrific. With the possible exception of Lil, Dora was the most breathtaking sight he’d ever seen. She had made herself a gift to him. He had been in no condition to resist it. One glimpse of the essential Dora and his resistance was gone.

He remembered the frenzy in bed … then the lights went out again. Everything after an ungainly intercourse was blacked out. Everything until he’d awakened with a start minutes ago.

Feelings of embarrassment assaulted him from every angle.

He was embarrassed that he had so badly lost control of himself and drunk so irresponsibly. It was likely that only Zack, Bob, and Dora knew how very bad the situation was. Casserly was certain that the two priests would keep the incident to themselves. Undoubtedly they had helped a drunk more than once. Possibly even a drunken priest. Besides, they were men used to keeping secrets and confidences.

Dora, the central character in last night’s fiasco, was an X factor.

Good Lord, he thought, if his alcohol-saturated memory could be trusted, he’d had intercourse with her! There was no way that animal response could be called lovemaking.

He knew, principally from counseling and listening to confessions, as well as from books and movies and TV, that what had happened between them last night would have a far more potent effect on Dora than on him.

He could feel bad that it had happened. He also could put it out of his mind fairly soon and more or less completely. It could become no more than a lascivious memory—something developed into a fantasy.

He couldn’t totally understand all that this sexual activity could mean for Dora. He would have to be a woman to comprehend that. All he knew—and of this he was certain—was that it had meant, would mean, more, much more, to her than to him.

He considered the event no more than a drunken mistake. She probably would view it as at least the beginning of a commitment.

And that led to the source of his third embarrassment: Lil.

She must have left with the others. So she couldn’t have known how falling-down drunk he’d been. Above all, she wouldn’t know about Dora.

He had reassured Lil time and again that they were married in every sense except for some official paperwork. Either he had been kidding himself and her, or he was serious.

And if he was serious, he had just committed adultery.

Lots of times he had counseled married people who had strayed and were repentant, truly sorry for it. And always he had counseled them not to confess to the spouse. Telling what happened would more than likely open a can of worms that might better be buried.

Now, for the first time, he was challenged by the same choice.

To top it off, he had the mother of all headaches.

There was no alternative than to tough out this indisposition and face the music.

The last time he’d been with Lil, she had been mad as hell at him. She didn’t know it, but she had an even better reason for anger now. She probably figured that his absence from their apartment was merely a continuation of their quarrel. Fine. Let her continue thinking this. They would be getting together eventually.

Better to have her on the back burner and try to get a handle on how Dora was going to react to last night.

Seventeen

As it turned out, Thursday, mercifully, was a nothing day. Casserly spent the hours nursing this gigantic hangover and fearing that anyone—especially Lil or Dora—might call.

The telephone didn’t ring all day. A small miracle for which he was duly grateful.

Friday was something else again. At any rate, it was something that made him grateful for Thursday.

Friday opened the gates to the little rabbit punches of life.

The janitor reported on the church roofing. It was deteriorating with great dispatch. Casserly assured him that help was on the way. Even as they spoke, the geniuses downtown were debating funding.

He didn’t tell the janitor that Tom Becker had volunteered to finance the fix-up. Casserly had dissuaded his friend from doing so. Were Becker to underwrite the project he would be dragged inexorably into endless repairs and rebuilding.

Far more important to Rick now was this evening’s meeting of the Catechetical Committee. Dora Riccardo, always faithful to these meetings, would surely be present. This would be their first face-to-face since Wednesday night’s debacle. He was not looking forward to the encounter.

While trying to think of how he might relate to Dora after what had happened, the phone rang. He was about to let the answering service pick up, then had second thoughts. He recognized the voice immediately. It was Lil. And she knew it was he.

He lit a cigarette, then coughed. After a hiatus of some twenty-five years, he was smoking again! He promised himself that the recidivism would be temporary—just till he was able to work through this crisis.

Lil identified the sound of his inhaling. It caused her mixed emotions. She was angry that he had returned to the habit that could shorten his life. And she felt guilty that she might have caused this backsliding.

“Lil,” he said with warmth and genuine relief, “it’s good to hear your voice.” They had been apart only a day but, considering how they had parted in rancor, it was a long time.

“I was beginning,” she said, “to think you were going to be stubborn and not call. So I decided to break the ice.” After a short pause, she continued. “Right off the start, I want to apologize for what I said. You don’t need that kind of pressure. Wanna make up?”

He smiled. “Making up is fun.”

“Tonight?”

“I’ve got that Catechetical meeting tonight, honey. After that I’ll be where I want to be—with you.”

“The world seems better now, doesn’t it? We … I have to focus on how lucky we are having each other. No more negatives. Okay?”

“Definitely okay.”

They hung up.

He blew smoke rings. It’s like riding a bike, he thought; the ability comes right back to you. He would smoke this cigarette down to its bitter end—literally—for the sole reason that cigs cost so very much more than they did when last he’d had the habit.

He knew that Lil could tell he’d taken it up again. She’d said nothing. Which probably meant that she had unilaterally declared a cease-fire.

He cautioned himself not to become too addicted to the weed. He did intend to quit again as soon as this mess got straightened around.

And when would that be? As soon as he possibly could arrange it. And that would depend on what needed to be done about Dora. He had neither seen nor talked to her since … well since, through a foggy memory, he saw her naked.

Maybe he could smooth the waters and settle the matter tonight. For that he hoped. And for that he prayed.

It was a party more than a meeting. The catechism program was over for the summer. The catechists were celebrating a successful year. A few routine business matters were brought to meaningless votes. Chicken salad and coffee were served. Conversation was light. The teachers exchanged anecdotes about some of the funnier doings and sayings of the students.

As often as Father Casserly glanced at Dora Riccardo, she was beaming at him with the adoration of Nancy Reagan. That would have to stop. Anyone who cared to could surmise something was going on, at least from Dora to Rick.

The gathering broke up early. People began leaving about eight-thirty. Casserly did not encourage dawdling. By nine o’clock everyone had left but Dora and Rick.

Neither said anything. There was an awkward pause. “About the other night …” Rick began but did not finish. He hoped to throw the verbal ball into her court.

She said nothing.

So he continued. “I want to apologize. I’m ashamed of my behavior. I ask your forgiveness.”

Dora said nothing. But her eyes narrowed and seemed to cloud over.

“Look, Dora, I was totally irresponsible. I got drunk. You helped me. I am grateful. It got out of hand. For that, I’m sorry”