Chapter Three

“You see ghosts often?” Paul teased.

We’d checked in, entered our room but never went near the beds. We sat smoking at a wobbly table in the brightening dawn, the drapes open to passing highway traffic. “More than you can imagine.”

“Really?” Paul’s eyes were bloodshot as he swallowed the last dredges of coffee from a foam cup.

“Yeah, now you have all the information you need to lock me in the loony bin for life.” I stood and went to the bathroom then pissed without closing the door. “So, I see things. What’s your point, mate? Stuff happens around me and I see it. So what. Big fucking deal,” I shouted over the flush.

Paul slouched in his chair and leaned his head way back. “You’re right. It’s no big deal, Michael. I suppose everyone sees a ghost or two every now and then. Besides, that’s not what I want to talk about right now anyway.”

I stood outside the bathroom door and glared. “What? What do you want me to tell you now?”

His eyes were closed. “I want you to tell me about the women.”

I dropped into my chair. “Damn, you got a one track mind.”

He grinned and his hand ran across his crotch. “Sometimes.” He sat straight and tossed the almost empty cigarette pack to me. “I want to know about the women, Michael. Your mother, your grandmother. Lisy’s name has come up more than once. You’ve mentioned Brenda, talked a bit about Angelina Lawford.” He leaned close. “And of course there’s Meredith. You haven’t mentioned Meredith at all.”

“Fuck me. You really are out for my soul.”

“Just the truth, Michael. The women in your life have had a great influence on who you are today.”

“They’re just women.”

“Perhaps a few of them. My imagining is that Lisy, Brenda, definitely Meredith are just that, simply female. But the others; now those are strong, empowered women. We need to explore their effects on you. Maybe that way we can more readily deal with Angela Mendez …”

I was out of my seat and stomping away. It was a fight or flight response and I’d chosen to run. Had I chosen? It felt like that night in the convenience store, taking directions from a dead man. Images exploded and slammed, crashed inside my mind and made a noise so loud I had to press my hands against my ears. Sweat poured into my eyes and I felt my legs pumping. Yeah, I was running. Then, suddenly I wasn’t.

I’d stopped dead in the middle of the parking lot then turned. I still wanted to run, but from Paul? Who else would help me? Who else could? I needed something to ground me, something earthbound that could keep me focused. Something outside of myself. My mind raced faster than my heart, searching for a solution because if I didn’t find one, the seven days might already be over and I might just keep on running. I considered, looked around. Would that be a bad thing? Just ending it right there, that minute? Yes, it would be and I knew it; what was going on wasn’t only about me. It was about Paul too. With that realization came the safety rope I desperately needed to grasp on to. With that came the path back to being able to talk about me again.

I slowed my breathing and returned to the room, sat on the bed and looked directly in to Paul’s face.

“You first.” My voice was shaking, but sure.

His expression melted painfully as he drew in a breath and held it.

“Have you ever confessed it?” I asked as compassionately as I could. The air was dense and dangerous and I’m sure his heart was pounding harder than mine. I was playing a hunch. One I hoped was dead wrong.

He rubbed his eyes.

“Who is she?”

“She’s gone, Michael. She died two years ago when I was in Africa.”

“What was her name?”

“Fran,” he whispered. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t.” I regretted what I’d begun but was compelled to pursue the subject to its end. For years I’d felt a deep concern for my mate, sensed his pain and wondered at my ability to help him heal the way he’d been helping me for so long. “So, you lied to me the day we met, didn’t you.”

“No. It happened much later. I swear, I’d never broken my vows until I couldn’t fight it anymore. Until – ”

“What did she do to you?” I leaned forward, wanting to hear his confession, needing to understand how a priest like Paul could fall so hard and so far.

“Nothing, nothing at all. I did it to myself and I’ll suffer it until I die. Can we get back to the point here?”

“No. Were you in love with her?”

“You are enjoying this.”

“Hell no. Did you love her?”

Paul stared past me at the wall, probably praying, maybe formulating the best answer that would get me to move on but I wanted none of that. It was his turn to be off guard, his turn to show human flaws. Paul’s turn to show the struggle he’d seen so many priests flounder through. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was enjoying it. “Did … you … love … Fran?”

Pain rippled across his face and I felt immediate sadness. What kind of a priest was I? What kind was he? I wanted to apologize, tell him to forget it and let the whole subject slip under the carpet the way so many un-priest-like behaviors disappear from view the world over. Blokes are great at that shit. Avoiding, ignoring, keeping face. Maybe the priesthood should have been reserved for women. Their deceit was easier to see, more willingly displayed. Most women I knew would make better priests than me. “Did you love her, Paul?” I spoke softly, hoping the anguish in his eyes would lighten.

He nodded, answered softly. “Yes, I loved her. I’ve loved Fran most of my life. She was the one, you know. The schoolgirl sweetheart, only not mine. Fran was beautiful; she was the cheerleader dating the quarterback. The college girl riding on the Homecoming float. Fran was the successful career woman with everything; a doting, wealthy husband, two lovely children, the works. Summer home in Cape Cod, ski lodge in Aspen. Everything. Until one day God changed his mind. Took it all away.”

“What happened?”

“A plane crash took her family. She had stayed behind to finalize a real estate deal. Brad and the girls died in a wind shear over the Rockies. Plane just slammed to the earth like a mosquito in a downpour. Small plane. It took days to find the wreckage. What they never found was all the pieces of Fran’s heart out there. I flew home at my mother’s request to see if I could help.”

“So, you were consoling her and – ”

“Fuck no, Michael. What the hell kind of person do you think I am? Or do you think she was?” He pulled a half empty whisky bottle from the bag and downed a gulp, grimaced, then set it in his lap, his finger circling and circling the opening slowly. “She wouldn’t even talk to me. Said she’d had her fill of shrinks. It was nearly a year later that she finally sat down with me. We never talked about her loss, the grieving process or even how she would move on with her life.”

“What did you talk about?”

He gave a bitter laugh and shook his head, then wiped the bottle top and gulped again. “Chemotherapy. Prognosis. We talked about mortality. Death. Faith.” He rubbed his red eyes. “She did last another year. See man, when God takes, he takes it all.”

“I’m so sorry.” I thought about dropping it, letting the subject just end there, but I couldn’t. “You were lovers.”

“I couldn’t help myself, Michael. I did everything I could to see her as often as possible, but my job, you know. I had only a few precious times with her. I was sure she’d hold on until I got back to the States. I was so sure.” Paul gulped more bourbon and choked back an inconsolable sob. “She died alone, Michael. I’m not sure which is hardest for me. That I’d broken my vows and let the church down, or that I’d let her down.”

I didn’t know what to say. My priest brotherhood impulse was to tell him to be strong, face the fact that he’d taken a sacred vow and needed to follow through with it. But the human side of me wanted to reprimand him, shout that he should have chosen Fran, walked away from his vow, been completely true to something. But who the hell was I to judge anyone, most of all Paul. The experience was part of his journey, part of what made him the good man and good priest he was. “Mate,” I whispered. “This is your penance. You will get through this.”

“Sometimes I don’t want to fucking get through it. I just want to feel this pain for the rest of my life. But sometimes I want to suffer it quickly you know, let it kill me and be finished with it once and for all.” Paul walked to a bed and dropped like a dead man onto the mattress with a bounce. “Once and for all.” He was out like a light.

Shaken by everything I learned, I sat at the table, finished the whisky and rolled my neck. There was no way this was going the way Paul had planned. But perhaps it was going the way it was supposed to. The motel door was opened to the outside and I could have walked out, just left him to sleep it off but my eyes fell onto a notebook there on the table. Paul’s notebook, the one every shrink around the world has. He knew better than to try using a tape recorder with me, but inside that book were his thoughts. I hadn’t seen him write in it since he arrived at the rectory. Whatever was in there was surely his plan. I looked to the bed; he was down for the count; then, sinner that I am, I flipped the notebook opened and read what was there. It wasn’t a lot, but it spoke volumes.

VPA Case 2628: Father Michael Becker

“Great, I’m now designated as a Vatican Papal Assignment case,” I hissed and read on.

Chances are, I will never make this report as it factually unfolds. Michael Becker has always been a guarded man, never divulging everything, never really telling me anything and sometimes I fear that our friendship is what makes him that way. I’m not his confessor and knowing Michael, one of his biggest fears is disappointing me. But, he has pushed this to the wall and now we must travel the rocky path together. I admit that even if Father Collier had been given this assignment, I’d be stepping into action; I would have taken time somehow, a leave of absence, anything, even after the fact, to help sort it all out. But blessedly, I have earned the right to assist Michael through this.

This will be tricky, take all my patience. If I push too hard, he’ll shut down … too little, and the Vatican will be left empty handed. A man with so much emotional self protection raises a thousand questions. Perhaps I should have recommended against Ordination all those years ago, but the Vatican would have lost so much. My concern is for Father Becker; for as much as the Church has benefited from his skills and abilities, I fear he has only suffered.

Something holds Michael tight, locks him from the basic freedom required to live a full and happy life; priest or not. To reach him I must proceed carefully, treat him like a skittish horse, gentle him through it. Do it in doses. I need to cautiously guide him from comfort, into facing his pain then back again before shooting for the moon. Whatever torments this man will be revealing and dangerous for him. My prayer is that it will also be liberating.

I need to help Michael; he is far too cherished a friend to permit him to hurt like this, to struggle for the rest of his life, protecting demons that could release him. This will be the most difficult case of my career and I beg the Lord Almighty to help me do this and do it well. But … it will take more than seven days. Far more then seven days.

“No, it won’t, my friend. It won’t”

I closed the book, unsure how I felt about his words. Watching him, prostrate on the bed and listening to his snuffling snore, I couldn’t help but wonder. Was I right to push him about Fran? Maybe it was a good thing; maybe he too needed to say a few painful things. And again I realized; this was about us both. Paul believed in the priesthood. I believed in the concept of the priesthood. If I’d been permitted the pure simplicity of it, neither of us would be on this treacherous path. The man had made his way into my soul; he was my dearest friend. Paul was my only safe ground. It wasn’t his fault that patch of solid footing was growing more and more narrow. I traveled constantly, his case load was massive. In the last year we had barely spoken more than twice. For him to demand this case said a lot and touched me deeply.

Did I deserve so much from him? The real question was; what did he deserve from me? I climbed onto my bed, curled on top of the frayed blankets and made the decision. I’d answer Paul’s questions, I’d let him lead me like a skittish horse. For him I would suffer it all and say it all but I could feel my entire body tremble at the idea; we hadn’t even scratched the surface yet. I’d let him do his job, but when the job was done, I’d be leaving. There was no other way for me.

Sleep came fast and hard, dreaming memories I didn’t care to be dreaming. Memories of Angel and the blazing cross in her palm shooting to the heavens.

***

Six hours later we ate a late breakfast in silence, pushing over-easy eggs around the plate with crumbling toast and drinking coffee as if we really wanted to get sober. “I don’t want to talk about Angela Mendez.” I signaled for more coffee and never looked at Paul. “You hear me? I don’t.”

“That’s good, Michael. I don’t want to hear about her. We’ll take this one step at a time and it’s not the time for that yet. We’ve got six days left and I intend to use them to the fullest.” He dropped a ten on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

We headed toward the car and he tossed the keys to me. They dropped to the pavement and slid to my feet bringing a chill that shook my soul. My breath caught and my heart beat an ominous thump. The vision of poor Randy dropping to the floor in a puddle of milk and blood played before my eyes. I swallowed hard, determined to control the panic that threatened. I picked the keys up and flipped them in my hand with a jingle and a grin. No way I was letting him know what I was feeling that moment, how raw my nerves were or how tight my soul held secrets he wanted like a thief. “Too hung over to drive?”

“Still drunk.”

“Where we going?”

He shrugged and slouched, leaning his shoulder on the door, head against the glass. “Your choice, Michael.”

“Hey, it’s you’re country.”

“Just drive.”

I did. Paul slept and I followed rural Rt. 15 then mistakenly turned onto a highway, my unintended destination, Daniel Boone National Forest.

“The women, Michael. Tell me about the women.”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Start with Lisy.”

I glanced over. Maybe it all wouldn’t be so hard if he kept his eyes shut and looked like he wasn’t even listening. There were distinct advantages to the privacy and secretiveness of the darkened confessional. Paul was giving me that comfort, his face closed, his emotions shrouded behind hunched shoulders and a half-turned back.

I drew in a deep breath and let it out slow. Lisy. How to start? “Felicity was always something special. Really special. Lisy was a pretty girl, Petie’s older sister. She was the one who found the shack for us, back when we were about nine-years-old, she was twelve or thirteen. I remember asking if she was planning to torture us in there,” I laughed and glanced at Paul. Maybe he was sleeping. I didn’t matter. I kept talking.

“I was sixteen, Lisy was almost twenty. I’d been working almost seven days a week for months and finally got my first day off.”

***

It was a Thursday morning. I ate a big breakfast and then left for a walk, wondering what the hell to do with myself. My mates were in school and I certainly didn’t feel like going there. I didn’t belong there. Where did I belong? I roamed the streets, just strolling like a man of leisure. As I passed Petie’s house I noticed Lisy on the porch shaking crumbs from a tablecloth.

“Hey!” She waved and called to me.

I waved back and crossed the street, standing at the bottom of the steps. Lisy had graduated the year before. She too was working full time as a teller trainee at the bank. “Off today?” I asked, running a hand through my hair, wondering if I should’ve gone for a trim. I did have an extra few dollars in my pocket.

“Yup. I’m helping mum get the house ready. Marilyn’s coming for a visit and bringing the kids.” Marilyn was the oldest daughter. When Marilyn came for a visit, it meant that her husband had left on a long trip. He was a long-haul trucker. Made great money, but I always suspected that he had another family somewhere in Brisbane. Why else would he be gone for months on end?

I watched Lisy fold the tablecloth and marveled at how beautiful she’d become. At nineteen, she could have been a model or a movie star. She had a perfect face, soft and expressive. And her eyes. Those sparkling hazel eyes.

“Aren’t you working today?”

I cleared my throat and shuffled my feet. “Nope.” I didn’t know what else to say. Had I lost my ability to converse with people who didn’t have hardware needs? “Well, ta.” I turned and headed down the street.

Not having work to think about I found my mind wondering to places it hadn’t been in a long time. It had been months since I’d seen Frank. For a while we’d meet for coffee and a sandwich on my early days, but our schedules no longer permitted that kind of socializing. And Petie? Well, it wasn’t that I was avoiding him, there just didn’t seem to be time. I missed him. I missed them both. I suppose I could have made a better effort to keep in touch with them.

It had been nearly a year since I’d been in the Dry Dock. I wondered. What was up with Frank and his girlfriend, Brenda? What were my mates studying in school? Were they playing on the rugby team? I turned the corner and slipped through the overgrown hedges leading to the shack, surprised at how tight a squeeze it had become. I looked up at the Dry Dock and shook my head. I felt a little like Gulliver washed ashore at Lillyputt. That old place used to be huge. Now, it was just an old garage, one that could probably hold one very compact car. The world certainly looked different when you’re bigger than the last time you saw it. “Perception is everythin’,” I mused as I pulled the door open.

It looked pretty good inside. They kept it clean and fairly neat. I opened the refrigerator.
Cool air blasted out at me as I perused the vast variety of beers inside with a chuckle. Not that I was hungry, but I did expect at least something edible and non-alcoholic in there.

There was a stack of books and papers on the table. It looked like Frank was doing some extra studying there in a desperate effort to make the grade and graduate.

Graduate. I sat down at the table and rubbed my chin. Graduate. I guess I’d commenced long before my friends. Moved ahead with life. I just hadn’t done it academically. I wondered if I still could? I open a book and skimmed the logarithms there. It didn’t seem all that hard to understand. I shuffled through the stack; Analytical Science, Advanced Theories in Math, Classic English Literature. I blinked and checked the first page of each book. They were Frank’s all right. Frank wasn’t trying to graduate from high school; he was trying to get into university, and a good one by the looks of things. “Good onya, mate,” I said to the very interesting books. Good go, indeed.

I shuffled to the sofa and thumped down, kicked my feet out and slouched, propping my head on the back of the ragged old thing and sighed. I closed my eyes. I loved the Dry Dock. It had its own unique smell, a special way the air moved in a circle, sometimes causing a tiny dust devil in the center of the floor on really windy days. If I listened to my memories real hard, I could hear us laughing, three cackling voices howling like wolves, discussing important issues, like what to do about the broken window, which by the way was still broken. I missed everything. I missed my boyhood. I mourned the loss of it. I sat up and buried my face in my hands, then pulled away and looked at them, astounded at how familiar they looked. Big hands. Dad’s hands.

Where the hell was he? I knew he was still around. I caught bits of news about him every now and then, overhearing conversations in the store. Of course, the conversations stopped abruptly when I rounded the corner or came up to the counter. People’s eyes would lower then they’d move on to kinder, more appropriate topics. After all, I was poor Myra’s boy.

I rubbed my aching temples with my big dad hands and wondered what I’d do if I ran into my old man. I actually prayed that I wouldn’t, afraid to even explore my possible reaction, terrified that I’d be violent like him.

I was deep in one of Frank’s books when the squeaky garage door slid open. I blinked at the brilliant sunlight that flowed in, then at the sudden darkness when the door closed again with a rumble.

“Thought you’d be here.” It was Lisy.

“Yeah,” I said sliding the books aside and running my hand down the fuzz that would someday be a beard. “I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

She sat across from me and folded her pretty hands on the table. “No wonder. You probably haven’t had a day off all year. What’re you reading?”

“Some school stuff. Frank’s. Did you know he was – “

“Shocking isn’t it? Our little lost Frank, going off to uni. Who’d have ever thought such a thing?”

I chuckled and went to the refrigerator. Still nothing but beer, just like an hour ago. I turned. “Beer? Or maybe you’d like a beer. But somewhere in here we also have … beer. Would you like one?”

She shook her head and laughed, it was a gentle sound that made me remember being a kid. Now what do I do? I wondered, then sat on the sofa, looking at Felicity from a different angle. Yup. Still beautiful. She turned and faced me and I waited to hear what she wanted to say, what seemed to be difficult for her to say. “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Fine, fine. Well, got a headache. Hell. I always have a headache.” I smiled. I never told anyone about that before. Damn, I missed Lisy. I missed having friends to talk to. I had to change things.

Lisy sighed then came to the sofa and sat close. I could smell her scent. Fresh baked cookies, dust, lingering perfume. It was intoxicating and I lifted my arm and put it over her shoulders, inviting her even closer. She snuggled and turned her face up to me. “Michael,” she said softly. “I was hoping for an opportunity to be alone with you … someplace private.” She stretched her neck up and touched her soft lips to mine and my body went into overdrive. I gulped then pulled away a bit, not wanting her to know what was happening in my dad’s old jeans.

I cleared my throat and tried to lighten the tension. “I always knew your plan was to torture us in this old garage.”

She actually rose on her knees and straddled me, the warmth between her legs under her skirt pressing hard on my secret. “Just one of you. Just you.” She kissed me again and I was no longer in control of anything. Lisy pulled my shirt up over my head, tossing it aside. When she kissed my chest I was suddenly proud of all those heavy crates I’d been lifting for so long. I kept trying to remind myself that I was just sixteen, that there was nothing Lisy, a real woman would actually want from me. But she continued and I just followed her dance, moved with the music in Felicity’s head. I stopped thinking. It made no difference; nothing I thought made any sense anyway.

She stood and I did too, lifting her blouse, fumbling with the clasps of her bra, running my hand along her waist, down, down. She was wonderful, taking my heart in hand and slowing it, soothing it, relaxing me. “Lisy, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” she whispered into my neck. “You’re doing just fine, Michael.”

She unsnapped my jeans, slid them off then removed her skirt. I blinked in amazement. Lisy had nothing on under that skirt. If she wanted, she could’ve had me without taking a single stitch off. What a gift! She was beautiful all over. She took my hands and guided them, over her breasts, her belly, her legs. I wanted to go slow, be gentle. I wanted … I wanted … I wanted!

She stepped back, giving me a moment to catch my breath. The sun drifted down on her from the high windows, glowing a halo in her chestnut hair, making golden her skin. All her skin.

She lay on the sofa and I stood still as a stone, and as hard. She reached a hand out to me and I said a prayer that I’d do it right; the way she wanted me to. I kissed her breasts, her mouth, her ears, anything, anything to stall, to slow it down. I knew I’d explode if I didn’t take control somehow.

“Now, Michael,” she sighed a deep melodious sound that resonated in my heart. “We have all afternoon for slow. I want you now.”

I needed no more encouragement. In retrospect I wish I could have been more savvy about it, but I wasn’t. Hell, I pummeled her. Attacked, pressing and pushing then when the throbbing reached its peak, I just blew like a sudden piston release. I was exhilarated and embarrassed at once and wanted nothing more than to apologize.

Lisy was having none of that. She took my face in her hands and tenderly kissed me, taught me, molded me, moved her hands all over me. I too was touching, this time easily, slowly, with intention and looking for response. She moaned when I pleased her, shifted and led when I was way off track. My fingers found their way between her soft thighs and I found heaven, for me and for Lisy. The feel of her, wet, swollen and hot under my fingertips made me drunk. I wanted to play there forever. Lisy was so different from wood and nails and screws. I was in a place I’d never been before. I place I wanted to stay. Forever. I shifted over her and pressed inside, this time smooth. A pro. I’d become a pro. I held her tight and rolled us over. She sat straight up, her skin wet with sweat, her breath smooth and steady, her eyes closed, head rolling in ecstasy. Felicity became docile above me, moving like an expert horsewoman riding her favorite mount. Now I knew what I was doing. I was making love.

Time passed slowly, elegantly, like a symphony, raising us then gently taking us back to earth again. I cradled her close on the sofa, peaceful in the calming silence. My hand deep in her silky hair, my eyes closed. My headache … gone. I glanced at my watch, suddenly aware that school would be out soon, unsure if I wanted Petie or Frank to find Lisy and me there alone. She shifted, pulling away and I smiled down at her.

“Michael, I have to talk to you.”

I was startled. There were tears in her eyes, running down her face. “Have I hurt you? God, Lisy. You alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine Michael, please, you’re not making this any easier. Now listen to me. Please.”

I swallowed hard, sensing something ominous, dangerous. Not a fist, something worse.

“Michael, I’m getting married in two weeks.”

I blinked. What the hell? I’d just fucked an engaged woman! “What? Why didn’t you say something.”

“You wouldn’t have … you know … if I told you.”

That was hard to agree with after the fact.

“I know you wouldn’t have. Well, anyway, I’m getting married.”

“Why? Lisy, who?” Shit. I thought she loved me.

“Michael.” She smiled a kind smile that was sad and painful to watch. “You can’t always marry the one you love.”

Did she read my mind? Or was she just patronizing me.

“Don’t get pissy. I have to get married. I’m pregnant.”

Now I was pissed. I’d just fucked an engaged, pregnant woman. What’re the odds of that? I got up, pulled on my jeans and started to pace. “And you didn’t think I should know any of this?”

She sighed, looking a lot like a frustrated mother explaining the facts of life to her kids. “I’m sorry, I just –”

“You just what?” I’d stopped pacing, stopped being mad. I was simply curious. “You just what?”

“I do love you, Michael. I’ve been growing in love with you for a long time. For years. And I wanted you before it’s too late. See, I’m going marry Scotty Witcomb.”

She waited for my shocked expression to pass. Scotty Witcomb was twice her age.

“Now,” she stood and paced in front of me. “He’s not the father but he thinks he is, and that’s good for me. I don’t love him, but Michael I like Scotty a lot. And he’s a good man. Makes a good living. I could have a good life with him.”

“And the baby’s father?” I had slumped into a chair. “Lisy, I don’t know a lot about sex, but I’m pretty sure it’s not mine.” Good, I made her smile. “What about the baby’s father. Why don’t you marry him?”

I watched fear ripple across her face. “No. I can’t.”

“Why not? You must have loved him.”

She grunted a bitter laugh. “No.”

“But,” I pursued my line of questioning, more out of curiosity than to antagonize her. “Wouldn’t it be better for the baby?”

“No, Michael it wouldn’t,” she shouted.

I stood up, angry again. “Then marry me, damn it. At least you’ll have love.”

She laughed and I thought for a split second that I’d slap her. Horror shook me and I stepped back.

“Would that be so bad?”

“No, Michael. That would be a perfect solution in a perfect world but we don’t live in a perfect world, now do we? I got to take care of myself. I got a baby to think about. I just don’t think you could support us, Michael. Scotty can.”

“Why don’t you get support from the baby’s father? Then maybe you wouldn’t have to marry anyone.” Then you could wait for me, wait until I’m ready to take care of both of you, I thought.

She turned her face away.

“Felicity, why let the father off the hook so easily? Shouldn’t he take responsibility too?” I walked around her, lifted her chin with my finger and gently kissed her. “Who’s the father? Could he be so bad you wouldn’t tell him about this?” I was thinking about every possible man in town.

She jerked her face away. “Yes. He could be. He is.”

“But, you made love to him. He couldn’t be all bad if you thought that much of him.”

She turned tear filled eyes on me.

“Who’s the father, Lisy,” I said in a voice that surprised me; a voice that sounded like I had a right to know or something. “Who?”

“Michael … I –”

“Who’s the father?” The look on her face was scaring me; I could actually feel her fear in the air between us. I took her arms in my hands, holding on for support, for her, for me. “Who’s the baby’s father, Felicity?”

“Jon Becker.”

I stepped back as if someone had punched me right in the forehead, leaving Lisy alone in the center of the garage, literally in Dry Dock.

“You made love to …” I couldn’t finish; I’d have surely choked on the words. My mind was spinning but I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

Lisy was shaking, trying to control her emotions. Finally she spoke so softly I needed to lean closer to hear. “He was drunk. I guess I was raped, Michael. I should have been able to stop it, but I was drinking too. This is my fault. It’s not like I don’t know about the bastard. I’m sorry, Michael. I’m so sorry.” She sobbed and nearly collapsed. I held her tight in my arms. We knew something, Lisy and me. Something no one else knew. We knew the incapacitating power of a violent alcoholic. The damage. The aftermath. The suffering, the endless doubt and questioning. How could I have stopped this from happening? How could I have ever known to watch out for it? Growing a few muscles was not enough to stop Jon Becker from hurting me. He found other ways.

I rocked her in my arms, our tears mixing together. I was crying for the first time in years, since mum’s funeral. I carried her to the sofa and made love to my Lisy, who carried my father’s baby inside of her, and would marry the banker’s son. And I could do nothing to stop it. Any of it.

She dressed and went to the door, leaving me alone and naked sitting on the edge of the sofa with my head in my hands. “Michael,” she said. Lisy looked like a little girl. Lost. Afraid. Determined. Lisy, the problem solver wasn’t so happy with the solution she’d chosen. She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “I wanted to be your first; the one to teach you about women.” She gave a sad laugh. “I guess I didn’t do too good a job of it, did I?”

Then she pulled the door open. “Please forgive me, Michael. Please.”

I didn’t answer. I had no words for her.

***

Paul was staring right at me. “How could she do that to you?”

“I don’t think you get it, mate. Lisy was the victim.”

“No, Michael.” He sat up and pointed. “Pull over.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, so I kept driving.

Paul grabbed the wheel and swung the car off the road. “Pull the fuck over.”

I sat still as he stepped out and came around to me. My instinct was to push down the lock, roll up the window but I let him open the door and wave me out. I leaned back against the fender and lit a cigarette. “Mate, you seem far more upset about this than me.”

“Buddy, I know your M.O. You always think it’s your fault, your problem to solve, your job to do but this was very, very different.”

“It happened years ago. You asked, I told you, it’s no big deal.”

Paul shook his head, ran a hand down his chin. “Michael, you have got to start looking at things differently; it’s going to make a world of difference in how this week goes. It’ll help you understand. Sometimes it really is you,” he poked a finger into my chest, “you, who’s the victim. This is a good place to start seeing that.”

“You got this all wrong. It was just a first sexual encounter. I was sixteen years old. That’s what happened and I don’t think there’s any other way to see it. Period.”

“Alright, alright, here’s what I need you to do,” he paced and I looked up at the leaves, wondering where he was going with this and why it mattered so much. “I’m a rational guy, right?”

“I suppose so, yeah.”

“You trust me, correct?”

“Sure.”

“So if I tell you exactly what I understand from this story, you’ll think about it, okay?”

I nodded, shrugged. “Fine.”

“Lisy was manipulative. She used you to make herself feel better about a mistake, a terrible mistake she’d made.” He was pacing and I stared past him at the river across the road. “You told me you grew up in a rather promiscuous society; young girls pregnant and in abusive marriages by the time they reached nineteen. She loved you and if she couldn’t have your child, she’d have your brother. For all we know, she wasn’t raped at all. She wanted something and when she got it, it didn’t sit so well for her. Lisy wanted to feel better about it. Can’t you see?”

“That’s just fucking crazy, Paul. Why couldn’t she have my child? Trust me, all she had to do was ask – ”

“When? During you’re lunch break? You worked all the time. Oh, she was masterful. She wanted to have a good life; a life with someone who could give her everything, everything you couldn’t. But she also wanted a piece of Michael Becker, probably the best man she’ll ever know. You were young and noble and shining like a beacon. But in order to have the Becker baby she wanted, she had to go for your father.”

“This makes no sense, Paul. Just what did she accomplish by coming to me? She still had a baby, still married Scott. What did she gain?”

“Everything she wanted ... and a piece of your soul. Michael,” he spoke quietly, “the truth is, you have the kind of soul lesser people crave. She should have never made love to you after conceiving your father’s child; she should have never told you about it … she should have never done any of it.”

I glared, had no words.

“You were the victim, left to carry her sins like a weight all these years. She was wrong to do it. You have to start recognizing that.”

I stomped away, Paul following, talking, talking, talking. I waved him off and crossed to the river, then pulled off every stitch of clothes and dove in. Tepid water enveloped me, silencing everything, numbing the pain that was coming to the surface of my consciousness. I swam far, only coming up for air when I was sure to be out of earshot. Muddy silt slid from my shoulders and into my eyes as I paddled to a private hidden place under a willow, surrounded by tall grass and hovering gnats.  How could he even ask me such a thing? To see the world differently than I knew it to be was preposterous. But he might be right; if I didn’t try, things would only get harder.