Читать книгу The Last Daughter - Thomas Mahon - Страница 16

Caitlin called Wong but got no answer. She tried to FaceTime her on the iPad, but came up empty. First and second hours were a blur, as the first daughter sat and fretted about Wong. Third hour was about to begin. Caitlin busied herself by signing a few Vogues in the back of the classroom. Finally Brent Tessler, the Advanced Placement Psychology teacher, strode through the door, plopping his worn leather bag down on his desk. The students scattered to their seats. Agent Jim McManus, took his usual place in the back of the classroom. He rotated the classroom detail with three other agents.

Tessler took a sip of coffee and surveyed the class. “Alright, let’s get started,” he growled, pacing the front of the classroom. “Who can tick off the various ego defense mechanisms we discussed yesterday?” He glanced about, then settled on a student seated to his far right. “Go, David.”

The student cleared his throat. “There’s denial, Intellectualization, Projection, Reaction Formation and Sublimation.”

Tessler set his coffee down. “Not bad. Okay, story time. There was this tough Irish priest who worked for the Archdiocese of Washington. Name was Father Mulcahy. He was a pastor at various parishes. Mulcahy even served as a school principal for over twenty years, then retired in 2006 after forty-six years of ministry. He eventually returned to Ireland, and died in 2010. Ten months ago, this guy who is now fifty-three, hired an attorney and went after the archdiocese, claiming Mulcahy had abused him forty years ago when he was an altar boy.”

“No surprise there,” someone quipped.

Tessler held up his hand. “Not so fast. The plaintiff claimed he had absolutely no recollection of what had happened until just ten months ago.”

“What set him off?” one student wanted to know.

“He said he went to mass at his boyhood parish one Sunday. The memories of abuse rushed back to him in a torrent.” A hand shot up. “Yes,” said the teacher.

“What did he mean by abuse?”

“He claimed Mulcahy would force him to strip down to his underwear and socks, and then get dressed with what vestments were on-hand in the sacristy. He also claimed that Mulcahy told him dirty stories, and revealed sordid, sexual details about parishioners’ confessions.”

“So, he filed a lawsuit?” asked another student.

“Oh, yes. A 7.5 million dollar lawsuit, to be exact.”

Caitlin Prescott felt queasiness in the pit of her stomach, but did her best to ignore it. “What’s the point? Mulcahy’s deceased,” she said.

“Very much so,” added Tessler. He frowned. “Are you feeling okay? You look a bit off.”

“I’m fine,” insisted the first daughter. “What bothers me,” she continued, “is that Mulcahy can’t defend himself.”

Tessler nodded. “And there are no witnesses. Moreover, nobody else ever filed so much as one complaint against Mulcahy in his five decades of service to the Church.” The teacher finished off his coffee with one, big gulp. “Let’s just assume the plaintiff was abused as a twelve and thirteen-year-old altar server. What do we make of him forgetting about the sordid events until the visit to his boyhood church forty years later? What would this be called?”

Several hands went up. Tessler selected a girl towards the back of the room.

“Repression.”

“And what can you tell us about repression?”

The girl thought for a moment. “I guess it’s when someone has such horrible or offensive thoughts that the mind blocks those thoughts from the conscious mind.”

“Relate that to abuse, and the claims by this man.”

Caitlin’s queasy stomach was not going away. It was intensifying. She was now sweating and her hands felt cold and clammy.

The girl in back said, “After what happened in the sacristy, the boy’s mind couldn’t handle the horrifying nature of the abuse. Fortunately, his mind was resourceful enough to protect itself from the offensive thoughts.”

“Where did the thoughts go?” asked the teacher. “They have to go somewhere.”

“They went to the unconscious.”

The first daughter thought she heard the boy next to her whisper, “Are you okay?”

She rubbed her eyes. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

“Seriously, you look like you’re going to be sick.”

Going to be sick? I’m not sure, but something just woke me out of a sound sleep. I’m rolling out of bed now, letting my eyes adjust to the darkened room. The blue numbers on my digital alarm clock glow 1:44. It’s very late and I have school tomorrow. Uncle Terry kept me up again, showing me his latest scrapbook from Malaysia. He put his hand on my knee at least six times. He sat very close to me. I hate it when he—

I hear something. Noises. They’re coming from the front lawn below my second story bedroom window. Did I hear a muffled cry and the sound of someone shutting a car door? I’m moving toward my window, which is thrown open on this first cool night of fall. A soft light from across the street spills into the room, breaching the darkness, and the curtains rise and fall with the gentle breeze. I can hear crickets. My feet are cold, and my toes grip the carpet beneath me. I inch up to the window and gaze down at our front lawn and driveway. Shadows stretch across the lawn in a chaotic pattern. I see footprints in the fresh dew. But I’m confused. Uncle Terry’s silver Mustang is still parked out front. How can that be? He left at eleven—right after he put his hand on my hip and hugged me a little too tight and kissed me—

I see a man. It’s not Uncle Terry. He’s a tall man in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He’s hunched over the driver’s side with his head inside the Mustang. Who is he? What is he doing? He’s pulling himself out of the car window. He’s turning around. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. I pull back behind the curtains. Slowly, I count to ten and edge back to the window. My heart leaps against my chest. The man is looking up at me, but I can’t see his face beneath the sweatshirt’s hood. He is staring at me with his large hands hanging at his sides. I gasp and stagger back. Now I’m praying. Please, God. He didn’t see me. He didn’t see me. But I know he did. Please, God. I want to scream until I hear the sound of truck’s engine. I summon the courage to look back out the window in time to see a black pick-up truck accelerating down our street. I no longer see the man in the hooded sweatshirt. As I catch my breath and try to calm my racing heart, I study the Mustang below. The driver’s window is down, but I can’t tell if anyone’s inside.

Downstairs, I get a different perspective on Uncle Terry’s Mustang. His windows are darkly tinted, so I still can’t tell if there’s anyone inside. I’m afraid of the man in the hooded sweatshirt. I remain at the front window for a full twenty minutes until I’m certain the pick-up truck is not going to return. Though I’m not allowed outside after my parents have gone to bed, I know the security code: 12-88-99. I ease open the door and step out. I shiver. I’m stupid; this is not smart. I spend another ten minutes on the front porch looking for the hooded man and the pick-up truck. He is nowhere to be found. I shiver again as I edge my way across the lawn to the driveway and the Mustang. As I approach, I can see Uncle Terry inside. His head is thrown back and his mouth is open. He’s asleep. I’m afraid. I know he’ll want to talk to me. And put his hands on me. And kiss me. I’m afraid, but something is not right. I can’t put my finger on it. I slip over to the driver’s side. I look in.

I cringe and begin to tremble. Oh my god. Oh my god.

“Seriously, Caitlin,” said the boy. “I think you should lie down.”

Her ears were ringing. The room began to tilt to the right. Her vision blurred. She leaned left, and began sliding out of her desk. Everything went black.

“Sit up, honey,” said the nurse, her voice echoing inside of Caitlin’s head. She was shoving a container of juice in her direction. “I want you to sip this slowly.”

Caitlin took small sips. She breathed deeply, feeling the fog begin to lift. Her vision had returned, and there was no more ringing in her ears.

I fainted.

The nurse leaned in close and said, “Honey, you fainted.”

Yes, I kind of figured.

She looked past the nurse to Agent Jim McManus. He was on his cell phone, stealing furtive glances her way. She guessed he was trying to reach her mother at the White House. Her other detail agents, Kiel, Ivy and Wells stood back against the wall. They hadn’t been with her detail more than a few weeks. She’d heard rumors about an upheaval of sorts in the agency to address a recent rash of early retirements and medical leaves but what did she know? They didn’t tell her much.

“I’m okay. I feel fine.”

“Take another sip, honey,” insisted the nurse.

She felt the blood pressure cuff being secured around her left arm. It was cold. The cuff tightened steadily, then hissed, loosening bit by bit. Caitlin could feel a strong pulse beating in her arm. At length, the nurse ripped off the cuff. Agent McManus pocketed his phone and edged over to the bed.

“Blood pressure is on the low side of normal,” said the nurse, looking up at the agent. “Her color is back. Pulse is okay.”

The agent nodded. “Good.”

The first daughter heard the bell ring, and the rush of students in the hallway outside the clinic. A moment later, the door opened and in came Tessler. He was carrying her books. McManus and Tessler nodded to one another. The teacher approached the bed.

“I thought you looked a little funny.” He turned to McManus and the nurse. “I have this effect on lots of women.”

Everyone chuckled.

McManus said, “Was it something that was said in class that got you upset, Miss Prescott?”

Caitlin thought about the question and took her time in answering. “I didn’t eat much of anything this morning.”

“Hypoglycemia,” the nurse reassured her. “You’ve got to have something in your stomach before you come to school, honey. Has this ever happened before?”

Caitlin caught McManus’s look. She couldn’t decide if he was buying the hypoglycemia angle or not. “I think I passed out once when I had walking pneumonia. I was dehydrated.”

“What were you talking about in class?” the nurse asked Tessler, “Knowing ‘Ole Blood and Guts’ here, it probably had something to do with brain surgery.”

Tessler recapped the class discussion and the notion of repression. McManus mentioned that he had known Father Mulcahy, the topic of the class discussion, and that the priest was a tough Irish boxer from the old school. The agent thought the charges were completely absurd. “Mulcahy was as heterosexual as could be. He may have smacked a few kids around in his time. That’s how they did things back in the Sixties and Seventies. But sexually abused them? Not on your life.”

The nurse shoved a granola bar at Caitlin. “In the studies I’ve read, sexual orientation has little to do with who becomes a pedophile.”

“Well, if you knew Mulcahy like I did, you’d know the accusations were way off base.”

The nurse sighed. Clearly, she was not interested in debating. “What do we want to do with our little angel, Agent McManus?”

“I’m fine,” insisted the first daughter. “Seriously.”

“Are you sure?” asked the agent.

Caitlin swung her feet out of bed. “Don’t piss me off!”

McManus turned to the others. “She’s fine.”