“I am haunted by numberless islands,
and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us,
and Sorrow come near us no more;
Soon far from the rose and the lily
and fret of the flames would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved,
buoyed out on the foam of the sea!”
Later, I wandered across the island to the cabin. I remembered standing beside Patrick at the cabin’s sink, pumping water together, frying mushrooms on the potbellied stove. But as I peered through the dingy window at cobwebs and dust, I saw a house devoid of life. At last, I lay down in the sun on the porch swing and cried myself to sleep.
I opened my eyes to find Patrick standing over me. I thought I was still dreaming. He was much too handsome to be real, a golden-haired Apollo with eyes as blue as the sky. Then his eyes clouded with tears.
“Emma? Is it really you?”
“Shh. Don’t talk,” I whispered. “I don’t ever want to wake up.”
He sank down on the porch steps as if too weak to stand. “You’re not dreaming . . . I’m real. . . .” I watched his chest rise and fall with each breath and saw a vein in his temple throb with his pulse. I sat up, never taking my eyes off of him.
“Then I must have conjured you with a magic poem,” I said. “I wished . . . oh, how I wished that you would appear. And now you have! Our birds have flown, Patrick, but you’re here. You’re here, so everything is all right again.”
I wiped my tears as fast as they fell, afraid to take my eyes off him, afraid he would disappear. But even in our joy we didn’t embrace, as if we instinctively knew that a single touch would spark a conflagration. Instead we sat on the cabin porch, talking quietly.
“I thought I would be alone here,” Patrick said. “I didn’t know you still came back to our island.”
“I’ll leave. . . .”
“No. Please don’t. I came back to Bremenville because I wanted to see you, but I promised myself that I would just watch you from a distance—just drive past your house and see if you were happy. I needed to find out if your husband takes you to all those places we talked about, if he’s shown you the ocean and oranges growing on trees.” A mixture of emotions played across Patrick’s face—joy, longing, apprehension. “I drove past your home and your husband’s drugstore, but I didn’t see you. I was never going to let you know I was here.”
“Because you’re a priest now?”
“Yes. Because you’re married and because I’m a priest now. I was ordained a year ago, on June fifth. I asked for a parish in the same city where I was raised, and they assigned me to St. Michael’s—a mostly Irish parish, much like the one I grew up in.”
“I’m glad it has all worked out for you.”
He shook his head, looking away for the first time. “I’m not a very good priest, Emma. I’m frustrated. And I’m angry. All the time. I see my congregation yawning and whispering through my homilies, as if salvation wasn’t really a matter of life and death, and it makes me furious. I listen to their confessions—the same sins week after week—and I think of my father. I remember his sins, and how he didn’t even try to change because the kindly old priest assigned him a few Hail Marys and told him he was forgiven.”
Patrick plucked a blade of grass from beside the steps and tore it into pieces as he talked. “It’s my job to dispense God’s grace to those who confess, but I can’t bring myself to do it. They’re abusing the grace of God, abusing His forgiveness. And that grace was purchased at such a staggering price! I’m angry with people, angry with their weaknesses and their sin. I administer the sacrament, the body and blood of Christ that restores them to communion with God, knowing their sins will crucify Him all over again.”
I watched him swat at a mosquito that had landed on his neck, longing for the warmth of his broad, golden hands. He was quiet for a moment, then said, “The bishop suggested I make a spiritual retreat. He said I’m still carrying a huge weight of unforgiveness from my past. I’m supposed to be a father to the people God has given me. But I don’t know how to be a father, you see, because my own father—” He stopped again, waiting until he could trust himself to speak. “Maybe if I’d had a father like yours . . .”
“Like mine . . .?” I forced my gaze away from him and stared across the river. I could barely see the steeple of Papa’s church through the treetops. “When I was a little girl, I thought my papa was the wisest, most wonderful man in the world. I remember telling him once how I planned to travel all over the world, playing the piano, and he spoke as though he understood exactly how I felt. But he couldn’t have known. He couldn’t have understood me at all. He let me give up my dream. He let me marry a man who has wounded me and broken me until there is nothing left of me inside. I can’t play the piano anymore. Not at home, not even at church.” I heard the bitterness in my voice when I spoke the word. I wondered if Patrick did.
“Karl Bauer doesn’t love me. I was only his prize. He won’t let me have children because he knows that I’ll love them more than him. You talk about the ‘cheap grace’ of your church, but in my church there is no grace. We pay the consequences of our sins for the rest of our lives. Karl is my penance for causing Eva’s death. All the Hail Marys in the world wouldn’t free me from the vows I made to him.”
“I’m sorry,” Patrick said softly. “When I’d heard that you’d married, I prayed that you would love him, that you would be happy with him.”
“And I hoped that you would be happy in the life God called you to.”
We gazed at each other, and the longing to hold and comfort each other pulled at both of us. Patrick had the spiritual strength to resist. I drew strength from him.
“Are you hungry?” he asked suddenly. “I brought some lunch.” He pointed to the box of groceries he had abandoned on the cabin steps. Coming from any other man besides Patrick, it would have been a ridiculous question to ask when our hearts were so full of pain, but I understood him perfectly. We had only a few hours together, and so, by unspoken agreement, we would live in the present, finding joy in each moment before we returned to our empty lives.
We cooked bacon and eggs in the cabin, then washed the dishes together, just as we had the time we’d hunted mushrooms. Sometimes we talked without words—one in heart and thought—always careful not to touch, not to so much as brush against each other.
Later we strolled around the island, reading poetry in the trees as they bent in the wind, delighting in a carpet of dainty wild flowers that had miraculously survived the drought. We sat on the beach, listening to the music of lapping water and the melody of bird song. The island didn’t seem nearly as dry and desolate with Patrick beside me.
Too soon, the day drew to a close. As we stood together on the porch of the cabin, we both grew quiet, sensing the end. When we said good-bye this time, it would probably be forever. We would both return to honor the vows we had made before God. We stood looking out at the woods and the water beyond, not at each other.
“It’s so unfair,” I murmured. “We should have spent a lifetime together, not one day . . . .”
“Hush, Emma. Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I believe in a God of design, and I know you do too. He’s teaching us through our present circumstances, but we have to listen closely to understand what He’s saying, just as we listened to the wind and to the bird song today. I’ll pray for your marriage, that you’ll find happiness in it. Will you pray that He’ll make me a better priest?”
I nodded, but somehow Patrick knew that I was lying. The woods seemed to grow still.
“Tell me what’s wrong, Emma.”
“I can’t pray. I haven’t prayed since the day Eva died.”
“I see. . . .” He drew a breath, as if about to speak, then exhaled with a weary sigh. “If I were a better priest I would know what to say to you, but I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. T
here is really nothing you can say.” The moment I had dreaded all day had finally come. “I should go now,” I said. “Good-bye, Patrick.”
“Good-bye,” he whispered. We turned to each other at the same time.
I remember thinking, If only I could feel the strength of his arms around me and the warmth of his embrace once more. If only I could inhale the scent of him, just once . . . just one more time . . . to remember . . .
We hesitated for the same moment. Then he took my face in his hands. And from the moment our lips touched, we were swept away.
I remember the force of the flood when I was a child, and how I’d felt the bridge tremble and sway beneath us the moment before the deluge washed it away. Mama backed the carriage away in time, and we escaped. But Patrick and I made a mistake. We didn’t step back in time. We lost our footing, and we were swept away. After that, nothing could have restrained the flood of stored-up love and longing that was unleashed with that single kiss. Nothing.
* * *
I spent the night with him. What happened between Patrick and me in that cabin was as different from Karl and me as a spring shower is from a hurricane. The aftermath would prove just as destructive. We lost ourselves in each other’s embrace, never thinking about the consequences.
As I lay in his arms the next morning after dawn, we heard a man’s shout outside. “Hello? Anyone home?” Patrick froze.
“Answer him,” I whispered. “He knows someone is here. The windows are open . . . our boats are on the beach. . . .”
Patrick scrambled out of bed to pull on his trousers. “Who’s there?” he called.
“It’s Alan Metzger.”
“We can’t let Alan see me!” I whispered frantically. “He goes to Papa’s church!”
Patrick stumbled to the door and opened it a crack. “Uh . . . good morning. What can I do for you?”
“My father’s boat disappeared from his dock across the river yesterday. I was out fishing this morning and happened to see it on your beach.”
“Yes, it was there when I arrived,” Patrick said truthfully. “That’s the boat I used alongside it.”
I slipped into my clothes as they talked, then crawled across the floor on my hands and knees to the woodpile in an alcove behind the potbellied stove. We had been using the older, seasoned wood from the back of the stack, leaving a narrow space behind the pile of newer logs. I crawled into the space and hid.
“That’s strange,” Alan said. “I guess it must have come unmoored and drifted over here. What did you say your name was?”
“Um . . . Thomas O’Duggan. I’m up from the city for the week.”
“Nice to meet you. What kind of work do you do there?”
“I . . . I’m a priest . . . a Catholic priest.” Patrick’s answer was barely audible.
“You’re here on vacation, then? The fishing sure is great in this river, isn’t it?”
“I . . . uh . . . I haven’t caught any fish yet,” he said with a nervous laugh.
“I’ll give you a couple of mine if you want. I caught my limit already. My wife doesn’t even like fish.” He rambled on and on about nothing and never seemed to notice that Patrick’s answers were short and clipped. “Well, I guess I’ll be going,” Alan said at last. “Come on down to my boat and help yourself to some fish.”
“Sure . . . thanks.”
“And if you don’t mind, I’ll just tie Dad’s boat behind mine and take it home.”
“That’s fine.” I heard them tromp down the stairs, then a few minutes later I heard the door creak open again as Patrick returned. I didn’t come out of the wood pile until Patrick said, “He’s gone.”
I limped from my hiding place, brushing sawdust and bark from my clothes, my leg numb and tingling. Patrick stood in the open doorway with his back to me. When he finally turned around his face was white, his eyes wild with horror. I knew before he even said a word that he would never hold me in his arms again.
“What have I done?” he whispered. “Dear God . . . Emma . . . what have I done!” It was a cry of utter anguish.
“It’s all right, Patrick. We-”
“No! It’s not all right! It will never be all right! Oh, God . . . Oh, god . . . what have I done!” He staggered out the door toward the privy, but he didn’t make it. He dropped to his knees along the path and was sick.
I watched him through the window for a long time as he knelt there, retching. At last he struggled to his feet and came back inside. He couldn’t look at me, as if he no longer saw my face but his own sin and guilt and shame.
“Emma, I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry. . . .”
“I’m not.”
“Will you ever forgive me for this?”
“I don’t need to forgive you. That was the happiest night—”
“No . . . stop!” he moaned. “Don’t say it! I’m a priest! I broke all of my vows to God! How can I ever face Him? How can I ever partake of the body and blood of Christ again?”
“Patrick, listen. . . .”
“And if that wasn’t bad enough, I . . . I slept with a married woman! God help me, I took another man’s wife!”
“Were you lying to me when you said you loved me?”
“No . . . the Lord knows it’s the truth.”
“I went to you willingly, Patrick. You never promised me—”
“Oh, God have mercy on both of us! Don’t you realize what we’ve done? We’ve committed adultery! Adultery! All my life I’ve hated that word, and I’ve hated my father for committing it, and now I’ve done the very same thing! I even used my father’s name to cover my guilt. I told Metzger I was Thomas O’Duggan.” He hid his face in his hands.
I knew there was nothing more I could say. We stood in the silent cabin, and the sounds that drifted through the open door were no longer gentle, but harsh and mocking—the raucous cry of a crow, the grating of locust wings, the scrape of a tree branch against the roof.
“You’ll have to row me back to shore,” I said quietly. “Alan took the boat.”
“I’ll never forgive myself for this,” he murmured. “Never.”
“Will you forgive me for wanting you?”
He stumbled from the cabin without answering. I let him go. A long time passed as I sat on the bed, unmoving. I could understand Patrick’s guilt, but I didn’t feel any of it, not even when I thought of Karl. Patrick hadn’t stolen a thing from Karl, because Karl had never allowed me into his heart. Nor had he given me any part of himself. Patrick knew my heart more intimately in one day than Karl had in almost five years.
When Patrick finally returned, I was surprised to see that it was evening. I felt empty inside but not hungry, even though I had eaten nothing all day.
“I’ll row you to shore now,” he said. His red-rimmed eyes were hollow against his pale face. He still wouldn’t look at me, nor did he lift his gaze from the floor of the boat as he rowed away from the island. We sat facing each other, but neither of us said a word.
The oars swished in rhythm as he pulled them through the dark water. They seemed to ask, Why? . . . Why? . . . Why? There was no answer. He rowed faster and faster, as if I would burn a hole through the bottom of the boat if he didn’t put me on shore quickly. As soon as I felt the hull scrape the gravel of the riverbank, I stepped out and waded onto dry land.
“Emma . . .”
I heard Patrick calling me, but I didn’t reply. I kept walking.
“Emma . . . I’m sorry. . . .”
I didn’t look back.
THIRTY
* * *
When Karl returned home from his trip, I could scarcely tolerate his embrace. I didn’t want his nearness to erase the memory of Patrick’s. My skin crawled every time Karl touched me or pressed his lips to mine. The next few nights I lied, saying I was indisposed, so that he would stay away from my bedroom.
I hated my life. The only escape from an eternity with Karl, an eternity without Patrick, was death. When the September rains ended the drought, I comfort
ed myself with the thought that once the river rose to its normal level, I would leap from the railroad bridge and die. But before I had a chance to carry out my plan, I discovered that I was pregnant.
I knew the child was Patrick’s. And I knew I would protect that new life with every ounce of strength I had. I could tolerate a lifetime with Karl if I could hold Patrick’s baby in my arms. But I had failed to consider Karl’s need for control. A child wasn’t in his plans.
The morning after his abortion attempt failed, Karl drove me home from my sister Sophie’s house in icy silence. I wouldn’t look at him. I didn’t want him to see that I was terrified of him and would run from him again the first chance I got. I had to make him believe that I had forgiven him.
Karl grasped my elbow in his iron grip as he walked me from the car to our front parlor. “Sit down, Emma,” he said as he led me to the sofa. He hovered over me, his dark eyes alive with rage like two smoldering coals.
“I know that the child you’re carrying isn’t mine.”
“Wh . . . what are you talking about? Of course the baby is yours.”
“Liar!” He struck me across the face so hard that my head hit the back of the couch.
In my terror, the only thing I could think to do was to pacify him. “Please, Karl . . . you have to believe me. The baby—”
“Don’t lie to me again!” He poised his clenched fist in front of my face. His entire body quivered with restrained rage. “I haven’t been preventing conception, Emma. I am unable to father a child. Now, you will tell me who the father is.”
I believe he might have tried to beat the truth from me if he hadn’t heard a knock at our back door. We both knew that it was our Irish housekeeper, Katie. As quickly as he’d lost it, Karl regained control. “You’re a mess!” he said. “Go upstairs and clean yourself up before she sees you.”