Questions and Concerns

 

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

   

At Maureen's request, Beckett does a "wellness check" on "Fr. Kevin"

   Believe her?  Not likely.  Even if he could buy into the theory that the equations pin pointed certain spots around the world, it was a far stretch to imagine that one could time travel from these locations.  Still, if you had asked him a week ago if he believed time travel was even possible, he'd have laughed over the absurdity, and never given it another thought.  But his very real presence, here and now, in 1849, with his stomach churning like a broken garbage disposal unit, was proof positive that the reality he thought he once knew, was actually full of cosmic jokes.

    The woman's face held such hope, he couldn't find it in his heart to smother her optimism.  It was Roxie somewhere in that strange body, and this time, he'd show her the support and friendship he'd lacked when they were kids.  Kevin worked at pushing his lips together in some type of false bravado smile.  "Sure, Rox.  I believe you.  So how do we find these spots.  And when we do find them, how does the whole thing work?  How do we actually get back to our own time?"

     Roxanne smiled back, rolling the papers back up into a tight cylinder.  "I"m glad you believe me, Kev.  I know it sounds...well crazy....but I really do think our being here has something to do with the spot we were standing on when we left.  Like a portal of sort.  If I'm figuring this whole thing right, it seems that there are portals like that one all over the planet, and this document pin points those locations based on longitude and latitude. All we have to do is locate one of those...spots, and maybe we can get back to our own time.  We know for a fact one of them is here in Boston.  It's how we got here in the first place."

       Either his illness was causing a complete mental breakdown, or Rox actually appeared to be making sense.  He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before.  The bank.  In the room with the safety deposit boxes.  They had been standing there, in the year 2014, and suddenly, the next thing he knew he was waking up in a strange bed, in an even stranger body that wasn't his own.  Was it really that simple?  Go back to that same spot in the bank?   "The bank, Roxie.  The spot is in the bank.  It has to be."

      She nodded, the smile gone, replaced with a look of concern.  "The spot in the bank has to be the portal.  But there's got to be something else.  Otherwise, anyone walking past that spot would get pulled into the portal.  Just disappear. No. There's got to be something else."  She sat in silence, her mind working through the problem.  Then she fumbled with the neckline of her shift, and stuck a hand down the front of it, pulling out a gold object.  The pocket watch swung from her finger tips, vibrating with the slightest of movement "The watch, Kev.  It's the watch.  It must work as some kind of transporter."

      Kevin shuddered, partly from the fever wracking his body, but more so over the appearance of the cursed time piece dangling from Roxie's fingers.  From the moment he had laid eyes on the wretched thing, it had filled him with a sense of dread, forcing him to look deep inside himself at things better left hidden.  Now it appeared that it held the key to their getting back home.  "So, you're sure that if we take this watch back to that same spot in the bank, in the vault with the safety deposit boxes, and both grab the watch again, we'll wake up back home?  In Dollyville?  In 2014?"

     She shoved the watch back down the front of her work dress.  "Of course I'm not sure!   I'm not sure of anything.  It just seems logical.  And we have to try something, Kevin.  You're getting sicker by the minute."  She stopped a moment, hesitant to finish the thought.  "People... people in this time...died from cholera, Kev.  There was no intravenous fluids available.  No antibiotics.  We need to get you back to our time, so if you still do have cholera in your own body, we can get you treatment."

     Her saying the actual word "die" made his fear seem all the more real.  For reasons he could not explain, he did not want to end his life here on earth in Murphy's body.  If he were to meet his Father in Heaven, than he preferred to do it in the same skin he'd been created with.  "You're right, Rox.  We have to at least give it a try."  Another thought crossed his mind as he sat queasy and shaking on the floor of the sacristy.  "We forgot about the whole quest thing.  The reason we were sent in the first place.  Isn't there something we're supposed to do here?   For Webster?  Or maybe Parkman?"

       She had no answer, and instead, they sat in a silence, each left with their own thoughts.  Resigned, Roxanne rose from her spot on the floor, and offered him a hand up.   "I can't base my actions on things written in fiction, Kevin.  Maybe there's a quest.  Maybe there's not.  All I know is I can't just sit around and watch you get sicker and sicker.  We have to get to the bank vault, the sooner the better.  We need a plan."

       Fr. Kevin shifted his weight, leaning on a wobbly chair for support.  She was right, of course  He felt awful.  He recalled information about cholera from a high school health course.  That massive diarrhea would lead lead to complete dehydration, followed by a shut down of all his major organs. He would die in his bed, alone, in a pool of watery shit.  From what he knew of his host's dismal life, no one much would care.  But the very worse thought of all, was the possibility that his death would abandon Roxanne in 1849.  That it required both of them to make the jump back, and by dying, he would doom her to a life of poverty and misery in the form she now possessed.  And that was, absolutely, not an option he could live...or die with.

_______________________

         The short stroll down to Holy Name rectory left little time for Beckett to work off the annoyance he harbored over his wife's latest bad decision.  The woman drove him crazy.  Sent him over the edge with her constant lack of foresight and sensibility.  If a single thought popped into her head, she acted on it.  No reasoning.  No planning.  It went against every fiber in his body, and was oddly, one of the same traits that drew him to her in the first place.

       Once involved, she threw caution to the wind, and fell into the experience with no hesitation.  It was deliciously exciting when she was in this mode, but also led to a myriad of headaches.  Maureen O'Kenney Beckett was, without a doubt, the brattiest woman he had ever met, and such a change from the hundreds before her, that he found it irresistible.  Which was one of the reasons he found himself on the way to chat with his brother-in-law, when he had several pressing matters of his own to deal with.

       When it came to her brother, Kevin, Maureen was unmovable.  The relationship between the siblings was something he had nothing to compare with, and found it difficult to understand.  He and his two brothers, one older, one younger, had never been close.  Even now, they seldom spoke, and their absence from his life wasn't something he gave much thought to.  But his wife would never let up on this idea that something was wrong with her favorite brother, unless he himself assessed the situation, and gave his opinion.

     The fact that she trusted his opinion as much as she did, pleased him.  But right now, he had other issues of concern, and doing a "wellness check" on Fr. Kevin seemed a total waste of time.
It was a bit strange to see the grass overgrown in the front yard of the home.  After the murder of the  gardener a year before, the priest himself had taken on the maintenance jobs around the parish, claiming the budget couldn't handle the cost of hiring someone new.   In Beckett's mind, his brother-in-law enjoyed the opportunity to work with his hands, and burn off excess energy.  He wondered whether it was a backlash over that whole ridiculous celibacy thing, a concept he and the cleric had hotly debated on several occasions.

       The state of the lawn, and the stack of old newspapers on the front porch, was an oddity.  When it came to the church and rectory, Kevin bordered on fanatical, and this lack of care was certainly out of the ordinary.  Beckett knocked on the door, never feeling comfortable with the way Maureen just let herself in as if she lived there herself, which at one point, she had.  There was no response, so he knocked again, this time with a bit more force.  For more than five minutes he waited on the porch of the rectory, and was just about to let himself in, when his wife's brother finally decided to answer the door.

       He hadn't seen Kevin O'Kenney since the day after his wedding, but had known the man for nearly a year.  In that time, he had always known him to be as straight an arrow.  He took his vocation seriously, and both looked and acted the part.  He enjoyed a shot of Irish whiskey now and then, and though he tried to hide it, Beckett knew the man enjoyed an occasional joint.  It was an essential skill in his line of work to expect the unexpected, but the disheveled man with blood shot eyes frowning at him from the other side of the door caught him off guard.

         His brother-in-law leaned against the frame, his arms crossed.  "Yes?"

         "Nice to see you too, Kev.  Can I come in?  It's about your sister."

          Fr. Kevin hesitated a moment, then asked, "The woman is well?"

          At the word "woman", Beckett bristled.  Maybe Maureen wasn't so off the mark.  Her brother did seem to be acting a bit strange.  He checked his eyes, and though the pupils seemed normal, there was just something not right.  Try as he might, he couldn't explain what it was, but there was something about the whole scene that bothered him.  "Yeah, she's fine.  She made the whole thing up, you know.  To help you out with that diocese problem.  You know your sister.  She doesn't always think things out."
           The priest nodded, but made no move to invite him in.  "I am glad to hear that she is without illness."

           "So...can I come in.  I feel like I'm out of the loop since the wedding and honeymoon.  Thought maybe we could catch up a little.  I'm off duty, and was hoping you might invite me in for a Guinness."

           His brother-in-law narrowed his eyes, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his stained slacks.  "I'm afraid I'm rather busy right now,,,,uhmmm  Ted.  Perhaps some other time then."  And without further discussion, he closed the door.


Copyright 2014  Victoria T. Rocus
All Rights Reserved


     


     

Tempus Fugits Returns

 

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

Longitude and Latitude

     Fr. Kevin looked up at her, trying to measure her statement.  "Help us?  How?  That makes no sense, Rox.  Webster has no clue as to who we really are.  He wouldn't begin to believe that we're...that we...time traveled from some other time in history.  And if we tried to explain it all, they'd lock us both up in some loony bin.  So, how could his research have anything to do with us?"  His stomach rolled in response, and he pulled the slop bucket closer towards him.

       Roxanne ignored him, mumbling to herself.  She rose and headed toward the empty coal scuttle next to the stove, turning it over and shaking it, until a small scrap of the material fell to the floor.  Then without explanation, she went back to the rolled out paperwork.  As she worked in silence, he watched her scribble out numbers with the piece of charcoal on the floor next to them, careful to space them out in what seemed a particular order.  After several minutes, she conceded to speak, pointing to her work.  "Do ya see it now, Kev?  The pattern?"

       Kevin tried to peer intently at what she had written, but even if he hadn't felt as wretched as he did, he'd probably still not see what it was that had put her in a state of excitement.  He had absolutely no head for numbers.  As a kid, he struggled with the basic tenets of multiplication and long division, and Algebra was  a foreign language that other people spoke.  He passed the basic business courses in the seminary with the help of a daily tutor who had implied that he must have some kind of mental impairment.  Even now, his parish finances back home were a mess, mainly because he had let them go for months at a time.  Despite everything, it was still important that Roxanne not think him a complete idiot, so he nodded in agreement, feigning some type of understanding.  "Uhmm...yeah.  I think I do.  So what do you think it means?"

        "It's not the equations that matter so much, Kev.  It's the spacing on the paper!  When you figure the equations, the two sets of answers seem to represent longitude and latitude.  It just has to be."  She could see the confusion in his face.  "Look here," she explained, pointing to the top and bottom of the largest sheet.  "At the top and bottom of the sheet, the answers to the two equations are 90 and 180.  On both the left and right sides.  In the center the answer is zero.  Again on the top and bottom, the left and right.  That's gotta be the Equator and the Prime Meridian.  It couldn't be anything else.  Not smack dab in the center like that.  That means all these other equations...these sets of numbers...they have to be different points around the world.  Special points."

        "I'll buy into your theory, Rox.  But I'm still not getting what any of this has to do with us.  Or why we're here.  Even if you're right, and these are longitude and latitude co-ordinates, it's a ridiculous stretch to assume they have anything to do with our predicament.  Or time travel.  The spots could have any hundred reasons for being important.  Mineral deposits...oil...precious stones.  Things that could have made Webster a wealthy man.  That would make a hundred times more sense then what your leaning towards, Roxanne."

      She smiled, a crooked grin with a space between the front teeth that Roxanne Spinelli never sported.  "And under different circumstances, I'd have to agree with you, O'Kenney.  If not for these letters here in the corner."  She tapped the lower right hand corner of the sheet.  "Did you catch this?"

        He squinted at the small, neat print.  No, he had missed this the night before amid his apprehension over the bands of numbers.  The obvious clue starring him square in the face.  But now, it seemed to make perfect sense. "It's Latin...Tempus Fugits...it means..."

       "Yup. I know what it means.  'Time Flies'."  She leaned back, and smiled again.  "Now do you believe me?"

____________________

Beckett has words with Maureen

      It had seemed like a good idea at the time.  The only idea, actually.  And it had done the job.  Her "fainting spell" at the rectory had caused quite the commotion, resulting in a ambulance ride to the hospital, and the much needed departure of Mr. Belkins from the Archdiocese, who promised to pray for her recovery, and return at a more convenient time.  From where she stood, things hand gone swimmingly well.  Therefore, the pissy reactions of both her husband and brother came as an unwelcome surprise.

      Once over his frantic concern, Beckett was livid, railing at her for putting him through such an ordeal, and questioning her general sanity.  Though the hospital, finding absolutely nothing wrong, had released her, and she had finally admitted to making the whole thing up, her husband insisted on going off duty, and spending the rest of the day with his "ailing" wife, a decision she knew would not bode well for her.

      When they had reached the confines of the apartment, she could see the veins sticking out on his temples, and knew he was in a particularly foul mood.  They both were aware that the deli downstairs was open for business, and had no doubt that Mrs. Schiller was eavesdropping near the door at the bottom of the stairs.  Her maternal instincts had insisted on sending them up with a bowl of fruit, and some of her special blend herbal tea, which she swore was the perfect thing for nervous mothers-to-be.

      He hadn't even let her put away the bowl of fruit before he sat her down and began the lecture she was pretty sure would go on for the entire afternoon.  "Jesus Christ, Maureen, do you have any boundries what so ever?  What would possess you to pull a stupid stunt like that?  Couldn't you have given me a heads up before you went ahead with this crazy shit?"

     "I do wish you wouldn't take the Lord's name in vain like that, Ted.  It really bothers me."  She sat up straighter, and tried to look spiritually offended, but it was obvious he wasn't buying any of it.

      "You know what bothers me, little one?  When my wife comes up with ridiculous notions, without thinking anything through.  Do you have any idea of what you put me through?  I get a call at the station that you are on your way to the hospital.  That you collapsed at Holy Family.  Hell,  I thought you were still here at the apartment.  Last we talked, you said you wanted to sleep in, stay off your feet, and maybe take a look at the new house plans.  You never said a word about going over to the rectory."

     "I'm sorry I worried you, Ted.  Honest, I am.  But the more I got to thinking about Kevin's weird behavior, the more I wanted to go and see him.  Find out what happened.  Roxie's sudden disappearance...well...you have to admit it was strange.  I wanted to find out if it had anything to do with what went on between the two of them.  Kevin's just not himself, Ted.  He's...I don't know how to explain it.  Just different.  He doesn't even talk the same.  Something's wrong.  I'm sure of it."

    "Look, Moe.  Whatever went on between Kevin and your friend is none of our business.  If Roxanne decided she needed to leave Dollyville, then that was her choice, and you need to keep your nose out of it.  Honestly, I don't understand your family's penchant for butting into each other's personal affairs.  Would drive me crazy.  And as we have thoroughly discussed, the less any of them know about our situation, and my part time employment, the better.  It's a matter for every one's safety, little one.  I thought I made that clear."

     She hated when he used the moniker "little one".  It made her feel all warm and mushy, and gave him the distinct advantage in any discussion.  It may have been an extreme maneuver to feign illness as she had, but if it meant helping her brother, then she'd damn well do it all over again.  She needed to convince her husband that something was seriously wrong with Kevin.  Once that happened, she was pretty sure he would know what to do.

Copyright 2014 Victoria T. Rocus
All Rights Reserved


       

       

Expectations and Equations

             

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

   

Fr. Kevin... aka Fr. Murphy... goes over the parish accounts in the rectory parlor

      It was the dream that woke him.  Left him startled, sweaty, and with that strange inability to distinguish between reality and the nocturnal products of his imagination.  Considering the situation he found himself in, the irony was overwhelming.  Fr. Kevin pulled the tattered blanket up tighter around him, not so much because of the chill in the room, but more because of the remnants of his nightmare.  He was back on the Harvard campus, standing on the roof of the privy in the pouring rain.  Why he was on the roof, and how he had gotten there, wasn't explained.  He just knew that he was perched on the top of the wretched building, holding Webster's papers in one hand, and a large horse-shoe shaped magnet in the other.

      Below him on the ground, his sister Maureen stood screaming up at him, she herself in possession of a similar large magnet that she kept waving back and forth.  Try as he might, he could not make out the words she was yelling at him above the noise of thunder and howling wind. The next thing he remembered was that horrible man, Littlefield, climbing a ladder up to the roof and demanding he turn over the papers.  When he refused to release him, the burly janitor began pummeling him in the stomach, his fists falling over and over again, until Kevin felt too sick to react.

       Now awake, he realized that his stomach did in fact, feel awful.  Nausea came in rolls, and the cramps in his lower belly made him dive from the warm bed in search of the chamber pot and his wash basin.  For several minutes afterward, he lay on the cold floor of his room, trying to feel well enough to stand.  Mrs. McBride had attempted to enter the room with his breakfast and clean linen, but he refused her admittance, embarrassed by the mess he had made, and the state he found himself in.  Eventually, he forced the energy to stand, and dress himself.  He needed to get to the church to say Mass.  It was the only chance he'd have to meet with Roxanne.

_____________________________

        As Maureen watched the rotund Mr. Belkins polish off his sixth slice of buttered rye toast, she contemplated the absurdity of the moment.  She had come over this morning for the specific purpose of spending time with her brother.  Of getting answers from him about his strange behavior.  Instead, she was now acting as cook and waitress for some pompous jerk from the diocese, while said brother was haggling over the parish accounts in the rectory parlor.  This would be the same brother who had flunked high school Algebra not once, but twice, and who had barely passed the business courses required by the seminary.  Numbers were not Kevin's forte.  Anyone who knew him was aware that he simply did not have a head for math.  So what the hell did he think he was going to accomplish in the hour it would take Fatso to fill his expanded gullet?

       She had attempted to offer her assistance, but he had rudely ordered her back to the kitchen with  instructions to keep the diocese's bulldog busy with breakfast.  She watched as he scribbled a list of numbers on a pad of paper, not a calculator or computer in sight, and sighed.  This was a disaster in the making, and she considered who she might seek for assistance.  A text to both her husband and eldest brother, Patrick, had come back with virtually the same reply.  Kevin was Pastor, and Kevin would figure it out.  She should mind her own business, and do as he had asked.  But this was Kevin we were talking about.  Her favorite brother.  There had to be something she could do to help him.  That's when the idea came to her.  If someone in the family suddenly took ill, then of course the meeting with Belkins would have to be postponed. Without further thought, Maureen closed her eyes, and dropped to the floor.

Maureen's plan to help her brother escape the clutches of Mr. Belkins

__________________________________

      Mass was late in starting, due to its officiant needing to spend additional time in the privy out back.  This delay neither surprised or annoyed the handful of faithful in the pews, and when Fr. Kevin made his appearance at the altar, no one seemed shocked by the priests gray pallor, leading him to believe that his host spent many a morning seemingly under the weather.  But he had little energy left to worry about the mysterious Fr. Murphy.  He, himself, felt wretched.
     
       It took every ounce of self fortitude to get through the liturgy of the Mass in an upright position.  There were several moments when he thought he might just throw up where he stood, but by the grace of the Almighty, he was able to give the final blessing without embarrassing himself in front of his flock.  He tried peering into the gloom of the church for confirmation that Roxanne was in attendance, but couldn't verify he saw her.  And she would not come up to take communion, not in the form she found herself in, so he couldn't be sure she was truly there until Mass was over.

       Weak and sweaty, he plopped himself into a chair in the sacristy, and prayed she'd show up.  It was risky meeting in the sacristy, but they needed light and space to inspect Webster's documents, and the confessional wouldn't do.  He mopped his damp brow with a handkerchief, and gave a shudder.  There's was little doubt in his mind why he was ill, the memory of the night before etched in his mind.  He went over and over the scene, like a replay button in his head.  The moment the loosened stone slipped out, the moment it hit the privy hole, and the exact instant the putrid offerings hit his face.  He remembered the smell of it under his nose, and the sour, rancid taste in the corner of his lip.  When it had happened, the logical side had taken over.  The likelihood of him contracting cholera from that little exposure was unlikely.  The weather was cold.  Too cold for the bacteria to reproduce.  The odds were with him.

      But this morning, feeling the way he did, reality was quickly sinking in.  He wondered if when he died, would it be his soul returning to the Lord, or Fr. Murphy's?  Would he return to his own time, or would Fr. Murphy finish his time on Earth in Kevin's body.  He forced himself not to think about his family.  About his mother, or his brothers, or Maureen.  The thought that he wouldn't see them again until they all met in heaven was, at the moment, too much to bear.  He pushed these thoughts away, focusing on ways to help Roxanne get to her own time.  If these were to be his last days, then he needed to make them count.

      There was the sound of the heavy door creaking open, and repeated footsteps against the wooden
floor.  When she came into view, he was surprised that her present appearance no longer startled him.  Even when she spoke in that strange, lilting accent, he heard only Roxie's voice, the one that always made his heart beat faster.

       "Sorry, I'm late, Kev.  I had to wait until the coast was clear.  A lot of people seemed bent on hanging around today."  She removed the woolen scarf from around her head, and only then looked at him directly.  Seeing the sweat on his forehead, and the gray tones of his skin, she blanched.  "Holy shit, Kevin!  You look awful!  What's wrong?"  She reached in to feel his forehead, but he pushed her away.

       "Don't get too close to me, Rox.  I don't remember if you can get this from personal contact.  I don't want to risk it."

        "Get what?  What the hell are you talking about?"

       In response to her question, he rushed from the chair, vomiting into a slop bucket in the corner of the room.  He heaved until there seemed to be nothing left in his stomach.  When he was finished, he sat against the wall exhausted, too weary and sick to offer up any kind of apology or explanation.

         Disregarding his warning, Roxie sat down next to him, and pulled him close.  "Oh, Kevin.  It's cholera, isn't it?  Somehow you got infected retrieving those documents, didn't you?"

       Her voice was higher than normal, and he knew, if he looked, her eyes would probably be full of tears.  So he took the cowards way out, and kept them shut.  If he looked at her now, he'd loose any hope he had left of keeping his dignity intact.  She used the scarf to wipe his face, and he worked at moving away.  "I told you.  You shouldn't get near me.  I'm not sure if I'm contagious.  There's no reason for us both to...to... be ill."

        She must have decided, as he did, to keep herself together.  When she answered, she was more in control.  "That's nonsense.  You don't get cholera from person to person contact.  I'd have to cover myself in your shit or vomit, and frankly Kev, as much as I like ya, I have no plans to do so.  So knock it off, and let me help you."

        The blunt statement sounded so much like his Roxie, that he smiled, in spite the fact he felt horrible.  "You always did have a way of putting things, Rox."  He pointed to his coat, slung across the chair he had occupied moments before.  "The papers.  Webster's.  They're inside the coat pocket."

        "Don't worry about Webster.  Tell me why you think you have cholera."

       He related the story of the night before, leaving out the part where Littlefield threatened him.  There was no need to alarm her any further.  He doubted the strange papers had anything to do with their time travel, and there was little to be gained in making her nervous.

       When he explained about the stone falling in the privy, and the subsequent splash to his face, she went still, and was quiet for several seconds afterward.  Then, with what seemed like a new dose of determination, she rose from the floor, and gathered up the papers. She spread them on the floor in front of him, and settled herself right back next to him.

        "Did you have a chance to look these over last night?"

       "Yes, but honestly, they don't make any sense at all to me.  Just a bunch of equations.  Strings of numbers with no rhyme or reason.  If you recall, I was never very good with science or math."

       She smiled, and nodded.  "Yeah.  I do remember that.  Didn't you almost not graduate because you were flunking calculus?  Came almost down to the wire, and you slipped by with a D+."

      He started to laugh, and then remembered that when he was senior, she had already withdrawn from their school after the arrest of her father.  He wondered how she'd known about his Calculus woes, and realized she had still cared about him. Had asked after him.  Even after the lousy way he had treated her.  The guilt made him feel worse than the physical symptoms of cholera, and he wanted to crawl in a hole and die.

      But the memory was obviously not painful for Roxanne, and that shamed him even more.  She poured over the papers, her lip bit in in serious concentration.  He sat in silence, and watched her mumble to herself.  Finally, she sat back down, her attention somewhere far away.

       "You're wrong, Kevin.  I think these papers hold the key for us.  For getting back to our own time."

Copyright Victoria T. Rocus
All Rights Reserved

   

Due to responsibilities with the day job...and life in general...I will be on hiatus for yet another week.  I hope you will come back next week to find out what's going on with Fr. Kevin, Roxie, Maureen, and the rest of our friends in Dollyville.

Thank you for your support and patience.

The Author

Home is Where your Heart Is

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

               

Maureen tries to bribe her "brother" with a home-cooked breakfast

      It was, without a doubt, his fear and guilt that made the papers seem as if they burned inside his coat pocket.  Despite the frigid wind, Kevin felt sweaty, and more than a bit nauseous.  He set his mind to acting calm, giving the menacing old man no reason to be suspicious of his presence in the privy.  "Of course not, good Sir.  No debauchery.  Or anything of such nature.  Was to meet a gentleman here...in front of the chemistry building."  He waved in his hand in the correct direction.  "But alas, it appears that he has been detained."  He stuck out his hand in an attempt to offer a greeting, but the man made no move to reciprocate, in fact tightening his grip on the wooden stick.  "The name's Murphy.  Father Sean Murphy.  I've come on a...spiritual manner."

        Littlefield looked at him, his frown deepening, if that was even possible.  "A Papist, and a shanty one to boost."  He let loose a second round of spittle, this one catching the side of Kevin's pant leg.  "No surprise that your man didn't show.  Probably came to his senses, and thought better of it."  He thrust the lantern closer to the priest's face.  "Might I suggest then, Murphy, that ya get to the business of moving on along.  No sense bein' about on a night like this."  Swinging the stick over his shoulder, he added, "Surprised you ain't a mite worried 'bout bein' out all alone this late, what with Dr. Parkman missing as he is.  Seems there's definitely evil work moving about the Harvard grounds.  The papers all say he's been murdered for sure, and the police have gone and hauled off Dr. Webster to the jail.  A body's not safe 'round here it seems."

          Kevin shoved his hands into his coat pocket, and stepped backwards, away from the man's lantern glow.  "Yes, a tragedy that is.  Poor Dr. Parkman.  His family must be fraught with worry.  But of course, I don't have much knowledge of the case.  Unseemly for a man of the cloth to be involved in the likes of that."

           Littlefield seemed to accept his reasoning, lessening the grip on the club, and relaxing his posture.  "Aye, it most certainly is.  Unseemly...indeed.  Well then...you have yourself a fine evening, Fr. Murphy.  I suggest you keep your wits about ya on your return home."  Then pulling his wool cap further down on his forehead, the janitor turned, and headed in the direction of the chemistry building, his lantern bobbing back and forth like a buoy in a sea of darkness.

             Fr. Kevin watched him go, and than burying his face in the collar of his overcoat, headed back toward the North End, this time with the wind at his back, and a solid reason to hurry his return to the rectory.

________________________

         From her spot in the kitchen, Maureen could hear the force of the shower running and running through the pipes that ran above her head, and behind the room's sink.  He had been at it for nearly 40 minutes, and she wondered if there was even any hot water left in the tank.  Though, considering what an awful mess he'd looked, she supposed it was a good thing he was obviously doing a thorough job.  Congratulating herself on having the foresight to just show up on his door, she turned down the heat under the skillet to avoid burning the bacon.

         It was usually the other way around, she being in a state of upheaval, and Kevin being the one to come to her rescue.  It felt rather nice this time, to have him be the one who needed assistance, and she in the position to offer it.  Still, it was worrisome to see him in such a state.  She wondered if it had anything to do with Roxanne's sudden disappearance.  It didn't take a licensed psychologist to notice that there was unfinished business between the two them.  At that possibility, she felt a stab of guilt.  It was her fault the two of them were forced to come face to face.  She had invited Roxanne Spinelli to her wedding knowing full well that her brother would be aghast at the idea.  But at the time, she had been lost in her desire to plan the happiest of days, and had given little concern to how Kevin might react.   Roxanne was a good friend, and it was not unreasonable for she as the bride to want her in attendance.

      That's why her flight from Dollyville, without a single note of explanation, seemed so odd.  The Roxanne she knew would never go back on a promise to a friend.  She had committed to taking Maureen's place at the deli, and to keeping an eye on things at the rectory, and the apartment, while she was on her honeymoon.  The newlywed had returned home, expecting to find her buddy behind the counter of the shop, but instead, received a lengthy tirade from Mrs. Schiller on how they had been short-handed for several days.  In addition, it appeared that Rox had left town with an assortment of clothing out of Maureen's closet.  Two pairs of Levi's, a few of her favorite tops, and a pair of new, leather wedge sandals, all seemed to have gone the way of the missing girl.  It wasn't that she cared about the loss of her clothes.  Rather, it was the strange behavior that had her worried.  All she could figure is that Roxie and her brother had gotten into a heated argument, and that her dear friend had left town to avoid any further unpleasantness.

       Hearing the water finally come to a stop, she plopped two more slices of bread in the toaster, and cracked a half dozen eggs in the mixing bowl.  Kevin's tongue always loosened with a fork near it, and her plan was to fill his belly, while pumping him for information.  Had she known ahead of time how ornery her brother had become, she surely would not have bothered adding fresh chives to the eggs, nor would she have squeezed all those dozen oranges by hand.
_________________________

      Somehow, knowing what was hidden inside his coat, made the long, miserable walk back to the North End more manageable.  That's not to say that by the time he returned to the shelter of the rectory, he wasn't in bad shape.  If Mrs. McBride's reaction was any level of measure, he was a frightful sight.  He face was windburned and chapped a raw red, and there were actual icicles hanging about his sideburns.  His fingers were numb with cold, almost devoid of any feeling, and the foot in the shoe with the hole hadn't fared much better.  Upon seeing him, the rotund housekeeper crossed herself, calling upon a host of saints to shower down their heavenly mercy.

      His foremost goal was to head to the solitude of his room, and to pour over the contents of the papers.  If they held the key to any of this mess, he needed to figure it all out with the utmost of speed.
But the formidable Birdie stood between he and his privacy.  She insisted that his thawing out was to be her project for the evening, and though he tried to convince her otherwise, he found himself wrapped in several blankets in front of the parlor stove, his feet soaking in a pan of warm water, and his hands and cheeks thoroughly rubbed down with what he guessed was left over bacon grease.

     It wasn't until she had made him drink several cups of what she described as "medicinal tea", and rubbed his head so briskly with a warm towel that his teeth rattled in his mouth, that she finally released him to the peace and quiet of his room, with the promise that he should head directly to his bed before he caught himself a death of a cold.  While she bustled about the kitchen, he managed to maneuver the papers out of his coat, squirreling them away in the waistband of his long johns where he was certain she wouldn't explore.

     His room was cold and drafty, and taking her advice, he threw the dingy night shirt over his head, and climbed under the pile of covers, glad for both the warmth and seclusion.  Pulling the table with the lamp closer to his bed, he unwrapped the leather covering, and unrolled the papers atop his quilt.  It didn't take long for confusion to bloom, and disappointment to set in.  The pages held nothing but a series of equations, long, complicated, and totally foreign to him.  He tried to make sense of the symbols, numbers and charts, but it was if he were trying to read letters in a made-up alphabet.  Frustrated, he shoved the papers to the foot of the bed,  despair closing in, followed in time by weariness, fatigue, and eventually the weightless pull of deep, heavy sleep.

_________________________
                         

Mr Belkins, from the Archdiocese of Boston, pays another visit

      After all that time in the bathroom, she was surprised when he came down the stairs, unshaven, and still in the rumpled clothes he had on earlier.  He did, however, smell a whole lot better, and it was obvious he had managed to at least shampoo his hair back to a presentable state.  Sliding the chair away from the table, she motioned for him to sit.  He complied without a word, settling himself on the seat, and propping his head up with one hand, he began to shovel the food on his plate into his mouth, while perusing the pages of the newspaper she had left on the table.

    Maureen poured herself a cup of coffee, and took the seat across from her brother.  "So, Kev.  Now that you're looking a bit...perkier, maybe you can explain what's been going on here since I've been gone?  Why did Roxie leave before I got home?  She had promised to stay, ya know.  It's so not like her to go back on her word."

     He simply ignored her question, cramming a whole piece of toast into his mouth, and focusing his attention on a weather map of the United States, in between long slurps from his cup of coffee.

     "Seriously, Kev.  I'm worried about her.  You didn't have a...an argument, did you?  Some kind of falling out that might cause her to leave so suddenly."

       His mouth full, he answered without looking up from the paper.  "Undoubtedly, she left because she had other places to be.  More than that I can not say."

      "Can't...or won't say, Kevin?  What the hell is wrong with you?  You're acting...well...weird.  The way you're talking and acting...it's just not like you.  I'm concerned you're ill.  You're not depressed, are you?  Maybe having some kind of mental issue?  You know...like Aunt Edna had that one summer when we all went to the Cape.  A nervous breakdown, mama called it.  Oh Kevin, you poor thing!  You must be suffering terribly."

         Her brother looked up from his plate, and that's when she noticed it.  His eyes.  They weren't quite right.  They were, of course, still green, matching hers, but yet, appeared entirely different.  They were surely closer together, deep set under brows the same color as his hair.  Appearing more intense and calculating then she had remembered.  And at this moment, they were zeroed in on her, looking, for lack of a better word, rather perturbed.  "Woman, I have no idea why you insist on interrupting my meal.  You invite me to eat, then blather on the whole time about nonsense.  As I already explained, this Roxanne has left town of her own free will.  It was, I assure you, all for the best.  Now, if you will allow me to finish this breakfast in peace, I would be ever so grateful."

        He went back to his shoveling, ignoring the scowl that had replaced concern. "You are being a total jerk, Kevin O'Kenney.  I have no idea what the hell is making you act this way, but so help me, I'm going to find out, even if I have to get Ted down here to help me drag you to the emergency room.  If you think for one minute, I'm going just stand by and let you..."

        The conversation was halted by the front door bell, it being pushed by someone with a very insistent hand.  She heard it ring once, then twice, and yet a third time before asking, "Aren't you going to answer that?"

         Without raising his eyes from the news paper, he replied , "During my breakfast?  I think not."

          She listened to it ring two more times, before rising to answer the door, slamming the chair into the table as she left.  He could hear the back and forth of conversation, and in a few minutes, she returned, concern once again dressing her demeanor.

          "Kevin...there's a Mr. Belkins in the parlor.  From the Archdiocese.  He says he's here about some accounting discrepancies in the parish books.  Claims you had an appointment today.  I told him that I was your sister, and that you were under the weather, but he insists on meeting with you anyway.  Is that going to be a problem?"

Copyright Victoria T. Rocus
All Rights Reserved



 

Double Trouble

                       

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

                               

Maureen has an uncomfortable discussion with her "brother".

       Maureen grabbed him by the shoulder, and shook.  "Kevin...Kev...get up.  It's me...Maureen."

        The priest grunted, and then rolled on his side, testing several methods of tucking his lanky 6' plus frame on the narrow sofa, and burying his head under a worn throw pillow.

       Partly alarmed, but mostly annoyed, his sister shook him again, this time giving his shoulder a pinching squeeze, and ripping the pillow off his face. "You need to sit up, Kevin.  I can't believe your in this shape!  And so early in the morning!  What the hell is going on here?  You didn't say Mass this way, did you?"

        One blood shot eye creeped open and stared at her, followed by the other.  Pushing himself to an upright position, the man growled.  "Damn, woman.  You needn't shout.  I can hear you just fine.  That shrill cawing cuts through my head like a rusty knife."" His jacket was rumpled, and his collar open and askew.  A smattering of fine ginger colored whiskers blanketed his cheeks and chin, and he reeked of alcohol and sweat, as he ran a hand through short greasy, hair.

       "Good for you then!  That's just what you deserve!  I hope you have yourself a monster of a hangover!  What the hell were you thinking?  Drinking like this on a...on a weekday morning, no less!"  A thought crossed Maureen's mind, and her anger turned to worry.  "Oh no...something's not wrong, is it?  No one's...ill...or worse?"
She grabbed at him, gathering him in an awkward embrace.  "Oh Kevin!  Is it Mama?  It's not Patrick, is it? Tell me he didn't have another heart attack?  He's not dead, is he?  Oh...I knew I should have called home!  Please Kev, tell me Patrick's okay."

        The priest peeled her fingers from his forearms, and pushed her into a spot next to him, moving himself a few dignified spaces away.  He appeared to be searching for answers among inebriated brain cells, and a slew of seconds passed before he could rightfully answer. "Ah, Patrick.  The oldest one.  To the best of my knowledge, he is fine." He tilted his head a bit to the left, and added, "Yes.  They all appear to be fine.  The whole noisy lot of them."

         She stared at him oddly before replying, her disgust at finding him in this state quickly changing to apprehension.  "Are you sure you're alright, Kev.  You seem...different.  Not yourself.  Is something the matter?  You know you can always come to me, right?"

         Her brother seemed to examine her face, staring not just at her, but through her.  His eyes were the same moss green color, but yet, appeared harder, and without the calm she had sensed from them as long as she could remember.  There had been a change in her brother while she had been gone, of that she was sure.  But the hows, and whats and whys of the whole thing were a total mystery.

       He patted her hand, and grimaced, looking even less like her brother, and more like a stranger.  "I assure you, Miss Maureen, that I am perfectly fine, if not still a bit in my cups.  I appreciate your concern, but I shall be right as rain when I've worn off the effects."   He rose off the sofa, and headed toward the door in an obvious hint toward leaving.  "There's no need to worry your pretty little head over my situation.  I shall be most fine in a few hours.  I suggest you run about to things that need your care, as I am surely not one of them."

      She felt her anger rise, but the sight of her brother, all disheveled and strange, tore at her heart.  This was her Kevin.  Her favorite sibling and best buddy since before she could remember anything else.  There was obviously something terribly wrong with him, whether he was willing, or able, to admit it himself, and there wasn't a chance in hell she was leaving him on his own to deal with it.  "I think not, Kev.  You look as if you could use one of my famous breakfast feasts.   Go jump in the shower while I see what I can whip up."

      He hesitated, trying again to motion toward the door.  "Really, that isn't at all necessary.  I shall be quite satisfied with a cup of coffee, or even tea for that matter.  No need to go to any type of trouble."

      "You know you hate tea.  Besides, it's no trouble at all."  She flung her arms around him, trying to hold her breath as she did.  "I missed you so much, Kev.  And I'm sorry I didn't  text or call or anything.  You know how Ted can be when he gets something in his head."  She considered telling him about her wild adventure in Mexico, but decided against it.  In the mood he was currently in, it was hard to tell how he'd react.  Instead, she took hold of his arms and lead him toward the stairs.  "Now...off you go.  Take a nice long, hot shower, and change your clothes.  It'll make you feel better. Honestly, you smell horrible.  And when you're done, we'll have a nice little breakfast, and a good long chat about what when on when I was gone...okay?"

_________________________________________
                           

   
     With destination in sight, and purpose in mind, Fr. Kevin O'Kenney, aka Fr. Murphy, noticed little of the bad weather.  He could see the chemistry building ahead, and assumed that the dark, stone shed standing 200 feet away must be the privy Webster described.  As he got closer, the horrid stench grew, lending credence to his hypothesis.  He was oddly gratefully for the biting cold, for in summer heat, the odor of the place was, without a doubt, unbearable.  In addition, the chill was surely the reason the campus byways were virtually deserted.  All around him, he could see the glow of lamps lights and hearths from scattered buildings, proof that the academia of Harvard was comfortably entrenched inside, allowing him the privacy to find what he came for.

        The heavy wooden door was iced shut, and it took more than one hard tug to pull open.  Even in the low temperatures, the smell made him want to gag, and ashamed, he realized how he had always taken the convenience of indoor plumbing for granted.  He thrust the lantern out in front of him, allowing the small spray of light to illuminate his surroundings.  It was as Webster had said.  A wooden shelf was built over the pit, the round hole allowing some modest sense of comfort.  High on the wall with the door, near the ceiling, were two holes, allowing light and air into the confined space.  He quickly located the left corner as per the chemist's instruction, and counted the correct number of stones up, until he came to the large loaf shaped brick the man had detailed.  Reaching it meant that he would have to crawl onto the wooden seat, and perch precariously over the large, stinking hole.

       Having no other recourse, he placed the lantern on the opposite side, sticking a small rock under it to angle the ray of light towards the intended spot.  The wood creaked under his weight, and he prayed the board was in good enough shape to hold him up, the alternative being an unintended bath in muck and shit.  He counted once again, starting in the corner level with the seat, and began wiggling and pulling at the unusual stone.  His fingers were numb from the cold, making the job a difficult one, but eventually, the brick began to move.  After what seemed like an eternity, his knees aching from kneeling on the hard plank, his fingers stinging with was sure to be frostbite, the stone slid from its place.  Inside the hole was a leather cylinder, tied tightly with a piece of black cording, the type used to hold packages together.
       
        With frozen fingers, Kevin retrieved Webster's papers, and sticking them into the waistband of his pants, he buttoned his coat tightly over it.  He was tempted to look at the contents, and the inner voice prodded him to do so.  But his ever prudent psyche won out, and he decided to hold off until he could guarantee both his safety, and that of the papers, much to the disgust of his host.  Jubilant over the success retrieval, he replaced the brick, and began to crawl backwards over the wooden seat.  In his attempt to remove the false stone, he had inadvertently loosened a few other bricks near the spot, and two of them rained down from above.  The first one caught the corner of his upper lip, splitting the soft flesh as it tumbled to the floor.  The second, a stone heavier and larger than than the first, missed him completely, instead landing directly into the hole, and splashing filth everywhere, including Kevin's chapped face and bleeding lip.

        In horror, he wiped at the muck with the sleeve of his dirty coat.  He could smell the rotting waste under his nose, and he gagged at the thought of what it might possibly contain.  With an exposed wrist, he rubbed at his lip, desperate to keep God-knows-what away from the open cut.  All thoughts of Webster's papers diminished, Kevin's focus entirely on finding somewhere he could wash his face with  soap and hot water.  He worked at keeping down his panic, but was unable to shake lose the fear of cholera, which was striking most of Boston in epidemic proportions.  He remembered the tours of Boston he had taken with his dad, specifically the one to Granary Burying Ground, which offered headstone after headstone documenting the toll the disease had taken in 1849, and wondered whether there had been one there with Fr. Murphy's name etched on it.

       Shoving thoughts like that from his mind, he grabbed his lantern, debating whether the low temperatures would keep bacteria from multiplying on his skin.   Pulling open the door, his mind totally  elsewhere, he nearly ran into the body blocking his way.  The man stood as tall as he he, his face gaunt and bearded in the light from both their lanterns.   Hiding his panic, Kevin spoke first. "I do beg your pardon.  I little expected someone to be on the other side of the door."  He thought about offering the gentleman his hand, but realizing where it was he was leaving, thought better of it, and stuck it in his pocket instead.

      The man scowled.  "I should say not.  Heard all kinds of fuss and nonsense coming from the privy here.  Thought it best to investigate.  Never know what types of debauchery these damn hooligans might be about."  He cleared his throat, then spat a stream of mucus only inches from the hole in Kevin's boot. "I detest them all...the codfish aristocracy."  With menace, he waved a wooden club in his other hand.  "The name's Ephraim Littlefield.  I'm the janitor over at the Chemistry Building."  Tapping the ground with the club, he added, "I do hope your reasons for being about the place on a night like this are of a... sensible nature, Sir.   As I don't take kindly to those being here that don't belong."

Copyright Victoria T. Rocus
All Rights Reserved

A Note From The Author...

      Thanks for all your patience while I was working on our annual 8th Grade Live Mystery Event.  The one I wrote this year was based in Tombstone, Arizona in 1880, and featured real life people from that time period, characters such the likes of Wyatt Earp, Annie Oakley, and Buffalo Bill Cody.

It was loads of fun to write, but a real challenge due to the necessary research involved.  At times, I kept getting Boston in 1849 confused with Tombstone in 1880, thus the need for the missing post a few weeks ago.

    Have to say, it was a huge success.  The kids had a great time while really doing some hands on learning.  Two newspapers will be covering the story, and when they do, I will post the link in case any of you are interested.  The photo below, is of my teaching partner and I, in full costume.  She was the federal marshall, and I was the "Wicked Widow" who owned the saloon...the scene of the subsequent murder.  Nothing like being the author...and able to write yourself an awesome part..LOL

As always, I am grateful for your continued support.

Happy Easter and Passover to you all!
Vicki

           

Welcome Home

 

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

           

    It wasn't as if she'd expected a welcome home parade down the center of main street.  Or even a party of any sorts just to say "glad you're back... safe and sound".  No.  She would have been satisfied just to have someone acknowledge the fact that she'd been missing for over a week, and was at last, where she was supposed to be.

      Maureen dried the last of the dishes, and stacked them in the cupboard, annoyed at having been left with the mess.  She appreciated the fact that Roxanne had offered to cover her hours in the deli while she was on her honeymoon, but damn, the girl was a real slob.  Every dish she owned had been used and left in dirty piles all over the flat, and it was obvious someone had rummaged through most of her clothes, trying them on, and then leaving them where they'd been dropped. Until now, she had always thought Roxanne Spinelli to be an organized, neat freak.  It went to prove that you didn't really know people until you were forced to share personal space.

      Plus, the way her friend rushed off without so much as a "How was your honeymoon, Moe?  It was awful, thanks for asking,"  conversation, left her feeling neglected.  And it wasn't only Roxie who was acting odd.  Kevin had seemed unusually distant, his answers to her queries chopped and terse.  Ted had brushed off Kev's cool demeanor as a reaction to the way the two of them had disappeared, a sign of his annoyance about not being kept in the loop.  But it wasn't like her brother to hold grudges.  When they hit the States, her husband had handed back her cell phone, and Kevin was the first person she tried to reach.  She'd sent a dozen text messages to him, notifying that they were in Florida, and hoped to return to Dollyville in the next 24 hours. They went unanswered.  Worried, she finally broke down and called him just before boarding a flight to Boston.  He spoke to her with hesitation, his answers phrased in general congeniality.

       And now, she'd been home nearly a day, and he had yet to stop bye and say hello, which in her mind. meant he was still angry with her.  Drying her hands in a towel, she went over the past two weeks in her head...the rehearsal dinner and Ted's extravagant gift, the wedding and her new husband's secrets, the shocking explosion and destruction of their home, and lastly, her crazy, dangerous honeymoon.  It was probably silly to worry about Kevin's attitude amongst the gravity of all of these other events, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something was just not right with him.  Grabbing her purse and keys, she headed down the street in the direction of Holy Family Church.
_______________________________________

       He had never been much of a drinker.  That's not to say that he didn't enjoy an occasional sip or two of Irish whiskey, or bottle of great Cabernet over a fine meal.  But unlike some of his brothers and male friends, he didn't find alcohol a necessary ingredient to having a good time, so was unprepared for this sudden, overwhelming desire to snatch that flask from the offered hand.  The need to feel the burn of the whiskey down his throat, and the flush of spreading warmth startled him, and he realized with sudden clarity that it was a burden his host found himself living with.  Shaken and confused over this realization, Fr. Kevin let himself be pulled into the tight confines of the coach, shoved between a disheveled gentleman in expensive clothes, and a young woman who reeked of perfume. alcohol and    sweat.

     "Wise of you, old man.   The authorities would surely have found the remains of you frozen to the ground somewheres."  He handed Kevin the flask, and despite his better judgement, the priest took another hefty swallow.  "So what brings you to the hallowed halls of Harvard on a night like this, Reverend?"

    He'd never been much of a liar either, but found that in this body, and with the aid of the whiskey loosening his tongue, the falsehoods rolled out of his mouth with ease.  "I've been asked to give some advice...of a spiritual nature.  A good friend you see...in a moral dilemma of sorts.  I, of course, could not refuse."

    The woman next to him giggled, her face flushed from the increasing body heat in the vehicle, and pointed to his worn shoes.  "Why, Reverend, that's so...so hole-y of you." She laughed at her own joke, and added, "Holy...get it?"

      The two other passengers, a young man barely able to sit upright, and a woman with her eyes closed and head against the seat rest, ignored her, but Kevin's benefactor leaned over and gave the woman's ample bosom a two-handed squeeze.  "Witty...and beautiful, Estelle.  This is surely my lucky night."  He turned to Kevin, who with growing unease, tried to pull his body away from that of the woman.  "She is quite the catch, is she not, Padre?"

        He felt trapped and uncomfortable, but the thought of returning to the icy wind outside the carriage gave him the fortitude to remain calm.  "You are most correct, kind Sir.  She is most certainly a fetching temptation."

        It was the man's turn to laugh, his face turning red from the exertion of his guffaws.  "Well put, Padre.  Well put!"  He slapped Kevin on the back, nearly knocking him off the seat with the force of it.
"I like you, old man.  You're a good egg."  Then he lapsed into a drinking song, the type of which is almost never sung in the presence of ladies.  But if his bawdy humor bothered the women, it wasn't apparent, and Kevin was grateful for the opportunity not to have to make conversation.  It wasn't long before the carriage came to a stop, and stretching, the occupants gathered their belongings to disembark.

        The coachman came around and opened the door, and the party began to spill out into the bitter, night air.  The man identified as the group's champion, pumped his hand with genuine cordiality.
"I'm afraid this is as far as we go, Reverend.  Hopefully the building you want is within easy distance."

         The cold air hit Kevin in the face, and he felt slightly woozy, wishing he had not been so free with his sips from the flask.  He blinked twice, working at getting his bearings amid the darkness, the only light coming from gas lamps scattered across the campus ground.  "I beg your favor once more, kind Sir.  Could you possibly point me in the direction of the Chemistry Building?"

         The man squinted at him.  "You're surely not here to see Dr. Webster, are you?  "Cause if you are, you've come all this way for nothing.  The lunatic has been carried off by the police.  Murdered Dr. Parkman they say."  He leaned in toward Kevin, whispering much too loud in his drunkenness.  "It's all the scandal, you know.  All hush, hush here on the campus.  Very bad for he university's reputation, it is.  Has the chancellor's knickers all in a bunch."

         At the mention of John Webster and the Parkman murder, Kevin's stomach lurched.  It was imperative that no one connect him to any part of the sensational case, and so once again he was forced to lie through his teeth.  "Webster?  Of course not!  I'd have nothing to do with the likes of that.  Work of the devil, it is.  No, No.  My poor friend asked me to meet him in front of the chemistry building, and that we'd walk to his quarters together.  He mentioned that the building would be quite easy to find."

        The man seemed no much the wiser, and nodded in agreement.  "Aye.  It is quite the landmark with the rounded dome."  He pointed off into the darkness.  "It's about half mile that way, my friend.
Can't miss the likes of it."

        Fr. Kevin shook the man's sweaty palm, glad to be about the business he came for.  "Thank you for the lift, Sir.  It is most appreciated."

        "Not a problem, Reverend.  Best of luck to you."  He pumped Kevin's arm, shaking it up and down so hard he worried over his rotator cuff.

         Before he could turn around and take his leave, the busty woman thrust his lantern towards him.  "Don't want to forget this, Father.  You'll probably need it on a night of this sort."  Then she embraced him, pushing her spilling chest into his, and squeezing tight.  Giggling at his discomfort, she added,  "You certainly are a sweet one, Reverend.  Such a shame you've made a pact with God."

        Blushing in embarrassment, Kevin just offered a wave, and set off in the direction of the Chemistry Building, and subsequently, its privy.

__________________________________

      Oddly enough, Maureen found the church locked up tighter than a vault, and no signs of her brother on its grounds.  Most days,  Kevin left the church open while he worked around the property, and often the parishoners would stop in for a quick prayer or two.  But today, he apparently had broken with tradition, the church standing dark and empty.  The sight of several newspapers still thrown on the porch, and the mailbox stuffed to overflowing concerned her, and she knocked on the door with a new  sense of urgency.  When he didn't answer, she fought with her conscience, and erring on the side of caution, dug the emergency keys he had given her out of her purse.

        She pushed open the door, all the while calling out his name.  "Kevin?  You here?  It's me...Maureen.  Are you home?"

        A few steps into the parlor, and she had her answer.  There was her brother, passed out on the sofa in a drunken stupor, an empty bottle of Jameson laying next to him on the floor.

       For a second she was startled.  The Kevin she knew had never been much of a drinker. Saw him rip roaring drunk only once, and that was after their father's funeral.  But now, here he was, snoring away in oblivion.  How had he come to be totally smashed at 10:30 in the morning?  And just what the hell had been going on since she left on her honeymoon?
             

Copyright Victoria T. Rocus 2014
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