“She talked me into going to New York, as you know. I really thought the mother was a witch when I got there, sitting there with your sister and her, this mother’s fiancé. Then one by one they left me sitting in the restaurant. After showing me pictures of how happy Suzanne was with Kerry. I sat there alone and went to my hotel and then to a church near the hotel.
“And, William, I prayed. As hard as I could, I prayed. I spoke to God.” She was leaning forward, tears beginning at the memory. He did not move, his glass slightly rolling in his hand.
“I was not weak. I was alive. William. How could our God condemn our daughter? How? She is what she is. Mary is what she is.
So I called the mother the next day, and I met with her. I begged her to let me see Suzanne again. I promised her that I would accept her. And she let me meet her daughter, Kerry, the girl Suzanne is going to marry.” He flinched yet again at a word his wife used.
“And I begged Kerry to let me meet with Suzanne. Begged her. Told her how sorry I was for everything. I was in their house. Our Suzanne’s little house in the suburbs. And then I walked with her, Kerry, to the train station. I saw the train approach. I didn’t know what to do.”
By this point, Kate was alone in her tale, William as impassive as ever. She was reliving the wonderful moments.
“Then she was there. I never saw her so, I don’t know, distant. She didn’t know I was there until an hour before, when Kerry called her. I thought she might hate me. But then and the next day, she was Suzanne again, and I was her mother. We walked around and I told her, without qualification or hesitation, that I accepted her as she was. If my God did not like it, I would just have to find one who did.”
William slammed his glass down. The noise like a thunderclap in the room’s silence.
What she said did not move him. He recognized that his wife was altered and he knew this meant she had been led to change. He knew by whom. His sister. He revisited that Thanksgiving when she got her tentacles around Suzanne. He knew all about the two’s lunch the next day. He knew how they regularly spoke. He knew that she induced her to go east for law school and not stay at Stanford.
He did not blame Suzanne. He tried to raise her properly and failed. She was tempted and failed.
He did not tell this to Kate. Still, she sensed it. She once thought much the same, even after she was in New York.
“William,” she interjected, “I glossed over some things. Before I met her, I thought Eileen was a mean, nasty, vengeful bitch and after I met her I thought she was a mean, nasty, vengeful bitch. And I told her so. I let her know that I blamed Mary for what happened to Suzanne. She did not try to convince me otherwise. She convinced me that whatever she was did not matter and that what mattered was Suzanne. She convinced me to examine my beliefs and try to square them with who Suzanne is. It is not Mary or anyone who made her who she is. It is God.”
William, still impassive, took another sip.
“Here’s the ultimatum I received and I pass it on to you. And only you can address it.”
And it was put to him: Your God or your daughter.
He rose, re-buttoned his collar, and tightened his tie. Taking a final swig from his glass, he put it down then he grabbed his jacket, wallet, phone, and keys and went to get something to eat. He had not said a word since he first sat down with his Scotch.
Calling Home
The call was answered before the second ring.
“It’s done.” That was Kate. “He needs the space and time that I needed. I planted the seed. That’s all I can do. Now we wait.”
“Mother.” Now Suzanne. “It is his decision. I know it will be hard. He needs to know that if he wants to speak to me, I will.”
“I know.”
A Father’s Decision
He made his decision. He did not call Suzanne, but he made his decision.
He proved a worthy heir to his parents’ beliefs. The vagaries of the flesh were not his concern. He had done what he could to protect his daughter’s soul. He failed. He had done what he could to protect his wife’s soul. He had failed. Perhaps he could salvage Eric’s. Perhaps not. But he would try. And he would try to salvage those of his wife and his daughter. He did not know how, but he was obligated to try.
The Sunday after Kate returned to Mill Valley, she did not go to Mass. He went, sitting in his usual pew, assuring those who asked that “Kate has not been feeling well since her trip to New York,” which was, to William’s mind, true. He thanked those who asked him to let her know that they hoped she would feel better soon.
So that Sunday afternoon, Kate, who had slept in Suzanne’s room since her return, expected she would get his answer. She again sat in the living room, with a gin-and-tonic, and waited. The front door opened. He was home and sat on the sofa. She made sure to be in a wing chair to avoid having to get up as she had a few days earlier.