7. Navigating the Currents

Over the next five years, the two sisters sailed very different seas and sojourned very different journeys. Each writes her own story. Each makes her own choices. Cassie taught herself to inform her brain by passions of the heart.  And although it took a while, Mary eventually tempered her emotional impulses with refreshing forethought.

Cassie’s story was a straightforward tale of maturation. A young woman pursuing her identity and reaping rewards along the way. By writing that letter to Mary, Cassie gave herself permission to let go. To move on. To focus on herself, without feeling selfish. To find new ways to express who she was at her core.

She decided to formalize the spiritual balance she wanted in her life. To appease her brain, she would pursue an associate degree at Hartford Community College, just twelve miles west in Bel Air, Maryland. She decided on a General Business major, with a minor in finance. The orderliness and predictability of accounting suited her just fine.

To satisfy her heart, however, after much contemplation, she decided to accept Father Mac’s persuasive appeal for her to work at the church as an office manager. She would have Girl Friday responsibilities. She expected that the diversity of duties be challenging. As a bonus, there was a strong chance to interact with the good people who saw the church not just as God’s House, but as their home – and perhaps fall in love with one of them.

As for college, Cassie enrolled at Hartford on January 7, 1991. She easily balanced work, school, and personal demands on her time and energy. On December 23, 1994, she walked across the stage to accept her diploma. Sitting proudest in the audience were her three greatest champions: Father Mac, Mr. Weinstein, and Dorothy Phillips. Aunt Ruth couldn’t attend because she was tethered to an oxygen tank at Graceful Pines. “God’s Waiting Room,’’ as she called her residency.

Cassie’s first day at St. Patrick’s Church was on September 3, 1990. She would work there for over five years. She might have stayed longer, but not for Pastor Jesse. He was a young man of quick wit and obvious schooling. He was also a man of good looks and endearing charm. Straight from the seminary, Father Mac had chosen him from among five equally qualified candidates. Now in his 80s, the Reverend Father felt an urgency to groom his heir.

Pastor Jesse Weathers was brought on in June of 1995 to serve as church deacon, as part of his two-year diaconate apprenticeship. The parish was indeed blessed by his seemingly unstoppable energy and passion. Contrasting white-haired Father Mac, Jesse’s sprightly exuberance drew a younger crowd to the pews.

But Pastor Jesse had a weakness. His Achilles’ Heel, as it were. While his heart had surrendered to the Lord Jesus, his hormones had not. During the week, the church is mainly a quiet, empty, sun-pierced version of its Sunday glory. With only Father Mac, Pastor Jesse, and one rather hot-looking Cassandra Gilmore stirring the dusty air, conditions were ripe for what happened next.

The first episode, in October, took place in the kitchen, while Father Mac was making rounds at the hospital. Cassie repelled his advance, in no uncertain terms. He respected her wishes but left the room embarrassed and mildly vexed.

The second assault, however, took Cassie by complete surprise as she had thought she’d put the matter to rest two months earlier. And by now, with Pastor Jesse behaving as a pure gentleman, her guard was down. Once again while Father Mac was away, he made his move. This time it was in the sacristy, of all places. He had asked her help in adjusting the fitting of his robe. That’s when his hands began to roam. She slapped him and ran out of the room.

He followed, gushing apologies through a door just slammed in his face. “Meet me in the sanctuary,” she called out, in between sniffles. He obeyed, suddenly scared, as the reality of what just happened began to sink in. He watched from the front row pews as she approached him, a tissue tightly gripped in her trembling hand.

Cassie stood before him, not saying a word. Making him wriggle in his self-condemnation. “This … will not happen again. Do you understand?” He nodded. “Perhaps you do not. One of us must leave. Either you, or me. But…”

He tried to say something. “But,” she continued, “either way, you have some serious soul-searching to do. Are you cut out for this line of work? For the moment, I may well be too much of a temptation. But, in time, you can learn to control yourself. You are a good man, with many talents. You are loved by this parish, and I would not want to cause its loss of your many gifts.”

He again tried to speak, but she cut him off. “But,” she resumed, “you need time to figure yourself out. I will not say anything to anyone. But by the first of the year, one of us must be gone. Am I clear?” And before he could answer, she had turned and walked away.

What dampened Cassie’s spirits over the ensuing holiday season was her anguish over deciding what reason to give to Father Mac for quitting. School was done. From what anyone could see, she was quite happy at St. Patrick’s. And he had been so kind to her, so loving for all her life. How could she leave him? What reason could she give?

There is a theory among seniors, among those who have spent the greatest amount of time in the laboratory of life, that 90% of the things we humans worry about work themselves out despite us. Such was the case for Cassie. For her, it would be a call she received on Christmas Day, 1995.

Mary set the letter on the kitchen counter. Just then, Lenny shuffled into the room to get a beer from the fridge.  “Want one?” came out of his mouth at the same time he saw her face.  “What? What’s the matter?” He looked toward the table, saw the letter, and read Cassie’s signature upside down. “What’s that bitch want now?”  he barked.

“Shut the hell up, Len!” she shouted. “You know what? Get out! Just take your shit and get the hell out!” She was now screaming at a level of emphasis Leonard had never heard before. After a few chaotic, screaming minutes, he was pulling away from the curb, yelling “fricken’ bitch” out the sunroof.

 Mary lay curled in a fetal position on the sofa, a comforter pulled over her head, while she cried and cried, and cried some more. Time passed and eventually sleep calmed her breathing. She awoke to a crick in her neck and a headache behind swollen eye sockets. As she made her way to the bathroom for some Tylenol, she remembered the letter. Then Lenny.

I’m swearing off men, she told herself. And she kept her word for 111 days, but who’s counting?

She met Jack at a Mobil station, where they shared opposite sides of a gas pump. A seductive smile, two cute dimples, and a shiny Corvette were all it took for Mary to roll into Loser #4’s bed. This was December 1, 1990. It was over and done by mid-January.

Seven weeks later Darren, Loser #5 used his wiggly thumb to introduce himself out on Highway 40. Horny, this time Mary didn’t wait for a bed. A narrow, dirt road between two farm fences was privacy enough. And Round #5 was off to a romping start!

July 4^th was always a tough day for the two sisters. Mary tried to drink it away, and Loser #5 was right there by her side, doing shots. As discretion slipped away from the two of them, animal instincts heightened. Before long, he had his hand between her legs, right there at the bar.  She pushed him away.

He shoved her and she fell to the floor, hitting her head on the footrest of the bar stool. Mary felt blood in her hair as she scrambled to her feet. Grabbing a half-empty beer bottle, she made his head bleed as well. Both were kicked out of the bar. Round #5 was in the books.

It was a relatively quiet October afternoon at Walmart, where Mary worked checkout #6. Her bagger was a recent hire. Jordan had spent his first three months stocking shelves and warehousing in the back. This was his first week out front. Mary watched him clumsily bag, giving him pointers as he did. “You’d do a better job if your eyes were on your hands, and not my boobs,” she whispered in his ear. He blushed.

They dated on and off for over a year. Then, on the other annual holiday so difficult for the two sisters – Thanksgiving – unbeknownst to either of them, Mary’s egg was fertilized by Jordan Sparks’ sperm. If only Mary had known the truth about the soon-to-be father of her soon-to-be daughter. But the history he had told her — well, it had no resemblance to the truth.

What she did not know was that Jordan had been in and out of foster care since he was two years old. Beginning at age eight, he was a frequent visitor to juvenile court. By age 18, he had become quite proficient at theft, assault, drug abuse, disorderly conduct, curfew violations, and such.

His first time behind bars was a five-year stint for armed robbery, between 1981 and 1985. With an impressive turnaround time, he was out and back within a year, for another armed robbery conviction. He was released from his second five-year stint on May 1^st, 1991. Six weeks later he started working at Walmart.

Everything being relative, Mary was a good influence on Jordan. He had a job. He had a girl. And now, on January 3, 1993, he was being told he was about to be a father. “No shit,” was all he could muster. But he was happy, as was Mary. And she invited him to quit just hanging out with her, but instead move in. He gladly accepted.

For the next two months, life for Mary and Jordan seemed miraculously normal. But then she started experiencing complications with the pregnancy. The official diagnosis was gestational diabetes which, her doctor told her, was not all that surprising given her mother’s lifelong fight with diabetes.

By March, Mary was missing work as many days as she was working. In April, mostly out of guilt, she quit at Walmart — and college.  “It’s all on you, Jord,” she said apologetically. “I’m sorry.” For a fleeting moment, Jordan was responsible and cavalier. “No worries, love. You can count on me.”

But, in reality, she couldn’t.

While it might have seemed that their relationship was healthy and solid, Mary recognized cracks in the armor. There were the occasional skirmishes, mostly over money. But it was the drinking and late nights out — without her, both becoming more frequent, that led her to a major decision.

When the baby was born, while she identified Jordan Sparks as the father, her birth certificate named her Magdalene Elizabeth Gilmore. He knew better than to fight her on this decision.

Sadly, her instincts proved keen. Six weeks after giving birth on August 24th, Mary resumed work at Walmart. Stress between Mary and Jordan escalated. By November, Jordan had gotten another girl pregnant. Mary kicked him out. The romance was irrevocably over and done, by the end of 1993.

All that remained for them to share were increasingly terrorizing encounters. Each one was more violent than the ones before. The first time, on January 1^st, 1994, it was a neighbor who called the cops about the screaming and yelling.

The very sight of uniformed law enforcement, within spitting distance, scared Jordan. And so, for the next six months, he was on his best behavior. But with child support for two babies, he decided to quit working altogether.

When Mary got word of this, the second incident occurred. They fought. Fought hard. It got physical. This time it was Mary who called the cops. There was just something about July.

November 16^th was the third incident. The fourth time was February 23, 1995. What made this episode the most outrageous to date was not the degree of physical violence. Rather, it was having the baby see her father push her mother to the sofa and then spit on her.

Mary screamed at Jordan to stop. To get out. She motioned with her eyes towards Lizzy. “How could you? You’re terrifying her.” The cops were there within three minutes. They knew the address by heart. Mary filed for and received a protective restraining order.

But that hardly dissuaded Jordan. The fifth incident was on April 6^th, when he accosted her in the daycare parking lot. The cops gave him a final warning. “If there is a next time, we’re hauling your sorry ass off to jail. Understood?”

He did not understand. For on May 11^th, as Mary was at the kitchen table feeding baby Lizzy, a drunker-than-drunk Jordan Sparks kicked in the door, brandishing a dirty Glock 42 pistol, and shouting obscenities. Mary snatched Lizzy from her highchair, snagged her phone, and ran to the bathroom. As she did, her thumb dialed 911.

He stood at the bathroom door, continuing to cuss at her and demanding to see his child. As quickly as he had barged in, his temperament shifted, and he began to cry. Tapping the barrel of the gun on his forehead, he sobbed, “I just want to hold my little girl.”

Just then, Mary heard a strong male voice bellow, “Put the gun down. Now! Hands behind your head. Turn around…”

He was of course arrested, and held without bail until trial, which was a month later. Jordan was sentenced to twelve years for aggravated assault, endangering a minor, and attempted murder. He went away in June 1995.

For the next few months, Mary’s sense of security swung like a pendulum. Some days she could convince herself that he was safely locked away and couldn’t hurt either of them. On other days, she imagined him breaking out of prison or, more feasibly, getting a recently released cellmate to look her up and do the evil deed. It was now just her, and her baby.

On Christmas Day, 1995, a very different-sounding Fran called a very surprised Beebs. “Remember your offer? Your letter?” Mary paused. Then, barely discernible through her tightened throat, “Beebs, can I come home? Can we come home?”