The Altar Girl by Orest Stelmach

was about to rape her. Help me, she pleaded. Don’t call the police, I don’t want to be fodder for community gossip. And I don’t want to get this man in real trouble, she said. My former husband had just finished giving a lecture at Trinity College in Hartford. By then we were practically living separate lives, but he still had a sliver of decency about him so he took off to Rocky Hill right away at my request. He probably never saw the SUV that hit him head-on because its headlights weren’t working. Nor did he live long enough to find out my mother’s alleged assailant had left by then. The truth was that I was never convinced she was even in trouble that night. In my heart, I was certain she simply wanted to cause a commotion. As always, she just wanted attention.
    “Why would I feel guilty about my husband’s death? I’m not the one who cried for help.”
    My mother appeared incredulous. “I wouldn’t have had to call him if you were living near me, like a caring daughter should, would I? Obviously you must blame yourself. Obviously he’s dead today because of you.”
    I wanted to strangle her. I wanted to go to her garage, get a shovel, come back in the house, and tell her I was ready to bury her if she would just please die. I couldn’t have imagined revealing the depth of my rage to anyone, and the mere thought of it inspired a new level of self-loathing. But that was the truth.
    Instead of confronting her and pursuing what would undoubtedly turn out to be an illogical argument, however, I impressed myself. I stayed on point.
    “Do you know anyone in the community with the initials DP?”
    “What’s that got to do with anything?”
    I explained the entry in my godfather’s calendar. At first her frown deepened with disapproval. I got the sense she thought there was something wrong with me if I was looking up entries in my deceased godfather’s address book. But she’d always liked crossword puzzles, and her expression gradually morphed into one of deep concentration.
    Her eyes came alive. She looked at me and shrugged. “It’s obvious, but it’s not what you think.”
    I moved forward in my seat. “It’s not?”
    “No. It’s not the Ukrainian DP. It’s the English DP.”
    “You know someone with those initials? Someone he was close to?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who?”
    “Dolly Parton.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Mama . . .”
    “He was obsessed with her. And the bigger her boobs got, the more he obsessed over her. Men are babies. Give them a good meal and show them a big tit and they’ll do anything for you.” She arched her back and thrust her cleavage in my direction. “You show me a so-called leg man and I’ll show you a liar. You want seconds?”
    No visions of a shovel in my hand this time. Just the sight of her condo complex in my rearview mirror. I gave my mother a stern look.
    “The only Ukrainian I know with those initials is that blowhard former father-in-law of yours,” she said. “If there were any justice in the world, he would have died at a young age instead of your father.”
    “That’s funny,” I said.
    “What’s funny about that?”
    “Nothing. What’s funny is that he said those initials might not belong to a person.” I paused. My mother’s eyes scrunched together as though the words had struck a chord. “He said they might belong to a ghost or something like that. And that I should ask you about them.”
    “He said that? That you should ask me about it?”
    “What could he have meant?”
    My mother thought about it some more. I could tell by the light in her eyes and the firmness of her posture that she had a notion of what Rus might have meant.
    “You know something,” I said.
    She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
    “Would you care to share it, please?”
    “That depends.” My mother leveled her chin at me. “What’s in it for me?”
    Twenty years ago her words would have knocked the wind out of me. My mother, the woman who’d protected me as