Scala Caeli

CW: Themes and/or references to mental health issues, violence, murder, suicide

Scalae ad Caelum

A resurrection of primal fear assails me, fingering itself tightly around my chest. Like a long-forgotten verse, she returns, her gaze at once haunting and lovely, penetrating out at me beneath those hooded eyes. There is no denying her elegance, her striking presence, her commanding beauty. The crashing recognition sharpens the knife, twists the feeling of loss deep inside of me, Adrenaline skyrocketing, I begin hyperventilating. Pushing the kitchen chair backwards, I jump up to steady my racing heart.

I bend over, head low, palms on kneecaps, breathing in and out, slowly, allowing myself to calibrate this lever of pain.

 I have worked so hard to box all the memories!

And here she comes unbidden- reminding me that the past never dies- especially if it was torpedoed.

What a fool I was.

Thinking love had found me,

And ravished me with its glory.

In the early spring of 1996, I collected all the rays of the sun.

Til that fateful blue hydrangead morning when the sun suddenly burst into flames; the combustion erasing my future.

Those early days found me beseeching God for mercy.

 For every saint who was enraptured and whose journey was cut short, whose life’s dreams were unfinished, whose heart had been torn out, whose legs had been amputated, I – for the first time- understood them- and prayed for them. I sought their counsel in humble reverence and begged for their help.

But God and the saints had more important things to do than help a woman whose heart has been broken. I never heard from them.

For the past thirty years I have walked with dangling cigarettes down empty corridors with windows that refuse to open.

And here she is, this fall morning, her death announcement a thunderbolt deep and pure from the Archway of Forfeiture.

Crushing out my cigarette, I amble over to the refrigerator, desperate to quell the plumage of this aching knot. Examining the left side, I settle on the olives and twisting the jar open, I snag a few. The bursting taste of salty oil assuages some of the maddening, unfurling emotions.

God help me, I had no idea this could even be a thing. What the hell is happening to me right now?

No dress rehearsals, no self-help books, no YouTube tutorials to assist me this morning. I am in virgin territory.

Fortified by the base and mundane act of ingesting olives, I return to the kitchen table, ready to read the words beneath her photo.

Suddenly it hit me. Oh my God! Oh my God!

 Did HE write the obituary?

Did he pen the words that would sum up her existence?

Did he do that?

She, who stole his life, who snapped the tendons of hope from him, was she to be honored by him?

I cannot breathe at the crushing possibility of it.

Voltages of shock propel me to leap up and rush outdoors. I begin heaving olive particles into the holly bush, uttering guttural sobs of “No, no, no, no!”

And for the first time in thirty years, it comes flooding back to me: the first meeting- the textures, the colors, and the smells envelop me as I stand hunched over in my backyard.

I was working as a features writer for The Boston Globe on assignment to interview the new CEO of General Electric; GE was opening a new office in Wellesley, and I was expected to weave some Irish malarkey along the lines of “Executives are Just Like Us” bullshit.

Entering the complex, I felt a rush of excitement. The atmosphere within was so refined and chic, fountains bubbling, orchids blooming, Massenet’s “Meditation from Thais” gently playing, and a smell of Chanel emanating – it was so heady. I found myself caught up in the rush of newness and privilege. After the receptionist checked me in, I remembered who I was- the daughter of Irish immigrants- my father a janitor and my mother a seamstress- and bowed my head in shame for my childish reaction to such wealth, such opulence, such excess.

And then I heard a deep voice gently inquire:” Are you the young woman from The Globe?”

I looked up and there he stood: Jimmy Quinn.

Somewhere outside of time, a mythological flame burst forth, hurtling me into the light of a new time.

Catching myself, I responded to the Babylonian creature in front of me and said,

“Well, yes, I am. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Quinn.”

The interview went seamlessly- he talked enthusiastically about the diverse hiring practices, the new childcare center, the implementation of extended maternity leave, etc that he initiated at General Electric. I knew that even though he was boasting of these things to create a positive public image, his care for his employees appeared to be genuine. He seemed to carry a hush of perpetual goodness around him. I felt as though I had landed in a sea of glittering lapis lazuli as I talked with him.

But I forced myself to remain calm and detached.

After the allotted hour, I got up to leave and as I was thanking him for his time, the door to his office burst open and a Natalie Wood doppelganger ran in, charging at Jimmy Quinn, her fists pounding his chest, yelling:” Jimmy, don’t leave me. I am so sorry that I am not normal. It isn’t my fault! It’s not my fault my father left! Don’t leave me, too, Jimmy! Please don’t leave me!”

Jimmy held her as she shook and sobbed against him.

I did not belong here.

A spinning grenade of tragedy had “fragged out” inside this innocent office.

I chanced a quick look at Mr. Quinn, and with a dignified glance, he nodded and I left quietly, the receptionist looking alarmed as I exited the building.

 The Globe ran my article that Sunday.

Monday morning as I checked my answering machine at work, this message greeted me:” God bless you., Miss Gallagher. Thank you for the article. Despite witnessing a private moment of pain, your pedigreed grace spared us further discomfort. Your discretion shall not be forgotten.”

For weeks, I dreamed of him. His steely grey eyes. His warm attention. The confidence in his walk. I prayed for them both.

A year later, a message on my answering machine: “Miss Gallagher, Jim Quinn here. I would be honored to take you to dinner. Please call me back,”

I called back.

At our initial dinner, Jimmy let me know that he had filed for divorce.

He had nothing negative to say about his wife; it was apparent that the mental health issues had worn them both down. She had undergone ECT and was under the care of a psychiatrist she trusted, as did he.

In the rain of that April dinner, the anchor of intimacy landed- we had no say over any of it,

Over the next few months, our love affair mushroomed.

On October 12,1997, as we lay together in bed, Jimmy asked me to marry him- only on one condition. He was set to appear in court to finalize his divorce the following morning, so I assumed it was about that. But when he leaned over me and said:” Rose, I must tell you this awful secret. I cannot keep it from you. I will not marry you without being totally honest with you. I never told Sarah and it may have been what did us in- not her mental health problems, but my surreptitiousness. It has eaten away at my soul for decades. The poor woman may have unconsciously felt my burdensome secret and it gutted her.”

 I sat up in bed, alarmed. Looking at him, I joked,

“Nice move, Jimmy. What the hell is with the smoke and mirrors routine? Whadya do, kill someone?”

A gusty wind of silence blasted the room.

“Good God, Jimmy, what the hell did you do?”

He pulled me close to him, and I felt his heart racing furiously.

“Jimmy, oh, Jimmy, I love you. It is going to be okay. Of course I will keep your secret. I love you. Nothing will ever change that.”

He pulled me up, his left arm holding me to his chest and with his back against the headboard, he began:

“Funny thing is that I wasn’t even supposed to be there. It was a last-minute decision. My dad had a hunting cabin in Clinton, Pennsylvania, outside of Sproul State Forest. He wanted to get away alone, but my mother insisted that I go with him. They argued about it, my mom winning with the statement”” He’s your son, too, for the love of God. Do something with him just once.”. I was embarrassed that she had to nag him into being with me. But I was just this dumb seven-year-old kid, held hostage to my parents’ melodrama.

Begrudgingly my dad took me. And it was going okay, really. We got to the cabin at dusk and Dad was showing me how to start a campfire, when suddenly a car came ambling down the gravel driveway, its headlights blinding us. Dad was agitated, swearing: ‘Who the hell is this now?”

When Mr. Wheelock stepped out of his Buick, the air became charged with electricity.

“Evening, Phillip, I hope I can have a few minutes of your time.”

Dad clenched his fists, the energy around him combative.

“I have nothing to say to you, Ted. We have been over this.”

My dad was furious.

” Besides, I have my son here with me. Can’t you respect that?”

Mr. Wheelock looked over at me and gave me a warm smile.

“Hey, Jimmy, how are you, son?”

I was too afraid to answer.

Dad put his hand on my head and said:” Go inside for a while, Jimmy like a good boy. There are some cookies for you in the kitchen. You have your GI Joe. Go on now. I will be in shortly.”

I did as I was told but I felt shadows cob webbing around me.

Once inside, I found the Hydrox cookies and sat down on the braided rug in front of the fireplace, stuffing my face with chocolate and vanilla creamy goo.

As I was getting up to grab my GI Joe from the couch, I heard Mr. Wheelock shout: “ You didn’t deserve that promotion and you know it, Phil. You lied and cheated your way to the top.”

I ran to the window.

My dad was standing next to Mr. Wheelock, right arm raised.

I pounded on the glass to try to stop Dad. I knew what happened when Dad got mad. But it was too late. Dad began pummeling Mr. Wheelock with several strong blows to his stomach, causing Mr. Wheelock to fall. Dad was bellowing, “Oh yeah, tough guy! Think you can come out here making these accusations. You are nothing, you hear me, nothing!”

I ran out of the cabin, screaming, “Dad! No!”

Dad looked up at me briefly and considered my words but chose to deliver several violent kicks to Mr. Wheelock’s head anyway.

I heard Mr. Wheelock gurgle loudly.

It seemed at that moment that all of the night animals and trees were watching us.

And we had failed the universe.

I fell down on the hard ground and tried to make myself small. I pulled my legs up, shuddered in fear.

The world had beaten me down and Mr. Wheelock was dead.

Dad looked over at me in disgust and said: “Don’t be a girl, Jimmy. No need to be a pansy. You didn’t see any of this, got that? Don’t tell anyone, Jimmy. Not a word to anyone. You don’t want your old man to rot in jail, do you? Think of your mother. She needs me. Go on inside now. Forget about this. I will take care of this.”

Jimmy stopped. His head sloped downwards. The wreckage of his words encompassed us both.

Tears were streaming down his face as I held him, crying out:

“Oh, Jimmy! Oh my God, Jimmy! My dear Jimmy!”

It was at this moment that I was sure of my love for this man. I felt this man’s sorrow, the little boy’s confusion and knew that Jimmy Quinn was a pure soul.

He continued:

“I watched for hours as my dad dug a hole in the back woods of our property. He buried Mr. Wheelock around dawn. He put the old decorative sleigh over the spot to cover it up. Afterwards, he came inside, washing his hands at the kitchen sink. He made himself a pot of coffee and grabbed my GI Joe doll and threw it across the room. He poured the coffee into a thermos and left, instructing me to stay inside. He had to get rid of the car.”

Jimmy paused and gazed down at me, his countenance steady, his grief overwhelming.

“Oh my dear Jimmy. I am so sorry.”

“I am the one who is sorry to have to tell you any of this, Rose. But this awful truth is like a Russian nesting doll- there are more layers of pain yet to uncover.”

There became a syncopated rhythm to our breathing-both of us gasping and staggering with fear and love.

He continued talking as I lay within the confines of his strong arms, admiring the peppered stubble of grey around his set jaw.

It wasn’t until Thanksgiving that the proverbial shit hit the fan. We were having Thanksgiving dinner when- as she was ladling out the mashed potatoes- my mother announced that she had invited Mrs. Wheelock over for dessert. She explained that it had been so hard for her since her husband left her.

I had just taken a sip of milk and proceeded to spit it out immediately, coughing and rasping for air.

“Are you all right, Jimmy?” my mother asked, lovingly.

“Of course he is, aren’t you, Jimmy?”

I collected myself and assured my mother that I was fine.

But I couldn’t eat dinner and asked to be excused.

It was not easy being an only child- there was no one else to deflect maternal attention.

And Mom being nice to me triggered my father with rage.

When my mother came upstairs to get me to greet Mrs. Wheelock, I followed her dutifully down the stairs.

And that was the first time I met three-year-old Sarah, Rose. Sarah is the daughter of Mr. Wheelock”.

Something heaved itself out of time.

The radiation of all that his father had done became obvious to me. Jimmy Quinn, son of a murderer, felt compelled to amend his father’s sins.

Took care of an orphan child, who didn’t even know she was an orphan.

I whispered to him: “No need for anymore words. I will keep your secrets, Jimmy. We will gather up all the broken pieces of your heart and build a new life.”

We fell into a slumber.

When I woke up, the bouquet of blue hydrangeas Jimmy had gotten me greeted me. I felt Dante’s last words from The Divine Comedy resonate deeply within me:” The love that moves the Universe.”

Jimmy woke up and his first words to me that morning were: “I found my Scala Caeli finally with you, my Rose. By God, I love you. I have never loved till you.”

I leaned over to kiss him and felt safe for the first time in my thirty years of living.

Then the phone rang.

Instinctively, Jimmy picked it up- often I wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t? If I could have had at least one more hour under the spell of our love?

But it was not meant to be.

Dear Jimmy Quinn listened intently, only to cry out: “No! Where is she? I am on my way!”

Sarah Quinn, orphaned daughter of Mr. Wheelock, wife of Jimmy Quinn, had slit her wrists.

And just like that, Jimmy Quinn was gone.

I never saw him again.

The divorce never happened.

The reckoning of it all awaited me as I returned to the obituary page.

I held my head up high as I read the following:

“Sarah Quinn died peacefully at home on September 15, 2026, She was the beloved daughter of Edward and Sally Wheelock(deceased) and wife of James Quinn. She received her bachelor’s and graduate degrees in Political Science from Princeton; her doctorate in Sociology from Cornell. She devoted herself tirelessly to numerous charities, most particularly “Save the Children”. She will be missed. Her final words were: “Pursue that Scala Caeli of yours, Jimmy. I never underestimated the emotional thaumaturge that certain someone had on you. Thank you for your care, Jimmy.”

In lieu of flowers please kindly donate to Save the Children.

Services will be held at Edgewood Unitarian Church, September 19, 2026. All are welcome.’

.

The windows of that long corridor have finally opened.

The past, the present, and the future have merged to become one.

The returning footsteps of truth have come for me.

I shall bring blue hydrangeas to the service.

God bless love.