Galileo

by Ann McMan

  She studied the photograph again. The painting looked too elaborately framed to be a reproduction. If there were any chance it had been the original, maybe its presence in this image would allow her to figure out where the photo had been taken?

  She shot off a note to Ping.

  Hey. Got another little mystery for you to run down. Could you look into any exhibits that included the 1872 Winslow Homer painting called Snap the Whip? It’s in the permanent collection at the Met Museum in New York. See if you can find out if it was on loan or traveled anyplace in or around 1995? And if so, where? Thanks!

  God bless Ping. She didn’t just keep Evan plied with savory dessert concoctions—and life coaching—she also made research a helluva lot easier.

  While she waited to hear back, she spent some time examining all of the blank expressions on the faces of the kids in the new photo sent to her by the Moxie character, and trying to determine if any of them looked like they could be the same young men in the first photo from Dan. It became clear in short order that this was a waste of time. The only thing she was sure of was that the robed cleric who appeared in Dan’s image was the same priest shown accepting the check from Cawley in the older photo taken at St. Rita’s.

  She thought his name should be pretty easy to run down. Since Tim was also in the earlier photo, he’d be sure to recognize the priest and could give Evan a starting place. Hell. This guy could still be at St. Rita’s. A lot of priests hung around the same parishes forever. There was even a slim chance Tim might remember this occasion.

  Probably not very likely. Civic groups in the area were always making gifts to the parish in support of sports teams. Since the kids in this photo were all wearing Wildcat uniforms, Evan assumed this check was intended to underwrite some kind of CYO initiative.

  She shot Tim a text message and asked if he had time to meet her around four that afternoon for a drink before dinner. She told him she was heading into the city to connect with Julia later on.

  Tim wrote back almost immediately, and said he was free. He suggested meeting at The Twisted Tail on South 2nd Street, because it would be a straight shot on Lombard Street from there to Julia’s townhouse on Delancey Place.

  Of course, Evan thought. Tim was a total bourbon snob, and he loved this joint. In fact, Tim loved anyplace that served twenty-dollar cocktails.

  Evan told him she’d be there. It also occurred to her that she could ask him about Stevie and that whole “Catholic” debt thing . . .

  Her phone rang. It was Ping.

  That was sure fast.

  “Hey,” Evan said.

  “Hey. I’ve got some information for you about that picture.”

  Evan grabbed a notepad. “Shoot.”

  “Okay. So. For starters, that Met painting wasn’t on loan anyplace in 1995. It was part of a centennial show in Philadelphia in 1876, but that’s the only time it ever visited the city.”

  “Well. Shit.”

  “Hold your horses.” Ping wasn’t finished with her report. “I did some other research, and found out that the Met copy of the painting isn’t the only version Homer painted.”

  Evan was surprised. “No kidding?”

  “No kidding. He painted several of them. The Met picture is actually one of the practice pieces he painted before creating the final painting. There are some little differences between the two if you look at ’em side by side. For starters, the final one is a lot bigger. And it has a mountain scene in the background, instead of a valley with other buildings in it. They’re both dated 1872 and signed by Homer.”

  “Ping, you’re a genius.”

  “Thank you. That’s why Ben pays me the big bucks.”

  “I thought that was only so you wouldn’t kick his sorry ass to the curb.”

  “That, too. Somebody’s gotta take pity on his daughters.” Ping chuckled. “But here’s the best part of the story. The bigger painting isn’t in the Met collection at all. It’s at a place called the Butler Institute in Youngstown, Ohio.”

  “And?” Evan prompted.

  “And when I called them, they told me that their version of the painting had been loaned out in 1995, to some big-money donor who wanted to use it at a private fundraising event.”

  “No shit? Did they say where?”

  “One guess.”

  “Philadelphia?”

  “You go it, sister.”

  Bingo. Now they were getting someplace. “Did they have the name of the patron?” Evan asked.

  “Not at first. So, I sweet-talked her by asking about Youngstown . . . said I used to live there right after I got married and worked in one of the old steel mills. Said I heard it closed down and asked if she knew what happened to the man who owned it. Told her he was always real nice to work for.”

  “She fell for that?”

  “Honey, white women always fall for my thick, Georgia accent—especially when it telegraphs that I’m respectfully black. Once I started filling her ears with stories about how much I just loved my ol’ white overseers, we were practically sorority sisters. So, after our little love fest, when I asked her about the name of the person who borrowed the picture, she trotted it right out. Are you ready to copy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay,” Ping began. “His name was J.A. Lippincott. L-I-P-P-I-N-C-O-T-T.”

  “Seriously?” Evan asked. “As in the publishing Lippincotts?”

  “I have no earthly clue.”

  “Was there any information about the physical location for the loan?”

  “Miss Scarlett didn’t have one. She said that probably meant it was lent out to Lippincott personally, meaning it likely went to his residence. She did say that wherever it went, it would have to have been to a location with adequate security. Insurance and all that.”

  “If this J.A. Lippincott belonged to the Main Line Lippincotts, security probably wasn’t an issue.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  “How do you feel about trying to run him down and see if you can get a better trace on this—and where the fundraiser was held?”

  “Already started,” Ping said.

  “I owe you, Ping.”

  Ping laughed. “Not as much as you’re gonna.” She disconnected.

  Well, hot damn. Evan looked at the photograph again. Well, well, Mr. Miller. Maybe you were trying to tell me something, after all.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Tim arrived at The Twisted Tail about fifteen minutes early. That wasn’t by design; he’d just lucked out, and all the traffic seemed to be headed in the opposite direction.

  It was early enough that he was able to snag a small table near the front entrance. That way, he could watch for Evan through one of the windows that fronted on 2nd Street. He figured she’d probably have to park at least a block away, and from this vantage point he’d be sure to see her walking in.

  He didn’t know why that mattered to him. But it had always been that way. Evan was like an anchor in his life. She kept him grounded and never missed a chance to point out, usually in very colorful language, whenever he had his head up his own ass. The whole reason he went to see her on the night of the aurora was so he could tell the truth about his situation. But when push came to shove, he couldn’t get the words out.

  Not all of them anyway.

  Now he found himself foundering in this unhappy middle ground of half-truths. One foot in. One foot out. It was like being stuck in a twisted dance—a Hokey Pokey of not quite confessing.

  He laughed at his unwitting choice of venue for the meeting with Evan.

  Talk about your Twisted Tails . . .

  Back at seminary, Father O’Shaughnessy had often warned his class of aspiring priests to pay attention to the choices they made. “We do nothing by accident,” he cautioned. “Therefore, it is wise to understand your motivations to act—or to react. Always consider your responses and ask if they truly derive from God.”

  In this instance, it was inaction Tim was guilty of. And that, he
was persuaded, certainly did not derive from God. He was finding that he no longer could acquit himself of his great sin of keeping silent. The Church was changing. At least, it was attempting to change, however slow and clumsy its progress. There were systems in place now to deal with these things—flawed systems, but at least the Church was being forced to have the conversation. Perpetrators were beginning to be held to account.

  At least, some perpetrators were being held to account.

  Sadly, when it came to the Church hierarchy, Orwell was right: some pigs were still more equal than others. And that unhappy truth made his quandary even murkier. The whole thing was a supersized miasma of toxicity. Come and vape at the oasis of the Church’s own demise . . . .

  He ordered a double WhistlePig and sat back to savor it while he waited for Evan to join him. The small-batch rye was one of his favorites. Having an excuse to splurge on it was always a welcome indulgence.

  Probably a wicked one . . .

  It had been one hell of a ride the last few days. He’d been shaken to his core by the revelation in the confessional this week. So far, the young man had not tried to contact him again—and if he were completely honest, he wasn’t sure if he felt more gratitude or concern about that.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  He’d asked himself that question so many times, the words had now lost most of their meaning.

  The truth of it all was simple. He was guilty. As guilty as the priests who’d committed these unpardonable acts. The only question that remained was what he’d choose to do about it.

  Choose wasn’t even the right word anymore. There was no longer a choice. There was only a responsibility. One he no longer could shirk or deny. He’d come forward with his testimony. Then he would resign from the priesthood and seek dispensation from his clerical obligations. It was that simple.

  Simple. Right.

  It was anything but simple. He’d lived the majority of his life in the shelter of St. Rita’s. To no longer be part of that—or of any—sacred community, terrified him.

  But Evan and Julia would help him—once Evan got over the shock and finished ripping him a new butthole for keeping silent all these years. He knew she would offer him safe harbor until he could figure out the rest of his life. And that would start with how he’d make a living once he left the church.

  Left the church . . . .

  Evan would say that was “fucked up.”

  She’d be right, too.

  He took another cautious sip of the rye. Damn, this stuff was good.

  Something caught his eye. A flash of color moving past the front window. Blaze orange.

  Evan.

  You had to give her credit: she never worried about exploding into a room.

  He waved at her when she entered and started looking around the bar. The place wasn’t too busy yet. In another forty-five minutes, it would be standing room only. It was slow enough right now that you could actually hear the music. Bill Evans. Nice.

  Evan joined him at the table.

  “How long have you been waiting?” She was carrying a beat-up, distressed leather messenger bag that was bulging at the seams. He doubted it was stuffed with just paperwork. Likely, she had a change of clothes stuffed inside it, since she was heading to Julia’s townhouse after their meeting. He was happy about that. Julia was good for Evan. They were good for each other. He wondered for the hundredth time why she didn’t just leave some clothes over there.

  “Not long,” he told her. He lifted his rocks glass. “I’ve hardly made a dent in this.”

  “What’re you drinking?”

  “WhistlePig.”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re seriously asking me this question?”

  “I guess not.” He wrinkled his nose. “I know I’m kind of a snob.”

  Evan laughed. “Kind of?”

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “I’m totally a snob.” He made eye contact with the bartender, who was looking their way. “What do you want to drink?”

  Evan settled back into her chair. “Surprise me.”

  Tim held his glass aloft and pointed at Evan. The bartender nodded.

  “This is gonna change your life,” he promised.

  “You promise? I could use that.”

  “You? I don’t think so. You’ve got just about everything.”

  “Maybe. But having ‘everything,’ as you say, and still doubting it all carries its own load of baggage.”

  “That’s always been true for you.”

  Evan raised an eyebrow. “Having everything?”

  “No. Doubting what you do have.”

  Evan rolled her left shoulder. The gesture was becoming a familiar one. Tim knew it was mostly due to the lingering effects of being shot, and her refusal to have the surgery to finish repairs to her damaged clavicle. But he also thought the gesture now functioned like a bad gambler’s tell. Her joint seemed to stiffen up whenever she felt uncomfortable.

  Like right now.

  The bartender showed up and deposited Evan’s drink. “You folks let me know when you’re ready for another round.”

  “Thanks,” Tim said “We will.” He raised his glass and held it out toward Evan. “Here’s to you, and to having everything.”

  Evan looked dubious, but clinked rims with him anyway. She took a careful sip of the rye.

  “This is . . . interesting.”

  “Good interesting, or bad interesting?” Tim asked.

  Evan sniffed it. “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s more fiery than bourbon. Not as sweet on the palate.”

  “I get that.” She sniffed at the rye. “Bet it makes a good Manhattan.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “To quote Barry Fitzgerald, ‘When I drink whiskey, I drink whiskey.’”

  “Do you only quote other Irishmen?”

  “No,” Tim said. “If you pay attention, you’ll notice that I also tend to quote a few ancient Hebrews . . . and the occasional Greek.”

  “Very funny.”

  “So.” He set his glass down. “Is there a reason for this visit?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “It’s 4:15 on a weekday. You penciled me in between appointments. There must be a reason beyond camaraderie and sampling strange brews.”

  Evan looked amused. “I hardly penciled you in.”

  “No? What would you call it?”

  “I’d call it meeting for cocktails.” Evan held up her glass. “But if you’d prefer more mystery, I could always show up outside your window at St. Rita’s in the dead of night . . . because I happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest that anyone show up in my neighborhood in the dead of night.”

  “True. The last time I stopped by late in the evening, I lost a set of hubcaps.”

  “Kids these days . . .”

  “Apropos of that…” Evan tugged her messenger bag closer and opened an outside flap. “Would you take a look at this relic from your past and tell me what, if anything, you remember about it?”

  She passed a photograph across the table. Tim was intrigued about what “relic” from his past she had, and why. Until he looked at it, and his blood ran cold.

  “Where’d you get this?” It came out sounding like an accusation, and he regretted his tone immediately. “Sorry . . . I’m just surprised.”

  He could tell Evan smelled a rat.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Is this part of what you came to tell me?”

  Tim didn’t fault her for her maddening intuition. It simply was knee-jerk, pure instinct. Always had been. This quality of hers was part of what made her so good at her job. She always knew how to pick up a scent that had gone cold.

  “There goes that intuition of yours again,” he said nervously.

  “I told you I was born with an incredible shit magnet.”

  “Lucky you.�
�� He meant it to sound ironic.

  Evan reached across the table and touched his hand. “Not always. Not right now.”

  Tim could feel his eyes filling with tears. It was mortifying. He tried to blink them away.

  Evan squeezed the top of his hand. “Tell me.”

  He took a deep breath, followed by a sip of the rye. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For being so weak.”

  “Believe me. You don’t have a premium on weakness.”

  “No? It sure feels like it.”

  “Tim?” He looked at her. “Tell me.”

  Why not tell her? It was part of what he intended to do—if not today, then soon.

  “I remember this. Well, maybe not exactly this—but events just like this.”

  “Events?” Evan asked.

  He nodded. “When donors would show up and present checks to the team. It was always a command performance. We’d have to put on our uniforms and line up for the camera.”

  “Do you recognize anyone in this photo?”

  Tim fought the sting of tears again. He nodded.

  “The priest?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “That’s Father Szymanski—now Bishop Szymanski. He was at St. Rita’s for about twelve years.”

  “Do you recognize the other man?”

  Tim nodded again. “But I don’t remember his name. He was around a lot in those days—always seemed to be dropping off donations for things. I think he was some kind of city official?”

  “Close,” Evan said. “He was a judge.” Tim looked up at her. “That’s J. Meyer Cawley.”

  “Cawley?” Tim peered more closely at the image. “The Supreme Court nominee?”

  “In the unholy flesh, so to speak.”

  Tim felt another surge of panic at her words. “What makes you say that?”

  “I dunno. I was thinking maybe you could tell me.”

  Tim closed his eyes. He felt half sick. It was the same way he had felt in the confessional the other day. He always knew this moment would come. Time’s winged chariot. It had finally caught up to him.