Green Thumb

by Ralph McInerny

  “The fat guy?”

  “Is that all you can say about him?”

  “I couldn’t get into his class. I tried.”

  “Did you ask him?”

  But she could not believe that Roger Knight could have even remotely seen in Paul the possibilities he had seen in her. Paul was perfectly content to while away his summer in campus sports camps. But even as she thought this lofty condemnation she remembered the way she had been spending her own summer. Who was she to cast the first stone? So she and Paul had talked about her golf game that morning, playing with her mother in the alumni tournament. She was with him when news of his uncle’s death arrived. He looked blankly at Francie. She in turn looked blankly at him. For a terrible moment she wondered if he had understood the awful news. Neither of them had any experience with such an event. Nor, of course, had Francie even known the uncle who had been found dead on the old course.

  “What was he doing there, Paul? He was due to play on Warren.”

  “Don’t ask me. This is my SOB uncle.”

  As soon as he said it he seemed to regret it. Francie went with him to the Morris Inn, where the police were talking to old friends of Mortimer Sadler. It was then that they learned that his death was not considered to be accidental. Mortimer Sadler had died of poisoning.

  “Food poisoning?”

  Lieutenant Stewart looked at Paul and shook his head. When Paul introduced her to the detective, he perked up.

  “O’Kelly? There is a Mrs. O’Kelly registered here.”

  “So am I. She’s my mother.”

  “And you came with her to her class reunion?”

  “Oh, this doesn’t really count. She came in order to…” Francie fell silent. How to explain her mother’s pique that Mortimer Sadler had the gall to arrange an all-male get-together and call it a class reunion? Francie felt none of her mother’s competitive feminism. Going to St. Mary’s rather than Notre Dame had been a way of avoiding the duplication of her mother’s determination to rival any and every male achievement. Her mother’s feminist zeal had led to an estrangement from Francie’s father, the marriage forever teetering on the brink of collapse, until now there was a trial separation that Francie prayed would end in reunion. In the locker room of the Minikahda Club in Minneapolis, Mortimer had confronted Jack O’Kelly, drunkenly commenting on his unseemly conduct for a Notre Dame alumnus. And he had referred to Maureen as Superwoman. O’Kelly, normally the mildest of men, obliged with a blow that sent Sadler sprawling. Small wonder that Francie had not told her mother that she was seeing Paul Sadler. It would have seemed like an ideological statement rather than a real attraction.

  “She wanted a partner for golf.”

  Stewart found that more interesting than it was and Paul told him Francie’s handicap.

  “Is that good?”

  “It’s half mine.”

  Why did she think the detective already knew a low handicap when he heard one? It was the first intimation she had that the man thought her mother’s long-standing quarrel with Mortimer Sadler might have some connection with Sadler’s death.

  “I’m told your mother is quite a gardener.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your mother.”

  “She’s bragging.”

  But not much. The O’Kelly yard and flower beds had been featured in a recent garden walk in Minneapolis. Her mother’s habit of drawing attention to her own accomplishments made it unsurprising that she had mentioned the garden walk and whose flowers had drawn such praise.

  “A woman has a right to brag of her gardening.”

  Oh, if her mother had heard that remark!

  “She also mentioned her golf handicap.”

  “She seems to have told you everything.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Has the family been notified?” Paul asked.

  “His widow is on her way.”

  “Widow. I better call some of my cousins.”

  “Vivian,” Francie suggested.

  “Of course.”

  The task seemed a reason for Francie to not mention her invitation to dine with the Knight brothers. Paul got busy with his cell phone and Francie went to her room, where her mother came humming from the shower.

  “I’ve been talking with the police,” Francie said.

  “Detective Stewart?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dreadful man. Condescending. He asked if I played from the ladies’ tee.”

  “Well, you do.”

  “It’s the way he asked.”

  Since high school, Francie had learned what it must be like for twins, everyone telling her how much like her mother she looked. She knew her mother was beautiful, but it was not the kind of beauty Francie preferred, perhaps because of the constant comparison.

  “Have you showered?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I ran into someone I met in class.”

  “The conditions at Warren are barbaric. It’s little more than a shrine to the golf team. The men’s team, of course.”

  “Is there a women’s team?”

  Her mother thought about it. “There better be.”

  “Isn’t it awful about Mr. Sadler?”

  Her mother had to think about that, too. “Yes, of course.”

  When Francie came from the shower, her mother was lying on the bed, in her robe. “I think I’ll take a little nap. Where would you like to eat?”

  “Would you mind if I ate with some friends?”

  “What friends?”

  “Professor Knight asked me over.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Mother, I have told you all about him.”

  “The fat man?”

  “You sound like Paul.”

  “Who’s Paul?”

  “The boy I ran into.”

  “Is he going, too?”

  “No.”

  “I hope I’m not expected.”

  “Mother, you wouldn’t enjoy it at all.”

  Her mother was already on the phone, saying she would call some old classmates who had settled in South Bend. Francie had slipped away to the Knight apartment without running into Paul.

  When Roger’s brother, Phil, arrived at the Knight apartment he had Detective Stewart with him. For an awful moment Francie feared that he would start quizzing her about her mother again, but Roger bustled them right into the meal, dishing spaghetti from a huge bowl into which he poured some hot water before mixing it up. The salad bowl was almost as large as the pasta bowl and there were heaps of garlic bread and a huge carafe of red wine, although Roger drank ice water with his meal. And talked. The other two men just listened and busied themselves with their food. As soon as they were done, they adjourned to the television for a ball game and Francie had Roger all to herself.

  “I’ll help with the dishes.”

  “Wonderful. Phil is little help.”

  It was not a complaint. Francie marveled at how well the brothers got along. During dinner, she had been told of the loss of their parents when Roger was in his early teens and the way Phil had assumed the role of father to prevent their being separated. Phil dismissed all that, preferring to talk about how Roger had been considered retarded through much of school until someone had finally recognized that he was a genius.

  “Nonsense!” Roger said.

  “Tell her your score.”

  “I will not. Such tests are idiotic. They cause much more harm than anything else.”

  “It certainly ruined your life.”

  “I never said that.”

  How had it been to be a prodigy at Princeton and a Ph.D. at an age when most boys were finishing high school? Unable to find academic employment, Roger had actually joined the navy.

  “What did you do in the navy?”

  “Well, I passed the swimming test.”

  “By floating the length of the pool,” Phil said, but his laughter was affectionate. Francie had come to
like him, too, but tonight she was glad he had taken Jimmy Stewart off to watch television. After they finished the dishes, Francie had another glass of wine at the kitchen table and Roger sat across from her and talked. It might have been one of his seminars.

  “He questioned me about the death on the golf course,” Francie whispered.

  “Jimmy Stewart? Whatever for?”

  “I was with the nephew of the man who was killed.”

  “One should speak well of the dead so I shall be silent.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No. But I have heard more about him than I wished to know.”

  “His nephew is nice.”

  “Ah.”

  She let it go. Let him think what he liked. It was oddly pleasant to imagine that he might be jealous, but that was so ridiculous Francie laughed.

  12

  Cal Swithins had been relieved when Jimmy Stewart did not turn in at the campus entrance but continued on to the Morris Inn. He had been practicing what he would say to the guard at the gate. Perhaps, “Press,” said casually while pretending to look around as he avoided the guard’s eyes. But now there was no need to run the risk of the refusal this ruse might have earned. Anyone could park in the Morris Inn parking lot, the assumption being that they were guests or had come to dine in the restaurant. Thus it was that he had hung about in the lobby, unobserved, while Stewart and Knight spoke to a succession of the dead man’s friends. But it was in the men’s room downstairs that he heard the mention of poison. His pulse quickened. Now he was certain he was on to something while Raskow lolled about in the press room at police headquarters.

  When he emerged into the lobby, he ran into Phil Knight.

  “Get what you were looking for?”

  “Where is the Alumni Center?”

  Phil Knight came outside with him and pointed him up Notre Dame Avenue. Swithins had little choice but to set off. When he got to his car he looked back. Knight was nowhere in evidence, so Swithins headed west along a campus walk in the direction of what remained of the old golf course.

  When he came to the road that ran along the golf course fence, he continued toward Rockne Memorial. There was an old guy on the practice putting green and Swithins stopped to watch him. Hunched over his ball, the man seemed aware of his presence. He turned and glared at Swithins.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Teach me how to golf, I’ll bet.”

  Unexpectedly, the man smiled. “What class were you in?”

  “Nineteen eighty-two.” This was the year Swithins had graduated from high school in Syracuse.

  “I’m not good at names.”

  “Swithins. Cal Swithins.”

  “I’m Dennis Grantley, of course.” He held out his hand.

  “Of course.”

  “What brings you back?”

  For answer, Swithins opened his arms and looked around. Grantley nodded as if he understood.

  “This the first time you’ve seen what they’ve done to this golf course?”

  “When did it happen?”

  Grantley led him to a bench and sat down with a grunt. He had used his putter as a cane and now began hitting his right shoe with the club head. “It’s a sad story.”

  But one he seemed happy enough to tell. Swithins listened patiently to this tale of woe. Finally, Grantley was done.

  “Terrible what happened to Mortimer Sadler.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Swithins shrugged.

  “You said ’82. He was before your time.”

  “The name is familiar.”

  “I’ll tell you why. See that ugly building over there? That is the Mortimer Sadler Residence Hall.”

  “He must have done well.”

  “A helluva lot of difference it makes now. What do you do?”

  “I write. I’m a reporter.” He looked thoughtful. “I would like to write up what you’ve told me about the golf course.”

  “Who would print it?”

  “The Notre Dame Magazine?”

  “Ha.”

  “I heard that Sadler was poisoned.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “At the Morris Inn.”

  “So that’s where you’re staying. You ought to write up Sadler’s death.”

  “That is a very good idea. Did you know him well?”

  “I suppose not much better than I knew you. But he came back often. And, of course, he donated that building. But you will probably want to concentrate on what happened this morning.”

  Swithins got out a notebook and brought the tip of his pencil to his tongue. Over the next hour, he scribbled down everything Grantley told him and then they went across the road to the maintenance shed, where a man named Swannie added his two cents. Grantley left him there in Swannie’s office, but nothing Swithins heard added much to what he already had. By now he was anxious to get downtown.

  Half an hour later, he was in the city room. The sight of it brought an unexpected lump to his throat. Raskow was not there but Mendax, the city editor, was in his glassed-in office, mixing something milky in a glass. He looked out at Swithins and his expression was not welcoming. Swithins opened the door and went in.

  “Shut that damned door.”

  Swithins shut the damned door. “I want your go-ahead on a story.”

  “You were fired.”

  “Mistakes are made.”

  “What was yours?”

  “That isn’t what I meant. Look, Lyman, I’m on to something big. There has been a murder on the Notre Dame campus—”

  But Mendax held up his hand. “Stop right there. You ought to know that this paper is not going to put the university in a bad light.”

  “The university didn’t murder him.”

  “Stop using that word.”

  “It’s the only word that fits.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Raskow has already written a story on Sadler’s falling dead on the golf course.”

  “Raskow hasn’t been on campus. I have. I’ve interviewed people, I have all the facts.”

  But Mendax just kept shaking his head. “Stick with obits, Swithins.”

  So he knew about that. But Mendax had become the editorial equivalent of a stone wall. Swithins felt beaten.

  “I’ll write the death notice,” he said.

  “Good. But don’t use incendiary language.”

  Swithins went into the city room and sat at a computer. He felt like crying. But by God, this was his big chance. He would write this story if he had to place it in The Shopper. He got up and stormed out of the city room. No one noticed him leave.

  13

  In his room at Holy Cross House, Father Carmody put down his breviary and asked Dennis Grantley if he would like something.

  “Like what?”

  “A beer?”

  “If that is the best you can do.”

  Thus induced, Father Carmody got out a bottle of Powers and poured a niggardly ounce for his less-than-welcome guest.

  “So you have been wandering about the world like the devil in Job.”

  Grantley sipped his whiskey and ignored the remark. Once Carmody had been a golfer, but he had quit the game when he despaired of eventually shooting his age. Once on the course, nothing was more pleasant, but it became increasingly difficult to waste from three to five hours or more establishing the fact that his game was not what it had been. Grantley was an old friend, of sorts, a man who had been about the campus almost as long as the old priest, but he was an uncomfortable reminder of the passage of time. Father Carmody had moved to Holy Cross House from Corby, the clerical residence on campus, without complaint, refusing to see it for what it was, the last station on the journey of life. Others in the house were in various stages of their final illness. Once a week there was a melancholy row of wheelchairs filled with those awaiting a haircut, once-mighty figures reduced by strokes or worse to drooling oldsters submissive to whatever they were wheeled to endure.

 
Carmody himself remained hale and hearty. He might have stayed on campus, but even the seniors there had seemed young whelps to him, and he preferred the autonomy of Holy Cross. He could get around by golf cart or drive when he chose to leave the campus. His room here was much as his room had been wherever he had lived on campus, and he had dwelt in a succession of buildings—first in the Main Building, when residence there was not unusual, then moving on to a hall where he had been rector before he would have been ignominiously removed from under the Golden Dome in the Main Building. In his mind’s eye, his present quarters were simply his present quarters; such intimations of mortality as came to him were applicable to others rather than himself. His grandfather had lived to a hundred and both his parents were gaga in their nineties when God called them to Himself. His own mind was clear, his energy somewhat diminished but, with judicious napping, adequate, his physical examinations productive of unwelcome praise from physicians, as if his health were some accomplishment, a product of his will. Father Carmody recognized a grace when he received one.

  The most difficult task of all is growing old. This was a truth he had come to see as much in the breach as in the observance. Grantley had not grown old gracefully. He repined. He groused. He resented. And he lapped up Powers as if it were water. Carmody replenished his glass, his own scarcely touched. Temperance was an easy virtue.

  “You heard about Sadler?”

  “Which one?”

  “Mortimer. They found him dead on the sixth green of Burke this morning.”

  Of course Carmody had heard it all, but there was a mordant pleasure in allowing Grantley to tell the story as if it were news.

  “Poison,” Grantley said, smacking his lips. “The poor wretch must have taken his own life.”

  “Never presume that, Dennis. The police do not.”

  “How do you know?”

  Father Carmody made an impatient wave of his hand. “The question is, who would have wanted to kill the man?”

  “I could make a list.”

  “Come now.”

  “You remember him as an undergraduate, I am sure. In the early seventies. Mad as a hornet about the fact that women had been admitted to Notre Dame.”