Last Things

by Ralph McInerny

  “And I thought you just wanted my company.”

  He let it go. His ability for banter was limited in any case, but he could not risk even joking about her. He tried to think of her as an occasion of sin, but that was ridiculous. Even if he … He shook the thought away. He loved his wife. He wished they had kids, but they didn’t. Keegan had kids, two daughters, whom he seldom saw; they lived so far away. He had grandchildren too, something Cy would never have. It seemed sad. It was sad.

  “Are you going to have children?”

  She actually blushed, the unflappable Pippen blushed. “Why you nosy old thing, you.”

  “You don’t plan to grow old performing autopsies, do you?”

  “I don’t know.” She was still flustered. She leaned toward him, looking at the table. “We’re trying.”

  Good God, this was not a confidence he had expected. Fortunately there was not much to say except that it was his great regret that he and his wife had never had children.

  “I always think of you as a father.”

  “Try brother.”

  “Okay.” She was herself again. “So what are you looking into?”

  He told her. There was no way to make it sound important. “Keegan just wants me out of his hair.”

  In the morgue office, he looked up the W’s on the computer where the records were stored. No Alfred Wygant. But Phil had sounded sure that there had been an autopsy. Meanwhile, Pippen had gotten a customer, and Cy left her to her grisly work. How could a woman conceive when she spent all day with cadavers?

  The so-called morgue of the Tribune had been computerized as well, and Cy was soon reading the obituary of Alfred Wygant. There was the standard account but another as well, prepared by the family, florid and a little embarrassing. But the newspaper account of his death, which had appeared several days before, gave him the information he sought. A report on the death of Wygant had been performed by Sorensen Labs.

  “He was married to my aunt,” the girl at Sorensen’s said when he told her why he had come. “I’m Jessica Bernardo.”

  “That explains the name tag.”

  She wore a lab coat and her thick blonde hair was pulled back on her head. He must be getting old. All young women looked beautiful to him now.

  Bernardo. There was a chain of garden stores in the greater Chicago area called Bernardo’s.

  “That’s my father, Fulvio. Alfred Wygant was my uncle, sort of. My Aunt Eleanor was married to my father’s brother, and when he died she married Alfred.”

  “Your dad still alive?”

  A look of pain altered her expression. “He’s in the hospital. He’s quite ill.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you interested in Alfred Wygant’s test?”

  Suddenly his task acquired delicate dimensions. He did not want to tell this lovely young woman that he was filling out a slack period in homicides by checking out how her sort of uncle had died.

  “I’m not sure.”

  She tipped her head to one side. Her lower lip puffed moistly out. “Secrets?”

  “I’m not sure of that.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll leave you alone.” And she went brightly off. At the Last Judgment Cy hoped to get credit for the fact that he watched her only halfway out of the room. Then he turned and began to plink away on the computer keys.

  26

  Marie outdid herself, providing a feast incommensurate with the noonday meal, at least at the rectory of St. Hilary; risotto, veal, and a spinach salad. Not even Amos Cadbury could find superlatives enough as he dabbed at his mustached mouth with his napkin, rolled his eyes, and settled for the inarticulate sigh of the satiated diner.

  “Marie …” he began, but words failed him again.

  “This is an audition, Marie. I can tell you now. Mr. Cadbury wants to hire you.”

  “Oh, I would never leave here,” she cried with the tones of a maiden moving closer to her tempter rather than farther away.

  “And I would never go to heaven if I did. Where does Dante put gluttons, Father Dowling?”

  “In the sixth cornice of purgatory. But I think the temptation would be to luxuria. It is not that you would eat too much but that you would enjoy it too much.”

  Marie did not like this theoretical turn to the conversation. She preferred paeans of praise to be straightfoward and kept to the matter at hand.

  “It is a pleasure to cook for someone whose taste buds are still alive.”

  Father Dowling let the two of them go on for a time, versicle and response, like a choir. Finally, even Marie wearied of praise and tossing her apron disappeared through the swinging door into her kitchen.

  “I have no news on Earl Hospers, Father. But I have a good young lawyer looking into it. As soon as I learn anything, I will pass it on to you.”

  “That is very good of you.”

  Father Dowling had not asked Amos to lunch to find out about Earl, though of course he was interested. Something had happened that made him want to know more about the Bernardos, and he was certain that Amos Cadbury would know what he wanted to know. The whole matter was quite delicate of course. It would have been imprudent to tap Marie’s somewhat biased view of the family.

  “Ah, the Bernardos,” Amos said, sitting back.

  “Before you get too comfortable, why don’t we move into the study?”

  “I would like a cigar.”

  “And I shall smoke my pipe.”

  The significant silence in the kitchen ceased, indicating that he had been right to suspect that Marie was on duty, as she conceived her duty. Anything short of a confession she could eavesdrop on was simply part of her job description as housekeeper.

  Amos lit his cigar with devoted attention, drawing it to an even and aromatic glow. The pastor filled and lighted his pipe, and once more Amos said, “The Bernardos. Father, I will tell you things I would tell no one else in the sure and certain knowledge that it will go no farther.”

  “Things you know professionally.”

  “Yes.”

  In this Father Dowling could not of course reciprocate, but he was grateful for Amos’s confidence.

  “Of course much of what I say is in the public domain.”

  Amos had a gift for narrative, and Father Dowling had the impression that he was benefiting from much meditation on the subject at hand, perhaps fresh and recent meditation, as the sequel suggested. But he listened to the account of Fulvio’s success, the modest little nursery on a dirt road to which the discerning gardeners of Fox River found their way in increasing numbers. The original nursery had been left intact though it was supplemented by a newer building, a building that was the model for the Bernardo Nurseries that soon were to be found in most of the suburbs of Chicago, as even the still-autonomous communities were called.

  There was no need to hurry the account, though it was not for this economic saga and entrepreneurial coup that he was consulting Amos.

  “And now the family: a saintly wife, one daughter, two sons, one of them, the oldest child, a priest.”

  “Raymond?”

  “Raymond.”

  Amos had first become closely acquainted with Raymond through his role as trustee at the college.

  “He was the golden boy, Father Dowling. If the Edmundites had a future it would depend in large part on Raymond Bernardo. He held responsible positions in the Order at an early age. He was assistant superior when he left.”

  Amos sighed forth smoke. There was no trace of morose delectation in his reaction to Raymond’s defection, all the more impressive because in the purest heart there is a tendency to take however muted pleasure in another’s fall. It is one of the baser emotions whose virtuous remedy is “There but for the grace of God go I.”

  “No one had any inkling that he would do such a thing. By all accounts, it was precipitous.”

  “There was a woman.”

  “Of course. Nonetheless, he professed to have profound theological difficulties as well as dis
taste for the discipline of the Church. Do you know Father Bourke?”

  “No.”

  “He was Raymond’s mentor. The defection of his protégé broke his heart. We talked of it only once, and when I asked why, he said after a prolonged silence, ‘Amos, he lost his faith. It is as simple as that.’”

  “Who was the woman?” Father Dowling asked.

  “I believe they are still together, whether married or not I can’t say. She was a nun, sent by her Order to the college. They met …”

  “And he lost his faith?”

  “Perhaps he is just a logically consistent man. What he wanted to do was incompatible with his faith, his vows, his whole way of life. It was an either-or. He chose or and drove off to California with the young woman.” Amos puffed for a moment. “He had with him a credit card of the Order’s. They financed their expedition with it, most lavishly, I understand. I believe that once I compared them to Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “You did. And what of Fulvio?”

  “This broke his heart too. He has not been in a church since. I have this on the authority of his sister-in-law, Eleanor Wygant.”

  “I have met her.”

  “Formidable,” Amos said, trilling the R. “She was married to Fulvio’s brother. When he died she married Alfred.”

  “You knew them both.”

  “I knew Alfred better.”

  A pause. And then Amos confided in Father Dowling the story of Alfred’s near-million-dollar investment in Bernardo’s. No, he corrected himself. “It was personal, between Fulvio and Alfred. A very astute man turned over to another very astute man nearly one million dollars, and to this day I have been unable to find any written commitment to pay the money back.”

  “You have an explanation?”

  “Cherchez la femme, M. l’abbe. Toujours chercher la femme. In this case, femme in the sense of wife.”

  “Eleanor?”

  Amos nodded. “She was putty in Fulvio’s hands.”

  “Odd.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you suggested a woman was the explanation, I thought …”

  Here Amos fell silent, but his silence spoke. Father Dowling dared a further probe.

  “Fulvio was a womanizer?”

  “There were stories, but there are always stories.”

  Father Dowling smiled. He doubted that such stories circulated about Amos Cadbury.

  They returned to the subject of the college and of what might have been if Raymond Bernardo had not done what he had done. Amos’s account of the recent board meeting was told in the sepulchral tones of Job’s servant come to tell the bad news.

  “The low point of that day, Father, came after the meeting. I was speaking with Eugene Box, counsel of the college, and he suggested that this oaf Cassirer intends to accuse Andrew Bernardo of sexual irregularity.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Not the best phrase, perhaps. The accusation is that Andrew shares bed and board with a woman not his wife. However commonplace that has become, it is cause for dismissal in the faculty manual.”

  “I hope there is no bad news about Jessica.”

  “I pray not. She is the best of the lot.”

  If Amos had any intimation of the cause of Father Dowling’s curiosity about the Bernardos he did not show it. He would not have shown it if he had. Surely he would not think the pastor of St. Hilary’s was hungry for mere gossip. And he would have been right.

  When the call from Jessica had come yesterday Marie was over at the school, and he was able to go off to the hospital without fanfare.

  “Would you come see my father?”

  “The question is, will he see me?”

  “He has asked for you.”

  Jessica and her mother left him at the door of the room and returned to the waiting room down the hall. Fulvio’s eye was on him from the moment he entered the room. He waited until Father Dowling was beside the bed.

  “Did you bring the oils?”

  “They’re in the hospital chapel.”

  “I’m an old sinner, Father Dowling.”

  “We all are.”

  He shook his head. “I’m in a class by myself.”

  Father Dowling slipped on the little stole he had brought, purple side out. “You want to confess?”

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  With the capital sins. Fulvio confessed to breaking them all. But lust predominated.

  “I don’t know how many women I’ve had.”

  When did Father Dowling first suspect that Fulvio was engaged in a performance, that there was more than a macho memory involved in these claims to a dozen adulterous affairs?

  “And I’ve been a thief. I took nearly a million dollars from a man and gave him nothing in return.”

  Amos’s account of the transaction between Alfred Wygant and Fulvio bore that out. And that gave credence to the final revelations.

  “I am responsible for that man’s death, Father. I might as well have murdered him.”

  27

  “Father Bourke called,” his mother said.

  “I saw him the other day. Not to talk to.”

  “Where?”

  “He was concelebrating the eleven-thirty on campus.”

  “You were there?”

  He did not discourage her reaction, although perhaps he had sought it. Since his father had seen Father Dowling she clearly believed anything was possible. Was it? As the days multiplied since his arrival in Chicago the distance from Thousand Oaks increased exponentially. His present surroundings, his parents’ home, the grim gray urban sprawl that was, in the phrase, the greater Chicago metropolitan area, exerted their familiarity, and the setting of the past decade seemed unreal, almost imaginary. He told himself that he should call Phyllis. He had not told her of his visit to campus, although as he walked through its altered landscape he had been rehearsing his account to her.

  He called her on his cell phone from the parking lot of the hospital after he had dropped his mother off.

  “Do you realize what time it is here?”

  “Whoops. I forgot.” There was a two-hour difference in time between Chicago and Thousand Oaks. He had an image of a sleepy Phyllis reaching for the phone beside the bed. “I miss you.”

  “How is he?”

  “He seems to have stabilized.” Since seeing Father Dowling? That was his mother’s explanation. The burden of all those missed Masses had been lifted from his soul, giving the body a new lease on life.

  Phyllis hummed.

  “If I should leave I would very likely be called back here.”

  She continued to hum. This familial piety had not been much on display in recent years. He explained to her that he was caught now, whatever he might have done. The length of his visit depended on his father’s health.

  “My mother has become dependent on me. I’m calling from the parking lot of the hospital.”

  “You’re trying to make it up to them.”

  Of course she would be engaged in long-distance analysis, half awake but on the job, looking for the real reason he was in Chicago still and she was alone in Thousand Oaks.

  “Well, shortly I will be making it up to you.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Sound has nothing to do with it.”

  “I have been seeing Julia.”

  “Professionally?”

  “Of course. Raymond, she is infatuated with you.”

  “Then the two of you have something in common.”

  “Oh ha.”

  On something of a light note he brought the conversation to an end, glad to have called her, glad to have it over. He crossed the lot to the entrance and went upstairs to be with his mother. He might try to make the eleven-thirty on campus if his father was okay.

  He joined his mother at his father’s bedside, but Fulvio did not acknowledge his presence. He did look different, more serene. The head turned, and their eyes met.

  “Good morning, Father.”

  He s
queezed his father’s hand, the one without the IV needle stuck in its back. That was all, one dart to remind him. Fulvio was content to lie there silent with a silent Margaret at his side. Raymond went down the hall, avoided the waiting room where television went on night and day, and continued to the cafeteria. In its anteroom was a cigarette machine. He stopped and looked at the familiar brands. There were Camels still, his old brand. Everyone had smoked, it seemed, all the members of the order. He and Phyllis had quit on their way to California. They ran out, and did not want to leave their bed to buy more.

  Raymond got out his wallet and began to feed dollar bills into the machine. A package now cost what a carton once had. “Thou shalt not smoke” was the only commandment left, the decalogue become a monologue. He took the package from the machine and realized he had no matches. Outside, smokers were gathered, shoulders hunched against the wind, stamping their feet, puffing, puffing. He decided to wait. He could use the lighter in the car to taste his first cigarette in years.

  And he did light up, on the way to campus, neither liking nor disliking it, but imagining Phyllis wondering why he was doing this. He and Father Bourke used to walk in the evening after supper, smoking, talking, from time to time sitting on a bench. How many cigarettes had been smoked on those evening walks? The number that occurred to him seemed scarcely credible.

  It was shortly after eleven when he settled into a back pew in the campus church. The prodigal returned? That was ridiculous. As he sat there he told himself that, yes, he did miss this place that evoked memories at every turn; he did miss the camaraderie of other priests, his status among them, the routine of their day. But the one thing needful was gone. He looked at the distant altar, at the original altar beyond with its elaborate tabernacle. The lamp glowing in the sanctuary signified that the Blessed Sacrament was in repose in that tabernacle. A ciborium full of hosts, with a golden cap from which embroidered linen strips fell. The body and blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ under the appearance of bread. As he had said to Jessica, the sacrament was central to the Church because it was central to the faith. And everything else radiated from it. Priests must be ordained to confect the Eucharist, and bishops were needed for the task of ordaining them, bishops who were in a direct line from the apostles, an unbroken chain linking the present Church to its historical past. But the Eucharist was now, here, in that tabernacle, about to be reenacted at that altar. Raymond knew all this, but now there were only words.