The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  He grabbed her by the arm. “And after dinner, we’ll get smashed. Really smashed. All right?”

  She nodded, grinning prankishly. “That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard in days!”

  Laughing, they hugged each other, pressed through the ballroom door, and disappeared into the hail of balloons and streamers.

  Dinner was over by eleven-thirty. While most of the passengers remained in the ballroom, Faye and Ben retired for aperitifs to the Captain’s Lounge, a small salon nearer the bow.

  Father James McGuire was waiting for them, standing at the bar, sipping from a glass of wine.

  “Father!” Ben called, as he walked into the room.

  The priest placed his drink on the bar top and embraced them.

  “We missed you at dinner,” Faye said, flipping back a droop of hair from her forehead, while grinning enthusiastically. She liked the curve of Father McGuire’s jaw, his blue eyes, his classic Irish features.

  “I must apologize,” Father McGuire said, as he led them to a table. “I didn’t want to miss the banquet, but I realized that if I was going to complete my treatise before disembarkation, I would have to isolate myself.”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Ben said.

  “That’s right,” Faye added; she touched Father McGuire’s hand. “We’re happy you were at least able to meet us for a drink.”

  The lounge began to fill with other passengers. Ben walked to the bar and returned with two glasses of Amaretto.

  “How was the dinner?” McGuire asked, as he relaxed in his chair.

  “Excellent!” Ben replied, describing the meal, but failing to tell the priest that his absence had made the banquet otherwise forgettable.

  Having little in common with the passengers at table seventeen, most of whom were from small towns in the Midwest, Ben was fortunate that Father McGuire had been transferred over to them on the second day, replacing a couple form Billings, Montana. The priest, who taught at the Catholic Theological Seminary in New York City, proved to be one of the most enlightened conversationalists he and Faye had ever met. And certainly the relationship between him and the priest had not been hindered by the fact that both were professional writers, Father McGuire, devoting himself to theological treatises, whereas Ben was mired in his first book, a novel about politics. And Faye’s own job as an advertising copywriter had proven to be as equal a common ground, since Father McGuire had an intense interest in the communications media, especially where it embraced religion.

  “I’m afraid room service was not so enticing,” Father McGuire said, as Ben finished his monologue. He lit a cigar and offered one. Ben accepted. “But perhaps that was fortunate. Rather than wasting precious time gorging myself, I remained devoted to the typewriter.”

  “I want you to know, Father,” Ben said, placing his arm around Faye’s shoulder, “you’re making me feel very guilty.”

  “How so?” Father McGuire asked.

  “I haven’t been able to get a word written, and you’ve completed an entire manuscript in two weeks.”

  The priest smiled. “Ben, you’re writing fiction, creating ideas, and that’s so hard. I’m merely transcribing conclusions I’ve reached through years of study and introspection.”

  “Now, don’t beg off, Father.” Ben said, jabbing his finger at the air for emphasis. “You’re writing something important, something that all your students will be able to appreciate. I’d be the last to minimize the difficulty, and I won’t let you do it. And besides, I’m just creating gristmill pulp.”

  Faye leaned over and kissed Ben on the cheek. “Everyone is going to love your book, honey.”

  Father McGuire agreed. “I’ve told you, Ben, that if every writer wrote what I do, the world of literature would be very dull. The desire to entertain is as valid as the effort to teach. Who is to say who performs a greater service for mankind?”

  “You’re both being very kind,” Ben said, sheepishly sipping the Amaretto.

  A pair of guitar players entered the lounge and began to play.

  Ben leaned forward. “Faye and I want you to know how much we’ve enjoyed your friendship, Father. And we’re not just saying this because the cruise is almost over and it’s appropriate.”

  The priest tugged uncomfortably at the white collar that encircled his neck. “Let me assure you that the feelings are mutual. We can all thank the couple from Montana, who asked to transfer tables, since their departure allowed us to meet.”

  “They asked to be transferred?” Faye asked. She lit a cigarette.

  “That’s what I’m told,” the priest replied. “One of the stewards said something about a disagreement and a request. I’m not quite sure.”

  Ben shrugged. “Perhaps they just wanted a change of scenery.” Should he say anything he asked himself, suddenly consumed with curiosity. The dining steward had told him that Father McGuire had requested the transfer and had asked the steward to find out if anyone at table seventeen would be agreeable. Now, if that were so, why would Father McGuire have suggested the opposite?

  Faye interrupted his thoughts, talking, laughing, finally walking to the bar to fetch another Amaretto. By one o’clock, she’d finished three more, and Ben could see that she was far more subdued than usual.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, winking at Father McGuire.

  Faye steadied herself. “Yes. Of course.”

  Ben looked at his watch. Before leaving for dinner, they’d decided they wouldn’t stay out too late, since the ship would be docking at seven a.m. and they’d have to be ready to disembark by eight.

  “Why don’t we walk outside?” Ben suggested.

  “Of course,” Father McGuire responded, easing to his feet.

  McGuire and Ben helped Faye onto the deck.

  “I like you very much, Father McGuire,” she said. “As a non-practicing Catholic, I’ve never been one for priests, but you’re different.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Faye, but remember, before I was a priest, I was a human being.”

  “Well-said!” Ben declared.

  McGuire stood erect. “When I was at Dartmouth, I even played football. And I did my share of troublemaking.”

  Faye smiled. “Let me tell you, Father. From a woman’s point of view, you’re a very handsome and desirable man!”

  McGuire laughed.

  “You are!” she insisted, licking her lips.

  McGuire blushed; so did Ben.

  “What can I tell you?” Ben said, shaking his head.

  McGuire flashed a very un-priestly grin.

  “Come on Faye,” Ben scolded. “We’re going back to the stateroom.”

  “Okay. Okay.” She stumbled between them.

  They walked along the railing, reached the B corridor, and paused prior to separating.

  “I’ll meet you in the morning.” Father McGuire said. “In front of the pool deck.”

  “At eight?” Ben asked.

  “Yes.” McGuire leaned forward and embraced Faye. “Now, you get a good night’s sleep…and kiss Joey for me.”

  “I will,” Faye said. “Good night, Father.”

  “Good night, Faye.” He shook Ben’s hand. “Till the morning.”

  Father McGuire turned and walked briskly down the deck. He had a strong, authoritative stride, a long gait, an erect upper body. He’d certainly been an athlete in his younger days. And probably still was.

  “And now, young lady,” Ben said with a curious look on his face, “You’re going to bed!”

  She hiccupped, agreed, and walked unsteadily with him through the door to the stateroom corridors.

  A dream that began where it ended faded into oblivion as he opened his eyes and glanced at the clock…four-thirty a.m. He turned over, hoping to fall back to sleep. Next to him, Faye was buried deep in the pillows with most of
the blanket wrapped around her legs. He pulled back his share, then grappled with the top sheet, aware that the ship was yawing more violently than it had been yawing earlier that night. Frustrated, he tried to relax. But he couldn’t as he could hear footsteps on the deck. Someone was walking slowly, almost trying not to be heard. It annoyed him. But what the hell, he thought. Forget it! Get to sleep. And he thought that that would no longer be difficult. He sensed a wave of drowsiness.

  Then he heard the doorknob turn.

  He sat up.

  Someone was trying to get into the room.

  Quickly, he jerked out of bed, threw on his robe, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor.

  No one was there.

  He walked onto the deck, and following a hunch, walked toward the bow and cut along the swimming pool. Reaching the opposite rail, he glimpsed a man disappearing behind the main salon cabin.

  He bolted forward along the starboard bow, covering the area where the man might have gone. Then, exhausted, he stopped at the railing, gulping for air, and stood thinking, hands shaking. After several minutes, he turned back toward the cabin.

  On the deck above was a man staring out at the purple sky.

  It was Father McGuire!

  Startled, Ben climbed the staircase to the next deck. “Father McGuire!” he called.

  The priest turned slowly. “Ben!” he said, surprised. “What are you doing out here at this hour of the night?”

  “I might ask you the same question.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” the priest said calmly. “The air is invigorating. I took a walk, and I’ve been meditating.”

  “I see.”

  McGuire touched Ben’s arm. “You seem upset. And out of breath.”

  “Yes, I was running.”

  “Ben…is anything wrong?”

  Ben nodded, his expression stiffening. “Someone was trying to get into our stateroom.”

  McGuire seemed perplexed.

  “I woke up and heard the door latch turn. I opened the door, but no one was there. I walked out on the deck and caught sight of someone running away. I gave chase and found you!”

  “And you think that I was the culprit? A nighttime prowler?”

  Ben stared at the priest. Did he really believe that? No, of course not. Why in the world would Father McGuire have tried such a thing? They were friends. “No, Father,” he said.

  McGuire smiled. “I’m not even out of breath, Ben, so I’m hardly a candidate for a recent chase.”

  Ben hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’d be as upset. And as puzzled.”

  Ben leaned against the rail, focusing on the twin smokestacks that rose into the sky like mighty black obelisks. “Damn!” he mumbled. “Somebody was fooling with our stateroom door.”

  McGuire nodded; he didn’t get it. Ben touched the priest’s arm. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Father.”

  “Not at all.”

  Ben returned to the main deck and reentered the B corridor.

  Something was hanging from the knob on his stateroom door. He walked closer. It was a crucifix!

  He took it in his hands and rolled it between his fingers.

  It was large, about twelve inches long. And very heavy. Made of a dark, glistening metal.

  Why would someone have left such a thing?

  Reentering the stateroom, he dropped his bathrobe on the sofa, peeked at the baby, and climbed back in bed. Faye was sleeping soundly.

  He wound the chain of the crucifix about his palm and held it up. A chill raced down his back. He had a premonition.

  Nothing specific, but something.

  He put the crucifix under his pillow, and rolling onto his side, decided to forget about it until morning.

  Father McGuire examined the crucifix carefully, laughed through a cough, and returned it to Ben. “I can’t imagine why it was left, but more important, I think it’s a waste of time to speculate. Forget it. You’re now the owner of a lovely crucifix. And may God smile on you for it.” He patted Ben on the back. “Really.”

  Ben looked at the priest suspiciously, then jammed the crucifix into his haversack, as a porter approached and informed them that Father McGuire’s luggage had been cleared and claimed.

  “Did you mention it to your wife?” McGuire asked.

  “Of course,” Ben said. He waved to Faye, who suddenly appeared out of the crowd at dockside.

  She walked over, holding Joey in her arms. “All done. The porters are taking the baggage outside.”

  Ben grabbed the baby. “What do you think, Father?” he asked, holding the boy to his face. “Looks just like me, doesn’t he?”

  McGuire glanced at Ben…Faye…the baby. “The eyes,” he said. “Otherwise …and I’ve told you before…he resembles Faye, amazingly so!”

  The baby gurgled and mumbled. Ben laughed and handed the baby back to Faye, who was dressed in a neat gray skirt and white silk blouse.

  Two porters wheeled a cartload of luggage by them. They followed, weaving along the enclosed dock.

  “Can I give you a lift?” Father McGuire asked, as they approached the exit. “The seminary has sent a car.”

  “Thank you, father,” Ben said, “but one of our neighbors is coming.”

  They walked onto the street and approached the curb.

  McGuire laughed as Faye asked him about the crucifix, then laughed again as he dismissed its significance one more.

  “It gives me the creeps,” Faye said. “I want Ben to throw it away!”

  McGuire nodded thoughtfully. “I can understand how you feel.”

  Faye looked at Ben, who smiled defensively. “All right, I’ll throw it away, or better yet, donate it to a Catholic hospital.”

  McGuire’s limousine pulled to the curb. The driver jumped out, loaded the priest’s luggage, and opened the rear door. McGuire remained with Ben and Faye, planning a reunion, then embraced them, and little Joey, and smiled.

  “I’ll miss you all,” he said, “and I’ll anxiously wait for you call.”

  “You won’t wait long,” Ben assured him.

  The priest eased into the limousine and waved out the back window.

  Ben and Faye smiled and waved back, then retreated toward their luggage.

  2

  There was no way to mistake the approach of John Sorrenson’s 1956 DeSoto. The relic came jerking around a corner, coughing noxious puffs of black exhaust, rattling like a box of spoons and forks, and trailing the remains of its right fender in the wind. It looked like an enormous tropical fish with long tail fins and a convertible top scaled from years of corrosion. Behind the wheel, Faye and Ben could see Sorrenson’s cylindrical head bobbing about, his hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel, and his eyes so focused on the progress of the car that he seemed to be cemented to the windshield. They could not help but laugh… admiringly. In this day of unreasonable repair fees and inflation, the New York Philharmonic, first-cello player had managed to maintain the grotesque anachronism and to do it on what even he admitted was a trifling budget.

  The car screeched to a halt; Sorrenson popped out. “Damn old bat!” he said. “Broke down on Forty-eighth Street!”

  “It did?” Faye asked. She approached him with the baby in her arms.

  That explained it, Ben thought to himself. They’d been waiting over an hour. Several times, he’d considered taking a cab. But since Sorrenson never missed appointments, they’d decided to wait.

  Ben started to haul the luggage to the car. “What happened?” he asked, glancing at the old man.

  Sorrenson buried his hands in the pockets of his gray cardigan. “I don’t know,” he said, sounding less urbane and self-controlled than usual. “I was driving down Ninth Avenue when she suddenly started to smoke and rumble. Well, if that wasn’t the m
ost terrifying thing! I pulled her to the side and sat there quite exasperated, since there wasn’t a gas station in sight. Then I opened the hood and let her cool off. I jiggled this. And that. And gave her a stern lecture.” He nodded omnisciently. “And then…well, I guess we reached an understanding, because very soon thereafter, she started and ran like a top. Would you believe it?”

  Faye kissed him on the cheek. “Yes, of course I would. You’ve always had a way with women and machines.”

  Sorrenson blushed, hugged her, and caressed the baby’s chin. He offered to help with the luggage, but Ben refused to allow a man of seventy to haul heavy suitcases.

  It didn’t take long to pack up the car, and soon they were driving uptown on Twelfth.

  “Now you have to tell me all about the trip,” Sorrenson demanded.

  Ben looked to Faye and took the baby.

  “I only wish you could have been there, John,” Faye said, pausing momentarily in the middle of the sentence to react to a sudden backfire. “It was fantastic.”

  “I told you, didn’t I?” Sorrenson exclaimed with an eruption of parental pride.

  “You were right,” Ben said, remembering it was Sorrenson, who’d suggested the cruise, when they were trying to decide where to go and by what means. “In fact,” he added, grinning curiously, “we’ve decided to take the same trip again next year.”

  Faye caught the final stages of Ben’s enigmatic grin. “That’s right,” she said, catching the rhythm.

  “That’s wonderful!” Sorrenson cried.

  “Everything was perfect,” Faye added. “Including the sun.”

  “I can tell. You look absolutely magnificent. But you, Ben! You took too much!”

  Smirking, Faye jabbed Ben with her elbow. Sorrenson cleared his throat and began a barrage of questions. Faye fielded most of them, then asked Sorrenson how he’d spent the last two weeks.

  “Doing the usual,” Sorrenson replied, as he turned the car to Broadway, catching the curb on West Seventy-ninth. “We had several concerts devoted to Bach. I’ve spent time with my quartet practicing for the summer series. And we recorded an album, which you’ll hear tonight, since I’m having everyone on the floor over for cocktails to welcome you back.”