The Guardian

by Konvitz, Jeffrey;

  McGuire poured two glasses of wine from a glass decanter, handed one to Ben, and sat down behind his desk. Ben could barely see McGuire’s head over the pile of books, reports, and artifacts.

  “What brings you to the neighborhood, Ben?”

  “My book. Several chapters are set on nearby streets. For authenticity, I’m walking around, taking note of street names, and getting an accurate picture of the neighborhood and architecture.” He sipped the wine. “This is superb.”

  McGuire was pleased. “I’m glad you like it. Wine is one of my avocations. You’re drinking Ducru-Beaucaillou, vintage sixty-four. It was one of the better years.”

  Ben smacked his lips together and let the aroma drift into his nostrils. “Is this where you do most of your writing?” he asked.

  “All of it,” McGuire replied. “I shut the door and shut out the world.”

  “I wish I had the discipline.”

  “It’s mind over matter, that’s all.”

  Ben smiled, sat back in the leather chair, cleared his throat, and bounced the base of the wine glass nervously on his knee.

  McGuire watched him carefully. “Well, Ben, tell me about Faye. Is she well?”

  Ben hesitated. “Yes, but she was sick…briefly. We had a disturbing occurrence in our building. There was a murder and Faye found the body. It had a very strong impact on her. She was in shock for several days.”

  McGuire’s expression ebbed and rose with precision. “What a terrible thing! Is she all right now?”

  “She’s still tense. And she hasn’t been able to go back to work. Perhaps next week she’ll feel well enough to return to the grind.”

  “Send her my best wishes for the quickest recovery. If there’s anything I can do, Ben, such as a visit, I’d be happy to do it.”

  Ben gestured, leaned forward, and angled his head. “No. She’s fine. We have some very caring neighbors. But, of course, you’re always welcome to stop by.”

  McGuire’s fingers raced rapidly over the silver letter opener on the blotter; Ben noticed something withdrawn about his manner, and no matter how pleasant and inviting his words, that impression was unavoidable.

  “Is anything wrong, Father?” Ben said.

  “Wrong? Of course not. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. You look very distant.”

  “I get like that when I’m working. An occupational hazard. Please forgive me. Now, tell me about the baby.”

  “The baby is fine. Fortunately, he’s too young to notice the strain on his mother.”

  “Yes, that’s most fortunate.”

  “Well, how have you been, Father?”

  “Fine, but the demands on my time have been immense. You can imagine what energies I must devote to my teaching and seminary duties, in addition to my writing. I wish I had the solitude of a cruise once more.”

  Ben looked at the clutter on the priest’s desk. Whatever McGuire was doing, he was doing it with intensity. “I hope you’ll be able to take a break and join us for dinner as soon as Faye is able.”

  “That will be my pleasure, Ben. You know that.”

  The two men sat in silence. The conversation had been as inane and bland as any Ben could remember.

  “Father…there’s something on my mind.”

  McGuire stared, eyes wide open.

  “There’s a young lady I know named Jennifer Learson, who’s been confined to a mental institution. The doctors are desperately trying to find a clue to her breakdown. There’s a priest named Monsignor Franchino, who might have some insight, having had contact with the girl some years ago. Have you ever heard of him?”

  McGuire rubbed his chin and arched his brow. “No. The name isn’t familiar. Is he connected to the Archdiocese of New York?”

  “I don’t know. I believe he was a New York resident, but I haven’t the slightest idea about his affiliation.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “Over ten years ago.”

  McGuire shook his head. “Ten years? Even if he was affiliated with the Archdiocese of New York, who knows what might have happened to him in the interim? He could be dead. He could have been transferred…”

  “Or he could still be here. Or within reach.”

  McGuire nodded. “Can you describe the man?”

  “No. And I don’t want to become a burden, but I need help. I called the Archdiocese and asked if there was any record of such a person, and they told me there wasn’t. Of course, there might have been a reason to withhold the information. Or perhaps the records were incomplete. On the other hand, they might reveal that information to a member of the clergy.”

  “They might.”

  “And if Monsignor Franchino belongs to another Archdiocese, a priest would have a better chance of locating him than I would.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Ben smiled.

  McGuire laughed. “I’d be happy to help. I’ll make some inquiries and call you as soon as I know something.”

  “You’re sure it won’t be an inconvenience?”

  “Of course not, Ben.”

  Ben stood and grabbed McGuire’s hand. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  McGuire stood too. “Don’t thank me yet. I may not be able to locate the man.”

  “I thank you for the effort.”

  They walked to the door.

  “Father, I’ve got to confess,” Ben said, “I didn’t just drop in. I came by specifically to ask you to help me.”

  “I know.”

  Ben seemed surprised. “How do you know that?”

  “You’re a bad liar, Benjamin Burdett.”

  They laughed once more.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I can,” McGuire said.

  Ben turned and started to walk down the corridor. He stopped when he heard McGuire call his name.

  “Ben. I’m curious. Do you still have the crucifix?”

  “Yes…it’s in a desk drawer.”

  McGuire nodded. “Till we speak again.”

  Ben waved and descended the staircase.

  Father McGuire called that evening at eight-thirty.

  “Ben,” he said, “I think I’ve found your man.”

  Ben almost dropped the phone.

  “He’s attached to the Archdiocese of New York, although he isn’t listed in the directory.”

  “What does he do?”

  “I don’t know. I tried to determine his duties and position, but wasn’t able to do so.”

  “And Monsignor Franchino did not volunteer any information?”

  “No, he did not.”

  Ben tightened his grip on the phone.

  He could hear the baby crying in the other room. Faye was with him. They’d just finished a simple dinner, and Grace Woodbridge had left after a brief visit.

  “Can I see him?”

  “Yes. I arranged a meeting.”

  “When?”

  “He suggested lunch tomorrow at the Cornell Club. I told him that I would check with you, and, if he did not hear from me to the contrary, it would be confirmed.”

  “Of course it’s all right.”

  Ben couldn’t hide his jubilation.

  “Twelve o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there on the nose. What did he say when you mentioned Jennifer Learson?”

  “That’s the problem, Ben.”

  “Problem?”

  “He insisted he has never known or met a Jennifer Learson.”

  “What?”

  When I told him the connection was over ten years ago and suggested his memory might be rusty, he persisted, but accepted the possibility. So he agreed to the meeting. But I must tell you, he is very skeptical.”

  “We’ll see, Father. Franchino is not a common name.”

 
“Well, I hope I’ve been of some help.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Just let me know what happens.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good night, Ben.”

  “Good night.”

  Ben had already returned to the living room and had dropped in front of the television when Faye walked out of the bedroom.

  “Who was on the phone, honey?”

  “A friend.” He flicked channels with the remote control.

  “Which one?”

  “What is this, twenty questions?”

  Faye eased herself onto the couch and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You sounded very excited. You’re not seeing a woman on the side, are you?”

  Ben laughed and rubbed her shoulders. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. What woman? Where? I don’t even have the strength!”

  “You’ve always been very strong with me.”

  “You’re special.”

  “Come on, Ben,” she pleaded.

  “The baby sleeping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why was he crying?”

  “Who knows? Ben you’re trying to avoid my question.”

  Ben crunched his lips together and waited as she pushed against him to prod. “All right. It was Father McGuire.”

  “Father McGuire?” Her voice peaked with surprise. “Why didn’t you let me speak to him?” She pulled away. “How could you have done that? You know I would have loved to speak to Father McGuire.”

  “Don’t get excited, honey. You’ll see Father McGuire soon enough. I went to visit him this afternoon at the seminary and asked him to join us for dinner…when you feel well enough to go out.”

  “I feel fine now.”

  “He called to tell me how much he enjoyed the visit. I said nothing to you, because I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “What?”

  “You know dinner with Father McGuire. We’ll do it sometime next week. But now there’s no surprise.”

  “Okay, so there’s no surprise.”

  He turned his attention to the television. She sat quietly, still holding him, her eyes closed. Then she got up and flicked off he set.

  “Hey,” he yelled.

  She looked down, hurt and uneasy. “I want to talk to you. Please.”

  “Okay.” He realigned himself on the couch.

  She sat on the floor. You know we really haven’t talked to each other since I found the body. First, I was a vegetable. Then, you’ve been busy…at what, I don’t know, but busy. I almost feel I don’t have a husband.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. I’ve been preoccupied. The book…”

  “You haven’t touched the book!”

  “All right. Until several days ago, you weren’t doing very well, and I’ve been upset about your condition. That’s why I haven’t been very talkative. This has been very difficult for both of us. And, now, I just want the entire incident forgotten.”

  She rubbed his hand; her face was tense with emotion. “It’s been so hard,” she murmured, almost in tears. “I don’t know why this all had to happen. Everything was so good. And now…”

  “It’s all over,” he said sternly. “I don’t want to dwell on it. I don’t want you to eat at yourself. Honey, you didn’t do anything wrong. You just found a dead body. So what? You’re fine again. You can go back to work whenever you want. So there’s no reason it shouldn’t be all smiles around here. Just a few days ago when Sorrenson, Jenkins, and Grace Woodbridge were here, you were perfectly happy. What happened?

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been thinking too much. Ben, what would you think about moving?”

  He’d given it a lot of thought, but Gatz had said that moving would not help. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. To get away from the building. The memories.”

  “Oh, Faye, you’ll get over it!”

  She shivered. “Ben! I don’t want to live next to the nun anymore. I can’t stand it. Just knowing she’s there drives me crazy.”

  “But, Faye, she’s been there since we moved in! Why should you want to leave now?”

  “Because I do! This whole place is strange. How do you explain the platform that fell? Max Woodbridge told me the building management hadn’t ordered it. What was it doing here, and why did it fall?”

  “Faye, how in the world am I supposed to know the answer to that?”

  “Do you know that the nun’s window is open?”

  “You’re kidding.” Had they forgotten to close it?

  “No. Look from the street. Just look.”

  “Okay. It’s open.”

  “And they haven’t discovered the identity of the murderer. He could still be around. And no one has found Lou Petrosevic. And so on.”

  He looked straight through her. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing. I just want you to understand what’s going on inside me.”

  “Okay. I understand. I’ll even think about moving. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” she said bluntly.

  “Then what, honey?”

  “You’ve been acting very strangely, Ben. I’d like to know why.”

  He strained to keep his composure. “How so?”

  “Granted, my state of mind has prevented you from working on the manuscript, but still I expected you to remain around. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve been gone most of the time. The night the platform fell, I woke up…even though I told you I hadn’t…and you weren’t here. In the middle of the night! And then I got a call from American Airlines to check on your credit-card number. You went to Syracuse on Thursday, when you said you were going to the library to do research. Now, you know I’ve never questioned you or watched when and where you come and go, but wouldn’t you be curious if you were me and suddenly your husband was disappearing and covering it up with stories that don’t hold water? Wouldn’t you be?”

  “Yes, I would,” he agreed.

  “Well?” she said.

  “The night the platform fell, I was outside the building. I couldn’t sleep, so I took a walk.”

  Faye didn’t move. “And Syracuse?”

  “I was there on business. The Village Voice asked me to investigate a story. I flew up and met the people and reported back to the paper. If you’d like, I’ll give you the phone number of the assignment editor and you can call her to check.”

  Fortunately, she said that that wouldn’t be necessary.

  “I mean, if all this has been bothering you, you should have said something. The explanations are very simple. And, besides, you know that I’ve never withheld anything for you. Or lied to you. Right?”

  Faye was embarrassed. “Right.”

  “Then let’s forget this whole thing. If you want to talk about moving, we can do that in the morning. Or better yet, think about it. Decide if moving is what you want. If it is, we’ll see. Okay, honey?”

  “Well…I guess…okay.”

  “We’ve made a big thing out of nothing.”

  A very hesitant, “I guess so.”

  “But now it’s forgotten.”

  She laughed to herself and nodded. “Do you want me to put the TV back on?” She started to get up.

  “No. I just want you to lie next to me and relax. That’s all I want. Now, come on.”

  She slid close to him and enveloped his arms and legs, caressing his back with her supple lips.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  “And I love you, too. Don’t you ever doubt that for a minute. Promise me!”

  “I promise,” she said in a whisper.

  He closed his eyes and felt his body melt into hers; it was good. Oh, so good. They’d not had each other since coming home fr
om the cruise. He yearned for her, sensed the pain of wanting swirl through his groin. At times like this he could almost convince himself that the drama he was living was no more than a transient nightmare…almost. But no matter how relaxed or how absorbed with sensation, there remained the unforgettable experiences of the last weeks, the prophetic words of Gatz, the face of Jennifer Learson, Inspector Burstin, Annie Thompson and her father, the body in the compactor, a man named Franchino, and so many illogical coincidences and absurdities, the crucifix, the platform incident, Gatz’s death, the nun. And on and on, a cauterizing onslaught pursuing him like a Harpy. Where would it end? And how? All that was left was Monsignor Franchino…hopefully the right Franchino, unearthed after ten-plus years of anonymity. Tomorrow would tell. He looked at Faye in the darkness and wanted to say something, but couldn’t. He tightened his grip and kissed her on the face, fighting to un-tether his mind and keep it away from the haunting mystery.

  Monsignor Franchino.

  Tomorrow.

  “That’s a very interesting story, Mr. Burdett,” Monsignor Franchino said, as he poked at the appetizer on his plate. “Very interesting.”

  Ben smiled and placed both hands on the table.

  The dining room was filled; most of the patrons were dressed in conservative business suits. The overhead lighting was flat, the noise subdued and unintimidating. They’d been there more than a half hour. Monsignor Franchino had been several minutes late.

  “But apart from its total preposterousness, I’m not the Franchino, who was involved, if, in fact, there was a Franchino involved and there was something to be involved in.”

  “I see,” said Ben, his mouth full of food.

  “But let me ask you an obvious question.” Franchino carefully plucked a crumb of bread from the white hair on his right hand. “Assuming such a scenario occurred and I was the man, why would you confront me?”

  “What better way to get at the heart of the matter?”

  Franchino nodded and popped a forkful of food into his mouth. “I checked the records of the Archdiocese, and there have been several Franchinos, who have been assigned to its auspices.”

  “Monsignors?”

  Franchino smiled. “No.”

  Ben resumed an expression of neutrality. He was determined to make Franchino defend himself, even though he sensed that the priest was toying with him, playing with him as an expert litigator juggles a jury.