Irish Tweed

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “Why are you testifying now against Mother Mary’s will?”

  “Bishop Muldoon said that Archbishop Feehan had released us from holy obedience on this subject.”

  “Thank you, Sister, you have been most helpful, as have been your colleagues. You may leave now. You are to be congratulated on your courage.”

  Angela stood up again as they left. She may well have been the one who began the singing of the Lourdes Hymn as they left.

  “Well,” the presiding judge remarked, “that testimony provides all the evidence that is needed on the question of whether Dr. Tierney kept an accurate record of her experiment and that it was successful. Do you have any more witnesses, Dr. McGourty?”

  “Call Dean Timothy Patrick Gaughan, please.”

  Angela instinctively sank into her chair to acquire as much invisibility as possible. Timothy walked onto the stage, in a cutaway morning suit and a ridiculous top hat. Same old Timmy—unruly black hair when he took off the hat, disarming smile, mischievous blue eyes, tall, strong, and defiant. Not quite as uneasy as she had always found him.

  He paused at the witness chair and kissed her forehead, briefly and respectfully, though she didn’t think his smile was the least bit respectful. She kept her head high and her back straight so that no one knew she was, as they would say out in Galway, destroyed altogether.

  He was a big, strong man who in bed at night would be more than an adequate substitute for brandy—even the best brandy.

  Her amadon supporters cheered, whooped, and whistled.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Timothy Patrick Gaughan.”

  “Your occupation.”

  “Medical doctor.”

  “Your affiliation?”

  “As of this morning, sir, I am Dean of Rush Medical College, charged with implementing the recommendations of the Flexner report.”

  The applause for this nicely timed announcement was loud and extended.

  Poor Timmy blushed in embarrassment. It would be a very difficult task.

  “I see. Congratulations, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What is your relationship with Dr. Tierney?”

  “She is my foster sister. She entered our family when she was about fourteen.”

  “I must ask you, sir, only for the record, if there is any, ah, romantic relationship between you and Dr. Tierney?”

  “No sir, unfortunately for me perhaps.”

  Yet another ovation.

  “Now, Doctor, did you happen to be present when Dr. Tierney returned from Mercy Hospital after the end of her experiment?”

  “My father and I were present and we were both very interested in the success of her experiment. She was too tired to talk about it and simply gave me her notes. She sank into an easy chair in our apartment, and seemed to be sleeping. I became astonished at the findings. Similar reports had come from other countries, but this was the first one in America and was extremely important. It had to be communicated to the rest of the medical world immediately. I gave the notes to Dr. Gaughan, my father. He was dazzled too.

  “ ‘This is monumental, Timmy,’ he said. ‘We must see that it is published immediately. Little sister . . .’ That’s our affectionate name for Dr. Tierney . . . ‘you must write it up and send it to the AMA.’

  “ ‘Too tired.’

  “ ‘I’ll write it up for you, just put your notes into shape for a research note. I’ll let you see it.’

  “‘Whatever you want, Timmy,’ she said. I knew she was very tired because this was not the rhetorical style in our family life. So I went upstairs to my room and wrote out the article, which merely was an incorporation of her notes . . . You want to know what was in the notes, reread the article . . . I woke her up. She read the piece very carefully and made several changes, thanked me, and fell back to sleep.”

  Since you’re telling him everything, Tim, why don’t you tell them how you forced a kiss on me up at the lake.

  “I promptly went over to the Western Union office on Harrison Street and sent it off to the AMA.”

  “Do you have a dated copy of that telegram?”

  “Of course I do. Here it is.”

  He waved the copy for everyone to see and passed it over to the Judge, who gave it to the panel. Lenny Fredericks winked at Angela.

  “Then what happened?”

  “The AMA replied by telegraph. ‘Send notes. Stop.’ ”

  “You have a copy of that telegraph?”

  “Of course I do. I would have been a very poor brother if I did not keep it in the safe in my room. I went back to the telegraph office and sent the notes by courier to New York. I then telegraphed them to say that the notes would be there by tomorrow at noon.”

  He removed yet another flimsy from his waistcoat pocket and read: “Notes arriving by courier. Request Receipt.

  “And we received this reply: Congratulations. Stop. AMA.”

  I will not be able to face any of the people in the CMS or my colleagues at Rush ever again. Again I must return to Ireland and hide.

  “That shows, does it not, that Dr. Tierney’s very notes must have been received . . .”

  “I would think so.”

  “What has happened to them since? They seem to be lost.”

  “I have no idea. I believe, however, that is a problem for the AMA.”

  “It is unfortunate that you were unable to make copies of the notes before the courier carried them off to New York.”

  “Ah, but I did request Western Union to make two copies on their machines and send them to me at home. I put them in my safe . . .”

  He reached into his pocket and produced a stack of flimsy papers.

  “And they are still quite legible. Here they are, little sister, just as you wrote them. You will note Western Union’s date on them. The second copy is still in my safe.”

  “Thank you, big brother. Yes, they are my notes, Your Honor.” Angela rose and gave them to the judge. He glanced at them, shrugged, and passed them on to the panel. Each member examined them carefully, Len Fredericks most carefully of all.

  “I don’t think there can be any doubt on their authenticity. I believe closer handwriting comparisons with several other documents will demonstrate that they are written in Dr. Tierney’s businesslike handwriting.”

  “May I say one more thing, Your Honor, hopefully to bring this hearing to an appropriate end,” Timmy said. “I toured Europe for several years in preparation for my new work. I have here a collection of six articles in as many languages praising Dr. Tierney’s research. The authors of these articles would be astonished that in her own city charges could be made against her.

  “I was asked often if I knew her and I admitted proudly that I did. A French physician and scholar of the highest rank asked me what she was like. I dismissed the question with absolute truth: Une femme très irlandaise. I was finally asked what she looked like, a question a man is often asked about a woman and to which he is well advised to remain prudent in his reply . . . I happened to carry a picture of my family. They knew immediately which one was my little sister. The same French scholar said, Une femme très formidable. I could only add, Mais oui, monsieur le médicin. I am delighted that you have confirmed that judgment today.”

  More cheers.

  The miserable so-and-so was using this public, so public, event as a pretext for renewing our discussion about love. So ingenious, so clever, so offensively masculine.

  I’d better be careful before I surrender myself to him.

  Shay took charge once again.

  “There is one more witness, Your Honor. I will call Dr. Leonard Fredericks to the stand. Dr. Fredericks has agreed to testify about certain matters concerning the origins of these patently false charges against the work and character of Dr. Tierney.”

  “Two members of the Association approached me this morning to report a confidential conversation they had at the end of yesterday’s hearing with another member of the Association. He told
them that there was no hope that the charges against Dr. Tierney would be dismissed because he had acquired the original notes from the files of the AMA and he had persuaded Sister Mary to silence the nuns who in fact testified today.”

  “Who is this man?” Hastings-Hudson arose in righteous wrath.

  “My friends are prepared, Dr. Hastings-Hudson, to testify under oath, but only to you privately.”

  “What was the motive for such nefarious needs?”

  “It was difficult to determine precisely, but apparently it was related to charges that Dr. Tierney, then a first-year student, had made about this individual after a procedure performed in this very room. Subsequently he has been unable to schedule any further procedures.”

  A name ran through the room. For all the pretense of secrecy, the cat was out of the bag.

  Hopefully, in heaven, that Italian mother experienced some sort of vindication. Only the saints and the martyrs didn’t need vindication.

  “There remains only a determination of the verdict in this hearing,” the Judge said. “By leave of the council, I ask the panel members to vote on that determination. I remind you that three votes are required to support the demand of the Chicago Medical Society. I remind you that three votes are required to approve expulsion. How many of you, therefore, vote to support Dr. Tierney’s expulsion from the Chicago Medical Society? Please raise your hands.”

  He waited for perhaps twenty seconds. No hand was raised.

  “Then the motion for expulsion fails, unanimously it would seem. Congratulations to you, Miss Tierney—pardon me, ma’am—Doctor Tierney. You have borne the assaults of this process with dignity and grace.”

  There was a huge cheer from the audience.

  Angela thanked the Judge, the panel, and the various attorneys with gracious words and a warm smile. She pecked on Timmy’s cheek with a proper kiss and embraced the rest of her family. She pled excuse from a celebration party but promised that she would come for pot roast on Sunday. The joy on her parents’ faces was reward enough for the embarrassment of the day.

  “You will serve on my staff here,” Tim asked, “won’t you, Angela?”

  “I will need time to think about it, but I rather imagine that I might.”

  She went home, swallowed a lot of brandy, and slept till the next morning.

  18

  TIMOTHY INVADED Angela’s mind and imagination and remained there for the next several days. The bond between them was stronger than ever. Tormented by what she would once have labeled as obscene thoughts about him, she could not sleep at night or concentrate on the lecture outlines she was trying to prepare for the second semester. He was her man. She had waited long enough for him. Now she wanted him. It was that simple. She had to wipe away the mistakes and cruelties of the past and open once more the wondrous mysteries of love. She would have to take the initiative because he was embarrassed by the mistakes of the past and probably intimidated by her cruelties.

  The matter had to be resolved before the Sunday dinner at her mom’s house or their mutual passions might erupt in anger. She had watched him at the lecture that morning to the faculty. She did not, could not, listen to what he said. Rather she worshipped what he was and imagined him naked and aroused for her. Was this a sin? She hoped not. She had no choice. In her office she paced back and forth. What should I do? It was not necessary that they consummate their love immediately. It was only necessary that the muck from the past be swept away so they both were free to make the decisions that had to be made.

  Without any clear plan of action, she strode down the corridor to his office. There was a sign on the door which said PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB. She removed the sign, opened the door, and handed him the sign.

  “I’ve come to disturb you, Timmy,” she said.

  He laughed.

  “You don’t have to be in the same office to disturb me, Angie. The same building is enough.”

  “Some time ago”—the words once again poured out of her mouth—“you wanted me as your wife.”

  “I still do, Angela, and always will.”

  She fell on her knees in front of him.

  “Then please forgive all the terrible things I said.”

  He lifted her up.

  “I’m the one who should be begging your forgiveness . . .” He spun her around in the air like she was a prize captured on the track field. “I let you get away from me once. I’ll not make that mistake again.”

  “I observe that you were the one who ran away to Europe.”

  He set her down on the floor and extended her arms so he could drink her in.

  “I’ll not make that mistake again, I promise.”

  He was grinning broadly now, proud of his sudden conquest. Then he embraced her, held her tightly, and absorbed her in passionate kisses.

  So that’s what they’re like, she mused.

  Then he unbuttoned her blouse, eased it off her shoulders, and assailed her breasts with his lips. She did not resist, could not resist, did not want to resist.

  “I’ve wanted to do this, Angela, since that day at the Central Depot.”

  She murmured something incoherent.

  “Angela, we must marry.”

  Slowly he replaced the blouse and buttoned it again, his fingers lingering at every touch.

  “I concur.”

  “We must marry soon.”

  “I concur.”

  She finished the last button which was baffling him.

  “We must marry a week from Saturday. That will give you a whole week to choose a wedding gown and to make all the necessary preparations.”

  “More than enough time.”

  “You have beautiful breasts, Angela. I will look forward to a life of playing with them.”

  He brushed them with a gentle and reverent hand.

  “I will resist that as fiercely as I have today.”

  She rested her head against his chest. A permanent captive and captor.

  For a spontaneous seduction, she thought, that went pretty well.

  19

  “THE YOUNG woman wearing the crimson jacket in the center of the picture is Nellie. She is in seventh grade, but is the leading scorer in the North Side Catholic League. The three rather hefty girls immediately behind her are angry at that injustice. They have promised her that they will break her arm this afternoon. Such is the practice of liberation theology at this rather unusual Catholic school.

  “The attackers seize her and pummel her. One of them grabs her left arm and tries to twist it.

  “This woman here, we have learned, is the Principal of the school. Note that she makes no attempt to stop the fight. It will be interesting to hear comments from the Archdiocese chancery on this incident. The noise you hear is the sound of cheers. We have had to cut the cries of the attackers which are mostly obscene.

  “Nellie, however, is slippery. She dances away from her foes, discards her crimson jacket, and assumes the stance of martial arts defense. One of them tries to capture Nellie with a stranglehold. She replies with a slice of her hand to the girl’s throat, which incapacitates the attacker. A second heavyweight strives to land a punch. Nellie fends her off with another slicing hand. This attacker screams in pain and complains to the principal. The third one backs off. Nellie walks away.

  “Then the third one, a real heavyweight, picks up a large stone and runs after Nellie. She intends to hit Nellie’s head with it. Nellie hears her coming, turns around, and kicks her in the stomach. The girl collapses and screams a curse, which we have cut out. Nellie picks up the stone, walks over to the principal and drops it at her feet. Then, accompanied by her brothers and sister, she walks away.”

  “Your name is Nellie.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She is wearing her crimson jacket again.

  “What were those obese young women trying to do to you?”

  “They said they would break my arm.”

  “Why?”

  “So I couldn’t play in the St. Wence
slas game tomorrow.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “They hate me.”

  “Why do they hate you?”

  “Because I am in seventh grade and I play on the eighth grade team. Coach and Captain asked me to.”

  “Why?”

  “I rebound.”

  A boy next to her, much shorter, says, “Highest scorer in the league.”

  Nellie ruffles his hair.

  “How many points did you make last week?”

  “I don’t count.”

  Pert little girl: “I do! She made twenty-eight!”

  Nellie ruffles her hair.

  “My fan club.”

  “You have a black belt?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Do those other girls know it?”

  “They do now.”

  Then this woman appears on the scene, running full speed at Nellie, and knocks her into the mud. Then she grabs the young basketball star by her long hair and pushes her head into the mud while screaming curses at her. Nellie’s family rushes to her rescue and tries to pull this woman, not a lightweight, off their sister. The woman throws the little girl, Nellie’s sister Socra Marie, onto the concrete section of the school yard. Nellie slips away from this new assailant and rushes to her sister, who struggles to her feet, fighting mad. Nellie picks her up. The woman charges again. Nellie spins around and kicks the woman in the stomach, sending her into the deepest muck. The woman, the mother of one of the original attackers, we learn, shouts the same obscene words. Security forces flood the yard. The assaulting mother is taken into custody. The parish priest emerges to join the principal in demanding her release. The security people ignore them both . . .

  We encounter Nellie again, covered with mud and carrying her little sister, who has a muddy face with blood streaming down it.

  “Will you play at St. Wenceslas tomorrow, Nellie?”

  “Sure will,” little sister shouts.

  “Nellie, is there any future for you at this school?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Our school!” the little tyke exclaims.

  “That woman who hurt both of you is the mother of one of the eighth graders who attacked you . . .”