Second Spring

by Andrew M. Greeley

  On the other hand, a seditious inner voice whispered, if you had not married her—and you were strongly tempted not to—she’d be a terrible mess right now. Or maybe dead.

  I married her only because I wanted to take her clothes off.

  That silenced the inner voice.

  Perhaps I had been a help at a crucial time and deserved some points from the Great Accountant in the Sky for that. Nothing more.

  Besides, she had saved me many times, though she was unable to exorcise my current cold.

  I was sitting outside, bundled up against the cold morning, in University of Arizona sweat clothes and fleecy blanket. I had reduced the possible shots for our conclaves book to about a hundred. They presented a fairly dismal view of the leadership of the Catholic Church. That was fine with me because my opinion was that they were a fairly dismal lot.

  My wife appeared at poolside with a tray of food and a huge pot of tea. Naturally she did the cooking while we were at the elder O’Malleys’ home. She was dressed in a vast, tightly belted white robe. Her hair was brushed out and, as always, she smelled lovely.

  “Your parents are eating inside. Your daughters are still abed. You will note I have provided you with a wide variety of breakfast foods—raisin bran, English muffins, omelets, cinnamon rolls, and your choice of jellies and jams. Also orange juice, which is very good for colds.”

  “No bagels?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m not paying at this hotel, so I’ll have to make do … Would you please pour me a small cup of tea.”

  She did so with grace, but only after I had consumed my ration of orange juice, which everyone knows is good for a cold, right?

  When I heard the door to the house slide open, I quickly hid the small clipping from the New York Times over which I had chortled.

  PHOTOGRAPHER SUES VILLAGE PAPER

  Charles Cronin O’Malley, a celebrated Chicago photographer, has filed suit against the Gramercy Blast, an underground newspaper, for a review of his current exhibition at the Art Institute in Chicago. In her review Diana Robbins asserted that Mr. O’Malley had not earned a military decoration during his service in Germany in the nineteen forties, was not beaten during the Little Rock school integration, had not marched at Selma, and had never been to Vietnam during the war. According to Charlotte Antonelli, a spokesperson for Mr. O’Malley, his lawyers have submitted affidavits, newspaper clippings, and television footage “which establish beyond any doubt that Ms. Robbins has written defamatory statements in reckless disregard of the truth.” Asked why the Blast would publish such allegations, Ms. Antonelli said that perhaps the Blast staff felt that there were no limitations on the First Amendment. No one at the Blast office was available for comment. The woman who answered the phone informed a reporter that the Blast had no lawyer and did not need one.

  Marvelous!

  Now if only someone in New York would stir up more controversy! Our friend Christina Freeman would have to ride into the battle. What better opportunity for the newspaper of record to present to the world my picture wife!

  I considered the scheme from every side. There was nothing I could do one way or another to move the scheme forward. It had never been within my power to do so. All I could do was to watch and wait. After the event, no one could blame me, though I doubted that the only one who would—Rosemarie—would complain in the slightest. If she did, I could say it wasn’t my idea, a statement which in context was true enough.

  I had engaged in only one minor ploy which might facilitate the scheme. I called the curator at the Art Institute before we had flown to Tucson and told him that if any important publication wanted permission to print a single picture from the collection, he might grant that permission.

  How was I to know who would call for permission to reprint which picture?

  I tried again to see what might go wrong. Nothing, as far as I could calculate.

  This was all vintage Chucky stuff. I should be ashamed of myself. Somehow, despite my various depressions, I could not find shame lurking anywhere in my soul.

  Maybe later.

  While I had no appetite for breakfast, Rosemarie’s insistence on feeding me was irresistible.

  Later, when it grew warmer, she removed her vast robe and revealed a fetching two-piece suit which one might have called a bikini. Since I was ill and incapable of Eros, I experienced no reaction at all.

  She dove into the pool and swam vigorous lengths for a half hour. The very sight of such frantic activity exhausted me.

  Soon after her daughter appeared and engaged in similar activity. Then her mother-in-law. Even her father-in-law eased his way into the pool.

  Who was watching the child?

  I looked around in some alarm. Then I discovered Shovie playing with her dolls right behind me. I gathered from her conversation that some of the dolls had misbehaved. She reasoned with them quite patiently.

  “Good morning, Siobhan Marie,” I said formally.

  “Chookie no swim?”

  “Chookie has a cold.”

  “Poor Chookie.”

  Indeed yes.

  Despite all the vigorous activity around me, I somehow managed my midmorning nap.

  Later the whole family gathered around me and wondered whether I had a fever.

  If they awakened me rudely, I would certainly have a fever.

  A wet hand touched my forehead.

  “No fever,” Rosemarie observed, “though he may not last the week.”

  I opened my eyes reluctantly and glared. My wife was standing over me, water dripping on the patio, a picture of athletic accomplishment and womanly beauty. I wanted her. Immediately. Then I realized that I was sick and could not possibly act on my desire.

  What if I had a cold for the rest of my life?

  “No fever and no peace,” I sighed.

  It was another perfect Arizona winter day, way above the normal temperature for mid-January. I was forced to eat lunch and then, while the rest of the family went off to see the Old Tucson film set (where half the Western films ever made were set), my wife constrained me to discuss our conclave book as we reclined on chaises underneath an umbrella, she with a towel wrapped around herself and I still clad in my sweat suit but without the fleecy blanket.

  “How are you doing today?” I asked her.

  “You’re the one who is sick.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do … I can’t say that I’m completely at peace with my mother. I think that she could have protected me from her demented husband and that she could have stopped drinking and then I realize I have no right to make such demands on her and we’re friends again.”

  “It will take time, Rosemarie.”

  “I know that, Chuck. I understand now that there’s no rush. I have the time … Thank you for being so patient.”

  “I’m happy to be able to help.”

  I touched her hand. We were quiet for a moment.

  “Now what about the conclave book?”

  “No peace for the wicked”—I sighed—“even when he’s sick.”

  Not much sympathy either.

  “I’ve reduced the shots to approximately a hundred prints in these three folders. This first one is the best photos of the cardinals. These two we could label ‘candidates.’”

  I showed her Benelli and Siri.

  Then I handed her the third picture, which I proposed we call “winner.”

  “These are two horrible men,” she said. “The Pope looks much better.”

  “You think the first two are too cynical?”

  “No,” she said thoughtfully, “ugly maybe, but at least Benelli is smiling.”

  We went through the collection very carefully, approving most of them, rejecting a few.

  “I have some backup shots in my briefcase,” I said. “Why don’t you check them out and pick the ones you like.”

  “Okay … I think our narration should be very low-key and objective, some essential history, some
bland commentary on the issues, an explanation of how and why John Paul I.”

  “The so-called liberals thought he was one of them and he really wasn’t, mostly because of his neighborhood.”

  “Not even that concise. We write a commentary full of respect for the Church and its traditions so that no one can find the slightest hint of anger or dissatisfaction. Let people judge the prints for themselves.”

  “That’s fine with me. You’re doing the writing.”

  “I know, but I’ll want you to look at every couple of pages.”

  “I read everything you give me to read.”

  “This is different from one of my stories.”

  “You are not planning to reveal your anger that celibate males make all the decisions about sex for married women?”

  “No, not in so many words. Let the readers judge that for themselves.”

  “I’m sure you’ll provide them with many subtle hints.”

  She laughed happily.

  Yes, wife, you can be happy and sing. Your poor aging, sad sack husband is a physical and emotional wreck.

  I was advised that I needed a nap so I would not sleep during supper at the Arizona Inn. I took the nap.

  The next morning a Federal Express pack came with documents from our legal team.

  To the editors of the Gramercy Blast

  Sirs:

  We believe that there are several misstatements of fact in your review of the current exhibition of the photographs of Charles Cronin O’Malley at the Art Institute in Chicago. We have provided your attorney with evidence that these statements are false. This evidence consists of newspaper clippings, sworn affidavits, and television tapes.

  1) He did receive the Legion of Merit medal for his service in Germany after World War II.

  2) He was not involved in the black market in that country.

  3) He completed his doctoral dissertation at the University of Chicago and graduated with distinction in the Spring 1956 Convocation.

  4) He was badly beaten at Little Rock.

  5) He did march at Selma with Martin Luther King.

  6) He was assaulted by thugs during Martin Luther King’s demonstrations in Chicago.

  7) He did go to Vietnam in 1968.

  8) He was attacked by police during the 1968 convention.

  9) He does not pay his assistants poor wages because he does not have assistants.

  10) His wife does have a very successful career as a writer and testifies in her affidavit that he has always been supportive of that career.

  We believe that all these facts are on the public record and could easily have been verified. Hence we believe that they are published in reckless disregard for the truth.

  We require that you acknowledge that they are false and apologize for the injury done to Dr. O’Malley’s reputation.

  We do not question the right of Ms. Robbins or the Gramercy Blast to be critical of Dr. O’ Malley’s work. However, we do question whether it is proper for her to do so without having viewed the exhibition at the Art Institute. Absent proof, such as a receipt for an airline ticket, we must express our suspicion that she never in fact viewed the photographs. Most notably she describes the portrait of Mrs. O’Malley as naked. In fact, as the catalogue of the exhibit would show, she was not. She describes the portraits of Mrs. O’Malley, Martin Luther King, Richard Nixon, Maureen O’Hara, and John Kennedy as appearing in the same room. In fact only the portraits of Mrs. O’Malley and Ms. O’Hara were in the same room. We think that it is no coincidence that the last four portraits are mentioned in the New York Times review by Christina Freeman. Also the quotes attributed to Dr. O’Malley appeared in that review and the comments about the portrait of Mrs. O’Malley also seemed to have been taken from the Times review and reversed.

  Thus we require that you present evidence that the review was based on an actual viewing of the portraits or acknowledge that Ms. Robbins did not attend the exhibition.

  We expect your prompt attention to these matters.

  Cordially yours,

  Vincent Antonelli

  Edward Patrick Murray

  Charlotte April Antonelli

  Attorneys-at-Law

  The response demanded of the Blast was brief.

  We acknowledge that the evidence shows that all of our reviewer’s allegations about the career of Dr. O’Malley are false. We regret the allegations and apologize for them. We have received no proof that Ms. Robbins visited Chicago recently and conclude that she probably did not attend the exhibition of Dr. O’Malley’s portraits.

  “What do think?” I asked my wife.

  “Looks good to me … Let’s call Vince and Ed and tell them to go ahead.”

  Both lawyers were in court, a typical legal excuse. However, Ms. Antonelli was available.

  “Hi, Uncle Chuck, Aunt Rosie. Senior counsel are in court.”

  “Probably out having a prelunch drink,” I growled.

  “No way!”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, Charley. He’s been kidding your poor father since they were ten years old. We don’t have any problem with the letters. What if they fiddle with them?”

  “Then we sue. All they have is our word that we’ll withdraw our petition. If they don’t keep their word, we’re free not to keep ours—and they’ll have admitted libel.”

  “Do they know that, Charley?” I asked.

  “Their lawyer does. Hard to tell what they know and don’t know.”

  “Give your mother our love. Tell her to hurry out here.”

  “Well, I guess that’s that!”

  “Do you think so, Chucky? That kid with the foul mouth we heard on Charlotte’s tape was stoned. Maybe they all are. They could still do something crazy.”

  I was hoping they would. I realized, however, that the improbable scenario I had cooked up in my head never really had much of a chance. Too bad.

  My cold did not improve. Neither did my vague sense of sadness. Would there never be any more good news in my life?

  I worked in desultory fashion on our conclave book in the Arizona warmth. Rosemarie scribbled notes—on her lined yellow pads—for the text as I tried to order my prints in a fashion most likely to convey the impression that there was something profoundly imperfect about the way our Church selected its leadership.

  That made me feel even sadder. Perhaps I was becoming a typical elderly Irish male, the kind that would sit in front of his cottage while he smoked his pipe and gazed dreamily out over the bogs. I would murmur periodically, “Ah they were grand times and great people. ’Tis the end of them now. Sure, we won’t see their like again.”

  That image somehow consoled me. I would spend my life being a character, a whimsical old man who lived mostly in the past.

  “What are you smiling at?” herself demanded.

  “Wasn’t I dreaming that I had become a typical elderly Irish male, the kind that would sit in front of his cottage while he smoked his pipe and gazed dreamily out over the bogs. I would murmur periodically, ‘Ah they were grand times and great people. ’Tis the end of them now. Sure, we won’t see their like again.’”

  She glanced at the desert and the towering Santa Catalinas. “I don’t see any bogs. You wouldn’t be murmuring occasional laments. You’d be telling stories all the time and driving your poor family to pray that you’d shut up occasionally so they’d have some peace and quiet.”

  Then she went back to her scribbling.

  I’d be a poor old man with whose eccentricities no one sympathized.

  My sadness was mixed with absurdity and laughter and self-ridicule. That made me even sadder.

  It was the cold, I told myself. If I could only stop hacking, I’d feel fine again.

  Moire Meg returned to Chicago for the beginning of the semester.

  “Rosie,” she said, “keep Chucky here till he gets over his cold. There’s too much Celtic twilight around this place.”

  “He likes feeling sorry for himself.”

 
That was true, but she shouldn’t have said it.

  The trouble was I didn’t think I’d really like smoking a pipe.

  “You could always try chewing bubble gum.”

  She actually brought me some bubble gum. I amused my daughter with my bubbles, especially when she learned that she could make them collapse all over my face (which was covered with sunblock to protect me from sunlight when I walked to the umbrella from the house).

  “Chookie funny!”

  The good April and Vangie were driving up to Carefree to visit friends who had a great-granddaughter visiting, just about Shovie’s age. Would we mind if they brought Shovie along?

  She endorsed the scheme.

  “Shovie meet Patti,” she informed us.

  “She’s punishing us for abandoning her when we went to Italy.”

  “Charles Cronin O’Malley! She would never do that. She just wants to show us that she can travel too.”

  Same difference, I thought.

  Many hugs and kisses as she got into the car.

  “I’ll come back real soon, Chookie and Rooshie.”

  Just like you did, you bad parents.

  I retreated to the patio with the prints for Conclaves, as we were now calling it in a burst of creative imagination.

  A few moments later Rosemarie appeared in her huge white robe. She tossed it aside negligently—on me—and dove into the pool. An elegant dive as usual.

  “Rosemarie! What are you doing!”

  “Swimming!”

  “You forgot your bathing costume!”

  She splashed my perfectly neat sweat suit.

  “Stop that!”

  Then she pulled me into the water and somehow managed to despoil me of my sweat suit.