Man Who Loved God

by William Kienzle

  The Detroit Lions were in Miami to play the Dolphins. Some local teens had attempted to mug the Lions’ middle linebacker. Several of the teens were under arrest and recovering in a Miami hospital. The linebacker, none the worse for the attack, would play this Sunday.

  Barbara paced heedlessly.

  The local health care community was shocked to learn that one of their number had committed suicide. Dr. Joyce Hunter had apparently taken her own life. A colleague found the body late this afternoon. She had died instantly after a single shot to the head from a handgun. No suicide note had been found. An autopsy had been ordered. There were no funeral plans at this time. Neither her husband nor their daughter was available for comment.

  Several therapists expressed astonishment at the news. None could think of any reason for her action.

  More details would be reported as they were forthcoming.

  Barbara shuddered as she shook her head and wept.

  “I really do believe that the people of Detroit will remember Al Ulrich. He didn’t die for them. But he lived for them. In accepting his assignment, he placed himself in harm’s way in order to serve people unaccustomed to wholehearted service.”

  Barbara Ulrich shuddered, shaking her head as one does when reliving a nightmare.

  She had no idea how long Father Tully had been speaking nor what he had said. She was wrapped in her private memories.

  She wondered if anyone at this wake service had noticed her brief spasm. If they had, she hoped her tremor would be ascribed to grief over her husband’s death.

  Slowly, she sank back into the past.

  The manager of the apartment complex found her the day after Joyce’s suicide. Her employer, concerned, had tried to contact her to ask how she was feeling. The last he’d seen of her she was complaining of a horrible headache. He wanted to assure her that she needn’t return to work until she felt better. When there was no answer to repeated phone calls, he called and asked the manager to look in on her.

  She was curled in a fetal position and comatose.

  She spent a brief period in the intensive care unit of St. John’s Hospital on Detroit’s east side. From there she was transferred to the psychiatric ward of the same hospital. For over a week she was fed intravenously and permitted no visitors. No one knew the cause of her anxiety reaction. It took some time before she was able to join in the battle to return her to normalcy.

  Among those waiting during the doctor’s ban on visitors was Harriet Hunter, daughter of Harry and the late Joyce Hunter. When Harriet was finally allowed to visit, she had to introduce herself to her mother’s lover. Barbara had never met Harriet and knew only what Joyce had told her about her child.

  At first Barbara was apprehensive. She was tempted to call the nurse to usher Harriet out. There could be little doubt that Harriet knew the truth. How many others knew the whole story Barbara could only guess. Since her breakdown, she hadn’t seen a newspaper, listened to or watched the news. The few visitors she’d had hadn’t mentioned anything concerning Joyce. And Barbara hadn’t asked.

  But Harriet wore a genuine smile. It faded when she saw the fear in Barbara’s eyes. “How are you feeling?” Harriet pulled a chair close to Barbara’s bed and sat down.

  “A little numb.” Barbara tried to smile. “My, you’re a pretty young lady. I can see Joyce, especially in your eyes.”

  Harriet’s open smile returned. “And I’m glad to meet you at last.”

  Barbara looked uneasy. “How long have you known … I mean, about your mother and me?”

  Harriet seemed puzzled. “You mean because I said ‘at last’ I’m getting to meet you?”

  Barbara nodded.

  “I didn’t. I didn’t know. Not till Dad found your letter, and all hell broke loose. I wish I had known. But Mother didn’t want that. She was very discreet. Well … up until she kept your letter.”

  “I’m sorry, Harriet. I’m so very sorry.”

  Tears welled in Harriet’s eyes. She blinked them back. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “If I hadn’t entered into that relationship with your mother …”

  “If you hadn’t, it might’ve been someone else. Someone not so caring. Or maybe Mother would’ve lived a dreary, loveless life with Dad. And no one besides her would have known.”

  Tears spilled over as Barbara for the first time was able to express her sorrow and loss. Both women wept, embracing each other.

  When the tears subsided, Harriet said, “Do you have any idea what’s happened since Mother … since Mother died?”

  Barbara shook her head. “No. No idea at all. I’ve been … afraid to ask. Afraid to know.”

  “After the investigation—the police and the autopsy—Mother’s death was officially declared a suicide. Dad was furious. He should have been heartbroken. But he was too angry to recognize his loss.”

  Barbara nodded. “Before Joyce … before your mother’s death, your father called me. I’m sure it was just after he found my letter.”

  “Was he a bastard?”

  “I’m afraid so. That and more.”

  Harriet sighed. “He blames you for Mother’s suicide. Even after her death he was going to go public.”

  Barbara swallowed nervously. This was the moment she dreaded even though it was inevitable. Was their secret a secret no more? She waited, unable to ask.

  “I talked him out of it,” Harriet said. “It got down to the last moment almost. After all, Mother took her life as a direct consequence of what Dad threatened to do. She didn’t commit suicide because of you. She loved you. She couldn’t bear to see you embarrassed. Just as she couldn’t stand the humiliation she would have suffered.

  “I promised my father that if he breathed your secret to a soul, I would never speak to him the rest of his life. And I told him I would let everyone know that he and his threats were the cause of Mother’s death.

  “I’m convinced he’ll keep quiet. That’s really the main reason I wanted to see you as soon as I could. I told your apartment manager I was a friend. He told me you were in the hospital. I called around till I found you. I was sure knowing all this would help your recovery. It’s been a hard fight getting past the doctor. I can’t blame him, I guess. He didn’t know why I wanted to see you so badly. And I couldn’t tell him, of course.

  “As far as the police and other officials are concerned, Mother’s death was a suicide. And since there was no note, and since Dad kept his mouth shut, there is no official reason or record.

  “There’s one last thing, Barbara. I’m straight, but I understand you and Mother … at least I think I do. And I think it’s a wonderful thing the two of you had.”

  Barbara nodded wordlessly, her eyes again filling with tears. What a beautiful job Joyce had done raising such a daughter. Harriet was only a teenager, but she had a maturity far beyond her years.

  Harriet patted her hand, then, after a long, heartfelt hug, she left.

  After this visit, Barbara’s health and outlook improved steadily and remarkably. She soon returned to work. When it became clear she wasn’t going to talk about what had happened, her co-workers and those involved in her social life gradually stopped asking.

  It was difficult to adjust to the absence of Joyce, the total absence of Joyce.

  Life goes on.

  She took a page from Joyce’s formula. Barbara determined to take a husband as her launching pad to la dolce vita. Someone with lots of promise. Someone who would make it big. Not someone who was already standing on that glass ceiling. No, she wanted to build and, mold carefully so that when her husband made it, she wouldn’t be that out-of-place newcomer. She would be a person in her own right.

  Enter Al Ulrich.

  Handsome, young, unmarried, a banker; definitely on the rise, he seemed to be sent from central casting.

  With her looks, style, and personality, she would’ve had no problem whatever attracting anyone she chose. She chose Al Ulrich and cultivated him till harvesttime. They were se
xually active, each bringing their special experience to their union.

  Occasionally she might have been awarded an Oscar for her feigned frenzied orgasms. But then, sometimes her climaxes were very real. Those were the times of her fantasies. Usually, the fantasy was of her beloved Joyce.

  Babs and Al took great care to avoid a pregnancy. Al did not want people counting to corroborate their suspicion. She definitely did not want a child.

  In due course they were married.

  Al quite naturally took it for granted that the barriers against pregnancy would fall once the nuptial niceties had been observed. He was wrong—very wrong.

  Fortunately for tender-souled retiring neighbors in adjoining apartments the insulation was thick enough to muffle nearly any outcry. And outcry there was. For once it became painfully clear that while Barbara’s playpen would be open, her nursery was closed, all hell broke loose. Virginia Woolf’s George and Martha couldn’t hold a candle to Al and Barbara.

  In time, Al became convinced he was not going to father a child—at any rate not by Barbara. Their marriage then settled prematurely into loveless cohabitation.

  One of the considerations about which they were in total agreement was divorce.

  For one, Al did not want to publicly admit that he had failed in making a success of his life with this gorgeous, desirable woman. For those who might have assumed that they would be able to control this vivacious creature, Al would have had two words: try it.

  For another, Al had a secret hope. He was determined to climb the ladder at Adams Bank and Trust. And when he was seated at the right hand of Tom Adams, Barbara would come around. He was convinced that was her ultimate aim: to be the wife of a singularly successful man. When this happened—and happen it would—he would take counsel with himself. At that point, like Henry Higgins, Al could be a most forgiving man. Or, he could throw the baggage out.

  For Barbara, short of having Joyce, things could scarcely have worked out more smoothly. The only fly in the ointment was the fact that Al’s rocket remained on the launching pad.

  She complained to him—and to just about anyone who would listen—that he had sold his soul to the company. But in her heart of hearts, that was precisely what should be happening.

  If and when Al made it to the big leagues—which meant nothing less than an executive vice presidency—she might even entertain thoughts of a child.

  In this, Joyce Hunter had marked a path. From all Barbara could tell in one meeting, Joyce’s daughter had turned out ideally. Not only was she a loyal daughter—to both her parents—she had stopped her father from making public something that would hurt everyone concerned.

  No, Barbara would not be averse to having a daughter like Harriet.

  But that could not happen till Al made his mark and Barbara’s biological clock was far enough advanced that she would deign to compromise her fabulous figure.

  And no talk of abortion under any circumstances.

  Sadly, Al was in sight of the magical goal when he was cut down.

  Part of Barbara’s present plan was to test the water in four directions to ascertain if any of the present three VPs—or their CEO—might have had a hand in Al’s murder.

  She also planned to convince four individuals that each was the father of her unborn child.

  Finally, to insure the most comfortable settlement for her, she hoped to uncover some financial hanky-panky perpetrated by any or all of the VPs.

  Blackmail, like greed, could be good.

  And that is how Barbara Simpson Ulrich grew from an innocent little girl into a scheming, blackmailing widow.

  Father Tully seemed to be winding up his eulogy.

  Barbara had no idea how long he’d been speaking, how long she’d been lost in thought. She glanced at her watch. She had only a vague notion of when he had begun. Her best guess was approximately fifteen minutes ago. Acceptable timing.

  Evidently, Father Tully was drawing some sort of analogy between Al’s involvement in the bank’s new branch and a pair of mountain climbers.

  “They were nearly three quarters of the way up,” said Father Tully, “when the storm hit. It was as powerful as it was sudden. The blizzard effectively cut off any chance of further progress or retreat. One climber took refuge in a small natural overhang. The other tried to go on.

  “When the storm finally lifted and rescuers were able to find the pair, the climber who had tried to go on was found frozen to death. He was leaning against the wind and died with his knee bent, as if he was taking another step when he passed on.

  “One of the rescue party looked at the man and his bent knee, and said, ‘at least he died trying.’

  “And that, finally, is what we can say, with some pride, of Al Ulrich: at least he died trying.”

  Father Tully paused, then took his seat.

  The room was quiet. His eulogy had been effective. Some whose presence at this wake was pro forma were actually thinking serious eschatological thoughts.

  At length, Tom Adams stood, thanked Father Tully, and pronounced an end to the proceedings.

  There followed a good bit of milling about as people paid their final respects to the widow and to the body of the deceased.

  Those who offered Barbara words of consolation did not mind that she did not meet their eyes. Today they were willing to excuse her nearly anything.

  And as the mourners left the funeral home, they spoke to each other of how well Barbara was holding up. What a shock it must be to have one’s life partner taken so suddenly and out of due time. “Isn’t she brave!”

  Even those who ordinarily bad-mouthed her—and there were more than a few in this gathering—even they were in sympathy with her. Exceptions were two of the VP wives—Marilyn Fradet being a latter-day convert to Barbara’s corner.

  Barbara of the absent gaze actually was trying to lock eyes with four men. She succeeded with three, but Tom Adams was concentrating on those who offered him condolences.

  It didn’t matter. Later this day she would begin her own investigation and interrogation to find who actually was responsible for her husband’s murder. For murder it was, she was certain. Who would accept responsibility for her unborn child. And whose hand might be in the company till.

  And her manner of inquiry, as ever, would be unique.

  Nineteen

  The casual observer might be prone to say something like: the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree; or, like mother, like daughter.

  Claire Simpson had discarded a husband while juggling four lovers. Claire’s daughter first discarded, then lost forever a husband while juggling four paramours.

  As Barbara long ago took note of her mother’s sexual athletics, the girl had vowed not to follow Claire’s track record. Yet, numerically at least, she had. But by now she had forgotten the comparison. Particularly since, unsettled by the pressures triggered by one or another of her lovers, Claire had committed suicide.

  Though devastated by her mother’s tragic act, Barbara drew no parallel when Joyce Hunter chose the same violent end. Barbara had a selective memory. She chose to remember the more rosy incidents in her life. She did not dwell on tragic events—particularly those that portended any sort of evil. She was the embodiment of the phrase, Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it. However, her attitude toward her past and future appeared to be an effective defense mechanism.

  At this moment, several hours after the funeral service for her late husband, Barbara was in her apartment preparing to greet a man who quite possibly might have been involved in her husband’s death, and who also might be the father of her unborn child.

  After her shower, she was careful to break routine and do nothing to enhance the natural allure of her body. No powder, no perfume or cologne, no lipstick. Everything must be natural because his wife was the suspicious sort. A foreign fragrance, a dusting of powder, a smudge of lipstick could lead to an ugly scene.

  She selected one of his favorite dresses—if it cou
ld be described as a dress. It was a series of leather straps overlapping at strategic areas, definitely meant to be worn, if ever, over a shielding slip. The dress was held together at several side points by Velcro. She wore no undergarment.

  As if she had a repertoire of many plays, musicals, or operas and was about to appear in one of them, she now conducted for herself a quick refresher. She would have to mentally run through the work before taking the stage.

  This would be repeatedly so for the next twenty-four hours, during which, according to her plan, she would be visited by all four of her lovers.

  First, due in less than half an hour, was Martin Whitston, vice president in charge of commercial lending.

  Over the years she had grown familiar with the background of “her” men. Their peculiar history is what made them what they were today. As such, it was important to Barbara.

  Marty sprang from a financially modest, middle-class background. He was the oldest of five brothers, no sisters. His father was a roughhouse character who was a “pal” to his boys. But he took no nonsense from them. It was fortunate that Marty’s mother lived throughout her sons’ formative years or there would have been little or no softening influence at all on the growing boys.

  Marty’s father was a Detroit policeman. The archetype of the bygone-age beat cop who knew that rattling a nightstick on a crook’s head more often than not was more effective than taking the hood to the precinct and booking him. The cops who went by the book climbed the ladder more quickly. But they didn’t earn the respect Patrolman Whitston had both from his peers and from the bad guys.

  Marty’s mother died when he was eighteen and a senior in high school. In the following year, his father was shot and killed trying to stop an armed robbery at a liquor store. He was off duty and out of uniform and, as it turned out, at the wrong place at the wrong time. It would have been a matter of pride for Patrolman Whitston to know that his final action in life was the killing of the two thieves.