Relic of Time

by Ralph McInerny

  Ray put his arm about her waist. “After the baby comes.” He wanted to be a father almost as much as she wanted to be a mother. Was that their ticket out of bondage? Like Boris, they served at the whim of Ignatius Hannan. Like now, off to California on a moment’s notice.

  It was Nate Hannan, not Smiley, who slept his way across the continent. He never slept while flying. Or being flown. Sometimes he went up front and took the controls, no automatic pilot for him. Laura always knew when Nate was at the controls. The wings would make little dipping motions, the plane would climb out of its assigned altitude, then dive back to recover it. He was like a kid. Well, the planes were his toys. He had three of them and was always on the alert for something better. Maybe she and Ray could buy one secondhand from Nate.

  God knew, they would be able to afford it. Once their astronomical packages were pooled they were as rich as Rock-efeller. Well, not quite. Not nearly as rich as Ignatius Hannan, of course. But according to the statistics Laura had seen, they were up there in the top three percent. And, oh, the taxes.

  “What’s the exemption for a baby, Laura?”

  “I’ll look it up when I’m pregnant.”

  Had he been fishing? Did he think she could keep a thing like that to herself?

  “We can name it Ignatius.”

  It? “She wouldn’t like that.”

  Laura had started a novena to Our Lady of Guadalupe, Saint Anne not having come through. She had had to vary the original prayer: “Good Saint Anne, get me a man, as quick as you can.” Well, after all, Saint Anne had gotten Laura a man, not quickly maybe, but no matter. What saint was the patroness of pregnancy?

  When Smiley said they were approaching the Oakland airport, Nate stirred.

  “Did you arrange for a car?” he asked Laura.

  “Of course.”

  When had she ever let him down? Smiley brought the plane in, landing gently as always. On that commercial flight Laura had been shocked by the way the huge plane hit the runway, then threw its engines into reverse, so passengers had to put their hands on the seat ahead to avoid pitching forward.

  When they left the plane and crossed to the waiting car, they noticed that there were two cars. Don Ibanez stepped out of one. Hannan headed for the old man as if he might tackle him.

  “How did you know I was coming?” he demanded.

  “A man named Boris told me that you were on your way.”

  “My chef.”

  “Is he always so grumpy?”

  Nate decided that they would not cancel the car Laura had arranged for.

  Nate said, “I’ll go with Don Ibanez and you can follow.”

  Ray saluted, but Nate was impervious to sarcasm.

  On the drive, following Don Ibanez and Nate, Ray said, “Well, out of the loop again.”

  Laura, too, would like to have known what the old man was telling their boss.

  V

  “Did you ever read War and Peace?”

  Neal Admirari had not come back nor had he telephoned. Catherine tried to regain the old love ’em and leave ’em attitude that had carried her through some pretty pleasant years. Until Lloyd. And this silence was too painfully reminiscent of Lloyd. Had Neal, too, run off to do penance somewhere? She had caught a glimpse of him in the bathroom mirror, before she closed the door, his head propped on the pillow, a stricken look on his face. What had that meant?

  He came on like a seasoned man of the world and even when they had gone up to his room, she had cynically assumed that for him it was instrumental; he would win her heart, or at least her body, and then she would open up and tell him whatever it was he needed for his stupid book. And it was a stupid idea. She didn’t care if a publisher had fallen for it and given him a contract and a decent advance. A decent advance.

  She smiled. He was fun, she had to give him that. She called the El Toro and asked for him. Would she like to leave a message? So he was still there.

  “Try paging him in the bar.”

  She waited. The bartender came on. She heard him call, “Is Neal Admirari here? Call for Neal Admirari.”

  He repeated the message against a background of voices, laughter. Half a minute went by. She could hear the name repeated, others taking it up.

  “I guess not.”

  “Thank you.”

  She felt twice as ignored as she had before. She had used her cell phone to make the call, going out into the backyard for privacy. Jason was at his desk, sniffling. It had been two days since she had taken his nap with him. At her age she could hardly claim the time-honored excuse. Besides, what would it have mattered? A concubine can always find a way to please. It seemed more important than ever that it had not been a fleeting one-afternoon stand with Neal Admirari.

  Jason had slept until ten this morning and a young man named Miguel Arroyo joined him for breakfast, coming through the tall doors from outside. She was introduced to the head of Justicia y Paz. Arroyo seemed annoyed that she did not know what that was.

  “Ah, my dear. We are living in historic times and you are dozing through them.” Jason wagged a finger at her. At his age, he should not try to be cute. Catherine saw that Arroyo was wondering at her presence in the house. She looked at him speculatively, as if he could be a means of revenge on the fickle Admirari.

  “You slept through it all?” Arroyo asked.

  “All what?”

  Now Jason was wagging a finger at Arroyo. Catherine left them, going into the office, looking at her work table, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here. Like at the El Toro bar. She went up to her room and turned on the television, a sign of how bored she was. There were riots in Mexico City. She watched uncomprehendingly and turned the set off. She became aware of the sound of a television downstairs. Television? Jason? She went down to see the two men huddled in front of the set.

  “What’s happening?”

  Arroyo help up his hand, ignoring her. She could have slapped him.

  “The best-laid plans,” Jason murmured.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Arroyo said.

  He rose and turned to her, turning on the charm. “I’m so glad to have met you.” And to Jason, “I must get back to San Diego.”

  “San Diego?”

  “I’ve made that my command post. I thought you had heard.”

  “Sometime you must explain all this to me,” Jason said. He rose and went with Arroyo to his station wagon. Arroyo shook hands with Jason and was off.

  Her cell phone sounded in her purse, and Catherine felt her heart skip. She pulled it out and answered it, scooting into the front room as she did so.

  “You must think me a beast,” Neal said.

  “Why would I think of you at all?”

  “Reciprocal bumblepuppy.”

  “What on earth is that?”

  “Are you free?”

  “Of what?”

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  She hesitated. She did not want him coming here. Going off with him would require some explanation to Jason.

  “I’ll meet you at the El Toro.”

  He hesitated. “The El Toro it is.”

  Margaritas again, why not? But she would not go up to his room again. If he asked. He was as enigmatic as Jason and young Arroyo, chattering about Mexico City.

  “Explain it to me.”

  He couldn’t believe how disinterested she had been to the sequel of the theft from the shrine in Mexico City. The Holy Heist. He said the phrase as if it had a bad taste. All that theft had meant for her was the loss of Lloyd, as if she had had him to lose. If he hadn’t been caught in that gunfire, would she ever have seen him again? She found herself delighted that Neal Admirari had called, that they were sitting here in the bar of the El Toro sipping margaritas. Maybe she would go upstairs with him again. If he asked.

  Neal was talking now about the Holy Hoax. An attempt to palm off a copy of the Virgin of Guadalupe to placate the faithful.

  “Did you ever meet Traeger, Catherine?”
/>   “Yes.”

  “He’s the one who tried to pull it off.”

  “Tell me all about it,” Catherine said, trying not to look bored.

  He actually reviewed the events of recent weeks, the skirmishes along the border, the formation of vigilante groups.

  “That had begun to lose steam, but now.” He stopped. “Did you ever read War and Peace?”

  “War and Peace!”

  He sat forward, excited. “There they are at Bald Hills, old Prince Bolkonsky, his daughter Marya, and Mademoiselle Bourienne, the saucy French companion. Smolensk has fallen to the French. The invasion of Russia is well under way. But life just goes on as before at Bald Hills until . . .”

  “You make me want to read it,” she lied.

  “I am suggesting an analogy. We are being invaded. It’s only a matter of time until San Diego is occupied.”

  “Isn’t it already?”

  “I mean by Latinos.”

  “I’ll repeat myself. It already is.”

  He looked at her, relaxed, smiled. “I’m not trying to frighten you.”

  “Oh, but you do.” She looked at him over the rim of her glass. She had licked away the salt without visible effect on him. “Do you know Miguel Arroyo?”

  “Of course. Justicia y Paz.”

  “He was irked that I didn’t know of it.”

  “When was that?”

  “This morning. He came to see Jason.”

  “Miguel Arroyo? I’m surprised Jason Phelps even knows him.”

  Well, Catherine had been a little surprised herself. She was more surprised when Neal described Arroyo’s call to arms.

  “He’s as bad as Theophilus Grady, capitalizing on that theft.”

  “So where have you been for two days?”

  “Resting up.” He smiled.

  “Are you all rested now?”

  She might have been inviting him to his own room. He was eager and reluctant all at once. Afterward, running her hands through his hair, she said, “I won’t tell your wife.”

  He sat up as if he were doing exercises. “How did you know?”

  “A girl knows.” A girl! But it had been just a teasing remark. No wonder he felt guilty. Catherine tried to remember how it was to feel guilty about doing what she wanted to do.

  It was one in the morning when she left him. He made the usual pro forma protests, but she mussed his hair. “You need the rest.”

  “Hey, I thought I was pretty good.”

  “Compared to what?”

  “Lloyd Kaiser?”

  She slapped him, hard, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I’ll turn the other cheek.”

  He rolled over and was mooning her as she went laughing out the door.

  Lights were on in the house when she came in the driveway. Was Jason still up? He was. Waiting for her. He rose from his chair with an effort and stood glaring at her.

  “I want you to leave. Move out. Go. Now.”

  “Jason, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “You can get a room at the El Toro Motel.”

  All right. So he knew.

  “I’ll leave in the morning.”

  “Immediately. Now.”

  He moved toward her as if he would strike her. She wheeled and went up to her room, where she packed a few things helter-skelter, as anxious to go now as he was to have her leave. Not that she could take everything now. Would she come back for the rest? The old goat. Did he think it was a treat for her to cater to his feeble desires?

  He was seated again when she came down. She walked past him and out the door without a word. She put her things into the trunk, got behind the wheel, and just sat for a moment. The lights in the house began to dim. She could go to the El Toro Motel. No, for some reason that was out. What then? Feeling like a fool, she called Clare. It took a long while for her to answer.

  “Clare, this is Catherine. Jason has thrown me out of the house. I have nowhere to go.”

  “He threw you out of the house?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Silence while she thought.

  “Of course you can come here. I’ll be looking for you.”

  VI

  Mistress Quickly, if you will.

  Neal Admirari shaved while he showered, not wanting to look himself in the eye. He was filled with self-loathing. Once was bad, but the second time was unforgivable. No, don’t say that. God is mercy. Lulu would be another matter. He could not wait until the weekend, of course. So he must go back to Frater Leone, a wonderfully otherworldly man, and with the same story after two, no, three days. God would forgive him, all he had to do was confess, but Lulu? He did not even dare talk to Lulu until Frater Leone lifted his hand and said the formula of absolution over him. He would feel like a newborn babe then. Oh, there was still the temporal punishment due to sin, of course, the object of all those indulgences, but say what you will, they had built Saint Peter’s.

  When he stepped out of the shower, he heard the room phone ringing. He grabbed a towel and began to rub his head. Catherine? Dear God. It had to be. Lulu would call his cell phone. He could of course just ignore it, but that would only put off the evil day. He was going to have to make a clean break with Catherine. There was no point in going to confession otherwise. A firm purpose of amendment, that was what he needed. And besides, Catherine now knew he had a wife. Such a sporty antinomian wench she was. He smiled. Mistress Quickly, if you will. His smile faded. But even a wench can misunderstand and what woman can be as antinomian as a man? Just a lapse in his own case, of course. He felt weighed down by the moral law, in the breach, if not in the observance.

  He went to the phone, avoiding the sight of himself in the mirrors, naked as a jaybird, overweight, but still irresistible to women apparently. He closed his eyes, threw back his shoulders, and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?” he said in a grave voice.

  “Neal?”

  “Lulu!”

  “You must have turned off your cell phone. What time is it there?”

  “Aren’t you going to say you love me?”

  “I’ve forgotten what you look like.”

  “Love starved.”

  With Lulu’s voice in his ear, it was impossible to believe that he had succumbed to the blandishments of Catherine, and twice! He liked to think of it as passive, she the aggressor, he the seduced. It seemed to diminish his guilt.

  “Good. I’m coming out. Neal, everything is falling apart. It’s frightening.”

  There he stood, still dripping from the shower, hair only half dry, as heavy with guilt as Hamlet’s uncle, hearing his wife saying she would join him. He averted his eyes from the bed to whose adulterous sheets with such dexterity he had posted . . . He knew he was rattled when he turned Shakespearian.

  “Or I could come there, Lulu. I’ve done what I came to do.”

  “Done? Are you mad?” She inhaled, then paused. “Oh, your book.”

  He drew himself up. The towel was now around his shoulders, the rest of him naked to his enemies. “My book. It is why I am here, my love.”

  “Neal, everyone is converging on California. Everyone who isn’t trying to get to Mexico City. This is your book, for God’s sake.”

  “Of course it is.”

  Just like that, his professional persona was back. Shakespeare, thou art not living at this hour. Ah, Byron. Lulu spoke with excitement.

  “And to think you’re right there in the eye of the storm.”

  “Lulu, this is the story of the millennium.”

  “I wonder if we’ll survive.”

  For a millennium? “How soon can you get here?”

  “Getting a flight is hell.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  “Keep your cell phone on.”

  “It needs recharging.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  And so, renewed in body if not yet in spirit, Neal headed up the road t
o Don Ibanez’s. There was more traffic than usual. Several Oakland taxis. A television truck. My God, the brethren were arriving. As he approached Jason Phelps’s drive he saw the chaos on the road ahead. Don Ibanez must have closed and locked his gates to the media. Neal managed to pull into Phelps’s drive. This was risky, with Catherine on the premises, but faint heart never lost fair lady. He hopped out, went up to the door under the overhang, then thought better of it. He went back down the drive and pulled the gates closed, shutting out the competition. The media had no respect for private property.

  He rounded the house, remembering the study whose french doors opened onto a patio and gave the professor an unrivaled view of his domain, and of much more besides. He was in luck. Phelps was at his desk. No sign of Catherine. The doors were open. Neal stepped inside. Phelps looked up.

  “You!” He rose as if pulled up by wires.

  “I hoped you’d remember me.”

  “She’s gone! I threw her out.”

  Catherine? The poor girl. “Gone?”

  “You will no doubt find her at your place of assignation.”

  Neal looked puzzled.

  “The El Toro Motel!” the old man roared. It was like seeing Don Ibanez drop his patrician manner and have a fit. Phelps was clearly in a rage.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Phelps looked at him exophthalmically, his face empurpled. Suddenly he sank into his chair and buried his face in his great, gnarled hands.

  “Don’t mock me, sir,” Phelps croaked.

  Neal pulled up a chair. Phelps looked at him through his fingers.

  “Don’t grow old,” he advised.

  Neal found all this an annoying distraction. Of course Catherine had hinted at the old man’s amorous advances, which, in her telling, she had resisted. Apparently she hadn’t. What is more pathetic than a lovesick septuagenarian? The thought of Catherine with this old and feeble, however venerable, man, was almost as effective as absolution.