“I have to go,” he said. “The person I wanted to see isn’t here.” His control slipped, and he added, “Uh, you don’t know when Father Olson will be back, do you?”
“For lunch. I’m catering.”
“Right, right, the caterer. A meeting, the secretary told me.” He glanced around the cold, cavernous church. No altar candles were lit. The brass crucifix at the front of the church glowed with reflected light from the sacramental candle. In the pale light the teenager’s face had the look of a jaundiced ghost.
Sorry Cake
Cake:
2 cups all-purpose flour
ž teaspoon baking soda
˝ teaspoon salt
˝ cup solid vegetable shortening
˝ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 2/3 cups sugar
6 large eggs, separated
1 cup buttermilk
1 tablespoon freshly grated orange zest
2 cups Shredded Wheat cereal, broken into shreds
1 cup cranberries, quartered
˝ cup chopped pecans
ź teaspoon cream of tartar
Frosting:
˝ 8-ounce package cream cheese, softened
ź cup ( ˝ stick) unsalted butter, softened
3 cups confectioners’ sugar
1 tablespoon fresh orange juice, approximately
1 teaspoon freshly grated orange zest
Preheat the oven to 350°. To make the cake, sift together the flour, baking soda, and salt. Beat the shortening with the butter until well combined. Cream in the sugar and beat until fluffy and light. Beat in the egg yolks one at a time until well combined. Add the flour mixture alternately with the buttermilk, beginning and ending with the flour mixture. Stir in the orange zest, cereal, cranberries, and pecans. Beat the cream of tartar into the egg whites and continue beating until stiff. Gently fold the whites into the cake batter. Pour into 3 buttered 8-or 9-inch round cake pans. Bake for 25 to 35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool on a rack.
To make the frosting, beat the cream cheese with the butter until well combined. Gradually add the confectioners sugar and orange juice; beat until creamy and smooth. Stir in the orange zest. Frost the tops and sides of the cake. Makes 14 to 16 servings.
“Brad, are you sure you’re all right? Do you want to sit down for a while?”
He lifted an eyebrow and considered. “I saw you at that college application meeting.”
“Yes, well, I needed to see Miss Ferrell about my son, Arch. He’s… having some problems at school. When he didn’t respond, I rushed on with, “Maybe you’d like to help me in the kitchen until Father Olson gets here. When I’m waiting for something, it always helps me to take my mind off “
“Julian says you’re good to talk to.
“Oh. He does?”
He regarded me again with that same lost-Bambi expression, and then seemed to make a decision. “I’m here because of something in the bulletin.”
“Something…”
His teeth gnawed his bottom lip. “Some discussion they’re having.”
“Oh, the committee! Yes, they’re talking about penance and faith, I think. I’m… not sure the meeting is open to the public.” I try to be delicate. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.
“Wait.” His eyes widened. “You’re the one who found Keith, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but “
“Oh, God,” he said with a fierce dejection that twisted my heart. His shoulders slumped. “Things are such a mess… :’
“Look, Brad, come on out to the kitchen for just a while “
“You don’t understand why I’m here.” Tears quivered in his protest. And then he said, “I need to confess.”
15
“Let’s go sit in a pew,” I whispered. I had fleeting thoughts of calling Schulz, of telling this troubled boy to wait for Father Olson. But there was urgency behind Brad’s distress and I wanted to help him. Whatever his problem was, I couldn’t absolve him. Nor would I feel comfortable turning him in. He’d have to do that himself.
We slipped into the last hard wooden pew and sat down awkwardly. Think, I ordered myself. If Julian said I was good to talk to a surprise then maybe all I had to do was listen.
“I … I’ve been stealing,” said Brad.
I said nothing. He looked at me and I nodded. His handsome face was racked with pain. He seemed to be expecting something. “Go on,” I told him. He was silent. In a low voice I prompted him. “You wanted to talk about stealing.”
“I’ve been doing it for a long time. Years.” He hunched his shoulders as if he were small and very lost. Then he straightened his back and let out a ragged breath. “I felt good at first. Taking stuff made me feel great. Strong.” With sudden ferocity he said, “I loved it.”
I mm-hmmed
“When Perkins used to say in assemblies, we don’t need locks on the lockers at Elk Park Prep, I would laugh inside. I mean, I would just howl.” Brad Marensky wasn’t laughing now. He wasn’t even smiling. His mouth was a grim, suffering slash as he silently contemplated the diamond-shaped window above the altar. I wondered if he was going to continue.
“It wasn’t for the stuff,” he said at last. “I had plenty of stuff. My parents have money. I could have had any coat in the store I wanted. My biggest thrill was ripping off a jean jacket from somebody’s locker.” A silent sob racked his lean body. He seemed to want to cry, but was holding it in. Perhaps he was afraid someone would walk through the doors. The muffled clatter of the ancient mimeo machine in the church office came across as a distant crunch, pop; crunch, pop.. A cool, hushed quiet emanated from the stone floor and bare walls. Brad Marensky’s confession was a murmur within that sanctified space.
“I was going to quit. That was what I swore to myself. I had even decided to give something back… . I don’t even know why I’d taken this thing from a kid’s locker.”
He seemed poised to go off into another reverie. I thought of the table and food I had to prepare, of the twelve committee members who would be arriving within the hour. “Another kid’s locker,” I prodded gently.
“Yeah. Then one day a couple of weeks ago, I decided to put this thing back. After school. When I was slipping it back in and closing the locker, the stupid French Club let out and all these kids filed into the hall. I just, like, froze. I figured Miss Ferrell, Keith Andrews, the other kids, even your son-sorry, I don’t know his name-saw me and thought that instead of giving something - back, I was taking it.” He sighed. “It was the new Cure tape. I don’t even like the Cure.”
“Wait a minute. A tape? Not money, or a credit card?” I blurted out the question without thinking.
“Huh?” He said the word as if he’d been punched, and gave me a puzzled glance. “No. I took money, but not credit cards. You can really get in trouble for doing that.” He looked uneasily at the front door. Before he finished, however, there was one thing I needed to know.
“If you thought Arch my son might have seen you, and was going to tell, did you try to stop him? With a rattlesnake in his locker? And a threatening note?”
“No, no, no. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Okay. Go ahead, I interrupted you:” But he couldn’t. He started to cry. He cradled his head and sobbed, and impulsively I put my arms around his shoulders and murmured, “Don’t… don’t cry, please… it’s going to be okay, really. Don’t be so hard on yourself, everybody messes up. You tried to make things right… .”
“That was the weird part,” he whispered into my shoulder. “As soon as I decided to quit, everything went wrong. First someone smashed Keith’s windshield…”
“When was that, exactly?” Brad sat up and swiped at his tears. “The day the Princeton rep came. I remember because Keith seemed not to be bothered by the car, he just went on as calm as ever. He was early for the rep and had a zillion questions about the eating clubs and whether they’d take his summer school cre
dits from C.U., that kind of thing.”
“A zillion…”
“Yeah. But later I heard he was writing this article for the newspaper, and I got scared. So I did steal something. Just one last thing, I told myself. Oh, God” his words came out in a rush “then he was killed.” His brown eyes were sunken and fearful. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill him. I’d never do something like that. Then somebody put that snake in your son’s locker.” In disbelief, he shook his head. “It’s like everything went haywire as soon as I decided to go straight.”
“But after you stole that last thing, you did try to get rid of it. You put the credit card in your mother’s coat pocket.”
His boyish face wrinkled. “What is this with the credit card? I didn’t take a credit card, and I don’t know what the story is on my mother’s coat, because I didn’t steal that, either. After Keith saw me putting the Cure tape back, I was sure the article he was writing for the local paper was about stealing. About me. So I pried open the door to Keith’s computer cubbyhole and took his disks. I thought I’d find the article for the newspaper and erase it.” He reached under his sweatshirt and pulled out two disks. “There’s an article in here, but it’s not about stealing. Can you take these? I can’t stand to have them anymore. I’m afraid if someone finds them, I’ll get into big trouble. Maybe you could give them to the cops… I don’t want a criminal record.” He didn’t say it, but the question in his eyes was Are you going to turn me in?
I held the disks but did not look at them. This was a boy in torment. I wasn’t the law. But there was something else.
“Look at me, Brad.” He did.
“Did Keith know you were stealing?”
“I am almost positive now that he didn’t,” he said without hesitation. “Because if Keith had something on you, or if he didn’t like you, he couldn’t keep it to himself. Once he tried to blackmail my father over some tax stuff. When Schlichtmaier called on him, he would say, Heil Hitler.” He thrust his hands through his dark hair, then shuddered. “After the French Club got out that day, he never said anything to me. I figured I’d gotten oft But then somebody killed him. Do you believe me? I can’t stand having this hanging over my head anymore.”
Softly, I said, “Yes, I believe you.” Brad had chosen me to help him. I was duty bound to do at least that. I met his eyes with a level, unsmiling gaze. “Have you decided to stop stealing?”
“Yes, yes,” he said as his eyes watered up again. “Never again, I promise.”
“Can you give back what you took?”
“The cash is gone. But… I can put the stuff in the lost and found. I will, I promise.”
“All right.” Tenderness again welled up in my heart. The world thought this vulnerable boy had everything. I put my hands on his shoulders and murmured, “Remember what I said a few minutes ago. It’s going to be okay. Believe me?” Tears slid down his sallow cheeks. His nod was barely perceptible. “I’m going to leave you now, Brad. Say a prayer or something.”
He didn’t move or utter another word. After a moment I slid out of the pew. As I stood in the aisle, trying to remember what I’d done with the bowl of orange slices, Brad turned and caught my hand in a crushing grip.
“You won’t tell anybody, will you? Please say you wont.
“No, I won’t. But that doesn’t mean people don’t know. Like Miss Ferrell. Or whoever.”
“Mostly I’m worried about my parents…”
“Brad. I’m not going to tell anybody. I promise. You did the right thing to get it off your chest. The worst part I is over.”
“I don’t know what my parents would do if they found out,” he mumbled as he turned his head back toward the altar.
Neither did I.
I ferried the pans of Sole Florentine out to the church kitchen and heated the oven. Around twenty minutes before noon, members of the Board of Theological Examiners began to arrive. Father Olson whisked through the parish hall first. He was in something of a state, going on about the one laywoman on the committee having a stroke and what were they going to do now? Canonically, the committee had to have twelve members to conduct interviews of candidates for the priesthood in December; the same group would administer the oral ordination exams in April. Father Olson pulled on his beard, Moses in distress. If he didn’t find a competent replacement soon, the feminists would pressure the bishop and he’d be in hot water. I wanted to ask him why, when men were looking for a woman to do anything, they assumed they’d have a problem with competence. Perhaps the real worry was that they’d find somebody who was more competent than they were.
“Oh, dear,” Father Olson was wailing, “why did this have to happen just when I’ve been named head of the committee?” He slumped morosely into one of the chairs I had just set up. “I really don’t know what to do. I just don’t even know where to begin.”
Although I thought a prayer for the stroke victim might be in order, I murmured only, “Start by resetting the table” to his unhearing ears. He traipsed unhappily off to the office while I removed the twelfth place setting. The two laymen on the committee came in and sat next to each other. Both had an air of quiet seriousness, as if they were awaiting instructions. The first group of priests plunged through the heavy doors like a gaggle of blackbirds, laughing and jostling and telling clerical Halloween jokes. What do you get when you cross a bat with an evangelical? Heads waggled. You get a hymn that sticks to the roof of your mouth. The two laymen exchanged looks. This was not their idea of a joke. I served a tray of triangles of sourdough toast spread with glistening pesto. Father Olson made his somber appearance.
“Olson!” one of the blackbirds shrieked. “You’re doing trick-or-treat as a priest!”
Father Olson chuckled patronizingly, then intoned the blessing. I hustled around with the sole while the meeting began. The food elicited numerous compliments. While the news of the stroke victim was being relayed, the priest of the bat joke even ventured jocularly that I should be the replacement on the committee.
“Then you could bring food to every meeting!” he said in an astonished tone, as if he seldom had such great ideas.
It’s a compliment, I reminded myself as I quick-stepped out to the kitchen for the Sorry Cake. When I returned, Father Olson stared at me and ruminated. Perhaps he was reviewing his standards of competence in the light of culinary prowess.
“You do have some experience as a Sunday school teacher ,” he murmured as if we were in the middle of an interview.
I nodded and doled out large pieces of cake.
We are looking to see that the education of seminarians is complete before they begin to minister to others. What are your academic qualifications, Goldy?”
“I’ll send you a resume.”
“Tell me,” he continued, unperturbed, “how would you define faith?”
“What is this, a test?” Careful, careful, I warned myself. After all, Brad Marensky had had enough faith in me to make me his confessor. And if this group would ever pay, I could always use more bookings. “Well,” I said with a bright smile while they all listened attentively, “I have faith that if I put chocolate cake in the oven, it’s going to rise.” There were a few ripples of laughter. Encouraged, I slapped down my tray and put my hand on my hip. “I have faith that if I cater to any group, even a church group, they’re going to pay me.” Guffaws erupted from the two laymen. “Faith is like. . ,” and then I saw Schulz in my mind’s eye. “Faith is like falling in love. After it happens, you change. You act differently with faith. You’re confident, con fidem,” I concluded with what I hoped was an erudite lift of the eyebrows. In heaven, my Latin teacher put a jewel in my crown. I picked up the tray.
Ah, Lonergan,” said one of the priests. Father Olson looked as if he were about to have an orgasm. He cried, “You’ve just paraphrased a prominent Jesuit theologian. Oh, Goldy, we’d love to have you on our committee! I had no idea you were so … learned.”
I bathed them all in a benevolent smile.
“You’d be surprised at what a caterer can figure out.”
I hightailed it home as soon as the dishes were done, so I could get started on my next assignment of the day. Father Olson was in a state of high excitement, for all the priests had credited him with giving me such a good theological education. I made him promise that if I did cater to the ecclesiastical heavyweights, I would be paid standard food-service rates. Father Olson waved his hands, muttered about the diocesan office, and said something along the lines of money being forthcoming. Good, I said, so was my contract. Education was nice; practicality, essential.
Arch had left me a surprise note in the mailbox. Mom, it said, Have a great Halloween. Be careful! I will be, too. Forgot to tell you, I got a B on a social studies test. Love, Arch
When I got inside, the phone was ringing: Audrey Coopersmith. Would it be all right if Heather came down to the Tattered Cover with us? She was supposed to go with a friend, but that hadn’t worked out. Of course, I said. Audrey said they’d be over in fifteen minutes.
The computer disks! In the rush with the committee, I had completely forgotten them. I pulled the stolen disks Brad had given me out of my apron pocket. Each label was hand-printed with the word Andrews. Call Schulz or see if I … oh, what the heck. I tried to boot first one, then the other, on my kitchen computer. No luck. I pulled out the platters of food for the bookstore reading and phoned Schulz. His machine picked up. I left a three-fold message: A confidential source had just given me Keith Andrews’ computer disks; I would be catering to the prep school crowd tonight at the bookstore; and would he like a little trick-or- treat at my house afterward?
The doorbell rang: the Coopersmiths. As usual, Audrey clomped in first while her daughter hung back, skeptically assessing the surroundings. Two spots of color flamed on Audrey’s cheeks. Knowing her ex-husband was on a cruise with the long-term mistress, I couldn’t imagine what new crisis would bring such anger.
“You okay?” I asked unwisely.
“I have had it with that bitch Ferrell,” Audrey spat out.
The Cereal Murders gbcm-3 Page 19
