Ash Wednesday

by Ralph McInerny

  “He’s come out of the coma. I haven’t been able to see him yet.”

  “You?”

  “As his lawyer. This experience should bring home to him the wisdom of having a will.”

  “What an ambulance chaser you are, Tuttle.”

  “And you chase the ambulance chaser.”

  That seemed to make it a draw. Whatever old animosity existed between the two men evanesced. Tetzel pushed away his drink. “You got any gum, Tuttle?”

  “Gum?”

  “I’m going down to the hospital.”

  “For treatment?”

  Turn himself in, get issued a patient’s gown, roam the halls of the hospital, sit at Jason’s bedside, and get the whole story from the lips of the victim? Tetzel shuddered away the thought. Besides, who would ever believe he had a problem with drink?

  Tetzel went first to the detective division in the hope of finding Cy Horvath. With what he had learned from Tuttle he thought he could begin a conversation in medias res. But Horvath was not there.

  “Can I help you?” Agnes Lamb asked.

  “Did you happen to read the story I did for the Tribune on Jason Burke?”

  “Very touching.”

  “Thank you. You can imagine my reaction to what has happened to him.”

  Agnes said nothing, perhaps imagining.

  “Could we talk about your investigation off the record?”

  “Press relations is in another office.”

  Hedwig! She was about five feet tall and another five around the middle and knew less of what was going on than the janitor.

  “You’ve briefed her?”

  “Lieutenant Horvath is in charge of the investigation.”

  “He seems to be out.”

  “Is that what you were told?”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “I report to him, not the other way around.”

  “You’re good,” Tetzel said grudgingly.

  “Would I be a cop if I weren’t?”

  This little lady could write legends for fortune cookies.

  “You’ve been a great help.”

  Then, just to show that the universe was favorable to Tetzel, in walked Cy Horvath.

  “Horvath! I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Horvath continued to his inner office, and Tetzel went along after him.

  “What can you tell me about the investigation into the break-in at Jason Burke’s?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Aw, come on, Cy.”

  “There wasn’t a break-in.” Cy sat and looked at Tetzel with his all-purpose expression.

  “He let the assailant in?”

  “Have you talked with Hedwig?”

  “When can I talk with you? Look, Horvath, what I have in mind is a feature story, a follow-up on the one I already wrote about Jason Burke. Did you read it?”

  Cy just looked at him.

  “Please, Horvath, give me a break. Do you know what my editor wants me to write about? The exemption of the courthouse from the no-smoking ordinance. What leads do you have?”

  The ashtray on Horvath’s desk was piled high with cigarette ends. The whole detective bureau reeked with the heavenly aroma of stale tobacco smoke. Horvath glanced at the ashtray.

  “We have some fingerprints. None of the neighbors admits to knowing who Jason Burke was, let alone what happened to him. You might have better luck than we had.”

  “Sure. Oh, I’ll talk to them. I’ll leave no stone unturned. Who are your suspects?”

  “It’s too early to say.”

  Then, twice in one day, providence smiled on Tetzel. Phil Keegan came in, puffing on a cigar, and said to Cy, “We have a clear footprint.” Then he noticed Tetzel. “Print that and I’ll break your neck.”

  “I told Cy. I’m writing a feature, not doing daily reports. Of course I’ll hold it. Have you talked to all the relatives?”

  “Get out of here, Tetzel.”

  Tetzel got out of there, hugging the information he had just accidentally obtained. FOOTPRINT UNDOES ASSAILANT OF THE FOOT DOCTOR.

  Marie Murkin watched with dread and foreboding as Holy Week loomed, and beyond it the planned marriage of Natalie Armstrong and Eugene Schmidt. Honestly, how a woman that age could be taken in by the fast-talking little man with his cottony hair and trim little mustache was more than Marie could understand. Isn’t there a statute of limitations on female frailty? Father Dowling seemed to grant Eugene Schmidt the benefit of every doubt. Even when the man confided that he had not been born Eugene Schmidt but had legally adopted that name seven years before, Father Dowling reacted as if this were the most ordinary admission in the world.

  “Has he told Natalie, Father Dowling?” Marie demanded when Schmidt was gone.

  “Told her what?”

  “That he changed his name!”

  Father Dowling looked at her sadly. “My, what large ears you have.”

  “He wasn’t exactly whispering, Father Dowling.”

  “It was a confidence, Marie.”

  “But who in the world is he?”

  “Eugene Schmidt, legally.”

  “Legally!”

  “Did you hear the reason he gave for changing his name?”

  “What was it?”

  “So you didn’t hear that. Of course, I would not break a confidence.”

  Back in her kitchen, Marie did not regret that she had overheard Schmidt tell Father Dowling of his change of name, nor did she regret letting the pastor know she had overheard him say it. Her only regret was that she had not stayed at her post and learned the reason Schmidt or whoever he was had given for the change. Heaven only knew what would happen to St. Hilary’s if she did not keep on the alert.

  Natalie should know, but Marie could not be the bearer of the news. Father Dowling would never forgive her if she told Natalie what Eugene Schmidt had confided to the pastor. She tried various ways in which she might pass on the information, but none of them was plausible. Until Rebecca Farmer came calling, identifying herself as a writer for the Tribune.

  “You want to see Father Dowling?”

  “Would I have come to the kitchen door if I did?”

  Aha. Marie invited her in, sat her at the kitchen table, closed the door to the hallway, and asked her guest if she liked tea.

  “I am a coffee drinker.”

  “Then coffee it will be.”

  She made coffee, put a plate of oatmeal cookies on the table, and sat across from Rebecca Farmer, certain that word of the impending post-Easter nuptials had gotten to the reporter.

  “A story I’ve been planning for a long time has to do with women abandoned by men.”

  Marie could have cheered. She nodded receptively.

  “Some women are reluctant to talk about the experience, and I respect that. I’ll take every precaution to avoid embarrassing my sources.”

  Marie nodded at this sound policy, wishing the woman would get on with it.

  “So anything you can tell me about what happened to you …”

  “To me! What are you talking about?”

  “Several people told me that your husband deserted you.”

  Marie was speechless. Who would have passed on such gossip, and to a reporter? She slumped in her chair and managed to say, “And I thought you were interested in Eugene Schmidt.”

  Rebecca took a sip of her coffee, studying Marie. “Perhaps I am.”

  Marie straightened and leaned toward her guest. “This is a story you won’t believe.”

  “Try me.”

  Speaking softly but distinctly, Marie told Rebecca Farmer everything she knew about Eugene Schmidt. His sudden appearance at the parish senior center, quickly becoming the darling of the widows there, and finally setting his cap for Natalie Armstrong.

  “Natalie Armstrong. Isn’t she one of the beneficiaries of Helen Burke’s will?”

  “Exactly!”

  “Eugene Schmidt. Wasn’t he driving the bus that forced Helen Burke’s car into the bridge abutment
?”

  “The same Eugene Schmidt.” Marie paused. “If that is his name.”

  “You don’t think it is.”

  Marie put her fingers to her pursed lips, twisted an imaginary key, and threw it away. She did say, “I suppose that is the sort of thing a reporter could find out.”

  Rebecca nodded, as if few mysteries could withstand the scrutiny of the press. “Marie, can I regard this as an exclusive interview?”

  “You mustn’t mention my name.”

  “Agreed. But I have to talk to Natalie Armstrong.”

  “Nothing easier. You will find her at the senior center. No doubt in the company of Eugene Schmidt.”

  “All the better. Will you promise not to pass this on to any other reporter?”

  “I am not in the habit of chatting with reporters.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Marie nodded. “More coffee?”

  “I will. This is delicious. You should taste the mud we drink in the pressroom at the courthouse.”

  Rebecca wanted to know how long Marie had been at St. Hilary’s, what the job entailed. She began to take notes as Marie talked. “This could make a nice little feature by itself. How many people understand the role of a rectory housekeeper?”

  “But no mention of …”

  “Of course not.”

  “He’s dead, you know. He came back and then he died.”

  “We’ll just forget all about him,” Rebecca said.

  Marie went out on the porch with Rebecca, showing her the walkway to the senior center. As she watched the reporter march off, briefcase slung over her shoulder, her beige beret set at a resolute angle on her head, her sensible shoes an index of seriousness, Marie inhaled deeply. It might have been a prayer of thanksgiving. Whatever happened now happened, and that was all there was to it. She hadn’t told the reporter anything she couldn’t have learned from any number of people. She particularly liked the way she had finessed the matter of Eugene Schmidt’s name. Surely not even Father Dowling could find fault with her on that score.

  Madeline hated hospitals, hated to see people weakened by illness and pain, hated the smells and oddly echoing sounds of the place, but of course she could not keep away when she heard what had happened to Jason. How long had it been since she had been here? Not so long that she had forgotten that one never stopped at the great circular desk and asked to see a patient. Inevitably there would be delay. The volunteers who served at the desk preferred doing something rather than nothing. Who could blame them? Madeline thought of those few months when, inspired by Jason, she had volunteered to help at the hospital several nights of the week. She hurried toward the elevators at the far end of a long hallway whose walls were hung with photographs of long ago.

  Intensive care was on seven, at least it had been. When she emerged from the elevator, it was clear she could not bypass the nurses’ station. Where was Jason? She put the question to a nurse in blue.

  “Mrs. Burke? Follow me.”

  Madeline followed. Did the nurse’s question mean that Carmela was not yet here?

  She wasn’t. Jason lay on his back, a mountain of a man on a white bed, under a white coverlet, liquids dripping slowly down plastic tubing to his wrist, a great swami-like bandage on his head. Madeline was left alone with Jason.

  “Madeline,” he said, his eyes rolling toward her.

  She took his hand. She tried to say his name, but only a sob came forth.

  His eye was still on her. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Of course you’ll be all right.”

  Bedside exchanges in hospitals will never make it into any collection of great conversations, but when the patient is in intensive care, semiconscious, teetering on the edge of the abyss, language becomes merely therapeutic, music rather than meaning, just the sound of another human voice that can reach into the pain and darkness and serve as a lifeline back to normalcy. Jason had recognized her, and that was good—not that she made too much of that, any more than she had of the nurse’s thinking she was Mrs. Burke.

  Madeline stayed with Jason for hours, and Carmela did not come. Agnes Lamb and Cy Horvath did, wanting to talk to Jason about what had happened to him, but he was not yet ready for that and didn’t look like he would be for some time. Madeline took a break and went down to the cafeteria and had coffee with them.

  “Any ideas?” Agnes said.

  “About what happened? No.”

  “No enemies?”

  “Jason? Of course not.”

  “Isn’t he married?” Agnes smiled slyly and her eyes opened wide as she said this.

  “Sort of. They’ve been separated for years.”

  “I wondered why she wasn’t here.”

  A terrible thought occurred to Madeline. “Has she been told?”

  Agnes looked at Cy. It was clear they didn’t know.

  Agnes said, “I’ll call the office in Schaumburg.”

  Madeline was surprised Agnes Lamb knew of that. “Oh, they’ve moved their offices to Fox River. Amos will know where.”

  Carmela was told—she hadn’t known; she had been off on a quick business trip to New York and hadn’t kept up with the Fox River Tribune—and rushed to the hospital. Madeline rose when she came in. Carmela hardly noticed her but went and stood beside Jason, looking in stunned wonderment at her battered husband. She reached a hand toward him, then drew it back. He had opened his eyes. He mumbled something, and Carmela leaned over him. He spoke again, and she stepped back, glancing at Madeline. Madeline had grown used to Jason’s slurred speech. What he had said was “Ah, my caretaker.”

  “What in God’s name happened?” Carmela said when she and Madeline stepped into the hall.

  “Apparently someone attacked him, in his apartment, and tried to make it look as if he had been drinking.”

  “Had he been?”

  “The police say there was no alcohol in his blood.”

  “A historic first.”

  “Carmela,” Madeline began, then stopped.

  “What is happening to this family?”

  Carmela, having been treated like an interloper by Helen, could be forgiven for thinking now that she had married into a very strange family indeed.

  “Your partner should have called you, Carmela.”

  “My partner?” Carmela stared at Madeline. Then she understood. “Oh, Augie.” Another pause. “Yes, he should have. Well, now I’m here.”

  She might have been dismissing Madeline, but that wasn’t it.

  “Not that I can be of the least bit of help to him.”

  She wanted to go. She wanted to flee this scene. Madeline understood.

  “I’ll stay for a few more minutes.”

  Carmela touched her arm and then walked away, slim, her heels sounding in a businesslike way, her large purse on her shoulder, hand gripping its strap. Madeline went back to Jason.

  Madeline kept intermittent vigil for days. From time to time, Carmela stopped by, stayed for a few minutes, patting Jason’s hand, then left. On one occasion, Agnes Lamb went off with Carmela, to have a little chat in the cafeteria.

  Carmela consulted her watch. “It’ll have to be short.”

  At the bedside again, Madeline asked, “Jason, who was it?”

  “Carmela.”

  “No, no. Who attacked you?”

  He didn’t know. He seemed not to care.

  Eventually he was removed from ICU to a room where there could be flowers and other visitors. There was a television set perched high on the wall, but it was always turned off. Agnes Lamb and Cy Horvath came, and Father Dowling accompanied by Father Pringle, the hospital chaplain. Madeline withdrew discreetly on these occasions.

  She began to fear that her constant presence would be misinterpreted. How? She didn’t know how, but it was clear that whenever Carmela looked in and saw Madeline there she didn’t like it. Not that she ever said so. Indeed, quite the opposite.

  “Madeline, you’re an angel.”

  “There are good and
bad angels.”

  “You’re one of the good ones. Sometimes I think you should have married Jason.”

  “Oh, I thought of it.”

  “You did!”

  “I also thought of marrying Cary Grant.”

  She told the reporter, Tetzel, all she knew, but he had the facts already.

  “I want interpretation,” he said urgently. “The human side. Who would do this to that big gentle man?”

  “Did you know him?”

  Tetzel looked offended. “I have written about him.” He spoke as if his prose had taken Jason out of nothingness and conferred reality on him. Still, it was nice to have someone she could just babble to.

  “You’re cousins,” Tetzel said.

  “Of a sort.”

  Tetzel had an epiphany. “You’re one of the heirs.”

  Madeline nodded.

  “Cousin and co-heir,” Tetzel murmured.

  “That sounds like St. Paul.”

  “I’m from Minneapolis.” It was a joke.

  She told him that she and Jason had grown up together. She and Jason and Carmela.

  “The wife?” “Yes.” “Of sorts.”

  He was fascinated by the way she had fixed Carmela up with Jason for a school dance.

  “Little old Cupid, that’s me.”

  “You never married?”

  “Not yet.”

  Where did that remark come from?

  When the time came for Jason to be released, Madeline had him taken to her new big house.

  Amos, having met Agnes Lamb at the hospital, where he had looked in on Jason, asked the officer if he could give her lunch. She was dressed in civilian clothes, a lovely, intelligent young person, and one whose persistency he had come to admire. Twice she had quizzed him about the will, and he had been evasive. It occurred to him now that he should be more cooperative.

  “McDonald’s?”

  “I was thinking of the University Club.”

  When they were in his car, she said, “I’ve never ridden in one of these.”

  How easy it was to forget that the way one lived, which after all was simply the way one lived, could look extraordinary to others.