Ash Wednesday

by Ralph McInerny

  All that was true. The facts could be shaped into a story that would rival Rebecca’s. But it was not that alone that had turned on the light that illumined the hitherto dark tunnel of Tetzel’s mind. Augie was related to the Pianones. Tuttle clearly saw that as an obstacle to his client’s being found guilty of what he had done. Here, as so often in the past, the forces of justice confronted the force of the Pianone family. Judges were in their pocket; juries could be bought. Even Tuttle could get Augie off, and nothing would be said about why such an assailant had been set free.

  Back in the pressroom, at his computer, Tetzel composed a memo to Menteur. The time had come for the Tribune to stand up to the Pianones and cleanse the city of their nefarious influence. He faxed it over to the editor after he had e-mailed it to him. He waited. His phone rang.

  It was Menteur. “You’re out of your mind, Gerry.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “We run a story like that and they’d feed you to the fish.”

  Tetzel chuckled. “May I point out what you are overlooking, old boy?”

  “Tell me. Quick. I’m busy.”

  “We have a new owner. You-know-who. A distant plutocrat who from time to time remembers that one of the papers he owns is in Fox River, Illinois. Need I remind you of the no-smoking ordinance?”

  “I want that story on the courthouse exemption, Gerry!”

  “Later. Have you grasped my point?”

  Menteur grasped the point. With the backing of their distant owner, who could nationalize the story and put pressure on corruption in Fox River it had never known, it would no longer be simply the Tribune versus the Pianones.

  “You could fly me out to have a talk with him,” Tetzel suggested. Menteur began to laugh but killed it. “I can’t spare you. I’ll go.”

  “But how can you be spared?”

  Menteur hummed. “I’ll have Rebecca sit in for me.”

  Even without the deterrent of Helen Burke, Nathaniel Green kept aloof from the others at the St. Hilary senior center. He did spend more time inside now, but he continued to be more of a spectator than a participant. He always carried a book. It was one of Father Dowling’s regrets that he had not grown closer to the man, a regret that increased when Barney O’Connell, the chaplain at Joliet, asked how Nathaniel was doing.

  “I read about the death of his sister-in-law,” O’Connell said.

  “Did he talk about her?”

  “What was significant was that he didn’t. But I knew how she had treated him.”

  “Are all families unhappy, Barney?”

  “Who asked that, Tolstoy?”

  “Not quite.”

  “That was quite a riposte, leaving his money to her.”

  Who could blame O’Connell for seeing in that a kind of response to his vengeful sister-in-law? What a chain of events that had set in motion. After Helen’s death in that tragic accident, many people had come into large amounts of money. Poor Natalie Armstrong. She had come fleeing to the rectory when the exposé of her intended husband filled the pages of the local paper.

  “Father, I feel like a fool.”

  “There’s no need for that, Natalie. Trusting people is not a fault.”

  “Of course, the wedding is off.”

  “Of course.”

  When Natalie left the study, Marie took over. Father Dowling felt that Marie would be far better than himself at soothing Natalie’s wounded sensibilities. Thomas Aquinas argued that we should always judge people for the better, a rule that could, of course, lead to the kind of sad situation in which Natalie found herself. Meanwhile, Eugene Schmidt, as Father Dowling still thought of him, was nowhere to be seen. Father Dowling felt a little foolish himself when he thought of the explanation Schmidt had given him for his last change of name.

  “I was once a sort of rival of yours,” the little man said, his eyes twinkling.

  “How so?”

  “I ran a revival tabernacle for a number of years. The day came when I saw I was making a mockery of religion. I decided to cease to exist as the man so many had known. I suppose that was cowardly.”

  “You said you had never been baptized,” Father Dowling said.

  “The problem is that I had been baptized so many times. Before I set up my own tabernacle, I went to many others, getting the hang of it. I came forward to be baptized in at least four of them. I told myself it was part of my apprenticeship. Can God forgive me, Father?”

  “God can forgive anything. If we’re truly repentant.”

  “I have turned over a new leaf, Father. Being here at St. Hilary has transformed my life.”

  Well, it had certainly transformed poor Natalie’s. Eugene Schmidt’s housekeeper said that her lodger had disappeared.

  The news that Jason Burke’s assailant had been identified was not likely to make Jason heal any quicker. Father Dowling visited him at the Burke home, where he was still bedridden. His misfortune had rendered him philosophical.

  “What a life I have led, Father Dowling.”

  “How does it go with you and Carmela?”

  “I never see her. She came by the hospital once or twice, but not here. I suppose this house has too many sad associations for her.”

  “Has Nathaniel been to see you?”

  Jason was silent for a moment. “I don’t expect him to.” “Oh?”

  Jason rolled onto his side, a major undertaking, and looked directly into Father Dowling’s eyes. “I don’t think he wanted to hear what I told him.”

  “What was that?”

  “I thought it would enable him to close the books on Aunt Florence’s death. He had to know that he had not done what he accused himself of. He couldn’t have.” Jason paused. “My mother turned off the oxygen when he was out of the room.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “Oh, she felt fully justified. Florence was dying, everyone knew that. Yet there she lay, day after day. It was the sight of Nathaniel that infuriated my mother. She thought he was dramatizing his own role. So she decided to cut it short.”

  “And let him confess and stand trial?”

  “She didn’t think anything would come of it. Even if he had done what he thought he had done, it was what she herself had really done and she had no regret or remorse.”

  “And you told Nathaniel.”

  “I sometimes wished I hadn’t. He certainly didn’t react as I thought he would.”

  “How long ago was it that you told him?”

  “Shortly after his release.”

  Madeline came in then, and that marked the end of the conversation. After a time, a very preoccupied Father Dowling drove back to his rectory.

  Thanks to a decree of Benedict XVI, Father Dowling followed the old rite during Holy Week. Kevin Brown was ecstatic. Monica Garvey seemed not to be in church. Kevin wondered if perhaps next year they couldn’t have Tenebrae. On Easter Sunday, both Masses were in English, and Monica Garvey was very much in evidence. Her Easter bonnet was a marvel, broad brim, ribbons, flowers.

  “I could write a sonnet,” Father Dowling said when, still vested, he was chatting with Monica and others outside the church.

  “Upon my Easter bonnet?” She actually broke into song.

  “Alleluia,” grumbled Kevin Brown.

  Even Marie Murkin looked almost festive for the occasion. A lacy black mantilla, a white silk scarf at her throat. Natalie Armstrong hesitantly joined the group, and the others made way for her.

  “Happy Easter, Natalie.”

  “Happy Easter, Father.”

  That was all it took to remove the uneasiness of the others. When the little group dispersed, Madeline took Natalie’s arm and led her to her car.

  Father Dowling entered the church and had started down the aisle toward the sacristy, to take off his vestments, when he noticed a solitary figure in the back row, eyes shut, lips moving. Father Dowling went on to the sacristy.

  Phil Keegan was
the only guest at the Easter feast Marie prepared—a great ham prickled with cloves, mashed potatoes as well as sweet potatoes, several vegetables, cranberry sauce, relish, pickles, olives. Thus did Marie say good-bye to Lent. She joined them and kept Phil’s wineglass, and her own, brimming. She might have been priming the pump.

  “Why on earth did Augie Liberati choose Tuttle for his lawyer?” she asked.

  “Agnes recommended him.”

  “What a sly one she is.”

  “He may get help.” Phil told them of Augie Liberati’s odd connection to the Pianones.

  “Will they want to rescue him, Phil?” Father Dowling asked.

  “We’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.” One of Augie’s shoes matched the footprint found at the scene of the crime.

  Outside the church, Madeline had told Father Dowling that Jason was so recovered he had wanted to come to Mass, but she had vetoed it. One might have thought that she was reluctant to let the Foot Doctor out of her house.

  Herman the German, at his own insistence, was enjoying his meal in the kitchen, but he came into the dining room to have mince pie and coffee with them.

  “I suppose you miss Eugene Schmidt,” Marie said to him. There seemed to be quotation marks around the name.

  “It’s the ladies that’ll miss him.”

  “Ha.”

  Father Dowling thought of the lonely figure he had seen sitting in a back pew, apparently praying. If so, it would have been for his wife, Florence. Where was he having his Easter dinner?

  “I should have invited Nathaniel to join us,” he said.

  “He and his niece are going to eat together in Schaumburg,” Herman said.

  “Carmela?” Marie asked.

  “Is that her name?”

  Marie harumphed and began clearing the table. Herman took his leave, and Phil and Father Dowling repaired to the study.

  “Bring your wine, Phil.”

  “I’d rather have a beer.”

  A beer was brought to him by Marie. “After I do the dishes, I’m going upstairs for my nap.”

  “Sleep tight,” Phil said.

  “I only had two and a half glasses.” Off she went.

  “Tetzel is spreading the rumor that the absent owner of the Tribune will allow the paper to mount a crusade against the Pianones.” Phil spoke in a monotone.

  “Surely the Pianones won’t protect Augie Liberati then.”

  “We’ll see,” Phil said. “What time does the game come on?”

  During the coming week, no crusade began in the Tribune. Tetzel had gone AWOL, doubtless drinking away his disappointment. Tuttle, by contrast, was jubilant. This proved premature. There was no sign of any intervention by the Pianones as the indicted Augie Liberati faced a jury of his peers and a bright young judge who was substituting for one of those in the Pianone pocket. She was scarcely thirty, wore her hair in a crew cut, and ran the trial as if she were in moot court in law school. Despite Tuttle’s efforts, his client was convicted and sentenced to eighteen months in Joliet.

  “It wasn’t a murder trial, Marie,” Father Dowling said when the housekeeper grumbled at this light sentence.

  “And Eugene Schmidt is still running around free.”

  “Breaking hearts is not a crime, Marie.”

  There was no pursuit of Eugene Schmidt; no charges had been brought against him.

  “Breaking hearts? Do you really think it was an accident when he forced Helen Burke’s car into that bridge abutment?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Think of it, Father. Get rid of Helen, Natalie becomes rich, Schmidt leads her down the aisle.”

  Father Dowling did not comment on the logical leaps in this theory. Nor did he mention the long thoughts he himself had been having about the accident. He called Earl Hospers one weekday and asked him for a favor. The results took some days to verify, but they were what Father Dowling had feared.

  That afternoon, he strolled down the walk toward the school. Nathaniel was sitting on a bench, in the sun, reading. Father Dowling sat beside him.

  “What are you reading, Nathaniel?”

  “Crime and Punishment.”

  “There is also sin and forgiveness.” Father Dowling remembered hearing Nathaniel’s confession weeks ago, a confession that had ended with the surprising remark that it was Florence who had disengaged herself from the life support system. Since then, Nathaniel had learned that, even if she had, it would have been no more lethal than if Nathaniel had removed that oxygen mask from her face. And Jason had told his uncle who had turned off the oxygen tap.

  Nathaniel seemed to be waiting for the priest to say more.

  “Paint from your car matches some found on our shuttle bus.”

  Nathaniel looked at him. “I thought of having my car repainted.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I left it in the hands of God.” He might have been remembering words from the wedding ceremony. The rest is in the hands of God. “What are you going to do?”

  “Hear your confession, I hope.”

  “And then?”

  “Give you absolution.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s everything, Nathaniel.”

  What Nathaniel had done would be trivialized in any court of law, the evidence tenuous, susceptible of any number of imaginative explanations by a shrewd attorney. If any charge were brought against Nathaniel, and that was not likely, the deed would be reduced to the dialectics of a trial. Nathaniel would be cleared of the charge.

  Nathaniel closed his book and set it aside. “Sin and forgiveness,” he murmured.

  “Here or in the rectory?”

  Nathaniel stood. “How about in church.”

  So it was in the church, in a confessional, that Nathaniel whispered through the grille that he had brought about the death of his nemesis.

  “I hated that woman, Father. She killed Florence.”

  “Let’s concentrate on your sins.”

  A sigh on the other side of the grille. “That made everything seem ridiculous.”

  His insistence that he had killed his wife, the long years in Joliet, the shunning when he had come to the senior center.

  “Say an act of contrition, and I will give you absolution.”

  Blessing the penitent, saying the words of absolution, Father Dowling, acting for their common Lord, absolved the sins of Nathaniel Green.

  The following week Father Dowling drove north to talk once more with Willy Nilly. It was a gorgeous late spring day, and through the leafy trees he caught glimpses of the Fox River moving with the incessant movement of every river. The Fox River valley did not seem a good metaphor of the Vale of Tears, but of course it was. The evil we do often has a lovely setting.

  Father Nolan sat on his patio, glasses on the end of his nose, reading a manuscript.

  “My memoirs,” he explained. “Are you finished?”

  “Am I finished or are my memoirs finished?”

  “May that day be far distant.”

  “I do have several more chapters to write.”

  Father Dowling lit his pipe and then brought his lighter to the tip of Willy Nilly’s cigarette. He told the old priest of the exemption from the no-smoking ban in the courthouse that had recently been lifted, thanks to an exposé by Rebecca Farmer.

  “We can’t have people enjoying themselves, can we?”

  “Do you remember the case I brought to you a month or so ago?”

  “Remind me.”

  Father Dowling brought his old professor up to date on the death of Florence Green and its sequel. He was breaking no confidence in telling Willy Nilly that Nathaniel Green’s car had been involved in the accident that killed Helen Burke. That he had learned from Earl Hospers.

  “Will charges be brought against him?”

  “The tests were not made by the police.”

  Willy Nilly frowned at Father Dowling. “And you are wondering if you have an obligation to bring those perhaps inconclusi
ve results to the attention of the police?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “The husband confessed to the crime because he thought his wife had ended her own life.”

  “Did he think that would have prevented it from being suicide?”

  “He thought it would prevent people knowing it was suicide.”

  “And it wasn’t.”

  “She would have been no more guilty than he if she had done it.”

  “Surely you don’t mean that.”

  “The oxygen tap had been turned off.”

  “But neither of them would have known that. The question would be what either intended to do.”

  They sat on for an hour on the sunny patio, letting what they both had said drift away. Father Nolan spoke of his memoirs.

  “What will you call them?”

  “Willy Nilly.”

  A squinting look at his old student.

  “I like it,” Father Dowling said.

  On the drive home, Father Dowling thought of the mystery of human action. We can intend to do what in fact we do not do, and do what we do not intend. It reminded him of the death several years ago of Sylvia Lowry. Earl Hospers had spent years in prison for something he had in some sense done although not intending to do it. Odd that it had been Earl who had compared the paint of Nathaniel’s car with that found on the fender of the senior center shuttle bus. But life is often odd.

  Meanwhile, he shook his mind free of thought and enjoyed the pleasant drive back to his rectory at St. Hilary’s.