“Look at this day! God’s glory shines down on us!”
“It is nice,” she said, wishing she could string together a flowery phrase as he did so effortlessly and knowing she never could.
“It’s more than nice,” he said. “Here I’ve been drowning in depression, taking no advantage of these precious days of sunshine, when the Talmud tells us that man shall be called to account for every permitted pleasure he failed to enjoy. Do I want to be called to account for that?”
The Father was such a caution. He wouldn’t be called to account for anything. She smiled at him. “No, Father, certainly not.”
“Then how about if we go on a picnic together and celebrate this day? You’ve done enough for our guest’s room. I’m sure he’ll be very happy.”
She tried to object, but he overrode her. “Rose, the man’s been living in a hut with no floor in western Brazil for three years. I think our guest room will be fine.”
“What about the fathers’ lunches?” she asked, although a picnic sounded like her idea of heaven.
Father rolled his eyes as he sometimes did, too polite to laugh at her. “We’ll write a note,” he said. “They’ll make do, I’m sure.”
So now the sandwiches were made-mortadella and Swiss with the hot peppers Father liked on fresh sourdough rolls. She made two for him and one for herself, though she didn’t think she could eat the whole thing. She put several dills in a big Zip-lock bag with some of the brine, and there was leftover potato salad in the fridge. They’d pick up some cold beer for Father on the way out to the park-that’s where he thought they’d go, rowing out on Stow Lake-and a soft drink for herself.
Through the kitchen window, she saw Father coming from the garage, far out across the asphalt at the back edge of the wide parking lot. He still walked heavily, as though he carried the cares of the world with him on his shoulders. And in a sense, she thought, he probably did. The picnic would do him good, would get his mind off the Cochrans and the sadness of the past couple of weeks.
And she wouldn’t be an old stick-in-the-mud, either. She could tease him along and get him laughing, and that’s what he needed now-a dose of the carefree, a couple of beers, a day in the sunshine.
She turned back to pack the basket.
“So how’re we coming?”
Lord, he had come in so quietly. It startled her.
“I’m sorry, Rose. Did I scare you?”
She was too jumpy, turning into an old woman. Well, today she wouldn’t be-it wouldn’t be fair to Father, and that was that.
“You never mind me,” she said. “Can you think of anything else?”
He raised his eyebrows in anticipation, going over the items in the basket. Then, remembering something, he snapped his fingers. “The note.”
Rose opened the drawer nearest the sink and got out her yellow pad, but Father shook his head. “Let’s use some real paper.” He winked at her. “Give our guest the right impression.” With that he disappeared back into the house, reappearing a moment later rubbing his eyes.
“Rose, I’ve got something in my eye. Would you mind writing it? I’ll dictate.”
Rose sat at the table, taking the nice piece of white bond that Father offered. “Fathers,” he said, and she began writing in her big round hand. “I’m sorry I’ll miss you. Rose and I are going on a hot date-”
“Father,” she said, clucking with pleasure.
“We’ll be back in time for dinner,” he continued, “but you’ll have to make do for lunch. Father Paul, welcome to San Francisco.” He looked over her shoulder. “Perfect, Rose. Now, just let me sign it.”
He took the pen and quickly scribbled his name at the bottom.
It was an old two-car garage. In the seventies they’d put up drywall, redone the old pockmarked benches and insulated the roof. Since kids from the school had taken to using the garage as a place to sneak cigarettes (and who knew what else), they had replaced the old side door with a new, solid one that locked with a deadbolt. They had never gone for the electric garage-door opener. Cavanaugh had joked that he couldn’t see Jesus using it.
But now the old garage door, while sealing completely enough when it was closed, sagged badly when it was open and occasionally would slam of its own accord after being opened because of its weakened springs.
Father and Rose strolled out across the parking lot. On the other side of the school building children were laughing. They could hear them in their next to last day of school taking their morning recess, and Father flashed Rose the slightly guilty smile of a kid playing hooky. He carried the basket and opened the car door for Rose.
“Whew!” he said, fanning himself with his hand. “A little sticky, isn’t it?”
He crossed behind the car and got in the driver’s seat. “Let’s get some air in here.” He rolled down all the car’s windows with the automatic button. “All right,” he said, and smiled across at his housekeeper. “Ready?”
He turned on the engine.
“Oh, look at that, would you?”
He wheeled halfway around in his seat.
“What’s that, Father?”
“Look at the sag on that door.”
“Oh, it’s always that way.”
“I know, but I’d just hate to have it come down on the car’s roof while we’re pulling out.”
He pulled the keys from the ignition, leaving the car running. “Let me just make sure.
He went outside behind the car and pulled on the door, letting it slam to the ground. The springs resonated inside. He lifted the door slightly, slamming it down again, and again. As the springs rang out, he threw the bolt that locked the door, then pulled against it a couple of times for the effect.
“Rose!” he called out.
“Yes, Father.”
“The door seems to be stuck. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“All right. Now, just don’t panic. I’ve got the keys to the deadbolt just back in the rectory, and I’ll be right back.”
He turned and began walking slowly across the parking lot. Recess had ended. The kids were back in class.
Father had said not to panic, and she’d resolved she was not going to be an old woman, not today when Father so badly needed some surcease from his cares.
Still, it was a little scary sitting here in the darkened garage, the car’s motor running. But she would not panic. There was nothing to do anyway except wait, and Father would be back within a couple of minutes. She knew where the deadbolt key was, hanging by the back door of the rectory. It shouldn’t take him long.
Well, it must seem like it’s taking longer than it should, because I’m jumpy, she thought. She talked out loud to herself. “Just calm down, Rose. Father said not to panic…”
She forced herself to take deep breaths. There, that was better. Big, deep breaths. She was getting so calm, it was almost silly. She supposed she should be worried a little. But there was no need to worry. Father would be back in just another second, and they’d go on their picnic. It would be a wonderful day, one they both needed.
She closed her eyes.
He really hadn’t any choice. With the other suspects eliminated, he couldn’t have taken the risk that she would have mentioned Monday night to anyone. She was the only one who could tie him in any way to Eddie’s death, and now, or-he looked at his watch -certainly within another ten minutes…
In the kitchen he took the note she had written and carefully tore the paper so that it broke off after her name. He put a period after the word “sorry.” The note now read: “Fathers. I’m sorry. I’m going to miss you. Rose.”
It would do.
He walked back to the library and placed the note on Father Dietrick’s chair. In the bathroom he touched a match to the rest of the note, held it for as long as he could while he watched the good bond curl into black ash. As the name neared his fingers he let go of the corner he held and flushed the toilet. He waited. When the toilet had finished, he wiped d
own the bowl with toilet paper and flushed it again.
He’d had to think fast when Rose had pulled out the yellow pad. It wouldn’t do to have secondary impressions of the note for someone to notice. The bond had been just the right answer.
There was a slight smell of smoke in the room, and he opened the bathroom window to get rid of it. He looked at his watch. It had only been twelve minutes. Rose was probably still alive.
It was important to establish his whereabouts and his calm. He did not feel like a man who was in the process of killing someone. He went out the side door of the rectory, crossed in front of the church and entered the school. In the office the principal’s secretary, an Indian woman named Mrs. Ranji, stood up to greet him.
He told her his usual joke and said he had just come by to see if there were any last details about the upcoming graduation he needed to know, and if there were any, to have Sister give him a call. Sitting at Sister’s desk, he proceeded to look over some correspondence, then asked Mrs. Ranji when the next period ended. She looked at the clock. Good. Fifteen minutes? No, that was too long to wait. He would check back with Sister later. He hummed loudly as he walked out.
Twenty-six minutes had passed. He went to the garage and opened the deadbolt, held his breath, and walked in. He flipped on the light at the switch by the door. Rose was still sitting up, propped by the door, looking like she was sleeping.
Moving quickly now, he took the picnic basket from behind the driver’s seat. He was running out of breath.
Outside again, with the basket, he stopped by the door, relocked it and looked back toward the school, then at the rectory. No sign of anybody. He crossed the lot.
Three sandwiches. One for him, one for Dietrick, and one for Father Paul. He unwrapped them and put them on a plate in the refrigerator. It was plausible, in character. Rose, planning to kill herself, might just have made sure she made lunch for the fathers first. He put the pickles back in the jar, washed out the Zip-lock bag and threw it in the garbage, scooped the potato salad back into the rest of it.
Breathing hard now, his nerves speaking, he once again began crossing the parking lot. About two-thirds of the way across, he called out Rose’s name. He started running toward the garage, and in what would look like a panic threw back the bolt, the picture of a man making a horrifying discovery. “Rose!” he called again.
Don’t forget to put the keys back in the ignition. He had to do that in any event to turn the car off, which is what he would do.
A final survey of the scene. He put his hand on Rose’s still-warm forehead. She had died peacefully-he was glad of that. He made the sign of the cross over her, giving her his blessing, last rites of sorts. Then he started jogging back to the house. He was surprised to find he was crying. But he didn’t try to stop himself. That was all right. Why shouldn’t he cry? And it would ring very true to the folks at 911.
Chapter Thirty-two
STEVEN BELIEVED his mom was really trying.
After Dad and Jodie had left the house she came in and talked, or tried to talk, for a while. After she’d gone back out to her housework or whatever, he wondered what kind of teenager she’d been, if she had ever done anything like run away. It was the first time he’d thought of anything like that, and so it was a little hard to imagine-Mom screaming for Elvis Presley (as she said she’d done), or dating anybody but Pop.
Well, whatever she’d done, he was pretty sure it didn’t prepare her for him. She didn’t seem to be able to find a handle to grab on to, although Frannie’s pregnancy was as close as she’d gotten in a long while.
She sat on the bed, much the way Pop had done last night. He felt a little stronger and had managed a decent breakfast. She ran her hand through his spiky hair and asked him how he knew about Frannie.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I didn’t want to call her yet. She’ll tell us when she wants to.”
“Why wouldn’t she want to?”
His mom’s face clouded, as though trying to decide whether to tell him one of the adult secrets. As usual, she came down saying no. “I don’t know,” she did say. “There are reasons. It might just be too soon. But how did you find out?”
He’d thought about it this morning after he woke up. It had been Hardy, yesterday. He was telling him about Father Jim and about his pride, how he had kind of blamed himself for Eddie’s death because of talking Eddie into confronting his boss. Which was dumb. Eddie was going to do that anyway. He’d told Steven all about it the day before.
Anyway, once he got into it, Hardy was good at sounding like different people, and he did Father Jim pretty well. Of course, he had an easy voice-kind of regular, but the words he used in a certain way that Hardy caught the rhythm exactly. He spent a lot of time talking about Father Jim, even though he didn’t really have any part of it. But Father Jim was like that-he caught your attention.
Anyway, Hardy was “doing” Father and he said, “I sent Eddie off to slay the dragon. Do I think about his pregnant wife, whether he’s the man for the job? No, not the smart Jim Cavanaugh.” (That part sounded perfect, and Steven had laughed.) “I only see what a wonderful notion it is.” Then he goes: “My pride killed him.”
But in there-that’s where he’d heard about Frannie. It had been like Hardy was telling him part of another story, not really telling him. He tried to explain that to his mom, who wondered why Hardy hadn’t told her.
She put her hand up to her brow and said, “God.” He could see that she’d started thinking about Frannie now, or Eddie again. Her eyes were gone, out to the backyard, staring at nothing.
“Mom?”
He was going to say something like “It’s all right,” or, “I’m going to help,” though he knew it wasn’t and wasn’t sure how he could. She looked back to him, smiling with her mouth. So instead he asked if it was too early to have another pill.
He’d just have to go ahead and do it, whatever it turned out to be. Make his mom see he wasn’t going to be any more trouble. He’d have to do something that would help them all get over this, maybe forgive him for running away and making them deal with him when Eddie-naturally-was the hardest, most immediate thing.
He’d do something on his own. Something worthwhile, adult. Maybe then his mom would appreciate him. Love him…
Next time she came in was only a couple of minutes later, but he was sailing into oblivion pretty fast and almost couldn’t answer when she talked to him. Though she did come in and tell him about the call.
That’s what he was starting to see. She was trying. “Steven.”
Not faking at all, he had to use most of his strength to open an eye.
“That was Mr. Hardy on the phone.”
He hadn’t even heard it ring and it was right there, next to his bed. “He says yes, Frannie’s pregnant.”
“Maybe he’ll look like Eddie.”
He meant it as a good thought, but he saw when he said it that it kind of hurt her. She leaned against the doorsill, then walked the few steps over and plumped herself down on his bed again. “I hope so,” she said. It was like she was forcing herself to talk. “He also”-she stopped and rubbed at her eyes-“he also said that neither one of the suspects killed Eddie.”
He didn’t think anything could pull him out of the haze the pills created, but that almost did. Suddenly he was nearly awake. “How could that be?”
She hunched down over her shoulders. “They were all someplace else, I guess.” Then he heard her say… “I guess Eddie didn’t love us that much. As much as we thought.”
“What do you mean, Mom?”
“I mean, if he killed himself-”
“He didn’t kill himself. I know he didn’t.”
She had that blank look again, that empty stare. She tousled his hair and kissed him on the forehead. “You try to get some sleep.” She got up and turned to the door.
“Mom.”
She stopped and faced him.
“He
didn’t.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding her head. “Okay.”
It came to him. That’s what he’d do. He’d find out who had killed Eddie. Never mind Hardy or the cops. They were obviously dildoes who didn’t know Eddie the way he had known him. He’d find out the truth, all on his own, and then his mom at least would know Eddie hadn’t deserted him. That might get her started back to being alive.
Hardy hung up and shook his head.
He hadn’t called Erin to talk about Frannie’s pregnancy, and he was mad at himself for having let that out to Steven. How had he been so careless and at the same time so obtuse? No wonder he’d blocked it out for so long.
Cavanaugh had referred to Frannie as pregnant, and even after mimicking his damned voice to Steven, Hardy hadn’t put it together. The point was, how could Cavanaugh have known about the pregnancy if he hadn’t seen Eddie after Frannie had told him, which was the night he’d been killed? Which meant he’d lied about seeing him Sunday. It had been Monday.
He closed his eyes, really pumping now. He’d only slept five hours, but it didn’t matter. Things were falling into place.
The gun had bothered him a lot, and he’d stood in front of his desk from dawn until about an hour ago, drinking two full pots of espresso and throwing darts until it had come to him. The gun drive. Sixties liberal mania. Cavanaugh had collected some hundreds of unregistered guns. And what he’d done, of course, was to hold out on one or two of them. And the cops who were monitoring the thing-even the good ones like Abe-would never think that a priest would use a clean-the-streets gun drive to build his own arsenal. I mean, why would it occur to anyone to check that? But, Hardy was now certain, it was what Cavanaugh had done.
What he’d called Erin for was to ask her the exact date she and Ed had gotten married. That was a little bit of a wild hair, he knew, but it might tie in with something else that had occurred to him, something he needed to go back and check out before he went to see Glitsky.
If they’d already burned up three suspects, he’d better have the next one, the real one, trussed up and ready to carve. Glitsky might have been hot to get whoever’d done Eddie, but he would be a fool to risk his career on another hunch of a civilian. Now Hardy felt he owed him the collar for all the help he’d given him, but he knew he’d have to do it all, then call for the troops.
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