Pilar answered the door when he knocked. Her smile wrinkled the corners of her eyes.
“Padre! Bienvenidos!” She paused a minute to switch linguistic gears, then added, “Come in! It is cold, come in!” She stood aside.
Father Matt hesitated. He saw the snow shovel by the door and remembered that, although there were plenty of adults in the house these days, all of them were women. “In a minute, Pilar. I came to beg some food. Monsignor ate my stew and I’m hungry. Will you feed me if I shovel your walk?”
Pilar clucked her tongue and shook her head, but she was smiling. “Si! Thank you. I will make something nice.” She flicked a switch to illuminate the big porches that surrounded the house and disappeared.
Shoveling snow made the ache in his forearms worse, but it dispelled his irritation at Monsignor Jamais. He carried on an internal conversation with each swish of the shovel, cascading arguments over each other as he tossed the snow aside. By the time he was finished, he was sweating underneath his coat, the pain in his shoulders was gone, and he was ashamed of himself, even as he knew that something had to change in his living arrangements. I guess it isn’t enough to want to do something noble, he thought to himself. I just can’t do this anymore. I’ll call Bishop Herlihy in the morning. The thought of having to go back on his word churned his stomach and made him toss the last shovel of snow into the wind, so that it blew back onto the porch.
I’ll come again in the morning, he thought, as he watched the snow blur the sharp edges of his work. He leaned the shovel against the door, knocked the snow off his boots, and went into the warm house.
He knew his way to the kitchen. The sitting room was empty but strewn with toys instead of books as it had been when Jane was in residence with the rest of them. He could hear the sounds of a television from the den in the back of the house. The children, he supposed, were asleep. He was intruding into the only quiet time this house ever saw. I won’t stay long, he promised himself.
Pilar led him to one of the chairs around the granite island and placed a heaping plate of rice, beans, and shredded beef in front of him. “Ropa vieja,” she told him. “Because we cook the meat so long, it falls apart, like old clothes.” She handed him a fork, and he dug in without remembering to grace the food. A small plate of hot flour tortillas materialized at his right side and a cold beer on his left. Pilar sat with him as he ate his fill in silence. When he was done, he prayed thanksgiving for a good meal. He looked up to find Pilar signing herself even as he did.
“Amen!” she said. “So the small priest, he ate your food?”
Father Matt felt his cheeks flush. “He did. I got angry and left him there alone. I should get back. He isn’t well.”
Pilar smiled at him. “No. He is not. My husband was like that before he died. Forgetful, demanding. Like a child again, only not a child, so it was much harder. He would not learn to get better, only worse. It made me very angry.” She cocked her head and regarded Farther Matt for a long moment, then reached across to brush a stray curl off his forehead. The intimacy of the gesture shocked him, and he drew back.
“Hijo,” she said. “You cannot help being angry. But he cannot help who he is, either. He is just a man, now becoming a small boy again. Soon he will be no more than a baby, and then he will be gone.” She stood up and reached across the expanse of granite to clear the dishes. From the sink, her back to him, she added, “You are always welcome here. So is he. Desgracia compartida, menos sentida. You understand?”
“Sorrow shared is halved. Yes, I do,” he answered. “Thank you, Pilar. I had better get back to check on Monsignor. I’ll come by to do the walk again in the morning. It will need it.”
“Muchas gracias,” she said, turning from the sink and pushing a stray gray hair away with the back of her hand. “Come for breakfast. Bring the priest. I will feed you both.”
Pilar turned back to the sink to finish the dishes. Father Matt let himself out.
The walk back was easier in part because the plow had come by and cleared the street, in part because the meal had mended his bad temper for the time being. He would apologize to Monsignor Jamais in the morning, but he’d call the bishop all the same. No one would blame him, least of all, the bishop. He had tried. God knew, he had tried.
He glanced at his watch as he mounted the stairs, surprised at how late it was. It was almost ten. Dinner had not taken so long; shoveling snow had made him lose track of time. The kitchen light was on, and he could see a gleam from the bedroom.
“Good, he’s still awake. I don’t have to wait until morning.” He knocked softly on the door. “Monsignor?”
No reply. He knocked again, louder and raised his voice. “Monsignor?” Still no reply. He eased the door open and drew in a sharp breath.
Monsignor Jamais was slumped in the easy chair in the corner of the room. The glass that had held the scotch was tipped over on the side table alongside an open pill bottle, the contents of which were strewn across the table and onto the floor. He picked it up, some sort of sleeping pill, prescribed by a Dr. Brownmiller.
Father Matt covered the distance in two long strides, dialing 911 as he went.
***
It took only three paces to cover the length of the waiting room at the clinic. Father Matt lost count of the times he stepped off the distance, to and fro, as he fingered the beads of his rosary, waiting for some word about Monsignor Jamais. He rounded the beads over and over for his health and healing, even as his mind was a jumble of thoughts.
He had the presence of mind to collect the pills and bring them along. It was a prescription for sleeping pills, from the expensive clinic at the end of town. He recognized the name of the doctor, Jennie Brownmiller. The name of the drug sent a chill down his back. It was one prominently mentioned in the Proserpine literature as an effective means of a quiet death. He wondered how the Monsignor had gotten the prescription in the first place. What on earth had been going on? He felt a pain of guilt as sharp as the pain between his shoulder blades. An old, demented man needed care, not just a bed.
And it’s probably my fault, he thought. Please God, don’t let him die because of me. Not even a beat of his heart before the unwelcome thought surfaced in the wake of concern. But it would make life so much easier if he did. He increased his pace and fingered his beads with a vengeance.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
January 15
“Father Matt!” I shook his shoulder gently, and his brown eyes struggled open.
He was draped across a green chair in the waiting room of the clinic, his long legs sprawled out before him and his head tipped back at an impossible angle, snoring. He must have been exhausted.
He sat up rubbing the back of his neck; it had to be sore. “Jane? What are you doing here?”
“I heard Monsignor was sick.” I refrained from explaining that I heard from my office staff; I had gone home after settling Mike at the Center, still in a sour mood from my discoveries about Sadie and in no mood for company, not even the children who were the usual antidote to my bad temper. I ate a solitary dinner in the kitchen and retreated to my study with apologies to all. I was into my fourth hour of cooking competition shows — having temporarily given up on the idea of sleep as a bad business — when I got a text from Lucy to meet her at the office. Given the hour, a few minutes before midnight, I figured it must be important. She met me at the door with the news that they had a drug screen from the Center, positive for barbiturates, prescribed by Dr. Brownmiller according to the submission slip. The patient was one Augustine Jamais.
It was a clear violation of privacy laws that could cost me and my staff a great deal of money and aggravation should any of the local A.C.L.U. types with an attitude get wind of it, which is why she told me in person. Lucy knows when and how to play fast and loose with the rules, especially mine. It was what I expected from my staff. Medicine — even the forensic kind — runs on the fuel of judicious gossip. As, I suppose, does life.
It also concerned m
e that he had taken the same sort of pill found in Proserpine’s literature and prescribed by a physician I had seen at the Proserpine open house. Just too odd to be mere coincidence, though I rationalized it by reminding myself that an unsettling percentage of my medical colleagues supported what they called “assistance in dying.” And given that there were so few physicians in Telluride, was it really that surprising to see one at Proserpine? And that didn’t necessarily mean support for their program; after all, Father Matt and I had been there, too.
My mental contortions left me reeling, but in spite of them, I supposed that the same sense that told Lucy that Monsignor’s overdose wasn’t what it appeared to be made me worry it wasn’t so simple, either.
Father Matt’s face contorted. “I think he overdosed on sleeping pills. It’s my fault, Jane.” I watched him will himself out of his sleepiness to speak. “It was my fault,” he repeated.
I doubted that but said nothing.
“I lost it with him, Jane. He’s just so impossible. I came home and he’d eaten my dinner, and I…” He paused again. “I yelled at him. I told him I was moving out, that he was…” Father Matt swallowed. “Anyway, I left in a huff. When I came back, he was passed out. He’d had scotch and took a mess of pills.”
I’d seen the numbers. A couple or three, not a mess. Perfectly understandable in a man who couldn’t remember from one minute to the next what he had done. Still, especially with his age, it was no laughing matter. Both barbiturates and alcohol depressed the central nervous system, and the combination could be deadly, even in relatively small doses. Many a bored wife in the sixties died accidentally from taking the same sort of medication with martini chasers. When we were out of earshot of the clinic staff, I’d tell Father Matt so. For the meantime, I just took his hand in mine and asked, “Any word?”
He shook his head and then looked at his watch. “It’s been five hours. I guess it’s a good sign.”
“Very,” I answered. “Only one glass of scotch?”
Father Matt looked at me as though I had lost my mind. “As far as I know,” he answered. “But it was a stiff one. I guess he likes scotch, though I have no idea where it came from. I only keep bourbon. No idea about the pills, either.” His voice was glum.
It sounded like the good monsignor had been wandering. The scotch was easy enough; there was a liquor store in town. The sleeping pills with Jennie Brownmiller’s name on the prescription meant he must have been seen at the Regent Clinic at the edge of town, a long walk but not beyond his capacity. I could follow up on that later, but it was typical of the alternating confusion and capacity of Alzheimer’s in the early days. I recalled an old uncle who could not remember much of anything on a regular basis but could find the local bar if you dropped him blindfolded in the middle of Alaska in a snowstorm at midnight.
I did a quick mental calculation. Assuming the good monsignor didn’t have any serious health problems — he looked healthy as a horse, except for being pleasantly balmy from time to time — he was probably just sleeping it off with the added benefit of a pumped stomach, a little nasal oxygen, and an IV. I was about to say as much when Clive Rivers, the newest addition to the local primary care practice, came through the swinging doors that led to the treatment rooms. He greeted me with a smile. “Hi, Jane! What brings you here?”
“Just keeping a friend company,” I nodded in Father Matt’s direction. I knew from the relaxed look on Clive’s boyish face that the news was good, but Father Matt was too tired and distracted to connect the dots. He stood up quickly, anxiety in his very bearing.
“Is he going to be okay?” He blurted out the words.
Clive smiled. “Sure. He was never in much danger, really. The drug levels weren’t too high and neither was the alcohol. You got him here fast, good for you. He’s out cold, sure enough, but he’ll be fine as soon as he sleeps it off. Which,” he added, “will be a while. We came out to tell you earlier, but you were sound asleep yourself. The nurse didn’t want to wake you. Then we got busy with another case — figured you could use the sleep if you were snoozing on those chairs.” Clive paused, expecting a reply, but Father Matt just stood there, eyes closed, fists clenched, for a long minute. Prayer, I suspected. Thanksgiving that this was just a near miss. When he opened his eyes, he smiled one of those determined smiles that bespeaks a monumental attempt to maintain equilibrium in the face of disaster.
“Thank you, Doctor. When can I take him home?” There was an odd note in Father Matt’s voice I didn’t recognize.
“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? We’ll keep him here for a few more hours just to be sure he is okay. It will take a while for the drugs and alcohol to pass out of his system.” Clive paused. “I take it your friend has Alzheimer’s?”
“Or something. He’s not himself. Forgetful.”
“He has trouble sleeping?”
“Some. At night. He sleeps fine during the day.”
“I’m a little surprised Jenny didn’t prescribe him something lighter. He’s going to be okay this time, but barbiturates are not a good choice for older patients, never good for demented ones. It’s too easy for them to overdose, especially when they aren’t closely supervised. I’d get rid of it if I were you and ask for something less…problematic. Do you have help?”
I saw Matt flush. “I didn’t think I needed any. I didn’t think he was that bad. I thought he was just…” His voice trailed off. “…annoying,” he finished weakly.
“Get some,” Clive advised. He looked in my direction. “I expect Dr. Wallace can help you find someone appropriate.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “Still got a few hours before morning clinic. I’m going to catch some winks. I suggest you do the same. Come back in a couple of hours, and we’ll have Mr. Jamais packed and ready to go.” He waved a casual goodbye and walked back through the swinging doors. I suspected the winks would be grabbed in an empty exam room rather than back at his down-valley home.
I regarded Father Matt, feeling slightly guilty myself that I’d been so tied up in my own problems that I had not seen the crisis brewing at the rectory. Two men in a one-bedroom apartment with no help. It was a wonder it hadn’t blown up in Father Matt’s face before this.
I clapped him on his shoulder. “Let’s get you home. We’ll sort this all out in the morning.” I stopped when I saw the look on his face.
“I can’t go back there just now, Jane,” he said in a quiet voice.
I shrugged. “Fair enough. The Victorian Inn always has a spare room. Let’s go. My treat. You need some sleep, and so do I. I’ll ask Pilar to come by and collect the monsignor. She can look after him for a while. He’ll love it. You sleep until you wake up.” Before he had a chance to protest, I added, “That’s an order,” and held his coat open for him. He slid his arms in without a word, pulled on his bright mittens, and followed me out the door.
I settled him into his room, but instead of heading home, I went to my office. I had a lot to think about. It was possible that this was just an accident, and given Monsignor’s performance at the Proserpine open house, I could not imagine him taking the combination of alcohol and sleeping pills with the intent to end his life. But it bothered me that an otherwise very competent, if abrasive, physician had prescribed an unsuitable drug to an old man. Perhaps I was getting paranoid, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t her attempt to set up a situation that, sooner or later, would rid the community of a troublesome old man that had marred Proserpine’s debut into polite, Telluride society.
Jennie Brownmiller and I were going to have a talk as soon as the clinic opened. Until then, I could catch up on some work. I switched on the computer, but the last few days caught up with me. It wasn’t long before I was asleep on the green leather couch.
***
“Tell me again, Matthew. Where are we going?”
Father Matt took Monsignor Jamais’ arm to help him over a patch of ice. The storm was past, and the late afternoon su
n made the snow sparkle. “To see some friends, Monsignor. Some women. You’ve met Jane Wallace. She is one of them. She has room in the house for you and would be honored to have you stay; she told me so this morning. I think it might be more comfortable for you than the rectory apartment. It’s so small.” Monsignor had been there with Matt several times but had no recollection of it. Father Matt supposed he hadn’t had time to fix it in his memory.
Jane came up with the wild idea that Monsignor Jamais needed to be staying with her rather than at the rectory. A wild idea that somehow he was now trying to make happen.
“Indeed, it is small, Matthew. A priest deserves good quarters, you know. Your parish ought to provide you better.”
All I would have to do is ask, thought Matt. “It’s fine for me, and it’s not a wealthy parish. There are so many more important needs.”
Monsignor looked at him quizzically. “I never took you for a Franciscan, dear boy. There’s nothing wrong with comfortable living.”
“Which is why I am taking you by to see these ladies. They have a guest suite that might suit you very well.” It had taken some fast talking to get the bishop to consider the idea. One of his priests residing in a house full of women? Unthinkable! Think of the scandal. He volunteered to send someone out to fetch his errant cleric back home to be cared for there. Only when Jane had intervened — God bless her for calling him — with her excellent persuasive skills, not the least of which was the fact that she would be footing the bill for his care, did the bishop relent.
“I suppose an assisted living facility is an appropriate setting at this point,” he had said, closing the conversation with a demand for regular reports. Matt supposed Jane would do some fancy legal footwork to get the necessary permissions in place, sooner or later, to placate the bishop.
Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2) Page 13
