“Since some of my parts seemed to be missing, I tried to compensate by working on some of the others. And I turned to God—seriously, for the first time. My life seemed to be waning, and I figured it was high time to get acquainted with the old guy, so I turned to Him. But, Mark”—her voice drops to a whisper—“He wasn’t there.”
“Of course not,” Manning answers softly, shaking his head with the knowing smile of disappointment that accompanies the discovery of a fact that was long suspected and at last admitted.
“So I came to Assumption as an act of faith.” She resumes her story with a clear, unemotional voice. “Were you raised Catholic? Remember the ‘Act of Faith’? It was a prayer—one of many we memorized—they had one for Hope, too, and another for Charity. For a child, an act of faith is the recitation of words. You feel good and holy when you finally get those words letter-perfect. But for an adult, it’s different. Acts of faith have to be acts, not words, so I came here—simply because I believed that life in Assumption would restore the peace and certainties I knew as a child. It has not. It has slowly begun to confirm my doubts.”
Manning tells her, “Confirmation of a doubt is another kind of certainty, isn’t it? There’s greater peace of mind in truly knowing something than there is in merely believing otherwise.”
“You seem to take comfort in shattered beliefs, Mark—I wish I could. Have you ever felt a label slipping away? Have you ever known the kind of torment that makes a person want to flee—to fly—to take flight from the confusion in search of a dream?”
“I flew to Phoenix just as you did,” Manning tells her. “And believe it or not, when I got on that plane in Chicago two days ago, it never crossed my mind that I might be sitting here talking to you now.”
“Then why did you come?”
“I flew here for many of the same reasons that you did. I, too, was fleeing doubts and uncertainties of the past. I, too, felt a label slipping away and came in search of something.”
“I hope you find it, Mark.”
“I already have.”
“Then you’re a lucky man.”
“I know I am.”
Manning radiates an infectious joy. In the quiet moments that follow, Helen gazes at her visitor with a wondering stare. Manning finally says to her, “I can understand why you came here, but why all the secrecy? Why the disappearance, the new identity?”
“You’ve met Father Carey back at Saint Jerome’s,” she says. “I’m sure he told you that our friendship was rocky by the time I left. I’d convinced myself that the greed I saw in him—which was probably unfair of me—was a symptom of all the changes the church had been through. So I was intrigued by the community that was forming out here in Assumption, thinking that the return to our old ways of worship would automatically bring with it a purity—an escape from materialism.”
Manning asks, “How did you first learn about Assumption?”
She pauses uncomfortably before telling him, “It was in the papers a bit at the time, but I first heard about it in a letter … from Jamie.” Her body tenses. Abe, snoozing in her lap, opens a cautious eye.
Manning looks up from his notebook. “Who?”
“I suppose this will come as news to you, Mark. Jamie—Father James McMullen—is my brother.”
Stunned, Manning thinks aloud, “Margaret said there were twins at home …”
“There were,” Helen assures him. “James and Bertrand. They went away to high school, to the seminary, to study for the priesthood together. But something bad happened, and Bertrand died. Jamie changed schools—even his last name—it was such a scandal at the time. Margaret and I never got the whole story; it was all hush-hush at home.”
Abe stands, stretching. With his rump aimed at Helen’s face, he swipes his tail beneath her chin.
She continues, “I knew that Jamie was later ordained, but then many years passed without hearing from him, until Ridgely died. The inheritance was in the news, and I was starting to get some publicity myself as a breeder. Jamie wrote to express condolences about Ridgely and to tell me of his involvement with Cardinal L’Évêque and The Society. This interested me—because of my troubles at Saint Jerome’s—so I struck up a correspondence with Jamie and eventually bought into the whole idea. I decided I wanted to come here, as if ‘on retreat,’ hoping to nourish my faith.”
She leans forward. “But it had to be a secret.” Abe is now scrunched between her chest and her lap, so he hops to the floor. “I couldn’t just waltz out here announcing who I was, flaunting my wealth to everyone—I was trying to escape the influence of my money. I had never told Margaret that Jamie had written in the first place because I thought it might confuse or upset her, so planning the disappearance proved no great challenge. I needed some help, though, and Jerry Klein was there for me. He may strike some folks in the business world as timid and ineffectual, but let me tell you, he’s a whiz with the numbers, so no one stood a chance of tracing my finances—good thing he’s so honest, and he’s as loyal as they come. He keeps me comfortable here, and he got some cash to Arthur Mendel a couple of months ago so he could hire a lawyer—I understand that she’s a good one, Mark, that she’s a friend of yours.”
Manning nods, recalling the incident. Abe has circled Manning’s chair and now nuzzles his shin. While turning a page in his notebook, Manning gives the cat a quick rub behind the ears.
Helen says, “So Jerry Klein and Jamie are the only ones who know that I’m here. But Jerry has no idea that I’m related to Jamie—no one knows that, except for you. The people in town, they don’t know what to make of me. I don’t seem to ‘fit,’ that’s for sure, and I know there’s a lot of talk that I must have money, but they don’t know the details. Morals are pretty strict here, so nobody has a television set—only Jamie and me—because they think it’s evil. They haven’t seen or heard enough from the outside world to put two and two together. They certainly have no idea there’s a second will.”
With heightened interest, Manning asks, “What do you mean?”
“That’s the whole point, Mark. I have no intention of letting Father Carey and his boss, Archbishop Benedict, get their greedy paws on Ridgely’s fortune. I came out here in search of a suitable, deserving beneficiary, and in my early days here, I was convinced that I found one—the Society for the Restoration of the Faith. About a year after I arrived, I drew up a new will with Jamie, leaving to The Society everything that was previously going to the Chicago Archdiocese. The plan was simple: After seven years passed and I was declared dead, Jamie would present the new will, the money would go to the townspeople of Assumption and to Cardinal L’Évêque, and I could peacefully live out my latter years in anonymity.”
She frowns, sitting back in her chair. “Ultimately, of course, I’ve always had another option. I could pack up my bags anytime, crate up the cats, and go home—retreat ended, mystery solved, all wills null and void. In my early years here, that possibility seemed remote at best, but lately, I confess, I’ve had doubts. There’s been trouble in paradise, with splinter groups bickering about everything from dogma to doughnuts. These people have shaken my faith in their community. They’ve shaken my faith … in faith.”
Helen pauses in thought, then leans toward Abe, still stationed near Manning’s feet. She beckons the cat with her fingers, he approaches, and she lifts him into her lap.
She says, “Seven years must sound like a long time for a woman of my age to be examining her conscience, but I’ve been in no hurry. I have little else to do, other than breed my Abbies, and I can do that here as well as anywhere. I’m sorry that my going away has created such a fuss for so many people, and I truly regret that it’s been so hard on my sister, but there was simply no other way for me to do it.
“It’s been a selfish experiment, I admit, but I don’t think I’ve done anything criminal. The money is mine, you know, and I have the right to tie it up any way I wish. My bills and taxes get paid. I haven’t defrauded anyone. I haven’t even li
ed about my name, not really. Helena Carter or Helen O’Connor—what’s the difference?—they’re both me. My name’s even in the phone book, but no one ever bothered to look me up.”
Manning breaks into laughter. “What a story, Helen! No one would ever believe it—except that it’s true. What will you do now?”
“You mean now that I’ve been discovered? I suppose that depends on you, Mark.”
Manning is jarred by the recognition of what a profound role his own actions will now play in this woman’s life. Awkwardly, he tells her, “I plan to do some writing about you—I hope that doesn’t disturb you. Please understand that my finding you here is a far bigger story than most reporters ever get a chance at. I can’t force you to go back home—I don’t even especially want to—you’re free to remain here as long as you wish. But yes, Helen, I’ll surely write about your being here.”
“And collect the half million,” she adds with a wink, apparently not the least offended by the notion.
Taken aback by her reference to the reward—all the more by her cheery indifference to it—he shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts, then tells her, “I have no intention of claiming that money.”
“Oh, pfoo!” she says, eyes rolling in disbelief.
He repeats, “I have no intention of claiming it—simply because I have no claim to it. The money is yours—you’ve already said that—not mine to claim and not the court’s to give away. I realize that by remaining silent you’ve passively agreed to the court’s offer, but I will not force you to pay me for something—finding you—when all you’ve wanted is to be left alone. That’s not a fair exchange. I haven’t earned anything. To take your money under those circumstances would be theft. There’s a moral order that has nothing to do with law or even religion, and I will not be indicted by it.”
Astounded by his words, she asks, “But, Mark—what will you have to show for all your work, your patience, your insight?”
“The story, Helen. I’ll have the story, and I’ve earned it. I won’t take your money because it’s yours, but if you asked me very kindly not to print another word about you, I’d refuse, because the story’s mine.”
“This ‘story’ sounds like slim reward for your efforts.”
He chuckles. “You don’t seem to understand how obsessed middle America has become with your disappearance. Of all those who’ve written about you—and everyone’s doing it—I’m the only one who hasn’t cried for the blood of your murderer, who hasn’t jumped to conclusions and wailed that the public interest be served. Well, damn their conclusions and damn their public interest—I was right, and now they’ll know it. You call that ‘pride’? You bet it is—it’s the driving force that can take me to the top of my profession and snatch a Partridge Prize. You call that ‘vanity’ or perhaps even ‘lust’? So be it. Others are free to fret about their own deadly sins, but not mine. The slightest amount of clear, unclouded thought tells me this: The last shall never be first, and the meek shall inherit nothing—unless they seize control of their lives and respond to the dictates of reason.”
Manning has delivered his words with conviction, giving substance to his innermost thoughts—but without bitterness, not meant to affront the woman sitting across from him. His words, however, have hit Helen like a slap—not from the hand of a malicious aggressor, but from that of a friend attempting to revive her from a lifelong stupor.
“Years ago,” Manning remembers, speaking as if to no one, “I was arguing about something with a friend. I was losing, so I dragged God into it—as people often do when logic fails—and I ranted that God would punish this or that. I can’t even recall now what the object of the argument was, but I’ll never forget the heated reaction of my friend. He looked me square in the eye and told me, ‘God is bullshit, and you know it.’ His comment enraged me, but not because of its vulgarity or sacrilege. No, it was the second part of his statement, the words he tacked onto the end: And you know it. Sure thing. I did.”
Manning ponders the weight of his own reflections while Helen sits motionless, her eyes fixed on him, her mind immersed in the issue he has bared so bluntly. Though his words still ring painfully in her ears, she is moved by the mere sight of him—a man at peace with himself, guiltless and confident, in tune with the powers of his own mind. Abe, perhaps offended by the discussion, has leapt to the floor and now saunters out of the room.
“Mark,” Helen says at last, breaking the silence, “I understand how important my story is to you, and you’re right—the story’s yours, you’ve earned it. But may I ask you a very big favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Wait just a short while longer before you print it. You see, I’ve nearly accomplished what I came here for. From the start, my move to Assumption was meant as a journey to some further destination. I’m almost there. And your visit today has forced a lot of thoughts. But these are thoughts that demand careful consideration, and you’ve taken me by surprise. If you print my story at once, everything will be pulled out from under me. One way or the other, my life will change radically—I’ve known that all along. But I won’t be prepared for that change until I’ve put to rest the questions I came here to answer. Mark, please wait a few days, a week at most. By then, my course will be clear. And I promise you this: I’ll share my every thought with you, I’ll talk to no other reporter, and I’ll let it be known that you found me. Here and now, I’ll sign any statement you want. Just wait a few days before you publish anything, and I promise to cooperate so fully that you won’t have space enough to print it all.”
He knows he can trust her, and she is savvy enough to guess that her “exclusive” would entice even the most hard-boiled of reporters. She raises one eyebrow in an impish expression that asks, Well … how ’bout it?
He mirrors her grin. “Okay, Helen. Sounds like a fair exchange. I’ve got some personal business in Phoenix over the next couple of days that I don’t care to interrupt anyway. And that’ll give me time to work up a scorcher of a draft. But remember—I’m scheduled to testify in court next Wednesday. The questioning should focus on Arthur Mendel, but if they ask me what I know about you … well, I won’t lie under oath.”
“Of course not. I’d never expect that.”
He gives her two of his business cards, one for her to keep so that she will know how to reach him. “The other one is for me,” he says. “In case anything goes awry, could I ask you to sign and date it, please? Your phone number too.” She gladly obliges, and he returns the card to his wallet.
Closing his notebook, he bids farewell to the woman. They exchange a friendly embrace and offer each other words of encouragement for the difficult days that will follow. “I fly back to Chicago on Monday,” he says. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
He returns to the car, starts the engine, and pulls away from the curb. Turning onto the main street, he follows the road out of town and is soon racing toward the interstate, his mind abuzz with the events of the day, anxious to relate his news to Neil. It is midafternoon, and the car is stiflingly hot—funny, he thinks while lowering his window. He remembers that he decided not to lock the car, but he cannot remember closing the windows.
Before long, he sees the main highway in the distance and begins to slow the car as he approaches the entrance ramp. From the corner of his eye, he detects some sort of movement on the passenger’s seat. Glancing sideways, he sees his jacket ripple. Then, from under the road map, peeps an inquisitive snake—a big one, judging from the size of its head. The jacket thrashes. The map rustles. The head slides across the seat toward the car’s center console.
Manning catches his breath. In a single, fluid motion, he jams harder on the car’s brakes, unlatches his seat belt, opens the door, and pitches himself onto the roadway. Hitting the pavement, he winces at the snap of his left arm beneath him.
Neil’s driverless car travels several hundred yards down the road before veering off the shoulder and somersaulting sideways into the sandy ditch.<
br />
Sunday, December 27
5 days till deadline
WITH HIS GOOD HAND, Manning fidgets with the controls of his hospital bed until he sits upright, facing the sheriff’s deputy. “Did they find it?”
“Yeah. Big fella, four-footer. Damnedest thing, though—it wasn’t from these parts, according to the snake guy at the zoo. Good thing, too—they’re real mean, poisonous. Can’t imagine how it ended up in your vehicle.”
“Somebody put it there,” Manning says testily, stating the obvious.
“Sure looks that way.” The deputy scribbles something on his clipboard, then clicks his ball-point and returns it to his breast pocket. “I wish we had more to go on, Mr. Manning. We’ll do what we can. You’ll probably hear from us after you get back to Chicago. When do you leave Phoenix?”
“Tomorrow, assuming the threatened air strike doesn’t muck things up. And assuming they let me out of here—the arm’s broken, apparently no complications—they kept me overnight for observation.”
“It’s a shame to ruin your Christmas trip with something like this. But count yourself lucky—if it hadn’t happened so near the main highway, you might still be laid-out on that back road.” Leaving the room, he turns in the doorway to give Manning a casual salute. “Take care now.”
Manning turns to Neil, who sits in a stiff chair wedged next to the bed, and says, “I feel just awful about your car.”
“Don’t worry about the car—it’s insured. The important thing, Mark, is that someone tried to kill you. Now that you’ve told me everything you learned yesterday, it’s clear there’s a lot at stake. Anything could happen. You’ve got to be careful.”
Flight Dreams Page 20
