“I don’t want to shock you. I said—”
“I know what you said. So you made her a good lay to capture me. So what? Why don’t you take care of yourselves?”
“You took the theology courses. You know we can’t act without human cooperation. That’s you, asshole.”
“Find someone else, moron.”
“You like losing your woman?”
“Doesn’t make any difference.”
“Bullshit.”
Then I realized I didn’t like losing. Period.
Pilots, man your planes!
I bounded out of bed, grabbed my flight jacket, rushed down the stairs and out into the cold January air. I piloted a protesting Roxinante at flight speed down Washington Boulevard to Union Station.
It was a clear late-winter afternoon. A waning full moon had risen above Lake Michigan. The demons were still there, lurking for the time they would be unchained.
If I remembered the schedule correctly, the Broadway Limited left in fifteen minutes.
Union Station was a great heartless smelly cavern even in those days when it was jammed with people. Like the station in Tucson, its aroma was a mix of stale water, human sweat, and diesel fuel, but all in much larger quantities.
A stinking cemetery, I thought, as I raced through it toward the gate from which the Broadway left, for dead hopes.
Would she be on the train already?
Or would she be waiting for me at the gate?
She was waiting.
“Sorry, Mag,” I said breathlessly, “I was late getting home and Joanne muffed the message. Congratulations on being a sister!”
“Allen Richard Ward.” She beamed. “Six pounds five ounces, mother and child doing nicely now. The little guy had some bad moments, so they baptized him on the spot. Sunday they’re going to fill in the ceremonies at the hospital.”
“Tell you what.” CAG One was flying on instincts now, fogged in and forced to trust the words that sprang to his lips, “Cancel your reservation, come out to River Forest and have supper with us, and you and I can fly down there tomorrow on United and spend the weekend. You can call from home.”
She was tempted. Oh, God in Heaven, was she tempted.
“I bought a one-way ticket, Jerry.”
“Easier to cancel.”
“They need me, all of them. I talked to Irene, my stepmother; she needs me worst of all.”
“You can do both, Maggie Ward,” I insisted as I held her upper arms, gently but firmly. “You can do anything you want. It’s only a couple of hours by plane. We’ll have the money to make it possible to spend time in both cities.”
“Philadelphia is my home, Jerry.”
“Were you ever as happy there as you were at our place on Christmas?”
“That’s unfair,” she bristled.
“All’s fair … and don’t tell me this isn’t love because it is.”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“Change it.”
The conductor was shouting “ ‘ll ‘board!”
“Why?”
“For me. You love me. Don’t try to pretend you don’t.” My grip on her became tight, fierce.
“You’re breaking my heart.”
“No, Maggie Ward. You’re breaking your own heart. And mine too.”
The conductor shouted again. The Broadway Limited was making chugging sounds, impatient to begin its mad race to Paoli and Thirtieth Street and then on to Pennsylvania Station in New York.
“Let me go, Jerry,” she begged. “I have to be on that train.”
But she didn’t struggle.
“No, you don’t. We can fly there tomorrow.”
“I want to be on that train. Please.”
“You’re saying no to me?” I released her. “You’re ending in one railroad station what began in another?”
Clever shot. She hesitated.
“I have to, Jerry. I have no choice.”
“Don’t give me that. You do too have a choice.”
“I must run.” She turned to the gate and lifted her bag.
“It’s a no to me, Maggie Ward?” I called after her.
Inside the gate, she turned to face me again and nodded.
No, Jerry Keenan. Thanks, but no thanks.
Well, I’d tried and that was that.
Her face a mask of pain, she lifted her hand in a half-wave, and then, lugging her familiar heavy bag, rushed to catch the impatient train.
I turned away and walked slowly through the massive cavern. I heard the Broadway Limited begin to move.
A broad-shouldered person in a trench coat with a gray fedora pulled down over his forehead glared at me with sad blue eyes.
You could fold wings up under that coat.
I ignored his sad eyes.
The Broadway Limited was bearing Maggie Ward out of my life. January 22, 1947. Six months to the day. Six months—I glanced at my watch—four o’clock in Tucson; six months and nine hours.
Her guilts and my hesitations had won.
EPILOGUE
MY WIFE RETURNED THE MANUSCRIPT OF THIS STORY WITH her usual spelling and punctuation corrections and her usual comment, “I don’t see how a man can become a distinguished jurist and a successful writer and not be able to punctuate.”
I had long ago given up defending myself, since no defense was ever accepted.
Further comments on the substance of the story were always available on request, but the unwritten rules that guide our peaceful coexistence is that we comment on the professional work of the other only when asked.
Heaven help me, however, if I should fail to ask!
So I asked at the lake the following weekend. We had the cottage to ourselves, the children and grandchildren blessedly busy in other activities. Even Biddy the water sprite.
We lay side by side in bed holding hands. Outside, the full moon flickered on the rippling waters. The horror was still chained, but as always still ready to break loose.
“What did you think of the new book?”
“I liked it a lot.” Squeeze of the hand. “Best yet, maybe.”
Who worried about The New York Times after that review.
“I don’t sound too garrulous?”
“You sound like a man looking back on his youth with perspective and respect. And a little wisdom, but not oppressive wisdom.”
Well.
“What didn’t you like?”
“I think you make yourself look like a nerd at the end.”
“Nerd?”
“Well, maybe only a wimp. A man who quit when he shouldn’t have quit.”
“I see.…” Now the next question in our scenario: “How do you think I should end it?”
“You’re too hard on yourself.” She ignored the question until she had finished her sermon. “I’ve told you that all along.”
“Without much effect.”
“I didn’t say that, but you are still too hard on yourself … why don’t you have him look at the sad eyes of that big blond trench-coat being once again and then chase the train just a moment too late. It pulls away before he can catch it.”
“Then?”
“Well, then he walks back to the terminal and there she is waiting at the door of the platform. He rushed by so quickly that he didn’t see her.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She looks shy and kind of frightened and all tired out and he says something real intelligent, like why didn’t she get on the train, and she says she couldn’t and might she please have just one more chance, and he says a couple of thousand, and she says one will do for the moment; then, though there is no reason to think he has to revert to caveman behavior, he picks her up and carts her off—his choice of words—to Roxinante, his car, you know.”
“I know.”
“Then he has to return to pick up her suitcase, about which he’d forgotten. She waits in the car, because she has nowhere else to go and, with her just one more chance, no desire to go there, anyway. And maybe she’
s found that being ‘carted around’ is sexually interesting.”
“Heavy suitcase.”
“Right.”
“You don’t think the reader will know that all happened. I mean, I kind of hint …”
“Not if you don’t tell her.”
“Or him.”
“Or him,” she agreed.
“Yeah.” I thought about it. “I could end it that way.”
“You’d be much nicer to him if you end it that way.”
“It might work. What about her? Am I too hard on that dreadful girl?”
“I don’t think so, poor confused child. How many times do I have to tell you that you always romanticize women?” She touched my cheek. “That’s all right. You’re sweet.” Her fingers remained, softly caressing. “Very sweet.” The caress became more tender. “Always have been.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
“I suppose,” she said with a sigh, the drawn-out martyr’s protest that usually accompanies her schemes to do what she wants to do, “you’re planning on that orgy I promised if you finished your book?”
“You’ve been reading my mind, Maggie Ward”—I drew her close to me—”since that day when we heard Bing Crosby sing ‘Ole Buttermilk Sky’ in the railroad station forty years ago next week.”
Still mystery, still gift, she yielded herself to me. But not without the last word.
“It was Hoagy Carmichael.”
About the Author
Priest, sociologist, author and journalist, Father Andrew M. Greeley built an international assemblage of devout fans over a career spanning five decades. His books include the Bishop Blackie Ryan novels, including The Archbishop in Andalusia, the Nuala Anne McGrail novels, including Irish Tweed, and The Cardinal Virtues. He was the author of over 50 best-selling novels and more than 100 works of non-fiction, and his writing has been translated into 12 languages.Father Greeley was a Professor of Sociology at the University of Arizona and a Research Associate with the National Opinion Research Center (NORC) at the University of Chicago. In addition to scholarly studies and popular fiction, for many years he penned a weekly column appearing in the Chicago Sun-Times and other newspapers. He was also a frequent contributor to The New York Times, the National Catholic Reporter, America and Commonweal, and was interviewed regularly on national radio and television. He authored hundreds of articles on sociological topics, ranging from school desegregation to elder sex to politics and the environment.Throughout his priesthood, Father Greeley unflinchingly urged his beloved Church to become more responsive to evolving concerns of Catholics everywhere. His clear writing style, consistent themes and celebrity stature made him a leading spokesperson for generations of Catholics. He chronicled his service to the Church in two autobiographies, Confessions of a Parish Priest and Furthermore!In 1986, Father Greeley established a $1 million Catholic Inner-City School Fund, providing scholarships and financial support to schools in the Chicago Archdiocese with a minority student body of more than 50 percent. In 1984, he contributed a $1 million endowment to establish a chair in Roman Catholic Studies at the University of Chicago. He also funded an annual lecture series, “The Church in Society,” at St. Mary of the Lake Seminary, Mundelein, Illinois, from which he received his S.T.L. in 1954.Father Greeley received many honors and awards, including honorary degrees from the National University of Ireland at Galway, the University of Arizona and Bard College. A Chicago native, he earned his M.A. in 1961 and his Ph.D. in 1962 from the University of Chicago.Father Greeley was a penetrating student of popular culture, deeply engaged with the world around him, and a lifelong Chicago sports fan, cheering for the Bulls, Bears and the Cubs. Born in 1928, he died in May 2013 at the age of 85. You can sign up for author updates here.
ALSO BY ANDREW M. GREELEY FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES
Bishop Blackie Ryan Mysteries
The Archbishop in Andalusia
The Bishop and the Beggar Girl of St. Germain
The Bishop and the Missing L Train
The Bishop at the Lake
The Bishop Goes to The University
The Bishop in the Old Neighborhood
The Bishop in the West Wing
Nuala Anne McGrail Novels
Irish Cream
Irish Crystal
Irish Eyes
Irish Gold
Irish Lace
Irish Linen
Irish Love
Irish Mist
Irish Stew!
Irish Tiger
Irish Tweed
Irish Whiskey
The O’Malleys in the Twentieth Century
Summer at the Lake
A Midwinter’s Tale
Younger Than Springtime
A Christmas Wedding
September Song
Second Spring
Golden Years
All About Women
Angel Fire
Angel Light
The Cardinal Sins
The Cardinal Virtues
Contract with an Angel
Faithful Attraction
The Final Planet
Furthermore!: Memories of a Parish Priest
God Game
Home for Christmas
Jesus: A Meditation on His Stories and His Relationships with Women
Lord of the Dance
The Magic Cup
The Priestly Sins
The Senator and the Priest
Star Bright!
Thy Brother’s Wife
White Smoke: A Novel of Papal Election
Sacred Visions (editor with Michael Cassutt)
The Book of Love: A Treasury Inspired by the Greatest of Virtues (editor with Mary Durkin)
Emerald Magic: Great Tales of Irish Fantasy (editor)
Thank you for buying this
A Tom Doherty Associates Book ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Praise for The Search for Maggie Ward
Part One: Andrea King
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part Two: Dulcinea
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Three: Maggie Ward
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
About the Author
Also By Andrew M. Greeley From Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE SEARCH FOR MAGGIE WARD
Copyright © 2018 by Andrew
M. Greeley Enterprises, Ltd.
All rights reserved.
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Warner Books edition as follows:
Greeley, Andrew M., 1928–2013.
The search for Maggie Ward / Andrew M. Greeley.—First edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-446-51476-7 (hardcover)
I. Title.
PS3557.R358 S4 1991
813’.54—dc20
90050282
eISBN 978-1-4299-4675-9
Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, ext. 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
Originally published by Warner Books, a Time Warner Company
First Forge Trade Paperback Edition: December 2018
The Search for Maggie Ward Page 46
