Thy Brother's Wife

by Andrew M. Greeley

1956

  Jimmy McGuire, happy in his assignment in Oak Lawn and proud of the parish car his pastor had purchased for him—since young priests could not own cars for their first five years—stopped late one evening to talk with Sean at St. Jadwiga rectory. Sean answered the doorbell himself—housekeepers, cooks, and maids at St. Jadwiga’s were irregular—and led Jimmy up the shaky staircase to his tiny room on the back of the second floor.

  “Does Dudon ever come out of his room?” Jimmy jerked his thumb in the direction of the pastor’s elaborate suite at the front of the house.

  “Not really, save to take care of his Chihuahuas and to say the first Mass on Sunday.” Sean slumped in the battered old chair that was one of the two pieces of furniture in his study.

  “Chihuahuas?”

  “Yes. He raises full breeds or pedigrees or whatever they call prizewinning Chihuahuas. He had a big crisis last Sunday when one of the bitches—it’s not a pejorative term if you’re a dog—gave birth just before the six-thirty Mass.”

  “How crazy is he?” Jimmy asked, now quite serious.

  “Oh, I don’t suppose he’s any more crazy than any other unmarried man of fifty-five who has nothing except dogs to live for. Remember, Jimmy, that this was a nice little Bohemian parish where everybody loved him and he didn’t have to work. It became part of the black ghetto overnight. So he just sits up in his room trying to pretend it didn’t happen and hoping that the chancery office will remember him.”

  “While you do all the work?”

  “Well, that’s what we’re ordained for, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think your father—”

  “Yes, I think my father went to see the Cardinal, offered to make a contribution, and almost got away with it. Then the Cardinal dug out a file card on me from Mundelein that warned him against me. So he pocketed Dad’s check and sent me here to St. Jadwiga’s. But I’m glad I’m here. If we don’t like working in poor parishes we don’t belong in the priesthood.”

  “You should at least take a day off,” Jimmy said.

  Sean relaxed a bit. “I know I should, Jimmy,” he said. “And I appreciate the concern. I’ll see you guys next Thursday.”

  “And I’ll believe that when I see you on the first tee.” Jimmy paused. “Is Nora really going to marry Paul?”

  Sean felt his spirits lift. “That’s what they both tell me.”

  “You always said I had a soft spot for Nora,” McGuire said awkwardly, “and you were right. I just wonder. They’re such different personalities.”

  Sean tried to consider Jimmy’s observation objectively. Jimmy was a good judge of human nature. “I know what you mean, Jimmy. I used to think the same thing myself, and I know they’re going to have some tough adjustments. In a way, it will be harder on Paul. Nora has all the willpower.”

  Jimmy was unimpressed. “Look, do me a favor, for old times’ sake and all of that. Make sure Nora knows what she’s doing. Tell her about Paul and Maggie.”

  There was a long pause while nameless emotions struggled in Sean’s heart.

  “Sure,” he said finally.

  * * *

  Nora and Sean sat in the Berghoff Restaurant on Monroe Street surrounded by frantic businessmen and lawyers, enjoying, as they always did, each other’s company. His telephone call had been mysterious, and Nora, only a few days away from her wedding, was uncharacteristically falling behind schedule. Nevertheless, a call from Sean proposing lunch took precedence, and she postponed her scheduled task of arranging the seating chart for the reception.

  When he saw the tall, lovely young woman wave to him and then walk gracefully across the dining room, Sean had realized again how dishonest had been his defense to the seminary that Nora was “almost a sister.” There was no doubt that brothers did not react to their sisters the way he reacted to Nora. Reluctantly, he banished his fantasies to a dark corner of his imagination.

  “I’m glad you were able to come,” he said.

  “I’ll have lunch with you, Sean, any time you’d like,” she said. “How’s it going at St. Joshua?”

  “Jadwiga.” He emphasized the word and then, noting her amused smile, said sheepishly, “You know, you really are an impish little bitch.”

  She sank her teeth into a juicy mixture of cheese, sauerkraut, and ham. “I don’t think the word ‘little’ is appropriate, and that doesn’t answer my question. Uncle Mike is furious about your assignment.”

  Sean pushed his plate aside. “It’s all right, Nora, it really is. I’m happy. I’m doing the work I’ve always wanted. Anyhow, it’s you, not me, who’s on the agenda for this lunch.”

  “Oh?” Nora wondered why her heart seemed to be sinking.

  “Look.” He stumbled a bit. “Well, you know how it is with me and Paul. We’re competitors, we’re fighters, difficult, contentious people.…”

  “Well, you are, anyhow.”

  “You also know how much I love him. I know all his faults, I guess, yet I still worship him and have for as long as I can remember. Sometimes he’s superficial, and sometimes he’s unreliable, and sometimes he seems only interested in his own pleasures. When you know him as well as I do, you know that he has the capability of being very deep and very serious and very responsive.”

  Nora felt a rush of affection swelling up inside her. “Oh, Sean.” She reached across the table to touch his hand. “I know Paul’s failings. We all were raised in the same house, remember? I do love him and he does love me, and he’s grown up so much in the past few years. Bobby Kennedy told me after the Democratic convention that Paul was the best floor leader they had, and if there were more like him it would be Stevenson and Kennedy instead of Stevenson and Kefauver this November. He’ll be all right, wait and see. And I’ll be all right too. Please, don’t worry about us.” She tightened her grip on his hand.

  Sean was flustered. “I don’t suppose it will be any more difficult for you and Paul than it is for other young married people.” He hesitated. “It may be a little different, that’s all.” He could not bring himself to tell her about Paul and Maggie.

  Nora released her hold on his long, tense fingers. Maybe it was a sin to touch a priest’s hand that way. “Don’t worry, please don’t. I know what I’m doing. I’m going into this marriage with both eyes open.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  1956

  Michael Cronin was afraid. He was afraid of death.

  His son Sean considered that conclusion carefully. Early in life Sean had realized that his father was not like the fathers of his friends, that he was different. Now, at the age of twenty-five, the disturbing truth hit Sean with terrible clarity. Much of his father’s frantic activity was a desperate rush to escape from death. As he grew older he was losing the race. His ideas became more fixed, his gestures more nervous, his eyes more icy. The old charm and wit were still there, but they were gradually slipping away.

  “Do you understand all that I’ve told you?” Mike’s cold green eyes peered up at Sean, who was sitting across from him at the littered desk in the dark, heavily paneled study of their home on Glenwood Drive, a home which his father refused to leave, even though his vast wealth could purchase an entire neighborhood far better than Beverly.

  Sean tried to concentrate. “Most of it, Dad. Counting the land and the stock portfolio and the oil interests and everything else, you’re worth more than half a billion dollars. I’m afraid I don’t understand all the companies and the partnerships. I’d need a diagram for that.”

  His father laughed. “The IRS would love to have one too.”

  “Well, I think I understand most of it, even without the diagram,” Sean said carefully. He knew this was important to his father.

  Mike sighed and relaxed in his large red leather chair. “I want you to know all these things before Paul’s marriage. Paul will run the business, of course, at least until he’s elected to something. But there will be a group of trustees, like my old buddies Marty Hoffman and Ed Connaire, to watch him until he’s forty. Y
ou’ll be too busy being a priest”—Mike was still terribly dissatisfied with Sean’s calm acceptance of the St. Jadwiga’s assignment—“so the trust will simply pay you a check every month for the rest of your life. They’ll have the right to increase the size of the check, and if you need money for something special, for yourself, not for the Church, then you can apply to them. I’ll instruct them and their successors to be generous. Do you understand?”

  Sean understood very well. His father intended to keep him firmly under control for all of Michael Cronin’s life and then, through the trustees, under equally firm control after he died. It didn’t make any difference to Sean. “I understand.”

  “Mind you, any time you need anything while I’m still alive, no matter how much it is, just come and ask and I’ll take care of it—no questions asked, no strings attached.”

  Not much, thought Sean. “And what do you do with all the money you make every year, Dad?” he asked.

  The long and detailed answer left Sean flabbergasted. His father gave a great deal of money away, much of it secretly. While there were Cronin Halls being built at Fordham, Notre Dame, Boston College, and Northwestern, the typical Cronin gift was anonymous.

  “You’re very generous,” Sean said with genuine respect.

  “All you have to do is say the word and I’ll build a new church and a new school and a new rectory for St. Jagoff, or whatever the hell the name is. Just say the word.”

  “That will be the day,” Sean said softly to himself.

  * * *

  Sean found it difficult to deliver the sermon before the wedding ceremony. He was distracted by the glitter and brass of the military wedding—Mike had insisted that Paul be married as befitting a major in the United States Marine Corps—and by the bride’s beauty in her loosely flowing old-fashioned wedding gown. Nora might have been his bride, his wife. He might have shared his life with her, enjoying her beauty and delighting in her wit and intelligence. It was God’s will that he give her up, God’s will that she marry his brother. Yet, as he tried to concentrate on his carefully prepared sermon, disturbing images of Nora lying next to him on their marriage bed raced through his mind.

  “It is our prayer today for Paul and Nora in their married life together,” Sean read, “with all its joys and sorrows, that they find not only each other but also the One whose love for His people is both a symbol and an extension. We want to tell them today that even in their most lonely and difficult moment God’s love will be with them, and so will the support of the Church and of all their family and friends. And so…”

  He stumbled through the exchange of vows and the blessings of the rings with almost as much nervousness as did the bride and groom. He was careful not to look long at Nora’s ecstatic face and volcanic blue eyes. By the time he came to the nuptial blessing after the Pater Noster, he had better self-control, yet his hand trembled as he gave them Holy Communion. He was relieved when it came time for the final blessing.

  May the Lord Jesus, who was a guest at the wedding in Cana,

  bless you and your families and friends.

  Amen.

  May Jesus, who loved his Church to the end,

  always fill your hearts with love.

  Amen.

  May he grant that, as you believe in his resurrection,

  so you may wait for him in joy and hope.

  Amen.

  And may almighty God bless you all,

  the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

  Amen.

  May almighty God, with his Word of blessing, unite

  your hearts in the never-ending bond of pure love.

  Amen.

  May your children bring you happiness, and may your generous love for them be returned to you, many times over.

  Amen.

  Nora was not like the other virgins Paul had deflowered. She did not try to turn off the light or scurry into the bathroom. Rather, as soon as they were inside the bridal suite of the Drake, she calmly drew the drapes on the parlor windows and with a natural poise undressed before him.

  Paul’s confidence evaporated. His new wife was spectacularly inviting, yet he was untouched by desire.

  Their first union was a near disaster. The masculine potency of which he was so proud deserted him. His bride was utterly unaffected by their coupling, save for one soft cry of pain. His satisfaction was trivial.

  Afterward, Nora cried quietly next to him on the bed. “I’m sorry, I’ll try to be better next time,” she murmured.

  So she blamed herself? Paul sighed with relief and patted her head reassuringly. “Don’t worry about it, Nora. Everything will work out fine. All we had to do today was begin.” He cradled her in his arms, muttering soothing words about how beautiful she was. That seemed to calm her down. His new wife would be very easy to satisfy.

  Later that night the dream about Chongun returned. Joe Makuch dressed in a Chink uniform led the charge. His face changed into Nora’s as he plunged the bayonet deep into Paul Cronin’s belly.

  Paul woke up screaming and grabbing at his stomach. His new wife embraced him, rested his head against her chest, and crooned a soft lullaby into his ear.

  Thus comforted on his wedding night, Paul Martin Cronin fell back to sleep.

  * * *

  Joe Makuch turned up in Paul’s office a week after he returned from his honeymoon. Once a trim, tough professional master sergeant, Joe was now fat, bald, and greasy, an overweight goblin of a man who had the Midas touch in reverse—everything he did turned to rock.

  “I need a favor, Major,” Makuch said, nervously revolving his grimy fedora in his hands. “I wouldn’t bother you if I had anyone else to turn to. But this is an emergency. They built a new highway on the other side of town, one of them freeway things, and my gas station fell flat on its face. Made ten thousand bucks last year and only a couple hundred this year. I got a chance to pick up another station near an interchange on the other side of town. It won’t cost me much at all … and it’s right off of the freeway interchange, a real gold mine.”

  Paul sighed. Given Joe’s luck, they would close the interchange next year. The problem wasn’t paying a few thousand dollars of blackmail now to shut him up about the Chongun Reservoir. The problem was that the drain could keep on forever and get bigger every year.

  “Sure, I understand how it is, Joe. You saved my life a couple of times, so what the hell.” He grinned reassuringly. “You name it, and if I’ve got it, I’ll give it to you.”

  Joe Makuch named fifteen thousand dollars, and Paul wrote him a check. He would find an explanation for his father somehow, when he had to.

  BOOK III

  He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”

  Jesus answered, “At the moment you do not know what I am doing, but later you will understand.”

  “Never!” said Peter. “You shall never wash my feet.”

  Jesus replied, “If I do not wash you, you could have nothing in common with me.”

  “Then, Lord,” said Simon Peter, “not only my feet, but my hands and my head as well.”

  —John 13:6–9

  CHAPTER TEN

  1962

  Nora Cronin was not pleased with the phone call she received in Washington from Maggie Shields, who still lived in Chicago. Eileen, Nora’s five-year-old daughter, was in nursery school, and three-year-old Mary was taking one of her rare naps. For Nora it meant an hour and a half of peace, during which she could finish Katherine Anne Porter’s Ship of Fools. Then the jangling telephone and Maggie’s peace-shattering news.

  Maggie had always needed attention, and now she was complaining about Tom’s preoccupation with his growing OB practice. Indeed, Maggie seemed to be jealous of every one of Tom’s patients. There was little in life that made Maggie feel important. Nora sighed. She had reluctantly given up trying to persuade Maggie that she was worthwhile. Twenty years of being told by her parents that she was cute but empty-headed could not be u
ndone.

  “And I think it’s just terrible about Sean.” The subject of Maggie’s conversation changed abruptly.

  Nora put aside the book in which her finger, until then, had kept the place. “What’s the matter with Sean?”

  “Well, when did you see him last?”

  Nora felt guilty. Sean had been absent from her mind, it seemed, for months. There were enough other things to preoccupy her. “Only for a few days, at Oakland Beach. He didn’t take much of a vacation last year.”

  “He never takes vacations. It’s just work, work, work with those Negroes who don’t appreciate him. Tom says he thinks he’s killing himself. Why doesn’t he ask the new Archbishop to transfer him out of that hellhole?”

  “Sean says the old Cardinal sent him to St. Jadwiga’s to prove that a rich man’s son couldn’t last in a poor parish, and that if he asks out the Cardinal will win, even if he’s dead.”

  “That sounds like Sean, all right,” Maggie said.

  “Is Tom really worried about his health?”

  “Tom said he thinks Sean will end up in the hospital if he doesn’t stop.”

  After she got rid of Maggie, Nora walked to the bay window of their old Georgetown house and looked out onto the narrow street. The leaves turned red and gold in Washington later than in Chicago. It was November, the week after the election. The falling leaves had carpeted the lawn in front of their house. She had once been in love with Sean—now from the safety of retrospect she could admit that—and she had almost forgotten about him.

  Nora had been only moderately happy in her marriage. She had realized within a few months that her husband was spoiled, petulant, and self-indulgent, although charming and intelligent. He might grow up someday, but she feared it wasn’t very likely.

  In six years of living with Paul, she had also discovered with gratification that she could put up with a marriage that was less than satisfactory and not lose her sense of self in it the way Maggie had. Despite the fact that she was as much a mother as a wife to Paul, her life was not unhappy. Her two little girls were pure joy. She had her books, her music, and her involvement in the social and cultural life of the glittering Kennedy administration.