Anyway, there was no point in being angry at Paul. It had little effect. He was contrite, humble, apologetic, and then promptly forgot everything he said. Their sex life was low-key, mildly satisfying if not exciting. Nora suspected that she was undersexed. She also suspected that there were other women. Everyone in Washington seemed to have another woman or another man. The Kennedys set the tone there, as well as in so many other things these days. While she found their infidelities distasteful, she could not resist their charm any more than could anyone else in Washington. And especially the charm of the Attorney General.
The Kennedys were a lot like Paul: likable, at times brilliant, but they used everyone. Paul was only a high-grade errand boy, despite his title of Special Assistant to the Attorney General. If he should ever become unproductive, they would drop him in a minute. Everyone in the administration knew that was the way the Kennedys were. Still, they were all willing to take their chances, wear their PT-boat tie clasps, and hope they were among those who were admired and respected and were not being used.
Nora returned to her chair and retrieved Ship of Fools, but she did not open it. It would be as easy for her to have a lover as it was for Paul to have other women. Easier, perhaps. Heaven knows, there was no lack of offers. Naive, South Side Irish girl that she was, it had taken her several months to recognize the propositions for what they were. She routinely turned them down. She was simply not interested.
There were more pluses than minuses in her life, the little girls especially. Perhaps she was too objective, too dispassionate. Nora considered that possibility very carefully. Lord knew, the Kennedys liked her because they thought she was a fighter. Perhaps she was a fighter, yet now didn’t seem to be the time to fight.
She had played touch ball with them the previous summer at the beach in Hyannis. Her height and speed made her a strong competitor. In sweat shirt and cutoff jeans, she intercepted pass after pass, twice taking the ball out of the outstretched hands of the Attorney General of the United States and once running the interception for a touchdown. Bobby hadn’t liked that at all.
“It’s not fair, Nora”—he pronounced it as though her name were “Norar”—“a woman as beautiful as you shouldn’t be so fast.”
“I’m not fast at all, Mr. Attorney General,” she had taunted him. “I’m a virtuous housewife.”
Bobby thought that was very funny, but the next time she reached over his shoulder for an interception, she found herself flying through the air and landing on the beach just as an enormous wave arrived at the same place as she.
Soaking wet and furious, she stormed out of the water and shouted, “I don’t give a goddamn if you are a Kennedy, I’ll get even with you!”
The touch-ball game ended then in laughter and she had become a Kennedy favorite, with the phrase, “I don’t give a goddamn if you are a Kennedy,” being recalled whenever she was present—much to Nora’s embarrassment.
At the White House for dinner, a week before the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Attorney General had needled her. “I’m still waiting for your revenge, Nora.”
“That’s part of the fun,” she said. “I’ll get you at a time when you’re least ready.”
“You’re a great fighter,” the Attorney General had said.
* * *
Much later, or so it seemed, Eileen bounded in from school, and the nanny brought a sleepy-eyed Mary down from the nursery.
The little girls were so beautiful, much more Riley than Cronin. She sighed. Uncle Mike had not forgiven her for her failure to produce a male child. Paul’s disappointment was obvious too. Her reproductive apparatus was not as healthy as the rest of her. Both births had been difficult, and Mary’s dangerous. Tom Shields, who had delivered both of the little girls, had shaken his head discouragingly. “No more for a while, Nora; wait at least a couple of years.”
Nora had not hesitated to use the birth control pill. Priests like Sean Cronin, who vigorously denounced it as unnatural, simply didn’t understand what sex meant to a husband and wife, even the placid sex between herself and Paul. Three years was long enough, though, and she felt she ought to try again.
While she was absentmindedly mediating a quarrel at the dinner table between her blond vivacious younger daughter and her raven-haired serious older daughter, Nora thought again of Maggie’s call. She decided to tell Paul about her phone conversation with Maggie and suggest that he go to Chicago to see if things were really so bad with Sean, even though Sean had discouraged such visits in the past.
* * *
The sun was shining very brightly on Paul Cronin’s life. Still in his early thirties, he was an important man in Washington. He had stood at Nicholas Katzenbach’s side through the integration crises at the University of Alabama and the University of Mississippi. While he had not actually been with the Attorney General in the situation room during the missile crisis, he had been waiting with a few others when Robert Kennedy returned to his office at the Justice Department.
Paul had built up a network of contacts and friends, far more powerful than the Chicago crew he still carefully tended from a distance. Paul was a Kennedy man, all right, yet there was no point in being only a Kennedy man—especially when you were in a position to do important favors for people who would still be powerful in Washington long after the Kennedys had gone.
His quiet dinner parties, presided over with classic charm by Nora, were events where some of the brightest men and women in Washington could share ideas and hopes. They were just large enough so that the Kennedys would know about them and be impressed, but not so large that they would feel threatened.
In the second Kennedy administration, he would probably begin as an undersecretary somewhere and then work his way up to being a full cabinet member before returning to Chicago to run for the Senate. He had a beautiful, gifted, and much-admired wife, two gorgeous little girls, and a life ahead of him filled with promise and possibilities. Moreover, the next time he took Christine Waverly out for an early evening cocktail, he was sure he could score. A smooth, honey-haired blonde with a trim, compact body, just a few years out of Bennington, Chris Waverly was already one of the most powerful women reporters in Washington.
Paul felt no particular guilt about calling from the office to tell his wife that he would be delayed in a conference with the Attorney General when, in fact, he would be continuing his pursuit of Chris Waverly. There was the sex that you had with your wife, which was pleasant enough, and then there was the exciting pursuit of challenging women. A man, or at least a man like him, was entitled to both. He had remained faithful to Nora through her first pregnancy, although it had driven him almost mad. Then he had fallen during the delay while she recovered. After that, he didn’t try, contenting himself with being faithful most of the time. He figured that made him better than most men his age in Washington.
For Nora, he had enormous respect and even admiration. She was smart, shrewd in her evaluation of people, and extremely attractive. Paul was intrigued and fascinated by her composure and by the aura of mystery that surrounded her. Nora was always surprising, except in bed, and Paul preferred her that way.
The only real problem, he told himself as he parked his Ferrari in their driveway, was that they had no son. And Tom Shields had been blunt: “If you love your wife, no more children for a while.”
Paul Cronin loved his wife, or at least he was proud of her, but he wanted a son. He could not force Nora to take another chance, but she seemed ready now.
She was reading in the parlor, wearing a beige silk robe. “You didn’t have to wait up for me,” he said as he entered the room and tossed a heavy briefcase on one of the easy chairs.
She closed her book and embraced him. “No problem, darling. I have a sandwich in the refrigerator for you if you’re hungry.”
“Wonderful,” he said, patting her bottom appreciatively. After his foreplay with Chris, he would certainly need her tonight. “I don’t deserve this attention. You’re the only wife I know o
f who is sympathetic and understanding.”
“Better say tolerant,” she said, leaving for the kitchen.
While he munched on a roast beef sandwich, Nora perched on the side of the sofa.
“Maggie Shields called today,” she said.
“What did she want?” he said, feeling some pleasure from memories of his affair with Maggie.
“Tom’s worried about Sean. He thinks he’s ruining his health at St. Jadwiga’s. I think Sean’s trying to show your father, and the priests, and the dead Cardinal, and everyone else that he can handle one of the toughest assignments in the city.”
Paul paused. The sandwich did not seem quite so tasty any more. The one person in the world he really worried about, aside from himself, was his little brother. “Do you think Maggie’s exaggerating?”
Nora’s face tightened in a thoughtful frown. “I don’t usually take Maggie all that seriously. But she’s not likely to misquote Tom, and if he says that Sean is running himself into the ground, I think there’s a problem.”
Paul began to eat his sandwich again, slowly and thoughtfully. “There are ways we can get him out of there, I suppose, although the old man is too stubborn to eat a little bit of crow. I guess I’ll have to do it.”
“Why don’t you go to Chicago first and see how bad Sean really is?” she said.
Paul sipped from his beer glass. “I’d like to do that, but I don’t think I can get away for a few weeks.”
“Sean may not have a few weeks to spare. If we wait until Christmas, he could end up in a hospital.”
“No, not a hospital. Not Sean.” Paul suddenly saw a way to look after Sean without inconveniencing himself. “Why don’t you go? Anna can take care of the kids. You’d only be gone for a few days. Besides, Sean would have a hard time admitting to me that he’s worn out.”
Nora hesitated. “I will if you want me to, Paul. I don’t like to leave you alone in Washington, though.”
He winked at her. “Don’t worry about that. Bob Kennedy works us so hard that I don’t even notice women any more.”
“I bet.” She laughed.
Amused, he thought, but not suspicious. “Speaking of Bob, by the way, he said I should give you his best and tell you that he’s still waiting for your vengeance.”
Nora laughed. “And it’s going to come very soon. Just tell him that!”
Later that night, Paul pretended to himself that Nora was Chris Waverly; often he could make love to his wife only if he pretended that she was someone else.
His desire for Chris pushed him into stirring depths in Nora of which he was afraid. As they lay exhausted in each other’s arms, she kissed him affectionately and said, “That was very nice. Thank you.”
“Do you think we ought to try for a son one of these days?” he said, sensing her vulnerability.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she said softly. “As soon as I get back from Chicago.…”
She was soon asleep. Paul remained awake, feeling worthless as he always did after he made love to his wife. He would never be good enough for her. He had known that from the beginning. He would be a political success, but that was not enough. Nora deserved better. Someone like Sean.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1962
The meeting in the Attorney General’s office was inconclusive. The union leader they were after was certainly a thief, yet they had no evidence, even though they knew there were records of payoffs in the office of George Sandler, the Washington lobbyist for the union. The records were Sandler’s own insurance against ending up in Chesapeake Bay if power changed hands in the union; he was not likely to tell the truth to the grand jury unless there was incriminating information against him.
When the meeting was over, Paul walked back to his office with Bud O’Hara, who was supervising the investigation.
“Can’t the Bureau get into Sandler’s office?” he asked softly.
O’Hara eyed him with his cold Texas eyes. “That’s against the law, Paul.” He spoke with equal softness.
“Come on.” Paul laughed. “You were the one who was talking about functional justice the other day.”
The Texan shrugged. “Truth is, we don’t want to try it. You know how touchy the Director is. He only breaks the law when it’s his idea. Some of us think that he’s in bed—figuratively, although you never can tell about the Director—with the union president.”
They stopped at the door of O’Hara’s office. “Any objection if we find the evidence some other way?” Paul asked lightly.
The Texan didn’t hesitate. “None whatever.”
* * *
Lawrence called for Michael Cronin at the door of Little Company of Mary Hospital in the new Mercedes limousine. New chauffeur, new limousine. Mike sighed. Everyone was growing old. It didn’t seem the same with Jeremy gone.
Jane was surviving, though. Seventy years old and a chronic alcoholic, she refused to die. She had just pulled through another heart attack, causing the doctors to marvel.
He no longer believed that Jane would ever reveal his secret. Even if she tried, he could shut her up. That had always been true. Why had he lost his nerve? He should have married Jenny Warren; she was a spectacular woman. Should have said to hell with Jane after the ordination and married Jenny.
Too late now. She was married to a damn fiddle player. Did she do the same things to him that had so delighted Mike? The fiddle player was seven years younger than Mike, still in his middle fifties.
Mike sighed. After Jenny he had lost interest in women, other than an occasional fling here and there.
He bid Lawrence good night and mixed himself a final drink in his lonely house. It was too big for one man, but he had to keep it as a place for the kids to come home to from Washington. And for Sean on his day off, even if he never came home on his day off.
Mike sipped his drink slowly. He worried endlessly about Sean. He seemed more like Mary Eileen with every passing day—idealistic, unreal. He wondered if Jane might be right about him. There was no way of ever knowing for sure.
The headache which had bothered him for the last couple of weeks returned. He decided to mix himself another drink. If Sean would come to his senses and get the hell out of that nigger parish … but it was essential not to give in to him. He had to realize his mistakes. Giving in to Mary Eileen had been a disaster. He should have been firm with her much earlier.
Then the lights went out on him. It was as though someone had clubbed him on the back of his head. The next thing he knew, the clock said three in the morning. He must have fallen asleep, he told himself. Too much to drink. He staggered upstairs to bed, wavering uncertainly as he climbed the staircase.
In the morning he told himself that nothing unusual had happened. The feeling of falling through space was merely part of a hangover.
After two drinks.
* * *
St. Jadwiga’s was worse than Nora could ever have dreamed. Even the parkway in front of the battered old red and brown brick apartment buildings on Douglas Boulevard seemed decrepit and worn. The stone church, with its wooden bell tower, seemed ready to fall apart. The school next door to it badly needed tuck-pointing, and the two-story wooden rectory almost surely was a fire hazard. Worst of all was the dirt. Everything—windows, doors, gutters, sidewalks, the concrete schoolyard—was filthy. Paper, beer cans, and whiskey bottles littered the ground in front of the rectory, which once long ago may have been a lawn. No wonder Sean had forbidden them to visit his parish.
She parked her rented Chevrolet in front of the rectory. As she turned off the ignition, Nora steeled herself for her encounter with Sean. Every time she was with him her heart beat faster and her throat tightened. Realistic as always, Nora knew that a part of her wanted to go to bed with him. She smiled faintly to herself. If she had recognized those emotions the day he had blunderingly offered to leave the seminary for her, she might have taken him up on the offer.
She squared her shoulders and got out of the car.
Her passion for Sean was controllable and would be controlled. After all, he was her brother-in-law, and almost her brother. She gingerly walked up the decaying wooden steps and pushed the old-fashioned bell on the door front. She heard no bell ring inside. She waited and pushed it again, and then once more. Still there was no answer. Perhaps Sean was at the school.
She walked down the steps and through the passageway between the church and the school. At the back of the rectory there was a small alleyway surrounded by high fences. On the left hand was a door that led to the church and on the right hand a stairwell descending to what seemed to be a boiler room. The church door was locked. A pounding sound seemed to be coming from downstairs. Nora turned up her coat collar against the chill November winds and picked her way through the litter down into the boiler room.
There was half a foot of water on the floor of the room, and in darkness broken only by a single dim light bulb, a man was on top of the boiler with a wrench, wrestling with the pipe fitting.
“Pardon me,” she said politely. “Can you tell me where Father Cronin is?”
“He’s on top of the boiler putting the finishing touches on repairs,” said a weary voice. “Don’t worry, Sister. Tell the principal that we’ll have the heat on in another half hour. Thank God it isn’t the middle of January.”
“It’s not a sister, Sean,” she said, trying to hide her dismay. “It’s your sister.”
The figure on the boiler turned toward her. “Nora? Just give me another second here.… Ugh, this thing is hard to twist. There, that does it.” He climbed down off the boiler, oblivious to the water swishing around his legs, and flipped the button at the side of the rusty old turbine. There was a cranking and groaning sound within it and then a recalcitrant and dubious hum.
“Well, it seems to be working again. Come on back to the rectory. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.” Sean was wearing black trousers and a black shirt with a Roman collar. He was thin and worn, at least fifteen pounds underweight.
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