Her forehead tightened almost imperceptibly. “I’m not going to try to persuade you that your talents are being wasted at St. Jadwiga, Sean. Your father and Paul might think so, but I don’t. I’ve had a chance to watch you work around here for the last couple of days, and I think you’re good at it. I also think you’re only a couple of steps away from being Mistah Kurtz.”
“Joseph Conrad’s hero gone native? I suppose you’re right, Nora, I have been here too long.”
She pushed the roast beef platter at him, and he helped himself to another slice. “You must know that if you continue this way, your life might not be a very long one.”
“Maybe. But as long as the Archbishop wants me to be here, it’s God’s will and I’m staying … and all your persuasive charms won’t change my mind on that.”
“It seems to me a silly way for the Church to treat a priest.” She looked at him over the rim of a water glass filled with burgundy.
“There’s a tremendous amount of envy in the priesthood, probably worse than in any other occupation. There aren’t many rewards. Some priests resent me because they think I’m rich. Some of them because I’m getting a reputation for being good at my work. It’s a heads-I-lose tails-they-win situation. If I fail here, they say, I told you so, a rich man’s son can’t hack it. And if I succeed, it’s because of my father’s money.”
“Can’t you do anything?”
“No. That’s the way it is. The Church is not going to change.”
“The Church will change, Sean,” she argued. “Will because it has to.”
“We disagree,” he said, shrugging off her comment. He noticed that there was now a bit of fire in her eyes.
“How many of your parishioners understand Latin?” she said. “I suppose you think it sinful for married people to enjoy sex with one another? And that priests shouldn’t have any friends among the laity? And that everything a pope or bishop or pastor says is God’s word?”
“My parishioners like the mystery of Latin. I don’t think it’s sinful for married people to enjoy sex; they probably ought to enjoy it more than they do—as long as the main purpose is procreation. Priests ought to be men apart, men unlike other human beings. And yes, of course, the pope and the bishops and the pastors do represent God.”
“And what happens to couples who have five or six kids? Should they stop sleeping with each other if they can’t afford any more?” Her frown was now deep.
He didn’t want to fight. “Look, I know it’s tough. We have to be very gentle and sympathetic with them in confession. In time, someone will develop a rhythm method of birth control that will be as effective as any other. Until then, we have to resist the contraceptive mentality … the mentality that leads people to not want children. That’s the real problem.”
Nora pounded the table and almost upset the wine bottle. “Will it shock you to know, Sean Cronin, God’s chosen spokesman, that I’ve been using the birth-control pill for a couple of years because the doctor said it would be better if I waited a while between children? Would you rather I throw Paul out of the bedroom—or do I push my luck? Do you want to see me in Holy Sepulcher Cemetery before I’m thirty? Is that God’s will? Does the pope tell you that?”
Sean swallowed hard. “I can’t help what I believe. Maybe I’m so rigid because I’m afraid that if I relax any of my beliefs the whole ball of wax will come apart.” He buried his head in his hands. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
She reached across the table and took his hand. “How much do you pray, Sean?” she asked.
That question surprised him. “Not very much, I guess. Too busy.…”
She squeezed his hand hard. “What kind of a priest is it who doesn’t pray?” It was not a judgment or an accusation but a statement of compassion.
“I don’t know anything any more, Nora. Sure, I should pray. There’s no time. No time to think. No time for anything. You have more faith than I do. That’s why you can take chances and why I keep all the rules.”
His head sagged on the linen tablecloth that she had purchased that day at Marshall Field’s. She continued to hold his hand tightly.
* * *
Paul’s office phone buzzed. Bud O’Hara would see him now. He replaced the phone with a gesture of impatient annoyance: 8:30 P.M. The Kennedy administration had to show its dedication by working impossible hours. No wonder so many of the marriages were in trouble.
O’Hara had Paul’s collection of photographs spread out on the desk in front of him. “Where did you find these?” he asked.
“A lucky break—from an informant.” Paul gave the formal reply that was expected in such circumstances.
“Lucky for all of us. This will be the end of Carmine da Silva,” the Texan said. “You’ll question our friend on K Street again tomorrow? I imagine he’ll turn into a cooperative witness after a few hints about what we have.”
“I’ll be happy to take care of it. I think he’ll be ready to begin a new life at government expense.”
“Fine work,” O’Hara said. “We should have more breaks like this.”
Paul was thoroughly pleased with himself.
* * *
Sean helped Nora on with her coat. “You’re going back to Washington on Monday?”
“Yes. I guess I’ll have to tell Paul that I failed at my mission. He’ll worry about you, Sean.” She fastened the buckle on her coat and turned up the collar. “He does care about you. Sometimes I think you’re the only one in the world he really cares about.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sean said. “I’m grateful for the house cleaning and the food and the sermon and … and the love too.”
She patted his cheek affectionately. “It was fun. Somehow it’s all going to work out.”
Sean wished he could believe her. “I’ll walk you down to the car,” he said. “These streets aren’t exactly safe at night.”
He opened the rectory door to discover that not even the steps of the rectory were safe. Two men with stocking caps over their faces, dressed in shabby clothes, pushed their way in. One jammed a gun in Sean’s stomach. The other pointed a knife at Nora’s throat. “Now, you just turn around, Father, and go back into the office,” said the man with the gun. “Neither you nor your lady friend here are gonna get hurt.”
Sean was frightened. Two kids, probably high on dope, both with dangerous weapons. “Be careful with those things,” he pleaded. “We’ll do whatever you want.” His whole body was trembling.
“That’s right, man, you gonna do exactly what we tell ya, and the first thing you gonna do is open that safe.” The young Negro gestured the priest toward the battered iron box in the middle of the rectory office. “You gonna open that safe and give us every penny that’s inside.”
Sean had never bothered to lock the safe. There was very little money in it, and it had become a storehouse for parish records. With shaking fingers he pulled back the iron handle and yanked the ponderous door of the safe open.
“Now, real slow, get out the money in there and put it on the desk. Nice and easy.” The thief gestured with his gun.
There was twenty-five dollars and forty-seven cents in the safe. Sean laid it on the desk.
“Hey, man, you gotta have more money than that!”
“We don’t, though,” said Sean. “What little we take in on Sunday goes to the bank on Monday morning.”
“Man, you’re rich. Everybody in the neighborhood knows that. You gotta have more money. Let me see your wallet.”
Sean could not shake his terror. Nora’s face was drawn, her eyes closed, the point of the knife at her neck. He removed the wallet from his black trousers and placed it on the desk. Still pointing the gun with his right hand, the thief shook four one-dollar bills out of the wallet.
“Man, you gotta do better than this, or you and your lady friend are gonna be in real trouble. Oscar, what’s she got in her purse?”
Nora yielded her purse silently and without resistance. Oscar—now Sean knew w
ho they were—opened the purse. “Shut your mouth, ya damn fool,” he said. “Now this whitey priest knows who we are, and that ain’t good.… This cunt don’t have nothing except a coupla bucks, credit cards, and some traveler’s checks.”
The other man hefted his gun lightly in his hand. “Well now, Father. We seem to have a real problem here. There’s more money in this house than we’ve got and you’re gonna have to give us all of it, or my friend over there is gonna want to carve some fancy things on your lady friend’s face.”
“There isn’t any more money,” Sean said. He wondered if he and Nora would have to die, now that he knew who they were. “This is a poor parish and we don’t have any money.”
“Well, now, that sure is a shame. Oscar, why don’t you just set to work.”
Oscar poked Nora’s neck with the knife. A little stream of red dripped down the blade. “You’re gonna be real cooperative, Father,” Oscar said, “or I’m gonna have to do some mean things with this little knife of mine.”
Nora’s face was white. “Please, there’s nothing more here.” Her voice sounded small and terrified.
He jabbed at her throat again, and there was another trickle of blood.
Fury was building inside of Sean, cold, murderous hate. Something turned loose inside of him. He hurled himself on the man with the gun and knocked the gun arm aside. The gun went off, filling the room with smoke and gunpowder. Sean kicked his surprised opponent in the groin and then hit him in the face, knocking him back against the safe, where he slid to the floor, dazed. Oscar, the man with the knife, was coming toward Sean. “You asked for it, priest,” Oscar said, his left arm out wide, his right arm extended. He bore down on Sean and then struck quickly with the gleaming six-inch blade.
But not quickly enough. Sean grasped the parish seal from the desktop and smashed it against Oscar’s arm. The force of the blow spoiled Oscar’s aim, and the knife, instead of piercing Sean’s stomach, slashed against Sean’s left arm. Then the knife slipped out of Oscar’s fingers as he grasped his broken forearm. Sean picked up the chair behind the rectory desk and smashed it over Oscar’s head. When Sean grabbed the gun lying in front of him on the floor, Oscar hobbled toward the hallway, joined by his friend, who had recovered. “Let’s get out of here, man. Fuckin’ priest’s gonna waste us.”
The invaders fled, Sean pursuing them to the door of the rectory. Only as he stood at the doorway and pointed the gun at the fugitives, disappearing into the raw November night, did he realize that he could not kill them.
He lowered the weapon and walked slowly back to the rectory. For the first time he was conscious of a sharp jabbing pain.
“Your arm!” Nora exclaimed.
He looked at the blood dripping down his arm, over his hand, and on to the rectory floor. “Just a small cut,” he said. A few more inches and it might have been an artery.
Nora huddled in her coat. “Those were the boys who were playing basketball outside this afternoon, weren’t they?”
“That’s right,” said Sean. “They graduated from our grammar school three years ago. Sister Alicia always said they were troublemakers.”
While they waited for the police to arrive, Sean kept his good arm around Nora’s shoulder. “I’m all right, Sean, I’m all right,” she repeated over and over again as she strove to recover her calm before the police arrived.
“Of course you’re all right, Nora. I should have listened to Sister. They were troublemakers.”
It was a good thing that the police arrived quickly. Father Sean Cronin, his pulses still racing from the encounter, was filled with desire for his foster sister as he held her close and comforted her.
* * *
Chris Waverly was even better than Paul had anticipated. The drink at her apartment had turned into seduction, but she did more of the seducing than he, murmuring as she unbuttoned his shirt, “I thought you’d never give me a chance to get at you.”
Paul was accustomed to passive, yielding women like Maggie Martin, and to a wife whose sexual depths he carefully avoided arousing. He had never before encountered a woman with such polished sexual skills and imperious hunger. Chris overwhelmed him. Her sleek body was a well coordinated and irresistible instrument of excitement. She aroused him, taunted him, teased him, drove him to the point of madness, and then, when he thought he could stand no more, she would begin again.
Afterward, they lay in the rumpled sheets of her bed, smoking, she coolly and he distracted and exhausted.
“You’re an interesting man, Paul Cronin,” she said. “A few things to learn, maybe, but worth teaching. I think you’ll keep coming back for more schooling.”
“It was fantastic,” he said, still unable to organize his thoughts.
“No, it wasn’t, not really. It was only a fair beginning. But that’s all right. Come on, let’s see if we can make a little more progress in today’s lesson.” Her hands began to explore his body.
After their second roller-coaster tumble, Paul fell asleep. The Chinese infantry attacked once again in his dream. This time a naked and deadly Chris Waverly jammed the bayonet into his belly. He woke screaming.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m not that bad, am I? You’re the first one who’s ever awakened screaming after a tussle with me.”
“It’s not you,” he gasped. “It’s a dream I have about a night attack in Korea. It comes and goes.”
“Poor Paul,” she said gently. “Relax now and let mother Chris calm you down.”
Chris was tender and affectionate. The terrors of the dream slowly ebbed. For a moment, Paul thought that he was in the life-preserver arms of his wife.
* * *
Joe Makuch was waiting the next day in the outer office at the Justice Department. It had been six years since Paul had seen him.
Paul mentioned a ten o’clock conference with the Attorney General, but he nonetheless had to listen to the sad tale of the decline of Joe Makuch: the bankruptcy of his gas station, his move to Los Angeles, the inevitable divorce, the children who didn’t care to see their father. Now he had a marvelous opportunity to start life over with a new woman and a new auto dealership specializing in English sports cars.
“Well, I certainly hope the new dealership works out for you,” Paul said nervously, glancing at his watch. “Foreign cars are going to be big in the years ahead.”
“I can’t purchase the place unless I come up with twenty-five thousand dollars.” Joe Makuch could not meet Paul’s eyes. “I thought you might lend it to me—you know, for old times’ sake.”
“Life here in Washington is expensive, Joe. But I’ll see what I can do—for old times’ sake.”
“Sure. I know that things are tough all over,” Makuch agreed. “But I thought you might be able to scare up the change for me. Maybe your father would be interested in investing in one of your old Marine buddies. After all, that business at the Reservoir was messy—it wouldn’t look so good in the newspapers.” Makuch was being much more explicit about the blackmail than he had been in the past.
“Dad has always believed that one should be loyal to the men with whom one has shared combat,” Paul said. “I imagine we’ll find a way to work things out. I’ll be in touch with you in a few days with the details. Now I’d better get down to the Attorney General’s office before I find myself out of a job.”
As he walked down the wide corridor, honeycombed with offices on either side, Paul’s hands were covered with sweat. He dried them off, before he entered the Attorney General’s office, and fixed his face into a casual grin, although inside he was feeling rage—and the beginnings of a desire for revenge.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1962
Eileen and Mary Cronin started to shriek with joy as soon as they saw their mother walk down the steps from the United Airlines jet at National Airport. Paul sighed with relief. It would be good to have Nora back. He missed her as he would miss a close friend. His affair with Chris had become a never-ending series of paroxysms of delight. In
deed, he had visited her apartment that morning before breakfast and returned in due time to collect his daughters for the trip to the airport. He smiled briefly at the recollection of one or two of her more ingenious tricks. Nevertheless, she could not make the Korean dreams go away, and Nora could.
Nora knelt down and hugged her two gloriously happy daughters. Then she and Paul embraced each other enthusiastically. Nora cocked a quizzical eye at him. “You must have missed me.” She pressed hard against him.
Paul felt the warm security of his life preserver. “How could I help missing a wife like you?” he said, squeezing her again. “After I heard about the close call you had in Chicago…”
She disengaged herself. “I’m sure the newspapers here exaggerated. Nobody pushes a Cronin around.”
“But it didn’t melt the old man’s heart?”
Nora lifted Mary into her arms and tugged at Eileen’s hand. “Made him even worse. He chewed me out on the phone for ten minutes. I shouldn’t have taken such chances, and Sean was responsible for risking the life of the mother of his grandchildren. I finally hung up on him.”
Paul led his family toward the parking lot. In the car, riding back to Georgetown, he said, “Do you have any idea of how we can handle this Sean thing?”
“I talked with Jimmy McGuire, and he said the new Archbishop is a reasonable man, not vindictive or resentful like McNulty was. He thinks that if someone like you—well, that if you would see the Cardinal and fill him in on the background, he’d wipe the slate clean.”
“I’m sure Bobby will give me a day or two off if I explain why to him.…” His voice trailed off.
“He goddamn well better,” Nora said with uncharacteristic profanity.
“Mommy,” said Eileen from the back seat, “you should never talk like that!”
“That’s right, darling. I know I shouldn’t. Mommy’s just tired from the long airplane ride.”
“Oh,” said Eileen, granting absolution. “That’s different.”
* * *
Thy Brother's Wife Page 11
