Thy Brother's Wife

by Andrew M. Greeley

  She pulled off her shirt, made sure the straps on her swimsuit were properly adjusted, told the baby-sitter to keep a close eye on the girls, and plunged into the lake for her half-mile swim.

  Paul had been an instant success in the state legislature, winning high marks from both the Daley Democrats and the independents for his energy and enthusiasm. Nora was surprised and impressed by how much he loved the rough-and-tumble of legislative politics: the whispered cloakroom conversations, the long barroom sessions, the late-night phone calls in which the work of politics was really accomplished. He was good at it, all right.

  She had been impressed, too, by his liberalism and compassion. It was not what she had expected from the man she married. She was sorry to see it slipping away now that the Mayor was dangling a big plum in front of him.

  The week before, the Sun-Times had called editorially for a new aviation commissioner to “straighten out the mess at O’Hare.” Then the paper went on to recommend that the Mayor appoint someone of “proven ability,” such as State Senator Paul Cronin. It praised Paul’s war record, his service in the Kennedy administration, his legislative ability, and his “proven compassion,” none of which even to his wife seemed grounds for turning over the city’s airports to his supervision.

  Paul was horrified and promptly called a friend in City Hall to pass the word to the Mayor that he was not behind the article. The word came back that the Mayor knew that he wasn’t, but would Paul be interested in the job?

  “It would be a great challenge,” Paul had replied.

  Nora agreed that it would be an important step in his career, yet she hated to see his newfound concern for the poor and the oppressed disappear so quickly.

  Later, after her swim and after the children were properly showered, she opened a bottle of champagne to drink a toast to her anniversary. Would the next ten years be like the last ten years? Soon Noreen would be in school and Nora would have time on her hands. She had better find something to do, or she would turn into a bored old bitch.

  She felt a slight shudder of fear as she sipped the gaily bubbling liquid.

  * * *

  Paul Cronin celebrated his tenth wedding anniversary by making love to Maggie Shields in her room at the George V in Paris.

  Flying back to London late that evening to continue his study of local government in England, he decided that he would end the relationship. The pleasure of their sex had been marred for him by Maggie’s plea that he leave Nora for her.

  Even worse, Maggie had insisted on taking some pills before they made love. She had purchased them from a drug dealer on the Left Bank. Marijuana was one thing. This was something else. Paul sensed that Maggie was tottering on the brink of some kind of spectacular action. He didn’t want to be near her when it happened.

  Why, he wondered, did he always return to Maggie despite his resolutions to stop seeing her? It wasn’t the sex. It was good, but he had had better.

  Now there was a look of hopelessness in her eyes. He did not want to be even partly responsible for that hopelessness. He would finish the affair for good this time. Cut it off before it got totally out of hand.

  A vague thought passed through his mind. How long had that emptiness lurked in her moody brown eyes? He exorcised the thought by smiling at the pretty Air France cabin attendant and ordering a second drink.

  * * *

  Tom Shields waited for Sean at a sidewalk café on the Via della Conciliazione, the Tiber on his right and the great silver dome of St. Peter’s on his left. He had picked up Sean, battered and worn from a delayed Alitalia trip, at Fiumicino airport the previous afternoon. He had taken the priest to Chicago House on the Via Sardegna, told him to get a good night’s sleep, and promised to meet him whenever he awakened the following morning. Tom was staying at the Columbus Hotel, next to the sidewalk café, because it was close to the committee meeting place. When Maggie came down from Paris in a few days they would move to the more luxurious Hassler. The trip through Europe with Maggie had been something less than a total success. She had complained about the inconvenience of travel and the inadequacies of even deluxe hotel accommodations, and she was unimpressed by the museums and monuments that fascinated him, although she did enjoy the night life and the expensive department stores.

  Tom drained his cup of espresso and signaled the waiter for a refill as a light blue Lancia pulled up by one of the elaborate lampposts on the outer sidewalk of the Conciliazione. Sean, dressed in a light gray suit and a navy blue turtleneck, emerged from the car, turned around, and kissed—or, more precisely, was kissed by—a very pretty woman. Tom Shields was stunned.

  Sean, grinning broadly, slipped between two elderly couples and joined Tom at the tiny table.

  “Who was that?” Tom asked.

  “Oh, just a princess I happen to know—the Principessa Alessandrini, as a matter of fact.” Sean waved his hand as though he were kissed by a princess every day.

  Actually, he knew that he should stay away from Angèlica. She was becoming an obsession with him, proof of how badly his years in Rome had affected his self-discipline. His fantasies about possessing her were vivid and explicit. She had even found her way into his dreams, often becoming confused with his mother. When he awoke he had to sort them out, to insist to himself that one woman was very much alive and one was dead.

  “I’m not sure about you, Sean,” Tom said. “I suspect that woman may be trying to seduce you.”

  Sean sat next to him at the table. “May be? She’s very definitely trying to seduce me—quite obvious about it.” He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m immune to that sort of thing.”

  Yes, if ever there was a man immune to womanly charm, Tom Shields thought, it was Sean Cronin.

  “How’s Maggie?” Sean asked.

  Tom had never discussed his problem with anyone, but Sean was so warm and seemed so genuinely interested. “Up and down, to tell you the truth. Maggie gets depressed a lot. We had a suicide attempt a few months ago. Worries the hell out of me, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “Maggie?” Sean asked incredulously.

  “We’ve tried therapy but nothing seems to work. There’s a strong strain of depression in it all, though the doctors tell me the suicide attempt was mostly an effort to gain attention. I’m afraid she might push her luck too far some day and not gain the attention quickly enough to save her.”

  “What’s she depressed about?” Sean asked, putting his hand on Tom’s arm.

  “I think mostly it’s the demands that life makes on her to grow up. At least that’s what one of the doctors said, and it seems to me to be true. Maggie has been pouting since our wedding day. I’ve tried paying no attention to it, and I’ve tried giving it all my attention. No matter what I do, or the kids do, or what the doctors do, she’s still fundamentally dissatisfied with her life. The suicide attempt, they tell me, was a protest against the injustices that have been done to her—only most of the injustices are in her mind.”

  “God!” exclaimed Sean, tightening the grip on Tom’s arm. “How do you stand it?”

  “I struggle on. I blame myself when I’m away from home, but then when I’m home it doesn’t seem to make any difference. I brought her with me to Europe for this meeting, thinking a vacation together would help. Then she decided to stay in Paris, even though her big complaint about these meetings before has been that I left her alone too much. I don’t know what to do. I sometimes think there’s nothing I can do.”

  Sean wished that, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he could offer an insight that would be of help to Tom. But he wasn’t a magician. “There are some things we can’t do anything about, Tom. We just have to let happen what’s going to happen.”

  For no apparent reason, a picture of Nora flashed through his mind.

  * * *

  Roger Fitzgibbon had become more Roman than the Romans, wearing not only a cassock but a clerical hat and light overcoat even though it was the middle of a heat wave.

>   Roger had engineered an appointment in the Secretariat of State when Cardinal McCarthy had passed him over to make Jimmy McGuire vice-chancellor. Sean knew that this must have galled his ambitious classmate, but there was never a sign of resentment when they crossed paths in the streets around the Vatican. Never offend a potential ally.

  “Good to see you, Sean.” Roger smiled his toothy grin. “Hear you’re knocking them dead at the Birth Control Commission.”

  They were across the street from the gate to the Vatican Holy Office. The gray building looked down upon them as if with aloof disapproval.

  “I hear you met my colleague, Martin Spalding Quinlan, at the Alessandrinis the other night,” Roger continued. “You really are in high company, Sean. The Prince is one of the most influential of the black nobility.”

  “Is it true that Marty added the Spalding to his name because it sounds so Episcopal?”

  Roger laughed easily. “I wouldn’t know about that. But he’s certainly going to be a bishop very soon. Somewhere in the West, I gather. The first step up. There are those in the Secretariat who think he may succeed our beloved Eamon some day.”

  “Deliver us from a faggot bishop,” Sean said fervently.

  Roger raised an eyebrow. “Oh, come now, Sean. That’s not fair. Martin’s taste is impeccable, of course, and he has a wonderful eye for line and texture, but you’re sophisticated enough to know that doesn’t mean anything.”

  Sean wondered whether or not Roger’s remark meant that he agreed that Quinlan was homosexual. Regardless, Sean was certain that the man who might be his next archbishop would hear a detailed account of the conversation. Well, at least the Principessa Angèlica would never make a play for Martin Spalding Quinlan.

  * * *

  Back in his room at Chicago House on Via Sardegna, Sean recalled the final vote at the Birth Control Commission. Even the four or five bishops from Africa and Asia, about whom he was uncertain, went with the majority and voted for change. There were only seven votes for the minority, including the chairman’s. A five-to-one landslide for those who thought change was possible. Paul VI had his lifeline if he wanted it.

  “You do not vote, Monsignor Cronin?” the chairman had asked, his surprise evident.

  “I can accept neither position.” Sean weighed each word carefully. “You can show me as abstaining.”

  “Abstaining? What does that mean?” asked the chairman.

  “It means not eating meat on Friday,” joked Sir Hubert, the Aussie anthropologist.

  Everyone in the room tittered.

  “Just note that I was present and didn’t vote,” said Sean.

  As the meeting was breaking up and handshakes and farewells were being exchanged, the greasy French theologian accosted him. “You try to please everyone, Monsignor Cronin, and you succeed in pleasing no one. That is the fate of ambitious men.” He turned and walked away.

  “Bastard,” whispered Tom Shields.

  “Maybe that fellow’s right, Tom,” Sean said, staring after the retreating Frenchman. “Maybe I am trying to please everyone.”

  “That’s not what the young clergy in Chicago say about you. The young priest in our parish says that all his classmates have a tremendous amount of respect for your integrity. They say that even when you’re wrong, you’re wrong for the right reasons.”

  Sean was astonished. “The next thing you’ll try to tell me is that I’m popular with the junior clergy.”

  “I won’t try to tell you that because you’re a sufficiently morose Irishman not to want to believe it. It’s still true. Popular and, if the young clergy are typical, getting more popular.”

  If they found out about his birth control vote, Sean told himself in his room, his popularity would soon begin to wane. He looked up. Cardinal McCarthy was standing in his doorway.

  “Good evening, Monsignor.” The little man’s voice was as mild and self-effacing as ever. The enormous responsibility of being Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago was taking its toll on him, but nothing seemed to shatter his serenity. “Need I say that everyone in the Curia is talking about your vote this morning. The cardinals I met with at the Sacred Congregation this evening were very much impressed.”

  “I didn’t do it to impress anybody, Your Eminence,” he said wearily.

  “I’m sure you did not, Monsignor. Nonetheless, that was what you accomplished. Rome does not often value independence, much less integrity. Sometimes and on some issues, however, a man of independence and integrity has a uniquely powerful position.”

  Sean couldn’t help but grin. “Your Eminence, what in the hell am I supposed to do with this unique power I’ve earned today?”

  The Cardinal’s smile lasted longer this time. “One of the things you’re going to do, Monsignor Cronin, is come to Castel Gandolfo with me later on in the month, after your vacation. Macchi himself—the Pope’s secretary—called me a little while ago and said the Pope very much wanted to have a personal talk with you. I trust you don’t mind discussing the reasons for your vote with His Holiness?” Eamon McCarthy fingered the plain gold band on his right hand, as he always did when he was afraid he might be pushing one of his priests too hard.

  “The Pope’s the boss, Your Eminence. Of course I’ll see him.”

  “I’m not sure that he’s the boss any more, Monsignor Cronin. However, he still believes that he is. I will send word to Monsignor Macchi tomorrow to make the proper arrangements.”

  Only after the Cardinal left did Sean realize that he had refused to commit Sean to the meeting without asking him first.

  * * *

  Sean arranged for a dinner party when Nora arrived in Rome. He watched the interaction between Nora and the Principessa Angèlica as the full moon illuminated the late medieval church across from Sabatini’s restaurant. The setting was perfect: pure white tablecloths, fine red wine, and the obvious admiration of the other people in the outdoor dining area. Francésco was being attentive to Paul, while Angèlica had clearly decided that there was little point in competing with Nora and chose, rather, to play the role of the gracious papal noblewoman. In turn, Nora entertained the party with stories of touch football games and swimming pool escapades with the Kennedy clan.

  Both women ignored Maggie Shields, Angèlica from the very beginning and Nora after one or two unsuccessful attempts to bring her into the conversation. Maggie looked lovely. With her pretty eyes and even prettier smile, she could have been part of the entertainment. Instead, she remained distant.

  By the time Nora had reached the point in her story where she had “clipped” Bob Kennedy, the other two women had faded into the background of Sean’s imagination. So, too, had the other guests, and the piazza, and the moonlight, and the Tiber and the city of Rome and the world. Hard work at the Birth Control Commission meetings, weariness from his unwanted job at the Chicago chancery, disillusionment with the stupidity and venality of the Church bureaucracy, his lingering flirtation with the Principessa—all were taking their toll on his faith and his commitment. He knew now what he wanted. He wanted Nora. The trip through Italy with her would be a joy and a terror. With the courage that comes from despair, he didn’t care what happened.

  The rest of the world gradually faded back in, creating a halo around Nora’s strong facial bones and radiant auburn hair. Everyone was laughing, even Angèlica, who had no idea what American football was about.

  Sean felt the muddy waters of damnation swirl around him. What would happen, would happen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  1966

  Despite its unquestioned elegance, the Royal Danieli Hotel on the Grand Canal in Venice served croissants that were something less than totally fresh, Nora Cronin decided. Nora hated the stingy continental breakfasts and thought that they were very little improved by the addition, as a concession to American tourists, of orange juice—at an extra charge, of course. For a woman who never had breakfast without bacon, this European custom was a profound affront.

  Outside the win
dow of her room, a fine gray mist hung over Venice, a city that was considerably less than she had expected.

  She pushed aside her breakfast tray and climbed out of bed. Paul, who could not stand eating breakfast in his room, was downstairs, doubtless with Sean, who thought that breakfast in bed was too much a concession to human frailty.

  Nora tugged off her badly rumpled gown and walked to the bathroom. A morning like this in Venice required a leisurely bath instead of a brisk shower.

  Nora was uneasy about traveling with her two brothers—only they weren’t really brothers; she had married one and was in love with the other. The trip was pleasurable but, in a deeply melancholy way, foreboding. It was absurd to think anything was going to happen … yet.…

  She slipped into the soothing waters of the tub. Every woman has a built-in antenna that tells her when a man is undressing her in his imagination, Nora thought. She may be offended, frightened, or flattered, depending on who the man is. Nora was enormously flattered by the intensity in Sean’s eyes when they occasionally flicked in her direction. She wanted to be undressed before him as much as he wanted her that way.

  Normal human reaction, she told herself. Nothing unusual about it. Sean would never make a pass, especially not at his brother’s wife. And anyway, he was a priest.

  The door of the bathroom opened and Paul entered. He stood silently over the tub, regarding her with a mixture of awe and desire, a little boy in need of his mother’s soothing affection. Filled with guilt at her adulterous thoughts of Sean, she reached out of the tub, unbuckled his belt, and slowly pulled down the zipper on his trousers.

  * * *

  They were having a late lunch in a quaint, charming fifteen-room hotel on the cliff just outside the town of Amalfi with its glittering little cathedral. On the western horizon the sun was setting fire to the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean. The remaining ten days of their vacation were going to be spent near Naples, relaxing and resting, as Sean had insisted, in small hotels and on mostly deserted beaches.