Thy Brother's Wife

by Andrew M. Greeley

  “I don’t want to think about that,” she said. “Do you?”

  “I guess not. He’s a Cronin. I suppose that’s all that matters.”

  “Yes, look at him,” she said, her face shining with a mother’s love. “He certainly is a Cronin, isn’t he?”

  Sean knew that in his heart he would never be satisfied with that answer, even though, short of paradise, that would be the only answer he would ever have.

  BOOK VI

  I leave to you my own peace, I give you a peace the world cannot give; this is my gift to you.

  —John 14:27

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  1968

  “If I were a thirty-seven-year-old black man instead of a thirty-seven-year-old white man,” said congressional candidate Paul Cronin, “I would be angry tonight. Martin Luther King was one of the greatest leaders ever produced in this country. Now he is dead, killed by a racist. Oh, yes, if I were a black man I would be terrified, outraged, and I would feel very destructive.”

  The mostly white crowd in the small park next to the Rock Island commuter station stirred uneasily. Commissioner Cronin was speaking to them from a red, white, and blue platform, decorated with CRONIN FOR CONGRESS banners. The Commissioner was popular, especially in this end of the district. With the organization’s vote, he was thought to be a shoo-in for election. Yet the speech he was giving was more appropriate for the black end of the district than the white. How come Paul Cronin was taking their side?

  “If I were a thirty-seven-year-old black storekeeper in Chicago tonight,” the Commissioner continued, “I would be even more angry and more frightened, for I would not know when a Molotov cocktail would come through the window of my store. I would be furious that the violent murder of a good man, who opposed violence, would be used as an excuse for more violence and more murder and, quite possibly, for my own murder. And I would be very grateful indeed if the Mayor’s influence with the President was such that one phone call could send the protection of the Hundred and First Airborne—to return order to my street, my neighborhood, my city. I would mourn Martin Luther King. I would be angry at the senseless violence, whether it be carried on by whites or blacks, and I would thank God for Richard J. Daley and Lyndon Baines Johnson.”

  The candidate ended his speech in a tone of ringing triumph. Paul Cronin had charmed them again. The audience cheered enthusiastically. Even the small group of well-to-do blacks who stood off on one side applauded. They had more experience with the gangs of teenage looters in the neighborhood than did the whites in the crowd.

  “Just the right note,” said Monsignor Sean Cronin, chancellor of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago, to Nora Cronin, who was seated next to him. Sean suspected that she provided many of the core ideas for Paul’s campaign speeches.

  “No matter what happens,” said Nora, “Paul is going to get elected. He’s in a sweet position. He can ride on Bob Kennedy’s coattails.”

  The candidate, boyishly handsome with his hair long, but not too long, joined them for a moment before being drawn away by a reporter. “What did you think, little brother?” He grinned. “Not bad for a district where you have to keep both whites and blacks happy.”

  “You’re a superb politician,” Sean agreed.

  It was true enough, he thought, as he drove through the forest preserve toward 87th Street and the Dan Ryan Expressway. Paul was Chicago’s fair-haired boy. He could do no wrong as far as the public was concerned. Even his private life was leveling out. The birth of Mickey seemed to have introduced a new element in the relationship between Paul and Nora. Sean couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It was as though both Paul and Nora had come to an agreement that Nora, having produced a son, had fulfilled her family duties.

  The fateful interlude in Italy had had a profound effect, even though neither of them talked about it. Nora was now more self-confident and self-possessed. Sean had become almost as reckless as his now politically cautious brother used to be. And, of course, there was Mickey, the magic, happy little boy whose father would never be known for sure and who was the result, one way or the other, of what had happened that week at the Bay of Naples.

  Sean parked his car in the cathedral parking lot, but instead of going to his room he walked down the street to the new chancery building and rode up in the elevator. The light was on in Jimmy McGuire’s office, next to his own.

  “Hi, Sean,” said the always cheerful Jimmy. “Do the paratroopers have any roadblocks on the Ryan?”

  “The city’s quiet,” Sean said. “There’s still smoke, but the fires are burning out, and the radio says there’s some looting on the West Side. But the worst is over. Maybe we didn’t need the troops after all.”

  “Me, I’m glad they’re here. It will make everybody think twice.… You’re not planning on working at this hour of the night, are you?”

  “I want to go over that financial problem at St. Fintan’s. No one can figure out how many different bank accounts the late pastor had and which ones reflect his money and which ones reflect the parish’s money.”

  “You can bet on it that all of it was parish money, and by the time the lawyers are finished, we’ll only get half,” Jimmy said. “The boss is off confirming at St. Andrew’s tonight, isn’t he?”

  Sean wanted to get to his own office and begin work, yet Jimmy’s good humor was seductive—an endless temptation to idle away time. “I don’t know how he stands it. Confirmations, graduations, parish anniversaries, meetings in Rome or in Washington, half the kooks in the city of Chicago wanting to see him, the telephone ringing from one end of the day to the other, conflicts between pastors and people and people and curates, women wanting to be ordained, priests wanting to marry … the old man is going to work himself into an early grave. He’s the most conscientious man I’ve ever met.”

  Jimmy eyed him levelly. “The second most conscientious man I know.”

  Sean ignored the remark and went to his own office, where he began to pore over the complex financial machinations of Father Michael John O’Brien and the parochial funds of St. Fintan the Hermit Parish. Try as he might, however, he could not drive pictures of Nora from his mind. Sheer physical hunger for her had abated, but every time he saw her the light in her incredible blue eyes, the quick explosion of her smile, and the curves of her flawless body hit him with sledgehammer force. Nothing would ever happen between them again, he promised himself. But the guilt, the torment, and the self-contempt he now felt because of their experience, would never go away, it seemed, nor would the shattering memories of its pleasures. “Oh, God!” he sobbed, burying his head in his hands. “What have I done?”

  * * *

  The day after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Michael Cronin was rushed from his apartment at the new John Hancock Center to the emergency room of Passavant Hospital. The doctors diagnosed the attack as a brain “spasm,” something like a small stroke, the sort of trauma Eisenhower had suffered during his first term.

  “The President served four more years and is still alive at seventy-eight,” the soft-spoken brown-skinned neurologist from India commented reassuringly.

  Yet it seemed to Sean that the touch of death was on his father’s face in the hospital bed. He seemed so frail.

  While Sean stood at his bedside, Elizabeth Hanover slipped quietly into the room. She took Mike’s hand, oblivious of the needles in his veins. The sick man’s eyes came alive.

  Good God, Sean thought, he’s in love with her. Like I am with Nora. How can it be that he’s never married her?

  “The offer still stands, Michael.” She spoke with characteristic directness.

  His father seemed to begin to say yes; then the life died from his eyes, and he pulled his hand away.…

  “I’ll keep up my visits, Sean, indefinitely, if you don’t mind,” Elizabeth said later when she and Sean were in the corridor outside Mike’s room.

  That stalwart, timeless woman seemed suddenly to be showing her age. Her face was line
d, her normal parade-ground back a little bent.

  “Be your realistic self, Elizabeth, and find someone else. This game is over.”

  “You’re being the sensible WASP and I’m being the sentimental Irishman.” She leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “We’re not sentimental about death,” Sean said. “Not even lingering death.”

  * * *

  Paul Cronin walked briskly up Michigan Avenue under a brooding November sky. Despite his self-confident stride and the quick smile with which he greeted passers-by who recognized his face from television news conferences, he was worried about Sean’s reaction to the suggestion he was about to make. It was the only possible solution, but Sean was so unpredictable these days that Paul could not count on his being sensible.

  Paul glanced up at the towering walls of the Magnificent Mile. The top of the Hancock Tower was shrouded in fog. Planes would be stacked up at O’Hare. Before he had become Aviation Commissioner he had paid no attention to such things. Now that he knew all that could go wrong at the world’s busiest airport, his hands turned sweaty when the weather was bad. He couldn’t talk to the Mayor any more about a new airport. “Them protestors come out every time we mention it, Paul. Haven’t we got enough of them protestors as it is? Besides, you run for Congress and let me worry about O’Hara.”

  The Mayor always called it “O’Hara.” He liked Paul, thought he had done a good job taking the heat about airport expansion, and wanted to reward him with a return to Washington.

  Paul was happy about going back to Capitol Hill; now the only complication was his father’s stroke. Paul did not like having to go to the hospital. The old man was getting better, all right, but now he looked like an old man. Paul shuddered. He didn’t want to think about his father’s death.

  Makuch had called him to offer sympathies and brag about his own success in the business world. Paul could tell he was still a loser. Always had been a loser. Paul had been afraid that the call was a prelude to a demand for more money, but Makuch merely wanted to pretend that he was an old friend anxious about Mike Cronin’s health. He congratulated Paul on his campaign for Congress. There was an ominous note in his voice when he said, “It will be nice to have one of us in Congress.”

  Would he ever be rid of Makuch?

  The newspapers in the lobby of Passavant Hospital had headlines about the peace demonstrators at the Pentagon. Damn fool war. How could they make the Korean mistake all over again? He was glad that his “key post” in the city government provided an excuse not to ask to have his commission activated.

  His stomach jumped at the thought of huddling in a foxhole while mortars thudded all around. He had not slept for almost a week after watching the siege of Khesanh on television. Even Nora could not exorcise the thump of the explosions and the screams of the wounded at Chongun Reservoir.

  “Took you long enough,” said Sean. His face looked like that of a stern novice master.

  “I had a rough session with Connaire and Hoffman,” Paul pleaded. “More troubles.”

  Sean melted, as he always did, when Paul offered an excuse. He patted his brother’s shoulder affectionately. “What are those two old gombeen men up to now?”

  They sat on a couch in the lobby. Snow flurries danced against the dirty windowpanes. “The IRS has been hassling the Cronin Fund for more than a year. First I’ve heard of it. Ed and Marty had it out with Dad.…” Paul was glad to find an excuse not to face his father’s frail, wounded body, to postpone his visit, if only for a short time.

  “How bad is it?” Sean asked. He sounded as if he were spoiling for a chance to take on the IRS.

  “Bad enough. Someone has to go in and straighten out the mess, someone Dad trusts and who’s smart enough to figure where all the bones are buried. And it has to be done now.”

  Sean raised an eyebrow. “Who? Not you. A politician can’t afford to be caught in such a mess. Me?”

  “No way.” These brief conversations with Sean about family problems brought back the comradery of the old days. How had they lost it?

  “Then who? A politician can’t, a churchman shouldn’t … who? Who does Dad trust to put his complicated generosity into the order that would satisfy the IRS?”

  Paul hesitated, fearing his brother’s anger. “Nora,” he said tentatively.

  To his surprise Sean approved enthusiastically. “Who else? Of course, she’s perfect.” He paused. “Wonderful idea, Paul. Who else but Nora?”

  * * *

  Nora tried to concentrate on The Confessions of Nat Turner, though her mind wandered frequently to the conversation that lay ahead of her. Something terribly important, Paul had said. What could Uncle Mike want of her that was terribly important?

  “He’s ready to see you now, Mrs. Cronin,” said the matronly black nurse with the smile of relief she always reserved for Nora, the only visitor who could calm down Mike Cronin.

  He looked much better. In a few weeks he would be able to fly to Florida to complete his rehabilitation. “Well, tough guy”—she kissed him—“when are you going to stop this goldbricking and get back to work?”

  Mike laughed. “I fooled them all, didn’t I? None of them thought I’d be able to head for Florida after Christmas. Give me a few months and I’ll be back in the swing of things.”

  “Better believe it,” she said admiringly. “Now, what’s this about an important conversation? Every conversation with me is important, Michael Cronin, and don’t you dare think otherwise.”

  Mike grinned. “Stirred up your curiosity, did I? It’s nothing too important.… I just want you to take over the Fund for a few months till I come back from Florida. I’ll be busy enough running Paul’s campaign for Congress from down there without having to fight off the IRS vultures too.”

  “Why me?” she said, after a pause to gather her thoughts.

  “Why not you? One son running for Congress, another running for auxiliary bishop; who else do I have besides my daughter?”

  “Uncle Mike, I’m flattered. I appreciate the vote of confidence. I don’t know whether I can do it.…”

  “Don’t blubber like a damn fool, woman.” He seemed remarkably happy for a man giving up a prized possession. “Of course you can do it. I wouldn’t ask you if you couldn’t. Anyway, it will only be for a few months.”

  Nora knew that she should feel hesitant over the responsibility and sad for Uncle Mike’s loss. Yet her mind sang for joy. Yes, certainly she could do it.

  Better than anyone else.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  1968

  The limousine picked Nora up every morning promptly at nine thirty. By then the three girls were in school and Mickey had been fed breakfast. Nora arrived at her office at the Cronin Foundation at ten o’clock and worked straight through until three o’clock—five hours every day of the week. She was home by three thirty to supervise the girls when they stormed in from St. Titus School to play with the endlessly enjoyable Mickey. She would also preside over dinner.

  Nora felt tremendous guilt over her new occupational responsibilities. She was the mother of a child still a long way from school years and she was playing in the big league of business and finance. She knew that many of the other mothers at St. Titus were muttering about her, although she spent no more time at the office than they did shopping and playing golf. Such an argument, however, assuaged neither her conscience nor the criticisms of her neighbors. To make Nora’s problems worse, she reveled in the excitement of the Cronin Foundation. She enjoyed every moment in the office, as well as the forty minutes of work each day in the back of her plush Cadillac limousine.

  At first, the men who worked for her, many of them older than she was, were inclined to patronize her. However, no one ever did that twice. Nor did anyone make a second pass.

  Nora frowned. She did not know quite what to make of her relationship with her husband. They had made love the night before: mechanical, but still good sex. They both were now competent at satisfying each oth
er. Yet they were drifting even further apart. Paul had his politics and she had the business. Both were more or less oblivious of the other’s concerns, although Paul was only too happy to take her political advice. He seemed to respect and admire her. Was that what marriage was about after almost twelve years? Maybe they were better off than most.

  Her thoughts returned to the Cronin Foundation. One day, when she was sitting behind the vast oak desk in what used to be Mike Cronin’s office, Nora had come across a stack of bills she couldn’t make any sense of. “Mr. Conley,” she asked one of the few remaining clerks from the early days of the business, “I can’t seem to place this bill for eighteen thousand dollars for St. Helena’s Nursing Home up in Lake County. It merely says ‘Services rendered. Mary.’ Do you know why we pay this bill every six months?”

  The little old man with the red nose and a few streaks of snow-white hair became agitated. He reached for the bills. “I’m afraid Mr. Cronin told me not to bother you with these. They shouldn’t have been sent through. I’ve been paying that bill every six months, doing it for a long time, more than thirty years, as far as I can remember.”

  “Back to 1938?” Nora asked incredulously.

  “Is this 1968? Well, then, it’s more than thirty years. I’ve been paying that bill since 1934. Do you want me to stop?”

  “No.” She gave the bill back to the old man. “If Mr. Cronin wants the bill paid, then of course keep on paying it.”

  She made a note on the pad inside of her compact notebook with its hand-tooled leather cover: Check St. Helena’s.

  * * *

  Sean Cronin’s phone rang. It was the Archbishop. “Monsignor Cronin, could you spare me a few minutes?”

  “Of course, Eminence.” Sean collected the information on St. Fintan the Hermit and walked down the corridor. He smiled at the elderly woman who was Eamon McCarthy’s secretary and walked into the office of the Cardinal Archbishop of Chicago.