Nora had remained at her office after the others had left because she was increasingly called upon to make decisions for Cronin Enterprises. These offices were located across the corridor in the Field Building from the Cronin Foundation and were as disorderly and confused as her operation was neat and disciplined. She was becoming the de facto head of the enterprises. Mike always went along with her suggestions nowadays, without even consulting Marty Hoffman or Ed Connaire.
Yet it was not only the pressure of extra work that had kept her in her office. For perhaps the hundredth time, she studied carefully the file on St. Helena’s. What could it mean? Ed Connaire had been vague about the priest who was perhaps Mary Eileen’s lover. Could he still be alive and living at the nursing home—for some reason Mike Cronin’s responsibility? Nora did not want to know. She wanted to bury the past with all its shame. Yet she had contributed her own shame to the history of the Cronins. Maybe …
Nora didn’t know what came after maybe. There would be no real peace, however, until she rolled back the rock from the tomb that had been sealed for over thirty years and found the truth that was buried at St. Helena’s.
* * *
The day after his election, Paul, realizing that his first two terms in Congress would be served under a Republican president, pondered his future. He had won handsomely in the third district: indeed, by the biggest margin a Democratic candidate had ever received. He would have to serve three or four terms in the Congress before he could think of running for the United States Senate. In 1976 he would be forty-six years old, a bit older than he had hoped to be when he got into the Senate but certainly not too old in 1980, when he could make the run for the roses. Not the Old Man’s game plan, but not bad either.
Thumbing through a stack of congratulatory telegrams and messages on his desk in the City Center, he pulled out a message from Maggie Shields. Again there was the single word, Urgent. He crumpled the note as he had crumpled all messages from Maggie through the summer and tossed it in the wastebasket.
There would be plenty of opportunities for replacing Maggie in Washington. Nora would stay in Chicago, at least for a while, because it was awkward to change the children’s schools at the present. Besides, she was now the only one who could keep Cronin Enterprises going.
Paul was not upset by his wife’s success in business. It would mean that their marriage would consist of trips by her to Washington and by him to Chicago—together one or two nights a week at the most, and sometimes not that often. He could have most of the advantages of being a bachelor in Washington and none of the disadvantages. He would merely have to be careful and make sure that Nora never again caught him.
He would miss the kids. They adored him, although Eileen, the oldest, was now frequently contemptuous of him for reasons he did not at all understand.
He would phone Nora dutifully every day. Appearances must be maintained. Besides, she had sound instincts of judgment about people, and as an occasional bed partner she had certain good qualities.
The next half dozen years in his life, then, seemed to hold remarkable promise.
* * *
The Cardinal studied Sean thoughtfully. “Someday, Monsignor Cronin, you are going to have to explain your magic to me. It would be most useful to understand it during the few remaining years I have left to deal with the Vatican.”
“Beg pardon, Eminence?”
“I have just had a phone message from the Apostolic Delegate,” said the Cardinal. “He’s informed me that the Pope, with the recommendation from the Congregation for the Creation of Bishops, has named you Titular Bishop of some city in Asia Minor, which I believe is substantially below the level of the Aegean Sea, and Auxiliary Bishop of Chicago. I would, under normal circumstances, congratulate one who has received such an important appointment. However, as I understand it, this is an appointment that you have not desired, did not want, and would be tempted not to accept. I will content myself with telling you, Bishop Cronin, that you are certainly going to accept that appointment, if I have to constrain you at the point of a gun.” Eamon McCarthy permitted himself the luxury of a broad, self-satisfied smile.
“Shit,” said the new Auxiliary Bishop of Chicago.
* * *
Jimmy McGuire dreaded the dinner at the Mid-America Club, now in its new quarters atop the slender white marble pillar of the Standard Oil Building. “The fifth tallest in the world,” Sean told the three visiting bishops. “We also have Number One and Number Four.”
The Mid-America, Sean had assured Jimmy, would be the best place to go. Any of the more exclusive eating clubs would be a waste of money. “The Episcopal palate, James,” Sean said, “is almost as undeveloped as the Episcopal conscience.”
Jimmy didn’t mind the guests. Martin Spalding Quinlan from Boise was indeed a pompous dullard, a neat little altar boy with precise French cuffs and carefully tinted hair. Harold Wheaton, an auxiliary from Washington, was all right; discreet, cautious, but basically a rubicund political realist. Modesto Gomez from the Southwest said very little because, if one were to believe Sean Cronin, he had very little to say.
A dinner with such men on the last day of the meeting of the national hierarchy in Chicago could be pleasant, or at worst harmless, if it were not almost certainly to be the occasion for one of Sean’s reckless diatribes against his brother bishops. You had to take the good with the bad, Jimmy supposed. Something had happened to Sean around the time of the last meeting of the Birth Control Commission that had made him one of the most courageous and progressive churchmen in America. It also had made him restless, angry, and foolhardy. None of the Cronins, Jimmy mused, seemed very good at balance.
Jimmy’s worst fears were realized during the main course.
Sean had ordered Château Lafite-Rothschild to follow the white Châteauneuf-du-Pape with which the meal had begun, mostly, Jimmy was certain, for the raised eyebrows such an extravagance would produce. Marty Quinlan was commending the recent document from the Holy Office on human sexuality and arguing that the bishops should have taken up his proposal to send a positive reply to Rome, thanking the Pope for such an insightful reaffirmation of the tradition. These were words, Jimmy thought, not unlike those which could have been heard from Sean during his first half-dozen years in the priesthood.
“Bullshit,” Sean said. He filled his wineglass for the second time.
“It’s so hard for us to know what proposals to act upon.” Harold Wheaton tactfully changed the subject. “I think we ought to develop a program of in-service training for the bishops, so they can learn how to budget their time and their energies. Otherwise we spread ourselves too thin.”
Sean made a grand gesture with his glass. “The most important course in such a program, Harry, would be a course in lying. You can’t be a good bishop unless you’re an accomplished liar. We lie to Rome about how enthusiastically we receive their bullshit; we lie to the priests and the laity about how they should enforce such rulings; we lie to the press about what we really think. We even lie to ourselves, although we know that we won’t be able to sleep at night because of what that goddamn encyclical is doing in our dioceses. Some of us are ready-made psychopathic liars. The rest of us are the do-it-yourself variety.”
“You don’t mean that, Sean,” Modesto Gomez protested mildly.
Jimmy protested much less mildly as he and Sean walked back to the cathedral rectory after leaving their guests at the Palmer House. “Cronin, you’re an ass. Every word of what you said tonight will go to the delegation tomorrow morning. You know the only hope we have of continuing Eamon’s policies here is for you to be the next cardinal. Do you want to give Chicago to Marty Quinlan on a silver platter?”
“Do you want a cardinal who is guilty of incest and adultery?” Sean exploded.
Jimmy was stunned. So that was it. He had better say the right thing now. “Sean, are you going to revel in guilt for the rest of your life? The truth is, you damn fool, that what bothers you is not the sin, which God fo
rgives, but the mark on your stainless white record. Sean Cronin isn’t perfect. He’s a sinner like the rest of humankind. So he’s excused from keeping his big mouth shut, even when it endangers the entire archdiocese?”
“You’re fun when you get mad, Jimmy,” Sean said through clenched teeth.
“You and Nora work it out between each other?” Jimmy softened his tone.
“Not really. How can we work it out? It happened, and that’s that.”
“A fine Christian you are, Bishop. You both have a long time to live, a family to share, and you love each other. You can’t go around forever in a paralysis of guilt. Have you ever read the Gospel about forgiveness?” His voice rose. “No, I forgot. God forgives sinners but Sean Cronin doesn’t, not when the sinner is himself.”
“I don’t know how to handle it,” Sean said wearily. “It haunts me every day.”
“It made you a brave and honest churchman and Nora a successful businesswoman, didn’t it?” Jimmy was guessing, but he had no choice but to play for high stakes here on Wabash Avenue at midnight. “Isn’t that the crooked lines of God, drawing good from evil?”
“A felix culpa?” Sean said. “I don’t buy the ‘happy fall’ theology. Never did.”
“Heretic,” Jimmy mumbled. He knew that he had planted questions and doubts. He hoped his friend would ponder them, perhaps constructively.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper and told you,” Sean said after they had walked another block in dead silence. “I don’t want to destroy your respect for Nora.”
“You really are an ass,” Jimmy said. He was genuinely angry for one of the few times in his life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
1968–1969
The nun in charge of St. Helena’s, Sister Margarita, was not much older than Nora and obviously intimidated by Nora’s impressive presence in her smartly tailored suit. “I hope there’s nothing out of order, Mrs. Cronin,” she said.
“Not at all, Sister Margarita.” Nora tried to sound reassuring yet not patronizing. “There’s no question but that we will continue to pay for the care of Mary, but as the person responsible now for the Cronin Foundation, I’m obliged to familiarize myself with the various expenses of the fund. Do I understand that Mary has been here since 1934?” Nora felt a terrible wrenching pain in her stomach. “And you have no idea of what her last name is?”
“None at all, Mrs. Cronin. Mr. Cronin assured the nun who was in charge in those days—there have been eight other heads of St. Helena’s between her and myself—that he had all the records carefully filed in the bank, and that it was absolutely essential, as a work of Christian charity, to take care of this poor woman.” She hesitated and then went on uncertainly. “Of course, I discovered the matter when I assumed responsibility the year before last. My training in hospital administration, needless to say, made me very uneasy about such a practice, but it didn’t seem possible after all these years to review the case.… I would ask you to believe that I made this decision quite independently of the contributions Mr. Cronin regularly makes to our institution.”
“Look, Sister Margarita,” Nora said, “I’m newer at my job than you are at yours. I’m not going to make any trouble. I just want to know more about Mary.”
The nun was visibly relieved. “She came here, as you seem to be aware, in late 1934, diagnosed as incurably psychotic. She was then, as far as we can tell, in her late twenties, which would make her now about sixty. There has been little change in her condition since then. She is mostly, though not entirely, withdrawn from the world. Yet she is patient and cooperative and almost always pleasant. You’re the first visitor she’s had that anyone can remember. A resident psychiatrist says that long ago all hope of progress was lost. He does think, however, that back in the late 1930s a serious effort might have been successful … with some remission of the problem. Of course, in the late 1930s Catholic institutions did not have available the psychiatric facilities and skills that we now have.” The nun sighed. “A lot of things have changed, Mrs. Cronin.”
“Indeed they have, Sister. Do you think it will do any harm if I see Mary?”
“Oh, not at all, Mrs. Cronin, but I must tell you that neither will it do any good.”
* * *
On her way home from the institution, as her driver skirted the city on the tri-state toll road, Nora was too shaken even to glance at her briefcase filled with work. There was no doubt who Mary was. Her features were like those of Nora’s own daughter Mary: fifty years older, perhaps, but the same. And her eyes were Sean’s eyes—fragile, hurt, and yet tender. More to the point, she had suddenly become attentive when the nun introduced her as Nora Cronin. Mary’s aimless chatter had ceased and she became lucid for a moment. “Nora Cronin?” she said. “Why, my name is Cronin too. I had almost forgotten.”
Nora decided that she would never tell Paul, if only because she did not want to take the risk of discovering that her husband already knew about the mysterious Mary. Should she tell Sean?
Nora drew a deep breath. Sean thought his faith was weak, that he didn’t believe in God, at least not strongly enough. He did, of course. He played a childish game with himself, looking for “signs” from God all the time. Nora shook her head in disapproval. As though God didn’t give signs every day. Sean would think his mother some kind of sign. And he would be furious at Uncle Mike. None of it would help anyone, not Mary Eileen, not Sean, not Uncle Mike.
She examined her reactions. Was she angry at Uncle Mike? She should be, but she was not. Poor man. He was wrong, but she was certain he had done what he thought best.
She gathered up her gloves and her purse. I guess you’re elected to carry the burden of the secret, Nora, she said to herself. Who else?
* * *
Eleven-year-old Nicole Shields discovered her mother’s body on her parents’ bed when she returned home from school. It was a month after the 1968 Presidential election. Her mother was dressed in a pale blue dress, the one she had worn on the previous Easter Sunday. She seemed to be quietly sleeping. Nicole, who frequently fought with her mother, murmured an unenthusiastic greeting as she walked down the hall to her own room. Then, puzzled by why her mother would be sleeping with her Easter dress on, she walked back to the bedroom.
Her mother’s chest did not seem to be moving.
Nicole felt a sudden chill. Reluctantly she walked toward the bed, telling herself that her mother was only asleep. She stood at the side of the bed. No, it couldn’t be … her mother had had too much to drink. She touched her mother’s face. It was cool. She picked up her hand. It was cold too. Then it seemed to close on her own, like a claw pulling her down.
Nicole jumped away, dropping the hand back on the bed. Screaming hysterically, she ran from the room. It was a long time before she calmed down enough to call her father.
Like a man in a dream, Tom Shields called one of his neighbors who was a specialist in internal medicine and summoned an ambulance from the emergency room at Little Company of Mary Hospital. Maggie had finally pushed her luck too far. She had signaled her need for attention and affection, time had run out before anyone had heard her signal. Sitting on the bed next to the lifeless body of the woman he had always loved but never understood, Tom Shields wondered, as he had so often during their marriage, what more he could have done that he had not. He was certain that the failure was his, but he could never put his finger on what the failure was. Idly, he reached for the note on the table next to the bed. Maggie’s final message. She was always leaving “final messages.”
He opened the envelope and began to read:
I can’t stand it any more. I’m sick of pretending. I hate it. You’re the only one I’ve ever loved. And after all the good times we’ve had, and all the things we’ve done together, you don’t want me any more. There’s no point in going on. Love, Maggie.
Tom Shields glanced at the envelope. It was not addressed to him, as he had first assumed, but rather to Congressman Paul Cronin.
All f
eeling drained out of him. He put the final note from his wife in the pocket of his jacket. There was no point in letting anyone else see it.
* * *
Congressman-elect Paul Cronin was so pleased with himself that he left his office at the City Center early and took the four o’clock Rock Island train home. He whistled “Hail to the Chief” softly as he sprang up the stairs of his house and opened the door. Nora was sitting in the parlor, her hair tied severely behind her head, a handkerchief held in one hand.
“What’s the matter, Nora?” He knew his wife’s moods well enough to understand that something terrible had happened.
“Maggie finally did it,” said Nora, her voice hoarse. “She tried to kill herself. This time she succeeded.”
“Good God,” Paul said. He remembered with a feeling of relief the crumpled telephone messages.
* * *
Chris Waverly eyed Paul skeptically. “You haven’t changed much, Congressman,” she said. Her tone was bitter. “Coming back to Washington, huh?”
Chris’s figure was as crisp and trim as ever, but her face was thin and the lines on it made her look hard. She looked at least a decade older than Nora.
“I hope we can be friends, Chris,” Paul said.
“Not a chance.” She snubbed out her cigarette. “By the way, I heard your old flame Maggie—you know, the one you used to bed when neither Nora nor I was available—I heard she killed herself. Any chance it was because of you? It would make an interesting story, wouldn’t it? I can see the headlines, ‘Mistress commits suicide after Congressman spurns her.’”
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