Eminence

by William X. Kienzle

  She pulled away from him. “It’s not that the doctor can’t find . . . it’s that the doctor hasn’t found. It still could be something physical. I’m sure it is. Medical science just hasn’t solved all the riddles.”

  “But—”

  “Zoo,” she became defensively earnest, as if expecting strong opposition, “there’s something else I want to try.”

  “Something else? Sure, honey. But what’s left?”

  “Prayer.”

  “Prayer!”

  “There’s a Catholic priest—”

  “A priest! You’ve been to one of the very best doctors in this area. You’ve been to the best clinics, the best hospitals. We can go through the whole thing again if you want. Maybe they missed something. But a priest? Prayer? We aren’t stuck on Haiti where we gotta go to some voodoo Houngan or Mambo.”

  “It’s been in the papers. People have gone to him, been blessed by him. It seems like his prayers get answered . . . not all the time, but some of the time anyway.” She had not yet heard about today’s “miracle.” “Haven’t you read about him?”

  “If he hasn’t committed a crime, I probably haven’t read about him.”

  “Zoo, I want to try it. If it doesn’t work, I’ll try psychotherapy. I promise.”

  Tully paced the large kitchen area. Absently he picked up the Chicken Oriental and set it back down on the counter. “Well, hell, I suppose we can give it a try. I don’t suppose it could hurt . . .” Then, quickly reflecting, “. . . could it?”

  “No, dear, it couldn’t hurt. And it might be the answer.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take me there.”

  “A church? Me in a church?”

  “If it’ll help, he doesn’t operate out of a real church. He’s using an old bank building. It’s close to Michigan and Junction.”

  “Not a church? That’s a slight improvement. What do we have to do? We don’t have to be Catholic, do we?”

  “Just go. Just give it a chance. How about it, Zoo?”

  There was no possible way he could deny her, even though he thought it a foolish waste of time. But he remained wary. He didn’t really accept her protestations that there was no possibility of anything hurtful. It had been a very long time since he’d trusted any religion, organized or not. And it had been his experience that one could not completely rely on every reverend in the world. And that went double for the so-called miracle workers.

  “Okay, babe, we go. But nobody plays fast and loose with you without answering to me.” He hugged her and was hugged in return. “Now, I gotta get downtown. And don’t you wait up . . . okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Alice watched him head down the driveway and out onto the street. She continued watching until the car disappeared from view.

  She returned the chicken carton to the freezer. She wasn’t hungry. She made a cup of instant coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and surrendered to misery.

  What had happened to her life? Everything had fallen into place so well. She had grown up secure, a member of a tightly knit family in Minneapolis. She enjoyed her family and her city. She’d earned her Master of Social Work degree at the University of Minnesota. She had recognized the prime challenge to that degree not in the Twin Cities but in Detroit. The Motor City couldn’t possibly be as bad as its image, she’d thought, but it was undoubtedly a more fertile field for an M.S.W. than any other city she’d read about.

  So, in the face of her parents’ serious misgivings and, in truth, some qualms of her own, she had accepted the offer of a job with the Wayne County Juvenile Court. And she’d gotten very busy very quickly.

  It was every bit the venture she had anticipated, and more. One crisis followed closely on the heels of the previous calamity. Most of the problems were so deeply imbedded and of such long standing that, frankly, they were insoluble. However, every once in a while there appeared a glint of hope. When that happened, it was enough.

  Then Alonzo Tully had come into her life.

  They had met at a Coney Island. He was divorced; she had never married. The casual atmosphere of the eatery belied the depth of relationship that would build from that point.

  Alonzo was such an awkward name to her. She had begun calling him Al. The problem was that he did not look or act like an “Al.” (Besides, he frequently called her Al.) Then she discovered the nickname that his friends had bestowed. “Zoo” was perfect. It was familiar and fun.

  They’d liked each other from the start. The friendship evolved into affection and love. She would have married him without a great deal of pondering. Then he had explained his one and only attempt at marriage. He was clear about the demands of his job, his commitment to that job, and the disastrous effect it had had on his marriage. He did not want to put either of them through such a turmoil.

  So she had moved into his home in northwest Detroit. It was far too large for two people. But, then, it had housed seven when Zoo, his wife, and their five children had lived there. It was a better than average neighborhood and satisfied the edict that, as a police officer, he had to live within the corporate limits of the city of Detroit.

  Her parents, who had yet to meet Tully, were hesitant at first, as would be any concerned parents anxious about their daughter’s welfare. When they became convinced of her happiness in the relationship, they simply shared her joy.

  It did not matter to her parents, or to any of the couple’s friends or relatives, that they were racially mixed. Both Zoo and especially Alice were grateful that the time was ripe for more understanding and acceptance than prejudice regarding miscegenation.

  Before falling in love and living with Zoo, Alice had had no notion of how natural, healing, and complementary a relationship such as theirs could be. They both worked long, hard hours. They were totally understanding of the demands their jobs made on each of them for lots of overtime. They prized and used tenderly the time they could be together. Their lovemaking was a natural expression of the affection and respect they had for each other.

  Everything was about as perfect as it could be. Until, that is, she had fallen ill.

  It happened without warning. Suddenly. She was well. Better, in fact, than she’d been at almost any time in her life. Then, abruptly, wiped out. In time, gradually improving, but locked into expecting the unexpected. Two steps forward, one back. At other times, one step forward, two back.

  And no one had a name for it—or could ascribe it. There were times she fervently wished she had the flu, diabetes, a tumor, even cancer. She longed to be well, of course. But, short of that, she would accept being sick like normal people, with an illness that had a name, that could be found in a book, that could be treated.

  She was especially close to despair each time she underwent uncomfortable, prolonged medical tests that indicated, in the end, nothing.

  Normally, she wouldn’t have looked twice at a religious item in the paper. That she would be drawn to reports of a local faith healer was a measure of her desperation.

  From what she could learn from the news accounts, this Father Robert operated on prayer. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not.

  Not much to go on. But, at this point, any port in this unrelenting storm.

  From what she could remember from Sunday School, almost everything hinged on the faith one brought to such an enterprise.

  She assumed Father Robert’s faith was plenty strong. And hers? It was almost nonexistent. She was going to have to work with great diligence before she gave this remote possibility a shot.

  But how does one get faith? By prayer? And how does one pray? Through faith? It seemed a classic Catch-22.

  She decided to spend the evening searching through her books. Maybe she would find something on prayer or faith that would prove helpful.

  But first, she’d get the latest news on radio. She was about to hear the consensus number one story, an item that was being picked up—mostly as a curiosity—by the wire services and the networks. />
  She was about to feel much better. If Father Robert could cure a blind woman, he might be able to do wonders for someone who couldn’t even tell him what was wrong.

  Her spirits were about to rise. She was about to wish fervently that Zoo could be there to share her hope.

  There was never a cop around when you needed one.

  CHAPTER

  8

  At this time of day, Pat Lennon decided, it made more sense to drive directly out East Jefferson. Not only was it shorter, Jefferson being the straightest line between Detroit and the Pointes, but with the dregs of rush-hour traffic, it was faster.

  There are five Grosse Pointes. In geographical order, they are Grosse Pointe Park, Grosse Pointe, Grosse Pointe Farms, Grosse Pointe Shores, and Grosse Pointe Woods. Pat was headed toward the simple unassuming suburb of Grosse Pointe, toward one of those prestigious addresses: “One”—which would put the house practically in Lake St. Clair.

  The Pointes were, by and large, synonymous with money—old money. The Fords, of course, and the Dodges, as well as many extremely wealthy families who were household words mostly in Michigan.

  At Jefferson and East Grand Boulevard, the intersection that led to the MacArthur Bridge to Belle Isle, Pat could get her first unimpeded glimpse of the Detroit River. From that point and moving upstream, one sailed that narrow river whence Detroit got its French name, “the straits,” into Lake St. Clair, to the St. Clair River, and into majestic Lake Huron. That would be the present location of her erstwhile amour, Joe Cox.

  Strange: If Cox had not caused the cancellation—or postponement, in whichever way it would work out—of their vacation, she probably would have. There was no way of predicting how this faith healer thing was going to work out. At present, it had moved from a piece of fluff to a major news story. And, as in any important story, there was no way of predicting which direction this might take. Would Father Robert turn out to be a fake? Probably. Might he be genuine? Possibly.

  In any case, her reason for shelving the vacation clearly was more valid than Joe’s. She was involved in a breaking story, with national—even international—implications. He was involved in covering a race aboard a boat that, at worst, hardly ever finished the course, and, at best, didn’t really give a damn about who won what.

  Her mind’s eye took her over the familiar lakes and rivers to Port Huron’s busy piers, clogged as they never were at any other time of year, the basins, marinas, and docks filled with serious sailors, dedicated if bumbling amateurs, lots of good old boys out in search of the ultimate party and, for want of a better term, naughty nautical groupies.

  She knew where Joe was. And this time it wasn’t his fault; it was all Nelson Kane’s idea. But the SOB didn’t have to accept the assignment—the assignment that had steered him aboard the S.S. Snafu. She could envision that happy crew cramming the boat with Cutty Sark, Beefeater’s gin, Canadian Club, Jack Daniels. Then, out in the middle of Lake Huron they would discover they’d forgotten the battery for their ship-to-shore radio. And then they would have a good laugh. One of the jokers would say, “We’re lost in the middle of Lake Huron and there’s a storm coming up.” And another jerk would respond, “I’ll drink to that.”

  And Joe—God, he barely knew how to swim! She was verging on feeling sorry for him when she remembered what he was most likely doing at this very minute. The vision was so clear she had to shake her head to refocus on the traffic in which she was channeled.

  There was Cox in swim trunks—no, make that Bermuda shorts, and a tank top. He was getting just a bit paunchy and he wouldn’t chance turning off the girls by revealing those generous love handles. So, not trunks. But stretched out on deck picking up the sun, absorbing just enough sailing jargon to make his story sound authentic. He probably had filed his first installment already. It would be in the Freep tomorrow.

  And what tonight, Joe? Yeah, tonight. Tell me again, Joe, why you couldn’t come home for the night. Sixty goddam miles! What big breakthrough are you going to uncover tonight that’ll keep you in Port Huron right through to the start of the race? She bit her lip. She shouldn’t use words like “uncover.” It too graphically described what she suspected he would be doing with those bimbos tonight.

  Damn him anyway! It was no longer a matter of the vacation. At first, all she could think of was the time they had spent preparing for their trip through and around Canada. And not only the time, but the fun they’d had with travel brochures, consulting the travel writers for both the Freep and the News. The anticipation of a really relaxing holiday.

  When Cox had broached the subject of his assignment, her first and overpowering reaction was anger over that carefully planned vacation going down the drain. With the story she was pursuing now, she saw that that wasn’t the point. The demands of this job they had could supersede just about any previously made plans. If, that is, the story was worth it.

  The real villain of this piece was not the postponement of a vacation. It was the type of assignment Cox had accepted that had torpedoed their plans. That he would dare so bitterly disappoint her for a garbage story: that’s what infuriated her.

  When this whole thing was finally over—her investigation of the miracle worker, his trip to Mackinac, or however the hell far they got on their voyage of the damned—this relationship would have to be reevaluated.

  She could hear him now—protesting her “overly emotional” reaction to a vacation that could be taken “any time.” She would have to make him see the point. That it was not the fluff story nor even the squashed vacation.

  It was his attitude toward her. That he would so grievously disarm point her for such a flimsy reason! And, while they were at it, for some frosting on the cake, there was his probable conduct with the women in his every port of call.

  It’s true they weren’t married, but both of them understood that was a technicality. What right had he to expect her to remain faithful in view of his track record even now after all these years?

  So engrossed was she with the hanging, drawing, and quartering of Joe Cox that she almost missed her turnoff. At the last moment, she flipped on her right-turn signal and cut sharply into the narrow side street. Behind her, horns honked; some fingers were raised, and not in salute. She would have returned the gesture but she had to zigzag carefully around the parked cars that made this by-road a constricted slalom.

  To give the street its due, there were far more than the usual number of vehicles parked there this day. She was not surprised. After all, this was where the action was. Oh, not that the people who lived here were unused to the spotlight. They were, indeed, among the shakers and movers of the city—in some cases, the nation and even the world. But this was where they lived, not where they worked. Under ordinary circumstances, this was where they partied, played bridge, swam, gardened, met socially and, occasionally, made a baby or two.

  These were not ordinary circumstances. Today these massive Colonial and Tudor homes served as a backdrop for the “miracle lady.” And, the media had gathered to record the event.

  Pat surveyed the scene as she slid her subcompact into the only available curb space. She expected the three major TV stations, at the very least, to have crews on hand. But only Channel 7, the ABC affiliate, was present. Their crew had assembled on the lawn of the relevant home. She recognized the reporter as well as the rest of the team. They exchanged greetings as she approached the house.

  “What is it, Guy,” she said, “an opener, a closer, or a bridge?”

  The reporter looked a trifle embarrassed. “None of the above. This is a straight standup.”

  Lennon lifted an eyebrow. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. That’s the problem. They’re not letting anybody in. None of the media people anyway—except Cynthia and Robbin.”

  “Cynthia and Robbin!” The society writers for the News and the Free Press. “What have we got here—a miracle lady or a cotillion?”

  “Damned if I know . . . obviously. They’ve
got muscle at the door. Guess it’s a Miracle by Invitation Only. They turned away 2 and 4 earlier, so they’re not playing favorites, at least with TV. None of us could get in. They turned the print guys away too—that is, with the exception of the high-society mavens. So, all the viewers are going to get tonight is a bunch of guys and gals standing in front of that splendid house, saying, ‘This is so-and-so, Channel Whatever, from the armed camp otherwise known as the Whitehead residence, reporting—nothing.’“

  “Back to the ‘talking heads,’ eh?”

  “‘Fraid so.”

  “Well,” Lennon took a deep breath, “wish me luck.”

  “You’re going to try it?”

  “In the best tradition of The Front Page.”

  The entire crew, as a Greek chorus, sang out, “Good luck, Patricia!”

  She grinned and headed toward the house as they continued to pack up.

  Pat did not move directly toward the front door. Rather, she walked about the property briefly to get the feeling of the place. The house was no more nor less opulent than any of the nearby homes. The difference, at least the most obvious difference, was its site. The property, not deep by neighborhood standards, abutted the shoreline of Lake St. Clair. What a beautiful sight, she thought—and then she thought further: Either they know more about the tides and weather conditions than meets the unpracticed eye, or else they have serious problems when a storm hits. She guessed the former was true; this place exuded an aura of simply not abiding inconvenience.

  Ultimately, it seemed intended as a monument to its owner, one of the Midwest’s best-known and most successful architects.

  Be that as it may. Pat squared her shoulders. She would return to the News with her story or on it.

  She was about to ring the doorbell, when the door opened, not by magic, but by the hand of one of the largest persons she had ever seen up close.

  She gulped. “I’m here to see—”

  “Your name?” It was an understated growl.

  “Lennon. Pat Lennon with the Detroit—”