“Did you tell your sister?”
“Sheila? No. She treats it as a big secret.”
“You must tell me about that meeting.”
“Sure, sure.” But the nurse came in and added something to the liquids that were dripping into Maurice, and he faded away. Amos was standing at the window when Henry returned.
“There has to be an operation. Disks. It can be very serious. I’m taking him home.”
Making the arrangements took several days. Henry had to override the advice of colleagues, but he was adamant: He wanted his son back in Fox River. Meanwhile, they made a visit to the driving range. Balls were being hit with varying degrees of skill. The place was crowded; the shop in which equipment and food were sold was doing a brisk business. Everyone in charge was young, with bronzed skin and long hair. Amos would have thought them delinquents, but they were obviously efficient.
A woman came out of the office. She looked at the elderly gentlemen in suits and came to them. “Can I help you?”
Amos said, “You must be Catherine Adams.”
Henry made the connection. The silent partner. “I am Maurice’s father.”
“He’s not here. Have you heard?”
“We’ve just come from the hospital.”
“Good, you do know. I’m looking after things a bit in his absence.”
Her close-cut hair was oddly attractive, Amos thought. What a place California was. The men with hair to their tail bones and women in crew cuts. It was all perversely attractive. Perhaps that was the point.
“I’m taking him home for the operation.”
“Operation?”
“It’s quite serious. There is an excellent man in Fox River who will perform the surgery.”
“We were both in Chicago a week ago.”
“Maurice came to see me,” Amos said.
She opened her mouth in feigned shock. “And didn’t breathe a word. What a fox he is.”
“So you’re the silent partner,” Henry said again. He seemed taken by Catherine Adams.
“I don’t know about silent. Except legally.” She smiled at Amos. “I should explain it to you.”
Amos felt flirted with, too, and didn’t mind a bit. They went into the office.
“Maurice’s trophies,” she said, gesturing at a set of glassed-in shelves. “I won’t let him bronze me.”
“Will everything run smoothly here with Maurice away?”
“It always does. He makes a courtesy appearance once a day, and then it’s off to the golf course or wherever.”
“And you?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m used to being abandoned.”
Henry clearly took her banter to mean that there was something between her and Maurice, and equally clearly he liked it.
“You could come along. I’m renting a plane.”
“Renting a plane? That sounds like Rock Hudson. But I can’t go with you, unfortunately.”
“I’ll keep you informed. How can I reach you?”
“Just call Maurice’s number.” She paused. “I’ll check his messages.”
Amos was reminded of the girl who had answered the door when Vivian called at Maurice’s apartment on the North Side, but if Henry suspected anything he concealed it. Maybe he thought cohabitation would lead to something more. He seemed to be assessing Catherine Adams for childbearing possibilities.
The next day, the ambulance plane was ready. When Amos saw its size he declined Henry’s offer of a ride, but he was there when Maurice, accompanied by a nurse, was brought from the hospital and put onto the plane. He said good-bye to Henry before the door was closed.
“What a good friend you are, Amos.”
“Have a good flight.”
He watched the little plane taxi away. He would be as likely to take a hang glider to Chicago as fly in such a plane as that. Who was Rock Hudson, he wondered, but not for long. Now that he was here, he planned to stay a few days longer in Los Angeles.
2
Knowledge is power, as someone has said. Tuttle never knew who, only that it was true. The question was what to do with it. The document releasing her baby that Madeline had signed had been turned up by his paralegal, but the adoption papers assigning the child were nowhere to be found. Not for the first time, Tuttle found himself admiring the skills of Amos Cadbury. The birth certificate only confirmed what the release revealed: A daughter had been born to a single mother, and that single mother had put her child up for adoption. There the trail ended. Tuttle discounted the possibility that the Lynches had no legal claim to their daughter. That the two children were the same was still an inference, and one Tuttle never doubted, but what good was a hunch, legally? Maybe if he had gone to a better law school, or done better at the one he had attended, he would know what to do next. He had no memory of any discussion of adoptions in any class. Had Amos studied adoptions in the Notre Dame law school? Then Tuttle had another hunch. Amos was doubtless a member of the Indiana bar. He had gone to school in South Bend. He would have lawyer friends there.
Tuttle hopped into his Toyota, risked the Skyway, as usual under repair, and set out on the Indiana Tollway for South Bend. Two hours after his arrival, he had found the Lynches’ adoption papers.
Tuttle celebrated by driving out to Notre Dame, where he talked his way past the gate guard and toured the legendary campus. He lifted his tweed hat as he passed the grotto. Ducks waddled on the road, making the 20 mph speed limit seem unnecessary. A flock of Canada geese brought him to a standstill. Why did anyone go hungry when there was that much meat stopping traffic? Everyone complained about Canada geese, but no one did anything about them. Tuttle considered talking Tetzel, the reporter, into writing a piece for the Fox River Tribune. A modest proposal. Let them eat geese. He was feeling giddy with triumph. He came to another gate and exited the campus. If he were a drinking man, he would have toasted his success. Instead, he headed for the tollway and home.
Now he sat in his office, with the door closed, considering that knowledge is power. In the outer office, Hazel was banging things around, in a mood.
“Where have you been?” she had demanded when he sauntered in.
Tuttle looked around. “Martin here?”
“That dingbat.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Some old woman called and told me to keep my hands off Martin Sisk.”
“I would have thought the risk ran in the opposite direction.”
“Tell me, Tuttle, what is he worth?”
“He’s loaded. He ran a pharmacy across from the courthouse, did a land office business.”
“So he tells me.”
“It’s true. You could do worse, Hazel.”
“You’re telling me.”
The way she looked at him sent him swiftly into his office, shutting the door behind him. He did not take off his tweed hat. Well, just enough to look at it with awe. Between his father and his tweed hat, he felt he would remain on a lucky roll. But how should he use what he knew?
He could confront Amos Cadbury and congratulate him on the way he had handled the Lynch adoption. He let the imagined scene unroll behind twice-closed eyes—he had pulled his hat over his face—but not even in double darkness could he come up with an Amos Cadbury cowed by his discovery and anxious to take Tuttle into his confidence. He pushed back his hat and picked up the phone.
“Get me Martin Sisk.”
“Are you serious?”
“Quite.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Only of your beauty, my dear.” He had locked his door when he shut it.
“Ha.” The sound in his ear altered, and he took the phone away. He could hear Hazel punching buttons in the outer office. He waited for her to tell him Martin was on the line, but what he heard was her voice, and not the voice with which she spoke to him. The delay was suddenly welcome. Obviously Hazel was making it up to Martin. He went to the door and tried to hear. She seemed to be teasing him about his girlfriend
s, the ones who called to threaten her, but her voice was sweet as honey. Tuttle returned to his chair. Martin didn’t have a chance against Hazel. She would marry and quit, and he would have the office to himself again. Once more he and Peanuts could while away the hours, having Chinese sent in, pigging out. The phone rang.
“Mr. Sisk.”
“Thank you, Hazel. Martin?” He paused. “Hang up, Hazel.”
A moment passed and she was off.
“Mission accomplished, Martin. Where can we meet?”
“Mission accomplished?”
“The mother of the adopted daughter,” Tuttle said impatiently.
“Oh, yes. Of course. But haven’t you heard?”
Tuttle felt a sinking sensation. “Heard what?”
“Let’s put that on hold, okay? Vivian’s son, Maurice, has been taken ill in California. Henry Dolan flew out there. This isn’t the time.”
“It is for us, Martin. Where are you?”
“I’ll meet you,” Martin said hastily. “Name a place. Not your office.”
“The Great Wall. On Dirksen. In half an hour.”
He hung up. What did Vivian’s son have to do with it? In any case, delay seemed dangerous. He unlocked his door and emerged into the outer office.
“Is he coming here?”
“He’s shy, Hazel. But he’s hooked.”
“What did he say?”
“He doesn’t trust himself in your presence.”
“Get out of here.”
Tuttle got out of there.
3
“Any word?” Martha asked Bernard.
“These things can take time.”
He had come to her desk. Willa looked on with approval over a file cabinet. Bernard turned, and Willa disappeared.
“How about a drink after work?”
She nodded.
“And then dinner.”
She loved him so much, even when he didn’t look at her that way.
“I’ll ask my boss.”
“I’m your boss.”
After work they came out of the building and headed into the wind. Tonight would be Italian. “With Chianti. To weaken your resistance.”
He was kidding. They loved one another but were keeping things under control. It was the Catholic way. At least it should be. At Gregorio’s they began with canneloni and went on to veal. The Chianti was heady, and she resolved to sip.
“I’ve had a great idea,” he said.
“Tell me.”
“While we’re waiting, we get the ball rolling. What’s your parish?”
“My parish?”
“Look, we’re going to have to endure premarital instruction. God only knows how long that may take. So we talk to your pastor, tell him our intentions, and get under way.”
She found it exciting. Why not? If she found out, when she found out, she wouldn’t have changed. Of course she would marry Bernard in any case, barring some awful revelation. But not in the Loop church she attended.
“I want to be married where my parents and grandparents were. St. Hilary’s in Fox River.”
“But you don’t live in Fox River.”
“My parents do.”
“Good enough. Fox River it is.”
“St. Hilary’s.”
He lifted his glass and she lifted hers. Then he brought out the ring.
“Oh, Bernard.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger—a perfect fit—and then he came around and kissed her. Other diners applauded when she hung out her left hand in explanation. Bernard took her home and she asked him in, and it was all they could do to keep their love in its prenuptial phase. She scrambled off the couch.
“I’ll make coffee.”
“At this hour?”
“A beer?”
“Ugh.”
So they sat drinking ice water, just looking at one another. Finally, he asked her to get out the phone book, and they looked up St. Hilary’s. He jotted down the number.
“Of course we’ll go together.”
“We do, don’t we?”
For a while, it seemed that not even ice water could cool his ardor, but in the end virtue emerged, if not entirely unscathed, still victorious. The next day came the awful news about Uncle Maurice.
Her grandmother didn’t make much sense when she called Martha at the office, and it was difficult to discover what exactly had happened, but her grandfather was flying to his son’s side. Vivian was obviously in no condition to go.
Maurice was the one person she felt really related to, no matter that she was adopted. He was the black sheep, a notorious disappointment, though in the past few years he seemed to have redeemed himself in California. Martha called Sheila to get a more coherent report.
“He collapsed on the golf course.”
“Oh my God. His heart?”
“We’re waiting for Grandpa to call. Amos Cadbury flew out with him.”
Amos Cadbury, the pillar of strength. Of course he would accompany his old friend Henry Dolan. Perhaps he thought of Grandpa as his young friend. Whenever the family faced a crisis, Amos Cadbury was at their disposal. It was he who had gone to California a few years ago to oversee Maurice’s entry into the driving range business, which seemed tailor-made for her vacillating uncle. Anything connected with golf was Maurice’s cup of tea. It had seemed the perfect solution, and apparently had been. At noon, Martha went up the street to St. Peter’s and prayed for Maurice. Tears came at the thought that she might never see him again, that what had happened to him would prove fatal. She lit a candle for him before the state of St. Anthony of Padua.
That afternoon, Bernard came in. “I looked for you at noon.”
She told him about Maurice and how she had spent her noon hour. He put his hand on her shoulder. Across the office, Willa turned discreetly away.
That morning, Martha had not mentioned her new ring, but it seemed to announce its own presence, glittering on her hand. Willa had finally noticed it. Her squeal had brought everyone around Martha. The newest paralegal asked who the lucky man was, and the others laughed.
“Bernard Casey, my dear,” Willa said. Her manner might have suggested that she had arranged the match.
The call bringing the news about Maurice cut into this triumphant conclave.
Now Bernard said, “I called St. Hilary’s and spoke with Father Dowling. Saturday morning at ten.”
4
Martin Sisk had convinced Grace Weaver that Hazel meant nothing to him, wondering how she had learned of the evening he and Hazel had spent watching From Here to Eternity at his place. The truth was he was almost frightened of the predatory Hazel. During the beach scene, while Burt and Deborah tumbled in the surf, she put her hand on his knee as she leaned against him. Her breathing had become heavier.
“My wife hated this movie,” Martin said, his voice high and nervous. Hazel ignored the remark. Her hand moved, though her eyes remained on the screen.
She grunted approvingly when the stabbed Ernest Borgnine, the beast who had beaten Frankie, fell dead of the wounds inflicted by Montgomery Clift. She wept openly when Clift played “Taps” for Frankie. She had slid down a bit on the couch, to equalize their heights, and now she lifted her face to his. Martin patted her cheek and leapt from the couch and began to fuss with the VCR. He was assailed by two thoughts. One, that Hazel would offer little resistance if he returned to the couch; indeed, she would be the aggressor. The second thought was that it would be a deed from which he could never step back. It was one thing to flutter and flirt, to engage in amorous banter, but to go for the big enchilada was a possibility that had ever lain over the horizon of his mind.
He escaped. They finished the popcorn. He had turned on all the lights in the living room. Hazel followed his movements as a cat follows a mouse. The important thing was not to rejoin her on the couch. And he didn’t. He yawned, faking it at first, but then it became real.
“You’re right,” she said. “You’d better take me home.”
&nb
sp; When he had, he opened the passenger door for her to get out and said good night to her on the curb.
She smiled and patted his cheek. “You are a gentleman.”
The gentleman watched her go to her door unaccompanied. When he drove away he felt as Adam might have if he had refused the apple.
But they had been observed. Two days later, Grace confronted him. He tried to lie, but he had never been good at lying. Grace hit him with a pool cue, and after the ensuing public disgrace, they reconciled. They went for a walk, going back and forth between the school and rectory, where he dismissed Hazel. He explained how he had met her.
“What were you doing in a lawyer’s office?”
“My financial affairs are complicated. Secure, but complicated.”
“What’s the lawyer’s name?” Her tone was skeptical.
“Tuttle.”
He thought of telling Grace exactly how he had fought off the secretary’s advances, but good sense prevailed.
All was peace again, until Hazel called to say that Tuttle wanted to see him. Before she put him through, she told him of Grace’s call. Martin wished that he had not given Grace the name of the lawyer.
“Aren’t you the busy bee? I had no idea I was being recruited for a harem.”
It was good to be restored to the role of Lothario when no immediate danger threatened. Still, he had sense enough to insist that Tuttle meet him at a neutral site.
“I’ve never been here before,” he said when he found Tuttle in a booth at the Great Wall.
“I can’t tell you how much business I’ve conducted right here. Take a pew.”
Tuttle used again the phrase he had used on the phone, “Mission accomplished.” He had found the mother of Martha Lynch.
“How did you do it?”
Tuttle held up a hand, his expression suggesting arcane knowledge beyond Martin’s capacity for understanding.
“More important, who is she?”
Tuttle adopted a serious expression. “Martin, we have reached a point when I have to know why you want this information. I cannot be party to disturbing the peace and tranquility of innocent lives. There has to be a reason why it was so difficult for me to dig up this information.”
Blood Ties Page 12
