Blood Ties

by Ralph McInerny

  “I told you. Vivian Dolan wants to know.”

  “Am I to be her lawyer or yours?”

  “She doesn’t even know I’ve come to you. I’m doing this as a favor.”

  Tuttle sat back and adjusted his absurd tweed hat. “That puts a very different complexion on it.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m your client. I gave you twenty dollars.”

  For answer, Tuttle got out his wallet and put it on the table. He did not open it.

  “And I signed all those papers with your secretary.”

  “Ah, Hazel. You have made a conquest there, Martin.”

  Good God, had she told Tuttle about From Here to Eternity? Martin managed not to blush, but he was uneasy.

  “Tell me who the woman is.”

  “Knowledge is power, Martin, as the poet says. How do I know how you would use the information if I told you?”

  “I would pass it on to Vivian Dolan. Period.”

  Tuttle nodded. “In that case, I think I will eliminate the middle man.” He opened his wallet and took out five dollars. He pushed the bill toward Martin.

  “But I gave you twenty.”

  “Chalk it up to expenses. The main thing is, this concludes our professional relationship.”

  Martin was furious. He refused the offer to have lunch, no matter how good Tuttle claimed the sweet and sour chicken was at the Great Wall. He felt that he had delivered Vivian to the male counterpart of the predatory Hazel.

  For all that, he wanted credit for the effort he had made on Vivian’s behalf. And he might warn her about Tuttle. Too late, he was remembering the little lawyer’s reputation around the courthouse. He decided that he would pass on the good news to Vivian, but when he called, she was almost hysterical. Something dreadful had happened to her son, Maurice, in California. Henry had flown there, accompanied by Amos Cadbury. Martin offered to come sit with her, but she seemed not to understand. So he went walking with Grace and told her about poor Maurice Dolan.

  “That boy was always such a trial to them,” Grace said.

  “How are your children, Grace?”

  “Scattered to the four winds, absorbed in their families, as they ought to be. I am as alone as I was before I married.”

  Her arm was warm against his side. The incident with the pool cue was forgotten. One thing about Grace, if they danced she would let him lead.

  5

  Once it had been simply St. Joseph’s Hospital; now it was the St. Joseph Medical Center of Fox River. Its management had passed from the nuns to a national organization adept in the manipulation of insurance claims and government grants. Henry Dolan was glad he had been born when he had been. The hospital, which had once been as familiar to him as the back of his hand, now with additions and rearrangements had altered almost beyond recognition. He began to wonder why he had brought Maurice all the way from California to this impersonal place. But then Dr. Wippel swept into the room, and soon he and Henry were in close consultation. Other old colleagues joined them. The charts Henry had brought from California were studied. Then Wippel went in to examine his patient.

  The next few hours were satisfyingly busy. Maurice was put through an MRI; lab tests were hurried to completion. Afterward, first to Henry in the hall, and then next to the bed so Maurice could understand what lay ahead, Wippel outlined what he would do.

  “The back is a delicate mechanism,” he began. He had a series of illustrations in different colors, displaying the delicate intricacy of the human back. His buffed nail pointed to the lower spine. “The problem is there.” He gave Maurice a somewhat less graphic description of the operation than he had given Henry in the hall.

  “And that will take care of it?” Maurice asked. He had been following the explanation attentively.

  “There is less than a five percent chance of failure.”

  “But will I be able to golf again?”

  Wippel answered reassuringly.

  Vivian came in. It was the first time she had seen her son since Henry had brought him back. She seemed surprised at Maurice’s alertness. Her weeping was under control.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. They say I’ll be able to golf.”

  “Oh, Maurice.” She tried to take him in his arms, but Wippel eased her away. Henry gave his son a reassuring look and led Vivian out.

  There was no need to go into the gory details with Vivian. Wippel said a few words to her and went off to prepare. Henry had decided that he would stay away from the OR. The fact was, he had been a little unnerved by Wippel’s explanation. He had reduced the chance of failure to five percent, but that didn’t eliminate the possibility that Maurice might come out of this permanently handicapped. How altogether typical of Maurice to wonder if he would be able to golf again. What would life mean to him if he were kept off the golf course?

  Wippel operated on Maurice the morning after the young man was admitted to the hospital. Both Henry and George experienced the anxiety, unfamiliar to them, of those waiting for news of a loved one. Vivian sat staring at a huge photograph of a Japanese garden, doubtless chosen to induce tranquility. It seemed to be working. Vivian had finally got herself under control. The alarming news had unleashed all the years of worrying and fretting about Maurice, but now, with the operation under way, she sat staring at the picture. Sheila seemed unable to sit. Henry took her outside.

  “Has Martha been told?”

  “Of course.”

  The answer was almost snapped at him, as if his question had been laden with implications.

  “Everything will be all right.”

  “Dad, I long ago stopped worrying about Maurice. Everything always turns out all right for him.”

  “Things like this have a way of putting other things into perspective.”

  She looked at him warily.

  “Amos has talked with Martha’s mother.”

  “Martha’s mother? I am Martha’s mother!”

  She screamed this, then turned and hurried away. George looked out from the waiting room.

  “She’s upset,” Henry said.

  “I heard her.”

  “I must learn to keep my mouth shut about Martha.”

  George did not comment on stupid remarks, or on most other kinds of remarks, for that matter.

  Henry said, “I talked with Amos Cadbury.”

  “Ah.”

  George nodded and went off down the corridor after his wife. Incredibly, in less than an hour the operation was over, everything done with miniature remote devices, description of which made Henry feel that his own practice had not been far removed from the days of bloodletting. Well, of ether.

  “It came off well?”

  Wippel nodded. That five percent chance of failure seemed forgotten. Perhaps Sheila was right. Things usually did turn out all right for Maurice, eventually. Henry would have liked to tell Vivian of the young woman in California who seemed so close to their son, but now was not the time. Nor did he want to encourage the hope that Maurice would marry at last and father children who would be genuine Dolans.

  The thought just came. Henry was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He actually beat his breast in contrition.

  6

  Amos Cadbury returned to his office to receive the good news of Maurice’s successful operation. Henry chuckled over the phone when he said that Maurice would be out on the golf course in a matter of weeks. After he hung up, Amos turned his chair toward the window. The course of wisdom would be to go home and nap. He had slept fitfully on the flight back, but such sleep never truly refreshes.

  He had done several things while in California, the first being to confirm that Maurice and Catherine Adams did share a condominium on the seventh fairway of the club of which Maurice was a member. She was not at the driving range when he stopped by, and he left a card and the number of his hotel. Finally, the woman’s name and his conversation with Madeline Lorenzo had connected. When she called, he invited her to dinner. As they were led to their table, Amos was pleasantly awa
re of the eyes that followed them. Perhaps the other diners thought them a couple.

  “Well,” she said when they were seated. “What’s the news?”

  “Of Maurice?”

  “Maurice, of course.” She laughed at the jingle.

  “The operation will take place tomorrow. I fly back in the morning. As soon as I have word, I will let you know.”

  “I should have gone back with him.”

  “Have you known him a long time?”

  “Forever. I met him when I was an undergraduate at Northwestern. On a golf course, of course.” She laughed again. “Everything I say rhymes.”

  “Did you know Madeline Lorenzo at Northwestern?”

  The question did not visibly surprise her. She narrowed her eyes in thought. “There was a Professor Lorenzo.”

  “Madeline married him.”

  “How do you happen to know her?”

  “She is a client of sorts.”

  She took a cigarette from a long packet and was about to light it from the candle on the table. She stopped, remembering California’s draconian laws about smoking.

  “We were roommates.”

  “Roommates.”

  She took an imagined carcinogenic drag on her unlit cigarette. “Lately, the past seems to be invading the present. I mentioned to you that Maurice and I had been in Chicago recently. Only a week and a half ago.” She added this in a wondering tone. “A mutual friend of ours had died. A writer, Nathaniel Fleck. I was determined to be at his memorial.” She smiled. “If only to annoy Maurice.”

  “Why would he be annoyed?”

  She looked at him demurely. “He was jealous.”

  “So you and Maurice…”

  “Live together.”

  Such a matter-of-fact statement would have been unimaginable when Amos was young, or even when he was middle-aged, and Catherine seemed almost surprised at his reaction.

  “I’ve shocked you.”

  “A man my age has felt all the shocks that flesh is heir to.”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “Shakespeare. Do people who live together eventually marry?”

  “It is my hope.”

  “Is that why you wanted to make him jealous?”

  “I wonder if it will work.” A terrible thought occurred to her. “Will he be an invalid?”

  “There’s not much danger of that, I’m told.”

  She sighed with relief. “I said that to ward off the possibility.”

  Now, in his Fox River office, Amos placed a call to the condominium on the seventh fairway and told Catherine Adams that all was well with Maurice. “I am told that he will be on the golf course again in weeks.”

  “I think I should go to him.”

  Amos said nothing.

  “What do you think?”

  “Why don’t you wait a day or two? I will keep you informed.”

  He went home and showered and got into bed at four in the afternoon, where he lay sleepless, pondering the modern world. He remembered the newspaper account of the memorial for Nathaniel Fleck as well as what Madeline had told him of it. Only when he had decided to talk with Lieutenant Horvath about it was he able to fall asleep.

  7

  Tuttle parked his car in the driveway and sat looking at the impressive house, the manicured lawn, the molded shrubbery. A picture of affluence. He had been wise to decide to deal directly with Mrs. Dolan. But it was a man who answered the door. His look was not welcoming.

  “Mr. Dolan?”

  “Dr. Dolan.”

  “Of course. My name is Tuttle. Of Tuttle and Tuttle.”

  Dolan seemed to recognize his name, but not in a way that was reassuring.

  “What do you want?”

  “My business is rather confidential.”

  A woman appeared beside him. Tuttle swept off his hat, scattering calling cards. He picked them up and then addressed the woman. “Martin Sisk came to me, Mrs. Dolan. He employed me to find a certain woman.”

  “Martin Sisk!” Dr. Dolan angrily opened the door. “Come in.”

  Inside, Tuttle removed his tweed hat again, carefully. The interior of the house was as impressive as the outside. Tuttle felt he was desecrating the white carpet when he walked on it. The Dolans led him into the living room, where Dolan took up a position before the fireplace.

  “What is this about Martin Sisk?”

  Tuttle felt it best to address the wife. “He came to me, on your behalf, Mrs. Dolan. Or so he said. I felt it wise to find out if that was indeed so.”

  “On my behalf?”

  Tuttle shook his head. “Apparently my fears were not unfounded.”

  “What did he hire you to do?” Dolan demanded.

  “That, of course, is a confidential matter.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Was it about Martha?” Mrs. Dolan asked fearfully.

  Dolan turned to his wife. “You had to talk about Martha with Martin Sisk.”

  She all but fell into a chair. “I had no idea…”

  Dolan turned on Tuttle. “Now that you’re here, you had better tell us what you have learned.”

  “You are asking me to act for you?”

  “I have a lawyer. Amos Cadbury. Perhaps I should send you to him.”

  “Have you found Martha’s mother?” Mrs. Dolan asked.

  “I have.”

  Nothing was turning out as Tuttle had hoped. He should have refused to enter this house. The mention of Amos Cadbury had sent a chill through him. Thoughts of his last appearance before the local bar commission assailed him. A stern and forbidding Amos Cadbury had been on the committee that had considered disbarring Tuttle. He had escaped once more with only a severe warning. Another complaint could be his undoing. He sent up a prayer to his departed father.

  “What do you intend doing with this information?”

  Tuttle stood, assuming what dignity he could in the situation. “Dr. Dolan, I came here because, having been engaged by Martin Sisk to find the woman in question, I began to doubt the wisdom of simply telling him. These are delicate matters. As I told him, I have no wish to be party to anything that might tend to disturb the tranquility of people’s lives.” He addressed Mrs. Dolan. “Did you or did you not tell Martin Sisk to engage my services?”

  The best defense is a good offense. He had found a way. Division between the Dolans was now his hope.

  She tried to explain what had happened. Yes, she had talked with Martin, had confided in him. “But I didn’t tell him to do anything! I didn’t tell him to hire a lawyer.”

  “That puts me in a difficult position,” Tuttle said, feeling the difficulty lift.

  If they had been alone, Dolan might have taken his wife to task. The way he said Martin’s name did not convey the idea that Martin was an old friend of the family who might have served as their intermediary.

  “Tell us what you have found out,” Dolan demanded.

  “I will need to get a release from Martin Sisk in order to do that.”

  “Damn Martin Sisk!”

  “Henry!”

  “You should have known better than to confide in that sanctimonious idiot.”

  “Henry, we just talked.”

  “Talked!”

  “Yes, talked. What’s wrong with that, for heaven’s sake?” She turned to Tuttle. “You have located Martha’s mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is she? Who is she now?”

  “As I explained…”

  Henry Dolan exploded. “What is it you want, money?”

  “I resent that, sir. I am a lawyer. The services of lawyers are engaged by clients. I assume that even doctors charge fees.”

  “How much?”

  “You wish to become my client?”

  “How much!”

  “A modest retainer will do.”

  Dolan took out his wallet and plucked a fifty-dollar bill from it, and tossed the money onto on the coffee table. Tuttle ignored it.

  “Not enough?”<
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  “Please, Doctor, that is unworthy of you.”

  Now Dolan slumped into a seat, glaring at Tuttle. His wife sat forward in her chair.

  “Tell us where she can be found.”

  “Vivian, for God’s sake, stop. Amos Cadbury knows who the woman is.”

  “Amos!”

  “Of course. He has spoken with her. She is considering talking with Sheila.”

  “But Sheila will never agree.”

  Again the mention of Amos Cadbury chilled Tuttle. Even worse was the claim that the knowledge he had was already at the disposal of the Dolans, however unaware of it Mrs. Dolan had been. It helped that he was already on his feet.

  “I think I should go. I came in good faith, but apparently that is not enough.”

  He strode across the white carpet toward the front door, trying not to think of the fifty-dollar bill lying on the coffee table.

  “Damn it, man. Stop. I will pay you for your troubles.”

  Tuttle had reached the front door. He had trouble opening it, but when he did, he turned to Dolan.

  “I’ll send you a bill.”

  Then he was outside and hurrying to his car. When he was in it, he wanted to lock the doors. Good God, what a fiasco. All his research had gone up in smoke. He started the car and backed down the driveway, a defeated man. But when he was in the street and shifting gears, he thought of his other client, Bernard Casey. His gloom lifted. His knowledge could still retain some power with young Casey.

  8

  On Saturday morning at breakfast, Marie chortled about the squabble between Martin Sisk and Grace Weaver the previous Thursday.

  “Was it Thursday?”

  “The Joyful Mysteries. That is how I remember.”

  “Do you ever say the Luminous Mysteries, Marie?”

  “The what?”

  “The new mysteries the pope has added to the rosary.”

  Marie’s mouth became a firm line. Then she spoke deliberately. “The pope is a wonderful man and all that, but adding mysteries to the rosary is nonsense. The mysteries are what they are and always have been. Who needs new ones? It’s part of the same nonsense that has almost ruined the Mass, change, change, change, as if people were bored.”

  “They’re not mandatory.”