11
Mark Lorenzo’s philosophical interests had taken him a long way from those large questions that first interested him, as an undergraduate, in the world’s oldest discipline. What does it all mean? Where have I come from, where am I going? Is death the end? His youthful mind had risen to the challenge of such questions, but graduate work and his subsequent research had led him into narrower alleys. Madeline had likened his interests to crossword puzzles. Perhaps she was right. Little in the real world was altered by recounting the pros and cons of the behavior of adverbs in ethical discourse. No matter. For most people, the answers to the large questions were provided by religion, always a greater consolation than philosophy.
Marriage to Madeline had brought him back to the faith of his fathers, and recent events had made ignoring the great unsettling questions impossible. It was in this very office that Madeline’s supposed friend, Catherine Adams, had come to him long ago.
“Perhaps Madeline has mentioned me?”
“You are roommates.”
“I had you for epistemology.”
“And you want your money back?”
“Oh, no. It opened my mind.”
“An open mind is an equivocal blessing.”
She sat back and tipped her head to one side. “So you do talk that way even when you’re off duty.”
She was flattering him, of course. Flirting, too, in a way. The feminine arts were often innocently used to affect a grade, but she was no longer his student.
“How did you do in epistemology? I don’t remember.”
“You gave me an A.”
“I don’t give A’s. You must have earned it.”
“De omnibus dubitandum est.”
“I hope you don’t believe that.”
“Just practicing my Latin.”
“You’ve studied Latin?”
“On Madeline’s behalf.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She took a semester off, so I took the class for her.”
He thought about it. “I suppose that is possible.”
“Oh, I took two courses for her. She did well in both.”
“Leave of absence.”
Her eyes widened. “I supposed she had told you.”
“No.”
“She went to student health, but she refused to take their advice. And mine.”
He waited, trying to remain casual.
“Of course, she’s Catholic,” Catherine went on.
“So am I.”
“Then you will understand why she had the baby.”
What a venomous little actress the girl was. Mark was now determined not to afford her the satisfaction of bringing such news to him. “To understand all is to forgive all.”
“Then she told you.”
He became a character in Trollope. “My dear young woman, Madeline and I have no secrets from one another. We are going to marry.” Thus might Abelard have spoken of Heloise. Mark felt as unmanned as the fiery medieval logician by what Catherine Adams had told him, but he was damned if he would let her know it. “Now then, why have you come?”
She hardly missed a beat. “I have an epistemological problem.”
She chattered on, dredging up puzzles from his lectures, and he played the game. Somehow the visit ended.
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am,” she said with a significant look when she stood at his door.
“The benefits of epistemology.”
What man could receive such knowledge of the woman he was about to marry and be unaffected by it? Still, the manner in which he had learned helped ease the blow. There seemed little doubt that Catherine Adams had brought him this story with something other than a benevolent end in view. Well, her time bomb had not detonated. He said nothing to Madeline. How could he mention it if she had not? And so they married, and in the chapel was Catherine Adams, all smiles and gush.
He and Madeline had kept her secret, separately, over the years. Their own children erased that past. Mark came almost to believe that Catherine’s tale had been a lie, but a conversation in the faculty lounge with Foster, the classicist, proved otherwise. Had he ever had Madeline in class?
“Tall willowy girl with long hair?”
“Is that a translation?” It was a good description of Catherine.
He had never pursued the matter further. He was ashamed of having put the question to Foster. The essence of marriage is trust. He did not need Madeline certified. Fortunately, Foster was lured away by North Carolina, so the danger passed that he might meet Madeline, remember Mark’s question, and wonder what had happened to the tall willowy girl with long hair.
Time’s arrow flies in only one direction, but memory is a different story. The past never really goes away if it can be recalled. Now the past had returned bodily, first Nathaniel and then Catherine putting in an appearance, having a seismic effect on Madeline. The one bonus of this unwanted revival of the past was that now Madeline knew that her secret had been his all along. He had received a credit he did not feel he deserved, but he had never felt closer to her than when she then sobbed with relief in his arms.
The thought of Catherine’s visit and then of Madeline sent him home. He would have lunch with her. He found her sitting in the living room. The drapes were pulled, and the gas log in the fireplace was lit. Apparently she hadn’t heard him come in, and for a moment he stood looking at his wife, beautiful in the flickering light from the fireplace. He called her name, and she continued to stare at the fire.
He tried again.
“Madeline.”
She held out her hand without turning. He took it and knelt beside her chair. “What is it?”
“When I turned on the gas I waited a bit before lighting it. What a whoosh it made.” She spoke in a dreamy voice.
“You have to be careful of that.”
“I thought of not lighting it.” She turned to him. “Isn’t that awful?”
“Let’s have some lunch.”
She didn’t move. “A lawyer called.”
“A lawyer.”
“Bernard Casey. He wanted to come see me. About Martha.”
“For the love of God, when will this end? Madeline, you have to see that girl. We can’t go on like this.”
“The boys.”
“Don’t underestimate the boys. Besides, it isn’t obvious that any announcement has to be made. Either way, all this hush-hush has got to stop. Martha is not going to forget about it. She is as determined as you would be.”
Madeline nodded. “That’s what I think.”
“What exactly did the lawyer say? Who is he acting for?”
“He’s her fiancé, Mark. They’re going to get married.”
“What did he want, your blessing?”
“He wants me to talk to Martha.”
“Then do it, for God’s sake. Tell him to set it up.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“She’ll call me.” She looked at him. “Imagine hearing her voice on the phone.”
“Let’s drive out to Rockford and have lunch at the Clock Tower.”
“The car is still in the garage.”
“We can borrow Stephen’s four-wheeler.”
“That’s getting to be a habit.”
“Well, we paid for it.”
“I’d rather fix you lunch.”
“Just a thought.”
12
Cy had not forgotten the hit-and-run on Dirksen when Phil Keegan told him Amos Cadbury had called and asked if he could stop by and talk about it. “I don’t know what his interest is, Cy. I didn’t ask. He might have started to quiz me about it, and you handled it. There’s nothing new, is there?”
“No.”
“I figured you’d tell me if there was. He wanted to come here, but what the hell. Go talk with him.”
“When does he expect me?”
Phil gave him a slip with a telephone number. “Just call and tell him when you can stop by.”
“You want me to keep that?” Zeller asked. Zeller was in charge of the evidence room. Most of his day was spent leaning out of the dutch door of his domain, watching other people work. He had a year to go until retirement and had finally landed the assignment he had always wanted.
“You in the habit of throwing evidence away?”
“Only when bribed.” Zeller bared his crooked teeth in a smile. He was one rung up from Peanuts Pianone in Cy’s book. He dropped the plastic bag in a tray but didn’t take it away. “I been thinking, Cy. Why the hell should I retire now that I’ve got this?”
“It would give you a chance to rest.”
“We always thought Florida, but now Madge needs a new hip.” Madge had been a meter maid when Zeller married her. Was that a choice, Florida or a new hip?
Cy went down the hall to the cafeteria and saw, as he had hoped he would, Pippen at a table with a book opened in front of her. Her habits were well known to him, thanks to steady if unobtrusive observation. Even so, he pretended to himself that it was just by chance that he ran into her. Pippen was as married as he was, and would have been astounded to learn that she represented a remote occasion of sin for him. Cy bought a bottle of mineral water and joined her. She looked up, smiled, and closed her book.
“Madge Zeller is going to get a new hip,” he told her.
“I hope they can find the old one.”
Cy smiled. Madge was a bit of a hippo. “Remember the hit-and-run on Dirksen a couple weeks ago?”
Pippen tapped the book. “This is one of his novels. Nathaniel Fleck. You’d think he would have used a pen name.”
“Is it that bad?”
“His name, not the book. It’s pretty good. A little steamy, but they all are now.”
Cy turned the book toward himself and opened it. The Long Good-bye. “That sounds familiar.”
“He stole the title. He says so in the foreword.”
Cy turned a page. There was a dedication. To Catherine. Ave atque vale. “What’s that mean?”
“Hello and good-bye? Something like that.”
“What’s it about?”
“I’m only half done. The woman loves a guy, has for years, and now she has a rival, someone from long ago, before they met. He has this dream that that old girlfriend had his baby and he ditched her and now … Well, you get the picture.”
“You ought to write reviews.”
“We’re going to discuss this in my reading group.”
“Your reading group.”
“Doctors’ wives have to pass the time somehow.”
“But you’re a doctor.”
“They made me an honorary member. When the author was killed here in town, someone suggested we ought to read his latest.”
“I’ll wait for the movie.”
“What are you detecting lately?”
“A body was found in the trunk of a car parked near the old depot.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“Lubins handled it. This was last week. You and whatchamacallit were whooping it up in Mexico.”
“You ought to take the missus there, Cy. It was wonderful.”
“I’ll think it about it.”
“My husband’s name is Madison.”
“The Ojibwa.”
She laughed. “Ob-gyn. Well, at least you remember his specialty.”
Before he called Cadbury, Cy dialed the St. Hilary’s rectory and asked Father Dowling what ave atque vale meant.
“Hail and farewell. It’s from Catullus’ poem to his dead brother. Don’t tell me you’re reading Catullus, Cy.”
“Who was he?”
“A Roman poet.”
“Are those words Italian?”
A pause on the line. “Latin.”
“Thanks.”
“Niente.”
“More Latin?”
“Italian.”
* * *
Amos Cadbury wanted to hear about the memorial for Nathaniel Fleck held at Northwestern. “I understand you were there, Cy.”
“They gave him quite a send-off.”
“Lots of speakers?”
“Lots and lots.”
“Did you hear the woman, Catherine Adams?”
“She was the honorary widow.”
“Tell me about it.”
Cy told Cadbury what he could remember. Mainly he remembered the effect she had on the audience. “They seemed to like the fact that she had never married the guy.”
“She say why not?”
“Who needs a slip of paper when you’re in love? Something like that.”
“She came all the way from California for the occasion.”
“I suppose.”
That was about it. After he left, he had the impression that Amos Cadbury had been trying to suggest something. But what?
13
Maurice Dolan had been moved to a private room, where he held court as he recovered. Vivian spent much of the day at her son’s side, and there was a steady stream of visitors.
Martha came by with her young man. “This is my worthless uncle, Bernard.”
“Watch it. I’m precious. I’m willing my body to science. They can’t believe how well I came through the operation. You golf, Bernard?”
“More or less.”
“Come on, you must have a handicap.”
“Twelve.”
“That’s more less than more. We’ll have to play a round before I go back to California.”
Martha was astounded. “How soon do you expect to play again?”
“Soon. Within weeks.”
“What’s your handicap?” Bernard asked him.
“I’ll have to give you a few strokes.”
Martha made an unflattering noise. “Bernard, he’s a scratch golfer.”
“Only when I itch.”
Martha and Bernard were still there when Catherine Adams appeared. She stood in the doorway, staring at Maurice, as if waiting for him to notice her. When he did, she flew across the room and took him in her arms. Vivian followed her in and watched this scene with maternal approval. She joined Catherine Adams at bedside, and Maurice made the introductions.
“Henry has told me all about you,” Vivian said.
“Mrs. Dolan, what a shock this must have been.”
Vivian continued her appraisal of this beautiful woman. Maurice said, “And that is my niece, Martha.”
Catherine turned, and when she faced Martha her eyes widened. “Your niece.”
“My sister Sheila’s daughter,” Maurice said.
Catherine took Martha’s hands and held them. “I feel I already know you. Isn’t that odd?”
“And this is Bernard Casey. My fiancé.”
“Oh, what a ring!” Catherine was still holding Martha’s hands.
Vivian looked on beaming, as if her dream of one big happy family were finally coming true.
“Maurice, tell us about Catherine,” Martha cried.
“Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, Catherine and I go way back. Way, way back. And now we’re in business together.” Maurice told Martha and Bernard about the golfing range in Huntington Beach, a real gold mine, a gusher, the smartest move he’d ever made. “Thanks to Dad, of course.”
“I love your hair,” Martha said to Catherine. “Of course, you have the head for it. I wouldn’t dare have mine cut so short.”
“I should hope not. Don’t ever let her cut it, Bernard. It is exactly as it should be.”
“Do you golf, too?” Bernard asked.
“Not like Tiger there, but yes, I golf. Maurice would go out every day of the week if he could.”
Vivian said, “Now I am determined to visit California myself.”
And so it went o
n. George looked in, fresh from the OR, and blinked at the gathering.
“And I thought you might be lonely.”
He was introduced to Catherine. “You’re a doctor,” she said.
“Pathology.”
She looked at Maurice. “I thought you said anesthesiology.”
“That’s my father.”
“Well, I won’t need his services. I’m still groggy from the flight.”
“You must stay with us,” Vivian urged. “We have plenty of room. And we can talk.”
“I’d love it. Maurice?”
“Be their guest.”
“I left my bag downstairs with the receptionist. I came directly from the airport.”
“That is so thoughtful,” Vivian said. “I’ll get you settled. You can always see Maurice.”
“That’s the plan.”
Bernard had to go back to the Loop, but Martha stayed, and in twenty minutes she was alone with her uncle.
“Would you rather I leave, too?” she asked.
“Stay. The only thing worse than watching daytime television seated is watching it lying down. Bernard’s nice.”
“Isn’t he? But what about Catherine?”
“What do you mean?”
“She seems to be making a claim.”
“We’re close.”
“As pages in a book?”
“Hey.”
“Well, you always were a rogue. Are you going to marry her?”
“Maybe I will, now that I’m losing you.”
“You’re a nut.”
“Any developments?”
She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I’m going to meet her.”
“Good.”
“Now that it’s arranged, I’m frightened.”
“How do you think she feels?”
14
Martha told Father Dowling that she now knew who her mother was and was going to meet her.
“At last.”
“And now I’m nervous. Just wanting to know has caused so much commotion, I wonder what meeting her might do.”
An imaginary real mother might well be preferable to the woman in the flesh. Still, Father Dowling admired Martha Lynch for her persistence.
“Do your parents know?”
“The Lynches? Just my father. He’s already met her.”
Blood Ties Page 15
