I wonder how the perpetrator feels about slaying the wrong Santa, but mostly I am not too interested in the state of his--or her--conscience.
The question is, will the murderer make another attempt on Colby before Christmas Day rolls around?
Chapter 26
Home for the Holidays
"Your cousin Bo will meet you at the airport."
His mother's voice had been expressionless when he had called her back with his flight times. He found himself mirroring her apparent indifference.
"That's fine, if I can recognize him. He hasn't gone bald and grown a goatee, has he?"
"Bo, oh no. He'll be at the gate."
Matt nodded, though she couldn't see him.
"I don't like to drive in traffic like that," she added. "At night. And the airport is so big and busy."
"That's fine, Mom. I don't expect you to chauffeur the ex-priest home in triumph."
A pause as flat as their dialogue. "I didn't tell them yet."
"Yet? It's been almost eight months."
"Yes. Well. An opportunity didn't come up."
"Great. That leaves it to come up at the holidays."
"I didn't think you were coming back."
Not "home." Back. Not "this year." Ever.
"It's true I didn't get home much from the seminary, or later, when I was changing assignments. A priest's life is pretty demanding."
"I know that. It's quiet here at Christmas." He could picture her looking around the small, boxy rooms with their pillared forest of dark, unpainted woodwork between main rooms, a legacy of the twenties. "I haven't gotten a tree in years."
"I don't need a Christmas tree."
"We--the family--usually celebrate at Wanda and Stach's place Christmas Eve and then come back into town for midnight mass at St. Stan's."
"I know that, Mom. I used to live there, remember?"
"Not for a long time. I don't understand what you're doing in Las Vegas."
"You know why."
"No I don't, Matt. I know what you think you're doing there, but ... it doesn't matter. It was so long ago. I've forgotten about it, and I'm glad that I have."
"I haven't forgotten. Maybe I couldn't until now."
"Until now?
He grasped the speaker end of the telephone receiver, hard, and stared at the immensity of red sofa slashing across the shiny wooden floor.
"I found him."
"Oh, dear God! No, Matt."
"I know you don't want to be reminded. I don't blame you. But I was just a kid then. I need to understand."
"To understand what, at this late date? To drag out my disgrace before the family like a Christmas present? Again? And now you're not ever--"
His mother's emotions rarely stirred. Now she was angry. Not at the past, not at the man who'd beat and deserted her. But at him, her son, the only one who'd stood up for her.
"I discovered that it's not Effinger I don't understand," he told her, matching her agitation, as if she had summoned it. "I tracked him down, grabbed him, handed him over to the authorities. Then I realized what I really wanted to know was the other side of it. In Chicago."
"Cousin Bo will pick you up." She repeated in her deadest voice, the voice that he had heard for most of his three decades and counting.
He thanked her, wished her good night and hung up.
The closer he got to the center of the family web, the more he stood to lose. His mother disowned his quest, and his cousin Bo was a hearty Polish chauvinist who'd never left Sandburg's Chicago of hog-butchering, meat-packing plants that produced a lot of balogna to feed its teeming immigrant-spawn yearning to breathe free at ice-hockey games, over hot-dog vendors' fat-laden, steaming franks. And beer. Don't leave out the inalienable right to casks of beer for the boys, with the kitchen and coffeepot reserved for the girls and gossip.
It suddenly occurred to Matt that he was glad the hunt for Effinger had drawn him to Las Vegas, where almost everyone he passed on the Strip was a transient, where Milady Sleaze dressed up in denim and diamonds, where even the Statue of Liberty boogied at the ersatz concrete canyon of New York-New York--the theme hotel and casino, that is.
He looked at the red sofa, which might be a Kagan, and nodded his head. Nobody in the old neighborhood would have a wild and foxy sofa like that.
Matt carried his duffel bag up the connecting ramp to the gate at O'Hare International Airport. His left cheek was still icy, as if numbed by a dentist, from leaning against the window for the entire three-hour flight, watching the land change underneath him.
First sand and the rugged red-rock canyons of the West. A spilled sunset on the earth's dirt floor. The Rockies, magnificent in mobcaps of snow, skiers' delight. Then farmers' fields, flat and rolling, scribed as if by a giant compass into concentric circles of dirt and drifted snow. 'Twas not the season to grow even holly. Or mistletoe. There was never mistletoe at family Christmases; too pagan a custom.
He'd had a drink on the plane, despite being stunned by the four-dollar price tag for the dollhouse bottle of scotch whisky. His hands still shook a little. Facing the old folks at home would be worse than sparring with Cliff Effinger at a tacky motel.
He blundered into the mirage of faces looking toward the connecting tunnel like an audience in search of a star, blue eyes and blond hair in natural profusion. What did cousin Bo look like now? Six years older than Matt, almost forty, and never left Chicago in his life. Dutiful to family errands, even for his aunt Mira, who didn't exactly sit at the center of family affairs. But then a Pole will do almost anything for a priest; the Polish Spring had really begun when one became Pope one day.
The faces were expectant, but not for him. As soon as the press of departing passengers behind him eased, Matt stepped out of the flow and looked around. Maybe he had changed too.
The circle of waiting faces lit up in turn, and looked beyond him. People rushed together like colliding atoms, combined, and formed a new unit that walked as one down the long, echoing concourse toward the baggage-claim area.
He'd wait ten minutes, then head for the ground transportation area, though he'd hate to pay for a cab all the way to St. Stan's. He was couch-poor now, thanks to Temple.
"Matthi--" The voice began a greeting, then edited itself to a rule laid down by a firm teenager years before. " Matt. Over here."
Matt watched a form bob through a ring of waiting people. He tried to fit the lanky, cherub-cheeked teenager he had always thought so tall to the Santa-size roly-poly guy crashing through the circle of waiting people.
"You haven't changed a bit," Cousin Bo said as he pulled off a sheepskin-lined glove to shake Matt's bare hand. "Say, that sissy sheepskin jacket is okay for a Chicago autumn, but it won't cut no ice now. It's the dead of winter here. Got any bags I can carry?"
Matt was mesmerized by Bo's bulky, quilted yellow nylon jacket and massive boots. His girth had expanded, but his flaxen hair had dwindled to a few slick strands across a baby-pink scalp. His cheeks were still plump and rosy, and the cold had singed his ears scarlet. A knitted cap peeked out of a jacket pocket like an elf's cap.
No bag's," Matt said, slinging his carry-on strap over a shoulder. "I can handle this."
"I don't know what you were thinking of, Father Matt." Bo swung into step beside him, reverting to the familiar form of address. Becoming a priest had made even indifferent older cousins respectful. "This is Chicago, you know. We have a reputation to keep up as the biggest, the baddest, the coldest, the windiest city west of Lake Erie."
"I've got gloves in my carry-on. I almost didn't recognize you, Bo."
"Put on a little lakefront property in the last few years." His glove-less hand circled on the quilted stomach, while his other hand touched the top of his head.
Matt almost expected Bo to start patting his pate in the children's game where the left hand can't differentiate from what the right hand is doing. Matt felt a little guilty about letting Bo stay behind the times on the state of Matt's vocation,
but he wasn't about to enlighten him. Why blow the only respect you've had in your life from a bigger, burlier older cousin? The only time Matt had really felt a part of the extended family of Belofskis, Zabinskis and Geniuszes that surrounded his mother and himself in their isolation like the Pacific Ocean an atoll, was when he had announced he was leaving their transplanted Polish island for the seminary.
"How is everybody?"
"Yeah, you haven't been up here in a while, and not for Christmas for . . . well, I don't think you ever celebrated Christmas here since seminary."
"I don't think I celebrated it much before then either."
Bo cleared his throat and started stuffing fat pink fingers into the stiff glove. "You sure look good, though. Sis always said it was one of God's incomprehensible wonders that you . . . well, you know what women say, a lot of ado about nothing. She called you the Incomprehensible Wonder all the time you were off in seminary, but she got over that when you took final vows, or whatever."
Matt smiled to himself. Incomprehensible Wonder almost competed with the Mystifying Max. "Sis," he recalled, had been a placid, brown-haired girl with a wicked tongue that belied her buxom self-satisfaction.
Overhead signs warned of upcoming rest rooms, newsstands, cocktails and food.
"They sure make you walk for your supper around here," Bo complained, as if his dinner had been slow in coming. "I got a parking spot close in, at least."
"Close" proved to be another long hike. The vehicle was a perfect icon for the Windy City, a pumped-up, four-wheel-drive machine rimed with snow and salt around the wheel wells.
"This'll do it," Matt commented as he swung his bag and himself aboard.
"Darn right. You got to give this climate something to fight with."
The vehicle lurched down the exit, while the passengers bounced on the upholstered captain's chairs covered in stiff vinyl. Matt wondered what a thing like this cost. More, he thought, than a red sofa.
Pustules of yellow light pocked the dark streets. Simple street lamps and headlights seemed sinister. Matt didn't bother to anticipate the route: he dug his lined gloves from the duffel bag and donned them, his fingers already stiff with cold. Despite having been run within the half hour, the Isuzu was cold, inside and out, on every surface: seat, window, dashboard. A heat-blower puffed chill air like the North Wind personified, while their white breath broke on the windshield like surf.
"You forget," Matt said.
"Especially in sunny Nevada." Bo grinned, knowing exactly what he meant, and glanced at him. "You got a new church there?"
"It's an old parish. Our Lady of Guadalupe. Hispanic, predominantly."
Matt judged his carefully evasive half-truths with the contempt of a disgruntled critic. He was beginning to realize that there were worse things than confronting Effinger. There was always that anchor of American life until now, that holy trinity of Mother Church, the family . . .
"How's my mother?"
"You know her, pretty unexcitable, not boisterous like the rest of us Polacks." Bo's eyes slid to Matt's face. "Of course, you're not a total Polack."
Matt looked at Bo's profile, at his blue eyes slightly bulging from their sockets, as if the fragile light blue were too delicate to see through without great strain.
Matt's brown eyes were unusual with blond hair, but he knew that blue is the recessive trait. Perhaps his father had not been pure Polish, or possibly Polish at all. He wondered which aunts and uncles knew the true story. They used to speak Polish in front of the kids, and would never reveal what they had been saying. Among the children of immigrants, adults had the secret language, not the kids.
Matt knew even less of the language now than he had then. Sounds and syllables were familiar, but white noise. He had never felt Polish in the naively chauvinistic way they had. He had always felt different. Maybe he was half Hispanic. Maybe that was the secret that kept his father a mystery. Or maybe the son of an Italian or a Greek. Immigrants, even unto the third or fourth generation, remained clannish and close-minded, determined to keep their heritage undiluted. The Old Country lived on in the new, even as ancient peasant genes thrived in them all as they all strived to escape their humble heritage.
"Too bad more of the kids aren't home this Christmas."
Bo's comment reminded Matt to ask after them.
"How old now?" Bo was a happy man, on solid ice. "Stan, the oldest boy, is off at the University of Syracuse on a hockey scholarship. Big fella, you can bet. Stefania went to secretary school, only it's computers and word processors and such these days. She's got a job in Florida, of all places. And a boyfriend. She's visiting his folks in Nebraska for Christmas, and they'll be comin' here for Easter. Name is Torrence, her boyfriend. Good Catholic boy, though. No ecumenical wedding needed there."
"There might be one in the family someday. How old are the rest?"
"Krystyna, she's, uh, seventeen. And Colette's thirteen, gettin' tall. Scott's almost twelve, and little Heather is, gollee, eight now. Time goes by."
Matt nodded, trying not to smile at how the children's given names became more yuppie the younger the offspring. Old Father Slowik wouldn't have liked those more recent baptisms.
"Slowik still pastor?"
"No, Father Matt. He got a little . . . confused. Oh, he's still assigned here, but he doesn't do much but lead the rosary at funeral visitations. I hear they're going to send him somewhere warm pretty soon. Sad. We got a young guy now for pastor. Younger than you even. From Krakow. Says mass in Polish. One each Sunday, for the old folks. Gotta admit even I don't remember it like I used to."
"I think I'll avoid the Polish mass myself," Matt said, laughing.
"You should ask Father Czerwonka to let you celebrate a mass while you're in town. Be a treat for the family."
Matt only nodded, not wanting to make momentous revelations here and now. Not when they were heading to a bigger confrontation on the old battlegrounds, the house on Sofia Street.
"Man," he remarked, "that's a lot of snow. Funny how you forget about the realities of places you leave."
"Got a whole winter's worth by Thanksgiving. Five feet. Remember shoveling all that shit? I mean, stuff."
"No you don't. I bet old Father Slowik lets out some earthy strings every now and again."
"Well, yeah. How'd you know?"
"Priests are as likely to blow off steam in small bad habits as anyone. Now that his mind is playing tricks on him, he won't be as careful not to scandalize the parishioners, that's all."
"Really? Priests cuss?"
"Really. And Father O'Reilly in Tucson was in the habit of cheating at golf."
Bo laughed. "Yeah. But I don't remember you getting into jams when you were a kid. Mr. A Plus all through school. Mr. Clean."
Matt nodded. "Kinda abnormal, when you think about it, isn't it?" He kept his eyes--and smile--on Bo's profile until he got a return look.
His cousin's face went slack with confusion, uncertainty, a brief glimmer of something. His thick gloves lifted from the wheel as he flexed his fingers.
"I guess you learn things about human nature in the religious life. I dunno. We working stiffs with families, we kinda rush through life, wondering where the time and the money went."
"I never had much of either," Matt said, wondering if that were a blessing or a handicap.
He looked out the window at the huge, pale mounds of snow by the roadside, lit intermittently by streetlights so they seemed to be an endless exhibit of snow dunes, dimpled with brown sprays of slush.
"How long you staying?" Bo asked.
"Just past Christmas. I decided I owed myself a holiday vacation for once."
"Yeah, being the celebrant doesn't allow much time for celebrating. I hope you can tilt a stein or two while you're here."
"I hope I can do more than just tilt it."
Bo's blue eyes crinkled with humor. He laughed like a bear, hearty as all outdoors, and punched Matt lightly on the knee. "That's a good one. Caught m
e there. You know, having a relative that's a priest makes you kinda step careful."
"I know. You shouldn't do that, not with any priest. It's an isolated life in many ways. Let them be a little human now and again."
"Bo nodded, serious."Yeah. There aren't that many priests left any more. That's why we had to go all the way to Poland." He frowned. " 'Course, they're a little old-fashioned there. Want to put the foot down on earrings on schoolgirls, and you know the howl you'll raise if the girls can't visit the Piercing Pagoda in the mall, even little Heather-- Heck, I seen babies in earrings. And the boys are startin' in, like they're not men unless they got a pearl stud in one ear." He glanced apologetically at Matt. "Didn't mean to complain; we're lucky to have Father Czerwonka."
"I doubt the state of people's ears has much to do with their state of grace. Seventy years ago the taboo was see-through stockings on flappers' legs."
"Now they have see-through swimsuits! Honest to God. Not that I seen-through one, or even seen one, but you read about these things in the paper."
"You should see Las Vegas."
"Yeah, Father Matt. I wonder about you being there. Pretty eye-opening, ain't it?"
"It's a city, like anywhere. Most of the people there live ordinary lives."
"What about living off gambling? Used to be we could all point at Las Vegas and shake our fingers, but now the lottery and the Indian casinos and bingo games are everywhere. My very own mother visits the bingo hall once a month."
"I don't know, Bo. I'm younger than you. I don't have to worry about anybody's taste in earrings but my own, I--"
"Father Matt--you don't ... I mean--Jesus!" Bo wrenched his eyes from the freeway, trying to glimpse the other side of Matt's face.
"No, no. Not me. Don't worry. Some inconsequential things hold. I shall not wear my trousers rolled." The reference was lost on Bo, but Matt smiled to hear an imagined Temple twitting him: "another Nostradamus line, Divine."
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