Three Marys

by Glenn Cooper

  ‘My sister and her husband can’t see you now, Father,’ the aunt said, trying to shush the crying baby.

  ‘Why is that?’ Valdez demanded.

  ‘They are too tired. Perhaps you can return another day.’

  Valdez exploded, his voice rising over the baby’s. ‘This man is the personal representative of the pope. He has come all the way from the Vatican to investigate the case of their daughter. Now she has vanished and you want us to come back another day?’

  The woman passed the baby to the oldest girl and said, ‘Ask me your questions. I was here when Maria was taken. But I cannot understand your anger, Father. It was the Vatican that took her.’

  Cal thought he understood but wasn’t sure. An astonished Valdez translated for him.

  Cal opened his recording app. ‘What time was she taken?’

  After Valdez repeated the question in Spanish, the woman said, ‘Last night. About ten o’clock. The pilgrims had gone down the mountain. I was getting ready to go back to my own house. We had a knock on the door. It was a man and a woman.’

  Cal shot her another question. ‘Who did they say they were?’

  ‘I don’t remember their names. They said they were from the Vatican.’

  ‘What language did they speak?’

  ‘Spanish. Not Peruvian Spanish.’

  ‘From where then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe Mexico.’

  ‘Did they show you any identification?’

  ‘No, señor.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘They wanted our Maria. They said that Pope Celestine sent them to take her to a safe place.’

  ‘What place?’

  ‘We didn’t ask but her mother wanted to know if she would be able to speak to her. They said of course. They would send a man with a mobile phone to the house so we could speak to her. They said she would receive the best medical care because it was important that her baby would be healthy. They said we were too poor to protect the mother and baby.’

  ‘How were these people dressed?’ Cal asked.

  ‘Like normal wealthy people. He was not a priest and she was not a nun if that is what you want to know.’

  ‘After they said this, what happened?’

  ‘They wanted to see Maria, of course. The woman gave her a fancy doll to play with.’

  ‘OK, then what happened?’

  ‘Maria’s father said he didn’t want his daughter to go. He said “to hell with the Vatican.” He is not as religious as my sister, truth be told. And Maria is his eldest and he loves her a lot. He and my sister got into an argument.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘The man gave my brother-in-law an envelope.’

  ‘What was in it?’

  ‘Money. Very much money.’

  ‘How much?’

  The woman whispered, ‘Twenty thousand soles.’

  Cal had changed currency at the airport. He did the math in his head: six thousand dollars.

  Valdez whistled and told Cal in English, ‘That is a year of wages for the average person in Peru. For these people it is more money than they could imagine in their lifetime.’

  ‘And then your sister and her husband let them take the girl?’

  ‘First they made them sign a paper.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘I’m sorry, señor. I don’t know.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We all hugged her and they took her. They stayed up all night crying. Now finally they are sleeping a little.’

  ‘And what about Maria? How was she when she left?’

  ‘She was crying too. Crying a lot. She did not want to leave but the woman took her by the hand and led her down the mountain. Señores, you are from the Vatican. How is it that you do not know the pope took Maria?’

  Cal looked at Valdez who remained stone-faced. It was going to be up to him to figure out what to tell her.

  ‘The Vatican is a big place,’ Cal said. ‘I expect we simply were not informed. I’ll make some phone calls to Rome to clarify the situation.’

  ‘Please tell them to give our Maria lots of hugs and kisses from her family. We are praying for her,’ the aunt said.

  Valdez finally spoke up and said nervously, ‘Yes, by all means, you must keep her in your prayers.’

  SIX

  It was a Saturday morning in Gort and with a little time to kill, Joe Murphy decided to pop into Saint Colman’s church for Mass. He knew the church reasonably well because he had grown up in the area and had served as an assistant parish priest in nearby Galway. That assignment hadn’t lasted as long as his superiors had planned although that hadn’t been a big surprise to any of his mentors. They had suspected that the cerebral graduate of Trinity College, Dublin might not be destined for a permanence of parish service. Deep down, Murphy had known it too though he had been determined to challenge his introversion and wonkishness by getting out there and working with ordinary people with real needs. Certainly, he had given it a good try. During his time in Galway his superior had loaded up his plate with parish work – counseling young couples as they contemplated marriage, presiding over funerals and baptisms, talking people through bouts of bereavement and despair. But living that life had disguised a lie. He wasn’t that priest, he wasn’t that man.

  One night he awoke in a panic, triggered by a dream of drowning in water or quicksand (he couldn’t recall which) and he understood the ridiculously obvious symbolism. He was drowning in Galway. He wanted his life of books and libraries and study back. He investigated leading academic institutions without geographic limitation, and with the blessings of his diocese bishop, he applied to the Harvard Divinity School where he began studying for his PhD under the tutelage of the world-renowned professor of religion, Calvin Donovan.

  During the course of Murphy’s studies and dissertation work, the two men had become friends in a chalk-and-cheese kind of way. They amused each other. Cal the boozer and bon vivant versus the abstemious and Spartan priest. Cal the womanizer versus the priest who embraced his vows of chastity. Cal, the Hemingway impersonator who pressed the squeamish Murphy to be his corner man in amateur boxing matches. But if one were to draw Venn diagrams of each man’s passions, the intersecting area would be scholarship. Murphy’s thesis on St Benedict turned out well enough to be published by the Princeton University Press and Cal had used his considerable influence in securing Murphy a junior faculty appointment at Harvard where he had recently started teaching medieval ecclesiastical history to undergraduates. He had never been happier. He loved his work, his music, his small circle of friends, his prayerful quiet life. Returning to the west of Ireland and County Galway to sort out a parish mystery did not contribute to this happiness. Yet, when Cal asked him to jump his only reasonable response was: ‘how high?’

  Sitting in a rear pew, Mass already commenced, Murphy’s first thought was that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere. The priest wasn’t speaking in English, or Latin for that matter. It was Portuguese. Then Murphy looked around at the sea of olive faces. Gort had changed, he would learn. About a third of the population of the small town was non-Irish, most of them Brazilian, employed in the local meat-packing industry. As a result, the cultural demands put upon the Parish of Gort and Beagh were so great that a Brazilian priest had been brought in to say Mass on Saturdays.

  Murphy felt, and indeed was, conspicuous, a priest and a stranger coming up to the altar to take Communion. One man did recognize him – the Very Reverend Canon Michael McCarthy, who beamed from his spot in the chancel and approached the young priest before he could filter out with the parishioners at the end of Mass.

  ‘Joseph Murphy! Whatever are you doing here?’

  McCarthy had taught a few classes at Murphy’s seminary, St Patrick’s College, near Dublin, and they had bonded over their Galway connections. It was McCarthy who had helped Murphy get his parish job in his home town.

  ‘Father McCarthy, it’s lovely to see you.’


  The canon pinched Murphy’s black sleeve and said, ‘I see you’re still in our line of work. Have you come back to us?’

  ‘No, no, just visiting. Thought my Portuguese needed some brushing up.’

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ McCarthy said. ‘It’s a small world. Our Brazilian brothers and sisters are good people and good Catholics. Fancy a little drink at the parish house or, better yet, the pub? Yes? Just give me a couple of minutes to change.’

  Before long they settled into a dark booth at O’Donnell’s, the older man with a creamy pint of Guinness, the younger with a half of lemonade.

  ‘Some things haven’t changed,’ McCarthy said, teasing Murphy’s drink. ‘You haven’t picked up any of the wicked ways of the Americans then?’

  ‘Does Netflix count?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it does.’ He clinked Murphy’s glass. ‘Sláinte. Tell me, how’s your family?’

  ‘Status quo, I believe,’ Murphy said. ‘Mum is soldiering on. She’s picked up some additional grandmotherly duties along the way. Brothers and sisters still doing their farming and milking, their masonry and dry-walling. And making plenty of new future parishioners. All the things people in the west of Ireland do, I suppose.’

  ‘Well that’s fine. I expect the wounds are still somewhat raw. About your father, I mean.’

  The old man had been drunk on his tractor, haying a slope way too steep – with the predictable result.

  Murphy swallowed a mouthful of sweet lemonade. He’d never been much of a drinker (unlike his brothers) but since the accident he hadn’t touched a drop, even feigning sips of sacramental wine during his final days of saying Mass.

  ‘That they are. Particularly for Mum,’ he said.

  ‘Have you seen her yet? And the rest of your kin?’

  He raised the canon’s eyebrow by saying, ‘They don’t know I’m here, actually. I’m sure I’ll see Mum before I leave. I’m not on the best of terms with my brothers and sisters. They accused me of abandoning her when I left for the States.’

  ‘A man seeks to better himself and this is what he gets. Provincial thinking, if I might say so. Now then, you haven’t told me why you’re in Gort.’

  ‘Mary Riordan. She’s the reason.’

  McCarthy took a deep breath. His mood shifted. ‘Now what would you have to do with her?’

  ‘I was sent here by my dissertation advisor at the university, Professor Donovan. He’s in quite tight with Pope Celestine. He was asked by the Vatican to look into these Marys, to give an informed opinion based on the facts on the ground. Seeing as I’m a local fellow who knows the lay of the land, he thought I’d be able to make head or tail of what’s going on in Gort while he’s off seeing the other girls.’

  ‘I’ve just read about the third Mary, the one in Peru who’s gone missing now. Strange business.’

  ‘It is,’ Murphy said.

  ‘Do you know the Riordans?’ McCarthy asked.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve crossed paths.’

  ‘Well, Joe, they’re not the easiest people, if you know what I mean. Kenny Riordan especially. A hard man if ever there was one. What was your plan, then? Were you going to just march over to their house and ask to come in?’

  ‘That was my original plan. I was intending to visit this afternoon.’

  ‘I hope you’re bringing a fat purse.’

  ‘He’s charging for access?’

  ‘He is. He and the missus are cashing in. They’ve got the whole family involved in the enterprise making relics and the like. Ten euros gets you a vial of water supposedly blessed by the girl. A twenty gets you a signed photo printed out on copier paper. Thirty gets you a selfie with her. A lock of her hair, or someone’s hair – for all I know they’re getting sweepings from the barber shop – don’t even ask how much they’re charging. You said it was your original plan. What’s your current one?’

  Murphy smiled. ‘I’m hoping it’s you.’

  The Riordans lived in a rundown bungalow on the outskirts of town. Kenny Riordan hadn’t worked in a very long while. He was on disability for a bad back. The local authority, suspecting that his back was just fine, had a man follow him around for a year trying to get a video of him playing golf or doing the tango but Kenny was too smart for them. He had the investigator dead to rights and always managed to grimace and lean on his cane whenever the fellow was about. His wife too was a benefits machine with an allowance for her diabetes and a steady stream of maternity and childcare benefits covering the eight children she had birthed. The bungalow, sitting on a nice piece of land, albeit on a busy road, was owned by the local authority and rented out to the Riordans at a fraction of the fair market rate, but really it was a matter of government money making a round trip.

  Approaching the house in McCarthy’s car, Murphy saw a string of pedestrians walking along the grass verge. The police weren’t letting cars stop along the road so the pilgrims had to park in town and trek the half-mile or so to the house. To keep order, two police officers were on duty outside the house nearly all the time, causing Galway County councilors to grumble that the Riordans were practically a line item unto themselves in the council budget.

  ‘You can’t park here,’ a policeman said, rapping on the car window.

  Canon McCarthy lowered his window. ‘Good day to you, Robert.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father. Didn’t recognize your car. Is it new?’

  ‘Indeed it is. The old lease expired, you know. May we park somewhere?’

  ‘Just pull into the driveway behind Kenny’s van.’

  There were pilgrims at the front door who weren’t best pleased to have queue jumpers appear, but these men were priests so what could they say? When he heard the bell, Kenny Riordan shouted through the closed door that they had to wait their turn like everyone else.

  ‘Kenny, it’s Father McCarthy. I’d appreciate a word.’

  The door opened revealing a short man with a crew-cut, a generous beer belly protruding from a smart polo shirt. His boyish grin disappeared when he saw Murphy.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Riordan asked suspiciously.

  ‘This is Father Murphy. He’s been sent here from the Vatican.’

  ‘The Vatican, you say?’

  ‘May we come in?’

  Riordan had the dry-mouthed look of a man being raided by government auditors but he said, ‘Course, course.’

  The scene inside the lounge told the story.

  Mrs Riordan, an obese woman three times the size of her husband, was sitting feet-up on a recliner, knitting, a cigarette burning in a full ashtray. In the corner, two boys and two girls, aged between five and ten, played with action figures. Mary Riordan, the star attraction, was sitting on the sofa, using a tray across her lap to sign photos for the two women gawking at her. Mary was vividly pretty, her black hair cut in a modern pudding-basin style, a silver crucifix on a chain lying over a starchy white shirt, bony knees poking out from under a pleated, plaid skirt. Murphy guessed it was her school uniform. Her mouth was fixed in a bored pout. On a sideboard were dozens of small vials filled with clear liquid, stacks of photos, a row of small cardboard jewelry boxes, presumably containing hair. There was a shoebox on the coffee table with a ten-euro note sticking out from under the lid. Kenny Riordan quickly picked it up and carried it into a back room.

  The pilgrims scooped up their signed photos and asked Riordan how much they owed when he returned.

  ‘Nothing, ladies. There’s no charge.’

  ‘What?’ Mrs Riordan said, looking up surprised from her knitting.

  ‘Hush now,’ her husband scolded.

  ‘Can we take a photo?’ one of the women asked.

  ‘Yeah, sure, go ahead,’ Riordan said, looking straight at Murphy.

  Before leaving, each woman touched Mary’s pale hand then crossed themselves. Riordan ushered them out the door and let the people in the queue know that there’d be a bit of a delay before their turn came. Church business and all.

  ‘So, what c
an I do for you, Fathers?’ Riordan asked.

  ‘Good little earner you’ve got going for yourself,’ McCarthy said.

  The man looked wounded. ‘I don’t know what you mean. People want to see our Mary, don’t they? For good reason. If some of them want to make a small donation to support her and her family, there’s no harm in that, is there?’

  ‘We’re not here to shut down your operation, Kenny,’ the priest said. ‘Father Murphy here has been sent by the Holy Father himself to ask Mary a few questions.’

  ‘The Holy Father, you say? Well, ask away, Father. Just don’t take too long on account of all the fine people who’ve been waiting patiently for their moment in the sun.’

  ‘I’ll try to be as quick as I can,’ Murphy said.

  Riordan cracked a smile at Murphy’s Galway accent. ‘You’re a local fellow, are you not?’

  ‘I am. Or at least I was. I live in America now.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine. I could tell from your name you weren’t Italian but it’s nice to see a local man with enough rank to get a Vatican nod.’

  Murphy pulled up a chair to be closer to the girl.

  ‘Hello, Mary, it’s nice to meet you.’

  Her pout remained unchanged. Murphy was just one more face. She was even prettier on second look, and she was exceedingly well-developed for just seventeen, flaunting it in a tight blouse that would have turned the heads of boys a good deal older.

  ‘I wanted to ask about when all this started,’ Murphy said. ‘Can you cast yourself back to that night?’

  It was her mother who answered from her recliner. ‘She was out that night, in town. She and her friends were doing something of a pub crawl. She’s only turned seventeen but there are landlords who’ll still serve them, you know. When I was a girl they all used to serve us as young as thirteen or fourteen. I remember when—’

  Her husband interrupted her, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Cindy, if you go on like that the queue at the door will reach back into town.’