Dead Wrong (15 page)

To believe that, Koesler reflected, demanded an almost superhuman mastery of rationalization. And Ted Nash, to his probable eternal confusion, had it.

As far as Nash was concerned, God was willing the nicest things.

God willed a happy marriage and unlimited progeny. Take sex out of that picture, and God willed a surrogate partner. Ted could not lose.

In this he was not unlike many who claim to be the humble repositories of God’s will. Such a claim is substantially more credible when God’s will demands unpleasant duties. For instance, the prophets of the Old Testament who begged God not to send them in His name with such ill-received messages. Or someone like Joan of Arc, whose fidelity as a messenger of God’s will brought her to the fiery stake.

Or the essential bearer of God’s will, Jesus Christ, who shrank from the hideous death awaiting him. He could pray, “Not my will, but Thine be done.”

Compared with these, Ted Nash had a piece of cake. One tended to suspect the recipient of a constantly convenient revelation who coincidentally claimed his course of action to be God’s will.

Then there was Father Arthur Deutsch.

Nash had called time-out before he and Koesler could go into just exactly how Deutsch could justify Brenda’s role in this scenario by the principle of the double effect.

That principle had been around for quite a while. It was one of the few moral determinants taught in Koesler’s seminary days that was still in popular use.

It was part of a larger concept known as “the indirect voluntary.” The idea being there are certain choices and actions in human life that are neither directly chosen nor the product of force alone. The specific use of the “double effect” occurred when someone did something that spawned two results or effects. To be morally acceptable, the initial action itself had to be either good or indifferent. The first immediate result had to be good and of greater weight than the secondary result, which could be evil and was not directly intended.

Thus, for instance, the case of an ectopic pregnancy—one in which the fertilized egg attaches itself outside the uterus. The doctor may operate—a good or indifferent action. The primary result is good, in that it saves the mother from an impossible medical situation. The secondary result, not intended, but only tolerated, is the death of the embryo.

One could argue endlessly about the principle and its relevance for this age. Is there, for example, any action that is indifferent? And what constitutes a “good” action?

But the principle is still being used by Church ethicists to settle, for instance, complex moral questions fostered by advances in medical technology.

Father Koesler’s present puzzle was how Father Deutsch could have twisted the double effect principle into a justification of the relationship of Ted Nash and Brenda Monahan.

How could the “action” be anything other than sexual interaction between two persons, one of whom freely admitting that he is married to someone else? How could such an action be judged “good” or “indifferent”?

What would be the first effect—Ted Nash’s sexual gratification?

That’s good? That outweighs the secondary effect?
Which is what? The harm done to Melissa, not to mention Brenda?

Of the two approaches to the ratification of Ted and Brenda’s affair, Koesler preferred Nash’s. And he didn’t much care for that.

Neither Ted nor Father Art seemed to have an acceptable explanation. Both were rationalizing in the worst sense of that term.

The final question, and the one Koesler found most perplexing, was what, if anything, was Brenda getting out of all this?

“Great sex,” according to Ted Nash.

Koesler, never having experienced great, adequate, or shabby sex, wisely decided he was not qualified to evaluate the importance of great sex.

But, he wondered, how great can it get? Even if it were an acknowledged sublime event, wasn’t it possible that some other partner could prove every bit as good at it as Ted claimed to be?

Finally, was “great sex” sufficient to cause someone like Brenda to throw away her life?

For that, as far as Koesler could see, was exactly what she was doing.

Everyone who knew Brenda was convinced that her horizons were unlimited. Yet she seemed to have painted herself into such a tight corner. When she had asked Koesler for help in getting a job someplace in the chancery operation, he had readily agreed. As it worked out, his intercession proved effective.

Mary Lou’s employment history being what it was, Koesler did not much expect her to hold on to her new job. Even working for a near saint. For whatever reason, her prospects seemed definitely limited.

Brenda, on the other hand, must have had some good reason for wanting to work in the chancery. Again, Koesler had figured that she would not long stay with the archdiocese. Not unless the Pope made her the archbishop—a position she could easily have handled, but one not likely to be offered her.

Brenda had unquestionable talent.

So what was she doing in a job that paid a fraction of her worth? Would she be moving on soon? Every week, Koesler half expected to learn that she had advanced to some more rewarding job, perhaps in some other city or state or country.

Even more, what was she doing in a dead-end relationship with a man like Ted Nash who would stay married to another woman until death did them part? Why had she had herself sterilized? To preserve her fragile union? She had all the ingredients to become an outstanding mother. Nash was more than willing to do his part to make her one. His track record with Melissa indicated he was not lacking in procreative powers.

But Brenda, for whatever reason, did not want his children. Nor, in view of her operation, anyone’s child.

Maybe it would be worthwhile, after all, to have a heart-to-heart talk with Brenda about all this.

Koesler had hoped that his hard-won meeting with Ted Nash might have settled this matter. But it had accomplished nothing other than throwing a bit more light on Ted, his house priest, and their peculiar if not unique approach to a bizarre theology.

Out of all this, Brenda emerged as a focal point for both Charles and Ted Nash. Father and son seemed preoccupied with her, yet they could not have been more divided in their attitudes toward her.

Charlie viewed Brenda as a threat to the financial empire he had painstakingly formed and built. He wanted her out of the way. For Ted, on the other hand, Brenda literally completed his life, providing the sexual and romantic gratification missing in his now-loveless marriage. He needed her desperately.

Did Brenda realize the spot she was in? If she was not diligently and unremittingly on her guard, she could find herself at the center of a most uncomfortable collision course. And, without exaggeration, the result could be much more than uncomfortable. It could be fatal.

Koesler hated even to consider that possibility. But Charles Nash had not gotten to the pinnacle of the development business by being Mr. Nice Guy. There was no evidence as far as Koesler knew that Nash had been involved in violence, let alone murder, in the past. But the old man had made it clear that he would allow nothing—
nothing
—to pull apart what he had constructed.

Ted Nash, on the other hand, did not seem quite as prone to the use of any means necessary to achieve his goals. It was, however, quite obvious that he coveted and doted on the success of Nash Enterprises every bit as much as did his father.

While Ted’s method of achieving or preserving success might not be as elemental as his father’s, Ted had access to a theology that could justify just about anything. Whatever Ted wanted, needed, demanded, could be twisted around to be construed as God’s will. Where might that stop? Koesler saw no boundary at all.

If Charles Nash were to perceive Brenda to be a threat to Nash Enterprises, and if no other course could eliminate that perceived interference, Charlie just might remove her by force. And if she became a hindrance or in any way a problem for Teddy, he and his priest were perfectly capable of devising a theology that would remove her from being part of God’s holy will.

No matter how one looked at it, Brenda was in harm’s way.

Fortunately, the automatic pilot that occupied Koesler’s head while driving freeways clicked in. He had reached the turnoff for Grosse Ile. In no time, he was at the familiar gate —front or rear, depending on one’s point of view—to Eileen Monahan’s island property.

Preoccupied as he’d been on his drive down here, Koesler had given little or no thought to the purpose of Eileen’s invitation. With Eileen, it could be anything from a trivial concern to a major calamity. Odds favored a light bulb that needed replacing but was beyond her reach.

Whatever it was, it would give his brain a rest from Brenda’s very pressing problems.

C H A P T E R

12

T
HERE THEY STOOD
on either side of the fence, Koesler on the outside and the dog on the inside.

The dog barked furiously. Koesler observed that each time the dog barked, which was some twenty-eight or twenty-nine times per minute by unscientific tally, the beast left all four paws off the ground. It actually jumped straight up into the air with each bark.

Why would a dog do that? Koesler wondered. Maybe it was beside itself in a frustrated frenzy. So much commotion for such a little dog! Its small stature notwithstanding, Koesler was not tempted into opening the gate and trespassing on what the dog proclaimed as its territory. It wouldn’t have been a large bite—but, large or small, Koesler did not want to lose any portion of either leg.

After what seemed too long, Eileen came hurrying out of the house, calling futilely to the dog as she hustled toward the gate.

Reaching the animal, she scooped it up, tucked it under one arm, and headed back toward the basement door. Shaking a finger of her free hand at the miscreant, she scolded it in no uncertain terms. And, all the while, the dog kept on barking, with passion and vigor.

Only when the basement door was fully and firmly shut behind the creature did Koesler enter the yard. “I tried, Eileen,” he said. “Honest to glory, I tried. I tried to turn off my sweat glands. I tried to think positive thoughts. I tried to communicate with the dog, tried to use human-to-canine ESP. Nothing worked.”

Eileen stood waiting for him near the house, her hands fluttering as she said agitatedly, “You’re early! You’re early! I would have had the dog in the basement, but you’re early. I thought he was barking at a passing car. And then when he kept it up, I thought it might be the postman or a salesman or something. But Oona said she bet it was Father Bob. ‘You know how he has that annoying habit of coming early to things,’ is what she said.”

“Oona’s here?”

“Yes, dear. I hope you don’t mind.”

“What’s to mind? I’m just surprised is all. You didn’t mention she was going to be here. Did she just pop in?”

“No. As a matter of fact, it was her idea to call you.”

“Her idea!” Koesler stopped stock still. “What’s this all about, Eileen?”

“I’ll tell you—or, more probably, Oona will explain it all.”

He followed her into the house.

Oona was ensconced in the recliner, the living room’s most comfortable chair, which was tipped halfway back. She seemed listless, weak, as if she were in the early stages of convalescence from some serious operation or illness. Except that she was neither ill nor had she had a recent operation. Her eyes were alert, giving the lie to her seeming lassitude.

Whenever Koesler saw his cousin like this, he was reminded of the hypochondriac’s epitaph:
I told you I was sick.

“Oona! Happy Birthday! I don’t remember whether I wished you one the other day when we almost had your party.”

“You didn’t. No one did,” Oona added. “That’s why we’re here.”

“Oona, dear,” Eileen said, “maybe we ought to go into the background a bit before we tell him.”

Oona betrayed a smidgen of disgust, then said softly, “Oh, very well… if you think it’s important.”

That’s Oona and that’s Eileen, thought Koesler. Oona tended to think explanations were foolish, a waste of time. Eileen was inclined to prepare people for good news as well as bad.

Koesler preferred Eileen’s method.

“It’s about our family,” Eileen began.

“Whose?” Koesler asked. “Yours or mine?”

“Ours, of course,” Oona replied. “But you’re included.”

“Yes,” Eileen said, “we’ve been talking about it almost constantly since that flare-up at Oona’s party the other day … the girls, you know.”

“Mary Lou and Brenda,” Oona supplied.

“Of course.” Eileen’s tone had an edge. Even she had a threshold of interruption tolerance.

“If it’s about the girls, how come Maureen isn’t here? No one’s closer to the kids than Mo.”

“That’s what this is all about,” Oona said.

“It will be clear as we explain it.” Eileen was retaining her narrator’s role with difficulty.

“You remember how we grew up together,” Eileen said.

“Of course,” Koesler replied. “Two families, the Koeslers and the Monahans, living in identical flats—above the family grocery store for you and above the Tamiami Bar for us. Sharing a common staircase and, for much of the two apartments, common walls. On the corner of Ferdinand and Vernor. We might just as well have been brother and sisters … that about right?”