Decatur (18 page)

The cattle truck driver had been almost dozing. The farmed prairie had that effect on so many that it was called No-Doz Flats, as every trucker popped the little white pills or better yet speed in an effort to combat the effect of driving among unending horizontal fields. Later, when he tried to explain to the cops, he had a hard time piecing together exactly what had happened, between the glare and the near sleeping state he had been in when the whole awful thing unfolded. There was a kid, a big kid who came through the fields on a bike, and he must not have been looking because he just headed right out into the roadway and the poor woman must have tried to stop but put on the gas instead, anyway she must have hit the big kid (maybe it was a man, but who would be riding a bike out here except a kid) hard because he wound up on the hood of her car and she swerved into the oncoming lane. He swerved then too, just missing her, the cattle mooing and trying to stampede in the cattle box as the whole truck nearly toppled, but she kept on going and who knows what happened to the kid, he must have been thrown from the hood of the woman’s car, but she slammed into the telephone pole. Wearing a seatbelt could have saved her he guessed, but she came right through the windshield then, and the rest, well he didn’t have to tell the state patrol and the ambulance drivers the rest. It was there for everyone to see.

The trucker was taken in for minor injuries and someone had to radio for help to get the cattle truck off the road. There was a bike left on the shoulder but no sign of whoever was pedaling it. They searched the fields for a body, but whoever the kid or the man was he must have been mighty tough to walk away after something like that. As for Suzanne Cleary, she was pronounced dead on arrival at St. Mary’s Hospital.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Bishop Quincy Prefers

The ride over to Springfield that morning to their meeting with bishop’s chief of staff was stiff. They took old Highway 36 as the most direct route which meant they were on two-lane blacktop the whole way, so Father Weston had to concentrate because there were a fair number of people who drove back and forth between Decatur and Springfield and the little farming hamlets of Illiopolis, Niantic and Dawson, and passing on the two- lane highways was tricky especially if you got behind trucks. Father Weston wasn’t in the mood for conversation anyway, turning over in his mind the encounter he had had with Gar last night when coming home. He tried to phone Max first thing that morning before they shoved off but Max must have already been at the University, he didn’t answer his apartment phone. He realized now that he should have told Max more about Gar from the get go but he had held back because of Father Troy’s crush. He tried to call Marilyn as well, not sure what he would say to her, but her phone also rang and rang. He would have supper tonight at the Surrey, he decided, and speak to her then. At least she would be in a public place all day at the restaurant. How did Gar know her, the thought wouldn’t get out of his brain,
what if he really was hunting her, here?

Father Troy sat in the passenger seat as several folk songs played one after the other in his head. They would be great to play at the Monsignor’s mass. He wondered if he dared bring up his musical ideas to the Bishop’s functionary. The Springfield Diocese wasn’t known for its liberal tendencies as it took orders from the Arch in Chicago who was a notorious Old Vatican type, but Bishop Quincy had put his faith in Father Troy by splitting the parish leadership. He should at least try, he decided. Gar was right. Father Weston was no better priest than he
.
Still he felt guilty for making fun of Father W last night with Gar. But the pleasure of seeing Gar laugh as he sensuously licked Mrs. Napoli’s spaghetti sauce from his upper lip while they were joking around over dinner made it, he had to admit, worth betraying his fellow priest just the tiniest bit
.

The Bishop was busy with a couple of Catholic businessmen when they arrived at Diocese’s headquarters so they were asked to wait. Thirty minutes or so went by in silence with them leafing through old copies of the Catholic Digest before Father Mahoney, the chief of staff with the stiffest roman collar in all of America, showed them to the conference room. Father W declined for the both of them the half-offer of coffee and they sat down in the stiff high backed chairs across from Father Mahoney. The chief of staff then laid out in sonorous tones the protocol of a high funeral mass for the Monsignor as Father Troy realized the futility of bringing up any folk songs for the service. Bishop Quincy would preside and Father Weston and Troy would assist, six of their best altar boys would be required in full crimson skirts and white surplices. The color of the chasubles would be white to symbolize everlasting life. Did they both have white chasubles? They did. Lily arrangements were of course expected. The funeral procession would be led by the bishop to the cemetery. The faithful would be encouraged to process to the grave. No coarse throwing of dirt onto the coffin would be permitted. Sobbing women were to be kept in the back as it disturbed the bishop’s concentration when saying the final prayers. Then, drawing out a long checkbook in a spiral bound cover from a drawer in the shiny cherry wood conference table, Father Mahoney leaned across the table with a pinched smile on his face.

“How are your parish savings, Weston, Young Troy? I hope you’ve put aside some for a rainy day,” said Father Mahoney, “The diocese of course expects to handle a reasonable amount of funeral expenses for dear departed Monsignor Lowell, but it is our expectation in these modern times that each parish bear its own weight of such mortal occurrences.”

Father Troy looked at Father Weston, as he handled that sort of thing with the assistance of lay businessmen who made up the parish council. Every week the Knights of Columbus passed wicker baskets on long woven broom-like handles through the congregation.
They had to have some savings
.

Father Weston bit his lower lip; inside he was fuming. Reasonable expenses, what did that mean? How was he supposed to throw the parish supper for the wake following the burial? The church ladies were bringing salads and desserts, but he had already contacted Dante’s Italian restaurant for pans of lasagna and was planning on buying some Chianti to serve to the men in little jelly jars they stored in the church basement to toast the humble old man who had cared for them all. For crying out loud, Monsignor Lowell had baptized generations of St. Patrick’s babies, married countless couples, counseled, buried, visited the sick, and now they were squabbling over how much money should be spent on remembering him. “We have some,” he said. “Coffins are dear, Father Mahoney, as you know and funeral homes dearer. The parish deserves a visitation before we have the funeral mass.” Then he folded his hands in front of him on the conference table and stared the pompous chief of staff down, his dark eyes not blinking, daring the bastard to cheap out on Aloysius Lowell’s burial.

Father Mahoney shook his head
. They were all the same, these parish priests, wanting to rule their roost until it came to being fiscally responsible
. “Just so you understand the diocese isn’t a bank,” he said as he pulled his gold ink cartridge pen from his breast pocket and poised it over the checkbook waiting for their obsequence.

“We understand, Father Mahoney,” Father Weston forced the words out of his mouth as Father Troy nodded. It was humiliating but necessary. The other priest wrote the check swiftly.
Three thousand dollars, it wasn’t enough but it would have to do
. Father Weston took it and put it in his breast pocket.

At that moment, as if on cue, Bishop Quincy entered the room. He was a short man with a bullet-shaped bald head and he moved like a bull, with his shoulders coming into a space first. Father Mahoney was on his feet with a bow and murmured greeting. The bishop made a dismissive gesture as Father Weston and Father Troy got to their own feet and bowed to their superior.

“Well if it isn’t the two lads from St. Patrick’s,” Bishop Quincy said with a light tone, but he wasn’t smiling so the effect was slightly chilling. “I keep getting the oddest phone calls about your parish house these days from our friends the FBI over at the Federal building. This time from an Agent Tooley who wanted me to know that Agent House was going to insist on speaking to your ‘project’ again, Father Troy. I didn’t know that someone had spoken to him in the first place. It seems someone has called the tips line twice on the matter and they think it might be tied up with those drug murders. I don’t like it boys. Make it go away. Understood?”

Father Weston shot a look at Father Troy who looked like he might be sick. “Understood,” he said because Father Troy was having a hard time speaking.

“Mark? Anything you want to tell me?” asked Bishop Quincy, but the question was anything but fatherly.

“Nothing, Bishop. I understand,” Father Troy managed. “It’s all the prejudice,” he gasped.

“The what?” Father Mahoney said, looking slightly horrified.

“Vets, the Vietnam vets,” Father Troy said.

“We understand, we’ll make it go away,” Father Weston said, “Until the funeral then, I guess. A sad day for St. Patrick’s. I know how much the Monsignor admired you, Bishop Quincy. Spoke about it often. As I do,” he bowed.

“You are excused. Bishop Quincy prefers not to speak of this again,” Father Mahoney said and they stumbled out of the conference room with its oil portraits, thick velvet drapes, and stiff cherry wood furniture.

The traffic was light on the way back as everyone else was at work or school but the ride seemed interminable to Father Troy, sick to his stomach in the front seat. He had rolled the window down halfway but the air only smelled of pesticides and fertilizer and with the sun baking the interior of the Olds, it was torture. Gar, he thought over and over, Gar would have hated it too
.

“Mark,” Father Weston said gently looking sideways at his fellow priest green around the gills leaning back against the passenger seat. “Are you alright? Are you going to be sick?”

Father Troy nodded, the bile coming up into his throat now. He swallowed hard as Father W pulled the car off the road. He managed to find the handle to the door open and half remembering the one and only time he had been drunk with his best friend and there had been the mistake with putting his hand on his friend’s upper thigh. He swung himself out and put his head between his knees. Thank God he wasn’t wearing a frock but trousers
,
he thought, as the moment he bent over, a stream of pinkish vomit poured out of his mouth as his stomach heaved.

Father W looked down the black asphalt highway marked with double yellow lines for as far as you could see as Mark Troy threw up his guts onto the gravel shoulder. He pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pants pocket and walked around to the younger priest sitting on the edge of the passenger seat with the pool of vomit in between his legs, with a only a few splashes on his sandals. “Here, use this,” Father W said without a trace of meanness or, worse yet, pity. Father Troy took the pressed and folded handkerchief with the initials FW embroidered in black on the corner, wiped his face, then the few humiliating splotches on his feet, crumpling it up into a ball and grimacing as if to say, “now what do I do with it?” Father W jerked his thumb to the field and Father Troy, feeling suddenly giddy, threw the disgusting ball into the field. They both got back in the car then.

Father W waited another few miles while Father Troy sucked on the peppermint from the stash in the glove compartment. “I know you told Gar about who I was having dinner with last night, Mark, because he waited up to ask me about it.”

“He what?” Father Troy had fallen asleep after some prayers and had figured Gar had gone to his attic room. “I’m sorry, Father W. I know I shouldn’t have.”

“Never mind that now; we have bigger fish to fry. Did he mention that he had lived around here before or that he knew my friend Marilyn?” Father Weston gave him a look out of his dark eyes that made Father Troy regret all over again making fun of him with Gar.

“Lived here? I don’t think so. I didn’t even use her name, I don’t know why he would give you that impression,” said Father Troy.

“Yeah, well, he did. Why didn’t you tell me an FBI agent had come to the rectory to question Gar? We have got to get clear here, understand?” Father Weston’s hands clenched both sides of the wheel as he spoke, thinking about Max’s vampire theories.

“He was another vet. They just talked about Vietnam, really. It was an anonymous tip, the prejudice again, someone just picked Gar out because they could.” Father Troy felt on firmer ground now. “It’s so unjust. I hate the war as much as anyone but taking it out on the vets is crazy. Most of them were drafted. I got my deferment because of seminary school.”

“We’ve talked about this, Father Troy. You’re preaching to the choir. This isn’t about Gar being a vet.” Father W wanted to shake Father Troy. He was blind where Gar was concerned. “I understand being a priest can be difficult, the order demands much and leaves little for the personal,” Father W took a deep breath feeling like he was staring out over an emotional chasm. This was the hardest thing to do with a fellow priest, broach the subject of an attachment that was getting out of hand because every one of them had sinned and some of the sins were unforgivable in the best of men. “Do you think you can be impartial where Gar is concerned?”

“What is there to be impartial about?” Father Troy asked in a high-pitched voice.

“I’m not sure it’s going to be that easy to make it go away for Bishop Quincy,” Father Weston said as old highway 36 became West Main Street and they were on the familiar streets of Decatur. “Gar isn’t what he appears to be, Mark. I want you to believe me.”

“No.” Father Troy’s mouth closed in a narrow line and he shook his head. “I won’t believe you.”

They didn’t say any more then. The Olds pulled into the rectory driveway and they both got out, not bothering with the garage. Father Weston had made up his mind, he was going to tell Gar to leave right this moment in front of Father Troy and let the fireworks begin. Mrs. Napoli, though, was hovering by the office door when they stormed in.

“I’m sorry to spring this on you but Father Weston, you got a call from the funeral home,” said Mrs. Napoli with her apron on and polishing rag in hand.

“Yes,” said Father W impatiently. “What’s that infernal director want now? We’ve laid out what we need from him.”

“It’s not the Monsignor’s funeral that he called about. Wait, Father Troy, I think you’ll want to hear this too,” Mrs. Napoli said, her voice stopping Father Troy mid-stair.

“What is it then, Mrs. Napoli?” asked Father W as he felt the hot rush of his blood pressure rising.

“There’s been an accident. A terrible car accident. Suzanne Cleary of the Dry-Cleaner’s was dead on arrival at St. Mary’s. She’s at the funeral home now. Mr. Cleary asked that you be called. They’re expecting you. It’s another funeral for St. Patrick’s.” Mrs. Napoli crossed herself and then twisted her flowered apron in her hands thinking about how she had just sent Gar there earlier this very morning and now the poor woman was dead and it wasn’t even lunchtime. You just never knew
,
she thought, looking at the two priests who stood shocked in the entrance of the parish house.