Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material (9 page)

BOOK: Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material
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CHAPTER 32

W
hat took you so long?” asked Unity as her husband entered their apartment. “How much time does it take to go into town and pick up some orange juice?”

“Please, Unity,” said Fitzroy. “Don’t nag me. People in the deli wouldn’t leave me alone. They all wanted to talk about Innis. Let’s just have our breakfast.”

The apartment upstairs at the Black Tie Club was close quarters. There wasn’t much distance between the small table in the dining area and the television in the adjoining living room. The couple ate as they watched
KEY to America.

“To think that we were talking to Eliza Blake as Innis was taking his own life,” observed Unity. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Shh, dear,” said Fitzroy. “Let’s hear what she has to say.”

Eliza was looking straight into the camera lens. Though she was reading from the teleprompter, it appeared as though she was talking spontaneously to the viewing audience.

“As the shock at the suicide of Innis Wheelock begins to lessen, family, friends, and the authorities are trying to make sense of the event and the method of his death. To begin sorting things out, we have to start by understanding what stigmata are.”

Various artists’ renditions of the crucified Jesus Christ appeared as Eliza continued speaking.

“The word ‘stigmata’ comes from the Greek
stigma,
meaning mark. In Christianity it’s thought that some people develop wounds like those Christ received at the crucifixion…signs from God that the person afflicted with them is holy.”

Another artist’s rendition, this one of a bearded dark-haired man in a belted long brown robe, popped up on the screen.

“The wounds on both hands, both feet, and one side were suffered by St. Francis of Assisi, the first person recorded to have shown stigmata. St. Francis did not die until several years after receiving the mysterious wounds.

“Innis Wheelock killed himself Sunday night, at a party he hosted at his home, a party in honor of St. Francis, the founder of the Franciscan Order. St. Francis, possibly the most venerated figure in Catholic history, taught repentance and called his followers to embrace a life of poverty and to help others. He was known for his love of nature, and he is the patron saint of animals and the environment.”

The same file video that had been shown yesterday morning of Innis, Valentina, and Eliza walking in the Rome garden began to run.

“Innis Wheelock had made it known that he’d become deeply devoted to St. Francis while living in Italy when his wife served as U.S. ambassador there. Coming back to the United States after her assignment was completed, Innis immersed himself in the renovation of an old family home in Tuxedo Park, New York. He named the house Pentimento—a name that comes from the Italian word meaning ‘to repent’ and is a word that describes an alteration in a painting showing traces of the artist’s previous work, illustrating that the artist changed his mind. For many of the guests at the party on the night he died, it was their first glimpse of the place since the restoration was completed.”

Eliza peered from the television set again.

“The manner and circumstances of Innis Wheelock’s death raise speculation and questions. Was Innis Wheelock trying to leave a message? Was he trying to repent for something? What would he have done over if he could?”

 

As the broadcast went to commercial, Fitzroy sat back in his chair, the color drained from his face. He was finding it a strain to breathe when the telephone rang. His wife picked it up.

“Unity? It’s Valentina.”

“Yes, dear. How are you this morning?”

“All right, I suppose,” Valentina said softly. “I haven’t been able to drag myself out of bed yet, but I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, Fitzroy and I have both been up for a while.”

“Oh, good,” said Valentina. “It occurred to me in the middle of the night that it would be wonderful if Fitzroy would say a few words at Innis’s funeral tomorrow. After all, Fitzroy was his oldest and dearest friend.”

Unity looked at Fitzroy, who motioned he didn’t want to take the phone call.

“I’m sure Fitzroy would be very touched that you’ve thought of him like this, Valentina,” said Unity. “He’s indisposed right now, though, dear. I’ll tell him, and he’ll call you back as soon as he can. Is that all right?”

When she’d hung up the phone, Unity looked quizzically at Fitzroy. “Why didn’t you want to talk to her?” she asked.

“I just didn’t,” he said flatly.

“Well, she wants you to speak at the funeral.”

Fitzroy rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess there’s no way out of it,” he said. “Did Valentina mention if Innis was being buried or cremated?”

“Buried,” said Unity.

“Thank God,” said Fitzroy. “I’ve always felt that ‘dust to dust’ is better than ‘ashes to ashes.’”

CHAPTER 33

C
leo had slept later than usual, allowing her father to get some things accomplished. But now they were rushing to get ready.

Cleo knocked over the box of cereal, spraying Cheerios all over the kitchen floor.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Clay sighed tiredly, barely able to bring a smile to his craggy, care-worn face. “That’s all right, honey,” he managed. He finished buttoning the jacket of his police uniform before going for the broom in the closet down the hall.
Might as well keep it propped up in the corner,
he thought. Cleo was always dropping things and spilling things and making a general mess. But usually he didn’t get angry with her. She couldn’t help it. And Cleo was always so contrite after she made a mistake that Clay didn’t have the heart to make her feel any worse than she already did.

As he swept up the cereal, Clay wondered why he never completely came to terms with the fact that his daughter was mentally disabled. He’d long since gotten over the fact that his wife, Cleo’s mother, had left them when Cleo was only six years old. He accepted that the last sixteen years had been spent raising Cleo by himself. He was all right with that and loved his child more than he would ever have thought possible. But every time he saw Cleo’s contemporaries doing things she would never be able to do, Clay was filled with sadness.

Life wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Cleo had been singled out to have the life she did. It wasn’t fair that she wouldn’t drive a car, or go to college, or have a big wedding with babies to follow.

Clay had talked to Father Gehry about his feelings, and the priest had told him that Cleo was a gift from God. Clay didn’t disagree; Cleo was the most precious gift of his life. But what was
her
gift? In Clay’s opinion his child had been stiffed. Cleo hadn’t been given a fair shake. Not at all.

“Get your jacket on, sweetie. The van will be coming soon.”

He helped his daughter zip up her Windbreaker and handed her the bag lunch he’d prepared.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Bologna and cheese,” answered Clay. It was always bologna and cheese, day after day. That was the only thing she wanted.

Cleo’s face broke into a big smile, delighted that she would be eating her favorite at her desk at the workshop today. Did she remember she’d had the same thing yesterday? For certain, he’d be making it for her again tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow was the funeral.

Clay thought of Russell Wheelock, just two years younger than Cleo. When they were young, Valentina and Innis had insisted that the children get together to play. If you could call it play. Rusty would do all the playing. Cleo would just watch him.

Now Rusty was without a father.

But, in a way, it was a relief that Innis was dead. One less person alive who knew what had happened all those years ago.

CHAPTER 34

T
here was hot coffee waiting, and an empty cup on the table, but the kitchen was vacant. Valentina called out for Eunice but got no response as she searched through the rooms on the first floor.

Maybe Eunice was upstairs cleaning or downstairs doing the laundry. Valentina didn’t have the energy to look further. She would turn up soon enough.

Taking a deep, resolute breath, Valentina slid open the wooden pocket doors that led to the old smoking room, which had become Innis’s study. The room was dark and still, the only sound the clicking pendulum of the antique grandfather clock that stood solidly in the corner. She entered slowly, keenly feeling her husband’s presence.

How many times had she watched him working at that desk or reading the leather-covered books that lined the walls? How many times had Innis paced the Oriental carpet that covered the floor? She could picture him now, his brow knitted in concentration.

Innis was a worrier, and therefore Valentina had been spared. All during their lives together, Valentina had known that Innis would take care of things. What was she going to do now? Without Innis, who was going to worry for her?

Valentina shook herself. No good could come from riding that train of thought. She walked to the window and drew back the drapes, letting the bright morning sun flood the room. Seating herself in Innis’s well-worn leather chair, Valentina sank into the indentation made by his repeated use. She reached down and pulled back the lower drawer of the desk and began flipping through the carefully organized files. The one marked “Cemetery” was near the front.

She extracted the folder and opened it. The deed to the burial plot was right on top. Valentina was about to close the folder and put it back in the drawer when she saw the long white envelope with the word “
Wishes”
written across it in Innis’s scrawling script.

Her hands trembled as she ripped open the envelope, unfolded the piece of paper inside, and began to read.

A
T THE TIME OF MY DEATH
, I
REQUEST THE FOLLOWING AT MY FUNERAL
:

O
N MY COFFIN
I
WOULD LIKE AN ARRANGEMENT OF WILD NARCISSI AND THE RED POPPIES THAT ARE FOUND GROWING IN THE MEADOWS NEAR MY BELOVED
A
SSISI
. I
N LIEU OF OTHER FLOWERS
, I
WOULD LIKE DONATIONS TO BE MADE TO
UNESCO
FOR THE PRESERVATION OF
A
SSISI AND THE
B
ASILICA OF
S
T
. F
RANCIS AS A
W
ORLD
H
ERITAGE
S
ITE.

I
WOULD LIKE TWO SONGS WITH TEXTS BY
S
T
. F
RANCIS TO BE SUNG AT MY FUNERAL
: “A
LL
C
REATURES OF
O
UR
G
OD AND
K
ING” AND
“T
HE
P
RAYER OF
S
T
. F
RANCIS
.”

I
WOULD ALSO LIKE SMALL PRAYER CARDS TO BE DISTRIBUTED TO EVERYONE WHO ATTENDS THE SERVICE
. O
N THE FRONT OF THE CARD SHOULD BE A PICTURE OF THE
G
IOTTO FRESCO OF
S
T
. F
RANCIS PREACHING TO THE BIRDS
. O
N THE BACK OF THE CARD
, I
WOULD LIKE THE FOLLOWING VERSES FROM
S
T
. F
RANCIS’S
C
ANTICLE OF THE
S
UN:

A
LL PRAISE BE YOURS, MY
L
ORD, THROUGH OUR
S
ISTER
M
OTHER
E
ARTH, OUR MOTHER, WHO FEEDS US IN HER SOVEREIGNTY AND RULES US, AND PRODUCES VARIOUS FRUITS AND COLORED FLOWERS AND HERBS
.

A
LL PRAISE BE YOURS, MY
L
ORD, THROUGH
B
ROTHER
F
IRE, THROUGH WHOM YOU BRIGHTEN UP THE NIGHT
. H
OW BEAUTIFUL HE IS, HOW GAY
! F
ULL OF POWER AND STRENGTH
.

A
LL PRAISE BE YOURS, MY
L
ORD, THROUGH
S
ISTER
W
ATER; SO USEFUL, LOWLY, PRECIOUS, AND PURE
.

A
LL PRAISE BE YOURS, MY
L
ORD, THROUGH
B
ROTHERS
W
IND AND
A
IR, AND FAIR AND STORMY, AND ALL THE WEATHER’S MOODS, BY WHICH YOU CHERISH ALL THAT YOU HAVE MADE
.

Valentina reread the verses. Puzzled, she got up from the desk, went to the shelves, and quickly found the section Innis had reserved for the treasured volumes about his beloved saint. Pulling a random book from the collection, she consulted the index and found the page where the lyrics of St. Francis’s most famous song were written.

Sure enough, Innis had edited the canticle, changing the order of the verses, leaving some of them out altogether. Why had he done that?

Valentina put the book back in its place on the shelf. She folded Innis’s instructions and slipped them into the pocket of her skirt.

All right, Innis,
she thought,
if that’s what you want, that’s what you shall have. After what I put you through, you deserve anything you ask for.

BOOK: Dying for Mercy with Bonus Material
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