Irish Alibi (7 page)

“This is Eugene Kincade,” Madeline said in an odd voice. “From Memphis.”

The young man was clearly shocked at the sight of the strange man who had emerged from Mrs. O'Toole's bedroom.

“Eugene came to take me to the noon Mass at Sacred Heart.”

Good Lord, it was Sunday. He had forgotten Madeline was Catholic. It was a long time since he himself had practiced the faith of his fathers.

“Go ahead,” Quintin said. “I have to get Magnus's car back to him.”

“His car?”

Quintin spoke to the boy. “I brought the O'Toole car here a little while ago.”

The boy's expression altered. Belatedly he took Quintin's hand. Quintin felt that he had just rescued Madeline's reputation.

“I made a fool of myself last night,” Eugene said.

“Just give me a minute,” Madeline said hurriedly. She dashed into the bedroom.

“I made a pest of myself last night,” Eugene explained to Quentin. “In the bar. I came back to apologize, and Rufus James led me away. Thank God.”

“Rufus James?”

“They were together in the bar. I just burst in on them, and they came back here—” He paused. His thoughts moved visibly across his bright innocent face. Madeline and Rufus James. Madeline and Quintin Kelly. He was clearly confused, and shocked. Madeline came out of the bedroom.

Quintin said, “We've been talking about Rufus James.”

“Isn't that amazing? I went out to the bar—for the game—and ran into him.”

“I didn't know you knew him.”

“I don't! I didn't. We just met.”

If Eugene's face was a mask of innocence, Madeline's read like a police blotter. Quintin recalled her odd reaction when at last he had returned. The boy said Madeline had brought James to the room.

“You'd better hurry if you're going to make the noon Mass.”

“Are you coming?”

“First I have to return Magnus's car.”

Madeline put her arm through Eugene's. Quintin opened the door and saw them out. After he had shut it on them, he stood for a moment looking at the rectangle of door. After several minutes, he opened it again and went out to Magnus's car.

4

The vibration of the cell phone in his shirt pocket wakened Magnus O'Toole. He got it out and opened it.

“Magnus.” His voice seemed to come from far away. He repeated his name after he had opened his eyes. It still sounded odd.

“You're fired!”

“Who is this?” Of course it was Barker in Atlanta. Barker fired people on an average of once a week. Theatrics, of course. The union would have his scalp, if he had one, for such autocratic behavior.

“I ran a wire service story. You can sell yours to the athletic department there. If I want a press release from Notre Dame I can get it for nothing.”

“How's everything else?”

“Do you know how little space you devoted to Georgia Tech?”

“It wasn't much of a game.”

“Who would know that from what you sent in? You even misspelled the name of the Georgia Tech quarterback.”

“That's the checker's fault.”

“And trying to push your book in an account of a game!”

“I sold hundreds.”

“Then you'll have something to live on.”

“Am I still fired?”

“Not until you get back here and I can do it face-to-face.”

“Thanks for calling.”

The line went dead. Magnus studied his cell phone, imagining a satellite in outer space relaying earthly voices to one another. All that technology, and for what? So Barker could try to ruin his day.

He turned on the television and saw a table full of imbeciles talking politics. Sunday morning. Well, Sunday anyway. He turned off the set. His head was light and his stomach was empty. He went barefoot to the kitchen and found a box of cereal, but the milk in the refrigerator looked months old. He decided not to risk it. A bowl of dry cereal is not a good way to address one's hunger. He found some juice and tasted it. It seemed to have fermented. And then he thought of poor Quintin Kelly. Had Quintin actually made a declaration of love for Madeline?

“Quintin!”

He seemed to have gone. Magnus checked the other bedroom, and it was empty. The living room was a mess. He frowned at the glasses and checked the bottle on the coffee table to see if it was empty. It was. A good thing. Better to drink fermented fruit juice than to start the day with a drink.

Sunday. A residual conscience began to remind him how far he had drifted from the practices of his youth. He should get to Mass. He should go to confession. A clean slate, that's what he needed, a new Magnus about to embark on life without Madeline. He could get an annulment. That would be like the negation of a negation. What kind of a marriage did they have? He had wanted children, and all she wanted was a career writing dirty books. No marriage court in the country would refuse him. Besides, she had apparently been playing around with Quintin Kelly. By contrast, Magnus felt pure as the driven snow. So he drank too much. He could always quit. He often did. And don't forget
Irish Icons.
The book seemed a first step in the new life he meant to lead.

He sat down to think of it and then wished he hadn't. The thought of having to get to his feet again was daunting. But why should he stand up? Better to sit here and think of the new life he longed to live. He was still sitting there when Quintin came back.

“I returned your car.”

“What car?”

“The rental.” Quintin tossed the keys on the coffee table. The jangling noise seemed to reverberate through Magnus's head.

“I saw Madeline.”

“She's in Memphis.”

“I told you last night. We came up together. To give you the bad news.”

“All I heard was good news. I wish you joy.”

“Go to hell.”

“I'm missing Mass.”

“So am I. Madeline went with one of her admirers.”

“To Mass?”

“A student from Memphis. A redhead. Apparently Rufus James took off.”

“You're not making a lot of sense.”

It didn't make much more sense when Quintin tried to make a coherent tale of it. He had gone back to Madeline like a whipped cur, expecting to catch hell for staying out all night, and she had brushed it off as if it didn't matter. “Not that she was lonely. How long has she known Rufus James?”

“I didn't know she did. Who is he?”

“The author.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He's the kind of author Madeline would like to be.”

“I'm an author.”

“He's the other kind.”

“Well, Madeline's not.”

“You're damned right she isn't.” Quintin's eyes were moist. “I molded that woman, Magnus. I practically wrote her first book for her.”

“God is merciful.”

“Well, I'm not. The woman has the attention span of a fruit fly.”

“Don't they die when they mate?”

“I'm not a voyeur.” There were actual tears leaking from Quintin's eyes. “The hell with her.”

“I thought you were in love with her.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Quintin picked up the remote and got a local station, where they followed the news of the statue being pulled down on campus.

“Father Corby!” Magnus cried. “That's a sacrilege. What kind of fans does Georgia Tech have?”

“Listen. They say it was Notre Dame students.”

“The place is going to hell.”

There was footage of the fallen Corby. A tow truck was parked on the lawn. Then the man who owned the truck was interviewed. He told his story with a mixture of anger and shame. The reporter asked how anyone could just steal his truck.

Jackson glared at her. “You ever have a truck stolen?”

“No.”

“Neither did I, before this.”

It seemed a small claim to fame. The prefect of discipline was interviewed and said that everything was under control. The students responsible would face severe discipline. Then a student appeared on the screen.

“I did it,” he said, looking into the camera, chin up, his red hair tousled. “No one else is responsible. I'll take whatever punishment they hand out.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I'm from Memphis.”

“That's him!” Quintin said, going to the set for a closer look. “That's the student who took Madeline to Mass.”

His name was Kincade, and he tried to tell a story about his father, but the interview was cut off.

“That must have been on tape. That boy and Madeline should still be at Mass.”

5

Roger Knight drove his golf cart to Sacred Heart Basilica for Mass and afterward was drawn to the scene on the front lawn of Corby. Yellow tape fluttered in the breeze, marking off the scene. Television crews jostled one another. The commanding figure of Father Corby lay on its side on the grass. In the cold light of day, what must have seemed an innocent prank took on the dimensions of an assault on the tradition of Notre Dame.

When Roger got back to the apartment, Father Carmody was there.

“I wonder if anyone knows who Corby was,” the old priest grumbled. “Next I suppose they'll pull down a statue of Our Lord.”

“Remember the Visitation,” Roger murmured.

The magnificent statue of Elizabeth greeting Mary fashioned by Father Lauck stands in front of the bookstore. It had hardly been put in place when it was desecrated.

Father Carmody nodded. “Not inadvertent.”

“I have been speaking of Father Corby in my course on Notre Dame and the Civil War.”

“Perhaps we ought to go down your class list to find the culprits.”

“They aren't known?”

Father Carmody winced. “I don't understand the younger generation. All they had to do was lie low. The thing would have blown over…” His eyes widened. “Thank God no one can hear me mouthing such heresy.”

Phil said, “Perhaps that's what they will do.”

“Not at all, not at all. We have a public confession of guilt.”

“Good heavens. Who is it?”

“Malcolm Kincade.” Father Carmody chuckled. “Maybe I do understand the younger generation. This is a boy intent on doing his father one better.”

And Father Carmody told the Knights of the effort of Kincade père many years ago.

“I played a small role in preventing his expulsion from the university. I wonder if I can do the same for the son.”

“But why the family animus against Father Corby?”

“The family is from Memphis.”

“Ah.”

“I don't get it,” Phil said.

“Notre Dame was all but identified with the Union side in the Civil War, Phil. Priests served as chaplains, nuns worked in hospitals. Corby was merely the most prominent among them. Because of Gettysburg.”

“Roger, the Civil War ended a century and a half ago.”

“So the books tell us.”

It was young Kincade's confession—to the local media, not to the prefect of discipline—that had brought Father Carmody to them this morning. The postgame prank had been covered in the national media, and there had been a spot on ESPN by their resident critic of all things Irish, in all cases with a lighthearted touch. Father Carmody was intent that the incident fade gently away lest it be turned into a criticism of Notre Dame. Both Roger and Phil had been struck on other occasions by Father Carmody's intense concern for the reputation of the university. Despite a long lifetime of experience of undergraduates, the priest seemed to regard his knowledge of them as something of a trade secret, not to be divulged to those beyond the campus—unless, of course, they were alumni, and even for them facts had to be buffed and shined a bit before export. Father Carmody's role as guardian angel of Notre Dame had in the past been a legitimate extension of his job description, but what is the job description of an éminence grise? Father Carmody had been that éminence long before his silver shock of hair settled him completely in the role.

“So what will you do, Father?”

Before the question could be answered, the doorbell rang. Phil answered it and admitted Caleb Lanier.

He came forward three steps, stopped, and looked around abjectly. “It's all my fault.”

“That is a very comprehensive confession,” Father Carmody said.

“It was my article on Father Corby that set them off. Their sister is…” He hesitated. “A good friend of mine. She told me all about it.”

Only in fiction is information doled out to the reader in coherent and sequential form. Caleb obeyed the looser laws of ordinary communication, and it was some time before the Knight brothers and Father Carmody understood.

“The South will rise again,” Roger murmured.

“And Father Corby must fall,” said Father Carmody.

Over the next half hour, a strategy was planned. Father Carmody and Phil would seek out the Kincade brothers and put out the fire.

“It was General Sherman that did it.” Caleb meant that the Kincade brothers had been incensed to learn that Notre Dame had been host to General Sherman's family during the Civil War and, when the fighting was over, feted and honored him on campus.

A tempest in a teapot? Indeed, indeed. But the following day a far more serious problem fell on the shoulders of Father Carmody and the Knight brothers.

6

Maria Concepción had joined the great northward migration five years ago and ended up in this state a portion of whose border hugged Lake Michigan. Moving through states with names that made them seem an extension of her homeland—Arizona, Texas—and others whose names seemed arguably Spanish—Oklahoma, Nebraska—she had ended here in Indiana. Summers were agreeably hot if not so agreeably humid, but with fall came the chill that would turn to bitter cold and bring doubts about the wisdom of her move. In the Tranquil Motel, where she worked, she was surrounded by others with similar backgrounds; the conversations in the corridors as rooms were cleaned and readied for new occupants were all in Spanish. Sometimes Maria Concepción imagined that she was home and the people who came and went were tourists from elsewhere.