Last Things (17 page)
“I will pray for him.”
“What's this about an operation?”
He dismissed it. “I had an operation a year ago. They did a biopsy and had to cut out my prostate.”
Old Father Bourke's reproductive organs had been as superfluous as his appendix during his long life so he could bid adieu to his prostate without regret. Raymond could not help but think of himself in the condition Father Bourke now found himself. The sight of his father on his apparent deathbed had not brought such thoughts, but now he thought of himself grown old, helpless, in need of care. That would happen to him, if he were lucky, as it would happen to Phyllis. It happened to everyone.
“What is it this time?”
“Open-heart.”
“Good Lord,” he said, but Father Bourke dismissed it with a wave of his hand.
“How good it is to see you,” the old priest said suddenly. “This is an answer to a prayer. I have missed you very much.”
“I disappointed you.”
“Yes. How have you been?”
“Fine. Fine.”
“And what do you do?”
Describing the practice he and Phyllis had developed in this setting was unreal. He could hear himself with Father Bourke's ears, and he realized how weird it must seem that a man who had deserted his priesthood should be making a comfortable living advising California neurotics. He did not want to go into details of the advice he gave.
“Have you married?”
“Civilly.”
Father Bourke nodded. Suddenly Raymond found himself telling the old priest about the meeting with his parents, of his father's taunting demand that he give him absolution.
“You could have.”
Raymond shook his head. “He was just being theatrical. He has seen a priest.”
“Thank God.”
His own reaction when he heard of Father Dowling's visit had been relief that now his father would leave him alone on that matter. Now he could almost share Father Bourke's reaction. After all, if it were all true ⦠But life is not lived on the basis of hypotheticals.
“When you left things had not gotten too bad, Raymond, but dear God, today. Sometimes I think you were wise to go.”
He wanted to protest. It was one thing not to be condemned, but he did not want approval, not from Father Bourke. The old priest would die with his boots on, at his post to the end, and that is how it should be. But the old priest went on, a lamentation about these dark days, the state of the Church, of the Order, of the college.
“You wouldn't believe the stories. It's a mockery of one's whole life.”
How could he not sympathize with the old priest's sadness at the changes he had lived to see? But this was not what he wanted to hear from him. He wanted the vibrant confidence of old, the enormous solidity with which he had lived his vocation. He wanted to hear that all the changes could not touch the essential thing, that in any case one must be true to the vocation to which he had been called. And Father Bourke had been faithful. For over fifty years he had kept his vows, done his work, said his prayers. Raymond felt that these complaints were an excursion out of character. Were they meant to ease his own sense of guilt?
Guilt. Not even the imagined witness of Phyllis could make him disguise what he felt.
“I have caused so many people pain.”
“Your parents?”
“Yes. And you.”
“God bless you, my boy.”
Tuna salad on a lettuce leaf. Father Bourke ate little. Raymond had no appetite at all, but he cleaned his plate. In the community, one did not waste.
“Come see me again,” Father Bourke said. “I'm off for my nap.”
“I will come see you in the hospital.”
The old hand squeezed his.
It was with a riot of conflicting emotions that Raymond walked to his car. He saw nothing. His eyes were swimming with tears. He stopped, lit a cigarette, and blinked his eyes dry.
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With his father in intensive care and Father Bourke just down the hall awaiting his operation, Raymond felt that he had come home just in time to bid good-bye to the two most important men in his life. Father Bourke had pretended the other day to understand why Raymond had left, exculpating him, as if the prospect of the coming dissolution was more than a loyal Edmundite could bear. It made his defection seem a blow for integrity. But it was Father Bourke, the person, he heard rather than these supposedly consoling words. Hunched in his wheelchair, living with men in the advanced stages of senility, at the door of eternity as they all believed, Father Bourke somehow seemed to stand tall in the courage with which he bore the unpalatable changes in the college and order. The simple fact was that he had given the lifetime to God that he had promised.
Young Rocco explained open-heart surgery to Raymond with clinical relish. How could the old priest survive such a massive shock to his system?
“He could go at any time if he doesn't have the operation.” Father Bourke would doubtless have been prepared if death suddenly came upon him, but Father John had accompanied him to the hospital, Cronin had supplied the oils, and John had given the old priest the last rites, with Raymond in attendance. As he annointed Father Bourke, John acted with dispatch, an artisan at work. Had the young priest ever wondered if the life he lived was worth it? Probably not. It did not seem a failing. Raymond spoke to his old mentor briefly before he was wheeled away.
“God bless you, Raymond.”
He choked at the old man's goodness, leaned over, and touched his lips to his forehead.
“I'm so glad you came back. I had thought I would never see you again.”
The taste of oil came with the kiss. Raymond mentioned it.
“The Four Last Things,” the old priest murmured.
“You'll make it.”
“Is that a promise?”
“A prayer.”
And it was. He realized that he was more moved by the fact that Father Bourke was at death's door than by his father's condition, arguably worse. Father Bourke was taken away, doors swung shut, and Raymond turned with tears in his eyes to face John. John patted his arm as if he were the chief mourner. Perhaps he was.
“He managed to say Mass before being brought here.”
Father Bourke had once told him that he had never missed saying daily Mass since his ordination. Raymond remembered that, in his final days before leaving, he had avoided the altar, unable to confront his own lack of faith in what he would do there.
The Four Last Things
, the old priest had said. Jessica had mentioned them as well.
Death, judgment, heaven
,
hell.
For millennia
those words had summed up the facts of life, inspired art and literature, Dante notably. What do we know that has rendered them obsolete?
, the old priest had said. Jessica had mentioned them as well.
Death, judgment, heaven
,
hell.
For millennia
those words had summed up the facts of life, inspired art and literature, Dante notably. What do we know that has rendered them obsolete?
The following day, Father Bourke was apparently doing well despite the seriousness of the operation. “They'll open him like a clam,” Rocco had said. “Saw through his breastbone ⦔ Raymond had stopped him. But Father Bourke was so heavily sedated there was no chance of talking. Again Raymond pressed his lips to the old priest's forehead.
His father seemed suspended in a stable condition, hovering near death but holding on. His mother alternated vigils at the bedside with prayers in the waiting room. What would become of her after his father died? Of course, there were Andrew and Jessica. Would she live on alone in the old house, among the bric-a-brac and memories? The thought of himself in far-off California seemed a kind of desertion.
Andrew seemed distracted when Raymond saw him and he asked why.
“I'm okay. So you went to see Father Bourke?”
“It just happened.”
Andrew nodded. “What does he think of the modern world?”
“What you'd expect.”
“He may have a point.”
“Is something the matter?”
“Just because Dad's in intensive care and Mom's a frazzle?” Andrew smiled wryly. “I don't feel I've been much of a son to them.”
It might have been an accusation, but it wasn't. Eleanor came. She seemed to come and go throughout the day. It had taken a while, but finally Raymond had admitted to himself what he had seen the afternoon he came by the house unannounced and his father scrambled off the couch and got between him and a flustered
Eleanor. At the time, he would have imagined his father was well beyond the temptations of the flesh. Did such a time ever come? Had he been shocked? When he quit trying to kid himself about what he had seen, he found he really wasn't surprised. Eleanor did seem to cling to his father on all occasions. How long had it gone on? Looking at Eleanor now, the well-groomed older woman, economically comfortable, not much to do, just busy being a busybody, he wondered what his father had seen in her. He decided that Eleanor must have been the aggressor. Not that his father would have put up much opposition.
Eleanor. At the time, he would have imagined his father was well beyond the temptations of the flesh. Did such a time ever come? Had he been shocked? When he quit trying to kid himself about what he had seen, he found he really wasn't surprised. Eleanor did seem to cling to his father on all occasions. How long had it gone on? Looking at Eleanor now, the well-groomed older woman, economically comfortable, not much to do, just busy being a busybody, he wondered what his father had seen in her. He decided that Eleanor must have been the aggressor. Not that his father would have put up much opposition.
“Has Jessica spoken to you of her new novel?”
“Do writers talk about what they're writing?”
“It's about all of us.” She looked at Raymond meaningfully.
“They'll never publish it.” He laughed. What did he seem to Jessica, really or in imagination? His going and the manner of it could occupy a large place in her musings about things. But he did not feel threatened.
Hazel plunked a pile of pages on Tuttle's desk and folded her arms, awaiting praise. Tuttle glanced at the top sheet and nodded. “Good.”
“Good! Take a look, for heaven's sake. Get a legal education. This could be your big chance.”
The only tolerable thing about Hazel's office behavior was that
there were no witnesses, by and large. He looked at her formidable presence and what he saw was a buxom obstacle to his friendship with Peanuts Pianone. He had just come from lunch with Peanuts: great platters of fried rice, cold Mexican beer, and the joys of wordless fellowship. He briefed Hazel on his visit to the campus, in the course of which she sat down.
there were no witnesses, by and large. He looked at her formidable presence and what he saw was a buxom obstacle to his friendship with Peanuts Pianone. He had just come from lunch with Peanuts: great platters of fried rice, cold Mexican beer, and the joys of wordless fellowship. He briefed Hazel on his visit to the campus, in the course of which she sat down.
“You might have told me.”
“I just did.”
“Lily St. Clair sounds as if she can be a real ally.”
“She's nuts about Cassirer, that's all.”
“All? That's plenty. Now read that stuff, and we'll talk about the next step.”
She rose and sailed from the room on a cloud of perfume. It was a time to brood about the dark day when he had hired her from a service providing temporary help. Temporary! Now he couldn't blast her out of the office. She took care of the books and paid her own salary, such as it was, so there was no way for him to cut her off without a major battle. Sighing, Tuttle pulled the papers she had brought to him and began listlessly to leaf through them. But Hazel came back.
“Who's Mabel Gorman?”
Tuttle shrugged.
“She has called several times.” Hazel waited. “She says she's a student at St. Edmund's.”
“Ah yes.”
“Ah yes, what?”
Tuttle adjusted his tweed hat. “I befriended her.”
Hazel observed a moment of silence, as if for the future departed. “Keep it up, and you'll need a lawyer yourself.”
She huffed out, and Tuttle turned to the paralegal's papers.
Barbara was good; there was no doubt of that. She had gathered all the legal precedents. There were photocopies of newspaper
accounts of local cases, written by Tetzel. He would have to talk with the reporter. So well organized were the materials Barbara had prepared that something like a strategy began to form in Tuttle's mind. The essence of the law is to avoid going to law. What he needed was to intimidate the college into buying off his client before he was turned down for tenure. The basic complaint was that Andrew Bernardo's presence on the committee made it impossible for Cassirer to get a square shake. And that Andrew himself lived in flagrant violation of the college's requirements for the lifestyle of its faculty.
accounts of local cases, written by Tetzel. He would have to talk with the reporter. So well organized were the materials Barbara had prepared that something like a strategy began to form in Tuttle's mind. The essence of the law is to avoid going to law. What he needed was to intimidate the college into buying off his client before he was turned down for tenure. The basic complaint was that Andrew Bernardo's presence on the committee made it impossible for Cassirer to get a square shake. And that Andrew himself lived in flagrant violation of the college's requirements for the lifestyle of its faculty.
On another visit with his client, Cassirer had all but salivated as he discussed Andrew Bernardo's living arrangement. Professor St. Clair had looked in, and Cassirer waved her to a chair.
“My only regret is that this will involve Gloria,” Lily St. Clair said.
“The friend of my enemy is my enemy,” Cassirer announced.
Cassirer's notion was that Tuttle should sit down with Box and let him know the kind of rotten publicity the college faced if it didn't come through with a tenured appointment for Horst Cassirer. The prospect of meeting with Box again did not exhilarate Tuttle. Box was a clone of Amos Cadbury, a man who regarded Tuttle as he might the squirming creatures discovered by turning over a rock. At least Cadbury had earned his righteous air of superiority. But Box?
Resentment is a powerful incentive. Tuttle began to write on a yellow legal pad, outlining what he would lay before Box. With that objective in mind, he finally read systematically through Barbara's materials. He could cite precedents, although the cases Barbara had found were after-the-fact suits, brought when the plaintiff had been formally turned down. At the moment, all Cassirer had was hearsay of what a supposedly confidential committee meeting had voted.
“Everyone knows,” Lily St. Clair had assured him.
In the course of the little confab a man named Zalinksi came in, adding his own two cents. It was difficult for Tuttle to tell which of them held the college in greater contempt, making it a puzzle why they were there and why Cassirer was willing to declare World War III in order to be there permanently.
The intercom crackled, and Hazel's voice asked if he had read the stuff.
“Very interesting.”
“I'll call and make an appointment for you with Box.”
Before he could delay her, she had switched off and he saw the light on his phone go on. Two minutes later Hazel was once again heard electronically.
“Tomorrow morning, ten o'clock.”
“Did you tell him the purpose of the visit?”
“He already knew.”
She switched off. Box's expecting the call seemed ominous to Tuttle. He was going up against a local institution, one highly respected, with a history that claimed the loyalty of many. Of course he could expect Box to exude confidence with all that goodwill behind him. The crux of the whole argument came down to the fact that Andrew Bernardo was shacking up with a colleague. That was almost as bad as being caught lighting up in one of the smoke-free buildings on campus.
Hazel left at four. Tonight was her night to play duplicate bridge, and her competitive juices were flowing. She was a black belt or something in bridge and had tried to interest him in a hand or two of honeymoon bridge. The thought terrified Tuttle. He had no doubt that Hazel had designs on him. Where else could she find someone that looked like so much malleable putty? If she could shape him to her wishes at the office what might she not do in the privacy of their own home? Tuttle was a celibate by
inadvertence and because by and large women frightened him. He sat alone in the inner office, tweed hat pulled low over his eyes, communing with his late father. The other Tuttle in Tuttle & Tuttle was his constant point of reference. He prayed that his father had not heard of Hazel in the next world. Since he was sure his paternal parent was in heaven, that seemed unlikely. He sought advice from his father, and the advice came, almost audible. He picked up the phone and called Peanuts.
inadvertence and because by and large women frightened him. He sat alone in the inner office, tweed hat pulled low over his eyes, communing with his late father. The other Tuttle in Tuttle & Tuttle was his constant point of reference. He prayed that his father had not heard of Hazel in the next world. Since he was sure his paternal parent was in heaven, that seemed unlikely. He sought advice from his father, and the advice came, almost audible. He picked up the phone and called Peanuts.
“Come on over.”
“No way.”
“She's gone.”
“For good?”
“For the day.”
Peanuts grunted and hung up. Twenty minutes later Tuttle heard the huffing sounds of Peanuts, who had mounted the four flights from the street floor. He looked in warily, fearful that he had been lured here under a pretext. But he was satisfied that Hazel was not there.
“You come by car?”
“I was in my car when you called.”
“Good.” Tuttle got to his feet. “We'll load up with take-out food first.”
“First.”
“We're going to do a stakeout.”
“I want a hamburger.”
With Peanuts you never knew. Had he thought Tuttle meant Steak ân' Shake? In any case, Peanuts changed his mind when Tuttle mentioned Luigi's, adding that this was his treat. After all, Peanuts was providing a tax-payer-owned car; the least he could do was feed him.
An hour later, with Styrofoam cartons of lasagna, house salad, and a bottle of zinfandel, they set up shop across the street from
the condo where Andrew Bernardo allegedly lived with Gloria Monday.
the condo where Andrew Bernardo allegedly lived with Gloria Monday.
“What we looking for?”
“That depends.”
But Peanuts had exhausted his curiosity and returned to his lasagna. He had expressed reluctance to drink wine out of plastic cups, so Tuttle had snatched some glasses from a table on the way out of Luigi's. He poured; they toasted. This was living. As for what they were parked there to see, Tuttle could not have said, but he had the sense that he was following paternal orders. Something would turn up, as his father had often said. Against that possibility, Tuttle was equipped with a fancy camera Hazel had insisted must be part of his standard equipment.
“I don't handle divorces.”
“You couldn't handle a marriage.” She tried to chuck him under the chin, and he danced away. She insisted that a camera with lenses like this had multiple uses. It was digital, and one could scan the memory to see what he had taken. Hazel had spent a day taking candid shots of Tuttle in the office. Later, when he looked through them, he was glad he had been wearing his tweed hat. For a time, Hazel had tried to snatch it from his head every chance she got until she decided it was his persona.
Twilight came, but there was still light when Andrew pulled up in a rust bucket and handed a gorgeous girl out of the car. Tuttle had the camera up and took some lovey-dovey shots of the couple on the way to the door. Andrew fished in his pocket and came out with a key but the woman had already taken one from her purse. She let them in.
“Who are they?” Peanuts asked.
“My ticket to fame and fortune.”
“Take a look at that car.”
“Yeah.” Tuttle's own wasn't much better, which is why he preferred
riding at city expense with Peanuts at the wheel. Amos Cadbury had a driver. So in a way did he.
riding at city expense with Peanuts at the wheel. Amos Cadbury had a driver. So in a way did he.
They could have left then, but it was not unpleasant sitting there with Peanuts, belly full of Italian food, night coming on. He had got what he came for, but Peanuts did not realize it. Besides, he seemed as content as Tuttle.
For such accidental reasons they were there when a young woman came briskly down the walk, her purse swinging from her skinny shoulder like a pendulum. Mabel Gorman, the girl who had guided him about the campus. She turned in and went to the door through which Andrew and the woman had gone. She did not let herself in but rang the bell. She cupped her hands around the intercom when she spoke, but Tuttle could not have heard her anyway. What the hell was she doing here? He recalled her lament about his representing Cassirer. The woman he had seen with Andrew had to be Gloria. Mabel pulled open the door and went inside.
A man appeared from behind a hedge, pushing a bicycle. Hand on the seat, head thrust forward, he turned into the same building and studied the list of occupants. Had he too been a witness to the little parade into the building? Tuttle willed himself, Peanuts, and the car into invisibility when the man turned from the door and pushed his bicycle to the sidewalk and prepared to set off. But first he looked up and down the street. His gaze went over the car and on down the street. He soon followed it, flinging his leg over the bicycle and pedaling away into the night.
“Who's he?” Peanuts asked. So he was awake.
“A client.”
“Can't he afford a car?”
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