Last Things (25 page)
When he left Andrew to go on to the wake at St. Edmund's, Raymond felt that he was letting his brother down. He had come home to be with his dying father as the family pariah, and now Andrew had usurped the role, actually suspected of murdering a colleagueâif such a civilized term could be applied to Horst Cassirer. The unreality of police headquarters, the improbability of the accusation, seemed a basis for optimism. Andrew would be
dragged like a trophy through the media, but eventually they would find the one who had killed Cassirer and it would pass away like a bad dream. But hope came hard.
dragged like a trophy through the media, but eventually they would find the one who had killed Cassirer and it would pass away like a bad dream. But hope came hard.
Snow was falling as he drove to the campus, soft, fluffy, descending like a benediction on the city, transforming it into unreal houses, their edges softened by the snow, and creating expanses of virginal purity. On advice from John, he rolled down the window and, with wet flakes swirling into the car, told the guard he was going to the wake at Domus Sanctae Marthae.
“The retirement home for priests,” he added, when the guard looked puzzled.
“Purgatory?”
“That's the place.”
A snarled smile, the barrier lifted, and he drove into the winter wonderland of the campus. It had been years since he had seen snow, not counting a trip to San Bernadino with Phyllis, but like so many other things it was not knowing winter that seemed strange to him now, all the years when the past had been deliberately forgotten. How easily he could imagine that this was a winter when he had driven along the campus roads as an insider, Father Raymond, the young man from whom so many things were expected. And he had betrayed them all.
The chapel in Purgatory was designed for the elderly, the halt, and the lame. There were half a dozen armchairs with comfortable-looking prie-dieux before them and ample space on either side for wheelchairs. When Raymond entered, there was an old fellow dozing in one of the chairs, another in a wheelchair staring fixedly ahead as if he were trying to get his bearings. And visible in the open coffin the profile of Father Bourke pointing toward heaven.
Raymond stood for a moment and, as he had not for his father, wept. His father had not been able to restrain the anger he feltâ
“Judas!”âbut Father Bourke had been like the father in the parable, welcoming home the prodigal, finding excuses for his absence. Raymond lowered himself onto the kneeler and not thinking of what he was doing prayed for the repose of the soul of Father Bourke. The words came easily nor did his words fly up and his thoughts remain below. He lifted his mind and heart to God, who had been there all along, and asked pardon and peace for the old priest. And for himself. Without drama he thought,
I have come home.
“Judas!”âbut Father Bourke had been like the father in the parable, welcoming home the prodigal, finding excuses for his absence. Raymond lowered himself onto the kneeler and not thinking of what he was doing prayed for the repose of the soul of Father Bourke. The words came easily nor did his words fly up and his thoughts remain below. He lifted his mind and heart to God, who had been there all along, and asked pardon and peace for the old priest. And for himself. Without drama he thought,
I have come home.
A sound came from behind him, and he turned to see John settle into a chair. He nodded at Raymond, who got up and took a chair as well. He could relinquish it when others came. But five minutes went by, and there were no new arrivals. The man in the wheelchair was snoring peacefully, and the other old fellow still dozed. It might have been the Garden of Olives. After a time, Raymond slid back his sleeve and looked at his watch. He leaned toward John.
“When do you begin?”
John smiled. “This is it.”
“Aren't the others coming?”
“Others? Haven't you heard?”
Is this what had become of the Order of St. Edmund? He stared at John. Of course Purgatory was for old and retired priests, but wasn't the other buildingâthe name Paradiso had never caught onâfull? John took his arm and led him outside.
“Raymond, there are only eight of us left. Not counting those here, of course.”
“Eight!”
“It could be worse. Not that I counted on being the junior man for so long.”
“No vocations?”
They wandered into the refectory and filled paper cups with coffee.
“They don't stay.”
No wonder. Good Lord.
“Now you can see why Father Bourke was so happy you came back.”
There seemed no
arrière pensée
in what John said. Did he think Raymond would seek reinstatement, move into Paradiso, get back to work as a priest? The thought filled him with odd excitement. Would it really be so easy? At the moment, no thought of Phyllis disturbed these oddly happy thoughts.
arrière pensée
in what John said. Did he think Raymond would seek reinstatement, move into Paradiso, get back to work as a priest? The thought filled him with odd excitement. Would it really be so easy? At the moment, no thought of Phyllis disturbed these oddly happy thoughts.
“The funeral is at ten.”
“In the campus church.”
“Of course. The cardinal will be here.”
“I'll be here.”
It sounded as if he wished to speak to the cardinal archbishop of Chicago, the wanderer returned, seeking reinstatement.
The car was covered with snow, and when he got inside it was like an igloo. The wipers swept the snow off the windshield, and the breeze that came up sent snow swirling after him. As he drove, the other windows cleared.
When he got home Jessica was there, and it was clear that his mother had heard about Andrew.
“Raymond, what does it mean?”
“Amos Cadbury got him a lawyer, thanks to Father Dowling.”
“Father Dowling! Oh, everybody knows.”
Had that been her thought when he ran off with Phyllis? As far as he knew, there had been no media coverage of his defection, because the Order had not raised a fuss about it.
He sat beside her, but Jessica was her main consoler. He marveled at the little sister he knew and yet did not know. He
had been impressed by her novels; even Phyllis was impressed and a little jealous. Why do women resent the success of other women? Inevitably, Eleanor came, just walking in with a tragic expression and standing before the couch and looking down at the three of them.
had been impressed by her novels; even Phyllis was impressed and a little jealous. Why do women resent the success of other women? Inevitably, Eleanor came, just walking in with a tragic expression and standing before the couch and looking down at the three of them.
“How horrible to accuse Andrew of such a thing!”
Jessica said, “What he admits to doing is bad enough. I thought that if he told them ⦔
“You advised him to tell the police?”
“Father Dowling agreed.”
“Father Dowling!”
“It was the right thing to do,” Raymond said. “Imagine if they had discovered that by themselves.”
“I'll make coffee.”
“I want a drink,” Jessica said.
A drink in the Bernardo house meant wine, and Raymond joined her in a glass. Eleanor made coffee, a huge pot, more than could possibly be wanted.
“I'll fix dinner,” she said.
“I'm not hungry,” Margaret said. “I think I'll have a glass of wine too.”
Eleanor joined them. So much for the coffee. Eleanor had claimed Raymond's seat beside the grieving widow, and Jessica followed Raymond into the kitchen, rolling her eyes but saying nothing.
“Did you go downtown?”
“Yes.”
“How does it look?”
“Bad. I heard on the radio that he will be arraigned.”
“Good Lord.”
“I went on to Father Bourke's wake. Such as it was.”
“Everyone is dying.”
“Not everyone.” He took her in his arms. Some people are being killed. He didn't say that. Jessica cried quietly, without theatrics, brokenhearted.
“Do you think they would have found out what Andrew did with that man's body if he hadn't told them?”
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
“What a stupid, stupid thing to do.”
“What will this do to your novel?”
She stepped back and looked at him. “You're the central character.” “Ouch. How will it end?”
“Of course it won't be you. I can't know enough about real people to write about them. They become characters.”
“Thanks.”
She punched his arm. “How long will you stay?”
“Trying to get rid of me?”
“I wish you'd never go back.”
He looked at her. “Maybe I won't.”
“Really!” Her face lit up. “Oh, Raymond, stay. Mom needs you so much now.”
And what of Phyllis? She needed him too, and he had given her every claim on himself. It was so easy to say that he would never go back, but it was not the sort of thing he could do over the phone. He would have to go back to Thousand Oaks and face Phyllis. The thought made him shiver.
Later, upstairs, in what his mother called his room, he lay awake and thought of the faith that had returned at his father's funeral Mass and his feelings in the chapel of Purgatory. What kind of faith was it that could go and come without warning? With Phyllis he would have to explain, and any explanation would be inadequate and open to obvious response. What would he have
said if, in similar circumstances, Phyllis told him she wanted to go back to the convent? But there was no convent for her to go back to, as her Order had all but disintegrated. Well, so had the Order of St. Edmund. It occurred to him that if he did go back he would be boarding a sinking ship. But of course in his heart of hearts he thought he could save the Order.
said if, in similar circumstances, Phyllis told him she wanted to go back to the convent? But there was no convent for her to go back to, as her Order had all but disintegrated. Well, so had the Order of St. Edmund. It occurred to him that if he did go back he would be boarding a sinking ship. But of course in his heart of hearts he thought he could save the Order.
John had ticked off the names of those residing in Paradiso, all but one of whom he had known, none of them, he thought wryly, among the best. It came as news to him that so many had left, sought and received laicization, or just left. As he had.
“You opened the door,” John said, not accusingly but as a matter of fact.
My God, how responsible was he for the sad state of the Order? He thought of returning, perhaps attracting back others who had left, getting the Order back on its feet. Getting its feet more firmly set in the college.
Raymond seethed when he realized what an insignificant factor the Order now was in the college it had founded. Horst Cassirer was not an anomaly, just an exaggerated instance of the secular mind that dominated the faculty. Why hadn't Andrew kept him informed?
That was nonsense. He had not been kept informed of the Order or the college because he had not wanted to be. What did he care for Egypt now that he had entered the promised land? How differently things would have gone had he remained. Father Bourke's manner had brought home to him that once he had been regarded as the future of the Order, the man who would lead them through the choppy waters ahead. And he would have. He was sure he could have made the Order and college flourish.
There would have been no maniacs like Cassirer on the faculty, or if there had been, short work would have been made of their insolence. The faculty contractually accepted the mission of
the college when they were hired, and actions contrary to it were reasons for dismissal. Father Bourke had insisted on that, had run it by the AAUP, checked with the lawyers; it was tight as a drum, legally. No claims to academic freedom could trump it because it was an agreement freely entered into from the outset. Since no one was owed employment, it could not be regarded as an infringement before one was hired. That meant the means to get the college on course and hold it there were available. What was missing was the will.
the college when they were hired, and actions contrary to it were reasons for dismissal. Father Bourke had insisted on that, had run it by the AAUP, checked with the lawyers; it was tight as a drum, legally. No claims to academic freedom could trump it because it was an agreement freely entered into from the outset. Since no one was owed employment, it could not be regarded as an infringement before one was hired. That meant the means to get the college on course and hold it there were available. What was missing was the will.
It had been Cassirer's inspiration to threaten to use that contractual agreement against Andrew. But that would have opened up a can of worms for such faculty members as Cassirer.
Raymond smiled. How the possibility of academic combat set the adrenalin flowing. But it was all a dream. No one could undo what had been done in the last decade and more. You could not fire half the faculty on the basis of principles that had been largely ignored for years. Cassirer's ploy had been cynical, a mindless counterattack.
Was Andrew really in danger? It was incredible that he should he accused of murdering Cassirer, but it was also incredible that he would find the body, put it into the backseat of his car, and trick his girlfriend into driving where he could dump the body and murder weapon. Now Gloria had turned on him, not only protesting her innocence of desecrating Cassirer's body but stating that she had supported the late professor's request for a promotion to tenure.
“We talk of excellence, but we seem to fear it when we find it.”
Excellence. Cassirer. An excellent professor is not an egomaniac who despises his students and colleagues and writes jargon for the half dozen others in the world who share his desire to make the intelligible unintelligible. Andrew was a thousand times
the teacher Cassirer was; Raymond was sure of it. Gloria Monday's notion of excellence would be the death of higher education.
the teacher Cassirer was; Raymond was sure of it. Gloria Monday's notion of excellence would be the death of higher education.
It was two in the morning when the telephone brought him awake, and he hunted for the phone, not wanting his mother to be wakened.
“Raymond?”
“Phyllis. I was asleep.”
“For days? Why haven't you called?”
He propped up his pillow and got into a seated position in the dark room. The snowy world outside provided a kind of lunar light. He felt that he was in some crawl space between the real and unreal.
“You wouldn't want to hear it all.”
“Wouldn't I?”
“Two funerals, Phyllis. Not a barrel of laughs. My brother has been indicted for murder.”
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