Prodigal Father (21 page)
The Lord is gracious and full of compassion.
â
Psalm 145
Psalm 145
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At the grotto, yellow plastic ribbons fluttered in the evening breeze, and a uniformed officer was on duty. Boniface had seen them at work and heard from others how they had gone over the scene, gathering evidence for what now seemed the obvious explanation. Stanley Morgan had been arrested and was being held under suspicion of murdering Father Nathaniel. Father Dowling had come with that news. The unspoken message was that Boniface no longer had to fear that someone in the community had done the awful deed. But he had thought no one capable of it other than himself. No need to say that again. Father Dowling
seemed to think that he was dramatizing his role.
seemed to think that he was dramatizing his role.
“It's quite by accident that it happened here. People will realize that eventually. Morgan might have taken his vengeance in California and we would never have heard of it.”
“Does he admit it?”
“Criminals almost never do. I quote Captain Keegan.”
“What must the life of a policeman be like?”
“Phil Keegan sees life in terms of justice, you and I in terms of mercy.”
But the mercy Boniface craved was for himself. He had confessed his murderous thoughts, he had been absolved, but the stain remained on his soul. We are not so easily rid of what we think and do and even the certainty of having been forgiven does not undo the past. Throughout his long life as a religious, Boniface had regarded the violent deeds of men as the actions of almost another species. The sins and faults of the religious must look to worldly men as mere peccadilloes, but it was the work of a lifetime to root them outânot to be annoyed by the foibles and weaknesses of others, but to be patient, to try to fill the heart with charity, forgiving others as one had been forgiven. Pride was a constant threat, particularly when one began to think he was making great progress in holiness, but the capital sins became almost unimaginable. And now, in his twilight years, he had had in his soul the hatred Cain had felt for Abel. Even now, when Nathaniel was dead, carried off in a bag to be transferred to the icy fastness of the coroner's lair, to be opened and examined, all observations recorded, he could not forgive him for the trouble he had brought upon the Order. But he knew he must forgive him and pray for his soul.
How different an ending to this life than Nathaniel would have imagined when he was a novice and a young priest. Long years
doing the work to which he had dedicated himself, eventually wearing out and dying with all the consolations of the Church. His body would have been lying in state in the chapel now, and the rest of them would have kept vigil through the night.
doing the work to which he had dedicated himself, eventually wearing out and dying with all the consolations of the Church. His body would have been lying in state in the chapel now, and the rest of them would have kept vigil through the night.
“He must be buried from here, Father Dowling.”
The pastor of St. Hilary's frowned. “I was going to suggest a quiet funeral at my parish.”
“No. He had returned. He wanted reinstatement. It will be granted to him posthumously.”
Yes. That was the way. They would wake him in the chapel and he would be buried in the community cemetery out beyond the orchards, the simple cross over his grave identical to all the others. His birth date, his profession, the date of his death. No need to mention the long gap when he had lived in the world.
“I should never have permitted Stanley Morgan to stay here. From the beginning I distrusted him. When he told me who he really was and why he had come, I should have made him leave immediately.”
“How were you to know?”
But in retrospect, it seemed that he'd had an intimation, that letting Morgan remain had been an unconscious acquiescence in the solution of their difficulties. Wasn't it a matter of pride to want to take such responsibility? He must rid himself of these self-indulgent thoughts. It seemed to him that he was wallowing in self-pity and, worse, enjoying it.
He looked beyond the fluttering ribbons to the statue of Mary. Had Nathaniel dragged himself here, mortally wounded, wanting to pray again that prayer that is repeated minute by minute all over the world.
Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death
. To say those words as one was dying,
in ictu mortis
, must give them an irresistible power. He would have liked to kneel and
say that prayer for the repose of Nathaniel's soul now, but the grotto had become the scene of a crime and he could not disturb it. So he whispered the prayer where he stood and then walked on in the direction of the lodge.
Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death
. To say those words as one was dying,
in ictu mortis
, must give them an irresistible power. He would have liked to kneel and
say that prayer for the repose of Nathaniel's soul now, but the grotto had become the scene of a crime and he could not disturb it. So he whispered the prayer where he stood and then walked on in the direction of the lodge.
Attend to my cry, for I am brought very low.
âPsalm 142
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Leo was not in her apartment when Charlotte returned from her meeting with Amos Cadbury. She called out his name when she shut the door and waited, expecting him to appear. “Ta-da,” she would say, allowing herself that little gesture of victory. Now she could move toward the next phase of the plan that seemed to have formed as if this were her moment of destiny. But where was Leo? She ran through the apartment, but she already knew that he was not there.
She made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen counter. Coolness is all. She could not believe that her beautiful plan could go awry so easily. She had been so sure of Leo. She
was
sure of him. She called his apartment and listened to the funereal message, then hung up. No. She dialed the number again, took the phone from her ear when the message was repeated and at the sound of the beep said, “Leo, if you're there, it's Charlotte. Call.”
She hung up and an hour went by and there was no call from Leo.
was
sure of him. She called his apartment and listened to the funereal message, then hung up. No. She dialed the number again, took the phone from her ear when the message was repeated and at the sound of the beep said, “Leo, if you're there, it's Charlotte. Call.”
She hung up and an hour went by and there was no call from Leo.
An omelet and a glass of white wine for dinner, then more waiting. She must begin to consider alternatives. Tuttle. She had to cut any ties Leo had with the lawyer lest he try to return to
status quo ante
. She left a message on Tuttle's office phone.
status quo ante
. She left a message on Tuttle's office phone.
“This is Charlotte Priebe. Mr. Leo Corbett wishes you to know that he has chosen other arrangements. Please send your bill to me, care of Anderson, Ltd. Thank you.”
She went to bed, where she had never felt so alone before. If Leo were here ⦠She turned on her side, and crushed her cheek into the pillow, eyes wide open. Sleep came without warning, and dreams, strange dreams. She was walking on the campus of the University of Chicago, dressed as she dressed before she wearied of undergraduate imposture. She felt again the intensely sexual atmosphere of the alleged intellectual life, young people thirsty for adventure, some of them perhaps indulging, but for the most part it was a cerebral matter. Casual talk, knowing asides, virginal hearts. At least in her case. All that could wait. It was better to think of it as a great mystery just over the horizon for which she was not yet ready. Clarity of mind and a new direction of her studies intervened, and then she was too busy for adolescent chatter. On the campus walks then she might have been in disguise as she passed the clinging couples, bumping hips as they moved along, expressions of sedulous abandon on their faces. She was in a skirt, a young woman now, no longer a coed, and then she saw Leo Corbett coming toward her on the sidewalk, an unsure but pleading expression on his face. She woke to the sound of a buzzer. She sat up. The digital clock beside the bed said 3:00.
She scrambled from her bed and ran into the living room where she pressed the button on the intercom.
“Charlotte?”
“Leo.”
She pressed the door release and then waited as she was, her heart in her throat. She calmed herself. Of course he was back. Had she ever doubted it? A tapping on the door and she removed the chain, turned the lock, opened it. Leo stood there with clothing over one arm and a suitcase in his hand.
“I left my books in the trunk of the car.”
She pulled him inside and closed the door. “It's three in the morning!”
“I told myself it was all a dream.”
She took the clothes from his arm and threw them on the couch and waited for him to take her in his arms.
“I need a shower.”
She smiled up at him. “So do I.”
But she gave him time to himself before she joined him. The clothes he had worn were rolled into a ball, the bathroom was full of steam. She could see him impressionistically through the glass door of the shower, his face lifted to the water. She opened the door and stepped in.
Later in bed, in his arms, she listened to his rambling account. He had moved out of his apartment, gotten everything into his car, and then ⦠She waited.
“Charlotte, you are the first woman I ever ⦔
She put a finger to his lips. “I know. Was it worth waiting for?”
What a tiger he was. He gave the impression of being awkward, uncoordinated, weak, but she felt almost fear as he gathered her to him and crushed her against his chest. She felt a great tenderness for him, her ten-ton gorilla, her odd and fascinating man, with a head filled with lore in geological strata that had to be gone through layer by layer until she reached the level where he was the true grandson and heir of Maurice Corbett. He fell
away and into a deep sleep and she lay beside him, thinking of his account of how he had driven aimlessly, unsure whether he should come to her, fearful that she would laugh away their time together and mock him for thinking it meant anything beyond itself. Now he was reassured.
away and into a deep sleep and she lay beside him, thinking of his account of how he had driven aimlessly, unsure whether he should come to her, fearful that she would laugh away their time together and mock him for thinking it meant anything beyond itself. Now he was reassured.
In the morning, she prepared a gargantuan breakfast for him then sat to watch him eat. His eye was on the muted television, bringing in the news of the day. “Turn that up.”
It was the news of the murder of Father Nathaniel at the grotto of the Athanasian Order. The full significance of it did not strike her at first. She had sat there, waiting for the right moment to tell him of her visit to Amos Cadbury, wanting him to appreciate what she had done to advance his cause. Now, the scandal of the murdered priest was an unexpected boost.
“This will completely discredit them, Leo. That estate is yours.”
And then she told him that Amos Cadbury was in the mood to compromise. Leo could have the original estate and make a deal with Anderson as well. The media would be in full cry again. Tetzel and the others would get a second wind from the murder. On the screen, the activities at the Athanasians' Marygrove were shown as background for the constant chatter of the reporter superimposed on it. A shot of the grotto, taped off, officials moving about, the camera zooming in on the prie-dieu where the body had been found by the groundskeeper. That the priest had been murdered at his prayers threatened to divert the accounts into a sympathetic vein, but then from the studio came a review of recent events, supporting the stories Tetzel had written for the Tribune. And then came still photographs. One of Maurice Corbett. While
the long-dead gentleman looked out at Fox River viewers, the reporter spoke of the grandson, Leo, and how he had been cut off from his father's wealth.
the long-dead gentleman looked out at Fox River viewers, the reporter spoke of the grandson, Leo, and how he had been cut off from his father's wealth.
“I have to go to the office,” she told him.
“I'm still dead tired.”
“You can go back to bed. You deserve it.” She smiled. But first he wanted a blow by blow account of her meeting with Amos Cadbury. In retrospect the meeting seemed even more triumphal. Well, it had been a genuine coup, and Leo realized it. He sat on the couch, among the clothing she had flung there when he arrived, hands hanging between his knees, listening intently.
“If Tuttle had the sense to do this, you would not have needed me, Leo.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“I told him you had made other arrangements.”
“What did he say?”
“Does it matter?”
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Only after she left Leo did the events of the day sink into Charlotte's mind. Her first reaction had been right, but it seemed an inadequate appreciation of what a favorable turn the death of that priest was for Leo's chances of coming into his inheritance. Of course, Lars was cognizant of what the murder of Father Nathaniel did to advance his own ambition to develop that choice property. Charlotte gave him a laundered version of her appointment with Amos Cadbury.
“You didn't tell me you were going to see him.”
“It might have been a disaster.”
“But it wasn't?”
“Anything but.”
“Charlotte, I will be very generous if this finally goes through.”
“It will.”
He liked it when she exhibited confidence because she never did unless it was justified. She might have felt duplicitous with Lars if she had not learned her skills from him. The promised bonus was his recognition that she had not acted simply for his benefit. The assumption was that everyone had his own interests primarily at heart. As in fact she did. But it seemed clear that there could be many winners here. There was no need for him to know that Leo was now her live-in lover. Even less need to let him know of the terrible hours she had spent not knowing where he was or if he had slipped from her hook. She rejected the image. Leo was more than a momentary instrument of her own designs. Allied with him, she would gain doubly from the success of Anderson's project. If there was an apparent conflict of interest here, it did not jeopardize what each party wanted.
“You don't think these events will change Cadbury's attitude?”
“Why should they?”
“He is a prominent Catholic layman.”
“So?”
“Catholics are different from you and me, Charlotte. He could be affected in unexpected ways by the death of that priest. Have you ever heard of Father Roger Dowling?”
“Tell me about him.”
He was not, as she imagined, another Athanasian, but pastor of a local parish, a dear friend and advisor of Amos Cadbury. And close to the detective division of the local police.
“Do you think I should visit him?”
“I will leave that to you.”
Meaning he wasn't sure that such a visit would be successful. Charlotte could not understand why Lars had mentioned Dowling,
until he added, “He is, I understand, also very close to Father Boniface, the superior of the Athanasians.”
until he added, “He is, I understand, also very close to Father Boniface, the superior of the Athanasians.”
Charlotte nodded. Maybe talking with Father Dowling would serve some purpose.
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