Sham Rock (19 page)

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Authors: Ralph McInerny

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BOOK: Sham Rock
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The monk then had excused himself and gone out for a walk during which he said his rosary. Apparently he had heard nothing, had no inkling that they had been joined by an intruding third party. From the description of the body, David Williams could have been returning from the bathroom. Or using the oratory, of course, though that seemed less likely. Nature before grace. The assailant could have been waiting on the back porch, able to see inside through the little window in the door, and, when David emerged from the bathroom, rushed in and felled him. Roger could almost see the scene. But who had been holding that piece of firewood?
 
 
Of course, the obvious suspect was Joachim, the monk who had been sending David Williams veiled, almost threatening, messages over the years, the classmate who had sent those materials to the Notre Dame archives with the absurd confessional letter and the bequest of all his worldly goods to David Williams. They must indeed have had an interesting conversation there before the fireplace. Surely Joachim would have dropped the oblique approach and told David of the stillborn infant he had helped Beth bury near the Log Chapel. How would Dave have reacted to that? In fact, what would have been the point of telling him after all these years? Had an old grudge been nursed all this time, despite the years in the monastery? It was clear to Roger that Phil leaned toward Joachim.
“Phil, he's a monk.”
“Wasn't Rasputin a monk?”
JOACHIM'S ACCOUNT OF THAT LONG-AGO burial near the Log Chapel on campus was undramatic. Terse. Trimmed of all incidentals. He and Roger had gone outside and sat in a courtyard in whose center a fountain sent up an endless spout of water.
When the then Pat Pelligrino had been confronted by the tragic figure of Beth, clutching to her bosom something wrapped in a bath towel, and asked what was the matter, she had turned back a corner of the towel and showed him.
“She was like the Pietà. She wanted to know what to do. It was I who suggested the burial.” He ran a finger down the long line of his nose. “It has plagued my conscience ever since.”
“Surely you don't think it was wrong.”
A taste of Trappist silence. “I don't think it was right.”
More silence, and then he went on. “I wanted to kill Dave.”
“Beth told you he was the father?”
“She didn't have to. It certainly wasn't me, and Tim Quinn's reaction told me it wasn't him.”
“Leaving Dave Williams?”
“Tim wanted to kill him. So did I. I really did. It was jealousy we felt, of course.”
“What was Dave's reaction?”
Joachim turned to Roger. “After Tim disappeared, my anger left me. I felt it was up to Beth to tell him if anyone did.”
“And she didn't.”
“Apparently not. Terrible as all that was, it changed our lives. Beth with her homeless center. That stillborn child was a turning point in her life. Things could never be the same again for her. She didn't want them to be. She was beyond all of us now. She had outlived us. How shallow and facetious we must have looked to her after what she had gone through. Eventually we were all affected, directly or indirectly. Tim's disappearance was a first result, and now we find that he had become like one of those wandering holy men in Tolstoy.”
“And you in a Trappist abbey?”
“You can leave the world, but it never really leaves you.”
“I suppose Dave wanted to thank you for giving him all that money.”
“I was more concerned with the state of his soul. It seemed wrong that the father shouldn't know.”
”What would be the point of that now?”
“Imagine first encountering the soul of an unknown daughter in paradise.”
“So you sent him annual cards.”
“I hoped he would come see me.”
“Finally he did.”
“God rest his soul.”
“Amen. Have you heard from Quinn since his reappearance?”
“Oh, he was here.”
“He was?”
“Just the other day. He said he'd be back.”
 
 
After he left Joachim, Roger talked to the guest master, who seemed surprised that Roger wanted to check his register of guests. When he understood the role the Knight brothers were playing, he was delighted. He leaned toward Roger and whispered, “I've read all of Agatha Christie. Twice.”
It was surprising to find that John Donne had spent two nights in the guesthouse. Quinn? Lawrence Briggs had also been there.
“How long did Briggs stay?”
“Just the one night, apparently. He left without telling me. Of course, there was a great deal of commotion when they brought Dave Williams to the infirmary.”
The guest master talked of Briggs while Roger continued to look at the registry. There was no entry for Jay Williams.
 
 
Phil put through a call to Father Carmody, to let him know that recent events in Kentucky posed no threat to Notre Dame's reputation. Roger wandered outside and got into the little battery-powered vehicle that was at his disposal and moved out silently along the road. The vehicle itself was a Trappist of sorts, hardly a purr out of it. Its speed was conducive to thought.
He drove to within six feet of the steps leading to the front porch of the hermitage. What spiritual dramas had been enacted here? He recalled the photograph of Merton and Maritain on the wall inside. There are sacred spaces, churches, hermitages. Log chapels. A murder in such a place was akin to sacrilege.
 
 
“There was a Notre Dame student down here at the time,” Phil said.
“Who?”
“The guest master didn't register him. He was just here for the day, apparently.”
Jay Williams? He had left campus …
“Father Carmody wants Williams's body brought back to Notre Dame for burial.”
“I wonder if Jay Williams would agree to that.”
“He already has. Carmody asked him when he gave him the sad news. But only if his mother could be reburied there.”
When they returned, Phil took the stick of firewood with him, along with a plaster cast of some shoe prints at the back entrance to the hermitage. Street shoes. Not the shoes of a monk.
A GARBLED VERSION OF WHAT HAD happened in the hermitage at Gethsemani Abbey had reached the Old Bastards and was Topic A at their table in Leahy's.
“Emil Chadwick's son is a monk there,” Armitage Shanks reminded them.
“Are you accusing him?”
Potts was indignant. “Emil wouldn't hurt a fly.”
“Tell it to Spider-Man.”
“Spider-Man?” Bingham had surprised them all.
“Did you ever hear the story of the man who went to Lourdes and got sick?”
Horvath threw up his hands. “Father Sorin would have attacked you with a piece of firewood if he heard you say such a thing.”
The devotion of the founder of Notre Dame to Our Lady of Lourdes was well known. The Grotto on campus, a replica of the original in the little town in the Pyrenees, attested to that.
“Did you ever go there, Horvath?”
“Lourdes? Not yet.”
The thought of the hobbling Horvath boarding a plane to fly off to the distant shrine filled them all with glee.
Armitage Shanks rapped the table for order. “The question is,
what will happen next in this unfolding saga of selected members of the class of 1989?”
“Isn't David Williams the man who promised twenty million dollars to Notre Dame?”
“He is.”
“For a new ethics center. We have discussed this.”
“But since then he has been murdered in a monastery while visiting his classmate the monk.”
“There is a connection?”
“Everything is connected,” Potts proclaimed.
“Except your hearing aid.”
Called to replenish their drinks, Murph the bartender asked if they had heard the latest. Six attentive pairs of eyes lifted to him.
“The bar and restaurant will be open on Thanksgiving.”
“On a holy day?”
“Murph, you should spend that day in the bosom of your family. You do have one?”
“Bosom?”
“Get out of here.”
“They're hiring a substitute for the day.”
“Murph, there is no substitute for you,” Armitage said unctuously.
“There's scarcely an original.”
“Will your substitute be male or female?”
“They won't know until after the operation.”
“Keep it up, Murph, and we'll make you an honorary Old Bastard.”
“I'm overwhelmed.” He went back to his bar.
“Why is no one simply whelmed?” Horvath asked.
Bingham asked for attention. “The Knight brothers went off to the monastery. On behalf of the university.”
“Who are the Knight brothers?”
“Doris Day's cousins.”
“Doris Day!” The old faces lit up with memories of the lilting songs of that lovely chanteuse. Of course Bingham had to spoil it.
“Oscar Levant said he had known her
before
she was a virgin.”
The groans and hissing drew the attention of other patrons. Then their drinks arrived and the noise subsided. The groans began again when Bingham said that if he had become a monk he would have taken for his name in religion Brother Darwin.
WHEN BETH GOT THE NEWS OF THE death of Dave Williams in the Trappist monastery in Kentucky from Casey, she left her office and went upstairs to her studio. A gray sky was visible through the skylight, matching her mood. The man by whom she had become pregnant was dead, the father of her stillborn infant. Had Joachim told him the full story?
Beth resolved to have a Mass said for Dave Williams. After a period during which it had been hoped that Dave might recover, he had succumbed to a clot in the brain. At first Beth had thought what a blessing it was to leave the world in such surroundings, but Dave had left it for all practical purposes when he had been hit over the head.
“He had a priest?”
“He was surrounded by priests. Even his doctor was a priest. Brother Bernard.”
Beth took consolation from that. A monk who was a doctor would know when his role as priest should come into play.
Casey seemed almost sheepish about telling her that he was a father of a bouncing boy. Peaches was doing well.
“Peaches?”
“My wife. Patricia. They always called her Peaches. She wants to name our son David.” He didn't sound excited by the idea.
“Did she know him?”
“Oh, sure. He had a place down here, he and Bridget.”
“Bridget?”
“His late wife.”
“Were there children?”
“One son. At Notre Dame.”
How little she knew of those long-lost friends, suddenly found again because Pat Pelligrino had stirred things up with his gift to the Notre Dame archives.
“You'll tell Quinn, won't you?”
“He's not here at the moment.”
“Not back yet? He came to see me.”
“In Florida?”
“Just passing through. He didn't stick around long enough to meet Peaches.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Back there eventually. Via Gethsemani.”
The portrait she had been doing was missing from her easel when she got back from Notre Dame. Beth shook her head. Could anyone sustain hatred for decades? Apparently Tim could. Well, say it, she still felt for Dave what she had felt long ago.
After hanging up, Beth looked around to see who could look after things while she ran up to Holy Rosary. If only Q were around when she needed him. Had Houdini ever made himself disappear? It seemed to be Q's only trick.
“Me?” asked Foster when she spoke to him. Bald as an egg, roly-poly, hardly over five feet high, he was a contrast to the withered physiques of the other guests. Foster had taken over in the kitchen when Q was nowhere to be found. A secret drinker, he stashed his bottle among the foodstuffs in the cupboards. The cheapest of wines,
bought with the proceeds from his daily panhandling. He claimed to be on the wagon, of course. Beth had become patient with drinkers, for the most part. There was often the beginning of true humility in their inability to master alcohol. Knowing they were unable to control their longing for drink, hating the habit, they were open to the only real help there is.
“You can do it,” she told Foster.
“How long will you be gone?”
“An hour at most.”
Foster looked around, as if wondering what he would do should there be an uprising among the guests. It was midafternoon, a dead time. The television was on, ignored by dozing guests. Many were over in the residence, napping, sleeping it off, any kind of unconsciousness in a pinch. Our Lady of the Road left rehabilitation to others, accepting the present condition of the men who wandered in, not preaching to them, but hoping they would find in the depths to which they had sunk a saving sign of being a creature.
Foster was rummaging in the kitchen cupboard when she went out the door.
 
 
Father Romanus did not express surprise when Beth showed up at the rectory, although this was not the usual day for their weekly talk. He was the third Dominican from whom she had sought direction—first Justin, then Reynolds, red haired, his habit big as a tent, baby faced, and the wisest of them all. His name in religion was Thomas Aquinas. Romanus was solid, incapable of surprise, full of knowledge of Teresa of Ávila. Beth hadn't hit if off with St. Catherine of Siena, but Teresa of Ávila never failed her.
“I want to have a Mass said. For the father of my child.”
He had taken her into one of the rectory parlors, furnished in basic Dominican, and didn't ask her what that meant. Years ago Beth had joined what was then called the Third Order of St. Dominic, but Justin had told her she needn't come to the meetings. Once had been enough. How good the others were, how uneventful their lives. Ordinary people. Is there any other kind? Well, there was the kind who came as guests to Our Lady of the Road. At the meeting someone had grumped about catering to all the drunks in the area. “Feed them and there will be more.”
“Let's hope so,” Beth had said.
That guy would have been the ruin of her. How superior she had felt answering him, as if she were a model of anything. So she had become a freelance lay Dominican, her weekly conferences her lifeline. At the same meeting a woman had gushed over the fact that when they died they could be buried in the Dominican habit.
“Why wait?”
Oh, she had been terrible. Father Justin had agreed. She had all she could handle at Our Lady of the Road. Any temptation to smugness there was quickly knocked out of her.
Justin had approved of her observing the birthday of her miscarried child. “Ask her to pray for you.”
It wasn't until Justin was replaced by Thomas Aquinas Reynolds that Beth had someone willing to talk about the condition of the departed souls. He was full of lore from Aquinas, the
Summa
, other works, commentaries on Scripture.
“How can they remember us if they lack the physical presuppositions of memory, you ask? Call it the brain. That's dust now. But we pray to the saints, for particular favors. If they had no memory of the world we're in they wouldn't get it at all.”
Those sessions had been almost fun, but the priest was not into idle speculation. His firm guide was Scripture, what the Church taught, and no wild guessing about or imagining the next world. “It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead.” And it was a two-way street.
Beth had baptized her baby and named her Mary.
Romanus knew her story. Each of her advisers had; how else could they understand why she lived the way she did? The priest had uncapped a fat old-fashioned fountain pen and drawn a little pad toward him. “Name?”
He meant David's. She told him; his pen scratched on the pad. He actually blotted it. When had she last seen that? She told him what she knew of David's death, that he had died in a Trappist abbey.
“So did St. Thomas Aquinas. When's the funeral?”
“Father, I don't see how I can go. I'm sure it will be at Notre Dame.”
“What's the problem?”
She explained about Q's absence and described Foster.
“He often drops by.”
“Foster?”
“For a handout. Look, Beth, go to the funeral. If it comes to that, I will look after things down there myself.”
“Oh, would you?”
“Are you doubting my word?” But he smiled when he asked.
 
 
Walking back, she tried to feel more grateful than she was. She was almost reluctant to return to Notre Dame so soon after being there
and coming away with the feeling that talking with Father Carmody, her alpha and omega, had put a fitting end to all that had happened. Still, of course she would go. How could she not? When she got back to Our Lady of the Road, she went up to her studio. The phone was ringing. It was Father Carmody.

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