Blood Ties (3 page)

“What's he done?”

The pastor laughed, but not like a Franciscan. “He wants to serve Mass.”

“That's your department,” she said, after an icy silence.

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“It would be a mistake.”

“Why?”

“I should tell you he spoke to me first.”

“And that disqualifies him?”

Well, it had almost made Marie overlook the man's faults. She was not immune to a reminder that in a sense she had seniority over the pastor, and Martin had been what Father Dowling would have called unctuous.

“Why don't you like him, Marie? He never left the parish.”

“He couldn't afford to.”

“That can't be the reason. Tell me.”

Where to begin? Of course, she hadn't known Martin as a boy, but he had retained the look of the urchins who had been one of her crosses. At first she thought he was reading her mind when he said he would like to serve Mass.

“A priest should be assisted, Mrs. Murkin. The Mass loses something when the priest does everything for himself.”

Marie bristled at this implicit criticism of the pastor. She explained to Martin that with the changes in the parish, there just weren't a lot of little boys around anymore. Or girls either, she added, as if to sound him out on the subject of altar girls.

“I used to be an altar boy here.”

“With the Franciscans.”

“Of course.”

“Father Dowling doesn't belong to an order.”

“The cardinal does.”

They actually had a little argument, Martin presuming to lecture her on the varieties of priest. “A religious takes vows. That makes a difference.”

“The Franciscans were still here when I came.”

“Mrs. Murkin, please don't think I'm criticizing Father Dowling. Do you think I should talk to him?”

“About taking vows?”

Martin simpered. “Would you raise the matter with him?”

“Maybe you'd better do it yourself.”

Afterward, she had thought of a preemptive strike, warning the pastor about Martin. It was difficult to know how to put her objections, though, so she had waited in silence, and prayed. And Martin had spoken to Father Dowling. The one great consolation was that the pastor saw the wisdom of consulting her on the matter.

“The camel in the tent,” Marie said tersely.

Father Dowling stopped in the process of relighting his pipe and looked at her through clouds of smoke. Marie loved the smell of pipe tobacco, not that she would say so. How could she then complain of the mess it made, tobacco scattered about, ashtrays overflowing—those usually containing Phil Keegan's cigar ends as well.

“He smokes?”

“You know what I mean. Ask Edna.” This last was an inspiration. If there was anything Marie and Edna agreed on, it was Martin Sisk. “When he isn't talking about his late wife he is flirting with the widows.” It was thus that Edna captured Martin Sisk in a sentence.

Martin spoke to the pastor, and Father Dowling went on saying Mass without a server. When it was clear the danger had passed, Marie asked what had happened.

“I found out he has arthritis.”

“
Does
he?” Marie had arthritis herself, but in Martin's case it seemed a punishment.

“He said Dr. Dolan might want to serve Mass, too.”

“That would have been different.”

“Maybe I should agree.”

It was a tempting thought, but not if alpha meant omega, too. The Dolans had been members of the parish and been married in the church, but affluence had taken them to the suburbs along with so many others. That and the Franciscans, or so Marie liked to think. Of course, the Dolans' connection with St. Hilary's antedated her own time as rectory housekeeper. Now, retirement and nostalgia had drawn them to the senior center.

“Let sleeping dogs lie,” Marie advised.

“And camels?”

5

Marie looked around the door of the study and announced that Dr. Dolan wanted to see him, unable to conceal her delight.

“So you make house calls?” Father Dowling said when Marie ushered the doctor in.

“Not likely. I was an anesthesiologist.”

Baldness had become a kind of fashion, but not every boy who shaved his head had the noble shape of Henry Dolan's, high domed, seemingly tanned. Father Dowling was tall, but Dolan was taller.

“You still smoke?” Dolan said.

“You make it sound temporary. Please sit down.” Behind him, Marie pulled the door closed.

“Everyone smoked when I was young.”

“Nine out of ten doctors.”

“You remember that.”

This initial exchange had not been a guarded sermon. Dolan brought a large hand downward over his face, stopped it, and looked at Father Dowling over his fingers.

“My family has a problem, Father.”

The best response to that was receptive silence.

Dolan took a breath. “I had best start at the beginning.”

He did, and went on to the end. At first his words had a rehearsed air, but soon he was speaking from the heart. His granddaughter was adopted, something that had never seemed to bother her before, but now she wanted to know who her real parents were. He repeated the phrase.

“You can imagine what that phrase does to my daughter and son-in-law.”

“What explains the sudden interest?”

“She has become serious about a young man.”

“Ah.”

“I have to tell you that I understand why she would want to know. Of course I sympathize with my daughter, but it isn't a criticism of her and her husband. I'm sure it isn't intended to be. Martha is a wonderful young woman. I couldn't possibly love her more than I do.”

“I suppose it would be easy for her to find out nowadays.”

“Not in her case. There wasn't any agency involved. It was all quite legal, of course.” He paused. “Do you know Amos Cadbury?”

“Amos and I have become friends.”

“He took care of everything.”

“Then I know it was all legal.”

“Legal but informal.”

Other people's problems are sometimes difficult to see as problems. Why should the Lynches feel devastated because their adopted daughter, now a young woman, wanted to know her true origins? If she was about to marry, their relationship would change in any case. No doubt the young woman's curiosity seemed an implied criticism, as if she regarded the Lynches as impostors.

“My wife is almost as upset as my daughter.”

It seemed plausible that women would feel more strongly than men about such a thing. Father Dowling said this aloud.

“Not than George Lynch.”

“The foster father?”

Dolan winced. “I have never heard him called that before.”

“St. Joseph was a foster father.”

“I don't think George would take comfort from that.”

“So what do you think will happen?”

“I haven't the faintest idea.” He smiled, an unhappy smile. “That is why I hesitated about coming to you. Whatever happens will happen, I suppose. Difficult as it might be in her case, I am sure that, with the proper help, Martha could find out what she wants to know.”

“Is your daughter your only child?”

“Oh no. There is Maurice.” He seemed to consider saying more but added only, “He is another story.”

Portrait of a man whose hopes for his children had been but imperfectly realized. Father Dowling caught the implications of that “another story.”

“I could talk to Amos Cadbury.”

“Would you do that? I thought of going to him myself but dreaded the role of the interfering grandfather. It would be different in your case.”

“I will see Amos. And then we can talk again.”

Dolan actually seemed relieved when he stood. He paused. “Sometimes I think of taking up smoking again myself. It can scarcely affect my longevity.”

“I won't tell the surgeon general.”

*   *   *

Two days later, Father Dowling had dinner with his old friend Amos Cadbury, often referred to as the dean of the Fox River bar. Father Dowling mentioned the Dolans and then asked about their son.

Amos sighed. “Ah, Maurice.”

The account Amos gave suggested that he had given thought to the difficulties of his friend Dr. Henry Dolan. “Father, the dark side of doing well when one has risen from the most modest of beginnings is that one's children are apt to be spoiled by the lack of a sense of insecurity.”

The Dolans had been blessed in Sheila, Amos added, and George was in every way the son-in-law Henry would have chosen. A medical man, soon at the top of his specialty, a solid and faithful husband. But no life is without its trials, and for the Lynches it was Sheila's inability to carry a child to term. That great gap in their lives had been closed by the adoption of little Martha, and both Henry and George had been present at the birth, Henry administering the anesthesia, George just standing by. Henry had told Amos in a husky voice that he would never forget the image of George taking the newborn child in his arms. What a contrast between his son-in-law and his son.

Maurice had managed to get into DePaul after Henry had a talk with the university's director of development. “Of course, I wrote a letter of recommendation,” Amos said. “Ah, the letters of recommendation I have written for that boy.”

“Boy.”

“Of course you're right. He will soon be forty.”

Henry Dolan's name was soon added to those supporting the university fund drive. Maurice hadn't lasted a full year. Perhaps it was just as well. Not even a father's blindness could enable Henry to imagine Maurice as a doctor.

“The fact is they had spoiled him. What want or whim of Maurice's had ever been denied? I suppose that at first it seemed innocent indulgence, and always there had been the hidden hand of the father making things easy for the son.” Amos had seen on the wall of Maurice's room a photograph of him in Wrigley Field, in the center of the picture, surrounded by the Cubs, ten years old and wearing a uniform. Half the players had signed the picture. There were signed baseballs as well, even one from the White Sox. Maurice had loved uniforms, even the military uniform of the school in Wisconsin from which he was expelled for misdemeanors neither Vivian nor Henry wanted to hear about. They agreed that the discipline at the school was foolishly demanding, certainly not Maurice's cup of tea.

“My sympathy for the Dolans never wavered, Father, and I will tell you why. I feared that I might have acted as they did if we had ever had children.”

“I doubt that, Amos.”

“I will never know.”

When his school days had ended after two quarters of grades featuring letters seldom seen on a transcript, Maurice was set up in an apartment on the Near North Side, the better to look for suitable employment. He interviewed well. He made a marvelous first impression. All he lacked was ambition and a desire to work. The list of companies by which he had been briefly employed made a sad litany. The truth was that Maurice had no worry about his future. Henry's success ensured that.

Maurice laughed when Henry threatened to cut him off. “It can't be done. I'm your heir.”

“I'll give everything I have to charity.”

“No you won't.”

He was right. It was too late to reverse a lifetime of indulgence.

One day, Vivian stopped by Maurice's apartment. The door was opened by a woman.

“A floozy,” she reported to Henry, shuddering. “Brazen. And the way she asked me who
I
was.”

Henry cut off Maurice's rent money and stopped his allowance, bringing an apparently contrite Maurice home.

“She's nobody,” he said when Henry demanded to know who the girl was.

“Is she living with you?”

“Of course not.”

But Maurice was a stranger to the truth. “For God's sake, son, consider your soul. You're on the path to perdition.”

Maurice hung his head. Did the boy still believe anything? “I've been thinking of becoming a nurse.”

Henry just stared at him. This was not a young man he would want near any patient of his. Why couldn't he be like his sister, Sheila?

“I guess that isn't realistic.”

Amos paused. “Father, the one thing Maurice did well, very well, was golf. He won club tournaments. He almost qualified for the Open as an amateur.” Good as he was, though, his performance was far below that of the pros.

It was golf that took him to California. After several weeks, he telephoned, excited. “I have found my niche, Dad.”

His niche was a driving range in Huntington Beach. The owner needed a partner. The place ran itself. It was a gold mine. Henry came to Amos to discuss the proposition.

“Why does the owner need a partner?”

“Expansion. There's an opportunity to double the business.”

Amos had flown to California. The location of the driving range seemed excellent. The adjacent land could be acquired. Sprucing up the place would help. Amos was able to report to Henry that he had never seen his son so serious. But the proposed partner, Hadley Markus, was not a man to inspire confidence. He had the moist eye of a drinker. His stomach looked like a bass drum hanging over his belt. He needed a shave.

“Could you buy him out?” Amos asked Maurice while they dined at a hotel.

“Are you serious?”

“Find out.”

Markus was interested in the proposition. In the end, he stayed on for a time as manager, wanting to continue to occupy the little office where he had spent so many years. Amos flew home, looking out over the cloud cover, praying for the Dolans' sake that Maurice had grown up at last.

With Henry, Amos went over the papers he had brought from California.

“We'll want to make sure there is no lien on the property. I am having that checked. Otherwise, it seems sound.” Then he looked steadily at Henry. “The fly in the ointment, I need not say, is Maurice.”