Deadly Blessings (10 page)

“
No,” she said with tiny
pride, “we have been sponsored. And we have our papers in order. I
just don’t want Matthew to get into trouble. He will lose his
job.”

No matter how much I tried to prod, Sophie
had clammed up about Matthew and why contacting the police would
result in the loss of a job. She insisted that Matthew had not
gotten into trouble before, that he had no record of arrest.

“
What about a girlfriend?
Do you think he might’ve spent the night with someone and just
forgot about work today?”

“
No. No. Matthew never
takes time for himself. He never tried to find a girlfriend. He is
so handsome, and all the girls want to go out with him, but he want
to make a good life for us here, and make our parents proud and he
never stops working. He’s just trying to keep us together and
strong.”

“
Sophie,”
I finally said, exasperation evident in my voice, “there’s not a
chance of finding out where he’s gone unless you can give me some
help, here. Isn’t there
anyone
who might have a clue? Anyone
Matthew might turn to or keep in contact with?”

“
Yes … I don’t know.
Maybe.”

“
Okay.” I wiggled forward
in my chrome-legged chair, making it squeak. “Who?”

“
Father Bruno. From St.
Dymphna’s. He is our sponsor to the United States. He helps us and
takes care of us.”

“
Good, good. Do you want me
to call him?” I asked.

Sophie bit the insides of her cheeks, and
her face welted up again, as though she might break into sobs at
any moment. She glanced up at the clock. “Maybe he’s there now.
You’ll come with me?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought.
“Sure.”

* * * * *

Father Bruno lived in a square-ish, brick,
and solid-looking home in the center of the block. While St.
Dymphna’s Church, at the southern end of the street, had been built
in 1968, according to the large and obvious cornerstone near the
front doors, Father Bruno’s home was much older. It didn’t sport a
year, but a concrete sign, pitted with age, sat stoically above the
front door, capital letters spelling out the word “Rectory.”
Clearly this building had never been intended to serve any other
purpose. I wondered what would become of it in years to come, as
the dwindling priesthood made it difficult to justify the upkeep of
so many residences across the archdiocese.

The parish name, St. Dymphna’s and even the
priest’s name were vaguely familiar to me. I was curious to meet
him, and try to remember the connection.

Sophie, I discovered, was a physical person.
She thought nothing of gripping my hand as we approached the
building’s cement front steps, scurrying to keep ahead of the
drizzle. Even on the ride over, she touched me several times; I
began to realize that she needed constant and tangible evidence
that she wasn’t in this dilemma alone.

The doorbell rang loud enough for us to hear
it, standing outside the wood-framed door. After waiting more than
five minutes we rang it a second time, despite the hand-lettered
sign that instructed to ring it only once. The pebbled glass door
made seeing anything inside impossible, and the dark interior led
me to believe that Father Bruno was not home.

I was surprised, then, when a flash of
yellow appeared and the lock turned.

“
Sophie?”

“
Oh, Father,” she said,
sobbing, “Matthew no come home.”

From her instant, high-powered cries, I
gathered that the man at the door was Father Bruno. Wearing a
casual ensemble of a yellow golf shirt and navy pants, the
silver-haired priest should have opted for the next size after
extra-large. He sent a curious glance my direction, as he took
Sophie by the shoulders and led her inside. Not knowing what else
to do, I followed and caught his indication that I should close and
lock the door behind me.

The long dark corridor was
lined on either side with deep mahogany doors, polished to
high-gloss. There were at least eight, all closed. One small light
fixture, overhead, cast scant light in the area. The effect was
mausoleum-ish, but I’d been in rectories before and knew that most
holy men didn’t spend a lot of time worried about a welcoming
décor.

Father Bruno opened the first door to the
right, and gestured us in.

“
I apologize for the delay
in answering. Emil must have stepped away again, and I was
unaware.” I shot him a quizzical glance, and he explained. “The
rectory secretary.”

The priest’s face was familiar. I knew I’d
seen him before, but I couldn’t place him.

This room was barely an improvement over the
hall. While spacious, and outfitted for both work and comfort: desk
to the right, sitting room—complete with TV and DVD player—to the
left, it was drab. A corner office, it had five tall double-hung
windows, but the gray sky outside offered little in terms of
light.

Sophie sat in a burgundy leather chair. The
fancy kind with bronze buttons lining the sides and back. I took a
matching one next to her and perched my elbows on the arms. Sophie
was beginning to quiet, and for the few moments that it took Bruno
to pull a box of tissues from behind his mahogany desk, I thought
she might have forgotten I was there. Her eyes followed the man’s
every movement, with huge alertness, as though ready to jump at his
words. Indeed, her whole body, at first relaxed from releasing all
the anguish, now tensed up again—a runner ready for the starting
gun.

It occurred to me that Father Bruno must
have sobbing women come visit him all the time. He gave Sophie’s
shoulder an avuncular pat, and set the tissue box on her lap.
“Now,” he said, moving to sit behind his desk, his eyes concerned
behind drooping lids, “tell me what happened. What did you say
about Matthew?”

Between hiccups, Sophie spoke in her halting
English. Explaining the situation was so difficult for her, I could
almost see her physical pain as she spoke. But I let her tell the
story with no interruption, wanting to allow her the chance to get
it out once again. Like poison to be purged, oftentimes the more a
story is told, the easier it gets. And although Matthew’s
disappearance was still fresh and raw, I hoped that Sophie could
find a way to face it with enough objectivity to be helpful.

They conversed in English; he had no accent,
and nothing about him suggested a particular ethnicity. He was
fair-skinned and paunchy, with that tell-tale gray coloring of a
heavy smoker. After Sophie covered everything she’d told me, he
nodded and worked his lower lip for a moment. When he turned to me,
I could sense he was still pondering all she’d said.

“
And you are … ?

“
I’m Alexandrine
Szatjemski,” I said providing the name I preferred to use when
covering stories. I leaned forward to offer my hand. He seemed
momentarily surprised by the move, but he took it and gave a
perfunctory shake. “I’m a friend of Sophie’s.” That was, of course,
a stretch. I met the girl yesterday, for crying out loud. But that
would take too long to explain, and was immaterial
anyway.

“
Father Bruno Creighter,”
he said. “Pleased to meet you Ms. Szatjemski.”

Hearing his last name dropped the last piece
of puzzle into place. He’d been a prominent player, hovering around
the pedophile priest scandal a few years back. As one of the
Chicago Archdiocese’s parish-level spokesmen, he’d made frequent
public apologies to young victims, now grown. I’d seen his face in
the newspaper plenty of times. He’d lambasted our station in one of
his appearances because he took exception to our handling of one of
the stories. I decided it would be best if I didn’t introduce
myself, fully.

Settling himself, he studied me for a
moment, then pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights from his top center
drawer and apologized. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “It’s a
filthy habit, but I can’t seem to summon the will to stop.” He
shrugged and gave me a wry smile. “Especially in tense situations.”
He returned his attention to Sophie.

“
When did you notice
Matthew was missing?” Bruno asked, shaking a cigarette out. He lit
it with a gold lighter dug from his pocket and then tapped it
against the leather blotter on his desk before resting it in his
palm. A full-color enamel portrait of the Sacred Heart of Jesus
decorated the lighter’s top and he caressed the smoothness of the
decoration with his thumb as he smoked and listened.

Cigarette lighters designed with your
favorite priest in mind; now there’s a marketing niche I never
would have imagined.

He didn’t take care to blow the smoke off to
the side, as polite smokers nowadays tend to do. Each puff was
savored even as his caramel-colored eyes paid rapt attention,
focused on everything Sophie had to say.

Sophie tried to remember exactly what time
the landscape company had called. Matthew was a gardener’s
assistant at a suburban shop and had been scheduled for a big
project that day. “They called about ten-thirty this morning. Maybe
a little later.” She took two tissues from Father Bruno’s stash and
worked them into twisted strings. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“
You were right to come
here, my dear,” he said. “We will find him.”

Buoyed by his praise she brightened,
visibly. Her eyes had gotten bluer from her crying and they widened
with childlike eagerness. Still snuffling, she offered the priest
an additional tidbit, as though hoping for another “attaboy.” “Alex
said we should call the police to tell them. Should we?”

He gazed up at the ceiling for a long
moment, blowing a stream of smoke upward and away from us. “Let me
make some inquiries first,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize
the boy’s job. He’s got a solid future ahead of him there, as long
as he keeps control of his temper.” His glance toward Sophie made
her look away.

She bit her lip, then colored bright red
before addressing me. “Matthew has been in many fights since we
come here,” she said. “He think some people look down on us and he
get very mad sometimes.” She shrugged. “But he never not come home
before.”

“
But what if something’s
happened to him?” I said. “How will we know, if the police aren’t
out looking for him? We can’t just sit around and wait and hope for
the best.”

Bruno took a moment to finish his cigarette,
then stubbed it out into a Star of David-shaped glass ashtray. When
he spoke, he did so slowly, answering my protest with careful
patience. “No, of course not. I have a few contacts who will be
able to let me know if he’s turned up at all. And he will, I’m
certain.”

He must have read the skepticism on my face
because he interrupted before I could open my mouth. Indicating me,
he turned to Sophie and asked. “She is a friend?”

“
Yes,” Sophie answered. “I
trust her.”

Wow, I thought. After only one day. I must
really have an honest face.

Bruno took a deep breath and let it out in a
sigh. “We’re able to do a lot of good for new immigrants here,” he
said. “I’ve been around long enough to realize, however, that it’s
sometimes better to ask forgiveness than permission.” He smiled.
“Matthew is one of my kids. One of the many young people I’ve
sponsored from eastern Europe who came here for a better life.” He
folded his hands together on the desk, leaning forward on his arms.
“A police investigation would uncover Matthew’s place of work and
since he’s not … officially … on their books it would ruin our
relationship with that company. It’s a small company, but over the
past few years they’ve given over a dozen young men a good start.”
His eyes squinted at me. “I’d hate to lose that valuable
contact.”

I tried again. “I think I’d
feel better, and I think Sophie would feel better,” I shot a glance
her way, urging support, “if we could do
something
in the meantime.” Sophie
was watching Bruno, as though measuring his reaction to my words. I
continued, “Waiting is always the worst. Is there anywhere or
anyone you can think of that I can check with?”

“
Not at the moment,” he
said, shaking his head. His second chin wobbled, trying without
success to keep up with the movement of the first one. “I’d be more
than happy to keep in contact with both of you, though. I’ll call
up a few of the other boys and see what they know.” Glancing at
both of us in turn, he asked. “How does that sound?”

Sophie nodded, but I was unconvinced.

Bruno continued. “Matthew is an intelligent
young man, but a bit hot-headed, as anyone who knows him can
attest. I’m very concerned that he didn’t come home last night.
That’s not like him. He might be afraid to face you, Sophie, if he
got into another scrape.”

“
But,” I began, whether or
not Sophie was going to back me—unfortunately, in times like this,
I have no “off-switch” when answers don’t make sense and I want to
know more, “what if he’s hurt? In the hospital? How will we
know?”

Sophie’s eyes widened as I spoke and I
regretted worrying her further, but I still would have felt better
if we contacted the police. Of course, maybe even Matthew would
argue that losing his job was worse than spending a night in the
hospital—or the slammer.

“
I understand your
concerns. You’re completely correct. But, again, I have many
contacts.” He tapped at a small gold cross pin he had attached to
his collar that I hadn’t noticed earlier. “One of the perks of the
job.”

A voice came from my far left. “Father?”

“
There you are!” he said.
“Where have you been?”