Prodigal Father (5 page)
You anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over.
âPsalm 23
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A week without news, a week without newspapers, television, or radio had seemed to measure his life with real time. St. Augustine said he knew perfectly well what time is until someone asked him what it was. The difference between “What's the time?” and “What is time?”
Roger Dowling came back to the routine of St. Hilary's with the sense that he was slipping from reality into illusion. Until he walked into the house and was confronted by Marie Murkin.
“Has it been a week already?” A preemptive strike.
“And how were things in my absence?”
The housekeeper shrugged. “Only one visitor worth mentioning. He came to see you, but I gave him tea and we talked.”
“Good.”
Despite her world-weary air, Marie was dying to tell him of it, so he did not prompt her. She followed him into the study where he sat behind his desk. His two favorite books were on the desk where they always were. If she had moved them in his absence he would have known immediately.
The first part of the
Summa Theologiae
of Thomas Aquinas,
the portable BAC edition, which was the second edition he had owned, the first being the blue and typographically forbidding Ottawa edition with the Leonine variations in the footnotes. And
La Divina Commedia.
Old friends. The older he got the more he reread rather than read. The tried and true.
Summa Theologiae
of Thomas Aquinas,
the portable BAC edition, which was the second edition he had owned, the first being the blue and typographically forbidding Ottawa edition with the Leonine variations in the footnotes. And
La Divina Commedia.
Old friends. The older he got the more he reread rather than read. The tried and true.
“He was looking for a priest he had known in California.”
“He?”
“The visitor. Stan Morgan. I started to look him up in the Catholic Directory when he told me the man had left and married.”
The Catholic Directory was back on the shelf. He could see now that it had been taken out and returned. He never kept things so neat.
“So he went away disappointed?”
“I told him to call back when I had a chance to ask you.”
“What was the name?”
“Richards.”
Marie was a woman without guile, or at least without any guile she could conceal. She was simply repeating what the man had asked.
“That was his last name?”
“I never heard Richards as a first name.”
Even so it set his mind going. The bearded former Athanasian who was going through a period of testing before he could be reinstated. Could that be the priest Stan Morgan was seeking?
“What was it, nostalgia?”
“It emerged that he was a lapsed Catholic. I think he thought Richards could help him.”
Marie recounted her own pastoral session at the kitchen table. She was self-effacing about her role, but he could imagine her in action. Marie had been here for some years when he arrived and had begun with the attitude that she was showing him the ropes.
Potential trouble, that, but within a week he was sure he wanted her to stay on. From what Marie said, it was possible the man had been in search of Richard Krause. He had been raised in a local parish, he had lived in California, where he had met Richards. Krause had told Boniface he had worked on both coasts, but latterly in California. It was possible. But he said nothing.
Potential trouble, that, but within a week he was sure he wanted her to stay on. From what Marie said, it was possible the man had been in search of Richard Krause. He had been raised in a local parish, he had lived in California, where he had met Richards. Krause had told Boniface he had worked on both coasts, but latterly in California. It was possible. But he said nothing.
“He said he'd call?”
“Would you like to see him?”
“If he comes.”
“I'll suggest that.”
She filled his Mr. Coffee pot with water but left the making to him. The strength of his coffee did not meet with her approval.
“I don't know how you ever get to sleep.”
“Lying down usually does it.”
“Did you have a good week?”
“Yes.”
“How are they?”
“The Athanasians? They may be coming out of their darkest days.”
“What's the point of all these little orders?”
“They each have a slightly different purpose.”
Marie was unconvinced. Of course she thought of the Franciscans as one of the little orders. “I like Father Boniface anyway.”
“He sent his regards. And I asked him to come say one of the masses next Sunday.”
Marie brightened under this. How could she not like Boniface? He was always lyrical about her cooking and ate like a trencherman when he was in the rectory.
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“You might have come by to say hello at least,” Marie said to Phil when he came to lunch after the noon Mass.
“And you all alone in the house, Marie? I have a reputation to consider.”
“It's too late, Captain Keegan. Far too late.”
Marie went off to her kitchen before Phil could reply. “So you're all rested and refreshed, Roger.”
Roger Dowling nodded.
“I drove by Marygrove once during the week. What a sight it is to see those magnificent grounds the way they've always been. It must cost them a fortune to keep it up.”
“Anderson is after them.”
“I hope they have the good sense to ignore him.” Phil gave him a sudden look. “They're not so hard up they'll jump at it, are they?”
“It isn't that.”
Boniface had recounted the argument that it was selfishness on their part to live on that vast acreage when it might accommodate hundreds of families. It was clear the old man did not have a ready answer to that. Or rather he'd had one that was turned against him.
“A dog in the manger.” He had shaken his head.
“I hope you won't be swayed by the thought of hypothetical houses and equally hypothetical occupants.”
“Father, we take the vow of poverty, and look at how we live.”
“Very modestly, I should say.”
This was true. The food was plain if plentiful, there was no bar in the recreation room, which was where the only television in the place was located. Those well-tended grounds and handsome buildings seemed small compensation. The acreage wasn't
the problem. More than ever before, Roger had felt that he was making his retreat in a rest home. Chanting the office was no doubt a good thing, but most of the Athanasians had not been blessed with voices and there was hesitation over the now-unfamiliar Latin.
the problem. More than ever before, Roger had felt that he was making his retreat in a rest home. Chanting the office was no doubt a good thing, but most of the Athanasians had not been blessed with voices and there was hesitation over the now-unfamiliar Latin.
“That might have been a mistake, Father Dowling. Not everyone is enthused.”
“Richard obviously is.”
Boniface agreed. “Sometimes I wonder if he wants to come back for aesthetic reasons. Gregorian chant, the liturgy properly done, the green grass of home.”
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After Phil left, Father Dowling went over to the parish center to find Edna chatting with a man in her office. They both stood up when he came in without knocking.
“This is Stan Morgan, Father.”
“Roger Dowling. Marie is expecting your call.”
“Marie?”
“Mrs. Murkin. My housekeeper. You can catch her now if you want.”
The man looked at Edna, gave a little shrug. Edna looked away. “Can I talk to you, Father?”
“I'll be back before you leave,” Father Dowling said.
He and Edna seemed to listen to the sound of his footsteps going downstairs. Father Dowling shut the door.
“And who is Stan Morgan?”
“He came by last week, asking for someone, and Marie came over and ⦔ Edna stopped. “I sound like one of my kids.”
It was of those kids and what must be Edna's loneliness that he had thought when he saw her with the very attractive man, not
much older than she. Having heard Marie's story of how the man had captivated her, he had the impression that he was doing the same with Edna.
much older than she. Having heard Marie's story of how the man had captivated her, he had the impression that he was doing the same with Edna.
“I've seen him several times, Father.”
He sat down. His wariness about Stan Morgan was irrational, he knew that. A stranger come to ask about a former priest he'd met in California who had mentioned Fox River, Illinois. From that he had jumped to wondering if it could be Richard Krause who wanted to be reinstated with the Athanasians. And what if Morgan, too, was a laicized priest? One thing was clear. Marie might have been just a lady to jolly, but Edna was an attractive young woman, forced by her husband's prison sentence to live a celibate life in her prime. He was sure that one of the reasons she gave so much of herself to the Center and her kids was to keep her mind off such things. There weren't many good-looking, smooth-talking men who stopped by the former principal's office where she now worked, and she was clearly susceptible.
“Edna, it's none of my business.”
“He took me out to dinner once. And he took us all to a ball game.”
She might have been going to confession. He wished he could back up the clock and make his entrance again, knocking this time. And not sending Morgan off to Marie as if he meant to scold Edna.
“Who is he?” he asked again.
“Father, I really don't know much about him. He can talk and talk and ⦔ She shrugged her shoulders.
He had the uncomfortable feeling that he had returned to his days on the archdiocesan marriage tribunal. Of course Edna would be susceptible to the attentions of a fine-looking fellow like Stan Morgan, particularly when he seemed as interested in her family
as in herself. The children could have only the vaguest memories of their father and Earl had been unbending in his wish that they should not be brought to see him at Joliet. One married for better or worse, and Edna had ended up with more worse than better, but that did not make her any less married.
as in herself. The children could have only the vaguest memories of their father and Earl had been unbending in his wish that they should not be brought to see him at Joliet. One married for better or worse, and Edna had ended up with more worse than better, but that did not make her any less married.
“So how is Martha Vlasko doing?”
The abrupt change of subject brought an almost audible sigh from Edna.
“She has decided not to sue.”
Martha, a busy and self-important woman who affected the air of just looking in at the old people when she came to the Center, which was nearly every day, had pushed through a small group at the door and stumbled outside onto the playground. A bruised knee and ego were the sum total of her injuries, but she decided to make a federal case out of it. The Center did not meet the minimum specifications for such an operation.
“Nonsense,” said Amos Cadbury. Amos, the premier lawyer of Fix River, product of the Notre Dame Law School, took care of all the legal work of St. Hilary's parishâpro bono, of course. He and Father Dowling had become good friends over the years.
Martha asked where the handrails were, where the easy-access elevators, where the automatic door openers.
“Tell her to look at her membership agreement,” Amos advised.
The majority of the seniors came in the door from the parking lot, spent their day in what had once been the school gym playing cards, shuffleboard, watching television, or just drinking coffee and talking. It was not a high-risk schedule. In any case, the old people agreed to take the place as is.
“She wanted a class-action suit, Father. That was her mistake. The others laughed her to scorn.”
“Where do people learn all this legal jargon?” Father Dowling asked Amos Cadbury later when the lawyer dropped by the rectory. Amos's clear blue eyes lifted to implore the mercy of heaven.
“Everywhere. People can go to the library and receive legal advice from computers. They can buy handbooks in the drugstore.
Law For Idiots
or whatever it's called. I am told that new clients now explain to their lawyer the strategy they have mapped out for him.”
Law For Idiots
or whatever it's called. I am told that new clients now explain to their lawyer the strategy they have mapped out for him.”
Amos no longer took new clients himself. He was still a presence in the firm he had founded, and there were several things that he kept in his personal control, among them the affairs of St. Hilary Rectory. He had come out to have a little chat with Martha Vlasko, to make sure her discontent was behind her.
“She said she was only concerned for the old people,” Amos said.
“Altruism unleashed.”
“She will be no more trouble. I knew her husband ⦔
Sometimes Father Dowling wondered if there was anyone on whatever social level in Fox River that the patrician Amos Cadbury had not known. The circle of his acquaintances had shrunk in recent years, of course. He had been to many funerals, he made regular visits to rest homes to visit other undeparted friends. Casey Vlasko had been in plumbing and heating. Nothing big, but he had a good reputation and his business could have grown if he had wanted it to. When he retired he sold the business.
“To Anderson, of course.”
“The developer.”
“That suggests a dark room. Appropriately.”
It was unusual for Amos to volunteer an opinion about anyone, let alone a negative one. But they were interrupted by the entry of Marie Murkin with a tea tray. No master of ceremonies to a
cardinal archbishop could have been fussier than Marie when she served tea to Amos Cadbury. The lawyer had sincerely and often sung the praises of her scones, and Marie all but ignored the pastor when Amos was there to be waited upon. She dropped a slice of lemon in a cup and then poured as if she were measuring out some incredibly precious liquid, not a drop of which should be lost. She handed the cup to Amos. He took it with a bow, raised the cup to his lips, and tasted it with closed eyes. The purring began before he returned the cup to its saucer.
cardinal archbishop could have been fussier than Marie when she served tea to Amos Cadbury. The lawyer had sincerely and often sung the praises of her scones, and Marie all but ignored the pastor when Amos was there to be waited upon. She dropped a slice of lemon in a cup and then poured as if she were measuring out some incredibly precious liquid, not a drop of which should be lost. She handed the cup to Amos. He took it with a bow, raised the cup to his lips, and tasted it with closed eyes. The purring began before he returned the cup to its saucer.
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