Stained Glass
Table of Contents
For Mary and Bill Dempsey
Tetzel of the
Fox River Tribune
sat morosely in the pressroom at the courthouse seriously contemplating taking the pledge. He could remember the night before up to a certain point and then things went blank. He had come awake with a sore neck and a throbbing headache sitting at his desk in the pressroom and had no idea how he had ended up there. His hand lifted to massage his brow and tipped his hat from his head. When he stooped to pick it up off the floor, he nearly blacked out. The hat kept moving away from his groping hand. He sat back in his chair, hatless, and closed his eyes. Someone entered.
Fox River Tribune
sat morosely in the pressroom at the courthouse seriously contemplating taking the pledge. He could remember the night before up to a certain point and then things went blank. He had come awake with a sore neck and a throbbing headache sitting at his desk in the pressroom and had no idea how he had ended up there. His hand lifted to massage his brow and tipped his hat from his head. When he stooped to pick it up off the floor, he nearly blacked out. The hat kept moving away from his groping hand. He sat back in his chair, hatless, and closed his eyes. Someone entered.
“The top of the morning to you, Tetzel.”
There was no need to open his eyes to know that it was Tuttle. He heard the little lawyer collapse in a chair whose squeak went through Tetzel's nervous system like a laser.
“Stop rocking, damn it.”
“You're not feeling well.”
“Could you whisper?”
“You should have left when I did, Tetzel.”
The reporter opened one eye, the one nearer to Tuttle. “Were you there?”
“Everyone was there.”
“When did you leave?”
“Just after my curfew.”
Tetzel considered asking Tuttle where “there” was, or had been, but he was at enough of a disadvantage already. “I feel awful.”
“Better come across the street.”
For a remedial drink? Minutes before, Tetzel would have found the suggestion emetic. Now it seemed only sensible. “Hand me my hat.”
Tuttle swept it up and stood. He put the hat on Tetzel's head and helped him rise. He guided the reporter down the hall to the elevator, steered him inside, and pressed a button. Tetzel felt that he was leaving his stomach on the floor they had left. His body broke out in a cold sweat. Vague memories of sobriety teased his mind. Once he had been a clearheaded reporter, a model for youngsters, a legend because of the novel he was allegedly writing. They arrived safely on the ground floor; the doors slid open, and Tetzel hung back. Before him, in the lobby of the courthouse, were busy men and women, hurrying this way and that. Tetzel was sure that each and every one of them could give a clear account of the way he had spent the previous night. Tuttle urged him forth, and they crossed the black and white marble squares to the revolving doors. They actually entered together, a tight fit, but Tetzel wondered if he would have dared the door on his own.
Outside was more normalcy, sunlight, traffic, horns, the usually inaudible roar of the city. Tuttle wisely took his charge to the corner, and they crossed with the light. Ahead lay the friendly confines of the Jury Room.
Once inside, Tuttle's grip on his arm loosened and Tetzel moved like a zombie toward a far booth, as far from sunlight as any in the room. At the bar, Tuttle ordered a Coke for himself and a Bloody Mary for Tetzel. The bartender was watching Tetzel. The reporter looked as if he were one of the Flying Wallendas negotiating a rope
high above a circus audience. His arms were extended for better balance.
high above a circus audience. His arms were extended for better balance.
“He going to be sick?”
“He is sick.”
“Put him in the men's room.”
“Now, now, Portia, that's no way to treat a steady customer.”
“He isn't steady.”
“He will be.”
Tuttle swept up the drinks, called, “Tetzel's tab,” over his shoulder, and walked carefully to the booth. He put Tetzel's drink before him and slid into the seat across from him. The reporter was contemplating the Bloody Mary.
“Tell me about last night.”
“What's to tell?”
“You don't remember,” Tetzel said accusingly. He lowered his lips to the plastic straw and his cheeks hollowed. He inhaled half the drink before sitting back. A moment passed. Color came back to Tetzel's face. Another moment and he sighed. “I needed that.”
Tuttle advised against a repetition of the remedy. With his synapses responding, Tetzel was inclined to dispute the point. Tuttle opened the newspaper he had taken from the bar, turning the pages with an indifference that annoyed Tetzel.
“Good Lord,” Tuttle cried.
“What?” Tetzel asked, trying to signal Portia.
“They plan to tear down St. Hilary's.”
Amos Cadbury was the dean of the Fox River bar, seventy-nine years old and thus, as he insisted to himself, in his eightieth year. He was the sole surviving partner of the colleagues with whom he had formed the firm many, many years ago. He had stopped taking new clients a decade before, but he still brought business into the firm, passing new clients on to others with the assurance that they would benefit from the counsel of the oldest member.
The oldest member. Amos was a lifelong fan of P. G. Wodehouse, and the author's golf stories had become even more delightful since Amos had put away his clubs and, like the narrator of the Wodehouse stories, was content to sit on the clubhouse veranda watching golfers come and go on the course before him. Just below the veranda was the eighteenth green and, to the right, the first tee. The contrast between those beginning their round and those ending theirs seemed an allegory of life. The first tee is a symbol of hope, the triumph of expectation over experience; the eighteenth green was the supreme moral test as players frowned over their cards and fought the temptation to alter the record of their play. When they directed their electric carts up the path to the clubhouse, the idealists who had driven from the first tee were once more realists, the notion of par a mockery of their skills.
A foursome had just left the eighteenth green when a ball lofted from the valley below dropped neatly onto the green and then spun backward, stopping mere inches from the hole. Amos waited for other balls to appear, but none had when a young man, his bag slung over his shoulder, came into view. He seemed still fresh and spry, unlike the members of the foursome, who, although they had gone round in carts, might have been breasting the tape at the end of a marathon. The young man was Hugh Devere. He took out his putter, dropped his bag at the edge of the green, and walked to his ball. He left the flag in as he tapped the ball into the hole.
Hugh was one of the few golfers who would have been allowed to go round as a singleton. His play was sure and swift. Amos wondered how many groups had waved Hugh through, if only for the pleasure of watching the young man play.
Amos lifted his gin and tonic in a toast as Hugh approached and was delighted when the young man joined him on the veranda. He took a chair and lit a cigarette.
“An athlete smoking?”
“I'm not an athlete, I'm a golfer.”
“Let me see your card.”
“Oh, I keep score in my head.”
“And?”
“Three over.”
“Very good.”
“Probably my last round before I head back to South Bend.”
Several generations of Deveres had been clients of Amos's, and all the males, like himself, were alumni of Notre Dame, Amos a double domer, undergraduate then law school. Hugh had gone off to Thomas Aquinas College in California but now had entered the architecture school at Notre Dame, thus salvaging the Devere record. Architecture is an undergraduate program, but, as Hugh put it, now that he had acquired an education, he would prepare himself for
professional life. Relieved of the necessity of taking courses outside the architecture school, he would finish his studies at the end of the coming year.
professional life. Relieved of the necessity of taking courses outside the architecture school, he would finish his studies at the end of the coming year.
“Did my dad get hold of you?”
“This is my day away from the office.”
“He's madder than hell.”
“At not finding me in?”
“The story in the
Tribune.
”
Tribune.
”
Amos drew on his cigar. It was a feature of his Wednesdays that he read no papers and listened to no news broadcasts. He spent the mornings reading and then had lunch at the club, after which he took up his station on the veranda, where watching other golfers reconciled him to the fact that he himself no longer played. He waited to see if Hugh would pursue the subject, hoping he would not.
“I can't believe they will tear it down.”
Amos remained silent, wishing the alarums and excursions of what was taken for news into deserved oblivion.
“What will happen to Father Dowling?”
“Father Dowling?”
“So you haven't read the story.”
“You have the advantage of me there, Hugh. Tell me about it.”
Amos listened in disbelief. There had been a story in the
Tribune
concerning the closing down of certain parishes in the archdiocese, and St. Hilary's in Fox River was on the list of those slated for closing.
Tribune
concerning the closing down of certain parishes in the archdiocese, and St. Hilary's in Fox River was on the list of those slated for closing.
“Dad is up in arms.”
“Of course. He is a parishioner at St. Hilary's.”
“His grandfather donated the windows.”
Hugh's was alarming news indeed. The peace of the day dissipated, and Amos finished his drink and got to his feet.
Hugh did the same. “Well, I'm off to the showers.”
Amos watched Hugh as he walked away, young and carefree, as if he had not just destroyed Amos's peace of mind. The venerable lawyer went inside, found a copy of the paper, and read the story, finding it even more upsetting than Hugh's account. He went into the bar and telephoned Father Dowling.
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