The City Below (20 page)

"And meanwhile, the men and women whose lives are wrecked by it? Or whose faith in the Church is? What about them?"

Father Collins's face clouded over, and Terry thought for sure he would get angry now. Yes, that would be next, the revelation that the priest beloved of all was a mean bastard drunk.

But the waiter arrived just then. When he'd placed the artichokes in front of each one, when he'd poured the pungent dressing over the gaping mouth of the crusty flower, he departed.

Terry said, "It looks like a grenade."

"Ready to explode?" Father Collins laughed, and his mood brightened as he lifted his martini. "You've really never had an artichoke? Reason enough right there not to ordain you. Watch." He set down his drink, flapped his napkin to the side, then tucked its corner into his collar and spread the cloth. Then he removed a leaf of the artichoke, scooped the vinaigrette, and put the tip of the leaf between his teeth. He pulled sharply once, for the meat, then closed his lips on the leaf a second time, to suck it "Delicious."

Terry imitated him, although without the napkin at his neck. The tiny morsel he coaxed off the end of the leaf
was
delicious, but it surprised him to realize that the nubby dp was all there was to eat It was a relief to have the complicated novelty of the thistlelike artichoke as a point of concentration.

The two men worked their leaves in silence for some moments.

"Imagine," Father Collins said, "the first guy to eat one of these, huh?"

Imagine, Terry thought instead, the first guy to stand up to the pope. But that was Martin Luther, and if ever there was a man who'd aggrandized himself ...

The seminarians' up-to-date study of the Reformation had been ecumenical: Luther was sincere and had valid criticisms to make. And it was psychological: Luther was constipated and hated his father. The seminarians were taught not to condemn Luther, but to disdain him.

Terry felt mystified suddenly by how he came to be here, in a public-setting conference with his private confessor, feeling confused and guilty. For what? Hesitating to swear falsely? Only a minute ago, it seemed, he was holding that girl, touching her skin inside her winter clothing at the Lincoln Memorial, his chest full of air, trying to help her remember how to breathe. Over the years, that image had taken over the empty niches in his mind while men around him went on about the proofs of God's existence or the question of whether Christ had really felt pain or only pretended to. If Didi Mullen had presented a classic occasion of sin, what the hell was this?

The rank absurdity of his situation made him laugh out loud as he tore open the core of the artichoke. "Yes," he said, "imagine."

"Watch that part, lad. It's where the name comes from, the heart Eat that and you choke." lerry looked up sharply because Father Collins's voice had slipped into a slur. At the corner of his mouth, a ribbon of saliva leaked. His always rheumy eyes were now fully glazed over. The edgy posture in which he customarily held himself had folded. He was smiling serenely, needless to say.

Terry thought of his mother. Her drink was not gin but sherry, with which she had maintained her steady, low-grade buzz. Sherry or beer, like Terry had in front of him now. "When I was a kid," he said, as much to himself as to the priest, "my mother used to make me go to confession when I knew I hadn't done anything wrong. My only sins were the lies I told the priest in the box, so I'd be like the others."

Father Collins reached across the table and clasped Terry's hand. "You know I love you, Terry," he said sadly, "but I have to say your sin was thinking you weren't already like them. And it still is."

"Maybe so, Father." Terry took his hand back and unconsciously wiped his fingers on the napkin. He could not bring himself, after that, to look at his mentor.

The rest of the meal went strangely. They hardly spoke again. Father Collins did not bother to feign interest in the chowder when it came, spooning it over on itself once or twice but never tasting it. Twice more he drained his martini, ate the olive, snapped the toothpick in half, held the torch of his glass up until a waiter replaced it. Meanwhile the fingers of his free hand fussed with the pieces of broken toothpicks, absently arranging them into shapes and figures, boxes and letters and, once, the cross of Jesus again, which, from Terry's vantage, resembled a sword.

Terry, meanwhile, idled with his fish, pretending to eat, aware that other diners increasingly eyed the unsteady priest. Then at last the meal was over, and Terry was mortified when he realized that Father Collins was preparing to leave with no expectation of having to pay.

"What about the check?"

"Not at Dini's," the priest said. "No such thing." He was sober enough to read Terry's reaction: Clerical privilege, no wonder the people hate us. But he was not sober enough to rein in the fierceness with which he leaned across the table. "We do
them
the favor. It brightens the tone of the place, having the dog collar in here. That's why they put us up front Business, we help business. You'll get the picture soon enough."

But Terry's thoughts, as he looked at the ribbon of spittle on the priest's chin, were: I already have the picture. And: I'm no dog, and neither are you.

On Tremont Street he helped Father Collins into a cab, to bring him back to St John's, and Terry started to get in too. But the priest refused to allow it "You'll get into trouble," he said, "if you show up with me."

Terry watched the cab pull away. At the corner of Park Street it swung right, gunning for the golden dome of the State House and then out of sight But Terry continued staring after it, as if he could see the long arrow of Beacon Street cutting through Back Bay and Kenmore Square, through Brookline and out to Brighton. Unconsciously his eyes rested on the soft greens of the Boston Common, and he allowed himself to slip into a kind of trance of melancholy. He did not move.

One of the things that made Terry Doyle a true Bostonian was the way in which the very geography of the city could serve as the throne of his ruling moods. Nothing had enshrined the ache of his boyhood desire like the sparkling view from Bunker Hill; the sense of marginality that went with seminary life like the location of St. John's on the far edge of the city; and now the feeling, admitted at last, of being weighted down by what he saw from where he stood. The Parker House took over the field of his concentration. Its awning protruded over the pavement To most of Boston, the old hotel meant the famous dinner rolls, or perhaps the place where Dickens stayed, or the basement Grill Room, Curley's favorite watering hole. But to Doyle, the Parker House meant only Kennedy.

He began to walk toward it and soon was passing the row of storefronts, long since redivided and tenanted, that had served as the. 1960 campaign headquarters. His focus went to the curbside spot where he and Didi had briefly met Ted Kennedy, the young, bright-eyed brother who, that night, had been barely older than Terry Doyle was now. The change in Ted's status, more than anything, defined the decade.

Ted Kennedy. Terry could not help but think of him standing at the podium in the sanctuary of St Patrick's Cathedral a bare three months ago, quoting Bobby: "Each time a man stands up for an ideal, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope."

Ripples. Doyle was aware of the salty ocean in his throat, and he was waiting for something to breach its surface. How easy to imagine the surviving brother, staggered and afraid, wondering in secret, What will I do now?

Yes, what?

Terry's question, of course. And it told him that, in this navigation, the needle of his inner compass was drawn not toward points of faith, the last words of Jesus, any teaching of the Church —but to Kennedy.

And therefore to Bright. The last time he'd seen McKay was on television, at that funeral, in a pew behind the senator.

At the Parker House, Doyle went through the revolving doors. He crossed the broad lobby toward the stairs in the corner near the elevators. The stairs led to the Grill Room, where Didi had slain the college boys by outchugging them. But also, Doyle remembered, the stairs led to the telephone booths.

"This is a collect call for Neville McKay. My name is Terry Doyle."

He listened to the hollow reverberations as the operator put the call through. The sound made him think again of the ocean. "Ripples" —it was the famous quote from Bobby's South Africa speech —"which build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance ..."

"Hello?"

"...a call for Neville McKay ..."

The person who answered was a woman, and from the cloud in her voice as she asked the operator to repeat, Terry realized she'd been asleep. In panic, he looked at his watch. But it was two in the afternoon. Who would be asleep —?

"Just a minute."

An eternity passed. Doyle was sure that the muffled sounds he heard were bed linens being tugged at, pillows shuffled. He thought of hanging up, but he'd already given his name.

"Terry?"

"Neville McKay?" The operator was steadily officious. "Will you accept —?"

"Sure. Terry?"

"Bright? Is that you?"

"Hey, Terry! My man! How you doing?"

"Jeez, Bright, it sounds like I called you a little early."

"What time is it?" The fog was in Bright's voice too, but in fact the happiness in his greeting had dispelled Terry's embarrassment.

"Just after two."

"In daytime?"

"Open the curtains, Bright. Start the coffee."

"Don't shit me, Charlie."

Bright associated the nickname with Charlestown, not Chaplin. Because of the history it implied, Terry liked the name when Bright was the one using it.

"Listen, buddy, I know I've caught you at a had time."

"Why'd you call me here? How'd you know I wasn't at work? Christ, did you call —?"

"No, no. I called you there because it's Saturday."

"We work on Saturday in the capital of the Free World."

"Yeah, I noticed. Some work. Look, I need to talk, but if now is a had time —"

"We can talk. What's up?"

"You've got your friend there."

"She's gone. I mean, she went to the bathroom. Then she'll be in the kitchen. We have our little routine."

"Christ, Bright, you haven't changed."

"Have you?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"You know me, Terry. Anytime I get a crack at talking you out of —"

"You're just a PK antícleric. That's your problem."

"Not my problem, my solution."

"Well, I do have a problem. I'm serious."

"What?"

But all at once Terry fell silent. Why in hell was he calling McKay, the one person guaranteed to have no sympathy whatsoever for his situation? Then he remembered why. "I'm at the Parker House."

"Getting laid, I hope."

"No. But I was thinking about our time down here together. About Kennedy." What made us friends, he added to himself.

"The offer stands, Terry. I know I can get you something. We have two new subcommittees coming our way, with staff positions on each."

"Bright, I'm being ordained a deacon next week. A week today."

"I know that I'm coming, remember? So are the Rev. and Mrs. Bishop. You invited us."

"
You're
coming? All the way from D.C.?"

"I told you I would if I could. It's all arranged. It amazes me, though, what you'll do to get me to come to church. My father is ecstatic. What I will remind you both of, however, is that I'm coming for
you.
I'll even take Communion if it'll embarrass you not to."

"I'm really glad you're coming. And your father. He's agreed to vest and sit in the sanctuary. I saw him in his purple at an interfaith peace service. Cushing was there."

"The war's over, then. What chance does the Pentagon have against Canterbury and Rome?"

"When the cardinal hugged him, your father disappeared."

Bright said, "Aha, back in the fold! All Dad told me was that His Eminence was cordial."

"Cushing
loves
your father. He loves not having to deal with a Brahmin."

"You mean, he loves finally having a bishop of the Episcopal Church he can feel socially superior to."

"Jesus, Bright." Terry leaned back against the wall of the booth. Whoa. Was that true? He could not touch it.

"So what's up, Charlie? You said 'problem.'"

Terry had the feeling that he'd just put his finger in a socket. The rank matter-of-factness of McKay's statement had both made it seem true and made it so outrageous. His problem? It had just become: How do I go on with this conversation? But he had to say something. "Like I said," he began. "I was thinking about Kennedy. Your Kennedy."

"He's the only one left, Terry." Bright's sadness coursed through the phone like a wind.

"I was thinking of his eulogy for Bobby. The ripple of hope and all that. I never asked you —did you help write that?"

"No. Terry, I write his
letters.
To the old ladies in tennis shoes. The speeches are written by the geniuses. That one was Bill Shannon, the
Times
guy, except the Aeschylus, which was Richard Goodwin. The senator had told them what he wanted, though. That speech was his own."

"He's going to be president, Bright. That's what we all thought out here, watching TV In case you wondered."

"You called me up to talk about Senator Kennedy's political prospects?"

"No."

"Why, then?"

Terry had been absently running a finger along the scratches in the wall of the phone booth. Only now did he read them as words.
Cock sucked? Call Bob at
... He closed his eyes. "What Kennedy said about standing up for an ideal?"

"Yeah?"

"Versus, well, the need to sometimes just stay in your seat a little longer, for the greater good. You know what I mean?"

"We all have to eat some of the brown stuff, Terry."

"They want me to eat a big one, Bright. I don't know if I —" He stopped. To hear himself discussing his situation in this way appalled him.

Bright said something.

"What?"