The Wolves of Midwinter

by Anne Rice

  “It’s Reuben, Mrs. Maitland,” he said, “and we’ll have supper for you when you arrive.”

  Meanwhile, the situation with Jim grew worse.

  Grace called to say that the archdiocese was becoming alarmed. They admitted to Grace that they didn’t know where Jim was. Father Jim Golding had never disappeared like this. They’d called the police. Jim’s picture had been on the six o’clock news.

  Reuben’s heart was breaking.

  He had gone into the darkened conservatory to take the call, sitting down with Elthram and Phil at the marble table.

  There was the usual fire in the white enameled Franklin stove, and scattered candles flickered here and there.

  Elthram rose without a word and slipped away, obviously to give Phil and Reuben privacy.

  Reuben tried again to reach Jim, ready to blurt out everything, if the phone would just go to voice mail. But it did not. It had never gone to voice mail, not since Jim had disappeared.

  Phil wanted to tell Grace all about Lorraine and the children now.

  But that didn’t seem fair to Reuben. Jim had to know first.

  “If only he’s all right, if only—.”

  “Now look,” said Phil. “You’re doing everything that you can. You went down to Carmel. You couldn’t find him. If we haven’t heard from him by tomorrow, we’ll tell your mother. And for now, just leave this in God’s hands.”

  Reuben shook his head.

  “And what if he hurts himself, Dad? What if he’s there in Carmel, in some little B&B, and he’s stocked up on booze, and he’s gone on a bender? Dad, lots of the people who commit suicide do it while they’re drunk. You know that. Don’t you understand what’s happened? He asked me to get rid of that damned Blankenship. He asked me because he didn’t have anyone else to turn to! And now he’s dying of guilt from it, I know he is. And these kids … why, he thought he killed Lorraine’s baby! With Jim, it’s guilt and guilt on top of guilt. He’s got to know about these kids, he has to.”

  “Reuben, I’ve never believed the old clichés about things happening for the best,” said Phil. “Or that this or that coincidence is a miracle. But if ever there was a situation that seemed to be designed by God, it’s this one. He’s at his lowest ebb and now these children appear—.”

  “But Dad, this is only going to work if he finds out about the children before he does harm to himself.”

  Finally, Reuben asked to be alone. He just had to be alone to think about all this. Phil understood of course. He’d go see how little Christine was doing. And he would leave the decision on all these things to Reuben.

  Reuben folded his arms on the marble table and rested his forehead against them. He prayed. He prayed to God with all his heart to take care of Jim. He prayed aloud. “Lord, please don’t let him take his life because of what I’ve done. Please. Please don’t let him be destroyed by all this. Please restore him to us and to his children.”

  He sat back, his eyes closed. He whispered his prayers aloud, in a desperate attempt to have faith in them.

  “I don’t know who You are, I don’t know what You are,” he whispered. “I don’t know if You want prayers or listen to prayers. I don’t know if Marchent’s with You, and whether she or any other power between heaven and earth can intercede with You. I am so scared for my brother.” He tried to think, to think and pray and think it all through. But his thoughts ended in confusion.

  Finally, he opened his eyes. In the light of the flickering candles, in the light of the flickering fire, he saw the purple blossoms of the orchid trees dripping down from the airy shadows. A sudden sense of peace came over him, just as if someone was telling him that things would be all right. And it seemed for a moment he wasn’t alone, but he couldn’t figure why he had that feeling. Surely he was the only one in the vast shadowy conservatory with its black glass and dim candlelight. Or was he?

  It was about seven o’clock when Lorraine and Jamie came in the front door. By then, bedrooms had been prepared for all of the Maitlands on the front and the east side of the house.

  Lorraine was extremely attractive, a tall very delicate woman, perhaps too thin, with a narrow very sweet face. It was one of those faces that seems incapable of guile or malice of any kind. Great vitality to her eyes, and a generous mouth. She wore what was obviously a fine vintage suit of some sort of ivory-colored grosgrain material trimmed at the pockets with black velvet. Her long straight blond hair was free over her shoulders, and girlish. She didn’t have a hat.

  Christine flew into her mother’s arms at once.

  Beside them stood Jamie, about five foot four inches tall, and very much the man of twelve in his blue blazer and gray wool pants. He was blond like his mother, with a short neat Princeton haircut, but the resemblance to Jim was striking. He had Jim’s clear, almost fierce gaze, and he had at once extended his hand to Reuben.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, sir,” he said gravely. “I’ve followed your articles in the Observer for some time.”

  “The pleasure’s mine, Jamie,” said Reuben. “You can’t imagine. And welcome to the house, both of you.”

  Immediately Lisa and Phil encouraged the children to come with them, and to let Reuben have a few words alone with Lorraine.

  “Yes, darlings, now both of you go with Mr. Golding, please,” Lorraine said. “You don’t remember me, Professor Golding, but we did meet once in Berkeley—.”

  “Oh, I do remember,” Phil said at once. “I remember it perfectly. Garden party at the dean’s house. And we talked, you and I, about the poet William Carlos Williams, and that he’d been a doctor as well as a poet. I remember that well.”

  This surprised and delighted Lorraine and put her at ease immediately. “And you actually remember that very afternoon!”

  “Of course I do. You were the prettiest woman there,” said Phil. “And you had on the most beautiful hat. I never forgot that hat. You looked so very British in that big brimmed hat. So like the queen and the queen mother.”

  Lorraine blushed as she laughed. “And you, sir, are such a gentleman,” she said.

  “But come,” said Lisa, “let’s get this young man some supper, and Christine, dear, you come with us too; we have hot cocoa in the breakfast room, and let Master Reuben and Mrs. Maitland talk alone.”

  At once, Reuben led Lorraine into the library, to the inevitable Chesterfield couch before the fire that all the household preferred to the couches and hearth of the cavernous front room.

  He took the club chair as always, as if Felix were sitting in the wing chair when in fact no one was sitting there.

  “This is all my fault, as I told you,” Lorraine said. “I’ve handled this badly.”

  “Lorraine, these are Jim’s children, are they not? Please let me assure you, we are not shocked and we are not disapproving. We are happy, happy for Jim, happy ourselves. And Jim will be happy as well when he knows. My father and I want you to understand this immediately.”

  “Oh, you are so very kind,” she said, her voice darkening slightly with feeling. “You are so like your brother. But Reuben, Jamie, I mean Jim, does not know about these children. He must never know.”

  “But why in the world do you say that?”

  She broke off for a moment, as if to collect herself and her thoughts, and then, in a rush of lilting and silvery British speech she gently explained.

  The children had known that Jim was their father since they were ten years old. Professor Maitland, their stepfather, had made Lorraine promise before he died that she would tell them when the right time came. They had the right to know the identity of their true father. But they knew their father was a Catholic priest, and for that reason they could never approach him until they were fully grown. “They understand,” she said, “that any talk of children would be the complete ruin of their father.”

  “Oh, but Lorraine, it’s the opposite,” said Reuben immediately. “He must know. He would want to know. He will acknowledge these kids privately and immedi
ately. Lorraine, he’s never forgotten you—.”

  “Reuben,” she said in a soft voice, laying her hand gently on Reuben’s hand. “You don’t understand. Your brother could be forced out of the priesthood if this becomes known to him. He would have to tell his archbishop. And the archbishop could simply remove Jim from his ministry. It could destroy him, don’t you see? It could destroy the man he’s become.” Her voice was low, urgent and sincere. “Believe me, I have investigated this. I’ve been to your brother’s church. He doesn’t know this, of course. But I’ve heard him preach. I know what his life means to him now, and Reuben, I knew him very well before he ever became a priest.”

  “But Lorraine, he can secretly acknowledge—.”

  “No,” she said. “Believe me. He cannot. My own lawyers have investigated. The climate in the Church today would never allow it. There’s been too much scandal, too much controversy over the priesthood in recent years, too many famous priests compromised by the revelations of affairs, secret families, children and such …”

  “But this is different—.”

  “I wish it were different,” she said. “But it’s not. Reuben, your brother wrote to me when he decided to become a priest. I knew at the time that if I told him about these children he would not be accepted in the seminary. I knew he thought he’d somehow caused the death of my pregnancy. I realized all that, and I thought it through. I consulted my own Anglican priest in England on the matter. I talked it over with Professor Maitland. I made the decision then to let Jim go on thinking that I had lost the pregnancy. It wasn’t a perfect decision, not by any means. But it was the best decision I could make for Jim. When these children are older, when they are adults—.”

  “But Lorraine, he needs to know. They need him and he needs them.”

  “If you love your brother,” she said softly, “surely you must not tell him about these children. I know Jim. I don’t mean to offend you when I say that I know him intimately. I know Jim better than I’ve known almost anyone in my life. I know the battles he has fought with himself. I know the price of his victories. If he is forced out of his ministry, it will destroy his life.”

  “Listen to me. I understand why you’re saying this,” Reuben said. “Jim’s told me what happened at Berkeley. He told me what he did—.”

  “Reuben, you cannot know the whole story,” she gently insisted. “Jamie himself doesn’t know the whole story. When I met Jamie, my life was in tatters. In a very real way, your brother saved my life. I was married to a sick man, an older man, and that man brought Jamie—I mean Jim—into our home to save my life. I don’t think your brother ever knew the full extent to which he was manipulated by my husband. My husband was a good man but he would have done anything to keep me happy and keep me with him, and he brought Jim into our little world so that Jim would love me, and Jim did.”

  “Lorraine, I do know this.”

  “But you can’t know what it meant to me. You can’t know the suicidal depression I suffered before I met Jamie. Reuben, your brother is one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. We had such happiness together, you simply cannot imagine. Your brother is the only man I’ve ever loved.”

  Reuben was quietly astonished.

  “Oh, he had his demons,” she said, “but he’s vanquished them all and found himself in the priesthood—that’s the whole point—and I cannot repay the love he gave me by destroying his life now, not when the children are happy, well cared for, well provided for. And not when I chose not to tell him about the children before. I must bear the consequences of letting him believe that our baby died. No, Jim cannot know.”

  “There has to be some solution to this,” said Reuben. He knew in his heart of hearts he had no intention whatsoever of keeping this from Jim.

  “I should never never have let the children come to the Christmas gala here,” Lorraine said, shaking her head. “Never. But you see, the academy in San Rafael had three invitations to the party, and I was expected to bring the eighth grade; and Jamie and Christine were simply beside themselves with excitement. Everybody was talking about the festival at Nideck Point and the Christmas banquet, the Man Wolf mystery, all of it. They begged, promised, cried. They knew all about you from the news, of course, and they knew you were Jim’s brother. They so wanted to come, just to see their father in the flesh, one time, and they promised to behave.”

  “Believe me, Lorraine, I understand completely,” Reuben said. “Of course they wanted to come to the party. I would have wanted to come, too.”

  “But I shouldn’t have brought them,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Someday when they are no longer children, when they’re adults, yes, they can meet their father. But not now. He’s far too vulnerable for us to approach him now.”

  “Lorraine, I can’t believe this! I want to tell my mother about this. Look, I don’t mean to be crass, believe me, but the Golding family and the Spangler family—my mother’s people—are huge supporters of the archdiocese of San Francisco.”

  “Reuben, I am aware of that. I’m sure your family’s influence paved the way for Jim to be ordained. He told me in his letter that he’d been completely honest and contrite with his superiors about his past. And I don’t doubt that. They approved his sincerity, his repentance; and no doubt there were the donations to smooth the way.” Her voice was so softly eloquent and persuasive. She made it seem all very logical and fine.

  “Well, they can smooth the way now for him to see his children in private, damn it!” said Reuben. “I’m sorry. I apologize. I mean I have to call my mother. My mother will be ecstatic. And I have to find Jim. The problem right now is nobody knows where Jim is.”

  “I know,” said Lorraine. “I’ve been following the news. So have the children. I am worried sick about Jim. I had no idea Jim’s life involved such danger. Oh, I wish we had not brought this problem to your very doorstep at this time.”

  “But, Lorraine, this is the best time. Jim’s miserable right now over the death of this young priest in the Tenderloin.” How he wished he could tell her more, but he could never tell her—or anyone else—more. “Look, these children are going to help bring him back to himself.”

  She was not convinced. She looked at him searchingly, her soft eyes full of compassion and concern. What a gentle person she was. She was exactly as Jim had described her. She sighed and sat with her hands composed in her lap, working at the clasp of her purse much the way Christine’s hands had worked obsessively with her handkerchief.

  “I don’t know what to do then,” she said. “I simply don’t know. It’s all so remarkable. They were resigned. They only asked to see their father from a distance. They wanted to know what he really looked like. And I didn’t think it would do the slightest harm. We came to the festival in the village and then on to the banquet here at the house. Jim looked right at us and didn’t recognize me, didn’t notice them. I had prepared the children for this. There were plenty of children at the party. There were children everywhere. I tried to stay out of Jim’s way entirely. The last thing I wanted was for Jim to see me—.”

  “That’s why you didn’t wear a hat, why you took off your hat before the party.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind. It’s nothing. Go on. What happened?”

  “Well, Christine was so upset. She is so easily upset! She’s always fantasized about her father, dreamed about him, written stories about him. She started drawing pictures of him as soon as she heard about him, though she hadn’t the faintest idea what he looked like. I should have known how actually seeing him in the flesh would affect her. She started to cry. I should have taken them home then. But I didn’t. And then towards the end of the party, this very small thing happened, such a small thing.” She shook her head. Her voice was filled with sadness. “Christine saw Jim walking out to the pavilion with a little girl. He had the little girl’s hand in his. He was talking with the little girl and with an older woman, a grandmother perhaps. And when Christine saw
him with that little girl, you see, smiling at that little girl, and talking to that little girl—.”

  Susie Blakely, of course.

  “Oh, yes, I can imagine,” said Reuben. “I know that little girl. Yes. And I can see why this happened, what Christine felt. I understand everything. Lorraine, will you stay here tonight, please? Please stay here while I talk to Phil and Grace, my mom and dad, about this. Please. We have everything prepared upstairs, everything—pajamas, nightgowns, toothbrushes, everything you might need—three bedrooms have been prepared. Just stay here with us while we take this into consideration, please.”

  She was clearly not persuaded. Her eyes were watering.

  “You know, Reuben, you are very like your brother. You are kind the way he is kind. Your parents must be marvelous people. But I turned out to be poison for Jim.”

  “No, that’s not how it was, not according to him, you were not poison!”

  Reuben left the chair and sat beside her on the couch.

  “I promise you this is going to work out! I give you my word,” he said. He slipped his arm around her. “Please stay with us tonight. And will you trust me to handle this with Jim? Please?”

  After a long moment, she nodded.

  “Very well,” she whispered. She opened her purse and withdrew a little packet of folded papers. “This is the DNA of the children,” she said. “Your mother’s a doctor. She’ll be able to check it against Jim’s DNA quietly.”

  “Lorraine, may I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Was the pregnancy ever in jeopardy? Did you have to go into the hospital—I mean after the last time you saw Jim?”

  “No. Not really. There was a fight. It was ugly. Jamie … well, Jamie was drunk and he did slap me repeatedly. But he didn’t mean it. He would have never done it sober. He cut my face in a number of places. It bled something fierce. And I hit Jamie and things went from bad to worse. At one point I hit my head on something. I fell down. But no, the pregnancy was never really in danger. But it was a dreadful quarrel, that I confess.”