“That was the end of what might be called our innocence.”
Koesler felt he was listening to the plot of some standard Grand Opera. Everything bright and cheery was about to turn tragic and deadly.
He was right.
“Moira may have been ignorant of male physical response before me, but she was well aware of her reproductive system. She knew what to expect when she missed several periods.
“Not unlike many our age, we gave little or no thought to pregnancy. That was something that happened to other people … people who were not beloved and favored by God. We were dedicated to God. Especially me. I was going to be a priest!
“Strange … all the time we were making love—savagely, tenderly—we never squarely faced the fact that I was going to be a priest. And that that vocation did not include Moira.
“But now, she was pregnant. And we were scared stiff—with good reason. Like most seminarians of that era, I had always wanted to be a priest. All my life to that point had been directed toward being a priest. My dalliance with Moira had been just that: amorous play.
“But now the game got serious.
“I offered to do ‘the honorable thing’ and make ‘an honest woman’ of her. But it was a halfhearted offer at best. I did not want to turn away from the priesthood. However, especially with that offer on the table, Moira was in the driver’s seat. She could’ve accepted my offer no matter however lukewarmly it was made.
“But Moira was too insightful for that. She knew if I had given up my vocation for her, I would never be happy. In time, I probably would’ve grown to resent her, the impediment to my life’s goal.
“But, dammit, then reality sticks its ugly head into my life. She refused an insincere proposal. What I should’ve done was make it sincere. I should’ve insisted that we build a life together. I should have been man enough to take responsibility for what I’d done. After all, I had been ‘man enough’ to do it. I should have married the girl—happily.
“That’s what I should have done. What I did was the cowardly thing.”
Smith did not look at all well. He had been animated enough when narrating his early courting of Moira. Now it was as if he were dying little by little. ‘Are you all right?” Koesler asked. “You don’t look well.”
Smith waved him away. Once started, Smith seemed determined to lay the entire story bare.
“So,” Smith continued, “we decided not to marry. Others had done that and survived.
“Little did either of us anticipate what was coming.
“I had never heard of the Magdalens. Hard as it is to believe, neither had Moira. It is a testimonial to just how disgraced these women were that few Irish people knew of their existence. People brought laundry to the convents and it was cleaned. It was washed and ironed by Magdalens who appeared in uniform and only in the company of nuns. If anybody ever gave any notice to these women, it was assumed they maybe were novices or postulants of that religious order.
“Moira pregnant was the ultimate disgrace to her family. Moira, about to be an unwed mother, would not tell who the father was. For that she was beaten. But she would not speak.
“As far as I was able to tell, there was only one person beside ourselves who knew. A Mr. Reidy, who owned one of the three pubs in Moira’s village. He had chanced upon us once and, God knows why—probably because there are decent people in this world—promised to keep our secret.
“We were apprehensive for a while after that, waiting for the sword to fall. But Reidy was as good as his word. He kept our secret. I think he felt sorry for us. He wasn’t much older than we were—and in after years I sometimes wondered whether maybe he had had a love affair that didn’t work out … or maybe the girl he loved died; as far as I know, he never married—” Smith winced, whether from mental or physical pain Koesler had no way of knowing. After a minute he seemed to recover. He went on with his story.
“I was ordained in Dublin for service in Detroit. I left Ireland without knowing what had happened to Moira. I didn’t see her. I thought she might have attended my ordination. I thought she had been sent away. I didn’t know she had disappeared into a bottomless prison that was the ‘charity’ system.
“By this time, Reidy and I had come to be friends. As I said, I think he felt sorry for me. He was never judgmental, and I was grateful for that.
“Before I left Ireland, I reached an agreement with him. He would be my conduit for contact with Moira—if he could find her. I would send money, as much as I could, for Moira and the child—and for himself for his trouble.
“Shortly after I returned to Detroit, Reidy informed me that I might just as well stop sending letters to Moira through him. She was in a convent. He knew where she was, but couldn’t get any letters to her without having them taken by the nuns.
“And then the boy was born. Moira never saw him. Nor did she have any choice in the adoption. Because Reidy had a sister who was a nun, he was able to find out about the boy and keep track of him. But Moira became lost to the world behind a series of convents that I could only liken to a Russian gulag.”
Smith paused, seemingly lost in thought, then continued.
“Right then, I think, Robert, I should have chucked it all—my priesthood, my future—and found her and our child and tried to create a happy ending. Or as happy an ending as fate would allow.
“But … I was a coward. I decided to continue as I was. I continued my arrangement with Reidy, now only as far as the boy was concerned. Moira was lost to me.
“Robert”—Smith seemed to be losing strength—“it is very much like the traditional crucial lie. Tell it and it sets you on a path of lying. One lie begets the next, and so on. In this case it’s an act of cowardice. One leads to the next until it reaches such proportions it has a life of its own.
“That’s what it was with me. I made one cowardly decision. Then another. Soon it was the story of my life. At least the secret life I had with Reidy and eventually, with my son, Dermot.”
Smith paused. He seemed to have run out of energy.
“You really don’t look well,” Koesler said.
“I think I’ll take that drink you offered.”
Koesler poured two glasses of port.
“We were surprised about you,” Koesler said. “I was about five years behind you in the seminary. All of us knew you had been sent abroad to finish up. We also knew that guys like you were headed for special jobs: teaching in the seminary, Chancery work maybe later on becoming a bishop. You didn’t do any of those things. You sort of melted into the crowd. Then, as the years passed, you didn’t invest in anything, like a summer cottage or a boat. You didn’t take any of the more showy vacations.”
“And now you know why.”
“You were all torn up about Moira. That sort of explains why your career went into the dumpster.”
“I was so embarrassed about what had happened. And I feared being found out. There was always a chance that someone, someone I hadn’t known about, would blow the whistle. I thought that by keeping a low profile that would help. If I didn’t stick my head up, nobody would hit it. So I turned down a series of the ‘special’ jobs.”
“And the money you kept sending to this Reidy—that’s why you didn’t indulge in any of the luxuries.”
Smith nodded, and sipped the port.
“But Reidy …” Koesler continued, “… how could you trust him? I mean, what was to stop him from keeping the money you sent and not doing what you wanted with it?”
Smith shrugged. “Robert, let’s put it this way: I could not not try to help. Sending the money to Reidy was my only chance to do what I could. If he did with it what I wanted, God bless him. Nothing was certain; he could have died, emigrated to Australia. If he kept it for himself, well, he may have to answer for that. But then so will I. That will be a long line.”
“And Moira?”
“Ah, Moira!” Even now, Smith spoke her name as one who loved her very much. “Eventually Reidy was abl
e to help her a bit. He couldn’t get her out of that system. But he was able to locate her—and even visit her from time to time. He was able to give her some of the money I sent. Or”—he looked purposefully at Koesler—“so he said. He was able to send me word when she died. Some twenty years ago. A young woman. But an old woman.”
“And Dermot?”
“Dermot Hanrahan,” Smith completed the name. “Hanrahan was the first family to ‘adopt’ him. The first of four ‘adopting’ families.” Smith shook his head. “My luck must have rubbed off on him. Of all the marvelous, generous families in Ireland, it was Dermot’s fate to be taken in by people who demanded everything of him from slave labor to doglike obedience.
“Dermot ran away a lot. This I am pretty sure is true: Reidy looked after the boy as best he could. Eventually he hired Dermot, though God knows in that little village the pub didn’t need any more help. Reidy used the money I sent to pay Dermot’s ‘wages.’
“He sent me pictures of the boy as he grew. In many ways, he was the image of me.” Pride showed briefly. “Only thing …” The pride gave way to despair. “… he hated me. He hated me without even knowing me.”
“What did he know?”
“Not a lot—but too much.” He smiled crookedly. “A classic case of a little knowledge being a dangerous thing.
“The families that had ‘taken’ him had made sure to berate him about his illegitimacy—that his mother was a ‘hoor,’ that his father was a good-for-nothing, that he would never amount to anything more than a barnyard heap—and that he ought to get down on his knees and be grateful they were giving him a roof over his head and putting food in his mouth—since that was more than his father would do for him.
“Real Christian folks,” he said bitterly.
“The problem was, I guess, that Reidy was too good-hearted … too soft-hearted. He couldn’t stand seeing the boy being beaten down so, and one night, when he’d had a few pints too much—or at least this is what he told me—he told the boy that his father was not all those rotten things that people were saying, that Reidy had known his father, and that his father was a good man.
“Naturally, the boy wanted to know why his father hadn’t acknowledged him and taken care of him. And here … oh, God!… here is where the trouble started: Reidy told him that the reason his father couldn’t acknowledge him was that his father had been a seminarian from the United States—that his father was a priest.” He shook his head sadly. “It would’ve been better if he’d told Dermot that his father was dead.
“It didn’t matter that Reidy told him that I had been sending money for him all along. It didn’t matter that he told him that I’d been a superior student and that that’s how I had come to be in Ireland—because I had been sent there to study—but that I’d had to return to the States after I was ordained.
“None of that mattered. All the boy could see was that I’d deserted his mother and thus him, and left them both to make their way—and a miserable way it was.
“Reidy was sick over it all, but there was nothing he could do. He’d spilled the beans and that was it. He tried to do the best he could after that. When Dermot wanted to know my name and where I was, Reidy wouldn’t tell him. The boy was furious. He wept and ranted and raved, but Reidy wouldn’t tell him.
“He was angry at Reidy, but he was confused too. Reidy was really the only father figure he had, so while he was angry at Reidy for keeping his father’s name and whereabouts from him, he also, I think, in his way, felt an attachment for him.
“But, as for me … well, Reidy told me that Dermot’s hatred for me grew until it became not only an obsession, but almost his raison d’être. He lived for one thing: to get even with his father … me.”
Smith paused, and sipped his wine. But he needed to continue his story.
“Dermot squirreled away much of his money. Reidy didn’t know why until quite recently. He knew that eventually Dermot would tell him what was going on.” He shook his head. “Reidy had the kind of relationship with him that I would have wanted.
“Well, it seems Dermot read in the Irish Press about this papal visit to Detroit and the symposium. He didn’t give a damn where the pope was going or why. He was attracted by the symposium because it featured priests who were experts in their field and all of them would be Americans. Dermot thought it possible that in his group he might find his father. All that he knew of his father was that the man was a priest, an American, and smart enough to have been singled out to study overseas. And since all this was taking place in Detroit …
“Something else he had wheedled out of Reidy: that he and his father looked a lot alike. And, since Dermot was forty-five, he knew his father would have been studying in Ireland some forty-five years ago.”
Smith paused and sipped a bit more of the port. He seemed exhausted, but determined to complete his story.
“Well,” Smith continued, speaking more slowly and carefully, “as it turns out, Dermot had quite a crop to chose from. Actually, it’s no surprise to anyone that there are lots of Catholic colleges and universities in Ireland where seminarians as well as priests can study. Besides UCD, there is St. Patrick’s Maynooth, All Hallows, Clonliff, Milltown, and St. Dominic’s.
“All Dermot needed to do was visit these schools and study the enrollment and class pictures for the years, roughly, 1948 through 1950. Then he could compile a list of bright young seminarians who were there from the States. All he had to do then was wait for the release of a roster of American priest experts who would take part in this symposium.
“As soon as Reidy informed me of what Dermot was doing, I volunteered to help Martin plan the symposium. I knew the guys who were studying in Ireland at the same time I was. On strictly American holidays—like Thanksgiving or July Fourth—we would all get together. It wasn’t that tough to find a couple of guys who superficially resembled me and, therefore, Dermot. They didn’t have to be clones, just have the general characteristics: tall, thin, balding, glasses. As it turned out, two of the fellows fit the bill quite well: Hanson and Palmer.”
Koesler was unable to hide his revulsion. “You chose Hanson and Palmer deliberately! You sent them to their deaths in your place!”
Smith gazed at the floor. “I had no idea … Reidy had no way of knowing either. Outside of Reidy’s telling me that Dermot was preparing for some sort of confrontation and that he planned to attend the symposium, I didn’t know who Dermot was. I had seen photos of him as a young man, and I knew he looked enough like me so that I thought I’d be able to spot him if he showed up at the symposium. But it never entered my mind that he would come disguised as one of the panelists … or, God forbid, that he had already killed the real Father Ward!”
Smith paused to think through what he’d just said. “That’s true as far as it goes. But I’m rationalizing, as I’ve done for most of my life. The whole truth is … once again, I was a coward. I was afraid to face Dermot after the life I left him and his mother. I figured he would just dump his pent-up anger on Hanson or Palmer. And that would be that. Or, so I hoped.”
“Why would Dermot exclude the possibility that you were his father? The criteria fit you as well as the other two.”
“Except for one thing: While I was in Ireland at the right time and the right place, I did nothing with my life. His father was headed for big things—like being an acknowledged expert in one or another ecclesiastical field. His father would not have ended up, as I did, a simple parish priest.
“And of course since I wasn’t staying at the seminary I never came face to face with him anyway. Maybe if I had …” His face filled with anguish. “… Hanson and Palmer would be still be alive—and God help me—so would my son.…”
He pulled himself together somewhat.
“And, while we’re at it, Robert, about my recounting what happened to that Detroit soldier who survived the Gulf War only to be murdered by his wife’s brother, at her behest: The example was not meant to be taken literally. Just that
her brother stood in for her. Just as Hanson and Palmer would stand in for me … Again—I had no idea Dermot had murder in his heart.”
“But,” Koesler pressed, “after Dan Hanson was killed …”
“Why didn’t I warn Bill Palmer? A couple of things … maybe three. I didn’t know whom to warn Palmer about. How could I know that Dermot actually did this? Who was Dermot? And, still playing the coward, I was afraid to let anyone know I had anything to do with this whole affair. Besides …” He shivered. “… it was just then that I got my death sentence.”
“You what?!”
“I’ve been feeling really bad for about a month now. Afraid to go to the doctor. Afraid of what he might say.” A brief smile. “A coward yet again. A few days ago I couldn’t stand it anymore. Between the pain and the fear of what was causing it, I couldn’t sleep. I lost my appetite and some weight—suddenly. So I finally went to the doctor. He put me through some tests.” He winced. “I’ve got cancer of the pancreas.”
He didn’t need to amplify. Koesler had known people with pancreatic cancer. He knew how swiftly and terrifyingly it usually progressed. He felt deeply for Paul Smith—a man he’d grown close to only very recently. “Paul …” Koesler leaned toward him. “… how … long …?”
“How long have I got? They say a month or less. But I can tell you, I think it’s less … lots less.”
So much had been revealed in so brief a time, that an interval for silent reflection seemed necessary.
“Just as a matter of curiosity,” Koesler said after a few minutes,” why all those clues—like the ‘dead ringer’ comment, and the Magdalens—and why me? Why did you pick me to dump all this on?”
“Could I say it seemed a good idea at the time? No. Well, I had no idea what was going to happen or how this was going to turn out. What would Dermot do? How would he relate to Hanson and Palmer? And, by the time of the Koznickis’ dinner, I was feeling so rotten. I knew something was very, very wrong inside me. I wanted someone to know what had happened to me. To Dermot. Someone had to be able to tell the story—maybe to Dermot. But I couldn’t just come out and tell any one. So I devised the clues and gave them to you because … oh, I guess I was still rationalizing—thinking that maybe if somebody could figure things out … and … well, you’re good at piecing things like this together. I had confidence you could do it. And you did.
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