Decatur

by Patricia Lynch

  “It’s a hell of a threesome,” Marilyn said, her voice low and husky with just the barest whisper of smile as Father W sighed and nodded.

  “I’ll think if you’ll be careful,” is what he said and then they were gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  To Mop up or an Ancient Fish

  Gar had to exercise all of his self-control to relinquish the source that late Sunday afternoon in front of her duplex. He had wanted so much more but held back, trying to create in Marilyn a hunger that would mirror his own. She kept affecting him in ways he couldn’t predict. He was skittish and cranky when he got back to the parish house, his nerve endings tingling and raw. Father Troy was moping in his bedroom, tuning his guitar with the door open, hoping that Gar would come in and sit on the long bench and they could just talk. The parish house was gloomy and heavy with Monsignor’s death so it was only natural, Father Troy guessed, that Gar busied himself in the kitchen instead of coming in to visit. For his part, Gar concentrated on putting together the supper that Mrs. Napoli had mostly prepared. He plopped the cooked meatballs in her good red sauce and pulled out the big pot to cook spaghetti in. It was important now to keep things stable until he could make his move, Gar coached himself, putting out the green foil-wrapped Kraft shaker with the powdery salty cheese they called Parmesan in Decatur, Illinois.

  “We have to eat, Father Troy,” he finally said while washing lettuce.

  Father Troy nodded and put down his guitar in what he hoped was a dignified way and went into the kitchen. “Father Weston has gone to have dinner with friends. So it’s just us,” Father Troy said, trying to keep a smile from coming to his lips at the thought.

  “Father Weston has friends? Really, what kind of friends does a priest like him have?” Gar said in laughing way that lifted Father’s Troy spirits like a bright red balloon flying over the parish house and up, up even over the church steeple.

  “A professor, I think of ancient religions,” said Father Troy, enjoying how Gar’s muscles rippled when he lugged the water-filled pot over to the stove

  “Ooh, that sounds fun,” Gar said, not really caring but glad to have something to poke at to keep his mind off how much he wished he was back in front of Marilyn’s house smelling her hair, the perfume she wore and underneath that, her living essence.

  “And a waitress he sees once in a while. Innocent, I’m sure.” Father Troy couldn’t help himself, knowing that mentioning the waitress, what was her name, was taboo to Father W. He didn’t know what had happened there but something had.

  “A waitress,” repeated Gar, smiling widely at Father Troy, his eyes so intense they seemed to be shooting sparks into the kitchen. “What do you say? Wanna play hearts while we wait for the water to boil?”

  They played cards and ate spaghetti like two overgrown boys at camp until Gar got up to wash the dishes and Father Troy tried to help. “Oh, no, Father, you’ve got the Monsignor’s mass to think about. I’ll do these,” Gar said in a determined way, “You’re the one Bishop Quincy will rely on, especially when he hears about how Father W spent the first Sunday evening away from the parish house with the poor Monsignor embalmed at the funeral home.”

  “How will he hear about that, Gar?” asked Father Troy as a queasy feeling came over him. Maybe he shouldn’t have had the second helping of spaghetti just to prove he could keep up with Gar.

  “Oh, you’ll think of a way,” Gar said with a grin.

  Father Troy flashed on the Hans Holbein print of demons torturing priests. He shook his head - that was ridiculous, Gar didn’t have a mean bone in his body. It was his fault for even bringing up Father W and his friends. “Father W’s okay, Gar. You just need to give him a chance,” Father Troy said in an apologetic way as Gar parried the air with his fists like a boxer.

  “He’ll get his chance all right, big padre,” Gar nodded and punched at the air, imagining how easily Father W would go down.

  Grief had a way of intensifying things and Gar seemed like some exotic being in the kitchen suddenly, with the checkered towel rakishly draped over one shoulder as he bounced on the balls of his feet. A little quiet time in contemplation was what he needed, Father Troy realized. Maybe a rosary in memory of Monsignor Lowell. He felt guilty and uneasy over poking fun at Father W. It just wasn’t like him but before he could gently defend his fellow priest Gar turned and winked at him in a way that sent a shiver through his body and a hot shaming desire burned in his groin. Gar flicked his towel at Father Troy playfully and the priest backed away with a lopsided half grin.

  “Better get back to your room, Father Troy, you don’t know what might go on if you stay,” Gar murmured and flicked the towel again as the priest reddened and stumbled back into his room. Shutting the door felt like a relief.

  . The blue-black sky had a fingernail moon shedding a sliver of light and the smell of processed soybeans was blowing the right way so that the air wasn’t thick with chemical odors as Gar leaned against the rectory garage waiting for Father W to come home. He kept replaying his conversation with Father Troy in his head as he waited. A waitress, it had to be Marilyn, and who was the ancient religion professor in this curious little triangle? Well he would find out soon enough. It was time he and Father W got to know one another better. The Olds glided into the driveway a little after nine and Father W got out so he could lift the garage door. Gar bounded to his feet.

  “Let me get that for you, Father,” Gar said, twisting the metal knob and heaving up the garage door with one swift pull.

  Father W stopped short, the driver’s side door of the car still open. He hadn’t been expecting to see anyone, as the lights were off in the parish house. He was feeling melancholy after dropping Marilyn off and didn’t welcome Gar’s intrusion on his thoughts. This guy just couldn’t stop helping around the house, it was getting to be annoying. Unlike Father Troy who kept up a constant hosanna singing his praises, Father W felt there was something false about it, but he had to admit things were getting done. He gave what he hoped was a friendly wave, having no patience for any kind of fuss; getting back into his car; he eased it into the garage.

  Gar was waiting for him when he came up to the parish house door and he held the door open like he was a night watchman. “Hey, Father. I waited up, like a good house guardian,” Gar said in a husky whisper. He could smell her on him; her perfume was all over him. Father Weston had just come from being with the source and the jealousy raged up, choking Gar’s throat, and he had to not kill him right this second, he thought. The younger priest hadn’t touched her soul like the old Monsignor because he knew he would have sensed that, but Gar couldn’t stand the thought that this arrogant Jesuit had any kind of relationship with the source. “How was dinner with your friends?” he asked like it was perfectly natural for him to be waiting up for the priest.

  House guardian, why did he use that phrase? Something was off, why had he waited outside on the steps for him? Father Troy was his meal ticket, not him. “Gar, everything all right?” asked Father W, feeling a heavy foreboding suddenly. Maybe he shouldn’t have left Father Troy here with him alone but he just needed a break from the parish house. A panicky bubble of anxiety came up into his chest, what did they really know about Gar? Feeling suddenly wary, Father Weston forced a neutral smile on his face, the one he used when the parish council bickered over money.

  “Sure, everything’s fine. Father Troy’s safe in bed and I’m just kidding around with you.” Gar said like he could read Father Weston’s mind, “We’ve never gotten much of a chance to get to know each other. I got the feeling you weren’t interested but that’s crazy. I mean here I just asked about your friends for the very first time. Sometimes, I gotta be the one to reach out, right? So, did you have a good time with the waitress and the professor?”

  “Been chatting it up with Father Troy, I see,” is what he said in a dry way, hoping to cut the conversation off. “It was a fine dinner. I think I’m going to turn in.”

  Father Weston felt
Gar’s hand squeezing his shoulder. He brushed it away. A stranger comes into a community and is taken in by monks in Siam, Shakers in Massachusetts, and parish priests in Decatur? No. But ever since he had come to the parish things had gone to hell, he thought, as he pictured the Monsignor’s hospital bed as he tried to make contact with the old priest right before he died. He saw the old man’s strained face whispering to him incomprehensibly, “Rag.” “Gar” was what he meant, Father W realized in a flash, the stroke had garbled his words. What had the Monsignor wanted to tell him about Gar?

  “Your dinner with Marilyn, you mean?” Gar asked, unable to stop himself - this bastard wasn’t going to worm out of talking to him. Yes, Father, I know her too and far, far better than you ever will, he thought.

  Father W felt his heart seize up for a split second. How did Gar know Marilyn?

  “Yes, Marilyn,” Gar said, his voice deep.

  Father W wanted to slump against the wall but he held himself erect. “She’s okay. I’m kinda tired, Gar. Why don’t we talk about this in the morning?”

  “I asked you about the professor, Father? I need to know who Marilyn’s been seeing, see? We go back a long ways,” Gar said with a little half smile.

  “I didn’t realize you lived around here before. Nobody really. I introduced them thinking Marilyn could use a date,” Father W lied as Max and Gretch Wendell’s theories spun in his brain. Get hold of yourself. He would ask Marilyn about Gar tomorrow. Why hadn’t Gar said he had come from this area before? Or was he just saying that now? Father W wondered. But how would have he known Marilyn unless he was, oh for God’s sake, Max had him seeing things.

  Gar laughed then, it seemed so silly suddenly. A date, Father W was playing matchmaker. “Aaah, all you priests are fags and old maids,” he said, almost snorting in laughter. He released Father W’s shoulder then with a light tap. “No offense. Fadder, just a joke.”

  “Sure,” Father W said and moved away, trying not to look scared. Holding his breath, Father W went past Gar and made himself walk slowly up the steps to his room where he locked the door. He sat in his easy chair for a long while, shook and not wanting to be. Finally he set his jaw - it wasn’t like he believed in all of Max’s and Gretch Wendell’s conjecture. Still. He had to do something. Feeling a heaviness in his chest but with solemn determination, Father Weston took down the prayer book from the shelf, got a shaker of holy water from his traveling sacrament case, took his silver crucifix from his cuff-link drawer and wrapped it in a black jacquard silk evening scarf. He was making an exorcism kit. What had things come to?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Regrets

  Mrs. Napoli sat in the kitchen for a moment to try and sort things out. She looked down at the marigold print on her apron and smoothed it out across her too-ample lap. In front of her lay the parish household accounts, such as they were. A thin black-bound ledger with green lined paper marked with neat columns in her own handwriting marking down weekly grocery shops, cleaning supplies, and other sundry expenses lay on the table-top of the dinette set where she would set out coffee and toast in the morning for the parish priests and their guest, Gar. That was the problem - ever since Gar had joined them the food bills had just gone up. It wasn’t his fault and Mrs. Napoli savored cooking for someone who was always so appreciative but the household allowance hadn’t increased and even with poor, poor Monsignor about to be buried on Wednesday, they weren’t likely to go down, as the old priest ate like a bird. She had tried to use less meat and stretch it out with potatoes and noodles but she wasn’t sure how long it would be before Father Weston would say something. She had asked on the sly for the some of the church ladies to bring her their excess dandelion greens, spring onions, and rhubarb from their gardens. Last week she had put a frozen turkey from her own freezer into a grocery sack from home, her mind full of ways to supplement the menus, turkey casserole, turkey noodle soup, turkey sandwiches, but Mr. Napoli now retired from the railroad had happened to come in the kitchen and had a fit. So that was out. She held a hand over her mouth - embarrassed and upset that she was trying to beg borrow and steal just to put enough food on the table because of Gar. As much as he tugged at her heartstrings, it was getting complicated. Mr. Napoli had asked her how long the parish guest was going to be freeloading. She had tried to explain all that Gar was doing but it sounded lame, a grown man working in the rose garden and bicycling errands around town… Mrs. Napoli got up and put the little ledger back in its drawer by the telephone. She was going to have to speak to Father W, even the butcher at the A&P knew from Mrs. Napoli’s fierce wrangling over cuts of meat that the allowance was too thin now that Gar was here.

  Just as she shut the drawer with a little slam, Gar appeared in the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a loaf of bread and the jar of peanut butter. The parish house was empty with Father Troy and Father Weston on their way to Springfield for a nine o’clock meeting with the chief of staff for the bishop over the funeral mass. Gar stretched and smiled at Mrs. Napoli. “I really went down hard last night. Starving,” he mumbled in a sleepy way, dropping the bread into the shiny chrome toaster on the counter.

  “You know, I could use you to take the vestments to the dry-cleaners. We use Cleary’s.” Mrs. Napoli tried to keep the disapproval out of her voice. He wasn’t her son, she reminded herself.

  Gar’s eyes blinked at Mrs. Napoli and he said nothing for a moment. Then the toast popped up and he pulled out a pink Melmac plate from the cupboard and proceeded to slather the toasted bread with peanut butter. “Sure, Mrs. Napoli. There any coffee left or do late risers get nothing but guff?” he laughed, then winking at her, acknowledging his laziness and making her laugh too.

  Father Weston was just going to have to get the household allowance increased, Mrs. Napoli thought. It wasn’t Gar’s fault.

  Gar loaded the vestments into the laundry sack and pulled Father Troy’s bicycle from the garage. Cleary’s Dry-Cleaning, here I come, he thought as he pedaled down the driveway with a little wave back to Mrs. Napoli who was hanging sheets in the side yard on the line, out of view of the public of course. It wouldn’t do for the parish to be thinking that the priests ate and slept just like the rest of the people. The traffic was light as everyone was already at work or school this Monday morning on the first week of May. Gar enjoyed the solitude thinking about how he was going to surprise Marilyn outside the Surrey tonight and walk her home. Almost everything else today was waiting, except for visiting the dry-cleaners. Suzanne Cleary deserved a little attention for all the attention she had been paying Gar.

  Suzanne Cleary was already hot even though the morning was mild and the high predicted to be in the mid-seventies. Her little jar of just-bloomed heavy-headed peonies by the register were already drooping. She hated working the counter in the warmer months, the machinery threw off so much heat that all she did was leave rings of perspiration on her clothes. It was disgusting. She had her fan, her magazines, and she would dab her forehead with ice water all day long but it didn’t do much good. The radio was playing all the hits all the time but still if she had married Dick the insurance salesman she might have been spending her days on the golf course instead of working the counter. Suzanne was reading the recipe for Crab Rangoon in Family Circle when the screen door opened. She looked up and saw the big-chested man who was Father’s Troy project come in with a laundry sack. Her heart leapt up into her throat. Charlie was doing deliveries and she was here alone. She pasted a smile on her face thinking about how she could get out back to their private telephone line that she had already used once to talk about this stranger to the FBI. But now she had a real number and real agent to call, not just the tips line. Why was he still roaming around town anyway, shouldn’t he be held for questioning? She regretted not calling Agent Tooley last night after she saw him at the Front Porch with that waitress. She should have stuck to her instincts.

  “Hello. I’m dropping off vestments for the parish house at St. Pat’s. I think t
here’s an account,” Gar said in a neutral way. He wasn’t putting out the charm for this woman, after all he had done for her family her attitude was a real pain. It was very likely her who had sicced the FBI agent on him and Father Troy.

  “Sure.” Suzanne took the vestments out of the sack quickly, automatically noting the satin and gold trim and marking them with little tags before dropping them into the canvas bins by the counter. “I think I may have some banners they wanted pressed in the back. Mind waiting while I look?”

  “I got all day,” Gar replied. Mrs. Napoli hadn’t said anything about banners and the woman had a nervous tic starting in her eye.

  “It might take awhile,” Suzanne Cleary said, feeling her eye beginning to twitch. She turned around swiftly and went through the red plastic beaded curtain that separated the counter area from the revolving racks and big chemical washers and dryers of the back. She was going to call that agent now. Maybe they could get a car over here. Carnie Drug Murders Solved!, she flashed on a headline in the Decatur Herald and her picture, front page. She picked up the wall unit and dialed the number the FBI agent had given her from memory. It was too dangerous to be carrying it around as her husband just dismissed her worries about Father Troy’s project as female nonsense. He’d see. Little Rhonda was safe at school so if she could just get Agent Tooley on the line she might have a shot at helping to solve the crime that had roiled their placid (all right too placid) existence.

  The phone was ringing on the other end; she coiled the telephone cord around her forearm in excitement, the beige cord outlining the long brown hair that grew intermittently on her arms. She tapped her sneakers on the linoleum flooring, hearing the phone on the other end ring once, twice, three times when someone finally picked up.

  “Agent Tooley? This is Suzanne…” she breathed into the phone when she saw like in slow motion the little hook and eye closure on the back door screen pull out of the wooden frame and the door swung outward. Gar, Father’s Troy’s project, stood in the doorway looking at Suzanne Cleary, who squelched a scream as she slammed the phone down.