by Anne Emery
“Do you have any clothes?” Brennan asked.
Bev looked around the living room. “Yeah, well, I...” Maura gave a sigh of disgust and left the room. Bev quickly gathered her clothes, then looked from Brennan to me. “So, where should I... ?”
“The little bathroom,” I said, jerking my thumb in the direction of the hall. She left.
“You’re in the shithouse now, Collins,” Brennan remarked.
“I don’t see why, really, any more than she should be.” I inclined my head in Maura’s direction. But I knew there was only one hole in the shithouse and it was for me alone. Whatever Maura may have been up to in her own life, and I wasn’t sure what or who it was, she would never have stooped to carrying on at home where the kids could catch a glimpse of it. She had poured herself a glass of juice and was drinking it with her back to us all.
Bev returned fully clothed. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?” Brennan asked.
She looked at him. “Is it true that in Ireland ‘ride’ means —”
“Here it means a drive, on the right-hand side of the road. Let’s motor.” He ushered her out my front door without a backward glance.
Maura turned to face me. I was once again without words, so I decided to make for the shower, without, I hoped, being subjected to a verbal or physical attack. By the time I was clean and dressed, the kids were with Maura, who looked for all the world as if nothing had happened. I didn’t like it. Wasn’t this an occasion for subjecting old Monty to the tongue-flogging of his life? Was this indifference I was seeing? Had she moved so far from me in her life now that she couldn’t even be bothered?
“Where’s Father Burke?” Normie asked, wide-eyed and on the verge of a major disappointment.
“He had to leave, sweetie,” Maura explained in a saccharine voice. “He had to give a ride to a lady who can’t walk very well this morning.”
“That’s very kind of him, but I wanted to play for him on the keyboard.”
“Sweetheart,” I said, “I have to talk to him later on. Maybe you can play it over the phone.”
“Great!”
Surprisingly, Maura stayed for the afternoon. Guilty conscience on her part? I chided myself for being an asshole and started to relax, and we had some good wholesome family fun playing Scrabble and charades. I went into the kitchen and put together a pot of chili. While it was cooking Tommy asked me to go downstairs and listen to something he had written for the guitar. I listened and was delighted. He was way ahead of his dad when it came to composition.
The phone rang. I ran upstairs and grabbed it. “I see trouble ahead with this one, Monty,” Brennan said.
“We’re not planning a future together, for Christ’s sake,” I whispered into the phone. “We just met each other’s needs for a night or two! Now, tell me what happened in the church.”
“The vandal wrote: ‘Home of the Fighting Irish=Hell!’”
I thought about the vandal, Jason. He’d called Burke, or maybe it was O’Flaherty, an “Irish bog-trotter.” And we had reports that he’d been asking about priests and where they were from. He had called someone a “real scary Irish guy.” No, Jason hadn’t said that; it was Myers, the guy at Mount A. It was all becoming jumbled in my mind.
“All right,” I said. “Let me have a look at it and then I’ll call the police. You can make yourself scarce.”
“It’s gone.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“I painted over it. It looks like shit but at least you can’t see —”
“You what!”
“I could hardly leave it there for Sunday Mass! Luckily I found it early in the morning before anyone saw it.”
“You destroyed evidence that may very well have come from the killer? Can you really be that stupid? I don’t believe I’m hearing this!”
“It’s not evidence of anything!”
“The police could have photographed the handwriting, possibly traced the spray paint. We’ll have to hire a paint removal guy to get your paint off, and read what’s underneath it.”
“Waste of time. Won’t get us anywhere.”
“We don’t have anything else!”
“I was incensed when I saw it. All I wanted to do was blot it out. I scraped most of it off before I painted over it, so there’s nothing to uncover. And you know as well as I do, it wouldn’t have got us anywhere near the real killer, so spare me any further recriminations. I won’t have my church desecrated.”
“Burke, I can’t believe you would —”
My daughter pulled at my sleeve. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“Is that Father Burke on the phone?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Give me that.” She swiped the receiver from my hand. “Father? This is Normie Collins. I’m fine, thank you. Remember what I said I could play? That’s right. Well, here it is. Daddy, hold the phone up. I’m going down to the keyboard. I’ll play loud.” She barrelled downstairs and played a creditable version of ‘Michael Row the Boat,’ then came up, beaming. She nodded and signalled that I could terminate the call. I did so without another word.
We had dinner, and Maura announced that it was time for her to go. “Don’t let Normie stay up too late. You know how she gets.” She kissed the kids goodnight.
“Do I get a kiss too?”
“I don’t know where that mouth has been.”
I took a deep breath and began to address the first crisis of the day. “About this morning, I —”
“This morning, Montague, was such a pathetic balls-up on your part that I look at you more in sorrow than in anger.”
II
Monday I was in the office making half-hearted efforts to catch up on other files and fill in my time sheets. Several times during the day I tried Burke’s number and left messages with Mrs. Kelly, but didn’t hear back from him. I knocked off work in the mid-afternoon so I could stop by the rectory before picking up the kids at Maura’s.
Mrs. Kelly came to the door when I rang the bell. “Is he in, Mrs. K.?”
“I know he’s up there but he hasn’t been out of his room all day and he hasn’t taken any of his calls. And meals? All gone a-wasting.”
“I’ll go roust him out.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she fretted, eyes looking to the second floor. I smiled at her and went on up.
I rapped on the door. No response. I rapped again, more violently, finally provoking a bark from within. “Who is it?”
“Your long-suffering attorney.”
“Open it.”
He was lying on his back on the bed, uncombed and unshaven, wearing worn jeans and a sweatshirt. One hand was behind his head, the other held a long-ashed cigarette. There was an overflowing ashtray and a glass half full of amber liquid on the bedside table. Dismissing any thought of tact, I picked the glass up and sniffed it. Ginger ale. His face was devoid of expression.
“You’d better cut down on those coffin nails or you won’t be singing Palestrina.”
He didn’t respond. I walked to a window and ostentatiously opened it wide, letting in a blast of glacial air. “I came by to apologize for giving you grief yesterday. Even though you really should have... Well, you don’t need to hear it again.”
“I photographed it before I cleaned it up.” His voice was lifeless.
“Oh! Why didn’t you tell me? It’s not the original but it’s better than nothing.”
“O’Flaherty says the camera’s not working. The flash went off so I thought it worked, but he says it may not turn out. He’ll let me know.” He sounded as if he’d been condemned all over again.
“O’Flaherty has it?”
“Yeah
.”
“Well, we’ll wait and see. Why don’t you get up?”
“I’m not getting up. There’s nothing —”
He was interrupted by a tentative knock on the door.
“Christ,” he growled, not moving.
“Come in,” I called out.
The door opened and there stood a vision from a Botticelli masterpiece. In her late teens, she was petite and sweet-faced with long, curly golden hair cascading to her waist. Perched at the end of her nose was a pair of rimless spectacles, which did nothing to detract from the beauty of her light hazel eyes. She wore a long, cream-coloured dress and had a blue coat over her arm. She was looking uncertainly towards the bed, where Burke was still supine and I was sitting. I realized we were both staring at her, stupidly.
She began a nervous opening spiel. “Father Burke?” She looked from me to him and back to me. “I’m Lexie Robinson. I just moved here. I’m studying music. And, um, I’ve volunteered to start a children’s choir at my church, St. Malachy’s, but I didn’t know how to go about it. Nobody had done it there before so, well, I thought it would be a good idea to call the choir school and get some pointers, and I talked to, uh, Sister Dunne, and she said to phone you.” She was still directing her comments at me. I suppose a clean-shaven lawyer in a business suit looked more priestly than the wretch lolling in the bed beside me. Suddenly picturing the scene from her point of view, I leaned over and dug an elbow into Burke’s leg to get him to sit up, which he did, but not without emitting a smoker’s hack. The lovely girl was going on: “So, I dialed your number a few times but I didn’t get any answer, and then since I was downtown anyway I thought I might as well come here.” She wound down. Her cheeks had blushed to a shell pink. Her eyes were still fixed on me.
Then Burke stood up, stretched, and moved towards her, starting to speak in a raspy voice. She looked up at him, startled, and backed away. He stopped and put up his hands in a gesture that said “You have nothing to fear from me.” I couldn’t look at his face. He stood at a respectful distance, then cleared his throat. “We’ll go over to the church. The music’s in the choir loft.”
Her eyes darted to me, and I nodded, pointing a discreet finger in Burke’s direction. Yes, he’s your man. I said: “Why don’t we all go? I’ll call the house and have the kids meet us at the church.”
“You have kids?” she asked, bewildered.
“Angelface here is not a man of the cloth, Miss Robinson,” Burke said, somewhat tartly.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Quite all right. Just give me a second.” He rooted in his bureau, grabbed some clothing and went into the bathroom where we soon heard the sound of the shower.
And at that moment I became aware of a new dimension to my feelings about the case. Images from the past weeks flooded my mind: Brennan on the witness stand, watching helplessly as his life was ripped apart before all the world. The unmasked pain I had seen in his eyes on the day we were to leave the case to the jury, when, all defences down, he asked us not to give up on him. The gaunt shadow that sat across from me in the jailhouse. The choir director bringing forth from the children the music of the spheres. Father Burke facing the congregation in his white vestments and singing the Agnus Dei from the Mass of the Angels, the particular favourite of Janeece Tuck, when I knew it took every ounce of strength to keep his composure after his little friend’s death. Images from his early life in New York came to me, some of them unedifying and some of them, in spite of Sandra’s sardonic recitation, endearing. I contemplated what he had given up, the pleasures of the flesh that he enjoyed every bit as much as I did, and the chance to have the comfort of a wife and family.
And I saw him as he had just appeared, an unwashed layabout, convicted of murder. I had witnessed the effect he had on a young musician who had come to him for help, then backed away in fear. What kind of strength did he have to muster, to get up in the morning and face the world? Did he beseech God in prayer every time he had to face a new group of parishioners, students, parents? That cocky self-assurance that I had often found so irritating, was that what was keeping him going now?
I was filled with a sense of outrage that was nearly overwhelming. Throughout this long ordeal, I had experienced, in turn, doubt about his innocence; suspicion of other things he might be up to when I was unable to reach him at night; frustration with him and with myself, and with the inability of all of us to penetrate the secrets of the case; ambition to win the case and solve the mystery behind it; profound sympathy for what he was going through; an appreciation and enjoyment of the friendship developing between us; complicated feelings about that friendship and his place in our lives. Had I told him recently, perhaps more than once, to fuck off? But now, what I was most aware of was the outrage I felt at whoever had done this to him. He wasn’t a saint, he wasn’t an angel; he was a bright, talented, complex, at times exasperating man who was trying to do the right thing. And someone was determined to take it all away from him in the most barbarous way imaginable. Whoever did this was going to be hunted down, taken before a judge, and put away for life. We had all had enough.
I came out of myself and focused again on Lexie, who had nearly flattened herself against the door, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else on the planet. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile and picked up the phone to call Maura.
“Hi. Can you ask the kids to walk over to St. Bernadette’s? Not great. He’ll perk up. He’s going to do some music over at the church with a young lady who’s just taken on a children’s choir. Yeah, I’ll tell you later.”
When Burke emerged, scrubbed and shaved, the three of us set off. Nobody spoke till we were outside the church in the sunshine of a mid-October day. Then he began to sing: “Now lady, your mind is mistaken if it sees but a beggar in me. For my name, it is Ronald MacDonald, a chieftain of highest degree.” Lexie looked at him and laughed, and he gave her a rueful smile in return.
“Good to know you’ve learned the local music,” I remarked.
“Well worth learning, wouldn’t you say, Lexie?”
“Oh, yes!” Her apprehension was starting to ease.
We entered the church and Brennan genuflected deeply, making the sign of the cross. Lexie followed suit. The choirmaster unlocked the door to the loft and we went up. “I keep most of our regular music up here, in file cabinets. Some of course we use at the school, but you can look over what we have here. More than enough for your purposes, I’m thinking.” He pushed open the door to the music room. “You’ll be starting in unison, I expect?”
“Yes.”
“Is this a choir for everyone, or will you be holding auditions? Makes a big difference in what music you’ll want to attempt.”
The choir directors got into a groove. A few minutes later I heard a commotion below. My children, I presumed, and went to let them in. Normie was obviously pleased to be in the church again. “Can I run around?”
“You may walk around. Respectfully. And don’t go on the altar. Then come up to the loft. Quietly.” She nodded and started to walk up the centre aisle, one halting step at a time, like a nervous bride in an old-fashioned wedding ceremony.
I hid a smile and motioned for Tommy Douglas to follow me upstairs. Brennan and Lexie were out of sight. Tom had the massive pipe organ to himself. “Cool!” He sat down at the bench. “Can I try it? How do you turn it on?”
Burke came out of the music room and switched on the organ. “Go ahead. Pull out all the stops, as they say.”
“That’s where that expression comes from? Guess I should have known that. But I didn’t know till the other day that ‘getting down to the short strokes’ means...” he stopped, reddened, and looked at me, “... golf.” The three of us laughed. Tommy started to play a tune, as he would o
n any keyboard. He experimented with a few stops, and enlarged the sound. “You play that a helluva lot better than I do, Mr. Douglas,” said Burke.
Tom looked like a man who had found his calling. In the next instant, he had found the love of his life. Lexie emerged in the light of the late afternoon sun as it streamed through the stained glass windows of the church. Her beauty was unearthly. She smiled at Tom and he gaped. Two men thirty years his senior had recently done no better.
I introduced them, and my son found his voice. “Tell me everything bad about yourself, so I can start getting over you.” Burke shot him a glance of amused appreciation.
Lexie looked at Tom over the tops of her glasses and said: “Why don’t I start with a few sour notes on the organ?”
“You can play this thing?” She nodded and he said “Show me” and slid over to make room for her on the bench. She went right into a Bach fugue and my son was transported.
“Ah. Let’s go below and listen,” the choirmaster suggested.
We met Normie coming up the stairs. “You’re staying downstairs with us,” I commanded.
We listened to Bach until it was time for me and the kids to head home. I sprinted up the stairs to get Tom and practically had to wrestle him off the organist’s bench. He smiled mysteriously when his sister asked who was up there. As we made our way out we heard Burke and Lexie discussing repertoire, then they began to sing together. Tommy had a sudden urge to even up the laces of his sneakers and so he stopped, holding the door open with his bum and listening to every sweet note. All the way home in the car he talked about getting his driver’s licence. To get to Mass no doubt. Out at St. Malachy’s.
I was tied up with other cases until Friday noon. I called Burke to ask whether he’d had any luck with the photos. O’Flaherty had taken the film in, and reported it was blank. I restrained myself from reacting to the news. Instead I said: “You know, that scene in your room may have been one of the saddest sights I’ve ever witnessed.”
There was no need to ask what I meant. “Oh? You think having dear little girls cringe in fear is depressing in some way, Montague?” He seemed to hesitate, then: “That’s not all. Listen to this.” I heard him rattling papers. “‘Dear Father Burke, I don’t think you killed that girl, but I want you to know it doesn’t matter to me. What’s past is past. What you need now is closure. I feel I have come to know you over the course of this trial and I want you to know I love you like nobody else could ever love you. I would like to come and visit you even if you are in jail and even if you are still a priest.’ Here’s another one: ‘Dear Brennan. If you did it, it’s because she fuckin asked for it, excuse my French. Otherwise you wouldn’t of been prevoked beyond indurence!! I would never do anything to push you over the brink. I know how to please a man, especially you. Take my word for it, believe me!!!, you would be happy with me.’ Blah, blah. I got a similar one from a male. What the hell’s wrong with these people? What did I ever do to bring all this shite down on my head?”