“It was a really nice blouse.” She puckered her lips. “I shouldn’t have poured water on your lap.”
“Iced water.”
Erin smiled. “Pretty cold, wasn’t it?”
Lloyd wondered if she was referring to the temperature of the water or the boldness of her action. They looked at each other in silence.
“It was nice to meet you,” Lloyd said.
“Yeah, it was a real splash.”
Another awkward silence. At last Lloyd offered his hand. He meant it as a way of saying good-bye but it came off as a cloddish offer of a truce. Erin straightened her spine, lifted her chest with a deep breath and shook his hand with a hokey formality, beaming a teasing smile. She was taunting him, relishing the way she was able to fluster him.
Lloyd pulled the door open and turned to leave when Erin said, “Lloyd? Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Lloyd stopped, turned and studied her expression. She stood with her arms folded, her weight shifted on one hip, that devilish smirk still on her face. His cheek tingled with the memory of the slap she had doled out, the image of a rolled up newspaper flashing through his mind. He took a half step towards Erin, leaned forward and timidly kissed her cheek.
“That was very sweet, Lloyd. But I was talking about your shirt. It’s still in the dryer.”
Chapter 7
Once or twice a month Lloyd made the trek north to the village of Des Plaines to have dinner with his mother. Ellen Copeland lived in a yellow-brick split-level with an unattached garage, smack in the flight path of O’Hare International. Back yard conversations in this neighborhood were suspended every seven-and-a-half minutes by the sound of jet engines growing to a thunderous roar before mercifully subsiding.
In her early fifties, Ellen still exuded the girlish allure she beamed as a St. Patrick’s Day Queen on a chilly March day some thirty years ago. Strawberry blonde hair, pale brown eyes, a button nose and freckled cheeks prone to dimpling, she wasn’t a traditional beauty that intoxicated at first sight, but she possessed a mesmerizing quality that made men want to turn to take a second look.
When at the age of thirty-three she was unexpectedly widowed, the consensus was that after a reasonable period of mourning, she would certainly re-marry. So her family members were dismayed (almost as much as when she informed them that she was marrying a man twelve years her senior) when she announced that she would never wed again.
Within a couple of years the suitors started calling, but to every proposition Ellen would shake her head with a rueful smile and say, “My book of love has already been written. I had a wonderful romance – short but exquisite.”
If her husband’s grisly death, the closed-casket funeral, the hushed voices behind her back in the neighborhood supermarket left her emotionally frail, she showed no sign of it. In the immediate aftermath of the tragedy she displayed a bold determination as she fought for full survivorship benefits with the bureaucracy of the Chicago PD. At first the department demurred (her claim that Andrew Copeland’s death was a service-related fatality was specious) but eventually they acquiesced when pressure from the Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago culminated with a phone call to the police superintendent from someone in the mayor’s office.
When she finally received the written assurances she demanded, she sold the bungalow on North Mason Avenue, and with her ten-year-old son in tow, headed northwest, away from unwanted suitors, away from the scrutinizing eyes of indiscreet neighbors – far, far away. She never returned to the neighborhood of cops and firemen and city workers that had been the only home she knew.
Today was one of those perfect early summer days which drew Chicagoland residents outdoors like moths to a patio lamp. Gossamer clouds hung in a robin egg sky and the wisp of a breeze from the west carried the scent of freshly cut grass and burning charcoal. Too nice a day to pass up a ride on his motorcycle, Lloyd thought, even at the risk of upsetting his mother.
“Don’t bother calling me the day you break your neck,” he could hear her say. But earlier today she sounded almost giddy on the phone. She’d be unable to hold a grudge for too long.
“I have such a surprise for you,” she had said when she called him.
“You know I hate surprises.”
“Oh Lloyd, must you always be such a crepe hanger?”
“I don’t even know what that means, Mom.”
When he pulled onto the cracked driveway on the west side of her home, he noted a spotless, white Toyota Camry parked just a foot outside the closed garage door. Ellen hardly ever drove her three-year-old compact. He couldn’t imagine her having bought a new car. So the surprise must be a visitor.
He pressed the button on the handlebar to kill the bike’s engine, lowered the kickstand, grabbed the helmet he hadn’t worn from the hook on the side of the bike, and tousled his hair to make it look as if he had. When he rang the doorbell, he heard the muffled voice of his mother who, moments later, opened the door with a girlish grin. She looked thinner, Lloyd thought, but he noticed a smattering of rouge on her cheeks, freshly applied lipstick, even mascara.
Seeing the helmet in his hand, she placed her arms akimbo and twisted the corner of her mouth in a scowl. “You just do this to aggravate me, don’t you?”
“Isn’t that what crepe hunters do?”
“Crepe hangers. Look it up in the dictionary.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, shut the door as soon as he crossed the threshold. “No matter. I’m not going to let you ruin this day for me.”
Lloyd stepped onto the coffee-colored braided rug which covered the entirety of the small foyer. He turned on his heels to face his mother, put his free hand in his pocket and blocked her path through the entryway. She looked at him with a mix of puzzlement and anticipation.
“Why don’t you have a seat in the living room?” she said with feigned innocence.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
She spun him around and gave him a shove. “You’re doing it on purpose. Walk your butt to the living room, young man. The bathroom can wait.”
“I’ll just wet myself then.”
“Fine. I still have your old clothes. I’ll get you a clean change of underwear. Now go.”
Lloyd chuckled and ambled casually to the living room. Standing next to the faux fireplace, nursing a glass of red wine with gracile fingers, stood a man with pale green eyes, chiseled facial features framed in impeccably groomed salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a short-sleeved black shirt with a white clerical collar.
Lloyd stopped and gaped at the man. The priest smiled broadly, carefully set his wine glass on the wooden mantelpiece and stretched his arms in front of him, palms up.
“Dear Lloyd.”
“Uncle Roy”.
Lloyd dropped his helmet on a love seat and rushed towards the priest. The two embraced then stared at each other, their hands clasped together.
“You don’t seem to age do you, Father Roy?”
“It must be all the olive oil.” They shared a chuckle.
“So how are things at the Vatican?”
“It’s the most beautiful corner on Earth.”
“And Herr Ratzinger?”
“Well I hardly ever see the bishop of Rome.”
“Hardly see the Holy See?”
“No Lloyd. The Holy See refers to the episcopal jurisdiction in Rome, not to His Holiness. Who taught you catechism?”
“I thought you did.”
“Well, let’s drink to that. Can I pour you a little Montepulciano? Or maybe not, you’re on a motorcycle?” Roy looked at the helmet that rested upside down on the love seat.
“Relax Roy. I’ll be here a while. And if I get smashed you can always give me a medal of St. Christopher and I’ll be fine.”
“It doesn’t quite work that way,” the priest said. He grabbed the bottle of wine and a fresh glass from the coffee table and started to pour.
“How long have you been living in Italy now?” Lloyd asked.
“I lef
t just a few months after your medical school graduation.”
“Boy, it’s been way too long.”
They raised their glasses.
“Cin Cin,” said Uncle Roy.
“Bottoms up for the rest of us,” Lloyd said.
Ellen had moved to the doorway of the kitchen and gazed at the scene with glistening eyes.
“Ellen, how thoughtless of me,” said Roy. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, nothing. You just don’t know how happy I am, seeing the two of you together again. My boys...”
She turned and hurried into the kitchen. “I better check on the lasagna,” she said in a quavering voice.
Roy followed her with his gaze before turning to his nephew. “What a wonderful sister-in-law. What an amazing mother you have.”
“Let’s not count our blessings until we taste her lasagna, padre.”
“Come now. I remember her cooking. It’s not half bad.”
“That was before your palate got used to the lunch counter at St. Peter’s. You might want to look up ‘last rites’ in your pocket reference of Catholic rituals.”
Roy chuckled. “Oh stop.”
The two sat on a well-worn dark green sofa with embroidered throw pillows.
“So, Lloyd. How are you doing?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Really.” Roy held a thin smile and looked impassive.
“Oh great, we’re already having a talk. Did she put you up to this?” Roy said nothing. He just gazed in his nephew’s eyes with a well-practiced patience. “So, what do you want me to say?”
“Lloyd, you know how much I care for you. When your father passed away I tried to be there for you, as much as I could.”
“And I’m very thankful for that. You’re the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had, even before Dad...”
Roy looked down and nodded. “So it pains me to hear about how you’re letting your life slip right by you.”
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Roy smiled. “Very well, then. Tell me, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Today? I don’t know. What time is it?”
“That’s a clever way to avoid the issue.”
“Roy, do you really want to hear about my sex life? You want a full confession? You better punch the clock. I’ll bet you hit overtime.”
“I’m more concerned about your emotional well-being, your isolation, the way you’re denying yourself the potential for a happy, fulfilled life. And why?”
“What do you remember of Grandpa?” Lloyd asked with an edge to his voice.
Roy cupped his right hand around his left fist. “I have many fond memories of my father.”
“Do you know what I remember? Grandpa walking out the front door of the house wearing his best shirt and tie, spit-polished shoes… and nothing else. Grandpa not being able to recognize his wife of forty years. Grandpa raving like a lunatic, accusing his family of trying to poison him. That’s what I remember of him.
“Is it any wonder that when Dad started having lapses – don’t shake your head, I know what happened – when he started having those ever more frequent moments of incoherence, the same signs he witnessed when the trouble with Grandpa began, is it any wonder that he chose to put the barrel of his service revolver in his mouth while he still had the mental faculty to squeeze the trigger?”
“We don’t know your father’s motivations.”
“He didn’t want to end up like his father, and his grandfather before him. It was his way of escaping the family curse. So where does that leave me, the heir apparent? How many lives will I destroy when my hour arrives?”
Lloyd lifted the glass to his lips and took a long swig.
“You don’t know that this will happen to you,” Roy said. “It hasn’t happened to me.”
“Congratulations. You won the genetic jackpot.”
Roy rubbed his palms together and exhaled slowly through his nose. “So you’ve decided to be a hermit, to avoid commitment, to not love. That doesn’t make you a hero, Lloyd. It just makes you lonely and bitter.”
“You had your way of dealing with it. I have mine.”
Roy shook his head. “I didn’t join the seminary to escape loving. I had a calling.”
“Well how convenient for you. Still, I have to hand it to you. You did your part to stem the Copeland bloodline. I’ll do mine. But I’ll do it my way if you don’t mind.”
“And what if you’re throwing your life away for no reason? What if there’s nothing wrong with you?”
Lloyd rolled his wine glass and stared at the swirling contents. “I’m a glass-half-empty kind of guy.”
“A pessimist,” Roy said.
“I prefer to think of myself as a fatalist.”
“Aah, fate! You know what Epicurus said of fate? ‘A strict belief in fate is the worst of slavery, imposing upon our necks an everlasting lord and tyrant, whom we are to stand in awe of night and day.’”
“And you thought your degree in classics would never pay off.”
Roy put a hand on Lloyd’s knee. “Perhaps you should try a little faith instead.”
“Sorry, Father Roy, you know my views on God and Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.”
“Not faith in God, Lloyd: faith in yourself, in your family, in those who mean well for you.”
“I don’t see how that can help. But don’t worry about me. I made a conscious choice. I’ll be just like Mom. She never remarried. She’s lived by herself for some twenty years now and she seems happy.”
“But your mother knew love once; a deep love like you’ve never experienced.”
Lloyd snorted. “I don’t remember Dad being much of a romantic.”
Ellen stepped into the living room. “Just five more minutes on the lasagna.” She looked at Roy with a proud smile. “How are my boys getting along?”
Roy shrugged. “I cannot teach him. The boy has no patience. Much anger in him, like his father. He is not ready.”
Ellen parted her lips as if she were about to say something. Her gaze shot back and forth between the two men.
“I think that’s a quote from Star Wars, Mom. You’re still obsessed with that stuff, Roy?” Lloyd said.
“Hmm, the force is very strong in this one,” Roy said.
“Quoting Epicurus and Yoda in the same breath,” Lloyd said. “I guess that’s the mark of a true scholar. Or a complete nut. How is it that a Catholic priest can be so enamored with Star Wars?”
“The battle of good against evil? An all-encompassing force that envelops every soul in the universe? Why, Star Wars is a modern day gospel of sorts. If I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that at least in part it’s what spurred me towards my calling. I envisioned that, as a priest, I’d be like a Jedi knight – without the light sabre, of course.”
“We should call you Father Luke,” Lloyd said.
Roy smiled ruefully. “I had suggested that as your name.”
The meal was actually not half bad. Ellen Copeland had outdone herself in welcoming back her brother-in-law after such a long hiatus. Lloyd knew she felt a deep gratitude for standing by her after the death of her husband when so many had shunned her.
After a slice of apple pie and another long chat, Lloyd prepared for the ride home. Roy accompanied him to his bike, carrying his helmet.
“We’ll have to talk some more,” Roy said.
“You’re not going to change me,” Lloyd said.
“There are other things we need to discuss, when the time is right.”
Lloyd nodded, mounted his bike and started the engine.
“Lloyd.”
“Sure, Roy. We’ll talk some more,” Lloyd said.
“Your helmet,” Roy said.
Lloyd smiled. “I was just about to put it on.”
Lloyd took the helmet from Roy’s hands, slipped it on and lifted the visor. Roy shook his head at him. “You’re not so big that I wouldn’t call Sister Beatrice to whack
some sense into you.”
“Yeah, well first she’ll have to catch me on this.” Lloyd patted the shiny red fuel tank of his bike.
Chapter 8
The administrative suite occupied the west flank of the ground floor of the school of medicine. It housed the offices of the various Deans and their secretaries on either side of the plush carpeted corridor. At the very end, just past a makeshift waiting area, stood a conference room known as the Dean’s library because of a mahogany bookcase that had been built into its southern wall. A dozen outdated texts stood askew on the shelves coated in a fine film of dust like furniture store props – relics of a bygone age, supplanted by smartphones and computer tablets.
Lloyd sat in the cramped lobby just outside the conference room on a wood-framed sofa upholstered in a rough striped fabric. He really didn’t know what to expect from the meeting, had no idea who would be in attendance. He picked up a glossy magazine from the end table next to him and studied the cover: a full page photo of a gray-haired man in a white coat, arms crossed, beaming with self-satisfaction, the heading Hospital Management Quarterly hovering just above his head in bold red letters. Lloyd tossed the magazine back on the table without opening it.
The door to the library opened and a short secretary with a pleasant round face stepped out. “Dr. Copeland, won’t you please come in?” She stood aside holding the door open.
Lloyd got to his feet, straightened his tie and entered the room, nodding at the secretary who tightened her eyes in an overdone smile.
A large, oval cherry-wood table occupied the center of the room. Five people sat around it. He recognized the three physicians: George Lasko, the new Chief of Staff; Padma Sengupta, a nephrologist who was so mild-mannered she made Mother Theresa look like a meth-crazed street thug; and Martin Bender. A woman he had never seen, with a white widow’s peak in otherwise jet-black hair, peered at him with milky eyes that bulged from under stenciled crescents where her eyebrows should have been. And next to her sat Erin.
Lloyd stood by the table drumming his fingers on the polished veneer as the secretary scurried to a chair in a corner where she settled in her seat and placed a stenographer’s notebook in her lap. What the hell is Erin doing here?
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