Prodigal Father

by Ralph McInerny

  “What did the police say?”

  “They don’t believe me.”

  “But your father?”

  “What about him?” he said sharply.

  “Does he believe you?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Michael, what is going to happen?”

  “I don’t know.” He puffed out his chest, lifted an eyebrow, and said, “And frankly, Scarlett, I don’t give a damn.” But the old tricks would not do now. Michael had a gift for mimicking movies. His “Bond. James Bond” was one of his best, the exact intonation of Sean Connery’s voice. Now she tried to take him in her arms, but it was he who twisted away.

  “Rita, I don’t want you mixed up in this. Nothing is going to be the way we hoped. Maybe we should just cool it for a while.”

  It would have been kinder if he had struck her. Then he left hurriedly and before she could go to her room, her father came in from the kitchen. “What did he say?”

  All she could do was cry, like a kid. She did go to her room then and lay on the bed sobbing. Her father looked in at her, but thank God he said nothing. What was there to say? He knew and she knew that Michael was in very deep trouble. She tried to imagine herself asking him if he had killed that priest, but she could scarcely form the question in her own mind. To say it would be to acknowledge that it was all over between Michael and herself.

  After half an hour, she washed and got herself looking presentable, then went to St. Hilary’s. As she approached the rectory, she thought of how she had dreamed of Michael and herself coming like this to make arrangements for their wedding. She stopped, fearful that she was going to start bawling again. And then a voice called her name and she turned to see Mrs. Murkin the housekeeper coming from the school. It was written all over her face that she knew about Michael. Mrs. Murkin came right to her and took her in her arms, and then Rita did start crying again and they went together to the rectory door.

  “Is Father Dowling in?”

  “What you need first of all is a cup of tea.”

  Rita never drank tea, not even iced tea, but she sat at the kitchen table, almost glad of the delay before she talked to Father Dowling. It helped that she seemed not to have to explain to Mrs. Murkin why she was here or why she was crying. The housekeeper fussed about the kitchen, putting on water, getting out some cookies, putting a napkin at Rita’s elbow. Then she sat across from her while they waited for the water to boil.

  “Father Dowling isn’t here just now, but I know you need someone to talk to.”

  “Oh, it’s so awful.”

  “What does the boy say?” The boy was Michael.

  She tried to tell her what Michael had said, but she couldn’t look at her because Mrs. Murkin obviously thought this was only part of the story. If this was the reaction from a sympathetic person, what must the police think?

  “Just think,” Mrs. Murkin said, “if his father had said nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That he had seen his son in that shed when he ran there to call the police.”

  “His father?”

  Marie Murkin put a hand over her mouth and looked at Rita with rounded eyes. “Of course, the police would have found out anyway.”

  Why should such a revelation have been welcome? Suddenly Rita thought she understood what Michael was doing. But she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  “What a nice kitchen you have here.”

  “You should have seen it when I first came.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  Tea was poured, cookies were eaten, Marie Murkin told war stories about life as a rectory housekeeper. Rita listened with an expression of rapt attention, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She left as soon as she could do so without abusing Marie Murkin’s hospitality. From the rectory she drove to the lodge.

  Michael could not conceal how glad he was to see her.

  “I thought you would never come here again.”

  “Let’s walk.”

  They walked to the north, through the orchards, the blossoms long gone and the fruit now beginning to form among the rich green leaves.

  “Telling you was the hardest thing of all.”

  “You’re protecting your father, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Michael, you didn’t kill that priest.”

  He had never said he had, just painted himself in the blackest colors he could and let others draw their own conclusions. But why, if he hadn’t done it? Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to say that he had killed Father Nathaniel.

  “You cleaned up because you didn’t want anyone to know that it had happened in the shed.”

  “I told you that.”

  “But who were you cleaning up after?”

  He didn’t have to say. She knew. He had thought his father had done it, in the shed, but cleaning up, painting, turned suspicion on him. The police would never learn the truth from him. He would never point the finger at his father although, if Marie Murkin knew what she was talking about, Mr. George had turned attention to Michael. Things were as black for Michael as they had been before, but Rita no longer felt toward him as she had. She took him in her arms and they stood in silent embrace among the apple trees for a long time, and then they walked slowly back to their fate.

  17

  Behold, how good and pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!

  —Psalm 133

  “You have been suffering terrible things of late, Father Boniface.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence. That is why I asked to see you.”

  “You are an older man than I, by a great margin, I should say.”

  “It is a matter of office, not of age.”

  The cardinal smiled. His zucchetto was not worn at the back, a covering for the tonsure when tonsures set the clergy off from the laity, but perched on the top of his egg-shaped head. But that head was hairless, tonsured all over, so to speak. The cardinal lifted it, looked inside it, then put it back where it was. “I was a bishop and an archbishop before being given Chicago, but I have never become used to the zucchetto. Worn on top like this, it is less likely to be pulled away when the miter is removed.”

  “We wear one with our habits.”

  “Ah. Then you are senior to me in that as well. And father superior of your Order.”

  “A very deflated honor, Your Eminence.”

  The cardinal nodded and thoughts came and went in his large philosophical eyes. “I am a member of an order, too.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “When I professed, I never dreamed that I would end up here.”

  It occurred to Father Boniface that the archbishop, as a young cardinal, would be an elector at the next papal conclave. That, too, must have eluded his youthful imaginings. Old men dream dreams as do the young, but neither has prophetic dreams.

  “The last time we spoke I mentioned one of our priests who wished to return.”

  “And now he is dead.”

  “Murdered, Your Eminence.”

  “God rest his soul. I understand he was attacked while praying at your grotto.”

  “He may have made his way there after he was attacked.”

  “To die before Our Lady?”

  Father Boniface bowed his head at the pious thought. He wished that he could share it.

  “And what would you have recommended, Father? Would he have become a member of your community once more?”

  “No. I would have refused.”

  Pale brows rose above the round eyes. “Indeed.”

  “I came to think that he was not sincere. I fear he came back because we are few and yet a wealthy community.”

  “Covetous eyes are turned on what you have?”

  “He wanted us to sell. He had formed a faction.”

  “Sell.”

  “I think he believed that each of us would come into a share of the purchase money.”

  The cardinal smiled. “But I would have
opposed any sale that had such an end in view.”

  “I was told that in canon law that would amount to alienation of Church property.”

  “Ah, canon law. No doubt other opinions could have been found. But I would have done everything in my power to prevent its happening.”

  “I wish now that I had asked you earlier.”

  “The advice you were given is what I would have accepted. Now selling some or all of that very valuable property in order to further the goals of the Order of St. Athanasius, that, of course, would be a very different thing.”

  “The fact is, Your Eminence, there may be none of us left in a few years. I intend to ask my fellow Athanasians to deed everything to the archdiocese if that should happen.”

  The cardinal frowned. “Are you so resigned to the death of your Order?”

  “I would give anything to prevent it. I have been there boy and man my whole life. It is my whole life. But realistically …”

  “Realistically, you are in a position to do something about it. What I will ask you to do is draw up a plan for the revitalizing of the Athanasians. If you should sell some of your property, you would be able to finance a sustained campaign to attract new vocations. There are priests who feel abandoned by their orders and societies although they remain within them because that is what they vowed to do. I have talked to some …” He stopped himself. “What if you had a handful of younger priests—I mean younger than yourself—who would join you and help in attracting vocations. You have all the facilities, Father. And I would begin at the beginning. I believe you told me that you were thirteen when you began your studies.”

  “I was just out of grade school.”

  “Is that true of others there?”

  Boniface thought. “They are all products of our minor seminary.”

  “Minor seminaries were one of the casualties of the postconciliar enthusiasm. It was thought that a boy cannot make a lifetime decision. But, of course, one does not make it fully until many years have passed. I think a grievous mistake was made in this matter.” The cardinal smiled. “I had some research done. On the theory used to close down minor seminaries, you would expect that defections from the priesthood came from those who had started their studies at too tender an age. Not at all. Such men remained proportionately more faithful than those who began later.”

  This was not at all what Boniface had expected to hear. He had asked for an appointment in order to discuss the demise of the Athanasians and his own resignation. But he found himself stirred by the cardinal’s words.

  “Delayed vocations are very much part of the picture now, men in their late twenties, in their thirties, older, discovering in themselves a vocation to the priesthood. If you complemented the reopening of your minor seminary with a program for delayed vocations, well, who knows what might come of it? I have read about your founder and about the origins of the Order in Italy. The spirituality and charism of the Athanasians would be attractive to many. Perhaps there could be a reunion with the Italian branch.”

  “You have given this a great deal of thought, Your Eminence.”

  “I have. And I have outlined for you some possibilities for restoring your Order. Would you put your mind to this, Father? Would you consult with your fellow Athanasians and get their thinking on the matter?”

  “Yes!” The word flew from his mouth. He was at once stirred by the prospect of a renewed Order and ashamed of himself for not having adopted on his own the optimistic attitude expressed by the cardinal. “Yes, I will.”

  “Good.”

  “I had come here expecting a severe judgment on myself and the Athanasians.”

  “I will leave the examination of your conscience to yourself. And I will be looking forward to our next talk.”

  Boniface rose and then dropped to his knees, asking the cardinal’s blessing. It was not given hurriedly, but with deliberation, each Latin word pronounced distinctively. Then the cardinal helped Father Boniface to his feet. “And now, Father Boniface, I will ask for yours.”

  And the cardinal dropped on his knees before him, taking off his zucchetto. Boniface laid his hands on the hairless head and felt as he had when he gave his first priestly blessing after his ordination, to his parents. Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti descendat super te, et maneat semper. Afterward, the cardinal allowed Boniface to help him to his feet.

  “Our Lord began with twelve, Father. And he had one defector. But all the others deserted him temporarily when trouble came. Vessels of clay, that’s all we are. But fired clay endures.”

  On the drive back to Fox River, Boniface’s elation began to fade, but then on the long contemplative drive on the interstate, it returned. He felt that he was emerging from nostalgia and self-indulgence. Herman Melville had in his writing box a motto that sustained him during the composition of his last novel after years of obscurity and failure. “Be true to the dreams of your youth.” That was not a call to nostalgia. One might even call it aggiornamento. And as he drove through the gates of Marygrove Boniface thought how ironic it would be if Nathaniel’s return, whatever his motives had been, should prove to be the beginning of the resurrection of the Athanasians.

  18

  This is my resting place forever.

  —Psalm 132

  Sometimes, despite herself, Charlotte Priebe remembered the enthusiasm of her first years as a student at the University of Chicago, the authors she had read, the questions discussed, all the intractable matters of literature and philosophy. Was unconscious art possible? Is the unexamined life worth living? But she found in those memories a justification of the turn she had taken in her studies and in her life. Thales, the first philosopher, was said to have cornered the olive presses so that after harvesting he became wealthy. The point was not to prove that wealth was desirable, but that a philosopher could excel at the things that he disdained. And so she told herself that, once she had achieved her financial goals, she would walk away from it all and, like Thales, devote herself to philosophy once more. But there was another tale about Thales. Once, walking at night, contemplating the starry heavens, the philosopher had fallen into a well. Proving that philosophy could tell jokes on itself as well. Leo half understood.

  “I detest disinterested knowledge. My father devoted himself to geology and ended up with rocks in his head.”

  “Were they real or imaginary?”

  Leo let it go. He, too, knew how to play that game. First he wanted the good things of the earth, then he would think of heaven. Would he turn to the priests? And what did he think of the priest who was murdered?

  “He deserved it.”

  “How so?”

  “He wanted to sell out to Anderson.”

  “Leo, that might not be all bad.”

  “If he had had his way, it would have been bad for me.”

  “Maybe if you had talked with him.” She meant, of course, if she had talked with him.

  “I did. It didn’t do any good. He called me a greedy parasite. He told me to get a job.” Leo made a vulgar wet noise with his lips.

  “Well, anyway, he’s out of the picture. So the present question is how do we get you what you want?”

  She had gone over the compromise with him, and he seemed to welcome it, but after so many years of distrust and despite their intimacy he did not thoroughly trust even her. Intimacy has its limitations, she was beginning to learn. They were living together now, in the phrase, but it was their little secret. No need for Anderson to know. He had talked with Amos Cadbury over lunch and then called her in so she could give him another summary of her meeting with Cadbury. Lars Anderson had developed a smile that meant nothing. He could even smile while he threatened a competitor. He smiled throughout her repetition of what had passed between Cadbury and herself.

  “He is a wily old gent, Charlotte. He could lawyer me out of my shoes.”

  She nodded. “He is as good as they get.”

  “He had nothing but praise for you.”<
br />
  She shook her head. “It has nothing to do with me. He saw the advantages of your suggestion.”

  Above the unrelenting smile his ancient glittering eyes told nothing of what he was thinking. “Did I ever tell you about Beamish?”

  She sat back and put on her own meaningless smile. “Tell me again. Sometimes I think I want to write your biography.”

  “It couldn’t be done. Most of it’s up here.” He tapped his weathered forehead.

  “You can tell me.”

  He told her about Beamish, the long-ago partner who had taken Anderson for a dumb Swede and plotted to take over the business they had started.

  “He sought his allies with the wrong people. He is part of the concrete foundation of the Wackham Building.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  His smile might have suggested this. But he moved his head slowly back and forth. “They shoved him into a cement truck and in the morning he was poured into the frames of the foundation of the Wackham. Our first really big job.”

  “Was he ever found?”

  “Nope.”

  This time through she wondered how Anderson could know these things if “they” had done them. Who were they?

  “You ever hear of the Pianones?”

  “Of course.”

  That seemed to be the answer. But that meant the Pianones would have had to tell Anderson. So how could they have been the allies of Beamish, the man who had tried to unseat him? Charlotte looked it up in the microfilm of past issues of the Fox River Tribune. CONTRACTOR MISSING. Willard Beamish, of Beamish and Anderson, has been reported missing by his wife … . Lars Anderson would say only that accountants were at work on the problem. What accountants? “Arthur Anderson.” All in the family. She could imagine him smiling when he said it. Later issues recounted the fruitless search for the missing Beamish. A final story concerned the lavish memorial service his partner put on for him when Mrs. Beamish saw the advantages of being a widow. Beamish was eventually declared legally dead. Mrs. Beamish moved to Sarasota on the settlement Anderson gave her. In that story he had been Lars Anderson of Anderson Ltd.