Thy Brother's Wife

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Sean had been stunned. “Paul will come back,” he said, hoping he sounded confident. “We have to believe that.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t come back, we have to keep the family going.”

  That was the way it was with Michael Cronin. Decisions were made as though there had been discussion and consultation and agreement from everyone, but in fact the decisions were his and there was no appeal. Sean had always been aware that it was only luck that his desire to become a priest had corresponded with his father’s wishes.

  Later, at the Benediction after the vespers, the thought came to Sean that if Paul were dead he would also have to marry Nora. She had been brought into the Cronin family after the war, not only because her father, Edward Riley, had been General Cronin’s aide on Leyte Island, but because the Rileys were a family with “good blood.” She had been selected to bear the children who would keep the Cronin line alive. If Paul were dead, those children would be Sean’s.

  As the four hundred male voices sang enthusiastically “Holy God, we praise thy name,” at the end of Benediction, Sean decided that the thought of Nora Riley as his wife and the mother of his children was disconcerting perhaps but not entirely unpleasant.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1938–1950

  It was during the summer of 1938 that Michael Cronin decided that his elder son, Paul, was to become president of the United States and that his younger son, Sean, was to become a priest and “probably a cardinal.” The decision was made spontaneously, without reflection. Nonetheless, it was permanent and irrevocable.

  Their mother, whom Sean could remember only as a cloud of golden gentleness, had died four years before in an auto accident. Aunt Jane, his father’s maiden elder sister who now lived with them, was watching the seven- and nine-year-old boys as they played in the sand in front of their Oakland Beach home. The sprawling house was rooted in concrete high above the lakeshore. Michael Cronin had built it for his bride at the time of their marriage, in 1928, just when he was beginning to take his money out of the stock market because “there were too many poor people owning stock.” The house was called “Glendore,” after the home of his ancestors in West Cork, and, although the house on Glenwood Drive in Chicago was his official residence, Michael Cronin considered Glendore his real home.

  Bob Elson had finished describing another victory for the Cubs in the late-season pennant drive sparked by their new manager, Gabby Hartnett. The radio on the sundeck just above the beach was playing “You Must’ve Been a Beautiful Baby,” while Mike and two of his business associates, Ed Connaire and Marty Hoffman, discussed the possibility of purchasing land where they were certain real-estate development would shortly begin. “If there’s a war,” Mike said, “the people who own the land around Chicago are going to become rich overnight.”

  “Is the idea of a war to defend the country or help your business?” Joan Gordon asked with a grin. She was a “friend” of Mike’s from New York, a pretty woman who looked dainty in a swimsuit that had never been touched by water. The three men laughed hoarsely, and there was the sound of popping beer bottles as Mike opened another round.

  It was at that moment that Paul, who had been watching the white breakers rushing up on the beach, made an impulsive dash into the lake. Sean trailed after him. Each wave was bigger than its predecessor, and one knocked Paul off his feet. The undertow, surprisingly strong for the lake, pulled him out into the churning waves.

  With no awareness of what he was doing, Sean plunged into the lake after his brother. Paul lashed out at him frantically, terrified by the strength of the waves and unable to catch his breath before the next surge of water filled his mouth. One of Paul’s flailing blows landed on Sean’s jaw. Dazed and confused, he too slipped under the water and into the overpowering clutch of the undertow. A wall of white crashed around his head.

  Sean remembered the words of his swimming instructor and permitted the water to pull him off the sand bottom. He floated free of the undertow, broke the surface of the lake, and searched desperately for his brother.

  Paul was only a few feet away, screaming with fear. Back on the beach, no one, including Aunt Jane, seemed to notice the drama being enacted by the two boys. Still sputtering and choking, Sean dove back into the waves, broke water once, then plunged again toward his brother, who had sunk under the surface and was now rapidly drifting out beyond the protective sandbar.

  Sean thought he had lost Paul. He was tempted to turn away to save his own life when, miraculously, it seemed, he caught sight of a frantically kicking leg. He dived once again, grabbed his brother around the chest, and pulled him toward shore just as the swimming instructor had recommended. This time Paul came peacefully enough.

  They had almost made it to the beach when a gigantic breaker smashed against their backs, tumbling both of them into the waves again. Sean hit his head against the bottom, twirled over once, then struggled to his feet. Terrified and unable to move, Paul clung to him.

  “Help,” he whispered, almost breathless. “Help me, Sean.” Sean was able to keep his balance and pull Paul back toward the shore. Choked with water, his feet slipping in the undertow, he struggled, still dragging his brother, until they were safe on the hot sand.

  When Aunt Jane reached them, she pulled Paul, always her favorite, out of Sean’s grasp and hugged him protectively.

  “Paul, you brave, brave little thing,” she wailed. “You risked your life to save that foolish child.”

  Sean never did know whether his father believed Aunt Jane’s version of the story, although Mrs. Gordon, who enveloped him in her arms and pressed him against her soft, sweet-smelling body, whispered in his ear, “I saw what really happened.”

  He nestled against her, still breathing heavily. “Please don’t tell,” he begged. He knew instinctively that it was important to his brother to be considered heroic.

  After dinner that night, before the two boys were sent to bed, Ed Connaire’s wife, Margie, asked them, “What were you thinking about out there in the water?”

  “I was praying to God to help me,” said Sean, who had made his First Communion a few months before.

  “I wasn’t thinking anything. I was trying to get out of the water,” said Paul.

  “It sounds like you have a religious leader and a political leader here,” said Marty Hoffman, rubbing the perspiration off his bald head as he sipped yet another beer.

  “A president and a cardinal!” Michael Cronin exclaimed.

  And that was that.

  * * *

  Joan Gordon, naked from her shower, peered through the drapes covering the French windows. The sun had set and there was a thin gray haze lingering over the lake.

  She made certain that the latch on the window to the balcony was open. Surely Mike would come tonight, despite his sister’s disapproval. It was time, past time. He had not brought her from Chicago merely to sit on the beach and listen to his strange, crude friends talk of money.

  In the brief years of her widowhood she had not lacked for wealthy suitors; none, however, were so fascinating as Mike. She was both attracted to and frightened by his intense vitality and his dancing green eyes. She sighed and released the drape. Was he expecting her to come to him? He was a difficult man to understand.

  She removed the featherweight rose gown from the bed and slid it over her shoulders. Then she slipped on the thin matching robe and knotted it loosely.

  As she brushed her short blond hair with indifferent vigor, she noted again how much the face in the mirror looked like that of his late wife’s, whose portrait hung over the fireplace. Never mentioned, Mary Eileen Morrisey Cronin was still a palpable presence in this lakeside mansion, and not merely in the face of her younger son, the gentle little boy with the soft brown eyes who had begged her to hide his heroism.

  The French window opened and Mike entered, wearing a blue silk robe and carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Uneasy, but preserving her outward calm, Joan Gordon continued to brush her hair
. “You were joking about your sons this afternoon, weren’t you?”

  He was struggling with the cork on the champagne bottle. “About one being cardinal and the other president? No, I think it’s a good idea. A word here, a word there, at this time in the boys’ lives, will plant the seed. Get them competing with each other to see who moves up faster. Good for them.” The cork popped, and a little bit of the bubbly drink flowed out of the bottle. Deftly Mike caught it in one of the champagne glasses.

  “Your family is important to you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” He handed her the glass.

  “And if Sean doesn’t want to be a priest and Paul doesn’t want to be a politician?”

  He shrugged. “Children become what their parents want them to become. Sean and Paul will do what I want them to do. They’ll have to work hard, of course, and do their part”—he poured a glass for himself—“but I’ll buy their way around any obstacles.”

  “Money can buy anything?” She was alarmed by the cold gleam in his eye.

  “Just about.” Dismissing his sons abruptly, he said, “I only drink champagne with naked women.” He took the glass from her hands and covered her lips with a long, searching kiss. Then, while she tried to recover her breath, he brushed aside her robe and gently pulled the gown from her shoulders. His hands were strong, yet sensitive. “Now you’re really worth toasting.” He drained the glass and began to kiss her again. He led her to the bed. She was paralyzed by desire as his mouth moved against her flesh. Then his teeth began to rip at her. She moaned, not with pain, since he was not hurting her.

  Just as he entered her, he said in triumph, “You’re mine, you know.”

  She knew it was true.

  * * *

  Mike, complacent in his male power, had watched the sun come up from Joan Gordon’s balcony overlooking the lake. Then he returned to his room to dress for breakfast. Pansy, the cook, was delighted by his order for orange juice, bacon and eggs, and toast. Normally he drank only coffee in the morning.

  He drained his second glass of orange juice and dug into the bacon. It had been a good night. Joan Gordon was an excellent sexual partner, infinitely more responsive than Mary Eileen had ever been. He frowned at the thought of his wife. Why did she come to his mind so often after a night of lovemaking?

  Jane entered the room, her lean face grimmer than ever. She sat down at the table across from him. Her plate contained one poached egg, all she ever allowed herself for breakfast. “You were in that woman’s bedroom last night,” she accused him.

  “Jane, how can you be so deadly dull at this hour on a lovely summer morning?”

  “I will not have you carrying on in this house. We must maintain standards. If you insist on bringing your women here, I demand that you at least behave with common decency.”

  Mike suddenly realized how much Jane had changed in the four years since she had come to care for the boys. What little spark there had been in her had been replaced by a sour, unbending old maid. “And if I don’t?”

  Ignoring the threat in his voice, Jane replied, “I’ll tell Joan Gordon why you can never marry her or any other woman. Your precious secret will be out in the open, and your sons will be exposed for what they are—especially Sean.”

  Mike felt his heart sink. The bloom had quickly worn off the day. “What do you know about that?”

  “Do you think you solved everything when you pensioned off your chauffeur and sent him back to Ireland? He told me everything before he left. And you won’t be able to pension me.”

  “You’re skating on thin ice, Jane,” he warned her.

  She laughed, an empty, contemptuous sound. “You always were a blowhard, Mickey. I’m not afraid of you.”

  Mike knew that Jane was not afraid of him. But he also knew that she would never do anything to jeopardize the security of the life he offered her. Without his family, she had no one. And where else could she go to indulge her habit of secret drinking? “I think we have a standoff, Jane,” he said.

  He picked up his fork and piled it high with scrambled eggs. Perhaps it would be a good day after all.

  * * *

  On a cold Easter Sunday, in 1942, after the family had gone to Easter Mass in tiny Notre Dame Church in Oakland Beach, and after the noon meal, Aunt Jane was instructed to take the two boys to a movie at the Marquette Theater in Michigan City. She pretended to be offended by the carryings-on of the Marx Brothers, but Sean noted with satisfaction that she laughed as loudly as anyone else in the theater.

  Sean had almost not been allowed to go to the movies because he had ripped his trousers in a fight the day before. Three boys from Michigan City had taunted him about his elegant clothing while he waited patiently for the Cronin Packard to turn the corner onto Lake View Drive. Sean had refused to fight them until two of them grabbed his arms and the third hit him in the stomach. Although they were bigger than he was, he broke free, chose the weakest of the attackers, and began to pummel the boy. Just then Paul arrived on the scene. When Sean and Paul were through, the three assailants went home weeping, cursing and promising vengeance.

  “Not bad, kid,” Paul said, ruffling his brother’s hair. “For an eleven-year-old, you do pretty well.”

  “We ought to fight other kids more often instead of fighting each other,” Sean agreed.

  “Why not do both?” Paul laughed.

  Although he was only eighteen months older, Paul was already half a head taller and two grades ahead of Sean in school—next year he would graduate from St. Titus and enroll, like his father before him, at Mt. Carmel. Paul did not permit Sean to forget for a moment that he was the older and the bigger and the more advanced of the two, although his manner of lording it over “little brother” was always genial.

  When they returned from the movie, the reason their father wanted them out of the house became clear. While they were immersed in the Marx Brothers’ antics, Michael Cronin had been readying himself for overseas duty.

  The sky was a grim and brutal gray as Mike, resplendent in his colonel’s uniform, told his sons that his unit had been called to active duty and bid them an emotional farewell. “In case I don’t come back, I want you to remember how important your family is,” Mike said. “Since your great-grandfather migrated here as a penniless farm worker, we have fought to establish the Cronin name. We were here in Chicago before Marshall Field or Potter Palmer. When my father lost his fortune in 1917, I had to leave school and forget my dream of Notre Dame and go to work. I remember hearing a man say in back of St. Bernard’s Church on a Sunday morning, ‘We watched ’em go up and now we watch ’em go down.’” There was rare pain in Mike’s damp green eyes. “By the time I was twenty-five I had earned back the money my father lost—I showed them all that quality pays off. Do you understand that, Paul and Sean? There’s nothing more important than family.”

  Both boys nodded.

  “If I don’t come back,” Mike continued, “Paul, you’re going into politics, and Sean, you’re going into the Church.”

  “You bet, Dad,” Paul said absently, not paying any more attention to his father’s personal catechism than he usually did.

  “Well, then, men,” Mike said, “you have your orders and you know what has to be done.”

  Sean was certain that his father wanted to embrace them but didn’t know how. The farewell ended with Mike saying, “Get along now and eat your dinner before it gets cold. I’ll have Jeremy drive me back to Chicago.”

  After Sean cried himself to sleep that night, he dreamed of his mother as he often did, a soft golden radiance. When he awoke, he was not sure for a moment whether she was alive or dead. Then, fully awake, he realized sadly that she was indeed dead.

  * * *

  Nora Riley was an unhappy, terrified ten-year-old when Michael Cronin visited her at Angel Guardian orphanage in the autumn of 1945. Nine years of her life had been warm and peaceful: affectionate parents, a sweet young brother, a gaily decorated apartment in the Brainard district o
n the South Side of Chicago. Then a telegram from the War Department telling of her father’s death on Leyte, followed a month later by a fire from a lighted cigarette in the apartment next door that took the lives of her mother and baby brother, and Nora Riley was a numb, grief-stricken orphan.

  The doctors at the orphanage talked to her, shook their heads, and told the nuns that eventually the “poor thing” would be all right. Nora knew that too. However, “eventually” seemed a long time away, and now she was lonely and frightened.

  “You look like your mother. Her eyes,” said General Cronin when he met Nora. His own hard eyes watched her carefully. Her father had served with General Cronin. His last letter home, which her mother read and reread through grief-stricken tears, had praised General Cronin’s bravery and goodness.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. But Mother had been pretty, and Nora knew that she was too tall and too thin.

  “Do you like it here?”

  “No, sir,” she replied honestly. “I don’t.”

  General Cronin considered for a moment. “Would you like to come and live with my family?” he asked.

  Nora decided that nothing could be worse than the orphanage. “All right, sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir,” he ordered. “Call me Uncle Mike.”

  “Yes, sir.” She found herself grinning. “Yes, sir, Uncle Mike.”

  General Cronin laughed and kissed her.

  * * *

  The Cronin house on Glenwood Drive seemed like a castle on a hill, filled with friendly servants, a room of her own, and neighborhood kids who welcomed her enthusiastically. There was much less enthusiasm from Aunt Jane.

  “Why did you bring her here, Michael?” Jane demanded on Nora’s first day in her new home. “We have enough trouble keeping Paul and Sean out of mischief.”

  “I brought her home because she’s Edward and Kathy’s daughter, and because I wanted to,” the General said calmly.

  “I don’t want another woman in my house,” Aunt Jane said petulantly.

  “She’s a child, not a woman,” he replied. “And she’s here to stay.”