CHAPTER THIRTY
1973
Nora considered the remaining half of her gin and tonic. She must make it last for another half hour, the time she had assigned herself to sunbathe in the comforting tropic warmth on the balcony of her hotel. In the distance, the blue of the ocean and the blue of the sky merged into a single gentle background. Nora sighed. Why couldn’t the weather be like this in Chicago in November?
No more than one gin and tonic a day when she was on the road, and no drinks at all at home, save for an occasional glass of wine with dinner. Nora did not entirely accept the judgments made by her friends, that at thirty-eight she was more beautiful than ever. Nonetheless, she was not going to permit herself to go to seed, and drinking was a quick way to do just that.
The phone jangled in her hotel room. She wrapped her wrinkle-free travel robe around herself and struggled out of the lounge chair. It was the first secretary from the embassy.
“Mr. Thornton said that you had a fine time out at San Miguelito this afternoon. I’m delighted to hear it.”
“It’s a South Side Chicago Irish parish in the middle of the tropics,” she responded enthusiastically. “Father Leo has that district organized like the most efficient ward in Chicago. The liturgy was beautiful, the little kids were wonderful, and the housing project seemed to be perfect. And Leo didn’t give me a hard time, as so many of the clergy do, about my requirement that Cronin Enterprises make a small profit. He says his people don’t want gifts or charity. They want the chance to do something for themselves. That’s the reason the Foundation exists, you know.”
“I understand, though it’s an unusual approach in this part of the world. People get used to government loans they know they don’t have to pay back, or to church gifts. Private businesses making loans with small interest are unusual.”
Nora tightened the belt on her gown. “Leo says that both the other ways deprive people of their self-respect.”
“Well, maybe they do.… Thornton said you seemed a little tired at the end of the day. I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll turn down a dinner invitation for this evening?”
“Oh, no,” Nora replied cheerily. “A mile swim in the ocean and a half hour basking in the sunlight, and I’d very much appreciate dinner. Thanks for the invitation.” The first secretary would make the usual pass halfway through dinner. She would reject it briskly, and the rest of the evening would be pleasant.
“I’ll be by about seven thirty then.”
“Fine, just fine.”
Nora had had two affairs since Mickey’s death, one in Paris and one in Chicago. Both brief, intense, and utterly unsatisfying. They provided neither the sweet unbearable ecstasy of her two weeks with Sean nor the routine affection of her sex life with Paul. Illicit sex had been consigned to the same ash can of rejected escapes as had gin and tonics.
Her experience with Sean convinced her that she was not undersexed and that she would be much better off with passion as a regular part of her life. Since illicit sex didn’t work, she decided, she would have to make licit sex work. If affection for a charming little-boy husband wasn’t much to build passion on, it was better than nothing.
Her own cold-bloodedness shocked her; as always, however, Nora was interested in discovering more about herself. Paul was a thoroughly presentable, if shallow, male, more attractive than most of the men who made passes at her. Occasional sex with a husband you don’t love but don’t hate either—one could do much worse.
She went back to the balcony, stretched out on the lounge, and unfastened her robe.
Part of Nora was dead. She presumed it would remain dead, killed by the poison of guilt, pain, and regret. Nora accepted the verdict. The part of her that still lived would pass out its years, doing its best, lamenting that which had been lost but refusing to quit. She would continue to be a wife, a mother, and a businesswoman until the comedy was finished.
She tasted the gin and tonic carefully. Either she would have to drink it more quickly or stir out of her comfortable position and get ice cubes from the refrigerator in her room. She rolled over on her stomach. She was rich, successful, and even becoming famous. Yet part of her, the important part, the part that mattered, was numb and cold and would, it seemed, remain that way forever.
If that was the way it was to be, then so be it.
Even the businesswoman-philanthropist role was losing some of its attractiveness. She was good at it now, very good indeed, but the fun was going out of that too. Somehow, some way, she had to find greater challenges.
* * *
When Nora arrived home at eleven o’clock the following night, exhausted from the plane trip and worn out by the long wait for a cab at O’Hare, she found the parlor of the old house on Glenwood Drive decorated with streamers and a banner proclaiming ¡Bien Venidos Mama! Her three daughters were playing samba music on their flutes, enthusiastically if not altogether precisely.
Later, when they were all laughing and exhausted, sitting closely around the coffee table in the parlor, Nora asked Eileen, “How was Dad when you saw him in Washington? I talked to him from the airport in Miami, but we only had a few minutes.”
“He looked tired. And he was working hard on the impeachment. But otherwise he was fine. I wasn’t able to spend much time with him because I was busy keeping Nicole out of trouble.”
“I don’t see how you put up with her,” Nora said. “She drives Tom and Fiona crazy. It’s good of you to take care of her.”
“Taking care of people runs in the family.” Eileen grinned. “Anyway, I like her … well, some of the time.”
Mary and Noreen disappeared to their rooms, after much hugging and many good-night kisses. Eileen hung around. “Speaking of taking care of people.…” She slouched into the couch. “Did you hear the Murrays are getting a divorce? An annulment from the Church too.”
“I’m not surprised,” Nora said. She sensed a heart-to-heart talk, probably long overdue. A pang of guilt assailed her.
“Why haven’t you ever divorced Dad?” Sixteen-year-olds can be disconcertingly direct.
“Dad, to begin with, is not an alcoholic and he doesn’t beat me—”
Eileen made an annoyed face. “Oh, I know that. But, Mom, you’re so different from each other. Doesn’t it become boring?”
“All relationships are boring some of the time; there’s more between me and Dad now than there ever has been.” She had to choose her words very carefully. There would be no hiding from Eileen.
“I know that too, but Mom, he’s so shallow and you’re so deep, so much more like Uncle Sean. Why do you stay with Dad?”
“There are many kinds of love, Eileen. All loves are different and they all have their own commitments. You keep the commitments until they become absolutely impossible.”
“Why? Why should you be stuck with a commitment you made a long time ago?”
Nora felt lightheaded and wished she had a cool gin and tonic. “Because if people don’t keep their commitments, no one can trust anyone else.”
Eileen’s face was locked in a deep frown. “Will I make the same kind of mistakes?”
“You’ve had a much better childhood than I, Eileen. More confidence in yourself. I don’t think you’ll make many serious mistakes. Just so long as you don’t think I’m lonely or frustrated or miserable in keeping my promises.”
“Keeping promises is a good thing,” Eileen agreed. “Otherwise, where would I be?” She brightened considerably, returned to being a happy teenager, and hugged her mother.
I guess I did all right, thought Nora. At least I’ll be more ready for the next one.
Noreen dashed into the room. “Oh, I forgot. Uncle Sean called at dinnertime and said you were to call him at his private number no matter how late you got in. He sounded kind of worried.”
Was it Uncle Mike? Nora walked across the room and looked up in her private phone book Sean’s number at the cathedral. It had been a long time since she had used it. She punched the numbers
on the phone. Sean answered at the first ring.
“Cronin,” he said, sounding like a man who had not slept for a month.
“My name too,” she said.
“Nora, thanks for calling. I hate to disturb you. Mary died this morning. I’m going to be saying the Funeral Mass at the home tomorrow at eleven thirty. Sister and I will be the only ones there. Paul says he can’t get away. I thought you might—”
“I’ll be there, Sean. Of course, I’ll be there.”
* * *
For the gospel of the Mass in the little pseudo-baroque chapel, Sean chose the story of the resurrection of Lazarus from St. John’s Gospel. His homily was brief. “It may seem today that Mary’s life was a foolish waste. She lived sixty-five years, and the last forty of those years she did not know who she was, did not recollect anything of her childhood, of her girlhood, of her young adult years, did not remember her family or her friends or those who loved her. She was not, as far as we could tell, lonely, but she was surely alone, a lost soul. And yet, we know that God loved Mary, and that now all the joys of life are part of a bright, glowing joy that will never go pale, never be dimmed, never end for all eternity. There is only one thing we can understand today. God loves Mary, and he loves all of us.”
Sean went on with the Mass, lifting the bread and then the wine in offering. The young nun discreetly wiped her eyes. For Nora there were no tears.
Then, suddenly, the Presence, gone for so long, returned. There was no forgiveness, no blame, no lifting of burdens of guilt, no message that at last she was forgiven. Rather, the love that surrounded Nora behaved as though it had never left, chided her gently for not noticing its presence, and enveloped her in caressing and tender warmth. Embraced by such love, Nora realized how irrelevant was forgiveness, how foolish was anger, and how ridiculous was guilt. The part of her that had been numb and dead was alive again, so vital and so happy; the numbness seemed only to have been a very minor part of a faintly disturbing dream she had had long ago.
When Sean put the sacred host in her hands at communion time with the words, “Nora, the Body of Christ,” tears finally came, tears of joy for Sean and for herself.
Later, Nora and Sean stopped for lunch in a quiet little restaurant just outside of Libertyville, not far from the seminary at Mundelein. As soon as they had ordered their meal, she said, “Sean, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I want to be friends again. I’ve been a fool these last couple of years, blaming myself for Mickey’s death and blaming you … well, blaming you for everything. It’s ridiculous, and I promise it won’t happen again.”
“I’d much sooner have you as a friend than as an enemy, Nora. Besides, I’m the one who should be on his knees begging for forgiveness.”
She felt her face grow warm. “I want to talk about Italy.… I—I loved you then, Sean, and I always will. The terrible physical hunger is gone. I’m sure it won’t come back—”
He looked into her eyes. “I’m never going to be so sure of myself again, Nora. So I won’t make any promises.” His face was transformed by a smile. “But I think you’re reasonably safe from me so long as we never go on vacation together again.”
They both laughed, the tension eased, and they were happy and even young again.
* * *
Paul felt his fingers tremble as he read the small newspaper clipping that Eric had presented him with in the bar near the Shoreham. “I’m sorry, sir, about this regrettable incident. These things do happen occasionally, and while we assume full responsibility for them, they still cause us a great deal of concern.”
The clipping said that Joseph Makuch had been found early that morning dead in his car on Interstate 98, the victim of a heart attack. Mr. Makuch had apparently felt the first pains of the attack, driven his car off to the side of the road, and then died from a massive blockage of the heart artery before he was able to get out of the car and seek help. He was forty-five years old, survived by his widow, Carolyn, and two sons, Arnold and Joseph.
Paul returned the clipping to Eric. “What happened?” he asked.
“The man had a heart condition, sir.” Eric frowned. “Apparently an autopsy was done and the pathologist reported that Makuch could have died almost any time within the past year. The usual causes, I’m afraid. Overindulgences in food and drink, too many cigarettes, no exercise … a bad way to live.”
“And your—er—uh, I mean, your operatives—”
“Merely forced his car to the side of the road and disembarked from their own car. Even in the legal sense, I’m sure they would not be held responsible. Of course there will be no charge, and I can promise you that if in the future you require our services, we will make sure that this does not happen again.”
On the way back to his house in Georgetown, Paul wondered what Eric and his “associates” would have done if they had known about Joe Makuch’s bad heart. He was shocked by the death of the man who had blackmailed him and exhilarated by the feeling of freedom that the death brought—the first freedom from the fear of exposure that he had experienced in all that time. Too bad Makuch had to die, of course, but Paul felt no guilt over his death. After all, the man had a bad heart. He should have taken better care of himself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
1973
If Mike Cronin was surprised that Sean had come to visit him in the morning on the wrong day of the week, he did not show it. Rather, he turned away from the television set and looked at his son blankly.
“Turn it off,” Sean said.
One of his father’s twisted fingers pushed the button. The picture and the sound died.
“I’ll be only a few moments, Mrs. Calloway,” he said to the smiling, even-tempered black nurse, who took the hint and left the room.
He turned again to his father. “We buried Mary Eileen yesterday.”
A strange, wild light flowed momentarily in his father’s eyes. The crippled hand scrawled on the note pad. “Where?”
“At the home. She won’t be at your side in death any more than she was in life.” He turned and walked to the door, fearful that his turbulent emotions would spill out and he would say more than he wanted to say. It was not up to him to punish his father. He had done enough of that already.
As he left the room, he heard the television set click on.
* * *
Paul placed the breakfast tray next to Nora on the bed. “Orange juice, bacon, pancakes, coffee … you worked up a big appetite last night.”
“And you’ve become quite the cook! The hotcakes look good.”
“Out of a package.” Paul kissed her forehead.
Nora drew the sheet closer to her throat. For a few moments last night, drugged by wine and loneliness, they had been lovers. It was a deception. It could never work between them. Paul was too much a child. Still, her body was satisfied and Paul was obviously pleased.
“It was wonderful last night.” She felt that she owed him a compliment.
He kissed her again. “Maybe we should do it a little more often. I’d like that.… Did you see Sean and Dad in Chicago?”
“Only Sean. He absolutely refuses to fight this censure thing.”
“Censure?” Paul frowned.
“Hasn’t he told you? Some bizarre Spanish order has persuaded a group of cardinals to introduce a censure motion at the bishops’ meeting—about his television interview last year.”
“He doesn’t deserve that!” Paul’s voice took on a tone that Nora recognized from their childhood. It was the voice of the older brother ready to defend his younger sibling.
“Can you stop them?”
“I sure as hell can try,” he said.
* * *
“Best restaurant in Washington.” Paul gestured at the dining room of the Lion d’Or. “At this moment I can see two Senators, three other Congressmen, and one Cabinet member … some of them are even with their wives.”
Sean, feeling pleasantly relaxed after two Irish whiskeys, smiled along with his brother.
“And no other bishops, with or without wives.”
“I suspect they wouldn’t know about the Lion d’Or.”
“Oh, some of them would, but they just wouldn’t want the others to know they know about it.” They laughed again. Then Paul became serious, or rather adopted the facial expression and tilt of his head that, for him, passed for seriousness.
“How’s the old man? Every time I come home I mean to go see him, but there’s so much of a rush with Nora and the kids and all.…”
Sean played with his butter knife. “About the same. I guess he slips a little bit each time I see him, but that’s been going on for years now, and I think he has a long way more to slip before he hits bottom. I have no idea what he thinks, what he feels, how he manages to survive.”
“It’s a shame. I hope nothing like that happens to me.”
“I suppose you’ve heard about my troubles with the cardinals?”
Paul was quickly disposing of his salad. “Yes, I read about it.” He was trying to sound casual. “You can’t let those bastards do it to you, Sean. Hell, what motivation am I going to have to run for Senator if you’re not already Archbishop of Chicago?”
Sean’s laugh was hollow. “I’m not going to be Archbishop of Chicago, Paul. I hereby proclaim the competition over. I’m not going to fight. It’s not worth it. I probably deserve censure for a lot more things than that one television program. Let them do whatever they want.”
“You have to fight them, Sean.” Paul put down his salad fork. “You simply have to fight them.”
“I’m not going to fight them. And what’s more, I insist that you don’t try to fight them for me. Understand?”
Paul swallowed half of his glass of wine in a single gulp, as though it were water to quench his thirst. “Sure, Sean. If you say that I shouldn’t fight them, then I won’t fight them.”
* * *
“So good of you to come to visit me, Congressman,” said Alfonse Cardinal Michaels. “You understand how very little time we have in Washington, although of course I appreciate your invitation to lunch.”
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