After releasing a sigh, he stood and moved to a spot where Thor’s leash straightened sufficiently to increase the effectiveness of CJ’s tug on it. The dog came out from beneath the bleachers with a happy wag. Without a look back at his cousin and his wife, CJ worked his way around the field and toward the parking lot.
When fifteen minutes later he’d parked in the street in front of Sister Jean Marie’s convent, he found he couldn’t put a finger on his mood. As he got out of the car and reached for Thor’s leash, he wondered if the sister would appreciate this extra visitor.
As a former altar boy, CJ was familiar with the rectory, which in the case of St. Anthony’s was attached to the church, and he knew there was nothing overtly spiritual about a priest’s living quarters. Minus the biblically themed artwork and the occasional hanging crucifix, it was just a place to live.
The convent, on the other hand, was an entirely different animal. While it was near the church—on the other side of the street—there had never been a reason for CJ, or any other altar boy, to darken its doorway. This had lent the place an air of mystery that was missing from the priest’s home. And when one threw in the historical terminology, like cloister, solemn vows, and Mother Superior—not to mention that, as a boy, CJ had thought the average nun looked a good deal more imposing than any priest he could call to mind—it was easy to see why the sidewalk on that side of the street always carried less traffic.
CJ hadn’t attended the parochial school attached to St. Anthony’s and so, unlike most of his fellow altar boys, he had little experience with the nuns outside of the church walls. He didn’t see any of them teaching classes, organizing music programs, or otherwise displaying their human sides. Sister Jean Marie had been the exception with the amount of time she spent at the church, and the fact that she had a ready smile and kind eyes. Learning that she loved baseball was the clincher. She could talk Yankees and Mets as if she’d spent time in both dugouts, and she threw a fair fastball.
What CJ found amusing as he stopped on the sidewalk in front of the sister’s home was that the place couldn’t have looked more benign—surely not a place that harbored yardstick-wielding, mean-tempered old women. His youthful mind had substituted brooms for the yardsticks and a steaming cauldron for whatever secret activities they performed in their lair, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if research proved the whole modern-day perception of witches had been formed among the students of whatever was the medieval equivalent of a Catholic school.
The convent was a two-story brick building with copper gutters and stone steps that had weathered in all the right places. Atop the steps was a large solid-looking wooden door with a small window behind wrought iron. It was the only thing that belied the otherwise genial nature of the place. And it was immediately offset by the vibrant garden that stretched from either side of the steps. What little CJ knew about gardening came from his having spent a single summer working on a landscaping crew. He recognized the hostas, azaleas, amaryllis, and freesia right off. Other plants and flowers, though, were new or their names forgotten. What made this garden so striking was the obvious care that had gone into its planning. There were thick areas, with plants of all kinds and colors arranged in a wild but complementary harmony, along with sections of thinly populated ground that held their own whimsical beauty.
Thor, who seemed to share an equal appreciation for the foliage, if on a more empirical level, had his nose buried in a chrysanthemum. CJ put a quick stop to any ideas the dog had with a tug on the leash.
The door opened before CJ reached the top step.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to pay me a visit.” The abbess looked down at Thor, who was not quite straining against the leash to get a better look inside but was near enough to that state that CJ gave the leash a little pull.
“Although I’m not sure what the other sisters will say about this one.” She looked back to CJ. “He won’t drink the holy water, will he?”
CJ saw the twinkle in her eye as she asked it, and if there was any doubt about her true sentiments, she went to a knee to work her fingers behind the Lab’s ears. But he decided not to answer the question on the off chance his dog would indeed do something unholy if allowed inside.
Although he’d seen her at Sal’s funeral, it wasn’t until now that he realized how much things must have changed since he was a boy in the Catholic Church. Rather than a habit or the more casual blue skirt and white shirt he remembered from years ago, Sister Jean Marie was dressed in jeans and a New York Rangers T-shirt. In fact, except for a cross on a chain that hung from around her neck, he might not have guessed any religious affiliation.
After a few moments the sister stood and led CJ and Thor inside, into a good-sized room with two small couches, four chairs, a couple of oil paintings, and a large potted plant that CJ couldn’t immediately judge as to whether fake or real.
“I’m sorry I can’t give you the full tour,” she said. “Really, you’re not supposed to go any farther than the front room, but the kitchen’s a nicer place for a chat.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “But I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” CJ said. “And you’ve won Thor over, so I’m pretty sure he won’t rat you out.”
As Sister Jean Marie led him out of the front room and down the hallway, CJ decided that while he didn’t know what a convent was supposed to look like—to feel like—this wasn’t it. If anything, it seemed more like a standard home than did Father Tom’s rectory. There was also something like the feel of college dorm, without the loud music and pizza boxes.
“How many rooms are in this place?”
“Twelve bedrooms,” the sister answered. “But only five of them are occupied.”
CJ couldn’t tell if that was resignation he heard in her voice, but he decided to let it go.
The kitchen was enormous. It was done in a pastel green that evoked a country charm, dominated by a large island that CJ could imagine several nuns working around during meal preparation. Right now the kitchen was empty save for the abbess and her visitors. She moved a teakettle onto a burner and then pulled two cups from a cupboard before motioning CJ to an adjoining breakfast nook and the small table that sat by a bay window. CJ let Thor off the leash, and after a quick circle around the immediate area, nose to the floor, the dog curled up beneath the table.
“Thor?” Jean Marie asked as she sat opposite him.
“Short for Thoreau.”
She waited a beat before responding. “Of course it is,” she eventually said.
Before he could ask what that meant, she smiled and said, “So what do you think of Adelia after being away so long?”
He took a moment to answer because, while he’d considered the question some since he’d been back, he hadn’t pressed himself for a response succinct enough to fit into a real conversation. After a while he said, “I think the parts that have changed are dwarfed by what’s stayed the same.”
She nodded, and CJ saw a hint of a smile touch her lips.
“An accurate answer without a value judgment,” she said. “You know, that’s a skill.”
“That’s kind of my thing,” he said with a grin.
The low whistle of the teakettle came to them from the stove, and the sister rose and crossed to it, followed by Thor. As she poured the water into the cups she said, “I was surprised to hear you’d decided to stay.”
“It’s very temporary—just until I can work a few things out.”
“Rumor has it that you and your wife have called it quits.”
“Calling. Not quite called,” CJ corrected.
“Oh, so there’s hope still?” She’d returned to the table with a serving tray carrying two cups, spoons, cream, and sugar.
“Don’t know,” CJ said, “but it’s not looking good.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jean Marie said. “Janet, right?”
He nodded.
“Most of your books are dedicated
to her,” she said in response to his unasked question. “All but the last one.”
“I realized I’d never dedicated a book to my dog,” he said with a shrug. He reached for a spoon and emptied three spoonfuls of sugar into his cup.
“How’s that arm of yours?” she asked. “Still have that slider?”
That drew a laugh. He hadn’t thrown a ball in a very long time, not to mention one that’s notorious for ruining many a good pitcher. He’d wondered a time or two if his preference for and skill with the slider spoke of some unknown desire to exit the game as quickly as he could—torque the arm to the point where no major league team would take a chance on him.
“I take it that’s a no?”
“Sister, I’d throw one pitch and wind up in the hospital.”
They drank their tea for a while in silence, until they began to hear dog snores floating up from beneath the table. Even then, they let that be their background music.
“Adelia’s an odd Walden,” the abbess said, which pulled a smile out of CJ.
“What makes you think this qualifies? I hardly think this place signifies disengagement.”
Jean Marie took a sip of tea, considering the question. After a time she said, “I guess that’s your call. You know best.”
There was that knowing twinkle again. It was beginning to bug him.
“What’s on your mind, CJ ?” the sister asked, and before he could offer a protest, she added, “When you walked up the steps you looked like you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
On the tail of that statement Thor snorted in his sleep. CJ smiled at the appropriateness of it.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been a practicing Catholic, but aren’t priests the only ones allowed to take confession?”
“I didn’t say anything about a confession, Charles.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t.”
When he didn’t say anything else, she said, “Home is always confusing when it isn’t home anymore.”
“Home is where the heart is, isn’t it?” He’d meant it to be glib, but the severe look on the sister’s face—a look very much like that of the typical nun, at least in CJ’s estimation—told him he’d said something wrong.
“If that were true, would you be living above Mr. Kadziolka’s store?”
Historical precedent almost demanded that CJ make some witty response, something to deflect the probing nun’s question. For some reason, though, that tack seemed distasteful to him— probably because he knew where he wanted to be. So guilt caused him to let the comment go unanswered.
The sister studied him for a few seconds and then sighed.
“Are you staying here because you think it will help you deal with some of what you’re carrying around with you?”
“You have no idea what I’m carrying around,” CJ snapped, unsure how this amiable meeting had turned into an exploration of his metaphysical baggage.
“I know exactly what you’re carrying around,” the abbess answered. “And it’s not yours to carry.”
CJ was stunned. He’d come here for a number of reasons— not the least of which was to put some distance between himself and Julie—but while he’d also been hoping to gain a bit of clarity about some of the issues that, if Sister Jean Marie was correct, he wore on his person like race-car advertisements, he hadn’t expected a cut as deep as the one she’d just delivered. It made him feel uncomfortable enough to consider leaving, but one did not take stalking off on a nun lightly.
“I don’t know what to say,” he managed.
“Then don’t say anything. Listening is a skill as valuable as any you possess.”
CJ shifted in his chair. “With all due respect, Sister, it’s been a long time since we’ve talked. I think I’m a pretty good listener.”
“You’re good at spite, Charles.”
“And you at psychoanalyzing.”
She ignored that.
“You have a hard time letting go of it.” She gave him a sad smile. “You always did.”
At that he almost stood, collected his dog, and left. Instead he let the strong urge pass, finished the rest of his lukewarm tea, and allowed the sister’s words to roll through his mind.
After a while he looked up at Sister Jean Marie and, with a sad smile of his own, said, “And I don’t think I’m ready to give that up just yet.”
Chapter 16
As CJ walked up the steps he kept asking himself what he was doing here. He had no obligation beyond blood, and he’d allowed that to thin enough over the last seventeen years that he didn’t consider it a compelling enough reason to act responsibly. But without the genetic element, his presence had no legitimate explanation.
This was only the second time he’d been to the house on Lyndale since arriving in Adelia two weeks ago, and as the first visit had gone so poorly (his neck still occasionally ached from when Graham had clotheslined him) it was no wonder he’d avoided it. But Graham’s wife had told CJ this was where he would find him.
This time CJ just walked in.
He noticed that the hallway smelled damp as he headed toward the great room and he wondered if water was collecting near the doorstop. If the sill was tilted incorrectly, rainwater could find its way beneath the door, where it could seep into the subflooring, where it could rot the joists over time.
He wondered who would get the house. Sal Jr., by virtue of being the eldest, had more claim than any of the others, but he had a nice spread outside of town, and CJ couldn’t see him moving into this place. He might own it on paper, but he wouldn’t live here.
Either George or Edward was an equally likely candidate, but they were in the same position as Sal Jr., with properties bought and paid for. CJ knew how it had worked in the past: whoever the house fell to moved into it. It was just the way it was done. He wondered if this would be the first occasion in which death did not automatically mean a new occupant. He found Graham in Sal’s office. His brother looked up from some papers spread out on the desk and scowled when he saw who it was.
“Let me guess,” Graham said. “You’ve just filmed yourself kicking a puppy, and they’ll be airing that tonight.”
Instead of responding to the jab, CJ sank into a cushioned chair, regarding Graham on the other side of the desk.
“It wasn’t my fault,” he said after a while.
“No? Then whose fault was it?”
“For starters, how about Janet? She was the one who called the police.”
It was typical baiting, and CJ could see that Graham wasn’t in any mood to respond to it.
“Daniel’s already done damage control, so it looks as if this little hiccup won’t cost us too much,” Graham said.
CJ couldn’t have cared less about the little hiccup, much less his henchman’s efforts at damage control. He didn’t care if Graham won the senate seat. He didn’t care who might end up getting the house. He’d come over out of some strange sense of duty and maybe to offer an apology if he thought the occasion warranted one, but he’d found that whatever it was about proximity to family that turned him into a jerk was now doing its job.
Rather than let it sour him completely, he rose from the chair and went over and selected a fine bourbon from a small table in the corner. Once he’d poured drinks for both of them and then reclaimed his seat, they were just two Baxter men doing what their namesakes had done in this room for the last two hundred years.
“What are you doing here?” CJ asked, after enough time had passed for the bourbon to ease the tension a bit. He gestured to the papers on Sal’s desk.
“I’m trying to figure out what to box up and what to shred,” Graham said. As an example, he lifted a single page that had been torn from a notebook and read, “ ‘Waffles for breakfast at 6:17 a.m. Lunch, 11:52 a.m., waffles. Julie brought dinner, 6:39 p.m., pork chops.’ ” He set the page down and moved his hand along a collection of others that appeared to have been torn from the same notebook. “There’s a drawer full of these.
Another drawer filled with cans of vegetables, and another filled with hundred-dollar bills.” The chair creaked as he pushed himself away from the desk. “And there’s no telling what he hid around this place while he was still walking.”
This evidence of his grandfather’s declining mental health depressed CJ, yet he found Graham’s surprise puzzling.
“I would have thought you and Dad would have been all over this years ago. You know, everything catalogued—the important stuff put somewhere safe.”
While he wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he said this, it certainly wasn’t the sharp laugh that Graham gave.
“Brother, you’ve got some strange notions about what things are like here,” he said. He tipped the chair back and placed his feet on the desk, heels on his grandfather’s papers, and he studied CJ, curiosity in his eyes. “You don’t really think there’s any mystique attached to the Baxter name, do you?” When CJ didn’t answer, Graham laughed again. “That’s the problem. You’ve spent so much time looking at all the pictures in this place, letting Gramps fill your head with stories, that you actually think this place is like a seat of power—that generations-long plans are hatched here.” He smirked at his brother. “This is just an old house. And Richard is what passes for the typical Baxter these days.”
“Believe me,” CJ said, answering with a smirk of his own. “I have no delusions about what it means to be a Baxter.”
The two sat in silence for a while. CJ could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway. Then it occurred to him to ask, “So why are you cleaning out Sal’s office?”
“Because it’s my office now,” Graham said.
CJ was only mildly surprised. Out of all the possibilities, he supposed this one made the most sense.
“It’ll take a while to get it ready, but we’ll sell my place and move in here. Daniel thought it was a good idea.”
“Keep in mind that Daniel thought my being at your press conference was a good idea too,” CJ said.
That earned him a shrug.
Don Hoesel Page 16