Cindy was referring to something I rarely thought of. When I was a sophomore in high school (the year before Joanna died), my grandfather died. He was a sweet man, who used to come from Germany to visit us every other summer. He was my mother's father, and his full name was Hermann Schuler. When we were small, we had called him Opa, or Shoe, which was my baby pronunciation of his last name.
Whenever Shoe came to us, he would work in my parents' garden, always transforming it into something more lovely and disciplined than it had been before. One year he built a wooden bench and arbor that remains in the garden today, weathered to a lovely gray. My Opa smelled like tobacco and men's soap, and he smoked pipes and cigars. In the evenings, or on journeys in the car, he would invariably fall asleep with a cigar on his lip, and it would dangle, still burning, in a dangerous way, so that we children would feel compelled to go for it—then he woke up, every time, he woke up when our hands were reaching toward his face. He would laugh at us, as though we were silly for fearing the cigar would fall. It never did fall.
Shoe was supposed to come to us that summer—his wife, my grandmother, was afraid to fly—but he got sick, and our Oma sent word that he probably wouldn't make the trip. And then one day my father sat down with us, Fritz, Gerhard and me, and said “Your mother has had some bad news.” He told us that Shoe had died. It was only later that I learned he'd had cancer, and that he'd experienced terrible pain and suffering before his death. My sweet Shoe, who used to draw hopscotch for me with an engineer's precision, then watch me jump along the sidewalk, his head wreathed in fragrant pipe smoke, saying “Sehr schön, Madeline. Schön, schön, schön.” Lovely, lovely, lovely.
Because my relatives were in Germany, and because at that point in their lives my parents could not afford to fly back for the interment, we grieved at home. I remember once we went to the funeral of a woman from our church; I'd stood at the windy graveside, holding my father's hand, and with the others I'd placed a rose petal on the metal lid before I saw it lowered into the ground. There was that dreadful finality, but also a release, in watching it go. Even the rose petals had curled at the edges, dying before our eyes, and there was an understanding of it all, a satisfaction in the realities of nature that made funerals an important ritual for those who lived. Without that, I felt that my grandfather had been somehow cruelly eradicated from my life, in a way more merciless than I had believed death could be.
When she received the news, my mother spent the day in her room. She always closeted grief, and I had learned to do the same, so I went to school with my sadness for my grandfather in my pocket, and never fully talked about my feelings.
One month later my father found a lump under his arm, next to his rib. He went to the doctor, and was told, after some tests, that he had a malignant tumor. My parents never once said the word cancer to us, and yet we knew that my father had it, and we, the children, were as grave as if we'd heard he was scheduled for execution.
My father grew thinner, and lost some hair, as they treated his tumor, and then they determined that surgery, at first thought impossible, would be necessary. All this while my father continued to work, my mother continued to work, and we children went to school. I did my term papers, studied my Latin, labored at math.
The day of his surgery I sat in the school chapel. I'd been offered the opportunity to go there by my Latin teacher, a compassionate woman who must have seen my distracted state; I was there to pray, but I sat dully, staring at the altar. I didn't know how to pray, I'd found, nor did I have the inclination. I'd decided that any God who allowed his own son to die so horribly was not a compassionate God, and that something other than suffering could have been the answer. Why did love and suffering have to go hand in hand? Why couldn't Christ have come in some sort of magical form, and merely told people to clean up their act? Most importantly, why did people have to die? Why make them live at all? A part of my life-long belief slipped away from me then, and it never really returned.
While I sat in the pew, a nun was sent from the office with a little note for me. I opened it, and read the words that brought a rush of relief. “Surgery went well. Your father is in recovery.”
The rest of the day passed quietly enough. Jack and I slept some more, made peaceful love in our bed, then finally shared lunch together. I thought a bit about Cindy's words, and her reasoning that I'd repressed much of high school because of my avoidance of difficult memories. I knew lots of people, however, who didn't remember high school, and only some of them attributed it to drinking too much.
Some time after noon Jack cleaned the snow off of my car, I kissed him goodbye, and I drove to the newspaper office through streets transformed by snow, purified by whiteness. Fire hydrants wore tall white hats like squat little Bishops, their crowns as yet untouched by marauding, mittened children. Webley, in fact, was as silent as death, and even the sound of the few cars driving was muffled by compressed snow.
I worked on stories unrelated to Sister Joanna. The office, too, was empty of almost everyone but Bill and a couple of computer entry people. Sally had been snowed in, and my office was rather lonely without her. Bill assigned me a feature on the snow and its effect on local businesses, and I didn't finish my interviews and writing until evening.
When I got home, Jack was again practicing with Juan O'Leary, who told me he'd somehow made it through the drifts on foot, his guitar slung over his back. I congratulated him, waved to Jack, and went into my room. I called Gerhard again, still wanting to know about his secret. To my surprise Sandra answered the phone.
“Oh, hi, Sandra—is Gerhard there?” I asked.
“He just ran out to get a video, Madeline. We're on a little date. Veronica is with my mom and dad, and I have to say it's kind of nice to take a break, although I feel guilty because she has a little cold.” I hadn't noticed Sandra's love of the diminutive before, or her general chattiness.
“So how's it going—with you two?” I asked.
“Oh, just great.” I could actually hear her blushing.
“Good. Make sure you tell him what you feel about him, now. Hey, while I have you on the phone, let me ask you something.”
“Sure,” she said, curious.
“I spoke with your dad. He said you told him that Jeremy Yardley, and his sister before him, were involved with drugs.”
“Oh.” Sandra sounded disappointed. “Well, sure. I mean, I knew lots of high school kids who did drugs, although let me be clear that I didn't. The guy I dated back then—not Veronica's father—he did drugs, so I knew all the scuttlebutt from him. He was sort of pals with Jeremy, who's a nice guy, I like him. But I happened to know that he and Harry, that's my old boyfriend, had a drug connection, and they could always be sure to get some stuff. Jeremy was even starting to get into cocaine and stuff like that. In a way it's good that his sister died, because I think he finally stopped then.”
“And his sister? You'd heard that as a teen she'd done it, too?”
“Oh, sure. I mean, they say it was kind of readily available, and people at St. Roselle had a worse reputation than the kids at Webley High. I was just pretty little then, but this is what Harry told me. I think there was a real drug problem at Roselle back in her time. But it seemed like no one ever did anything about it.”
I hadn't been aware of a big drug culture when Jeremy and I had attended Roselle. But maybe ten years earlier, in the eighties, things had been worse? I needed to get to the high school and ask some questions. I wanted to speak with Father Fahey, and with Tommy Watson, and with Mr. Taglieri, the man who'd worked with Sister Joanna in the anti-drugs program.
“Well, thanks a lot, Sandra. And tell Gerhard I called, okay?”
“Sure. Hey, Madeline, I wonder if I could ask you for a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Well, Gerhard got tickets for Coldplay tomorrow, in Chicago. They're one of my favorite bands. I didn't even know they were in town, but, anyway, he thought my parents could take Veronica, but they have an eve
nt to attend for the magazine. I really don't trust anyone but them with Veronica, but—well, we'd trust you.”
I was momentarily dumb. I'd never done any babysitting in my life. The extent of my experience with children was the time I'd spent with Noah and Cal Lanford in my last big investigation. They'd been sweet little boys, and now I loved them, but I never had to watch them alone. I'm not necessarily a natural with kids. However, I couldn't miss the intentional—and successful—flattery of Sandra's final words, and the implication that my brother had convinced her that I was worthy of being trusted with her greatest treasure.
“Well, I don't think I have anything tomorrow night,” I said hesitantly. “Of course Saturday is the coffee house, so that's out, but tomorrow should be o—”
“Thanks so much, Madeline! We'd bring her over around five. She's potty trained, of course, and I'll give you some videos she likes. You shouldn't even know she's there.”
Remembering Veronica's queenly presence, I highly doubted this; a part of me, however, was already looking forward to it. And Jack would help me.
Sandra and I ended the conversation with mutual appreciation; now I had a babysitting gig for Friday night, but still no idea what Gerhard was up to.
On Friday morning I went to the rummage sale at St. Catherine. Sister Moira, I saw right away, was busy at the ticket table, which actually had a line of people in front of it. She looked elegant and gracious under pressure. “No, the raffle tickets are three for five dollars,” she clarified. “The regular tickets are five for a dollar. Just consult the sign above my head,” she said sweetly, with a wave of her hand.
I used my press pass to avoid waiting, and wandered past the tables stacked high with the hand-me-downs of hundreds of parishioners. One area held housewares and kitchen utensils, others boasted neatly-folded piles of clothing. By the time I reached the end of the first aisle, bulging with an assortment of children's plastic toys, vehicles and even playhouses, I had spotted one or two things I wouldn't mind purchasing, and I felt a stab of guilt that I hadn't waited with the rest of the shoppers.
I found Sister Francis at a bake sale table; she sat rather listlessly at her post, doing a crossword puzzle. “Hello,” I said, approaching her. “Things seem to be going well, considering the snow.”
“Oh yes,” she said, recognizing me with what I fancied was a lifting of spirits. “This is a big deal every year, you know.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Father Fahey says it's one of our top fundraisers.”
“Yes, I do,” said a man's voice behind me.
I turned to see Father Fahey, looking not much older than when he'd taught me World Religions at St. Roselle. I didn't see him on Sundays, because my family had always belonged to Resurrection parish, which was closer to our home, but I remembered him, and wondered if he'd remember me.
“Hello, Marilyn,” he said, shaking my hand.
“Madeline,” I corrected.
“Oh! You have to give me credit for being close, it's been a while,” he said with an apologetic smile. His white hair had thinned a bit, and his face had a slightly redder appearance than I remembered, but in general he looked untouched by age. He seemed fit, as well.
“It's good to see you, Father,” I told him. “Are you still teaching?”
“Just one class,” he said. “I'm kept pretty busy with parish business.”
Sister Francis leaned forward with a sycophantic expression on her wrinkled face. “And he does a wonderful job organizing it all.”
Father Fahey laughed. “Ah, Sister Francis, you are too good to me.”
I felt somehow comforted. This was the easy nun-priest camaraderie of my childhood; when the priest came into the classroom and flirted mildly with the nun in charge, and she in turn treated him as a king on earth, which I suppose, from her perspective, he was. That was back when I didn't question things. Now, in the same classroom, I would put up my hand and ask Sister Whoever why she didn't want to be a priest herself, and why the church suggested she wasn't good enough for the role; did they really believe Jesus thought only men could run churches? Wasn't it women who ran them, anyway, in the altar and rosary guilds, in the committees, the school services, the parish functions—weren't they all, in fact, run by women? Wouldn't the Catholic Church crumble like a house of cards if women volunteers went on strike?
And of course, if I went back in time, I'd probably have to ask Father Whoever if he knew of any priests who were molesting children, and what on earth he was going to do about it.
It was a different church, a different time, and yet it was exactly the same. I felt sorry for Father Fahey, and all other good priests who had received a bad rap from the recent scandals in the Catholic world. He probably didn't feel it as much as some, however. St. Catherine was a large parish with extremely loyal parishioners, and Father Fahey probably felt his popularity continually.
When I was a child we occasionally had our then-priest Father Patrick over for dinner; my mother, I think, felt quite competitive with the other priest-feeders, as I came to think of them. We always used the good tablecloth and the good china, and she would wrestle Fritz and Gerhard into shirts and ties, and I would wear a dress and pass around “hors douvres" of cheese and crackers, and Father would have a beer. “Just one,” he'd say with a wink at me. Sometimes he even gave me a ride on his motorcycle.
The biggest difference between the nuns and the priests was that, while no one ever questioned Father Patrick's motorcycle, they would certainly have questioned the same vehicle under the chaste skirts of Sister Mary Paul, my childhood principal.
All of this floated through my mind as I smiled at the interplay between Father Fahey and Sister Francis. “May I buy something from you, Sister?” I asked.
“You need tickets, dear. Did you get some at the table out front?”
I hung my head. “No. I came right in, I'm afraid. I think I'd better go back out there before the line gets longer.”
Father Fahey held up his hand grandly. “No need. I have plenty right here, and I'll be happy to do business with you.” He pulled a giant ticket roll out of his black pocket, and I laughed.
I bought twenty dollars' worth, admittedly trying to impress them, as I'd always done with people of the cloth. Father Fahey wished me happy shopping, touched Sister Francis affectionately on the hand, and turned to leave.
“Father!” I said. “Before you go, I'd like to make an appointment with you. I know you have this going on—” I pointed to the chaos around me—"but would you have some time tomorrow to talk about Sister Joanna with me? I'm looking at the hit and run for the paper."
He raised his eyebrows, but he didn't seem unduly upset. “I suppose so. Let's see—I have a pre-Cana class in the morning, and I have a lunch meeting—how about in between there? Say around 11:00? You can come to the rectory.”
“That would be great,” I said, shoving my tickets into my pocket and pulling out my notebook to jot it down. I was blushing, because he'd said pre-Cana, which is a class Catholic couples take as a preparation for marriage. Jack and I hadn't signed up for it. My mother didn't know this, but my conscience did, and my conscience, if I had to give it human form, would look like my mother.
I thanked Father Fahey and watched him walk away. I took out one of my business cards and handed it to Sister Francis. “I don't think I gave you one of these at the convent. If you remember anything at all about Sister Joanna—something you may have forgotten to tell me—just give me a call. That's my work number, and also my cell phone number is jotted on the back.” The cell phone was brand new, a gift from Jack. I had resisted these phones with the aversion of the old-fashioned, despite the necessity of having one in my line of work, but Jack finally convinced me of their importance using the example of September 11. “Look at how many people got to say their last goodbyes because they had cell phones,” he'd said.
“Look how many people were granted that one last conversation. And look how much more we knew about what really happen
ed because—” Okay, I'd said, I'm convinced. So far I hadn't used it much, despite my image of myself as a woman-about-town.
Now Sister Francis squinted at my card and nodded. “Of course, dear. If I think of anything. You know, I'm going to the high school later today; they need a substitute for one period. Being there might trigger some memories, it's been so long—”
“Sure. Absolutely. If you think of anything at all. And I'll take some of those brownies. And some of your wonderful chocolate chips, if there are any left,” I said, giving in to my chocoholism. She bagged my purchases, I thanked her, and walked away, ready to go back and get some of those little items I'd noticed on the way in. The crowd was getting thicker, and I had to fight my way back to the tables; in the end, though, I emerged victorious with some toys for Veronica, a spoon rest shaped like a guitar for Jack, a scarf for my mother and some mystery novels for myself. I was a sucker for mysteries, and I'd grabbed all that I could off the book table before being jostled aside by some determined rummagers.
I left, all my tickets gone, saw Sister Moira long enough to realize that this would not be a good time for us to talk, and waved, indicating through charades that I would call her later. She nodded, smiling, then turned to her next customer. I then drove to the Wire for my days' work.
I told Sally that I'd be babysitting that night, and she seemed to find this highly amusing. “What?” I asked. “It's not like I'm some clueless bumpkin. If a seventh grader can do it, I can do it.”
“You go, girl,” Sally said, obviously still amused.
I chose to ignore her. “You will be at the show tomorrow, right?”
“Oh, babe, I wouldn't miss it for the world. And I'm bringing Tommy, so you can talk to him after, if you want. Or you might catch him at the high school, if you go. He's subbing there today.”
“Really? So is Sister Francis. People must still be snowed in. Well, great. I'm looking forward to meeting him. There should be room for both of you at our family table.”
Lovely, Dark and Deep (The Madeline Mann Mysteries) Page 10