Last Things (27 page)
Walter called before she had done her writing stint for the day, but Jessica was glad for the interruption.
“Is there anything I can do?”
He meant for Andrew. She wished there was something she herself could do. From the time Andrew had shown up in her apartment with his incredible story of having picked up the body of Horst Cassier and dumped it in the street a mile from his apartment, Jessica felt that she had stepped through the looking glass.
“I wish there was.”
“What are you doing?”
“Talking on the phone.”
“Would you like to talk face to face?”
She would. Walter's calm solidity and unimaginative integrity were just what she needed now.
“Could we go somewhere for a beer?”
“Good idea.”
He was there within twenty minutes, and they went out to his car through a gently falling snow.
“Any ideas?”
“Pat's Pub?”
He smiled. It was there that they had gone on their first date, if that is what it was. Pat's was a sports bar, television sets everywhere,
bringing in half a dozen different athletic events, the pictures captioned since the noise level prevented hearing the sound. It looked as if they would have to sit at the bar, but a booth was vacated and they claimed it. A waitress skated up to them.
bringing in half a dozen different athletic events, the pictures captioned since the noise level prevented hearing the sound. It looked as if they would have to sit at the bar, but a booth was vacated and they claimed it. A waitress skated up to them.
“Two lites.”
“Sixteen or twenty-two.”
She meant ounces. “Sixteen?”
Jessica nodded. The twenty-two-ounce beer came in a mug ten inches high, frosted, hard to handle unless you stood up and used a straw.
“What you've been through,” Walter said.
“It's not over.”
They hunched over the table between them. How good looking he is, Jessica thought. Had she ever noticed? He had always been so deferential to her that she found it difficult to take him seriously. Now he seemed everything a girlâa thirty-one-year-old woman, that isâshould want.
“This can't help work on your novel.”
There had been a message from Thunder, but she had not called him back. His enthusiasm was off-putting, and his emphasis was always on what this novel was going to do. He meant sell and make big money. Well, it had already done that, with the hefty advance he had gotten for it.
“I didn't write a word today,” she said to Walter.
“I'm not surprised.”
“That was Cassirer who stopped you in the parking lot last week, wasn't it? Bearded, rode a bicycle.”
“You noticed.”
“I notice everything.” She could believe it. “I could see that he annoyed you.”
“He was a very annoying man.”
She babbled on about the situation at St. Edmund's, the disagreement
over tenure for Cassirer, his reaction by declaring war on Andrew. Anne Gogarty had called Jessica about it.
over tenure for Cassirer, his reaction by declaring war on Andrew. Anne Gogarty had called Jessica about it.
“Why Andrew? I would be the most logical object of his wrath. But Horst just decided that Andrew was the key.”
Anne Gogarty wondered again what she could do for Andrew. Why did all his allies seem so ineffectual? Well, how effectual was she? She was sure it had been right to arrange for the meeting between Andrew and Captain Keegan, sure at the time, more or less sure now. But it would have been infinitely worse had they found out before he told them. And the behavior of Gloria Monday made it clear she would have gone to the police if Andrew hadn't. What a friend. But Andrew hadn't been much of a friend to her, involving her in such an idiotic act. The finding of Andrew's palm top at the spot where Cassirer was struck added an ominous note. For the first time Jessica believed that Andrew would be found guilty. But she could not bring herself to believe he was.
“Why did Cassirer come to you?”
“Oh, he talked to my brother Raymond and my aunt Eleanor too. He seemed to think we would pressure Andrew into voting for him to save the family from scandal.”
“Living with that girl?”
Jessica nodded.
“If only Andrew had called the police when he found the body.”
“If. Then his darned palm top wouldn't look so bad, being found there.”
Walter sipped his beer. Jessica realized that hers was half gone. Maybe she would take up drinking inadvertently.
“I did know why he stopped you there in the parking lot. My sister is secretary of the English Department at the college.”
“She is?”
He nodded. “The stories she tells. She likes Andrew though. And the chair.”
“Anne Gogarty.”
“Yes. And everyone really hated Cassirer. Well, not everyone. But everyone Wilma likes.”
“We're practically related.” But she couldn't laugh.
“I wish we were.”
She put her hand on his, thankful for the noise, the television sets, the atmosphere of frantic normalcy.
The turnout for Horst Cassirer's memorial was disappointing, but Lily put on a brave face. Of course Zalinski came, and Anne Gogarty. How could she refuse to attend the memorial for Horst? And Wilma, the secretary, came, God knows why, but Lily was grateful. That seemed to be it, except for McDivitt, who hovered in the back of the room, in the little group but not of it. The urn with Horst's ashes was bronze, a Grecian shape, an amphora, was it? Lily thought so. In the back of the room McDivitt cleared his throat as if to say no one else would be coming. Students? Not likely. But then the Gorman girl entered, sitting in back, shaking her head when McDivitt urged her forward. She took a seat in the back row of chairs, at the opposite end to Foster, who had entered just before her. Finally, dramatically, Gloria Monday arrived, fresh
from the snowy world outside, beautiful. She came to Lily and took her in her arms in an expression of solidarity.
from the snowy world outside, beautiful. She came to Lily and took her in her arms in an expression of solidarity.
“I am representing the faculty senate,” she whispered. “And of course myself.”
Lily could have wept with gratitude. Gloria had at last seen the light of day as far as Andrew Bernardo was concerned. Even if he hadn't been arrested she was sure Gloria would have ended their relationship and evicted him from the apartment. It seemed a small triumph but infinitely satisfying. Lily went to the podium.
“We have gathered to say good-bye to a man all of us knew as a colleague, some as a friend, some as a dear friend.” She dropped her eyes. “It will be said that Horst was not a religious man. And that is true. Unless one wishes to call his unswerving devotion to the truth religious. If so, he would have to be accounted one of the saints.”
Gloria Monday's smile seemed to have been put on for the duration, wistful, pensive, unchanging. Zalinkski sought a more comfortable position in his chair. Anne Gogarty stared at her hands, which were folded on her lap.
Lily read Catullus's CI ode through in Latin, a short poem but lengthy enough to make her audience uneasy. It had come as a shock to her that Zalinski did not know Latin. After she was done, she put into English “the futility of words over your quiet ashes.” Then she stepped back and nodded to Zalinski.
At the podium, Zalinski shuffled his feet and looked at the ceiling. Then, addressing his hands, which gripped the edges of the lectern, he spoke. He told them of Horst's passion for baseball, his head full of statistics. A Mets fan.
“Once I teased him about this, telling him Aristotle had made lists of Olympic winners. Horst glared at me, then said, âHe should have stuck with that.'”
No laughter but an altered key to the discomfort of those gathered there.
Anne Gogarty read from “In Memoriam,” a few random quatrains, nothing daring.
One writes that “other friends remain,”
That “Loss is common to the race”â
And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain
That “Loss is common to the race”â
And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain
Gloria followed and spoke briefly but passionately of continuing the fight that Horst Cassirer had begun. The best tribute to his memory would be to bring St. Edmund's College into the second millennium. She looked around. “And then we will push the college into the third.”
Lily clapped, bringing her palms together half a dozen times, but her action was not contagious. The podium was now hers again.
“If I have any regret it is that Horst and I allowed ourselves to be cowed by the medieval regulations of this university. Others defied those regulations.” She looked with fierce admiration at Gloria. She avoided Zalinski's skeptical eyes. “Some of you know I wrote my dissertation on the poems of John Clare.” She unfolded a sheet and began to declaim.
I hid my love in field and town
Till e'en the breeze would knock me down;
The bees seemed singing ballads o'er.
The fly's bass turned a lion's roar
And even silence found a tongue,
To haunt me all the summer long:
The riddle nature could not prove
Was nothing but a secret love.
Till e'en the breeze would knock me down;
The bees seemed singing ballads o'er.
The fly's bass turned a lion's roar
And even silence found a tongue,
To haunt me all the summer long:
The riddle nature could not prove
Was nothing but a secret love.
She paused, then said softly, “Horst, we will never forget you. I will always love you.” She stepped back from the podium and let the tears come. Gloria comforted her. Through her tears, Lily cried,
“Atque
in
perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.”
“Atque
in
perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.”
Within minutes Lily found herself alone with McDivitt, who took the urn from its stand.
“Come into my office,” he said.
Lily followed him, head down, unsure whether the ceremony had been a success. When McDivitt stepped aside to allow her to enter first, Lily saw that a priest was seated there. He rose and put out his hand.
“Father Dowling.”
Lily could only take his hand.
He said, “Would you leave us alone, Mr. McDivitt?”
But the door was already closing.
“I visited Andrew Bernardo's campus office and learned that you had taken away his palm top.”
Lily St. Clair looked startled. “Who told you that?”
“Why did you do it, to throw suspicion on him?”
“Suspicion! He killed him.” McDivitt had given Lily the urn of Cassirer's ashes, and she flourished it.
“So you took his palm top and left it in the snow outside his apartment.”
“I don't have to answer such questions.”
“Not when I put them to you, no. But you will surely be called to testify if there is a trial.”
“Have you told the police?”
“I was hoping you would do that. I suspect they may not make too big a thing of it.”
“Foster,” she said vehemently. “That foul and smelly man.”
Father Dowling smiled. “I followed the memorial ceremony from outside the room. That was a very decent thing for you to do. Obviously you and Cassirer were quite close.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “It's all so unjust.”
“It's far more unjust to make an innocent man look guilty.”
“Innocent? Do you know what he did with Horst's body.”
“That was terrible, of course. But Horst was already dead.”
“You believe his story that he just came across the body outside the building? Not even Gloria believes that. Andrew hated Horst.”
“Wasn't it the other way around?”
“Have you any idea what a negative tenure decision can mean to a junior professor? He is branded for life. Andrew knew that. Andrew, who does not have the credentials of a real professor, was determined to block Horst's advance. Yes, I do indeed think he's guilty, and if they make me testify I will tell that to the jury.”
So maybe it had not been a good idea to confront her with what he had learned from his visit to Andrew's campus office. Watching the monitor in the television truck, seeing her interviewed on television when he returned to the rectory, had made
him wonder if the attack on Lily had not been staged. And what if her love for Cassirer had been a one-way passion? A woman scorned is a lethal weapon. He had counted on a sense of guilt, at least from being found out, but she had lifted her chin and brazened her way through what should have been an uncomfortable confrontation. Tugging the urn to her bosom she opened the door and stalked out.
him wonder if the attack on Lily had not been staged. And what if her love for Cassirer had been a one-way passion? A woman scorned is a lethal weapon. He had counted on a sense of guilt, at least from being found out, but she had lifted her chin and brazened her way through what should have been an uncomfortable confrontation. Tugging the urn to her bosom she opened the door and stalked out.
After a moment, Father Dowling followed. McDivitt hurried along with him to open the door.
“I hate these pagan rituals, Father.”
“Will the urn be buried?”
“She wants to keep it.”
“Is that legal?”
“She says she was his common-law wife.”
Outside, talking with a spindly girl, was Zalinski. Downwind from them, Foster, rendered innocuous by the cleansing winter air, was lighting a cigar. The girl glanced at Father Dowling and then hurried away.
“That woman is nuts,” Zalinski said.
Father Dowling looked after the departing girl. Zalinski continued, “Not her. She's just a student. But Lily, trying to pass herself off as Horst's true love! He never laid a glove on her. He found her a pain in the neck. I mean, it was nice of her to think of a memorial for him, but the weeping widow act is pretty much.”
“I understand she was one of his major supporters.”
“We both were. Of course it's not altruistic. We needed an ally against the mugwumps.”
“Like Andrew?”
Belatedly it occurred to Zalinski that he was standing in the street talking to a priest. A wondrous look came over him.
“I haven't talked to a priest in fifteen years.”
“That's a long time.” Father Dowling took his pipe from his pocket but decided against filling it. “Are you Catholic?”
“I was.”
“What happened?”
“Oh come on, Father. I'm an educated man. None of it adds up.
“We should talk about it sometime.”
Zalinski looked wary. “You think you could finagle me back into the Church.”
“Good heavens no. What would we do with an educated man?”
Zalinski chuckled. “Okay. Just say I used to be Catholic and am no longer.”
“Come see me sometime.”
“Maybe I will.”
“By the way, who was the student who went away just now?”
Zalinski looked up the street, but the girl was gone. “One of Cassirer's students. Gorman. Mabel Gorman. Your collar probably scared her off.”
Halfway to his car, Father Dowling heard puffing behind him and turned to see Foster slipping and sliding across the parking lot toward him.
“What did she say?”
He meant Lily St. Clair. “She more or less denied it.”
“I figured she would. But she took it, so she must have planted it outside Andrew's building. She seems to fancy herself Cassirer's great love.”
Charity overcame prudence, and he offered Foster a lift.
“No thanks. I've got my car.”
God is good. Being in the cramped interior of an automobile with Foster would have called for heroic virtue. Or a bad cold. But it was Foster who snuffled.
“I hate winter.”
He continued to a diminutive car, one of the new Volkswagens. Another car was leaving the lot. Lily, in the passenger seat, stared straight ahead. Gloria Monday was at the wheel.
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