Requiem for a Realtor (9 page)

But other and contradictory thoughts came, perhaps elicited by the lingering aroma of Phyllis's perfume in the car. The rented car. His own was parked in a downtown garage, a block from the car rental office on Bailey Street. Getting rid of the car seemed an imperative, to purge his mind of all reminders of the humiliation in the Frosinone. But when he drove down Bailey he saw the lighted sign of the Rendezvous and, on an impulse, pulled into the lot. This was the nightclub that Stanley allegedly frequented. In Phyllis's account it had acquired almost mythical status as a den of iniquity. Having emerged unscathed from the fire of temptation and adultery with Phyllis, he would toast his intact status with a drink at her husband's favorite bar.

It was not at all what he expected. He had been ready for nudes writhing on a stage surrounded by slavering men urging them on to depravity. But the Rendezvous was sedate, a place of worship where sentimentality in the form of tried and true ballads was celebrated. A throaty rendition of “Happy Days Are Here Again,” sung in a lenten tempo that negated the sunny optimism of the words, accompanied David to an empty stool at the bar. The singer had the full attention of the patrons, and David felt as if he were arriving late at church. Soon David Jameson was among the worshipers.

Dignity in passion, that was the phrase he settled on to describe the singer's voice, which, while remaining the same, altered subtly as she went through her repertoire, illumined by a spotlight, pouring out her heart to an anonymous invisible crowd. Then he realized that this was the woman of whom Phyllis had spoken so bitterly as the reason for her husband's sudden interest in the Church's marriage laws. David felt drawn to her himself, almost impersonally, as if she were a force, a passion untouched by thought, primeval. He sipped the beer he had ordered to rid himself of the distraction of the bartender. Too soon it was over, the lights went up slightly, and the singer was gone.

David looked around. Was Stanley Collins here? The mirror behind the bar was obscured by an array of bottles. Conversation rose but was still somehow hushed and reverent. Someone slipped onto the stool beside him and a half-full glass of bourbon was placed before the man. He drank from the glass as if it were beer then smiled at David.

“Ciao.”

“Buenos noches.”

The little man laughed. His long fingers lay on the bar as if he were about to elicit music from it.

“You're the accompanist.”

A nod.

“She's wonderful.”

“None better.”

The atmosphere of the bar encouraged familiarity. “Do you know Stanley Collins?”

The little man turned toward him. “Are you a detective?”

Detective! He felt oddly flattered, as if such a profession, better than that of dentist, belonged to this place. He smiled enigmatically.

“He's a sonofabitch,” the little man said.

This was said matter-of-factly. It was the view of her husband, differently expressed, that he had heard from Phyllis. The little man tossed off what remained of his drink and pushed his glass forward for a refill. The bartender swiftly accommodated him.

“A general or a particular sonofabitch?”

“Both.”

“Where is he?”

“Pestering Wanda in her dressing room.”

The little man was distracted by a conversation on the other side of him. He drank as if it were a secret his hand kept from him, the glass lifting once, twice, and after the third time pushed forward empty. David got his attention to get directions to the men's room.

Moving among the tables, he told himself no one would recognize him in that subdued if brighter lighting. The restroom was at the end of a long hallway lined with doors on one of which was lettered W
ANDA.
His pace slowed. Stanley Collins was in there. Lurid images teased his mind, but he continued to his destination. The face that looked at him from the mirror did not reveal what he had recently been through at the Frosinone, looking innocently back at him, the face of one who thought he had a vocation.

He got out his cell phone and retreated into a booth where he dialed Phyllis's number. It rang and rang but finally she answered.

“Phyllis, we have to talk.”

“Talk is the one thing you're good at.”

“I can't tell you how sorry I am.”

“So why call?”

“I'm coming over.”

“Where are you?”

He hesitated. “The Rendezvous.”

“The Rendezvous!”

“He's here.”

“So you're both there. Isn't that fitting?” She was crying.

“The piano player says he's a sonofabitch.”

“I wish he were dead.”

For a second he thought she meant the piano player.

He would have liked to stay, to listen to more songs by Wanda, but that seemed vaguely untrue to Phyllis. He went up the street to the parking lot and his rented car.

*   *   *

The following morning, after working on six patients he told Bridget to cancel the rest of his appointments. Her expression told him how unprecedented this was. But he could not forget that Phyllis needed him now more than ever. Who else did she have? Surely she would see this?

“They're already in the waiting room.”

“Can't a dentist be sick?”

“You look it.”

He might have shaved before his first appointment, but at the moment that had not seemed important. Bridget's report of the news she had heard on the radio changed everything. It seemed self-indulgent to pretend that it was a day like any other.

When Phyllis came to the door, she fell into his arms, and he backed her into the house.

“I knew you would come.”

“Of course.”

Her mouth remained closed when she lifted it to his kiss. The nonsense at the Frosinone was behind them.

6

When David Jameson called at the rectory Father Dowling could hear Marie asking him if this was his day off.

“Wednesdays,” he said in sepulchral tones.

It was Friday. Marie opened the study door.

“It's Dr. Jameson!” Marie's eyes met the pastor's, their lidded comment negating the lilt in her voice.

Jameson entered and sat and stared at Father Dowling. The door shut slowly.

“Father, I have an unusual request.”

Had he finally decided to take the plunge and enter a seminary? Father Dowling looked receptive. He would write an equivocal letter of recommendation.

“Phyllis Collins would like her husband's funeral to be at St. Hilary's.”

“Ah.”

“Neither one of them has practiced the faith for years. She is coming around, I think, but in his case … But I shouldn't gossip about the dead. The thing is, they have no parish.”

“She asked you to request this?”

He nodded. “She is out in the car if you would like to speak to her. I am taking her to McDivitt's Funeral Home.”

“That's where the body is?”

“Yes.”

“I know McDivitt. I'll work it out with him. Tell her it's all right. The funeral can be on Monday morning.”

“Can there be a rosary?”

“Sunday night at McDivitt's.”

Jameson was on his feet, a relieved expression having replaced that of funereal concern. “I knew you would. I told Phyllis you would.”

At the door, Jameson was still so elated he forgot to ask for a blessing before hurrying out to his car. A dark figure sat in the passenger seat.

“What's it got to do with him?” Marie asked and Father Dowling turned.

“I hope you didn't have your ear to the door of the study.”

“He told me, he just blurted it out when I went to the door. Are you going to do it?”

“What would you advise?”

“Oh, stop it. I knew you would.”

“I am going to have to soundproof the study.”

“The noise doesn't bother me,” Marie said, and headed grandly toward her kitchen, getting through the swinging door before the last word was stolen from her.

*   *   *

Over the years, McDivitt's establishment had acquired an ecumenical éclat that did not exclude agnostics or even the openly irreligious. There were as many mansions in McDivitt's as we are told there are in the kingdom of heaven, and while the bulk of his business was Catholic, McDivitt had never turned away a customer. Strange rites had been performed in some of the viewing rooms: a medicine man had danced soundlessly in his moccasins, a light-footed witch had stepped among strange symbols on the floor chanting unintelligibly, at the services of a notorious atheist as a weeping friend cursed God from the podium. Nothing altered the benign sadness with which McDivitt presided over his establishment. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He had not invented this grim truth about the end of earthly life but he was prepared to soften its effect on the bereaved.

“Will it be here or in the church, Father?”

“The church. A funeral Mass.”

McDivitt's hair was snow white, reminiscent of the cotton pulled from aspirin bottles. His matching brows lifted slightly over his dark-rimmed glasses.

“Was he a parishioner?”

“His parents were.”

“Of course! I remember them. They died together. I thought I had seen Stanley Collins before.”

“When you buried his parents?”

“Of course, he was younger then.” McDivitt paused. “And alive.”

“He called on me recently.”

“A sad ending. But he will look just fine at the wake.”

“No one can excel you.”

“You're kind to say so, Father. It is not a work that receives many compliments. Not that one expects them.”

On the wall of McDivitt's office were various certificates and awards. One from a professional association of undertakers. A lifetime achievement award.

“Praise from your peers must be all the sweeter then.”

McDivitt looked morosely at the award that had caught Father Dowling's eye. “Someone told them I meant to retire.”

“Even so.”

“Did you know Father Hug?”

“The Franciscan?”

“Yes.”

“He was pastor at the time.” The cottony eyebrows met in disapproval. “That man actually tried to talk young Collins into a single casket.”

“For both parents?”

“Barbaric. And he wouldn't let up. But I prevailed.” The frown returned. “Up to a point. They share the same grave.”

A moment of silence sufficed to restore McDivitt's professional expression.

“The wake will be on Sunday. I'll lead the rosary.”

“Good, good.” But then McDivitt would have reacted in the same way if told that an ox would be sacrificed and wine spilt as an oblation. No, that wasn't fair. Imagine spending your life among the dead.

7

Although Marie approved of Father Dowling's decision—the dead deserved the benefit of the doubt if anyone did—in her heart of hearts she had misgivings. It reminded her of the antinomian reign of the Franciscans when notorious sinners had been canonized from the pulpit when they were buried. Recent events had brought back the Collinses' funeral when Father Pacific had actually condemned the excessive expenditures for the departed.

“One in life, they should be united in death. Before this altar they gave their hands to one another, and the hand of God reached down and took them to himself at the same moment. Why should what God joined together be separated even in death?”

An odd sermon from beginning to end, but that was the rule with Pacific. In any case, the couple had been model Catholics, and the church was happily full for their exit. Their son was another kettle of fish, apparently. Marie had picked up rumors, from Maud Pinske of all people, who showed up for Mass on Sunday and took Marie aside.

“Is it true that Stanley Collins will be buried from St. Hilary's?”

“It was in the paper.”

“I suppose it's best.”

Marie bristled. Father Dowling's decisions did not require the approval of Amos Cadbury's secretary.

“Mr. Cadbury is so pleased.”

That was a different story. Marie nodded.

“Of course, you know what he was like?”

“Mr. Cadbury?”

“Marie!”

“Come over to the rectory and have a cup of tea.”

A troubled marriage, that was the burden of Maud's story. Listening, urging her on, Marie thought of the separate visits of Phyllis and Stanley Collins to Father Dowling. They had both made a point of the pastor's degree in canon law and experience on the archdiocesan marriage tribunal. Against the background of Maud Pinske's sibilant confiding this took on a new significance.

“The two of them actually consulted Mr. Cadbury, Marie.”

“The Collinses?”

“No. No. She and the other man.”

“About…”

“They claimed that there hadn't been a real marriage.”

“And she had already found a replacement?”

“A dentist.” Maud patted her thin lips with a napkin.

“No!”

“Jameson.” Maud said the name soundlessly, her lips enunciating in an exaggerated way.

“David Jameson!” It was all Marie could do not to take Maud in her arms and give her a pacific hug.

“You know him?”

“I think so,” Marie said carefully. Already she was thinking of how she could convey this to Father Dowling in a way that would not seem to be gossiping.

*   *   *

Throughout Sunday, Marie had nursed the new knowledge that she had received. David Jameson came to the eleven o'clock Mass, making a point of being seen, taking a long time to sit and get settled in the front pew. Drumming up business? He did run a larger-than-average ad in the parish bulletin: Smile and the World Smiles with You. Everything about the man seemed to confirm Marie's longstanding dislike. Pharisee, she thought. But with the thought came a self-referential accusation. She brought her hand to her breast and begged God for forgiveness. She said a prayer for the repose of Stanley Collins's soul, but that was further distraction, given what Maud had told her. When Dr. Jameson returned to his pew after receiving communion, hands folded like an altar boy, eyes down, a reverent expression on his pale face, Marie murmured, “Behold the bridegroom cometh.” And again she beat her breast in contrition.