Sham Rock (21 page)

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Authors: Ralph McInerny

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Sham Rock
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BROTHER CHRYSOLOGUS WROTE TO his father to say that the abbot was sending him to Notre Dame as companion to Joachim for the funeral of David Williams, making it sound like a matter of obedience, as doubtless it was. Emil Chadwick did not often hear from his Trappist son, which, he supposed, was as it should be. When you leave the world you should cut your lines to it. To be sure, there was a filial letter at Christmas and from time to time a postcard—birthday wishes or the anniversary of his mother's death—but Maurice had entered the monastery and meant to give it all he had.
Emil Chadwick, on his rare visits—his coming to Gethsemani was all right since presumably it had a religious as well as paternal motive—had pieced together his son's attitude toward the life he led. There was no doubt that he was a Cistercian of the Strict Observance, the official title of the Trappists. In his letter, he alluded to the attack on David Williams, regretting that it had occurred on sacred soil as much as that it was a murder, and added, “Perhaps we should tear down the place.” He meant the hermitage.
There is an old quarrel between monks concerning the relative merits of the hermetic life and community life. Thomas Merton had actually argued that the hermetic was the original Trappist charism. For Maurice, unlike for hundreds of others, Thomas Merton had been an obstacle rather than a spur to his vocation. Before entering,
he had read Mott's life of Merton and Furlong's earlier one and been disenchanted. The hermitage had been built at Merton's request, and the author had spent much time out there in the woods, endlessly writing, sipping wine, listening to Joan Baez records, becoming more and more political, fascinated by Eastern religions. The hermitage had become a place where he could entertain friends and fans far from the eye of the abbot. After he had entered, Maurice never said such things; he didn't have to. While strict silence and its accompanying sign language were things of the past with Trappists, there is, after all, body language. Chrysologus made it clear enough to his father that the identification of Gethsemani with Thomas Merton displeased him.
Getting to Sacred Heart for the funeral posed a slight problem. It was one thing for Chadwick to pedal to his office on his three-wheeled cycle, but rolling up to the basilica in it would cause an unwelcome stir.
“I'll come for you,” Roger Knight said. “We'll go together.”
A golf cart wasn't much of an improvement over his tricycle, but Emil accepted gladly. Roger struck him as a bright light in otherwise dark days for the university and an ideal companion at funerals.
Roger made his offer in Brownson when Chadwick showed him the letter from his son.
“I can count the times I have seen him say Mass. I mean alone. At the monastery they say it together with the abbot.”
There was a thump on the door of Chadwick's office, in which he and Roger were talking. Another thump, the door swung open, and a radiant Sarah, now large with child, stood there.
“I got it!” she cried.
Sarah had been offered the tenured professorship.
“Will you accept?”
She stared at him, shocked, until she saw that he was being facetious.
“Congratulations,” Roger said, taking her hand. She threw herself into his arms and kissed his cheek. “Now, now.”
At his desk, Chadwick strained forward, offering his own cheek. He got his kiss, and the elated Sarah seemed to float out of the room.
“Ah, youth,” sighed Chadwick.
That was on a Tuesday. The funeral would be the following day. Father Carmody had decided that a viewing of the body would be held in the Lady Chapel of the basilica for an hour before the funeral Mass.
PLANES, TRAINS, AND BUSES ARRIVE at the South Bend airport, but Beth Hanrahan stayed on the limo she had taken from Chicago, having come there from Minneapolis by train. The so-called limo, actually a bus, after a first stop at the airport, continued to the Notre Dame campus, and it was at the bus stop there that Roger met her in his golf cart. She was wearing a purple beret and a black coat that seemed too large for her and was carrying a sport bag. Her eyes expressed pleasure at the sight of Roger, who had pushed back the hood of his parka as if she would have trouble recognizing him.
“I don't know where I'm staying,” she said, hopping in.
“It's all been arranged.”
“Don't tell me it's a motel.”
The residence in which the trinity had lived was now a women's dorm, and the nun in charge was delighted at the prospect of putting Beth up there in a guest room. “Beth Hanrahan,” she said breathily. “What an inspiration she is. Perhaps she'll give a talk at the Center for Social Concerns.”
Beth's eyes widened when he told her this. Apparently a group of students had been brought to Our Lady of the Road to impress upon them their obligation to help the needy.
“A kind of slumming. Oh, I shouldn't say that. They seem to think my life is romantic.”
“Any word from Timothy Quinn?”
She looked at him, then shook her head.
It had been trying to snow for days, without success, and the campus had the bleak look of late autumn, the trees stripped of their leaves, which had been gathered by the grounds crew and spirited away, the grass dull and brittle looking. Students moved along the walks, all bundled up, chattering into their cell phones, elsewhere no matter where they were.
“Have you eaten?”
“I packed a lunch.”
“But you've been traveling all day. We'll get you settled, and then you'll come home with me. I'll make spaghetti.”
“Oh, you mustn't go to any bother.”
She acquiesced when she understood that she would be sharing Roger's and Phil's supper.
“Father Carmody will join us.”
“Oh, good.”
A delegation waited on the steps of the residence hall, and Beth was led triumphantly inside. The nun was not pleased that Roger intended to take away this honored guest almost immediately. Beth pleaded that she would be dining with Father Carmody.
“It's all arranged,” Roger said.
 
 
Father Carmody was napping in his room when Roger called to invite him for a spaghetti dinner that night. Having accepted, the old priest rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. He was bushed, no doubt about it, but there was a glow of satisfaction as well. He was almost looking forward to David Williams's funeral.
Peter Rocca would pick up Brothers Chrysologus and Joachim
when they flew in. The monks would be lodged in Corby Hall, where many of the priests lived. A couple of Trappists in their midst ought to brighten up the place. He was smiling when he drifted back into dreamland.
Philip Knight came to Holy Cross House for him, a courtesy Father Carmody would usually argue about before accepting. Phil drove with the enthusiasm of a NASCAR fan, making conversation difficult. It was just as well. Father Carmody wasn't sure that he liked Phil calling the funeral a gathering of the suspects.
Phil had an odd request. “Remember being told that Timothy Quinn came back here during his lost years and worked for a time on the grounds crew?”
“Strange fellow.”
“I wonder if he's strange enough to do it again.”
Father Carmody thought about it. “I can find out.”
“I was hoping you would.”
“Anytime you want a partner on a wild goose chase, I'm your man.”
Roger, wrapped in a massive apron, let them into the apartment, which seemed filled with steam. Beth Hanrahan came forward to greet the priest. She told him where she was staying.
“Good Lord.”
He settled into what Roger called “his” chair and took the glass Phil handed him, brought it under his nose, and inhaled. “Happy days.” He paused, aware of the inappropriateness of his toast. “You know what I mean.”
Phil lifted his drink, and Roger and Beth toasted with their lemonade.
“I suppose you have to be a teetotaler,” Carmody growled to Beth.
“Living among alcoholics is a sobering experience.”
“I could tell you some tales myself, but I don't want to shock you.”
“Do you know any Dominicans, Father?”
Carmody shifted in his chair. “A few.”
“Dogs of the Lord,” Roger said.
“Domini canes.”
In the ensuing silence, Father Carmody sipped his drink. “Why do you ask?”
“They've been very helpful to me in Minneapolis.”
“They were the beatniks of their day when they began. Mendicants. A fancy name for panhandlers.”
Beth laughed and told them about Foster, the cook who had replaced Timothy Quinn.
“Too bad Quinn won't be here. I'm short a pallbearer.”
“I wonder if he would come if he knew.”
“Why do you say that?”
Beth thought about it for a moment. “He made a great show of hating David's guts.”
“Whatever for?” Carmody asked, then wanted to bite his tongue.
“It's easy to hate someone when you never see him,” Beth said.
“It's easier when you do,” the old priest said, then grinned at his own riposte.
 
 
There was red wine with the spaghetti and a huge platter of garlic bread. Roger had spread a checkered cloth, and the napkins were of the same material. Two candles glowed, prompting Carmody to tell a story of his seminary days, of how cold the chapel was in the morning, and the classmate who longed for a high Mass.
“Six candles then,” he said. “Warmer.” He looked around. “Not very funny. You'd be surprised what can amuse a seminarian.”
After they had eaten, Beth helped Roger clean up, and Father Carmody went as if reluctantly into the television room with Phil.
“Did you ever watch Australian footfall, Father?”
“Only standing on my head.”
“Of course, it's taped.”
So were the players. They looked like the walking wounded of Gallipoli. What a brutal game.
Later, Beth managed to get him aside. “Father, I hope you won't think this is crazy, but I'll ask anyway.”
He steeled himself for something odd, and it was odd. She wondered if he could possibly, while she was here, and given the occasion, bless the little grave by the back wall of the Log Chapel. He put a hand on her arm and nodded.
 
 
Mame was surprised when Wilfrid called to ask if she was going to Dave Williams's funeral. “How did you know he died?”
“It was in the
Times
.”
Wilfrid wanted to come along.
“What on earth for?”
“I'm married to one of his clients.”
For a change, Mame wasn't annoyed by this pretense that theirs was merely a temporary separation. Life with Wilfrid had been all right as long as he kept zipped up elsewhere. Well, who knows? The death of Dave Williams had cleared her emotional landscape. If there was a next time, she would call in Monsignor Sparrow. She felt she owed him that.
So they went to South Bend together. He got the loan of someone's plane, and they were whisked out in less than two hours. The plane would stay for them. Their rented car awaited them.
She had reserved a room at the Morris Inn, and there seemed no reason for Wilfrid to ask for another. Twin beds.
“It's the least I can do. You saved me plane fare.”
He grinned like a boy.
“Don't get any ideas. Remember, we're here for a funeral.”
Flying out, it had occurred to her that there was something weird about Wilfrid coming to Dave's funeral. He had hated Dave. He had tried to buy him off by opening an account with him. Mame solved the mystery by imagining that Will thought Dave's death cleared the way for their reunion. It looked like that was just what it was doing. Sometime during the night, she slipped into his bed, figuring they were as married now as they had ever been.
THE BELLS OF SACRED HEART WERE tolling mournfully as Beth Hanrahan made her way across campus from the residence hall in which she had spent the night. A light snow had fallen, leaving a soft blanket through which spears of grass emerged in a confusion of seasons.
VENITE AD ME OMNES,
read the legend on the statue of Jesus in front of the Main Building. A hearse was parked before the basilica, and other somber vehicles stood all in a row. A group of people clustered below the steps leading to the main entrance, the unmistakable figure of Roger Knight among them.
“Buon giorno,”
Roger said when she came up to him.
“Isn't that a pizza?” said the old man beside him, leaning on his walker.
“Emil, this is Beth Hanrahan.”
“How you have changed, my dear.” Then she remembered Professor Chadwick. She felt she was present at the general resurrection. She patted one of his hands that gripped the handle of the walker.
“I was afraid I would be late.”
Professor Chadwick said, “Only one person need be late for a funeral.”
“Hawthorne,” Beth cried, suddenly remembering. She squeezed his hand.
“My scarlet letter gives me away.”
Up the road, beyond the row of funereal vehicles, a large car arrived, the back doors were opened, and a man and woman emerged, she gorgeous in black, her face veiled. She hesitated before moving toward the basilica. When she did, the man followed like a bodyguard. She was about to go past their little group when she stopped.
“Beth!”
Beth felt frowsy indeed when addressed by this fashion plate. The veil was lifted.
“Mame?”
Mame flew at her and gathered her in her arms. Her escort remained discreetly in the background. He looked vaguely familiar to Beth.
“Your husband?”
“As was.” When Mame stepped back, there were tears in her eyes. “Wilfrid. You were at our wedding.”
“That's right.”
“I can't believe that this has happened.” She had turned to Roger. “What is being done to find out who did this?”
“Everything possible.”
“I should hope so.” She turned back to Beth. “Dave and I had become such friends of late.” She dabbed at her unveiled eyes. The remark seemed freighted with meaning. Beth realized that Mame's getup almost suggested a mourning widow. “Is everyone here?”
No need to explain who everyone was.
“I don't see Timothy Quinn.”
Above them, the mournful bells tolled on. The back door of the hearse was opened, revealing the casket. Silence fell. One of the undertaker's minions passed among them, suggesting that they go inside.
Mame said to Roger, in a whisper, “Is Jay here?”
He pointed. Jay Williams and three others were gathered around the open door of the hearse. Mame with a sigh identified him for Beth (“A dear boy”). Casey, looking uncomfortable in a suit, was there, too, and two others who turned out to be classmates Father Carmody had pressed into service as pallbearers. Peaches, all bundled up, held an equally bundled-up baby. All the women gathered around her.
Mame returned to Roger and said, “For heaven's sakes. What's he doing here?”
The man she indicated was off on the edge of the gathering. “Who is he?”
“Larry Briggs.” She made a face when she said it.
Roger was surprised. Briggs didn't look at all like the man the guest at the monastery master had described.
The others there at the entrance of the basilica comprised students, middle-aged couples, and a little band of ancient men, muttering among themselves. They might have been connoisseurs of funerals, lugubrious attendants at such events, as if they could not wait for their own. The undertaker was becoming insistent, and they went inside. Professor Chadwick was helped up the steps by Roger Knight, who needed help himself and got it from Beth. Inside, Professor Chadwick followed his walker up the aisle and they followed him.
“I cannot believe he's here,” Mame said. Her flawless face had become a mask of fury.
Beth looked where Mame was looking and saw in a pew a tall stooped man, half turned toward them, who seemed intent on ignoring Mame. They moved slowly beyond him.
“Who is he?”
“Dave's nemesis. Larry Briggs.” Mame almost hissed the words. “Why is he here?”
“Did he know Dave?”
“No!” After a pace or two, “Not in that sense. He was a client.”
When they reached the front of the church, with reserved pews on each side, Professor Chadwick looked at Roger. “Bride or groom?”
Roger steered him into a pew on the left, and Beth, in the interests of balance, went with Mame and her husband into the second one on the right.
Mame sat, but when Beth knelt, she did, too. Wilfrid remained seated. The bells ceased tolling, and minutes later, from the sacristy, a procession emerged: priests, attendants, Father Carmody, beautifully vested, at the end. All rose. The procession went down a side aisle to the entrance where the casket now stood, and soon Father Carmody, after fussing with the microphone pinned to his chasuble, began to read from a book that an officious little fellow in cassock and surplice held before him. That done, a white cloth was draped over the casket, and Father Carmody led his fellow ministers up the aisle, the casket pushed after them by the pallbearers.
Another prayer from the steps of the sanctuary, and then Father Carmody moved to the presider's chair, where he was flanked by two tall ascetic priests with closely shaved heads. The little fellow in cassock and surplice stood by to smooth things, apparently the master of ceremonies, and another priest with a noble forehead, the rector of the basilica, wearing an alb, looked out over the congregation with dark expressive eyes. The familiar prayers of the Mass began. The first reading was done by a lovely young woman (“That must be Amanda,” Mame whispered), the second by Roger Knight, who lumbered forward, climbed to the pulpit, and wedged himself
in. Next, the gospel was read by Father Carmody, the story of the widow of Naim, and they all sat for the homily.
Father Carmody had not adopted the recent practice of canonizing the departed, depicting them as already enjoying heavenly bliss, but then he believed in purgatory. He spoke of Notre Dame and David Williams's formative years there and went on to speak of the fragility of life, and the inevitability of death, which comes like a thief in the night. (“Carrying a piece of firewood,” Mame whispered.) They were all urged to draw profit from this salutary reminder of our common mortality, and that was pretty much it. From then on the Mass continued, interrupted now and then by the filling of the censer, which produced great clouds of smoke. Once Father Carmody came down and circled the casket, throwing up scented billows as he blessed it with the swinging censer.
“I had a late breakfast,” Mame whispered when Beth rose to go up to receive communion.
Returned to her pew, kneeling, her face in her hands, Beth prayed to her sacramental Lord. Distracting thoughts came. Mame might be dressed for the role, but if anyone here was the ersatz widow, it was she herself. The sight of Dave's son, first outside the basilica, then kneeling in the pew before her, made her realize that he was the half brother of the daughter she would have had. For the first time she prayed fervently for her lover of so many years ago. The overwhelming sadness of things brought tears to her eyes, and she let them come. Where can you cry without exciting curiosity if not at a funeral? The irregular bond with Dave so many years ago, the link of that miscarried child buried in shame by the Log Chapel, their later lives, which, in Dave's case, had produced the fine young fellow in front of her—and now Dave was dead, murdered.
She wished she shared Mame's urgency that the culprit be found. She prayed for Q as well, wandering about, if not a lost soul, on his way to it.
Then it was over. They sang “Notre Dame, Our Mother”; they followed the casket back down the aisle.
“He's gone,” Mame said. Apparently she meant the man named Briggs.
Outside, the casket was slid into the hearse, and Father Carmody and the two monks with him—Roger had told Beth who they were—got into a car to be driven to Cedar Grove Cemetery. Beth and Mame followed Roger's golf cart, Chadwick seated at his side, for the short walk to the cemetery.
“I loved him, Beth,” Mame said, out of the blue. Wilfrid seemed not to have heard.
Beth found herself resenting Mame's widow's weeds and the proprietary air with which she spoke of David Williams. “We all did.”

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