The Book of Illumination (19 page)

“Daddy,” Henry said, barely able to keep his eyes open. “Can you come to the wedding of
Q
and
U
?”

Declan shot me a glance that said,
Huh?

I smiled and nodded, which I knew Declan would take to mean,
I’ll tell you later
.

“Sure, buddy,” Declan answered quietly. With any luck, Henry would fall right back to sleep and Dec could carry him back to bed.

“Everybody’s a letter,” Henry mumbled.

“Yeah?” Declan said softly.

“I’m h,” said Henry. “I have to make a costume.”

Costume?
I thought. Shit.

I
WAS GLAD
I had chosen the Cicero pamphlets to work on first. I get a certain satisfaction out of doing really simple jobs perfectly: folding towels and sheets so that their corners are exact, straightening up the linen closet so it looks like a page out of
Martha Stewart Living
. Don’t get me wrong, though: these are small, serene pockets of order in a vast sea of comfortable chaos. I like that our home feels lived-in.

The
Essays
I could rebind simply and almost perfectly. There was nothing remotely complicated about the job. Modest and quiet among the flashier and more exciting titles, they were the literary equivalents of well-worn linen dish towels, ironed into tidy rectangles and tied with a grosgrain ribbon.

Bookbinders sharing a bindery sometimes converse throughout the day, but Chandler didn’t encourage chitchat, and that was putting it mildly. Every so often he’d look up from his drafting table, only to discover to his renewed discontent that I was still sitting there, working away on my stool at the tall central table. Today, Sylvia was spending as much time in her office as she was downstairs with the two of us, so if it hadn’t been for the
companionship of WBUR, Boston University’s public radio station, I would have had a long and silent morning. I wouldn’t have dared to turn on the radio myself, but Chandler had it on when I arrived.

As I cut, glued, and sewed, Tom Ashbrook interviewed a handful of doctors, some military and some civilian, about the medical and emotional care of returning soldiers. Veterans called in to the program, telling heartbreaking tales of their thwarted efforts to reenter the flow of normal life: to get treatment, claim benefits, find a job.
On Point
was followed by news at noon: embassy bombings, flood relief efforts following Typhoon Fengshen, and a doping scandal involving cyclists in the Tour de France. This afternoon,
Fresh Air
was going to be rebroadcasting an old interview Terry Gross had done with the film director Anthony Minghella, whose recent death had stunned and saddened the film community. I hoped to be able to listen to that, but I wasn’t in control of the dial.

Sylvia popped her head in at about twelve thirty to see if I wanted anything out in the world: she was going to DeLuca’s to pick up a sandwich. I had packed my lunch this morning when I packed Henry’s, and while I wasn’t overly excited about PB&J on whole wheat, a peach YoBaby, and a Granny Smith apple, I couldn’t let myself get into the habit of spending eight or ten dollars a day on lunch.

I followed Sylvia into the hall. “Can I use your office?” I whispered. “I’m going to try to reach Monsignor Dolan.”

“Sure,” she said. “Just dial nine, then the number.”

This morning, before she’d brought me downstairs to the bindery, we’d spent close to an hour talking in her office. I’d brought her up to date on Declan’s progress.

“So he’s not going to the police?” she’d asked me anxiously. “I mean, he’s not going to file an official report?”

“Not yet. He hasn’t spoken to anyone but this guy Scully, and as long as he’s making progress, he won’t.”

Sylvia glanced out the window and nodded, trying to take everything in.

“He wanted me to ask you something, though.”

She looked over.

I knew that the questions I was about to put to her would bring Sylvia up short, but if she balked, I was just going to have to remind her that Declan was doing
us
the favor. He didn’t have to be helping us, at some real risk to himself professionally, but he was.

“What’s Sam’s background?” I asked.

Her features arranged themselves into a puzzled frown. “He doesn’t think Sam’s involved, does he? Because there’s no way. Not in a million years.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” I said, trying to make light of the subject. I shared her opinion, but I’d learned to leave the detecting to Dec. “He’s just trying to get a feel for everybody. We’re throwing all these names at him and he’s still trying to figure out who’s who.”

This seemed to satisfy her.

“Is he married?” I asked. That wouldn’t tell me much, but I had to start somewhere.

“He was, but he got divorced a while ago.”

“Any kids?”

“One son, Ben. He’s twenty-two, twenty-three.”

“Is he in school?”

Sylvia shook her head. She smiled vaguely but didn’t offer any more information.

“What does he do?” I asked.

She seemed to hesitate. “Um, I’m not actually sure what he’s doing right now. I think he—has a job.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped, then let out a sigh and closed her eyes.

There was something she wasn’t telling me. I waited for her to go on. The silence grew heavier and more awkward as the seconds ticked by, but I wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

“Okay, he’s had a few problems,” she finally said, diplomatically.

“What kind of problems?” I asked.

“He’s a great kid,” she insisted. “Last time Sam told me about him, he was doing really well.”

She seemed reluctant to divulge any further details, and while I had to admire her loyalty, I found myself getting impatient. Loyalty to Finny had gotten her into this situation, and now I was in it with her. And so was Declan. If she wanted to find her missing manuscript, she was going to have to be just a little less loyal.

“Sylvia,” I started in. The tone of my voice must have tipped her off to my growing irritation because she opened right up.

“All right, all right. Ben got into drugs,” she responded. “They sent him away to boarding school while they were going through the divorce. They thought it would be easier on him not to be around while the settlement was being worked out, but, well, he fell in with kind of a fast crowd and he got hooked on coke.”

“Just coke?” I asked. “Or other things.”

She shrugged. “I don’t really know. All I know is that he’s been in and out of rehab for five or six years. Sam’s been through hell with him. He even got Ben a job here, but it didn’t work out. He only lasted a couple of weeks.”

“What did he do here?”

“Oh, nothing too taxing. Worked in the mail room, did some painting, errands, odd jobs. Then one day he just didn’t show up.
He was back on the streets. Sam didn’t hear from him for almost a month.”

“How sad,” I said.

She nodded. “And Sam’s such a sweetheart. If there’s anybody who doesn’t deserve it—”

“No parent deserves it,” I said.

I didn’t want to ask the next question, but if I didn’t, I’d only have to come back and ask it later, after I reported back to Dec.

“Does Sam have a key to your apartment?”

“No,” she said.

“You never left a key with him? Or left your keys at his place long enough for—”

“Someone to make a copy?” she asked.

I nodded.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I can’t think of when I would have.”

This felt a little spongy to me, like maybe she wasn’t telling me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But I couldn’t be sure. Dec would have to take it from here.

“Is he from a wealthy family?” Given what I suspected he made professionally, not to mention the cost of residential rehab programs, he wouldn’t have much extra cash floating around unless he’d inherited it or gotten a big chunk some other way.

“Who? Sam? No.”

“Well, you mentioned boarding school.”

“Sam’s father taught in the English department at St. Paul’s. In fact, I think he was the head of the department. There’s a room named after him in the school library. That’s where they sent Ben.”

“So they probably didn’t have to pay too much, given the grandfather.”

“Probably not,” Sylvia said.

“What about his ex-wife?” I asked. I suspected it was rare for men to get rich in a divorce settlement, but I supposed it could happen.

“She moved to Vermont,” Sylvia answered. “She lives in a commune.”

I didn’t know there
were
communes anymore. I thought they fell out of fashion around the time granola became available at every Store 24.

“She fell in love with a guy,” Sylvia continued.

Ah
, I thought,
the beginning, or the end, of many a good story
.

Monsignor Dolan was “unavailable.”

“May I ask who’s calling?” said his secretary in a terse, impatient tone.

“Anza O’Malley,” I replied.

After a minute, I heard an annoyed little grunt. My name alone had not answered her question, but it would be all Monsignor Dolan would need to hear. Besides, what was I supposed to add? Any mention of ghosts would immediately brand me as a nutcase. I could see Miss Katy Gibbs crumpling up the little pink While You Were Out slip and tossing it into the wastebasket as soon as she hung up. Should I say I was an
old friend
? That could raise an eyebrow or two, which, given the assistant’s prissy attitude, might be kind of fun. Or I could say I was someone
from his past
.

“May I inquire what this is in reference to?” she went on coolly.
Inquire
. That said it all.

“Oh, he’ll know,” I answered cheerfully, then started to feel a little mean. The poor woman probably just needed her lunch.

“We worked together a few years ago,” I said, “on the acquisition of the—where the Holy Family Center is now. That land.”

“Yes?” she said, waiting for me to go on.

“And I’d like to speak to him as soon as possible. Is he in the office?”

“He’s in meetings all day,” she answered briskly. She’d been dying to say it since the beginning of the conversation. “In fact,” she went on, “all week.”

“It’ll only take a minute,” I pressed. “I just have a quick question.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “The monsignor has a very full schedule. But if you’ll give me your contact information, we’ll have someone get back to you.”

I’d expected this, but it still annoyed me. “All right,” I said. “The name is Anza O’Malley.”

“I got that,” she snapped, as though I’d insulted her secretarial skills.

I took a deep breath. What was this woman’s problem? I gave her my cell phone number.

“Eight three five four?” she asked.

“Nine four,” I corrected her. “Eight three
nine
four.”

“Eight three nine four.”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks very much.”

“You’re wel—” She’d disconnected the call.

I hung up the receiver, and seconds later, the monks appeared before me.

“You were eavesdropping!” I said. The young monk glanced nervously at his superior, and I thought I detected the hint of a smile from the abbot. That would have been a first.

“My blessing upon you,” said the old ghost grandly.

It wasn’t exactly,
Sorry I was so rude and obnoxious
, but I supposed we were on the right path. Given that the abbot was thinking in Irish, though, the blessing was actually more like
May the Blessed Virgin Mary, Holy Mother of God Almighty, sanctify the road beneath your feet and lead you to the seat nearest the fire
.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now. Can we please start over?”

The abbot gave me a quizzical stare. He had so much hair! Eyebrows that curled up and around, a furry beard that seemed to start just under his hazel eyes, and I won’t even get into the spiky tendrils jutting out of his nose and ears.

“No more crashing around,” I said sternly. “No more breaking things. And most important, no more scaring Sylvia! I know you’re upset, and I don’t blame you, but all that does is make things worse.”