The Rake (13 page)

Boulder, June 1991

At the beginning of summer vacation, preparing for senior year at Notre Dame, Justin set out to save one thousand dollars. If he succeeded, his mother, serving as trustee, would invade his grandfather's fund to the tune of a second thousand dollars. And the money would get Justin a sturdy used car.

As a senior at Notre Dame, he was authorized to keep a car on campus. It would be the fulfillment of a dream, having his own car. He told his mother, and told Amy, and told Alice Robbins, Paul's mother, what good deeds he might perform, having his own car.

It was very hard work at the Balthasar Construction Company, but the pay was good, eight dollars an hour, overtime after forty hours, and a supplementary twenty-five percent for work done on Saturdays and Sundays.

Justin began by helping to haul heavy materials. “Maman, I figure today by noon—that's starting at six-thirty—I had transported four tons, presque quatre mille kilos, of cement from the warehouse onto trucks. We were given a five-minute break at the end of every hour. Maman, I think maybe I should take up smoking cigarettes. That's what the men mostly do during those breaks.”

“That would be quite silly. Cigarettes are very expensive now. It would be the equivalent of taking away—oh, ten, fifteen percent from your salary.”

“I wouldn't like that.”

“Nor would your lungs.”

“They'll invent something for lungs before I get old.”

“Justin, you stop right now, close your eyes, and say a prayer. Just say, ‘Je m'excuse, mon Seigneur, de ma bêtise.'”

“All right.” He held up his hand. “Don't interrupt me while I'm praying.” He lowered his hand after a few seconds. “Done.” He indicated that he had made amends with his maker for his foolishness in presuming a cure around the corner. Then he winked. “Well, okay. I said we could skip lung cancer—and settle for a cure for venereal disease.” He roared with laughter.

Henrietta just smiled and turned back to the catalogue she was looking through. “Have you decided what sort of automobile you'll get?”

“I've been thinking a lot about that, and trying to decide whether I should buy it here or in South Bend. I have a friend at college, Jimmy—his family lives in South Bend, and he's going to clip ads from the papers giving prices, and I can compare them with prices here. Maman, I think I will end up with a Ford. Or maybe a Chevrolet.”

“And you have promised that you will wear a seat belt at all times. And that—complètement défendu!—you will never drive if you have had anything to drink.”

“Students aren't allowed to drink on campus. So when would I be drinking?”

Henri didn't even smile at the effrontery.

He left, in his brand-new old car, a full week before classes began at Notre Dame. He said he was going to do a few days' fishing with his friend Mike O'Brien, who knew just where to go.

Henri asked, “Where is Mike O'Brien from?”

“You mean hometown? I don't know. But he's out of state, I know that.” He smiled at his mother. “Don't worry. I'll send you a postcard.”

She helped him pack the car, and they embraced. Although he was beginning his fourth year at Notre Dame, Henri still had not got used to saying good-bye to her son.

Grand Forks, September 1991

Justin's destination was not South Bend but Grand Forks. He had established that the University of North Dakota's fall semester began a week before Notre Dame's.

After paying for the car, he was short on funds. He didn't want to spend money on motels and was prepared to use his tent, neatly packed in the trunk along with his fishing rod and his shotgun. But before pitching his tent somewhere outside the city, he decided to see if there was anything around in the way of native hospitality. He sought out the office of the
Dakota Student
, where he displayed, not without a trace of pride, his press card, identifying him as a junior editor of the Notre Dame
Observer
. He was a fellow journalist.

The girl on duty was pleasant and inclined to be helpful. “I'm doing a story on your junior senator,” Justin told her, “focusing on his time at UND. Castle may be going big-time. Meanwhile I have a practical question: is there any chance of getting a dormitory room so I don't have to pay for a motel?”

The editor was solicitous. “Hm. Let's see. Hm. For how long?”

“Maybe three, four days. Maybe less.”

“Harold Burton has a room at Alpha Chi, and he's going
to be a week late getting back from Spain. I know, because he called and asked me to straighten it out with the dean. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you used his room. He's that kind of a guy.”

“That would be great. Can you show me where? Then I'll come back and start my research on the senator right here.”

“Sure. But all we have is back issues, that kind of thing. We don't keep story files.” She extended her hand. “I'm Judy, by the way. I'm a journalism major, and a junior. And I hold the fort at the
Student
apart from press days. We publish twice a week, Tuesday and Friday.”

An hour later, Justin was back, carrying his laptop. He started to track down references to Reuben Castle. There were a great many, dating back to his election to the staff as a junior editor in 1967.

Justin started reading Castle's columns. They concentrated heavily on the war, and on the impending deployment of the Sentinel missiles in North Dakota. Justin got a kick out of the Zap campaign.

After a while he picked up the phone and called Judy's extension. “Is there anybody around here who was at UND when Castle was?”

“That was when?”

“That was…1966 to 1970.”

“I don't know, not for sure. Maybe Maria Cervantes was here back then. You want her phone number? She's dean of students.”

Justin made the call.

Maria Cervantes proved to be a portly woman who wore glasses low on her nose. Outside her navy blue blouse a gold chain hung, a gold sorority pin suspended from it. She inquired matter-of-factly about Justin's mission. “I used to be on the
Dakota Student
, so I'm disposed to be hospitable to student reporters. They usually don't know enough,” she smiled, “to do any harm.”

“Ma'am, did you by any chance know Reuben Castle?”

“I certainly did. We competed together to join the staff of the
Student
. Then we competed for the office of editor in chief. He won, though Eric Monsanto gave him a run for his money. But Eric settled for business manager.”

“Castle was pretty successful, right, ma'am?”

“Oh, yes. He won just about everything he contended for, including chairman of the Student Council.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

Maria Cervantes drew back for a moment. “Every male student has a girlfriend.”

“Anybody you knew?”

“Yes. Henrietta. A lovely girl.”

“
Henrietta?
”

“Yes. Don't remember her last name. I tell you what, Justin. If you really want to get into the story of Reuben twenty years ago, why don't you go see Eric Monsanto? He's here in town, a lawyer, family firm. Nice guy. He and Reuben were just like that—best friends. If you like, I'll call him up from right here. He'll give you a few minutes, I'm sure.”

Eric Monsanto did more than that. He told Maria to invite
Justin to come to his house for a drink. Eric's wife and children were away, and his office work would not detain him.

Her hand over the receiver, Maria conveyed the invitation. Justin nodded acceptance, and at six-fifteen he made his way to 18 Edgewater Road. He walked to the front door of the imposing brick house and rang the doorbell. A trim, dark-haired man opened the door. He stared hard at Justin for a moment and then invited him in and, with a friendly smile, offered him a chair.

“Do you drink?”

“A beer would be great, sir.”

Justin looked about the large wood-paneled room with all the photographs. He squinted his eyes and adjusted his glasses. Might one of those pictures have Reuben Castle in it?

He accepted the beer, and spoke engagingly, if, after the second beer, a little discursively—he was in no hurry to get back to Alpha Chi—about life at South Bend and his anxiety to turn in a good story on Castle for the first fall issue of
The Observer
. “A lot of people think Senator Castle is going to run for president next year. Have you stayed in touch?”

“Well, sort of. When he went into the army, I went into the navy, and there wasn't much communication between the two services. Then, as your research no doubt tells you, Reuben—Senator Castle—went to law school at Urbana. I went to Harvard. And of course he didn't stay with the law. The call of politics!”

“Sir, are you a Democratic member—Sorry. I mean, are you involved in the senator's election campaigns?”

“Oh, no. I…have loved Reuben dearly, but I'm a Republican, so he knows not to come around at election time.”

“Did you spend a lot of time together when you were undergraduates? I know you were both on the newspaper, but—socially?”

“Oh, yes. We were very close.”

“Did he have a steady girlfriend?”

Monsanto's hesitation was noticeable. “Yes. But that was back then, and as we both know, he is married, I hope happily—”

“You don't know Miss America? I mean, Mrs. Castle?”

“We've just met, that's all. They don't spend much time in this neck of the woods.”

“His college girlfriend, are you in touch with her?”

“No. Not at all. She went to Paris in senior year to be with her father. Her name was Leborcier. She was a Canadian—I mean, she was born in Canada. In Letellier—that's just north of here a stretch. In fact she went to the convent school in Letellier as a girl…. No, I don't know what happened.”

Justin turned away.

“Looking for the washroom?”

Justin shook his head.

His host went and got himself another drink and, for Justin, another beer. “How long are you going to be in town? If you'll be here Friday, you can come with me for a little fishing. I have a nice duck blind over at Devil's Lake where we could spend the night.”

Letellier, September 1991

At the second crossroads in Letellier, Justin looked hard at the signpost and took the westerly road, arriving a few minutes later at Saint Joseph's Convent. It was nearly eleven-thirty. He rang the bell and a nun emerged.

“May I come in, Sister?”

“Yes, young man.” She closed the door and led him into a neat anteroom with faded curtains and slipcovers.

“Sister, I am trying to find information about someone who was a student at the convent school here in the '50s.”

“What is her name? And what is your business?”

“Her name is Henrietta Leborcier. Mine is Justin Durban. I'm a student at Notre Dame, but I come from Grand Forks, and this summer I've been working for a lawyer named Eric Monsanto.” He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out the card Monsanto had given him the night before.

The sister glanced at the card and returned it.

Justin went on without waiting for her to speak. “We are trying to locate Ms. Leborcier because there is a gift, a small legacy from someone who knew her at the University of North Dakota. Mr. Monsanto was a friend of hers back then, though
he has lost touch with her, and he says she attended school at the convent here. In fact she was born in Letellier.”

“You may not be aware that our school is closed. It merged with one in Montreal.”

“So you have no records here, Sister?”

“We have some things. If you will accompany me, we can go to the student index file.” She rose and walked unevenly down the high-ceilinged, faded hallway, taking out her key ring to open a door.

“This was the mother superior's office.”

Inside, she lifted a tray down from a shelf overhead. “Leborcier.” She withdrew a card. “Henrietta Leborcier. Born 1948 in Letellier. Daughter of Raymond and Esther Leborcier. Baptized and confirmed at Saint Anne's by Father François Lully.”

She raised her head. “God bless him, he is an old man now, but he still writes to us regularly.”

“He is no longer in Letellier?”

“No. He was moved to a parish in Winnipeg some years ago, and he has since retired. The current pastor is Father Daniel.”

“Do you think he'd let me look at the parish records?”

“I'm sure he would. Do you know Letellier at all? No? Well, drive back the way you came, until you get to First Avenue—that's the main street, running north–south. Turn left onto First Avenue, and you'll soon come to Saint Anne's.” Justin asked if he might see the Saint Joseph chapel.

“Of course, just come with me.”

She opened the vaulted wooden door. There was stained glass in Victorian effusion behind the altar at the far end. Then came the nuns' pews. In the front were the pews of the girls. Three rows on his left, facing three rows on his right. He could
imagine as many as a hundred girls seated, or kneeling, there. He knelt at the prie-dieu in the vestibule and uttered a brief but earnest prayer to Saint Justin Martyr to guide him.

At Saint Anne's, he rang the bell at the rectory. “Is Father Daniel in?” he asked the woman who opened the door.

“Yes. But he is resting. What can I do for you, young man?”

“I need to speak to him. I was sent here by the sister at Saint Joseph's.”

He heard a man's voice in the back. “Let him in, Claudette. I am fully awake.”

Justin entered the dusky living room. A middle-aged man in shirtsleeves took his hand and beckoned him to the sofa.

“I am Justin Durban from Grand Forks, Father. I am a student at Notre Dame, but this summer I've been working for Mr. Eric Monsanto. I am going to be a lawyer myself.” He handed the priest Monsanto's card.

“What can I do for you, Justin, if you'll permit me to use your Christian name—at least until you become a judge!”

“Thank you. By all means, Father. We are trying to locate a woman named Henrietta Leborcier. There is a legacy from someone who was a friend of hers at the University of North Dakota. Mr. Monsanto knew she had attended school at the convent here. I went to Saint Joseph's, and there is a record of her attendance, from 1953 to 1959, and again in 1962, but nothing more. No record of relatives in the area or anything like that. The sister suggested I go to you.”

“Well, let's see. Father Lully would have been the pastor throughout that time, but for myself I don't recall ever hearing
the name Leborcier. We'll see if there is anything here. We do not keep a general directory of parishioners, but we have a record of baptisms, first communions, confirmations, weddings, and funerals. Come into my study.”

He brought down onto a long table covered with green felt three heavy leather-bound volumes. “Here are books that reach back to the 1940s. Each volume holds records for about ten years. Why don't you just sit down and examine them? I wish I could say that there was some sort of alphabetized index. Can I have Claudette bring you a cup of tea?”

Justin's face brightened. “Father, could I be very rude? I wonder if you have a cookie, or an apple? I did not stop for lunch.”

“Of course!”

Claudette was in the room, dusting. And listening. “I'll fetch something, Father.”

A few minutes later Justin was munching a cookie as he turned the pages, page after page, without finding “Leborcier.”

“All baptisms would be recorded, Father?”

“In principle, though sometimes if we're very busy we might slip up. You said that Saint Joseph's records her as having been baptized here?”

“Yes, but they didn't have a date. We're just assuming it would have been in 1948 or '49, since she was born in September 1948.”

“Well, just keep looking, Justin. That's what lawyers have to do much of the time.”

Justin began to wonder why he was turning pages that took
him into the 1960s, but he resolved to continue until he had at least finished the third volume.

He had reached November 1969. On the second page for the month, he read, “
November 18. Married. Reuben Hardwick Castle, Henrietta Seringhaus Leborcier.
”

His eyes froze, and his heart stopped.

The two signatures were there. He recognized his mother's script. He was unfamiliar with that of…his father. With his right hand he reached for his pocket camera and snapped a picture.

He paused a good while. Then: “Father, where would the actual wedding certificate be?”

“It is taken away by the principals. We have just these registry notations. Of course, the civil record, the signed marriage license, would have been sent up to Winnipeg, to the Vital Statistics Agency. Perhaps they would have a mailing address, you are wondering? But surely those addresses would be obsolete. This was more than twenty years ago.”

“Thank you, Father, but I think with what I have here—what I have written down—we can track her current address.” He thought to add a touch of drama. “If she is still living, of course.”

“Would you care for more cookies? Or you could have an apple.”

“Thank you so much.” Justin extended his hand to Father Daniel and nodded to thank Claudette, who was busy mending a book.

It was more than an hour to Grand Forks. Nightfall. He considered going to Mr. Monsanto, but as he approached the highway
exit, he decided to keep it all to himself.
Keep it all to himself?
Bewilderment overcame him. Why would…How could…He improvised answers to his questions, and discarded them. Ten miles beyond Grand Forks he impulsively pulled over to the shoulder thinking, momentarily, of returning to Mr. Monsanto after all. But restlessness took over, and the impulse to move, to drive the car, to push himself. To sleep was out of the question. He set out for South Bend.

But that was 700 miles away. Saint Paul was in the right direction. He reached the outskirts of the city at two in the morning, and pulled in at a motel and slept deeply.