Ash Wednesday (22 page)

“The first thing is to get your money well invested.” “You’ve already given me your card!” “That’s right. Let’s talk about it.” “Your office is in Schaumburg?”

Carmela hesitated. “I may move my office to Fox River.” She went on to Nathaniel then, embracing the old man. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much,” she said.

In her car, Madeline hesitated, then headed for St. Hilary’s. If Jason meant to continue at the Foot Doctor, she would continue to volunteer at the senior center.

News of the disposition of Helen Burke’s worldly goods arrived at St. Hilary’s rectory. Madeline told Edna Hospers, and Edna told Marie Murkin, and even though the housekeeper was slightly miffed that Edna was her source, she brought the news to the pastor, pardonably skipping one link in the chain. Father
Dowling might have thought that Madeline had come directly to Marie. Father Dowling did not further diminish his housekeeper’s excitement at the news by telling her he had already received it from Amos Cadbury.

“Natalie Armstrong!” Marie cried. “Who would have thought it? And Madeline Clancy as well. I’m surprised she didn’t mention Nathaniel.”

“Now, Marie.”

“How much did he leave the parish?”

“It will go into your retirement fund.”

“Retirement? What do you mean? I’m not going anyplace.”

“That is my hope. But one has to look ahead, Marie.”

Marie harumped, then grew thoughtful. “I wonder if Madeline will stay on as a volunteer at the center.”

“Because of the inheritance?”

“And a house. Do you know what house we’re talking about?”

In Marie’s description of it, the Burke home was palatial, on two corner lots, back to back, the house built in the center, thus making the alley that led up to it from the far street a cul-de-sac. An arc of a driveway up to the front entrance, sheltered by a great pillared overhang under which cars could park.

“Three stories high, Father. There is actually a ballroom on the second floor.”

“Did Helen dance?”

“Her mother did. She was a legend. Oh, what a comedown that family has known. Beginning with Helen, if the truth were told.” Marie paused. “The friars loved her, of course.”

“Generous?”

“In her fashion. I think they had high hopes. Who knows what she might have done if there hadn’t been the shake-up?”

“Shake-up?”

Marie made a face. “When you came.”

“Oh, what a comedown the parish has known.”

Marie would not be teased. “Do you know what I sometimes hoped? That she would give that house to the parish.”

“What on earth would we do with another house?”

“Imagine the parish center there.”

“Have you mentioned this to Edna?”

Marie’s manner changed. Perhaps the thought of Edna ensconced in the palatial residence she had been gushing over brought her down to earth. “Even so, I can’t imagine Madeline living there. She’s all alone, you know. Now if Helen had left the house to Natalie …”

“Isn’t Natalie a widow?”

Marie began humming. “Not all widows remain widows, Father Dowling.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“Eugene Schmidt,” Marie whispered. “Don’t you have eyes in your head?”

“Isn’t he younger than Natalie?”

“Younger! Well, perhaps. Still, you never know.”

Marie glided off, as if she were on the floor of the ballroom in the Burke house. Father Dowling, remembering what Amos Cadbury had told him, wondered if he did have eyes in his head. He had felt almost delinquent when he found himself unable to tell Amos anything about Eugene Schmidt.

In midafternoon, when Marie had gone upstairs for what she called forty winks, Father Dowling left the rectory and strolled toward the school. The weather hovered between the just-departed winter and the yet-to-arrive spring, but the promise of spring seemed everywhere. Then he saw a robin! The harbinger of spring. When he was a boy, the sight of the first returned robin had always
been occasion for comment. Somewhere ahead, no longer unimaginably distant, lay summer, and with it the days and weeks and months of indolence. He smiled. Indolence indeed. He had caddied from the time he was fourteen. Not that caddying could be thought of as penal servitude. In his memory, caddies seemed to spend most of the day lounging around the caddy shack, awaiting members who stole an afternoon for golf. It occurred to him that he had caddied for Mr. Burke, Florence and Helen’s father.

How odd a thing memory is. Why had he never thought of that before? Probably because the disruptive Helen had gathered all attention to herself.

He was distracted by the sight of the shuttle bus, looking forlorn in a far corner of the parking lot, where it had been placed when the police brought it back to the parish. The image stayed in his mind when he came into Edna’s office on the second floor.

“Was there any damage to the shuttle bus, Edna?”

The question surprised her. “I don’t know. Of course, there has been no thought of using it since …”

“I understand.”

“I could have Earl take a look, if you’d like.”

“Would you do that?”

“Father, I blame myself for letting Eugene Schmidt drive the bus that day. He insisted. I think he was afraid Natalie would go in Helen’s car.”

“Thank God she didn’t.”

“Oh, yes.” Edna’s eyes were full of thoughts of what might have happened.

“Have you gotten to know Schmidt well?”

Edna laughed. “Father, he’d talk your ear off if you let him. I thought he’d been to see you.”

“He wanted to learn about the Church.”

Edna was surprised. “Isn’t he Catholic?”

“Just because he comes to the center?”

“But he goes off to the noon Mass with Natalie as often as not.”

“Where is he from?”

“Where isn’t he from? He seems to have been everywhere. I have to say, Herman is skeptical of Eugene’s stories. He says Eugene would have to be a hundred to have done half the things he tells of.”

“He’s not a native of Fox River?”

“Oh, no.” She stopped. “Now what makes me so sure? The fact is, Father, I know only what Eugene Schmidt wants me to know about him, and like Herman I take much of it with a grain of salt.”

“What is the theme of his stories?”

“Women.”

“Women?”

“You wouldn’t believe the conquests he claims. Nothing lurid, of course, but he is the hero of all his stories.”

“What does Natalie think of him?”

“So you’ve noticed. Father, he is a totally different man when he is with her. Not subdued, exactly, but deferential. A real gentleman. I can’t imagine him telling her what a Don Juan he’s been. Or claims to have been.”

After he left Edna’s office, Father Dowling went downstairs and looked into the former gymnasium. No sign of Schmidt. Outside again, he glanced toward the shuttle bus. Eugene Schmidt was there, walking around the vehicle, as if he were inspecting it. Father Dowling waited until Schmidt noticed his presence and then moved toward him over the asphalt surface.

Schmidt was shaking his head as he came up. “Father, I never had an accident in my life before. A serious accident.”

“What could you have done?”

“I could have stayed in my lane, held off the guy who was trying to cut in on me.”

That had been Schmidt’s account of what had happened from the beginning. He had turned into Helen’s path because another driver was turning into his. He had appealed in vain for corroboration from those riding in the bus. Passengers rode facing one another across the aisle and paid little attention to where they were going or where they had been.

“You haven’t been to see me lately.”

Schmidt seemed to have to remember his interest in the Church. He shook his head. “You’re right, Father. I have to get back on track.”

“Any time, Eugene.”

After he left Schmidt, Father Dowling felt slightly duplicitous. Eugene Schmidt might want to talk theology, but Father Dowling wanted to find out what he could of Eugene Schmidt.

To Tetzel’s disgust, Rebecca’s story—story! Menteur ran it as a three-part serial—on the food provided to inmates of the county jail was the talk of the courthouse if not of the town. On her account, consignment to the jail was tantamount to being sent to Devil’s Island, and the food was dished out in a way that rivaled Oliver Twist’s orphanage. Tetzel was sure that it was Rebecca’s remark that prisoners were allotted only seven cigarettes a day that explained the prominence Menteur gave the story.

“Wait’ll readers see that,” he gloated to Tetzel. “There’ll be floods of indignant letters.”

“I think Rebecca’s point was that they should be allowed to smoke more than seven cigarettes a day.”

Envying the prisoners, Menteur chomped on his gum, studying Tetzel. “How is
your
story going?”

“Maybe I should just write a letter first. To get the ball rolling.”

“Get out of here.”

Gladly. Rebecca’s story was featured on the
Tribune’s
Web site, of course. It probably had more readers there than in the print edition. He should have said as much to Menteur. Of course, that sword hung over them all. How long would newspapers grind up the forests of the continent, providing increasingly abbreviated accounts to compete with the kaleidoscopic fare of the Internet? Menteur was like the captain of the
Titanic
, oblivious of disaster ahead. Tetzel had a fleeting image of himself as Leonardo DiCaprio, disporting himself with Kate Winslet on the bow. If he had any sense, he would finish his novel.

The reference was to a file on his computer, largely notes, for the opus of which Tetzel had dreamed for years while tastes in fiction altered into directions he did not comprehend. His hero was a reporter, what else? Write of what you know. It occurred to him that his story should be of a gifted man wasting his sweetness in a doomed profession.
The Last Reporter?
He liked it. He picked up his pace as he returned to the pressroom in the courthouse.

By the time he got there, his novel was forgotten and his mind was once more full of the story he was writing on Jason Burke. He saw it as a prince-and-the-pauper story, from shoe store to golden slippers. Well, something like that.

When he entered the pressroom, Rebecca cried out. She was staring at the screen of her computer, an idiot smile on her face.

“What?” he asked reluctantly.

“My Web site, Gerry. My God, the response.”

Tetzel stood beside her. Web site?
REBECCA FARMER
in a huge font ran along the top of the screen, below it an image of Rebecca that might have been her high school graduation picture. She scrolled down for Tetzel’s benefit. Message after message.

“Any complaints about smoking in the jail?”

If Rebecca heard him, she ignored it. Tetzel went to his desk, flicked on his computer, and waited. If he had any principles at all, he would go back to a typewriter. Rebecca’s continued squeals grated on his nerves. How could he work here? He took his tape recorder from a drawer, dumped it into his shoulder bag, and rose. Rebecca did not notice him leave.

He took a cab to the mall. He could charge it to the paper. When he got out, he paid, got a receipt, and stood looking at the facade of the Foot Doctor. He walked past it several times, waiting until there were no customers, then went in to the jangling of the bell over the door. The clerk greeted him with a smile that faded. Did he think Tetzel was returning the loafers?

“The boss in?”

“Not yet.”

“I’d like to look around.” He flashed his ID at the clerk.

“You’re from the
Tribune
?”

There was awe and reverence in Eric’s voice. Tetzel got out a pad. “Let me get your name down.”

Eric Fleischhaecker. With two
h
‘s. Tetzel nodded.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Since the store opened.”

Almost a year. Tetzel nodded approvingly at such stability of place. “Show me around, would you?”

In the stockroom in back, Eric explained the arrangement of the shoes. “I come back here, I want to be able to grab what I want and get back to the customer. Never keep a customer waiting.”

The bell jangled, and Eric looked out. A customer. Tetzel was left alone. Next to the stockroom was a smaller room, a table, some chairs, a little fridge. He opened it. Chock-full of beer. Guinness! Tetzel took a bottle and slipped it into his shoulder bag as he left the room. He stood and smiled sardonically at the sign hanging from the knob of a closed door.
DOCTOR IS IN
. Not according to Eric. Tetzel pushed open the door, waited, then went inside the office. He stood, taking in the scene, as he described it in his mind. Here, the disinherited son had pursued his honest entrepreneurial labors, little expecting that a tragic accident would propel him into affluence. The clerk had said that Jason intended to go on with the Foot Doctor. Why should he? You work to make money, and if you have money, why work? What would life be like if you never had to work? The bell in the showroom jangled again, but Tetzel was lost in meditation.