Eleanor went from the Bernardo house, where Margaret was in good hands with Raymond, to Jessica's apartment. When she knocked on the door it began to move. It was unlocked. Eleanor pushed it open.
“Yoo hoo. Jessica. It's Aunt Eleanor.”
The apartment had an empty feel. Eleanor closed the door behind her, and her eyes fell on the desk. In a moment, she was turning over the papers on it, opening and shutting its drawers, in a flurry of excitement. Where were those damnable letters? Consoling the grieving Margaret had made her more ashamed of her affair with Fulvio than she had ever been at the time. What a terrible thing to have done to that good woman. This thought lent intensity to her effort to find the letters. Once she had them in her hands, she felt she would destroy them on the spot. Similarly motivated women have lifted automobiles off children, moved rocks three times their own weight. Eleanor felt that at the moment she could tear the metropolitan phone book in half.
The letters were not on the desk, not in the desk, nor were they among the papers stacked beside the computer. Had Jessica herself destroyed them? She didn't believe it. Her niece had taken too evident pleasure in annoying her when they discussed them. Eleanor dropped into Jessica's reading chair, which moved back and forth. What a wonderful chair. If she had earlier thought of
how Margaret would regard what she and Fulvio had done, it belatedly occurred to her how she must have seemed to her niece, talking about her candid love letters to the girl's father.
A newspaper lay on the floor beside the chair, and Eleanor glanced at it. The photograph of Horst Cassirer glowered up at her. She picked up the paper and read the story avidly. My God. This was the man she herself could cheerfully have throttled. Thrown into the street from a passing car!
The remote control lay on the floor where the paper had been. Eleanor turned on the television, but it was nothing but daytime blather. She pushed the radio button and WBBM came on. It was thus, seasoned with commercials, a man's and a woman's voice mindlessly alternating, that Eleanor got the details of what had happened to Horst Cassirer. On the morning of the funeral she had had no interest in paper or news reports as she decided on a black dress that fell almost to her ankles. It had a matching black mantilla. As she had had occasion to think before, Eleanor realized that she made a most attractive widow. Would she steal the show from Margaret?
Recalled now, the pusillanimous thought shamed her. But her mind was on that awful Cassirer. Where was Jessica? Where had Andrew been? Eleanor had not seen him at the churchâhe had not sat with his familyâand he was not at the cemetery either. So much for the thought that he was unobtrusively present with his friend. Whatever inconsistency there was in Eleanor's contempt for the woman who lived without benefit of wedlock with Andrew did not occur to her. But then she would have thought the same of herself if she were not the self who had acted so shamelessly with Fulvio.
Moral hauteur gave way to thoughts of her nephew. Why would a man not attend his own father's funeral? All too vividly Eleanor remembered her absurd encounter with Horst Cassirer, the
bearded madman demanding that she put pressure on Andrew to vote for him in some silly committee at the college.
“This is war,” he had cried. “I will destroy the whole Bernardo family if I have to.”
Her fears about Jessica's novel paled before this threat. What would she have done if she thought he might learn of herself and Fulvio? But it was Andrew who was vulnerable to Cassirer's counterattack. Eleanor stopped rocking in Jessica's wonderful chair. Andrew. Cassirer. Could her nephew be responsible for the death of his nemesis?
A sound in the hall, and then Jessica came in. She stopped and stared at Eleanor. She glanced at her desk.
“Did you find them?”
“Jessica, the door was open. Where have you been?”
“Oh Eleanor,” Jessica cried, and then she was in her aunt's arms, weeping uncontrollably. Patting her niece's back as she embraced her, Eleanor felt more like an aunt than she had in years.
“What is it, dear?”
“Andrew!”
Listening to the incredible tale, Eleanor felt like weeping herself. Dead he might be, but Horst Cassirer was getting his revenge on the Bernardo family. Jessica, under control now, described the meeting with Captain Keegan at St. Hilary's.
“Where is Andrew now?”
“They took him downtown to put it all in writing.”
What Andrew had done was scarcely credible. Was his the action of a man guilty of more than desecrating a body? She did not have to express the question; it filled Jessica's mind as well.
“I believe him, Eleanor. I want to believe him. The wonder is that Gloria Monday hadn't turned him in before he went to the police himself.”
Jessica made coffee, and they sat drinking it. This was more
somber than Fulvio's wake. They might have been mourning the death of the Bernardo good name.
“Who's with my mother?”
“Raymond.”
“Oh, thank God he is here.”
Jessica had been looking across the room, unseeing, but then her eyes took in her desk.
“You didn't find them?”
The letters. How inconsequential they now seemed. Her affair with Fulvio was a long-ago peccadillo compared with the plight Andrew was in.
“No.”
Jessica got up and went to a bookshelf. The letters were there, behind some books. She brought them to Eleanor and handed them to her. Eleanor hesitated, then took them. How the long sought loses value when it is in one's hand.
“Did you read them?” she asked in a small voice.
“Destroy them, Eleanor.”
She nodded. The main thing was that they cease to exist so that there would never be the chance that Margaret might see them. The letters were stapled to the envelopes in which they had arrived. Had there been so many? She looked at Jessica.
“What you must think of me.”
Attending to his mother, Raymond felt that he was beginning to make up for all the years when his absence had broken her heart. He felt like an orphan, fatherless anyway, and twice over; first his father and then Father Bourke. Tomorrow would be the funeral for his old mentor, in the campus church. Raymond felt almost as much obligation to be there as he had to attend his father's funeral.
“Did your father talk to you about practical matters?” his mother asked.
“No.”
“Eleanor looked over his papers here.”
“Eleanor!”
“She said you children asked her to.”
Raymond said nothing, and his mother added, “Jessica looked things over too.”
Were they worried about whether Margaret was well provided for? Raymond had never doubted this and did not now, but he found it somewhat distasteful that Jessica and Eleanor had been rummaging through his father's effects. Looking into the home office, which in recent years had been his father's only office, Bernardo's Nurseries having been sold when neither son could carry it on, he felt no desire to sit at that desk and see what might be there. But if any of them was practical enough to appraise their
mother's situation, it was Jessica. And Eleanor too. She had had experience of losing a husband and probably had learned a thing or two.
Occupying a front pew with his family at the funeralâall but AndrewâRaymond had followed the liturgy as if it were something wholly new to him. Roger Dowling said Mass with great concentration and devotion, and his homily had been just right. How completely pastoral the priest was. And he could not have been nicer to Raymond. Had former priests become so commonplace that they raised no questions in others? Dowling, like Father Bourke, was so immersed in his vocation that it was impossible to imagine him having doubts or hankering after the fleshpots of Egypt.
He smiled. What a way to think of Thousand Oaks, California. It had been days since he had talked with Phyllis. What did she make of his silence? He did go into his father's office then and called her.
“We buried him today,” he said.
“When will you return?”
“Soon.” But it sounded like a question. “I'm with my mother.”
“Oh good.”
“She's taking it quite well.”
“And your brother and sister?”
There was an edge to her voice, the question a statement that there were others to look after his mother, that he should be on his way home to her.
The conversation was inconsequential, echoing with things unsaid. It was a relief to put down the phone. It rang almost immediately and he answered it.
Jessica said, “Has Mom heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Didn't you say that Cassirer came to see you?”
“Well, I ran into him on campus. Quite a jerk.”
“Raymond, he's dead.”
Her voice had dropped to a whisper as if she thought their mother might overhear.
“Tell me about it.”
But of course it was what Andrew had done that explained why she worried that their mother might turn on the television and find that her son was making a statement to the police about the strange death of Horst Cassirer.
“I felt like pushing him in the face when he accosted me, I can tell you. What an abrasive man he was.”
“I know, I know. He called on me too. And on Eleanor.”
“Eleanor!”
“Raymond, I'm coming over to spell you, and we can talk some more.”
“I would like to get away for a while.”
The wake for Father Bourke would be held in the little chapel in Purgatory. Raymond no longer felt ill at ease with the thought of revisiting his old haunts. No one other than himself seemed to see his situation as he himself did. Of course he waited until Jessica got there, by which time his mother had lain down for a nap, the strain of the past week taking its toll.
“Did you tell her?”
He shook his head. “I wish she didn't have to be told. What will they do with Andrew?”
“Father Dowling has asked Amos Cadbury if someone in his firm could represent Andrew.”
“And?”
“I got the impression he would do anything for Father Dowling.”
“That's a break.”
“Just so it isn't the kind of clown Cassirer hired. A man named Tuttle.”
Raymond had not even considered telling his mother what Jessica had called to tell him. Did she even know that Andrew shared an apartment with a woman? He was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of the dissolution of the house of Bernardo. His father had apparently made a good end, but seeing Eleanor had reminded Raymond of the flaws in his father's character. He and Jessica were sitting in the very room, that was the couch, where he had surprised his father and Eleanor in all but flagrante delicto. How coolly his father had taken it, doubtless practiced in deception.
“You should go downtown to be with Andrew,” Jessica said.
He wanted to protest. In hours the wake for Father Bourke would be held, and he had been looking forward to walking the campus and inviting thoughts of self-recrimination. How ridiculous his life seemed, broken in two with the first part one of rectitude and fidelity, the second one of self-indulgence. Why had be proved so vulnerable to Phyllis's blandishments?
It was easy in her absence to imagine that she had been the aggressor. It was she who had begun talk of leaving, taking a perverse glee in the thought that their westward trek to freedom would be financed by the Order of St. Edmund. She had resented her own vocation, felt that she had been entrapped by a romantic dream, a dream that had turned into a hallucination if not a nightmare.
“It isn't at all what we expected, is it?”
He had agreed, comparing the fuzzy promise of their flight with the ordered and disciplined life that was his. At his father's funeral Mass, at the consecration of bread and wine, he had difficulty
recalling his disbelief. He bowed his head and closed his eyes and might have been the idealistic, credulous young man he had been in the novitiate. The thought of not returning to California formed in his mind and had all the allure the thought of flight had once held for him. He wanted freedom from the freedom he enjoyed with Phyllis, which now seemed a kind of enslavement. But he told Jessica he would go downtown to see what was happening with Andrew.
“I'm his brother,” he told the sergeant at the desk.
“I'll call Captain Keegan.”
The officer nodded as he listened on the phone, then said that Keegan would come get him.
Keegan was a distracted, busy man, lost in his function, or so it seemed to Raymond, until the captain expressed sorrow at the death of Fulvio.
“Your family is really taking it in the chops,” he said. “Come on.”
Andrew was in a consulting room with Ambrose Zwingli, a crew-cut young lawyer from Cadbury's firm. The name Cadbury had rung a bell, of course. So many bells were rung lately. He seemed to be recovering his past.
Andrew jumped to his feet when Raymond came in and, as he had at the airport some days before, embraced his brother.
“What a revolting development this is.” Andrew seemed to be imitating someone.
Zwingli waited to be introduced, and Raymond could see the flicker of recognition at his name. Not that Zwingli knew him, but he clearly knew of him. The renegade priest.
“I stopped here on my way to Father Bourke's funeral.”
“I am afraid your brother will be arraigned,” Zwingli said.
“On what charge?”
“Tampering with the scene of a murder,” he said. “For now.”
Andrew looked abject. “I am finding it hard to convince anyone of my innocence.”
Zwingli summarized the situation. Andrew had admitted to moving the body of Horst Cassirer and dumping it in the street. That of course aroused the curiosity of the police. Andrew's car had been impounded, and it was clear it had been used to transport the body of Cassirer.
“If Andrew wasn't innocent he would not have told the police what he did.”
“Of course they think that was a preemptive strike.”
“Would they have impounded the car if he hadn't gone to them?”
“Certainly not as soon as they did.”
“If ever.”
“There was a pretty public feud going on between Andrew and the deceased.”
“Who was the most obnoxious man I've ever met.”
“You met him?”
“He pursued me, harassed me. I all but knocked him down to get away from him. He was spouting libelous accusations, threatening to ruin our family.”
“Yes.”
Raymond felt that he had inadvertently added to the case against Andrew.
“Surely they won't hold him.”
“At least tonight. I will try to arrange bail in the morning.”