Relic of Time

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

A Faithful Departing . . .

Some commotion began at the front of the church. There were shouts, screaming. And then gunfire. Lloyd sat frozen on his bench. What in the name of God was going on? Pilgrims were scattering from behind the altar and then a ladder was lifted; more gunfire sounded, and, incredibly, the image disappeared. Guards had arrived and there was more gunfire. Some terrible desecration was in progress. Lloyd rose to his feet and ran toward the front of the church. Whatever was happening had to be stopped.

He was almost to the altar when a gunman with something pulled over his face emerged, followed by others like himself carrying something. The first man came running toward Lloyd and he planted himself in the aisle. The masked man turned his weapon on him.

The first shot missed him, and there was a scream at the back of the church. The second shot ripped into his chest. He was shot again as he fell, and then shot once more. But he was beyond feeling by then.

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RELIC OF TIME

 

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books

 

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Jove mass-market edition / November 2009

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—LITURGIA HORARUM

PROLOGUE

It was the three days in Chicago with Catherine that decided him to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico.

In a corner of the lobby, to the left of the desk where the concierge sat importantly, Japanese tourists had stacked their luggage and, having checked out, were milling around the small area, awaiting their transportation to O'Hare. Lloyd had gone into a far room off the lobby, which few guests ever discovered, and stood at the window, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Catherine's taxi. Each time one swooped to the curb, he moved nearer the window, expecting her to step out. Her plane from Minneapolis had landed an hour earlier and she had called him from the baggage area.

“I'm here.”

“I should have met you there.”

“Don't be silly.”

“I booked your room.”

A small silence, but it was a big announcement. They would have separate rooms. It seemed a denial of what they both understood this reunion meant.

“Good.”

Ever since her call, he had been on the lookout for her cab. Stupid, of course. It was a long ride from the airport and with any traffic at all . . .

He was fifty-six years old and nervous as a boy. Catherine had heard of Monica's death a year after the event and written him, expressing her sympathy. She hadn't known Monica. Lloyd hadn't seen or heard from Catherine since they were kids. His own grief had become familiar by the time her note arrived and he was ready for the more pleasant memories it brought. It had been months before he could bring himself to take Monica's clothes to Saint Vincent de Paul. He enrolled her in several perpetual Mass societies, and he prayed for her every day. How perfect their marriage seemed now that she was gone, the long illness over; the house, so full in the days before her funeral, now empty, just himself and his memories. He felt almost unfaithful to Monica when he answered Catherine's letter. And then she telephoned, the start of a habit. Once a week at first, then several times a week, they had lengthy telephone conversations.

“I have the advantage of you, Lloyd. I know what you look like now.”

The photograph on the dust jacket of his most recent book.

“That picture is ten years old.”

“And have you changed so much since it was taken?”

Changed? He wanted to tell her of the agony of Monica's illness, of the long hours nursing her, keeping her at home, as she had wanted, of his feeling of being an amputee when at last she died.

“Send me a picture,” he said.

“If I can find one ten years old.”

When the photograph arrived, just a snapshot, tucked into a greeting card—how had she known it was his birthday?—he put the photograph on the refrigerator door, in among those of Monica and himself, their kids, the grandchild. When they talked on the phone, he would wander into the kitchen and address Catherine's photograph.

“You're still beautiful.”

“Ha.”

They had lived in south Minneapolis, her family's house just across Minnehaha Creek from the Kaisers'. Lloyd's mother had cleared her throat and looked suspicious when Catherine would go by with her cocker spaniel, Amos. No leash was needed; they were inseparable. Lloyd had liked the deliberate pigeon-toed way she walked and the tomboy look of her.

“There she goes again,” his mother would say.

“She's on her way to visit Peggy Lindsey.”

“Uh-huh.”

What did his mother have against Catherine? Lloyd never understood her disapproval, but it effectively chilled any interest he might have had in Catherine. But then, at first by accident, they would meet near the creek in the evening and follow it toward Lake Hiawatha where there was a bench on a hill overlooking the lake. During the walk, Amos loping along beside them, they never held hands; their conversation was about anything but the fact that they were walking together. But when they got to the bench, she sat very close to him and when she looked up at him, her expression inviting, he had leaned toward her and felt her lips on his. His arms went around her and she held him tightly. They might have been auditioning for Rodin.

Afterward, she would lay her head on his shoulder and they'd look at the lake. From time to time, she would lift her head and look up at him and again he kissed her. That was all. He could feel her breasts against him, but he would never have dared touch them. Then one night she asked him to come home with her when they returned from sitting by the lake. As soon as they were inside, it was clear there was no one else at home. She led him to the couch as if it were their bench. Their kisses grew passionate; he fondled her; he moved his hand beneath her skirt. She groaned and then abruptly pulled away, jumping to her feet.

“No, no, no,” she said, as if talking to herself.

He agreed. He was frightened by what he had done. He had never touched a girl before as he had Catherine. The memory of her empty house and what they had nearly done on the couch seemed to confirm all of his mother's suspicions. It helped to think that it was Catherine who had led him on.

He stopped going down to the creek in the evening, unless his father was practicing seven-iron shots on the great stretch of grass that ran along the northern bank. One night Catherine was there with Amos and came over to talk. Lloyd's father obviously liked her. He liked her dog, Amos, too. She asked what club he was using.

“Want to try it?”

She did. She addressed the ball his father tossed her. She stood over it, very still, and then with great deliberation drew back the club. Her follow-through was perfect. The ball lifted in an arc and came to ground a hundred and fifty yards away. Lloyd joined in when his father applauded. But Catherine was looking at the club head. It was an old Wright & Ditson with the desired yardage engraved on it.

“That wasn't one seventy-five,” she said. Did she consider her perfect shot a failure? His father wisely chose not to hit any more balls and soon they were on their way home, and Catherine and Amos were crossing the bridge, going in the opposite direction.

“Do you think it was a lucky shot?” his father asked.

“You should have asked her to hit another.”

He thought about it, then shook his head. “She probably would have gotten a hundred seventy-five with the second shot.” Smiling, he shook his head. “Not bad looking either.”

Lloyd mumbled something.

“Are you friends?”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that.”

“Just don't take her out golfing.”

A lifetime had gone by since that summer interlude with Catherine. But it had apparently always been there, in his memory, and her letter brought it all vividly back. The snapshot she had sent was of someone still identifiable as the girl she had been, hair still worn short, the same sardonic smile. But what would she look like in the flesh?