Hugh Devere in the last few days before returning to school felt pulled in opposite directions. On the one hand there was the undeniable attraction of immersion in his family, his siblings, his parents, his grandmother Jane, the matriarch of the family, as old as the hills, as she seemed to her grandson, and yet with an almost mystical connection with a past he had never known, the past of the Deveres. It was impossible to sit with her and not feel the contagion of that family pride. On the other hand, of course, was the eagerness to return to South Bend, complete his studies, and become established as an architect. He was, there was no other way to put it, a disciple of Duncan Stroik and Thomas Gordon Smith, two men who while still very much professors were supervising the building of their architectural dreams across the country. Ecclesiastical architecture. Smith had designed the magnificent church of the newly founded Clear Creek monastery outside Tulsa; Stroik was responsible for the church rising on the campus of Hugh's alma mater in Santa Paula, California. A young man needs models, and these two men were his models, a fact he manifested by refusing to show them
any servile deference. There was also, though, the undeniable fact that he was a Devere.
Jane Devere dwelt in matriarchal splendor on the third floor of the Devere home, by and large out of sight but never out of mind. In the great house below, there was only Mrs. O'Grady, the housekeeper, cook, and whatever, and the intermittent presence of Mrs. Bernard Ward, Jane's widowed daughter. Jane's son, James, after his wife died, had come back to the old house, too, bringing two of his children with him. The wonderful old woman was the genius loci, and, with more docility than Susan, his sister, Hugh visited her often and sat quite literally at her feet in her sitting room, where she was surrounded by photographs and other artifacts that recalled her long life.
After his round of golf, he went home and climbed to the third floor.
“They're going to tear down St. Hilary's,” Hugh said.
“Nonsense.”
“It was in the
Tribune
this morning.”
“The
Tribune
!”
“Why did Mom and Dad move out of the parish?”
“For that they will have to answer to God. Of course, your father brought you back.”
Grandma Jane insisted on being driven to St. Hilary's each Sunday, and during the summer vacation that happy task had fallen to Hugh. A month ago, after the church had emptied, they had stayed on, and his grandmother had gone slowly up and down the aisle drawing his attention to the stained glass windows.
“I trust you do not find them ordinary, Hugh.”
“Who did them?”
“Good heavens, you don't know?”
“Tell me.”
She sank into a pew, resting her hands on her cane, and looked
from him to the windows. “Does the name Menotti mean anything to you?”
“I wish it did.”
The old woman sighed. “Hugh, it is the bane of age to live into a time that one was not perhaps meant to see. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Here you are, at the dawn of life, intent on doing great and significant things. It would not occur to you that, if you were fortunate enough to do those things, time would pass and eventually no one would know or care that you had lived. Let alone that you were the creator of a beauty that would have become commonplace to them, because of familiarity. These windows, Hugh, are works of genius.”
She rose once more, took his arm, and then began to discourse on the theme of the windows, those on the left commemorating great figures of the Old Testament, those on the right events of the New Testament. Those along the left featured prophetic scenes from the Old Covenant.
“Do you see the thematic unity of those on the right?”
All he had to do was wait. The seven windows depicted the Seven Dolors of the Blessed Virgin. The prophecy of Simeon, the flight into Egypt, the loss of the child Jesus in the temple at twelve, and then, as if fast forwarding, Mary encountering her son as he carried his cross to Golgotha, Mary at the foot of the cross (
Stabat Mater dolorosa,
his grandmother fairly crooned the hymn), Jesus taken down from the crossâthe Pietà âand finally the burial of Jesus. Grandma Jane's eyes were moist as she recalled those great moments in Mary's life that linked her indissolubly to her son.
Before they left the church, Hugh's grandmother led him to a small octagonal chapel entered from the apse. “We had this added after August died.”
Inset in the floor was a pale marble slab on which was engraved AUGUST DEVERE.
“Is he buried here?”
She nodded. “So is your grandfather.”
A family mausoleum as part of the parish church. Did Jane plan to be buried here herself?
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Now he was in her sitting room telling her of the newspaper story about the closing of St. Hilary's. He might have been telling her that key articles of the Creed were being discarded. He tried to redirect the conversation he had started. “Tell me about Menotti.”
The old woman stirred in her chair. “What do you mean?”
“The man who designed the stained glass windows.”
“They were a special gift to the church from the Devere family.”
“Grandfather?”
An impatient noise. “His father. August Devere.”
“My great-grandfather?”
“Of course.”
“So you must remember the building of the church?”
“Your great-grandfather, as I suppose we must call him, visited the building site every day. I accompanied him. The architect was not without merit, but you could find the twin of that church in half the towns of Illinois and Wisconsin. No, it was the windows that made it special.”
“I suppose Menotti was Italian.”
She dipped her head and looked at him over her glasses.
“Did he live in Italy?”
“His studio was in Peoria.”
“Peoria!”
“And what is wrong with Peoria?”
“I've never been there.”
“You should go.”
“When did Menotti die?”
“Die? Did I say he died? He is scarcely older than I am.”
Hugh observed a moment of silence. How old would Jane Devere have been when St. Hilary's was built? She must have been a young wife then, newly swept into the Devere family and acquiring an unrivaled pride in it.
“If I ever go to Peoria, I will look him up.”
The old woman looked away, as if searching among the bric-a-brac in the room for some other subject. Hugh rose, leaned over his ancient relative, and pressed his lips to her cheek. When he straightened, he was surprised to see that her eyes were filled with tears. He bent to kiss her again, but she waved him away.
“That's enough of that, young man.”
After spending half an hour urging Father Dowling to make an appointment with Bishop Wilenski, Marie Murkin went out the kitchen door and headed for the church. It was her intention to spend at least an hour on her knees before the Blessed Sacrament, praying to the Lord to put some fight into the pastor.
“We'll see, Marie” had been his final word, and she knew what that was worth.
Her pace slowed as she neared the side door of the church. She pondered her decision. She didn't want to be a show-off. When she reached the walk that led away to the school, she took it. God would understand. She would drop in on him after she had visited Edna
Hospers. After all, if God had intended her to be a contemplative nun he would have issued her a veil. At the moment, she just had to talk things over with someone who would talk back.
On one of the benches beside the walk a figure sat. Willie, the alleged maintenance man, who occupied an apartment in the basement of the school. He gave Marie a tragic look.
Marie stopped. To say that she did not approve of Willie would have been an understatement. He was the most recent in a line of parolees for whom Father Dowling had found employment in the parish, making St. Hilary' a kind of halfway house between Joliet and the wider world, not that he had ever got much work out of any of them. On this score, Willie was a clear-cut winner. According to Edna, for an hour or so each day he pushed a broom around the area of the school used by the seniors, and that was about it. Willie had brought the broom with him to the bench.
“I knew it couldn't last,” he said.
“You need a new broom?”
Willie shook his head sadly. “Don't try to spare me.”
“I never have.”
“Is it true we'll soon be out of a job?”
That her plight could be compared with Willie's filled Marie with anger. She was about to say something cutting, something cruel, but suddenly she was drained of rancor and collapsed on the bench beside Willie. “Father Dowling is seeing the bishop now.”
“Will it matter?”
“How can we know? You might say a prayer about it.”
“I already have,” Willie said, moving the brush of his broom from one shoe to the other. The handle he gripped firmly in his left hand.
“Good.” Marie found herself doubting Willie. Good Lord, what a trial the man was. A minute in his presence and she felt like a
pharisee. She remembered the story of the rich man entering the temple to thank God that he was not like the rest of men, the contrast was with the poor wretch who barely entered and prayed, “Have mercy on me, a sinner.” The parallel was too close for Marie's comfort. “Your prayers will go right to God's ear.”
“He doesn't need ears,” Willie said.
Once more anger flared up in Marie. Was this parolee presuming to instruct her in such matters? “I had no idea you were a theologian.”
“I'm not, but I studied a bit in Joliet. With the chaplain.”
“Father Blatz?”
“This guy was a Baptist. He knew the Bible backward and forward.”
“I thought you were a Catholic.”
“That's what it says in my records.”
“Have you forsaken the faith?”
“You mean quit?”
Marie inhaled. “Did you become a Baptist?”
“What was the point? You don't have to be a Baptist to read the Bible.”
Marie gave up. She stood. Impulsively, she took Willie's broom and began to shake it vigorously. Little puffs of dust and lint flew away in the slight breeze. She tightened the handle before giving it back, twisting it into the brush.
Willie looked on with admiration. “You must have worked as a janitor once.”
“My aspirations never rose that high.”
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Inside the school, the former gym, which was the chief meeting place for the seniors, was strangely quiet. No one played shuffleboard; no cards had been dealt for bridge; the television set was a
gray eye in the corner. There were groups clustered about, whispering as if they were at a wake. At the sight of Marie, they surged toward her.
“What's the news, Mrs. Murkin?”
Marie just waved in what was intended to be a reassuring way and continued to the staircase. Edna's office was on the second floor, what had once been the office of the school's principal, when it had been a school.
Edna was seated at her desk doing nothing. She stared at Marie when the housekeeper entered. “Is he going to talk to the bishop?”
“He hasn't decided yet.” She said this matter-of-factly. It was one thing for Marie Murkin to be critical of the pastor, but it wouldn't do to have Edna follow suit.
“Marie, is there any hope?”
“There is always hope.” Suddenly Marie felt like a pillar of strength, the one person in the parish who kept her wits about her and her chin high. “Make some tea, Edna.”
Doing something is always better than doing nothing. Marie was awash in tea, but it was the principle of the thing. Edna was soon on her feet and a bustle of activity. Marie felt that she had already done good.
Once the water was on, she suggested that she and Edna go downstairs and perk up the old people. “They're just moping around, Edna.”
“Do you blame them?”
“Of course I blame them. They're old enough to know that life has its ups and downs. Anyway, we aren't down yet, not by a long shot.”
When they came into the gym, they were soon surrounded, and Marie made a little speech, a pep talk. What did they think Father Dowling would feel if he saw them like this? Was he brooding in his
study, waiting for the other shoe to fall? You bet he wasn't. He was going to go downtown and confront the powers that be. They were in good hands with Father Dowling. Everything was going to be all right.
“So let's get with it! Let's ⦔ Marie paused and then in a high voice cried, “Let's have fun!”
From the doorway where he had been listening, Willie began a cheer, pounding the floor with the handle of his broom. The cheer was taken up, and Marie and Edna were lifted by it as they went back upstairs for their tea.
“How long have you been in the parish, Marie?”
Marie pondered the question and the reason for its being asked. In the circumstances, it seemed understandable, but her old rivalry with Edna made Marie wary. She didn't like to think how much older than Edna she was. Her fiction was that they were contemporaries, matched opponents in age at least. Was Edna suggesting that Marie's career had been so long that having it stopped would mean less anguish?
“It seems like yesterday I came here,” Marie said.
“I know. I feel the same way. I have gotten so used to it. It just never occurred to me that it could end.”
“Now, now, cheer up.”
“You were wonderful downstairs, Marie.”
Marie harumphed. “Well, Willie seemed to like it.”
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On the way back to the rectory, she realized that she had not set her phone so that it would ring at the school; of course, when she left the house her destination had been the church. She went along the walk to where it intersected the walk coming from the rectory to the church. She stopped and looked at the side door of the
church. Go inside and pray? That seemed self-indulgent, a retreat from battle. You couldn't expect God to do things you could do yourself. Besides, she had to check her phone to see who might have called in her absence. There had been several calls from Jane Devere.