Thirty years before, having financed his college education by joining NROTC, George Hessian was commissioned and spent two sickly years in uniform before he was given a medical discharge for the diabetes that had escaped the attention of the physicians who had given him the pro forma physicals paving the way into college and then into the Navy. He had his first attack in San Diego and was assumed to be drunk when he was discovered on the floor beside his bed in the junior officers' quarters. The hangover remedy he was given restored him and he himself passed off the episode as due to the uneasy excitement he felt as he waited for the ship to which he had been assigned to come into port. The second attack was on shipboard where he was attended by a physician who recognized the symptoms because of the experience he had had with a diabetic younger sister. George spent his first voyage helping out in sick bay, was put ashore in Hawaii, and flown back to the mainland. Until his ultimate discharge he spent hours in the base library where he conceived the ambition of becoming a writer.
It is the nature of such an ambition to be alluringly vague. His mind was flooded with images of himself in the flush of fame, a fame of which he quickly tiredâimagination can exhaust whole lifetimes in a matter of daysâand he began to see himself as a Salinger sort of recluse, fleeing from his excited readers and intrepid reporters. When he returned to Fox River, he took a job in a bank where he worked for decades, moving slowly up the lower rungs of the financial ladder. The work was boring but welcome, since he saw it as his incognito. Who, when they sat beside his desk arranging a loan, suspected that they were dealing with a writer who would become a legend?
He wrote nothing. At first it was a matter of postponing the great effort, then his daily work proved more distracting than he would have believed. Finally, he dreaded the thought of sitting at his typewriter and trying to make words he actually wrote conform to the inflated image of himself he had devised. After retirement he took a job as gate
guard at the retirement home where his mother now lived. It was in the solitude of the guard shack that a great project had come to him. He would write the history of St. Hilary parish.
“I'm not sure there would be a great demand for such a history,” Father Dowling said.
“It is a matter of setting down the record.”
“I suppose publishing it would be expensive.”
“My proposal is to write and publish it, Father.”
“Ah. You're retired?”
“More or less.”
There seemed no need to mention his job as a guard at the retirement home where his mother now resided. Father Dowling's kindness seemed the result of an effort. George had the sense that he was being condescended to, however unconsciously. He smiled, sustained by his carefully cultivated self-image. In the end the pastor saw little reason to refuse him. George would have recourse to the parish records, he would need a letter that would gain him entry to the archdiocesan archives, he would interview graduates of the school.
“Of course the school will be a central theme.”
“You know that it has become a Senior Center?”
“All the better. As a school, it has a beginning, a middle, and an end.”
“Have you written such a thing before?”
“History is a new departure, Father Dowling. But a writer's craft can be applied to many subjects.”
If he rather easily received carte blanche from the pastor, Marie Murkin, to whom Father Dowling referred himâ“She is a walking archive, George, the animate history of the parish”âwas a tougher nut to crack.
“Why on earth would you want to do such a thing?”
He looked at her. “It's not easy to talk about.”
“Why not?” She had insisted that he take a cup of tea. They were seated at the kitchen table in the rectory.
“I suppose I could talk with you.”
“Of course you can.”
“Equally, of course, I could not do this without your help.”
Marie Murkin liked this acknowledgment of her importance in such a matter. He added, “In all justice you would have a claim to be co-author.”
“Co-author!” She threw up her hands, but could not master the smile that came. “I will leave the authoring to you.”
So he was given access to the records of the parish, most of them stored in the attic, and Edna Hospers let him use what had once been the school nurse's office, just down the hall from the principal's office where Edna was installed. He brought his laptop computer with him to rectory and nurse's office and established a routine that, in a short time, made him all but invisible to those he moved among.
“You grew up in the parish?” Edna asked.
“I attended the school.”
The school records, nine large file cabinets, were transferred to the nurse's office by a protesting school janitor and the parish maintenance man. They stood around until he tipped them each five dollars. He closed the door after them. The first thing he did was ascertain which of the cabinets contained the records of his own years in St. Hilary's parish school. Then he settled down to work.
As Father Dowling had told Colleen, weddings were a rarity at St. Hilary's given the changed character of the parish. There were young families, happy possessors of the large houses that were sold for a song by those anxious to flee the parish after it had been hemmed in by the a triangle of new highways meant to facilitate the daily flow to and
from Chicago. Old parishioners were just that: old, their families grown and gone. This had prompted turning the parish school into a meeting place for seniors, and under Edna Hospers the idea had expanded and flourished.
“The next pastor may want to turn it back into a school,” Father Dowling said.
“This is a pretty healthy bunch, Father.”
“I was thinking of the growing number of children in the parish.”
“Oh, sure. As soon as my kids are grown, there'll be a parish school again.”
But Edna was not unhappy. The local public school was spared the usual problems because of its insulation by the new highways and teaching positions there were eagerly sought. Edna's children were being well taken care of, educationally, and she was as effective a mother as she was as director of the parish Center.
Father Dowling found that he was looking forward to giving marriage instructions to the young couple. His years on the archdiocesan marriage tribunal made him a firm supporter of the new requirement that those about to marry should be made aware of the permanency and obligations of the state they were about to enter.
His thoughts turned to the bereaved Hopkinses in their empty nest to the north. There was still no news of the missing boyfriend whose absence had taken on new significance, from what Linda's fellow workers at the Hacienda Motel had told Cy Horvath.
“They all hated his guts. I don't think they thought he was worthy of her.”
“What did he do?”
“Drove a cab.”
“Wouldn't that make him easy to trace?”
The chauffeur's license appeared to have been taken out in a name devised for the occasion, Harry Paquette. But the photograph on the license had been sent out in a routine fashion to other police departments, along with a fax copy of the application form. Cy remained
keen, but Phil Keegan considered the investigation, such as it was, a waste of time. If it had not been a slow time in the Detective Division, Phil would have put an official stop to it.
“We don't even know that a crime has been committed.”
“How about the witnesses?”
“To what? Someone might have bumped into her, she might have been pushed. She might have just lost her balance.”
But one witness was certain that she could identify the man she had seen push Linda Hopkins into the path of traffic on Dirksen Boulevard. She was less sure that the photograph on the chauffeur's license application was that of the man, though other witnesses thought it was.
“I will never forget that face as long as I live,” Mabel Wilson repeated nonetheless.
“We'll see,” Phil said. His tone was the skeptical one of a cop who had known the certainty of witnesses to evaporate when they realized they could be called to testify in a trial. “If there is a trial, which I doubt, Roger. The prosecutor is not eager to pursue a case he is sure to lose.”
But Cy Horvath had met the parents and he had talked with other members of the cleaning crew at the Hacienda Motel. Cy's face communicated neither optimism or despair. But so long as he could, he meant to go on trying to unravel how it was that Linda Hopkins had met her death.
Life had smiled on Tim Gallagher and he knew it. That he should have found such a wife as Jane was an unmitigated blessing. He tried to remember when he had thought of her as just Colleen's friend, someone thrown in his way without the need to search for her and, having found her, win her. But it had not been until he ran into her on the Georgetown campus that she ceased to be just one of Colleen's friends. In Fox River, he had never taken her out or, to tell the truth, even thought of it. At Georgetown he thought of it, and the envy of which he was the object when he was seen about campus with Jane was not lost on him. The film of familiarity lifted and he saw Jane as a very attractive young woman. She was fun to be with; they were immediately at ease with one another, perhaps because they already knew so much about one another. Within a semester, there was an understanding. They would marry as soon as Tim was through law school.
In the event, they married after he got his B.A. He had been offered a full ride in law school and there seemed no reason to postpone their marriage. It was a glorious wedding and although Tim had become used to being regarded by other men as fantastically lucky to have won someone like Jane, the wedding gave that realization a boost. Law school went easily by. Jane worked in the admissions office until the first baby came. With children, she became a mother, an
amazing transformation. A great offer from Anderson Consulting was topped by a Loop firm, and the outstanding legal career that all his professors had predicted for him began. They lived in Barrington, not far from Fox River where they had grown upânot far in distance, that is. In another sense they inhabited a different universe. Their parish was St. Anne's, something that delighted Jane.
“What's special about that?”
“Oh, nothing. But I have to tell Colleen.”
There were Jane, the three kids, wonderful kids, the house, the constantly rising line of his careerâwhat more could he ask?
And yet there were times when the very fact that he had all he could ask for made him want more. What the “more” might consist of, he could not have said. But with forty looming, the future seemed more confining than alluring. They had special plans for the kids' education; his financial plan conceivably could have made retirement at fifty-five feasible. They had a condo on Long Boat Key that they rented out when they weren't using it. With Jane on his arm he still felt king of any hill you could mention. She seemed more beautiful than ever now, with a mature beauty, a silver thread or two in her dark hair that did not age her but added something mysterious to her beauty. They said family prayers together at night and he listened to his children thank God for Mommy and Daddy and all their grandparents and uncles and aunts and cousins. There was much to be thankful for. So why was he discontent? He could not forget that sleek and sexy young lawyer from Mallard and Bill who had come up to him as if they were involved in a conspiracy.
“I know your sister.”
Her name tag told him she was from Mallard and Bill. “Colleen?”
“That's right, but you cheated. You peeked at my name card.” She tilted it toward him in what seemed an almost suggestive manner. Did she have a blouse under that suit coat? As for the skirt, with legs like those, who could blame her? “I signed up for the morning seminar on investments.”
“Are you in trusts?”
“More or less. You are, I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I told you I know Colleen.”
Other men noticed her interest but their reaction was different from the one he got when he was with Jane. This girlâ“They call me Aggie,” she corrected when he called her Agathaâwas both all business and gave the promise of adventure. He took a seat on the opposite side of the table from her and down at one end, when they went into the seminar. But it was like an admission that she had gotten to him.
Lunch was one of those lunches, everybody chattering about the morning seminars, and then back they went till four.
“I'm dying for a drink,” Aggie said at his elbow.
“I forgot my flask.”
She actually punched him in the ribs. “There's a bar downstairs, or we could go up the street.”
Just like that. Well, she was a business girl and they were colleagues of a sort. They had their drink up the street, in a bar crowded with people, many of them looking like singles.
“Do you come here often?”
She laughed a trilling laugh. Apparently he had made a joke. She made him feel that he had been far away on a long voyage. He never stopped for a drink in the Loop. He hurried to catch the train that would take him back to Barrington and allow him to go on working on the way. They had the drink and parted in the street.
“I am so glad we've met at last.”
And then she waved and went in a leggy walk up the street. Tim found himself staring after her.
One of the attractions of his parish of which Father Dowling was ashamed to boast, was that in a sense, so very little went on there. His tasks were the essential tasks of the priestâto offer Mass, dispense the sacraments, visit the sick, and bury the dead. There were very few weddings, so the arrival of Colleen Gallagher and Mario Liberati at the rectory to make arrangements for their wedding was an event. He became aware that they were in the house when he heard voices in the front parlor, among them Marie Murkin's. She seemed to be subjecting them to a preliminary inquiry before turning them over to the pastor.
“I'm back,” he said, looking into the parlor.
“Where've you been?”
“I assumed you thought I wasn't in.”
Marie was not flustered. “Father Dowling, you remember Colleen. This is her fiancé, Mario Liberati.”
“Aha.” He shook Liberati's hand. “You make a very nice couple.”
“Father, we want to make arrangements for our wedding.”
“Somehow I guessed that.”
The parlor was a better place than his study for this. As they got seated, Marie asked if anyone would like tea or coffee. Nobody did. Reluctantly Marie withdrew. As a precaution, Father Dowling shut the door.
Mario, of course, was a cradle Catholic. Did he practice his faith?
“I intend to from now on.” He looked at Colleen.
Father Dowling explained the new requirement that they meet several times before the actual wedding date. Some parishes had marriage preparation courses going nonstop throughout the year, but at St. Hilary's they could be more informal.
“On the first occasion I will speak to both of you, like this. Then with each of you alone. The fourth meeting will again be with both of you.”
The requirement had been initiated because of the fear that young
people had only a hazy understanding of marriage as a sacrament. The world is too much with us, and it is fatally easy to pick up one's notion of marriage from the culture around, not a good thing to do with half the marriages in the country ending in divorce. Divorce had become common among Catholics as well, and applications for annulment were at an all-time high. The idea that marriage was a promise for life, through thick and thin, had weakened. Hence the requirement.
“Sounds like a good idea,” Mario said.
Colleen looked blissfully at her intended. Once upon a time a pastor simply knew the people who came to be marriedâhe had seen them grow up, knew their parents, knew their outlook on lifeâand such meetings were unnecessary. Of these two, he had met Colleen only once, scarcely enough to know her.
“So we're agreed?”
“Whatever it takes,” Mario said.
“So let's fix some dates. When would you like to be married?”
“Would June be possible?”
“Of course. You can have any Saturday in June you want. We don't have a great many weddings at St. Hilary's.”
“It's such a lovely church,” Colleen said, looking first at Mario and then at Father Dowling.
“It's a very serviceable parish plant. Of course we've put the school to a different use.”
“What use?”
So he told them about the school and of the Senior Center. “Your uncle is often here. Austin Rooney.”
“He is? Dad should come too.”
“Of course he's welcome.”
“He moved out of the parish after Mother died.”
“That makes no difference.”
It was only after the couple had gone, having arranged to return the following week, that Father Dowling remembered Marie's report of
Austin's reaction when she suggested that his brother-in-law come to the Center.
Austin was a rare bird among the old people, few of whom had led the kind of active life he had.
“Active life? Father Dowling, you must realize that a professor's life is no more active than a ⦔
“Than a priest's?”
“That isn't what I was thinking.”
Active or not, Austin was happy enough, when prompted, to talk of his days as professor of literature. It was amazing the things Austin knew and lovedâand those he did not. Bloy and Maritain and Claudel were only names to him.
“I taught American literature, Father.”
So they talked of Scott Fitzgerald and John O'Hara and Hemingway.
“Hemingway was a kind of Catholic, you know.”
“How many kinds are there?”
They often sat together in Father Dowling's study but if the pastor thought he was preserving the man from the attractions of Maud Gorman, he was wasting his time. The professor emeritus was as smitten as half a dozen others had been before him, and there are some things beyond the reach of reason. Besides, such infatuations among the elderly had always proved to be short-lived, however intense.
“The little vixen actually came to the door when the two of you were speaking,” Marie said when Austin had gone.
“What did you tell her?”
“That you preferred to hear confessions in the church when a lady is involved.”
“You must never turn a penitent away, Marie.”
“Oh, it was I who brought up confession, not she. She scampered away at the mention of it.”
Marie was incorrigible, and like many women she was particularly hard on her own sex. Edna Hospers told Father Dowling that Austin was a good influence on Maud.
“She's never without a book now.”
“Does she read it?”
“That may come.”
“How are plans for the dance progressing?”
“Everything is all set. And we won't have to pay for a band. Desmond O'Toole has put together a trio. He himself is a marvel on the piano. And he sings.”
“Desmond?”
“He is now enthusiastic about the dance. He sings like a bird. He plays by ear and he knows the lyrics of any song you can name.”
“But that will keep him off the dance floor.”
“It's just as well. Then he can't be turned down if he asks Maud for a dance. Anyway, I think his ardor has cooled.”
Father Dowling could see that Edna was relieved. It would be difficult to have to tell people twice her age to grow up. Then he told her about the wedding and that the bride-to-be's father might be coming to the center. “He is Austin's brother-in-law.”
“The one he hates.”
“Did he say that?”
“Oh, he's too smooth for that. But Desmond told me all about it.”
“Maybe Desmond is trying to start trouble.”
Edna thought about it. “He really does sing like a bird.”
Some days later a tall, silver-haired man without an ounce of fat on him stood in Edna's doorway, wearing an apologetic smile on his handsome face.
“Mrs. Hospers?”
“Yes.”
He crossed the room to her and took her hand in both of his. “My daughter told me what you are doing here and I had to see for myself.”
“Your daughter?”
“Colleen. I am Jack Gallagher.” He said this as if throwing off a disguise. “And there is to be a dance?”
There were posters everywhere about the school, as he must have seen on his way in. She managed to free her hand. Jack Gallagher was decidedly a charmer and age had not dimmed his conspiratorial good humor.
“You must come.”
“Wild horses couldn't keep me away. In the phrase. The very antiquated phrase.” He stepped back and looked around the room. “This was Sister Ellen Joseph's room.”
“You attended this school?” Edna asked.
“For eight years. Eight of the most ⦔ He stopped and gave her an apologetic smile. “The most eight years of my life. The nuns were saints, all but a few.”
“Are you still in the parish?”
“Is that required?”
“Not at all. I just wondered.”
“No, I am now filed away in a condominium, awaiting the grim reaper.”
“You're retired.”
He gave her a look. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Yes, my voice has been stilled.”
“What did you do?”
“Why should you remember? I was on the radio.
Jack in the Box
was my show but my most popular program was at night. Two hours of soothing music and murmured philosophy. I came on at nine. I had a devoted audience. Of course that was long ago. I did not make the transition to television. The accent is on youth. On radio, a voice might be of any age, but who wants to see their grandfather on television?”
“So you have grandchildren?”
“Three. Not that they would have listened to me. It is just a phrase.
When my fans died away my voice was stilled. For some years I did audio for commercials, making far more money than I had in my ascendancy.”
Edna had the sense that he could have gone on and on, and the truth was she almost wished he would. First Austin and now this man. The Center was coming up in the world.
All the old people knew who Jack Gallagher was, or at least what he had been. He was surrounded by what could only be described as fans when Edna went downstairs. Austin was nowhere in sight, but a bright-eyed Maud regarded the newcomer from afar.
“Did you know him?” Edna asked Maud.
“Know him! Only his voice, of course, but it hasn't changed a bit. Did you ever hear him?”
“I don't think so.”
Maud closed her eyes and brought her hands together. “His program was heavenly. The sweetest, saddest music, and he would talk, say things, sometimes recite poetryâit was so restful. I am sure everyone in this room listened to that program religiously.”
“
Jack in the Box
.”
“That was during the day. The evening program was called
Love's Old Sweet Song
.”
Desmond O'Toole was in the first rank of the admiring circle, and Jack Gallagher remembered Desmond from their time as boys in the school. Within hours it had been arranged for Jack to alternate with Desmond on the night of the dance. It seemed Jack had a beautiful tenor voice. For Jack to show up just a week before the dance was a bonus Desmond would not have believed.
“I wasn't sure he was still alive until he walked in here,” he said to Edna.
“You haven't kept in touch?”
“It isn't that. How incredible that a man who enjoyed that kind of popularity could sink into total oblivion. Wait until you hear him.”
“I was coming in order to hear you, Desmond.”
“Of course, my voice is bass.”
“Don't run yourself down.”
She had told a joke. What next?