When he is judged, let him be found guilty, and let his prayer become sin.
â
Psalm 109
Â
“You probably haven't noticed, Father, but several times I have driven onto the grounds and then lost courage.”
This was a disarming remark from the man who had been shown into his office by a glowing Father Joachim. Boniface had heard a conversation going on in the outer office. The voices alternated as the voices of the community did when they said the office together in chapel. Boniface had made community office optional, but now everyone came and at least during that time when they were together the continuing disagreement among them about their property was forgotten. The young man's voice from the outer office had not seemed that of a frightened man.
“John Sullivan.” He put out his hand and Boniface took it with the sinking feeling that Joachim had let a salesman into his office.
“I am Father Boniface.”
“Yes, I was told.”
“Mr. Sullivanâ” he began, but he was interrupted.
“I want to make a retreat.”
“A retreat!”
“Father, I haven't practiced my faith in years. I want to come back.”
This was hardly a request that Father Boniface could refuse. Not that he was in the least inclined to. The small taste of pastoral work he'd had made him all the more eager to seize on the opportunities that came his way.
He took the young man for a walk on the grounds, listening to the story of the life he wanted to put behind him. They ended at the grotto, often taken to be a replica of Lourdes where Our Lady appeared to Bernadette.
“Her body has been preserved uncorrupted. I saw it myself at Nevers in France. A beautiful girl. Of course she had become a nun. The world is full of such signs that most people choose to ignore. Some years ago, the mayor of that city committed suicide. Imagine, living in a city where one could see daily the body of a woman who had died a century ago. We do not have eyes to see. But seeing this should be enough for us.” Boniface gestured toward the grounds.
“It is a beautiful place, Father. That is what attracted me to it. Will you let me stay?”
“For a retreat?”
The young man's story was heartrending. First, a tragic love affair, the girl dying before they could marry. He then threw himself into a life of dissipation. He did not spare himself. Why don't
I quite trust him
? Boniface wondered.
“I would like to spend my life here. But just let me have a few days ⦔
When priests like Father Dowling came to make their retreat, there was no problem, even with the buildings other than the Corbett mansion all but out of use. A priest could just become a
temporary member of the community, following his own regimen, of course. But a layman, under present conditions?
“The gardener and his family live in a lodge on the grounds. You could stay there.”
“Anywhere.”
“And did you want me to act as your retreat master?”
“Would that be possible?”
Boniface nodded. “Come.”
They went to the maintenance shed behind the greenhouse where Andrew and his son were attaching the mower to the tractor. “Andrew, this is John Sullivan. He has come to make a retreat, and I wonder if you have room for him in the lodge.”
“Father, the third floor is unused.”
“Is it habitable?”
“It can be made so in a minute.”
And so it was arranged. Andrew introduced the visitor to his son, and asked him to take Mr. Sullivan to the lodge.
“Should I get my car? My things are in it.”
Michael and the penitent went back toward the main building. The road would take them around to the lodge.
“Is he a priest?” Andrew asked.
“No. Just a sinner.”
Andrew blessed himself in the reverse manner of the Orthodox. “We all are.”
“I was not exempting priests.”
“Is there any further news?”
There was no need to say of what. “Nothing.”
“How long will he be here?”
“He says he would like to spend the rest of his life here.”
“So would I.”
“In that, we are of one mind.”
Â
Â
When Boniface climbed the steps of the main building, Nathaniel was standing on the veranda.
“Do we have a visitor, Father Boniface?”
“A man who wants to make a retreat.”
“And you are letting him stay?”
How could he tell Richard that he felt the same misgivings about the man as he did about him. “Yes.”
“And you will lead the retreat?”
“Now I have two penitents.”
Richard looked startled, but then he subsided. It was well to remind him that he was still on probation. How quickly he had shaken off the years during which he had lived in the world, married, drifted from the faith as he had from the priesthood. And now, a few months back, he had become a dominant figure in the community. No doubt it spoke well of the community that they had not treated Richard like a pariah, but Boniface almost wished they had. A man should not spend much of life outside the life he had vowed to live and then return as if he had been out for a walk.
“Where will he stay?”
“The Georges are putting him up in the lodge.”
“There are rooms in the mansion.”
“He's not a priest. I don't think he would be comfortable with us.”
“And maybe vice versa?”
“Maybe.” Boniface paused. He was about to voice his uneasiness with Sullivan but then decided against it. What a gossip he was becoming. Maybe that was an effect of pastoral work. But he felt he should say more. “A tragic story. He lost his fiancée to
cancer and then fell apart. I hope his stay here will help him.”
The trouble with a bearded man is that it is difficult to know what he is thinking unless you read his eyes and Richard insisted on wearing sunglasses at all hours. A California habit, apparently.
In the office Boniface noticed that the visitor had left his briefcase there. A handsome item, with initials embossed in gold: S. M. ODD. But it could not belong to anyone but the visitor.
They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man.
âPsalm
107
Â
“If it isn't a legal matter, why do I need a lawyer?”
“Do you want your dollar back?”
Leo looked at him abjectly. “I'm sorry. I know you've gone to a great deal of trouble.”
“Imagine what two dollars would get you.”
Leo cheered up. Tuttle was inclined to take his side because Hazel thought so little of Leo.
“Look, Leo. I had a very good session with Amos Cadbury. He is the lawyer that drew up your grandfather's will.”
“I know who Amos Cadbury is. I'd like to sue him. I think
he's the one who gave my grandfather all these ideas.”
Whatever influence Cadbury had had, and no doubt it was a lot, old Corbett had been in a giving mood long before he became Amos Cadbury's client.
“I have a better idea.”
“What?”
“Meet me at the courthouse tomorrow at ten.”
“But I have to go to work.”
“What's more important to you, having a chance to live like a Corbett or sell a few golf balls? Call in sick.”
“I'm never sick.”
“Don't tell them that.”
“That's crazy,” Hazel said when he told her. He had promised himself not to, but how often did he have a stroke of genius?
“I'm glad you like it.”
“If your meeting with Cadbury was so successful why would you want to antagonize him like that?”
“It's the sort of thing he expects of me.”
“Maybe you can work as a paralegal when you get disbarred.”
“I only worry about what will happen to you.”
Hazel's expression was one he had never seen before. Her face went utterly blank. Then she burst into tears and ran into the outer office. Geez.
Â
Â
The pressroom at the courthouse at ten in the morning had the look of an emergency ward, with representatives of the media trying to work off last night's hangover. Tetzel was banging away at his computer the way some people hit themselves on the head with a hammer.
“Get lost,” he growled when Tuttle tapped his shoulder. But he stopped typing.
“Tetzel, this is Leo Corbett.” And Tuttle stepped aside like a magician to show that it was indeed so. Tetzel turned his tormented expression on Leo.
“So?”
“Corbett. Leo Corbett. As in filthy rich. The benefactor?”
It would be too much to say that he had Tetzel's interest, but the reporter's disinterest diminished to a degree. The chair Tuttle pulled up made a scraping sound, and Tetzel's hands went to his head.
“Don't do that!”
“Sorry. Tetzel, you are about to become the toast of Fox River journalism. When you are through those two Watergate guys will be history.”
“They already are.”
“Sit down, Leo. And be careful with the chair.”
Leo had been complaining since they met on the steps of the courthouse, saying that he should be at work. “Gasper, the pro, didn't believe me, I know he didn't. I never could lie.”
“Neither can sleeping dogs.”
“Huh?”
“Forget about the golf course. You know what George Eliot said about them. A thousand lost golf balls,” said Tuttle.
“You mean T. S.”
“Don't be vulgar. And remember why we are here.”
“You haven't told me.”
“Come on.”
But Leo had worn his worried, petulant expression into the press room and it was clear that Tetzel did not find him prepossessing, as he would have put it. The first time he used the word
Tuttle thought he was talking about insurance against having the finance company take your car.
“What crazy idea you got this time, Tuttle?”
Tetzel glanced at Leo as Tuttle spoke because the object of the conversation kept trying to break in and correct the account his lawyer was giving the reporter. Leo had a weak appreciation of the need to dramatize, select, emphasize, if so jaded a journalist as Tetzel was to show a spark of interest, let alone the enthusiasm with which Tuttle spoke.
“Why didn't his daddy leave him no money?”
“Everything he got stopped when he died.”
“Money his daddy gave him?”
“Right. Did he ever work for a living, save anything?” He put this question to Leo, who took umbrage at it.
“My father was a distinguished geologist.” This was the first time Tuttle had heard Leo speak well of any of his ancestors.
“Aren't they paid?”
Leo made a moue and shut his eyes. When he opened them, he was looking over Tetzel's head. “My father gave his life to science. The stone marking his grave is one that he himselfâ”
“You hear the one about the guy who left his body to science and they refused it?”
Tuttle got out of the way of the jab Tetzel aimed at his ribs; Hazel was keeping him in training.
“Tetzel, this young man has been reduced to working at the country club, in the golf shop.”
“That a year-round job?”
“I've only been there since late March.”
Tetzel was shaking his head. “It's all wrong. Tuttle, you have to put him into a soup kitchen, into a shelter for the homeless.”
He meant as a volunteer. What Tetzel thought the public
wanted was the spectacle of an altruistic young man, robbed of his inheritance, devoting himself to helping those even less fortunate than himself.
“I won't do it,” Leo announced.
Tetzel looked at him with interest for the first time. “You wearing contacts or something?”
“I am not.”
“Your eyes look glassy.”
Suddenly the puffy, whining, disinherited creampuff was transformed. He rose and took Tetzel by the lapels and lifted him out of his chair and began to shake him as if he were a doll. The reporter spluttered and cursed and began to kick. Leo dropped him into his chair, Tetzel's arm hit his keyboard and it clattered to the floor. The computer might have followed if Tuttle hadn't steadied it. Then he turned and stared at his client.
“Where do you work out?”
“I run ten miles every morning.” Leo lied. He looked down in every sense at Tetzel. “I'll take that as an apology.”
“You'll take what?” Tetzel had bent over, intending to retrieve his keyboard, but straightened with a great cry, his hand going to his head. He made as if to rise, but Tuttle had only to put a hand on his shoulder to subdue him.
“Let's continue.”
“All right,” Tetzel said, glaring at Leo. “This lethal weapon takes a job in a soup kitchen. I discover him there, with my photographer.” He paused. “If I wrote like that I'd be fired. A photographer will happen to be with me, in search of human interest stories we come upon the grandson of Corbett, how did he end up here? We toy with the idea that he sold all he had and gave to the poor ⦠I like it.”
“It's a great idea,” Tuttle agreed.
So it was that Leo Corbett bade good-bye to the golf shop and the country club and found himself ladling soup into the bowls of shuffling men and women far worse off than himself. Such a spectacle of misfortune did not dull his own sense of the injustice that had been done him, which was just as well, since it was only the utilitarian aspect of his volunteer work that had induced him to take it up. He would wander for some time in this desert of poverty on the understanding that it would lead on to the promised land. His situation had the further advantage that those whom he served did not connect him with the object of the passionate series that soon commenced in the Fox River Tribune, nor did they wonder at the commotion involved in photographing the putative heir behind the food line. They were used to the equivocal concern of the wider society and had lost any egoism that might have objected to being photographed in the most heartrending of attitudesâa grizzled old man, wearing his baseball cap rakishly in reverse, daubing with a piece of bread the last drops from his bowl; a woman gnawing with the only teeth left her the resisting drumstick that had been put upon her tray; a little boy with a bowl who might have been Oliver Twist saying, “More.” It was to the credit of Tetzel's photographer that these were not posed scenes, but authentically drawn from life as it was lived in and about the soup kitchen where Leo Corbett was depicted as the goodest of Samaritans.
Tetzel reached deep into his rhetorical resources, the boy with the bowl inspired a Dickensian passion and there was danger, in the second story of his series, that he would go off on a tangent, making the plight of the homeless his theme. But there was art in this. The more undeserving to the suburban eye the objects of Leo's compassion, the more surely would he engage that of his reader. Had it come to this that the grandchildren of yesterday's
plutocrats were to be found in shelters for the homeless, and who knew for how long Leo would remain on the right side of the food line?
“If I didn't know better, I'd think that young whelp was a saint.”
“Hazel, you have no heart.”
“Wanna bet?”
With phase one of his plan well under way, Tuttle called Farniente to his office. His instructions were terse and clear. Tuttle wanted the private investigator to see if there was anything at all unsavory about the Lucases who directed the shelter where Leo was now covering himself with glory.
“Unsavory?”
“If I knew what I meant I wouldn't need you.”
“That's true.”
Call it instinct, call it luck. Glen Lucas and his wife Celia had previously run a day-care center that had come under a cloud. Children had come home with odd stories; Glen Lucas was accused of an excess of loving care to the little girls. He lay down with them at nap time, he held them on his lap until Celia tore his burden from him and cuffed him on the ear. She in her turn showed more than maternal interest in the genitalia of little boys. They were shut down. All this had been in Milwaukee. They migrated south, ingratiated themselves with the local United Fund, and lamented the absence of a homeless shelter in the otherwise progressive community.
“No peculation?”
“You mean sheep?” Farniente's misunderstanding owed something to his residual knowledge of his parents' native tongue.
“I mean money. How close an accounting does United Way receive of the operation of the homeless shelter?”
“Ah.”
The results were ambiguous, but that was enough for Tetzel. Sometimes it suffices to raise questions. And then hints of improprieties in Milwaukee strengthened suspicion of the Lucases. The director of the United Way, the object of wrath from Planned Parenthood from whom he withheld public funding, acted with dispatch. The shutting down of the shelter added poignancy to the plight of the altruistic young man whose grandfather had shamelessly lavished his wealth on a religious order in decline while his should-be heir had lost even his volunteer position healing the needy and destitute. As to what would now happen to those who had daily come to the shelter, the many who had established all but permanent residence there, Tetzel's series did not inquire. The victim was Leo Corbett and no other.
Mention of the Athanasians was by no means a grace note in Tetzel's account.
“I'm going after them,” he told Tuttle.
“Of course.”
“I warn you, I'm not Catholic.”
“In my Father's house there are many mansions,” Tuttle said unctuously.
“Well, those fathers live in a mansion. They have moved out of the buildings they put up and are all living in Corbett's mansion!”
But Tetzel saved his indignation for phase three of Tuttle's plan. The beneficiaries of Corbett's wealth were to be depicted as unworthy of it, men ostensibly vowed to poverty living in the lap of luxury because of the foolish sentimentality of an old man in his dotage. The bearded father who provided Tetzel with his most damning quotations was Nathaniel.