“I am thick as thieves with the captain of detectives of the Fox River police. Philip Keegan.”
“Aha.”
“No. It's not that. He's a lifelong friend of Father Dowling's. You didn't answer my question.”
“Would you read back the transcript?” he said in a theatrical voice.
“I asked if you were a policeman.”
“You're amending the record. You said I sounded like a policeman.”
“It comes to the same thing.”
“I am not a policeman.”
“Maybe you ought to ask the police if they know your Father Richards.”
“How could they if you don't?”
Marie's pleasure was displaced by a sudden realization. “Was he a Franciscan?”
“What's a Franciscan?”
“Don't ask. There are two kinds of priest, you know. Those that belong to dioceses, like Chicago, and those who belong to orders. The Franciscans are an order. St. Francis?”
“Are there many orders?”
So Marie told him about the Franciscans and Dominicans and Benedictines and then all the societies and congregations. “The priests at Notre Dame belong to the Congregation of Holy Cross.”
“I thought they were Jesuits.”
“Oh, they're not that bad.” But Marie laughed when she said it. “The Jesuits are another order.”
Stan Morgan shook his head. “You'd think I'd remember some of that, wouldn't you?”
“You're a Catholic, aren't you? I mean with a name like Morgan ⦔
“I suppose I am.”
“That doesn't sound very certain.” This was more like it. With Father Dowling on retreat, Marie felt no compunction at all in assuming the role of pastoral assistant.
“Living in California is different.”
“But now you've decided to do something about it. Is that why you're searching for Father Richards?”
He dropped his chin, looking at her between the rims of his glasses and his silvery brows. “You sure you aren't the pastor?”
“Women can't be priests.”
“I thought that had changed.”
“Don't you believe it. It will never happen.”
“Well, if it does I hope you're the first. You know, there was a kid in my class in grade school that went to the seminary.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his chin. His eyes popped open. “The SVDs. We kidded him about those initials.”
Marie ignored this. “Society of the Divine Word. They were in Techny, Illinois.”
“How did they get SVD out of that?”
“Probably a translation from the Latin. Oh, there were scores of religious houses in the Chicago area in those days. Jesuits, Benedictines, Athanasians, Oblate of Mary Immaculate, you name it. Father Dowling is making his retreat at the Athanasian seminary. Marygrove.”
“Retreat?”
“A time of prayer and meditation. A spiritual advisor might suggest you do something similar.”
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After a time, they went into the study where Marie got out the Catholic Directory to look up Richards.
“He was married when I knew him,” Stan Morgan said.
“Married! Then he left the priesthood.”
Stan Morgan nodded. “I would never have known he'd been a priest if he hadn't told me.”
Marie closed the directory. “Well, then he wouldn't still be listed here.”
When he left by the kitchen door, the way he had come, Marie assured him that she would make further inquiries. This seemed to alarm him.
“I assumed all this was confidential.”
She put her hand on his arm. “If that is how you want it, that is the way it will be. Call next week. I may have information for you.”
“I never tasted such delicious pie.”
“Oh, get along.”
He got along, and Marie watched him go. Only her spiritual
advisor would know the thoughts that briefly teased her then. But she turned and went inside and put the dishes in the sink and then went upstairs for forty winks.
Listen, O daughter, give ear to my words: forget your own people and your father's house.
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Psalm 45
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Michael George had grown up in the house provided his father as maintenance man for the grounds of Marygrove, a house called the lodge. And hated it. His grandfather had worked for the Athanasians, his father had given them his life, and now when his turn loomed the whole outfit was going to hell.
“They've been good to us, Michael. And we're not even Catholics.”
“What's that got to do with it?”
“You thinks Jews would hire a Christian? You think Lutherans would hire a Catholic?”
“I thought we were supposed to be Orthodox.”
“We are Orthodox.”
“Is that why we never go to church?”
“You've got a smart mouth, Michael. You think you won't go
to heaven because you don't put in three, four hours in church every Sunday?”
“No.”
“All right, then.”
“That isn't why I don't think I'll go to heaven.”
Michael, if he had ever believed in heaven and hell and all the rest, hadn't given it a thought in years. He was now nineteen with the horror of high school behind him and would have rebelled against the suggestion that he carry on after his father as Andrew had done after his until it dawned on him that he might not have the choice.
“St. Athanasius was a Greek,” Andrew said, as if he had just provided the key to the George presence at Marygrove.
“And the cardinal stole our name.”
But his father was through arguing, giving his undivided attention to the
Sun-Times
sports page. He never went to a game, but he followed all the Chicago pro teams as if the millionaires playing for them were personal friends. All but the Latinos. What would the old man say if he knew about Rita?
“Sure we'll get married,” Rita had said to Michael. “Right after you get a job.”
“I'm in the family business.”
“Well, I'm not going to get in the family way until I'm married.”
He admired her for that, when he wasn't complaining of her coldness.
“Warmth has a price.”
“What are you anyway, a hooker?”
“No, just a woman who wants a husband along with any babies.”
“Rita, I'll be careful.”
“Just shut your face, Michael.” But she patted his cheek tenderly as she said it. “And another thing, I'll only marry a Catholic.”
“Do you know who my father works for? Do you know where I live?”
Of course she knew. It was on the grounds of Marygrove that she had torn herself free just when he was certain he was going to score. Later, he was ashamed for thinking of it that way, as if they were wrestling and he wanted to pin her and win, but at the moment he was as angry as he got. “You think you got to be a Catholic to go to heaven?”
“No. Just to marry me.”
Face it, the first time they hooked up after class, Rita had been just another Hispanicâ“Say it quick and it spells spick”âone of
them,
matured early, hot to go. Little did he know. The Martinez home was like a church, holy pictures everywhere, Our Lady of Guadalupe over the couch in the living room, which was why he didn't try anything until he took Rita for a walk on the seminary grounds. He had begun thinking she was lucky to have a gringo like him interested in her, but he ended up like an outsider seeking entry to the castle where the fair maiden lived. What did he know about Hispanics? What did any of his friends? They had a singsong way of speaking English, but then Michael could remember his own grandfather's accent, too.
“Do I have to learn Spanish, too?”
“It would help.”
He had flunked out of Spanish in high school. He had been told it was a snap course. Maybe it was for Hispanics who made up most of the class. Why the hell were they learning a language they already knew?
“Why do you take English?”
“So why go on speaking Spanish up here north of the Rio Grande?”
“It's a whole tradition and culture, Michael. There are things you can't say or feel in English.”
She was up against him as she said it, her dark eyes imploring him to understand. The fold of her lower lip drove him crazy. He put his own lips on hers, gently, to show this wasn't like before. It would have been pretty soon if she hadn't freed herself and stepped back. Firm legs, great body, a great swish of coal black hair, the face of a doll.
“Rita, I've got a job.”
“But for how long?” He had told her of the declining fortunes of the Athanasians.
“Growing things runs in my family. You think there isn't a demand for gardeners all over the Chicago area?”
“My cousin works for a lawn-care outfit.”
“It's not the same thing! It's not mowing and trimming, for God's sake. Look at this place.”
“I can't see in the dark.”
He took her there in the daytime, surprising her by how much he knew about the seasonal timing of the flower beds, about the conifers and deciduous trees, about the grove of magnolias just behind the parking lot of the main building.
“Tulip trees,” she said.
“Magnolias. Honest-to-God magnolias. My grandfather was told this was too far north for them to survive. Look at them. You should see them in April.”
She was impressed by the grounds and Michael felt like he was showing her around the family estate.
“What kind of priests are they?”
“Athanasians.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Never heard of them. They're Catholic?”
Once Michael had called them the Athanoccidents and his father had belted him. Andrew was loyal as a serf. That day they ran into the guy with the white beard who had just come back. He stopped as they approached, so there was no avoiding him.
“You're Andrew's son.”
“That's right.”
The man's eyes were on Rita in a way Michael didn't like. And then he spoke to her in Spanish, rattling it off, and she responded in low, respectable tones. To him she was sassy and bossy, but to this stranger she was humble because he was a priest and spoke her language.
“Looks like you'll be taking instructions, Michael.”
“In Spanish?”
Rita answered him, in Spanish, and that was the end of that subject. Had she said something or had he just guessed?
“Who's the new manâFather Richard?” he asked his father.
A rustle of the
Sun-Times,
an angry noise. “The sonofabitch who thinks they ought to sell the grounds to Anderson the developer.”
“Sell the grounds?”
“You paid any attention you might know what's been going on around here.”
“Attention to what?”
“This place used to be full of kids, young plants. That's what seminary means, a seedbed. I took care of the real plants, the priests took care of them. One day they'd bloom and be priests themselves. Look at the place now.”
But for him the place had always meant the grounds, that's where the family pride was.
“You think we got a guarantee? You think it's gospel truth you'll live in this house with your wife and kids?”
He hadn't introduced Rita to his father yet. That might take a little preparation. His father had hired some Mexican immigrants to work on his crew, but they all left one night, following some crop or another, bringing a raging prejudice from his gentle father.
“And Santa Claus wants to sell to Anderson.” He meant the bearded priest.
Anderson was a label, not an individual. He stood for all the developers and contractors who had turned the Illinois countryside into acres of new homes, almost solid city from what had once had once been the Chicago limits to the Fox River.
“Father Richard?” Michael repeated.
“He used to be Nathaniel. I remember him when he was Nathaniel. I was your age. Caught him in the greenhouse with one of the girls worked in the kitchen.”
“No kidding. And he was a priest?”
“Not yet.”
Michael stored it away. Richard had emerged as the family enemy, come back to talk the old priests into selling their land to Anderson. Michael had never realized before how much he wanted to follow in his father's footsteps. The old man had taught him all he knew.
“You got the touch, son.”
“That's what all the girls say.”
His father shook his head, but he couldn't control the corners of his mouth.