Boystown 7: Bloodlines (5 page)

“Well? I wouldn’t say
well
. I mean, our kids know each other. She’s a good neighbor.” Madeline was going to need more help than someone saying she’s a good neighbor.

“And her husband? Was he a good neighbor?”

“I guess. He was…” She hesitated. I could almost hear her thinking that she’d gotten in over her head.

“He was what?”

“Sneaky. He was always coming and going at strange hours. Not that that means anything. It was just…different.”

“Do you know anything about the woman he was having an affair with?”

“I thought I just had to say that Madeline was nice.” Somehow her voice managed to sound even younger.

“So you do know who Wes was having an affair with?”

“No. I don’t. I mean, I might. I’m not sure. I think I saw her. Once. I have an image of him with a very tall, very thin, dark-haired woman. But I can’t really remember when I saw them together.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t Madeline. Doesn’t she have dark hair?”

“Yes, I know her hair is dark. Underneath. She always dyes it blond. Besides, she’s short and a little, well, chubby around the hips. This woman was rail thin.” Then she added, “My husband is going to be so mad at me.”

“Why is that?”

“This has been really hard on him.”

“Has it?” I could see how it was hard on Madeline. How it was hard on her kids. How it was hard on her family. And especially how it was hard on Wes. But I didn’t exactly see how it was hard on their insurance agent. “Your husband sold them a policy?”

“He feels bad about the things he had to say. They were true. But he felt bad anyway.”

“I wasn’t at the trial.”

“Oh, God. They made it look all wrong. Madeline and Wes just wanted to protect their children. That’s why people buy insurance, isn’t it?”

I had no idea why people bought insurance. I had none. Still, I made a reassuring sound, “Mmhhmm.”

“Anyway, I’m hoping that I can make up for what he said. At least a little.”

“But your husband’s mad about that?”

“He just wants it to be over.”

“Did Madeline ever mention someone named Emily Fante?”

“Who’s that?”

“No one important. So, Wes Berkson came and went at odd hours. Can you tell me more than that?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking, exactly.”

Neither did I. I was fishing. “You heard a noise late at night and looked out the window and saw Berkson coming home late. Is that the kind of thing you mean?”

“Sometimes late at night, sometimes in the middle of the day. It never made any sense.”

“He couldn’t have gotten some funky, off-hours job?”

“He didn’t dress for any kind of job I’ve ever heard of.”

“How did he dress?”

“Wrong usually. He’d wear a windbreaker in the middle of winter and a sweater in the middle of summer. He was always in jeans and sneakers. But not nice jeans, dirty jeans.”

“And not nice sneakers either?”

“No. The canvas kind.”

What did that mean?
I wondered. Did it mean anything? It sounded like he didn’t have any money. That went just fine with his not having a job, but not so well with his being married to a dentist. His wife must have given him money. But when she did, he didn’t spend it on clothes. So what did he do with it? And he seemed impervious to the weather. Or at least unaware of it.

“Is that all? How was he with the kids?”

“Erratic. Sometimes he was the best dad ever and then other times he didn’t seem to want anything to do with them.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. I was too distracted by something that had occurred to me. There may have been another woman, but there was also a lot more to this and I wasn’t sure yet exactly what that was. Before I hung up I mentioned that I might like to talk to her again. In her little girl voice she said she’d better not. I said I understood and crossed my fingers that I hadn’t just managed to discourage one of the few people willing to talk on Madeline’s behalf.

I pulled out my portable typewriter and spent an hour typing up my notes. I was out of the habit of writing reports. For my investigation into Operation Tea and Crumpets I was prohibited from writing them, so my reports for the Levine-Berkson case would be the first I’d done in almost a year and a half. I debated with myself about how much information I should include about my interview with Melody Oddy, since I’d already discussed it with Owen, but then I remembered that he dealt with hundreds of details every day, he might need to look at the report to remember what he already knew. I tried to put down everything I could think of about that interview and the two short ones I’d conducted over the phone. By the time I was done I had three double-spaced pages. As things became clearer I’d type them up so they were less random and made more sense.

It was almost lunchtime, so I decided to call Lana Shepherd and arrange to meet her. As Madeline’s best friend she was likely to have as much information as her sister, possibly more. I expected the interview to be rather long. When I called I got an answering machine.

“Hi, this is Nick Nowak. I’m working on your friend Madeline’s case. I’d like to meet with you and ask a few questions.” I left her my office number and said I hoped to hear from her soon.
 

I’d hung up and begun to think about where I wanted to go for lunch when there was a knock on my door. I’d never had my name put on the door so it was always a little disconcerting when someone arrived that way. It meant they’d had to find the street address, figure out that the unmarked door downstairs led somewhere, climb the stairs, glance at the two other doors on the second floor, both of which featured the names of their occupants, and then take a chance on the blank door.

Despite the fact that it could be anyone on the other side, including some lawless nutcase with a gun, I yelled, “Come in.”
 

The door opened a bit tentatively and there was Father Joseph Biernacki. He wore civilian clothes—jeans and a button down shirt with a windbreaker—rather than the traditional black suit and white collar people still expected from a priest. His hair was red-ish brown and he’d let it grow out a bit; he smiled at me, showing his broken tooth, making his fair skin crinkle around the eyes. His nose, cheeks, neck, and what I could see of his chest through his open collar, were all spattered with freckles. Freckles that made me think of Jackson Pollack paintings, of constellations and star maps, of unknown geographies I wanted to explore.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“You gave me your card.”

“Oh. Okay. Why are you here?”

“It’s lunchtime.” He blushed and I watched the redness spread across his cheeks, and neck, and chest.

“You came by to have lunch with me? You know my phone number is on that card, too.”

“I was afraid you’d say no.” He was a smart guy, I probably would have. I liked him. I just didn’t like complicated. And what could be more complicated than a priest?

“All right. So let’s have lunch.”

I stood up, grabbed my cigarettes, pulled my overcoat off the back of my chair and slipped it on. I took the few steps to the door, but he was blocking the way. I was a few inches away from him, close enough to smell the lavender soap he’d showered with, when he said, “There’s something I should tell you.”

“What is that?”

“I’ve left the church. Or rather, I’m leaving the church. They’ve asked that I consider my decision for six months, that I pray—”

I leaned forward and kissed him gently, carefully, as though he were a wild animal who might bolt at any sudden movement. And then, after a long moment, he did bolt. He rested a hand on my chest and eased me back. “That isn’t why I came.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is. I don’t know. I hoped we’d talk.”

“You don’t have to leave the priesthood to talk to me, you know.”

“I know that. Maybe I don’t mean only talk. But you need to be careful with me. Slow.”

I had no idea if I could do that, no idea if I even wanted to.
 

Chapter Four

A cold drizzle fell as we walked down Clark to El Jardin, and I squeezed under an umbrella with Joseph. There were closer places to eat, but, regardless of how this conversation went, I felt like I was going to need a drink and a frozen margarita sounded appealing. A sudden burst of white adobe announced that El Jardin occupied the first floor of a three-story brick building. A large patio—
jardin
is probably garden in Spanish after all—ran along the side of the building. It was empty and wet.

Inside, Joseph and I were situated at a small table against the wall. Without asking if he wanted one, I ordered us two frozen margaritas with salt. A busboy brought a plastic bowl of chips and I nibbled while I stared at Joseph. He hadn’t said much of anything on the walk down. Other than asking me how I was, to which I was able to honestly reply, “Good. Very good.”

“I feel like I have something to do with your decision,” I said when the margaritas arrived. “Or am I flattering myself.”

“When you and I broke into the rectory. I realized afterward that I probably wanted to get caught. I wanted to be kicked out.”

“So, I don’t have much to do with it?”

He smiled. “You do, I suppose. You’re a very tempting guy.”

“I don’t feel like a tempting guy,” I said, because I didn’t. I knew guys liked me but I wasn’t always sure why. Lately, I was thin and disheveled, with dark brown hair that needed trimming, an unremarkable face that needed shaving, and hazel-colored eyes that could use a good dose of Visine.
 

“That’s probably part of your appeal. You have the confidence to just be you.” A twinkle lit up his face. “Or maybe it’s that you look like you rolled about of bed and might roll back in at any moment.”

He was being more flirtatious than I wanted him to be at the beginning of the meal. If he kept it up, I’d be grabbing him and pulling him to the ground, which would get us thrown out of the restaurant and possibly into jail. I changed the subject. “Did you like being a priest?”

“Most of the time, yes. A lot, actually.”

“Have you considered becoming Episcopalian? I hear it’s almost the same thing.”

“I think my central problem is a problem wherever I go.”

Off the top of my head, I couldn’t think of any churches that equated sucking cock with being Christ-like. “You’re probably right. You said you’ll be considering your decision for six months. What does that entail?”

“Prayer. Counseling. Meditation.”

“I assume you’ve had sex with men before. Have you ever felt anything stronger than lust?”

“Actually, I haven’t had sex with a man. I
have
had feelings stronger than lust, though.”

I took a long gulp of margarita. This wasn’t making sense. “How old are you?”

“Nearly thirty.”

“Have you ever had sex with a woman?”

“No. I was a very devout teenager, altar boy, bible study, Catholic boys’ school, followed by seminary and the priesthood.” There must have been a dubious look on my face because he added, “I know that things happen in boys’ school and seminary, I just managed to avoid them. They frightened me. Still do, I suppose.”

“So then how can you make a decision if you’ve never tried anything? I mean, it would be awful to leave the priesthood and find out later you don’t like sucking cock.”

Unfortunately, the waiter chose that moment to return for our order. There was a devilish smirk on Joseph’s face as he looked down at his menu. I wondered how he did that, how he seemed devilish when he had no firsthand knowledge of sin. I wondered if he was telling me the complete truth. He ordered a chilé relleno and I had a combination lunch, which included an enchilada, a taco and a tostada.
 

When the waiter left, I stared at Joseph, waiting for him to answer my question. It didn’t seem wise to repeat it. Finally, he started, “It’s not like ice cream. You don’t have to try every single kind to decide which is your favorite. I’m not worried about whether I’ll like sucking cock. If I love someone I’m sure I’ll like it just fine.”

“It’s not always about love,” I pointed out. “Sometimes it’s about sex.”

“What did Oscar Wilde say about sex? ‘Everything is about sex, except sex which is about power.’ I may be paraphrasing.”

“I think you may be wandering off topic,” I said as I finished my drink. I hoped the waiter would come back soon and offer me another.

“All sex is about love in some way. Even if it’s only love of mankind.”

“You’re not afraid of finding out you and mankind might just be friends?”

“No. I love mankind.”

We fell into staring at each other until I was completely uncomfortable.
 

“You said I have to be careful with you. What did that mean?”

“I don’t know. If I knew I wouldn’t have needed to say it.”

I had the feeling I should get up and leave him there. This wasn’t going to end well and I knew it. But then I thought, what relationship does end well? Things didn’t end well with Daniel—any of the times it ended—and things certainly didn’t end well with Harker. I tried to think of a relationship that had ended well and I couldn’t. Each time I thought I had, my relationship with Brian for instance, I had to be honest with myself and admit that the relationship hadn’t really ended at all. The only relationships I could think of that had truly ended well were the ones where I hadn’t bothered to ask for a name.

“This conversation is far too serious,” Joseph said out of the blue. “Tell me how you are. Tell me you’re happy and that things are good with you.”

“I’m working a lot. And I’m liking that.”

“What are you working on?”

“I can’t discuss my work. My clients expect a certain amount of discretion.”

“Really? You talked to me freely about your work at St. Boniface.”

“That was different. I was interviewing you, for one thing. And I needed your help.”

“Can’t you deputize me or something? I’m still a priest. We do secrets pretty well, you know.”

“If I need you, I’ll let you know.”

In point of fact, Joseph knew things about me that could send me to prison for a very long time. It wasn’t a question of trust. I trusted him. Gossiping about my clients was a bad idea though. I could however gossip about myself, so I told him about my living arrangement and my un-official, half-assed parenting of Terry Winkler.