Cat by Any Other Name (9781101597729) (10 page)

Chapter 18

I spotted the priest's white hair in the small vestibule of the church. He was attaching a notice to the announcement board with a thumbtack. He seemed to be moving limberly enough now, in contrast to the rather cramped way he'd held his body during our first meeting. Perhaps he was an arthritis sufferer.

When he turned to go back into the church, I was there, blocking his way.

“Good afternoon, Father Baer. Do you remember me?”

He hesitated, as if trying to decide whether my face was familiar to him. But judging from his own face, mine was not.

“I was here some time ago—to talk to you about my friend Barbara Roman.”

He nodded then, his face clouding over. “Yes, yes . . . And now the husband.”

“I understand you have taken the Romans' pet.”

He was startled that I knew of it. “Why, yes,” he said, a trace of hurt in his voice. “Is there something remarkable about that?”

“I wonder if I might see Swampy.”

“See him?”

“Yes. Just for a few minutes.”

“Very well. Of course. This way.”

I followed him through the church and out into a corridor. He opened a door with a key on his key ring, and then suddenly we were in the parish house. The door opened into the kitchen, and right there, on a large enameled table, yawning and blinking, was Swampy.

“He looks well,” I said, and went over to stroke him. “How did you end up with him, Father? You'll have to admit, it's pretty strange that Swampy should be living with you.”

I could tell the question ruffled him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that when I spoke to you about Barbara, you told me quite distinctly that you didn't know her husband Tim at all.”

“And I did not. I never met him, in fact.”

I waited for him to explain.

“One of my parishioners is the veterinarian Barbara and her husband used. It was he who told me about this tragedy. He said the cat needed a new home. And since mice are a constant worry to my housekeeper, we were happy to take the cat in. We've had many before.”

I took in his story. “May I ask the name of the vet?”

Father Baer's exasperation was beginning to show. “I see no harm in your knowing. But why do you ask all these questions?”

“Habit,” I said, still fondling Swampy. “Will you give me his name, please?”

“Rich Doyle,” he finally answered. “His office is just down the block—between First and Second Avenue.”

“And did Doctor Doyle know about Barbara's having received instruction from you?”

“No, of course not. . . . Well, not that I knew.”

“So then the whole sequence of events is just one big coincidence. Is that correct, Father? A woman with plans to become a Catholic jumps off a terrace. And then someone blows up her husband. Then the priest from whom she was receiving instruction adopts her pet, because a veterinarian who was the cat's veterinarian just happens to be one of that same priest's parishioners. It's a pretty amazing story.”

“I don't know what sort of story it is,” Baer said, moving toward the door. “I just know that Rich Doyle is my friend, and I was happy to do a favor for him.”

The priest's voice was growing more and more distant. Quite clearly, he wanted this interview to come to a close. It hadn't occurred to me before now that he might consider me dangerous.

“Do you remember,” I asked, “that discussion we had about her death? When you said it couldn't have been suicide, because of Barbara's strong faith at that time?”

“I don't think you're quoting me correctly.”

“Perhaps not exactly. But you
were
skeptical about suicide.”

“Yes. I was,” he admitted.

“Tell me again, Father, why Barbara didn't reveal her coming conversion to her husband.”

“I suppose she didn't want to upset him.”

“Why didn't she tell anyone else?”

“I don't know. Maybe she did.”

“Have you given instruction in Roman Catholicism to many people who wanted to convert?”

“Over the years, a great many.”

“Is it usual for them to keep their instruction secret?”

“I don't think so. Most of them are not secretive. They are proud and happy. Converts are usually very enthusiastic about their decision. They are more devout than other parishioners. Their faith was not inherited but freely chosen as a result of a lot of thought.”

Swampy didn't seem to care for our company anymore. He ambled off and started to inspect some kitchen cabinets.

I looked at Father Baer. I had never truly liked this priest. Or trusted him. Maybe because he talked in such a distracted manner. Or maybe because what he said about Barbara never seemed to have anything to do with her—as I knew her.

“You don't like my visits, do you, Father?” I asked.

He was too polite to answer. I continued. “You don't believe that I came here only to check up on the cat. Do you? Well, you're probably right. Maybe I also came for conversation, Father. Because she was my friend and I loved her . . . and she was murdered.”

My voice had grown too loud and passionate. I could see the priest wince.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I understand your grief.”

“No you don't, Father! Because you believe in a full life after death. Don't you?”

“Of course I do.”

“So my grief is not really comprehensible to you. At the spreading of her ashes, Father, I prayed that some part of her might survive somewhere in some form, and that that part of her would be at peace. But to tell you the truth, I don't believe any part of us survives bodily death. Barbara was wiped out. Exterminated. There is nothing left. She's gone forever.”

My whole body was trembling. I had to get ahold of myself. This visit to Swampy was getting out of hand.

“Would you like some water?” The priest asked.

“Holy water?” I quipped.

“No. From that sink.”

Swampy had returned from his expedition. He looked bored. I wondered if there really were mice in the parish house. I wondered if the parish house used cat-sitting services.

“You think,” Father Baer said wearily, “that I had some kind of special relationship with your friend. That I can tell you something that will be of great importance in understanding how or why she died. But I didn't know her well.”

“How can that be? You converted her.”

“No, I didn't. I gave her instruction. You are way off base. You seem to have an old-fashioned vision of me as some kind of St. Paul. But Barbara had already made her leap of faith before she contacted me. All I had to do was explain the history and purpose of the sacraments . . . the Church . . . the priesthood. We didn't have any deep discussions on God and Man. Do you understand?”

“I find that very difficult to believe.”

“Look. . . . She would ask specific questions about the Mass or the Pope or Thomas Aquinas or Canon Law. But we never really had an intimate philosophical discussion.” He paused and stared at Swampy. “Well, maybe once.”

“About what?”

“She quoted a saying to me from some obscure Catholic writer. She said it was that particular quote, which she had read as a young woman, which made her conversion inevitable years later.”

“What was the phrase?”

“I don't remember exactly. It was something like: ‘At any point in time, one half of all creation is being nailed to a cross.'”

I tried to digest it. What a depressing statement!

“Did you talk about it with her, Father?”

“Yes,” Father Baer admitted, “we talked about the inevitability of suffering. We also talked about the redemptive power of suffering.”

“You mean the one half of creation now on the cross redeems the other half?”

“Yes. And themselves.”

Father Baer reached out and pulled Swampy's left ear gently. It was the first overtly kindly gesture I had seen him make toward the cat. Swampy ignored him.

“My grandmother would have liked that saying,” I noted.

“Was she Catholic?”

“No. She was nothing, as far as I could tell. She never went to church in her life. At least, not that I remember.”

It was odd how once again the mere mention of Barbara had led to memories of my grandmother.

“But you said that the problem of suffering absorbed her?”

“Did I say that? Well, I didn't mean that specifically. My grandmother had a small leather Bible. Red leather. But she never took it out and never read it unless someone was sick. Animal or human or plant. If I was sick or a neighbor was sick, or a cat or a dog or a milk cow was sick, or a corn planting was infested—out would come that little red Bible.”

“Then she prayed for the sick, I take it—for healing.”

“No. All she did was read a psalm.”

“One psalm?”

“Yes. A single psalm.”

“Which one?”

“I don't remember.”

“It appears that we
both
have trouble with our memories,” Father Baer said, a tiny streak of mockery and self-mockery in his inflection.

“But I do remember a line or two. ‘He will not suffer thy foot to be moved.'”

“That's the 121st Psalm. It starts with ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.'”

“Yes. That's the one!” I agreed enthusiastically.

Suddenly I was struck by the bizarre nature of this conversation. Why on earth was I discussing the theology of suffering with this priest? Why was I afraid to ask hard questions?
Real
questions?

“Father Baer. Did Barbara ever discuss her sexual relationship with her husband? Or with other men?”

A rigid mask seemed to slip down over the priest's face. He pulled his hand away from Swampy. It had been entirely the wrong question, I realized, so I tried to shift gears.

“Well, forget that, Father. But do you remember her talking about any of her friends who worked with her in the herb garden?”

He didn't reply.

“Did she mention a Renee Lupo?”

He didn't answer.

“Or Ava Fabrikant? Or Sylvia? Did she mention me? Did she talk about me?”

He didn't answer.

“Are you sure you never saw Swampy, before the cat came here to live?”

That was my last question.

“You will have to excuse me now,” he said, showing me the door. “I hope you've been assured that the cat is being well cared for.”

I suppose it's a sure sign you're not wanted, when a priest hustles you out the door.

***

But it
was
all a coincidence—Dr. Doyle confirmed it all. He had been getting coffee at the deli when he noticed the ambulance and the police cars and the bomb squad trucks outside of the apartment building where Tim and Barbara had lived. The super told him about the terrible explosion and about the cat he was keeping in the basement. Doyle himself had taken Swampy away in his arms.

“Actually,” he said, as I sat across from him in his cool office, which smelled vaguely of animal hair and disinfectant, “if Ed hadn't wanted him, I would've kept Swampy myself—or found a good home for him. He's a great cat.” Obviously “Ed” was Father Baer.

“Yes,” I agreed, “he is a wonderful animal. I think he lies about his royal origins, but he's wonderful nonetheless.”

Laughing with delight at my description of Swampy, Richard Doyle—or “Rich,” as the priest has called him—broke the pencil he'd been holding. That just made him laugh harder. His joy in living was apparent. I couldn't help thinking that he must be one of the all-time good guys—those men over sixty who retain the very best of childhood until they die. It seemed so right that he should make his living by healing helpless animals.

But then a somber mask slipped down over his face. “It's really very sad, isn't it?” he said. “First Barb, and then that awful murder of her husband. The whole family's gone now.”

“Did you know Tim Roman, too?” I asked.

“No. Well, I think I might have met him once, years ago. But Barbara was more like a friend than a client. She and Swampy. It's so strange to remember that I saw them both only a day before she died.”

“You did? You mean she brought Swampy in?”

“Yes. She hadn't made an appointment. They just came in and waited until I had some time.”

“And what was the matter with him?”

“I couldn't really tell. He was very agitated, just acting downright manic.”

“It's very strange to imagine Swampy manic.”

“Yeah, it is. But it's true. He was pacing and making strange sounds and climbing the walls.”

“So what did you do?”

“I asked Barb if she'd changed his food recently. Or if he could've eaten part of a plant—they crave chlorophyll sometimes, you know. I even told her that maybe he was catching some of her allergies, since they were so close. But we couldn't come up with anything. I finally gave her a tranquilizer for him.”

“What was that about allergies? I didn't know Barbara had any.”

“She had a few of them. She was allergic to strawberries, I think, and chocolate and nuts.”

“And you think it's possible that Swampy caught—”

“Oh, no. Of course not. I was joking. I don't know what upset him that day, but she called me in the morning and said he was back to his old self.”

As I left Dr. Doyle's office and headed downtown, my eye took in the little restaurant—the Healthy Bagel—where I'd gone on that first day of tracing Barbara's neighborhood path. Unfortunately, I had made precious little progress since then.

I checked off some of the things I'd accomplished: slept with a friend's widower; manipulated a New York City policeman and probably compromised him in his professional life; alienated Basillio; behaved rudely to a priest, all but calling him a liar. And there was more—all of it embarrassing. Once again, my deep involvement in the case had kept me from following standard operating procedures. Basillio had said as much, before he'd accused me of being a “loon.”