It Burns a Lovely Light (29 page)

"They want to focus on the positive changes." She
flipped through another stack. "Like all the new shops downtown, or the mayor's new film commission, or all the buildings going up..." Her voice drifted off. "You don't click anymore."

"What?"

"You haven't clicked your tongue since you came home from the hospital."

Shrugging, he held up a picture taken through a broken window of Paddy's mill during the downsizing. Although more than half of the
massive building was empty, one could still see shiny bright sparks coming from the far end of the mill.

"This one is positive," he said. "Even though
the mill is sad, the light makes me feel better."

She took the picture. "You're right. The light makes it all seem...hopeful."

"It reminds me of that poem you tried to change, about
the lovely light. I remember because you got detention for arguing with the nuns. That was so cool."

She chuckled. "I don't know where I found the nerve."

"I know." The severity of William's voice startled
her. "You found the nerve because you're brave and daring. You jumped off the high dive. You fought nuns. And you stayed at Bridge Manor with me, instead of wandering free and taking pictures of Bigouden and exotic crannies...and all
that."

"That was just a silly dream, kiddo."

"Why did you stop dreaming it?"

"I grew up." Pushing aside the photos, she crawled in beside William and put her head on his pillow. "There's not a lot of
room for wandering free in real life. Besides, I think what I was chasing was more of a feeling."

"What kind of feeling?"

"You know that innocent, hopeful feeling that anything
is possible." She smiled. "The thrill of wondering where the path would lead me next."

"So after you finished being young, your dream went away?"

"Yup." She snapped her fingers. "Disappeared
into thin air."

William frowned. "That would make me sad if I believed you."

"The Post-Gazette might use some of Farley's
work," said Claire, joining Veda Marie on the picnic table.

"It's about time," said Veda Marie, lighting a cigarette. "And don't make that face at me, Claire Sullivan. I'm
practically down to four a day."

"Did I say anything?" Claire leaned back on the table. "Did I say one word?"

"You didn't have to. That sour puss on your face says it all."

"I just don't understand why you didn't start your chemotherapy right away. This is your
health
we're talking about."

"Putting it off for a month or so isn't going to kill me."

Claire swallowed, blinking back tears. "That's not funny."

"I'm sorry, lovey." She hugged Claire and wiped her tears. "Remember, mum's the word until William gets some of his strength back. That boy of ours is sharper than most doctors - he'll know
something is up when my treatments start."

"All right, but then you promise to be a good patient and do everything the doctors tell you to do."

Veda Marie raised her right hand. "I swear on my bum
jiggle machine."

Henry set the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and
stepped across the hall to check on William. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark room. William was lying in his hospital bed, facing the wall.

"Hey, pal."

"Hi."

"It's awfully gloomy in here. Want me to turn on some lights?"

"I just turned them off; I'm trying to take a nap."

"Sorry. Where is everyone?"

William rolled over to face Henry. "Resa went to talk
to Father Ryan about why Eileen's turning into such a monster."

"She said that?"

"No. I heard Veda Marie telling Mr. Winston."

Henry smiled. "Where are they?"

William gave an exasperated sigh and recited in a monotone voice. "They're having quiet time in Mr. Winston's room. Farley is dropping off pictures at the newspaper office. Everybody is pretending to do
their own thing - even though somebody shows up
every single hour
just to say 'hi.'" He glowered at Henry. "You must be my eleven-o-clock."

"Busted."

"What did Veda Marie tell you?"

"That you've had it up to here with everyone checking on you like you're a baby, and not the most educated person in this house."

"
And
?"

"And you had a good physical therapy session yesterday so it's no wonder you're a little run down."

William raised his eyebrows Veda Marie-style.

Henry shook the thermometer. "And... you're not happy
Farley made you a doctor's appointment for tomorrow, because you're fine and
you should know.
Open."

He tucked the thermometer under William's tongue.

"Don't be mad, pal. It's just because we love you."

"I love you too," mumbled William.

Henry placed the thermometer under the lamp.

"No fever. In fact, you're body temperature is lower
than usual."

"See?" said William. "All I need is some sleep, and I can't sleep with everybody fussing and waking me up..."

"Point taken, pal. I'll put up a sign. How much time do
you need?"

William wiped his eyes as he listened to Henry unpack groceries. He felt terrible about lying, but there wasn't any other way. He had recognized the symptoms when he woke up this morning; his body was going into
Septic Shock.

His heart rate had already begun to slow down. His body temperature was dropping, but his family was trained to be on the lookout for fever - not the other way around. Without immediate treatment, his blood flow
would quickly slow to the point that it couldn't feed his lungs, his liver, his heart...everything would shut down. And he welcomed it; he was grateful for this sudden solution.

William had known for some time that his frail body would
not survive its brutal beating. Having sadly accepted the inevitable, his main concern was for his loving family. Now, they would not have to watch him suffer. Given his compromised immune system, he expected his organs to
shut-down within a matter of hours. As for the pain, he was already managing it with morphine pills he'd stockpiled...just in case.

And so he claimed 'tired.' And waited.

"How is he?" Farley dropped her portfolio on the table and gave Henry a kiss.

"Ornery. No fever, though. He said he just needs some sleep - which is difficult with us checking on him left and right. I promised
we wouldn't bother him until three-o-clock."

Henry pointed to a note on the blackboard:

At the request of William James,

PLEASE BE QUIET

DO NOT WAKE HIM UNTIL 3:00 PM.

At which time he will return to his pleasant self.

Thank you very much.

"I'm still not cancelling his doctor's appointment," Farley murmured, as Henry pressed himself against her and
kissed her neck. "I don't care how mad he gets."

"That's my girl."

"Where is everyone?" she whispered.

"Nap, quiet time, church and errands." He slid his
hands down her body. "What do you say we go upstairs and have our own quiet time?"

Farley pulled away, her cheeks flushed. "First, I need to show you something."

Unzipping her portfolio, she sifted through photos of various sizes. Finally, she handed Henry a photograph of snow-capped mountains. In the forefront stood a group of evergreens weighed down with snow.

"Remind you of anything?"

He studied the photo, then shook his head. "You got me."

"The cover of
The Hobbit
. It came to me as the image appeared in the developing tray. And that's when I remembered where I
last saw the book."

Henry roused Veda Marie to watch William while Farley called St. Xavier's. She confirmed Ryan would be hearing confession until noon. She and Henry would have just enough time to get in and out of Ryan's house without
being seen.

"What the hell?" whispered Farley.

Henry stretched the collar of his shirt to cover his nose.
"And what is that disgusting smell?"

Ryan's usually spotless cottage was a mess. Dirty dishes littered the countertops. Trash overflowed onto the kitchen floor and a sharp, sour odor permeated the entire house.

Henry gagged.

"You'd better wait outside," said Farley, heading straight to Ryan's study. "I'll just be a minute."

She slid open the top drawer to Ryan's desk.

I never got what all the fuss was about, buying old, mildew-ridden books.

She was careful as she reached inside, expecting to hit something sharp. All she pulled out was a half-eaten bag of miniature snickers
and a handful of candy bar wrappers.

Cost me an arm and a leg, if you want to know the truth.

Except for more trash, the next drawer was empty.

Of course, Mrs. Sullivan's brother comes in the store now
and then.

She found them in the deep bottom drawer. Six books, each covered with a thick plastic protector. Picking one up, she ran her finger across the small inkblot where the name 'Dodgeson' had been misspelled.

Farley clutched the box as Henry drove up Overlook Trail.

"Here Claire's out hawking her jewelry," she fumed, "
barely
stopping short of committing a crime to keep Bridge
Manor, while her brother - a
priest
, mind you - is
stealing
from her! He probably stuffed a book down his robe every time he came to dinner. And on top of all that, he blamed September!"

"You're going to take these back right now," said Claire, re-packing the box.

"No," said Farley. "You can't let him get away with this."

"Ryan is not getting away with anything, hon. The poor
man is becoming more and more wretched with each passing day."

Henry pulled a book from the box. "At least keep
The Hobbit
."

Claire screwed up her mouth. "I don't want it. Now
hurry; put them back where you found them."

"Too late," said Farley, checking the clock. "Confession's over."

"You still have time. Resa and Eileen are meeting Ryan
in his office after confession."

"To talk about Eileen's stealing," murmured Farley, holding the door for Henry. "Oh, the irony."

"I want to talk to Father alone, first," said Resa as they entered the reception room. "Do you mind waiting in here?"

Eileen shrugged. She couldn't give a rat's ass.

Since returning from her grandmother's, Eileen had begun to
exhibit more and more disturbing behavior. The last straw was earlier that morning; Resa found her lighting the spray from a can of Veda Marie's hairspray - using an engraved lighter she'd lifted from Mr. Winston.

"Here's something to munch on while you wait." Resa tossed her an apple. "Be good."

"
You
be good," she mumbled, pulling a book of matches from her sock.

Ryan watched as Resa paced the length of his office, droning on and on and on. When her back was turned he removed a medicine bottle from his pocket and tossed two pills in his mouth. He had found the expired
sedatives in Claire's pantry - prescribed years ago for William. He shook the bottle. Damn. Only a few left.

Poor baby. Then what will you do, darling?

The next time Resa's back was turned, he popped the
remaining pills in his mouth. He swallowed them down with a gulp of whiskey he had discreetly hidden in his coffee mug.

Eileen let the match burn down and dared herself not to flinch from the pain. As her fingers began to blister, it occurred to her that
Resa would notice the burns. She stuffed the matches back in her sock and wandered around the room examining framed portraits of old priests. Through the window she watched a man high on a scaffolding, power washing the bell in the
big tower.

Dropping the apple core over the tower's edge, Eileen enjoyed the 'splat' as it hit the cobblestone below. She saw Henry and Farley walk up Father Ryan's driveway. Farley's lips flapped away; probably talking
about something boring like what movie to watch or what to eat for dinner. Eileen lit two matches at the same time and dragged them along the sawdust covered wooden floor. A thin trail of smoke emerged and the sawdust caught fire
- snapping, popping, and flickering like fireflies.

Crossing the lawn to his cottage, Ryan had an overwhelming sense that he was being watched. He glanced to his left, then right. He spun
around. Nothing but a few shoppers in the square. He gave them what he hoped was a pastoral nod. Paranoia, he decided. Probably from the pills. Or the alcohol. Or the pills mixed with alcohol. He covered his mouth and giggled. His personal confession would be a doozy this week.

Confession. Ryan laughed out loud. Mrs. Piotrowski's confession had been a scream! The woman had actually tried to negotiate a smaller penance, then launched into a diatribe about how insufferable things
were these days.

"Nothing surprises me anymore, Father," she had said, lips mashed against the confessional screen. "What with the half-naked, gyrating pelvises all over the television. Not to mention that
Shirley MacLaine. I mean,
really
; playing a shameless floozy at her age."

"He's coming." Henry's voice was muffled by the layers of fabric softener sheets wound around his mouth and nose. "He's
taking an awfully circuitous route. We'll have to go out the back."

Farley dropped the books in the bottom drawer and hurried through the living room.

She slowed halfway across. "Why are we sneaking around
like a couple of criminals? We're not the ones in the wrong, here."

Henry separated the fabric softener sheets to make room for his lips. "Color me silly, but mightn't 'breaking and entering' fall under
the category of 'wrong?'"