The Prudence of the Flesh (27 page)

Amos Cadbury had come to dinner at the rectory the night before and had praised Marie's cooking to the skies. Marie wasn't above a little giggling herself. It was only later, in the study, that they had reviewed recent events.

Amos, like Father Dowling, was unhappy with the consequences of the ruse young Thomas Barrett had wrought. “I don't like being the Grand Inquisitor, Father, but there are some deeds that cry out to heaven for punishment. The way in which wayward priests were treated simply defies understanding. Complaints were brought, and a man was transferred to another parish, where he repeated his offense. And this went on and on,
until it was decided to send him off for psychological counseling. Psychological counseling! As if something other than a grievous sin had been committed. Such men should have been dismissed from the priesthood!”

“You're preaching to the choir, Amos.”

“It has been one of the heaviest professional crosses I have had to bear to see the way in which alleged psychological experts make mincemeat out of the notion that we are responsible for our deeds. But for the Church to treat bad priests as if they simply need some sort of mental tinkering and then all would be well! Sometimes I think I have lived too long.”

“And now we hear of zero tolerance by bishops. As if they haven't been a large part of the problem.”

“Cardinal Law.”

“Yes. Bishops inherited problems when they took over a diocese and then fell into the same dodging practice.”

“One would expect the churches to empty.”

“Would one?”

Amos's cigar was eight inches long and had acquired an ash of almost an inch. He flicked it into the ashtray. “No, of course not.”

“Religion is for sinners, after all.”

“How could a man go on functioning as a priest when all the time . . .”

Father Dowling nodded. It was the most horrifying aspect of this scandal. A man who was engaged in the most reprehensible practices went on saying Mass, preaching, hearing confessions. The horror was not diminished by realizing how small the number of such priests was compared to the priesthood as a whole. They had brought down opprobrium on their innocent brothers. Who could blame the media for salivating at such evidence of duplicity?

“Can you imagine the conversation Gregory Barrett had with his son?” Amos asked.

“I'll be seeing him tomorrow.”

“The son?”

“No. Gregory.”

“I know it is unjust, Father Dowling, but even despite the way things have turned out, I cannot like the man. After all, he left the priesthood.”

Now, in that same study, Phil was saying, “Cy wanted Jacuzzi to bring some kind of charges against that son of Barrett's. If Quirk hadn't made the same demand, maybe Cy would have. I wouldn't blame him.”

“Well, the son's plan certainly worked. So what is Agnes Lamb's theory?”

“Remember this is all speculation. Wild speculation.”

“But Agnes Lamb is a good officer.”

“The best. Her attention has turned to the other son, Madeline Murphy's undoubted son. A kid named Marvin.”

Agnes Lamb had returned to the Murphy house after the excitement of Tetzel's story and its subsequent retraction. Given the way Marvin lived, she was fairly sure he would be at home, and so he was, once more on the back patio, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and open-toed sandals. He seemed to be growing a beard.

“Do you read the papers?” she asked, pulling up an aluminum chair.

“Just the
Wall Street Journal
and
Financial Times
.”

Agnes expressed the surprise she felt.

“I'm into investments,” Marvin explained. “Do you realize the number of people who make money off other people's work? What is stock but a lottery ticket taken on the performance of a company? You bet, others bet, the price of the stock rises, and then you pull out with your winnings and begin over again. It could give usury a good name.”

“You're against capitalism?”

“I'm all for it. I won't tell you how much I've made in the past week alone. And I do it all on the computer, where you can get a
broker who doesn't charge an arm and a leg. That's what I'd like to be, eventually, a broker. He bets on the betters, only he can't lose. He's like the owner of the casino.”

“I meant the local papers.”

“Their financial news is more than a day old when they print it.”

“I wondered if you had read the story about the DNA tests.”

Marvin grinned slyly. “Mom told me. That's why you wanted to know about my toothbrush, isn't it?”

“Well, I wasn't checking on dental hygiene.”

“What a stunt. Of course, he couldn't get away with it, but that was the idea, wasn't it? Make a farce of the whole business. I'd like to meet him.” Marvin was spanking his leg with a rolled-up
Wall Street Journal.
“You know what I was imagining? We were brothers.”

“That's the way it looked.”

“Half brothers.”

“You took it all a lot more calmly than he did.”

“How do you mean?”

“He went about it an odd way, but he was trying to save his father's name. Why didn't you feel that way about your mother?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Talk's cheap.”

“Look, her main problem was Gloria Daley and Bunting. All these years and she never remembered any of that stuff until Gloria put the idea in her head. Bunting was even worse. At least Gloria accepted my mother's decision to let it drop, but he was going to write about it anyway. Well, he won't write about it now.”

“His death solved a problem.”

“Not the one Pasquali had. Imagine them fighting over Gloria.”

“You think that's the explanation.”

“Of what?”

“Bunting's death.”

“My explanation? You're an officer of the law. Who brought charges against Pasquali, for crying out loud? I don't care if he goes free or not, now that Bunting's no longer around to harass my mother.”

“Do you sit around here like this every day?”

“I'm an investor.” He gave her a boyish smile. “I'm working even when I'm sitting in the sun. Somewhere out in virtual space my investments are rising or falling, usually rising. If they fall, I get out.”

“How do you get around? Got a car?”

“It's in the garage.”

“What is it, a Rolls-Royce?”

“Ha. It's one of the original Beetles. And I mean Volkswagen.”

“Come on.”

“It's got hundreds of thousands of miles on it and still runs like a watch. Well, maybe like a washing machine.”

“Can I see it?”

“I thought you were working.”

“My retirement fund is working for me. Stocks rise and fall, but I never sell. Over the long run . . .”

“Sure, sure. Put a hundred dollars in the bank when you're twelve and forget it, and when you're old you'll be rich on compound interest.”

He had swung his legs off the table and got up. Agnes followed him to the garage.

“I'll back it out. You can't see much in there,” he said.

He lifted the garage door and got into the car. There was a terrible racket as it started, and then it settled down and began to roll out of the garage. Once it had been blue; now it was just faded and dented, with a lot of rust. He left it running when he got out and stood looking at it with admiration.

“Not much of a trunk,” she commented.

“Oh, it's not in back. That's where the motor is.” He went to the front of the car, reached under the hood, and lifted it, producing an unoiled squeaking noise that went through Agnes like a knife.

“Come on, take a look,” he invited.

“It's still not much of a trunk.”

“Not big enough to fit Ned Bunting into?”

Later, when she told Cy about it, she described the look in his eyes when he said that: cold, distant, menacing, despite the smile.

“Was the trunk big enough?”

“I doubt it.”

“He's just playing games.”

“I don't think Marvin plays games.” And she quoted Marvin on how convenient it was for his mother, and for him, too, that Ned Bunting could not publish his story about Madeline.

“Why does that matter?” Cy asked.

“What do you mean?”

“The story came out in Tetzel's big scoop.”

“And then was shot down.”

When Gregory Barrett came to the rectory again as arranged, Marie was somewhat less arctic in her manner. He was dressed in jeans, a cable-knit sweater over a checkered shirt, and loafers with a high shine.

“My working clothes. No classes today,” he said to Roger Dowling in the study.

“How many classes do you teach?”

“Just two, six hours a week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

“But there is also your program.”

“Once a week.”

Gregory looked contrite. “Compared to your schedule, I know that must seem ludicrous.”

“But you have to prepare for classes, read papers, meet with students. Isn't that all part of it?”

“It is.”

“And you have to write your program as well as broadcast it. I should think that your labors compare pretty well with anyone's.”

“The great danger of being with young people is that you begin to think you're one of them. Tommy ridicules this outfit.”

“The jeans?”

“Denim. Do you know the origin of that?
De Nimes.
That's where the cloth was first made. Just a little trivia. Teaching and broadcasting makes such things cling to my mind.”

They seemed to be avoiding what Greg had come to talk about. Finally, Roger Dowling asked him how it had gone with his son when they discussed the ruse he had concocted.

“I'm afraid he was pretty proud of himself,” Greg said.

“Well, in any case it was discovered to be a joke.”

“Some joke. Not discovered soon enough to prevent that journalist from making a fool of himself.”

“Tetzel? He's had years of practice.”

“Roger, the events of the past weeks have made me wonder if I know the first thing about people. You talked with Madeline Murphy?”

“I did.”

“Am I wrong to think that that had something to do with her withdrawing the charges?”

“Oh, I wouldn't go that far. I told her what I told you. Paternity can be established, so it was no longer her word against yours.”

“And she changed her word.”

“Post hoc ergo propter hoc?”

Gregory smiled with delight. “I suppose we could sit here and trade such phrases by the hour.”

“
Nemo dat quod non got
. That was Equivocal's variation, wasn't it?”

“What was the
mater studiorum
again?”

“
Repetitio.
We'd better not get started.”

“I do miss all that, Roger. Not that it has a lot to do with the priesthood as such, but those years of study marked me.”

“That was the idea.”

“Nancy and I used to talk about the past, at first. But since Tommy came along . . .”

“I suppose it would sound odd to him.”

“My father the priest.”

Roger Dowling said nothing. When Gregory spoke again, he avoided Roger's eyes. “I think you know what was the worst thing about what Tommy did.”

Again Roger Dowling waited. Gregory did look at him now, and there was anguish in his eyes. “He thought I was guilty, Roger.”

“Did he say that?”

“He didn't have to. What he did, and the reason he gave for it, said it all. First proof positive, then the revelation of the hoax, and I'm off the hook.”

“Well, you're not exactly without resources, Greg. Why not have a real test run on you and Marvin Murphy?”

“What would be the point of that?”

“I'm just an old celibate and don't understand these things—father, son—but if I had a son who thought I was guilty of such a charge, I think I would want to answer in kind.”