The Thieves of Heaven (10 page)

“Let’s see what happens.” Varrisa put her man-sized hand on his arm. “You’re no good to her if you’re not one hundred percent.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ve ever been one hundred percent for her.”

“Now would be a good time to start,” Nurse Schrier said matter-of-factly. She picked up Mary’s chart and quietly made some notations. “You can’t blame yourself for her condition. I’ve seen this too many times. Loved ones look for a reason for these tragic situations, and when they can’t find anything logical, they turn to the illogical and blame themselves.”

The large nurse knew too well that the immediate family needed as much support as the patient. She had spoken at length to Mary about Michael. Both women shared the same concern; he needed a friend, a confidant, someone other than his wife with whom he could share his thoughts and, more important, share his grief. With Mary’s permission, the nurse had made the call an hour ago.

Silently, the door swung open. Standing there, taking up the entire doorway, was Busch.

Busch was shooting a lone game of pool on his favorite table, the green felt stinking of whiskey and practically worn through to the underlying slate. He sank almost everything he touched. One of the grimiest bars in North America, the Old Stand dated back to the fifties. Busch’s father used to hang here shooting on this very same table. The place was alive at eleven thirty on a Wednesday night: a few blue-collar regulars arguing the pros and cons of unions and what they had done to their lives, while the jacket-and-tie bunch scoped the door for the girl of their dreams to walk in.

“Another drink?” Busch asked.

Michael, impassively throwing darts, didn’t answer; he hadn’t answered much lately. Busch waved to the bartender for another round. He had spent the car ride over and the last half hour trying to crack through, to get Michael to talk. He had seen firsthand what pressure did to cops, to criminals, to people in pain. They either exploded, hurting others, or shut down, killing themselves. But he knew, too, that until a person was willing to accept help, there was not much he could do.

“Life sometimes just sucks out loud,” Michael finally said.

Busch lined up and sunk the two ball, clearing the table. “She’ll pull through this. She’s tough.” He walked across the sticky barroom floor, reminding him of hot tar in summer, grabbed the triangle, and reracked the billiard balls.

Michael hurled a dart. “Two hundred and fifty thou. That’s more money than I’ve ever had. Hell, I never even got away with stealing that much.”

Busch ignored the comment. “How could you guys not have insurance?” he asked instead.

“We thought it would only be for three months. When Mary left her last job, the insurance didn’t carry and we had to wait ninety days before it kicked in at her new school. The state made her old job offer Cobra coverage but we had to pay for it. It was too expensive. We didn’t think much about it.”

Busch understood; clarity always came after the fact.

“It was only going to be three months,” Michael repeated. The barmaid set down Busch’s Coke and Michael’s Jack Daniel’s and left.

“I got about thirty-five thousand dollars,” the big cop offered.

“Thanks, but I couldn’t take your money.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for Mary, and you’ll take it.” Busch stopped his game and leaned back on the pool table. “Damn, though, thirty-five k is still a long way from covering your nut. You’ve got to be able to get something against your business.”

Michael shook his head. “The banking community wasn’t real helpful.”

“Any family? There’s got to be someone.”

“Mary’s mom was broke until the day she died. And my folks left me nothing.”

“Did you ever think of looking for your real parents?”

“While Michael’s last name was French in origin, it wasn’t the name he was born with. All he knew of his real parents was that they were three-quarters Irish and, for some unknown reason, dumped him in an orphanage when he was barely a month old. Michael never went down the self-pity route of seeking out his birth parents. The way he looked at it, he considered himself lucky: the St. Pierres had chosen to adopt him instead of some other child.

“A little late for that,” Michael answered. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

A couple of after-work softball players got rowdy celebrating a win, their whooping and hollering competing with the rock-and-roll jukebox. Busch was draining balls left and right, the cue ball always in place for the follow-up. He lined up the seven ball with the corner pocket, drew back his cue, and suddenly spun around to Michael. “Shit! You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

“I gave my word to Mary,” Michael answered. Returning to a life of crime had definitely crossed his mind, but he would never break his word to his wife. “If I can’t raise this money…” His eyes were grim.

“Hey, quit talking shit. There’s always a way.”

“Isn’t fair,” Michael said.

“Nothing is. God didn’t create this world to be fair.”

“I’m not really buying into the God thing anymore.”

“I wouldn’t let Mary hear you talking like that.”

“Look, I did some things, paid the price, never complained.” He was throwing the darts harder now. “But Mary—she’s never wronged a soul. She’s the essence of good. After everything I put her through—You know she never misses church? I can’t believe there’s a god that would let this happen to her.”

“You’re just looking for someone to blame.” Busch ignored the fact that every dart Michael threw nailed a bull’s-eye. “And hey, I can’t say I’d be any different if I was in your shoes.”

“I’m serious, Paulie. I see no evidence God exists. Explain Mary’s illness. And don’t give me any of that test-of-faith crap. My faith has been tested enough and every time it comes up empty. Mary has nothing but faith and look where she is.”

Busch sat on the pool table. “We all need something to believe in. Doesn’t matter what. God, Buddha, Elvis. We all need faith. That’s what gives us hope, hope that there’s something better out there, something to strive for. Hope is what drives you. Hope gets you out of bed, hoping you’re going to make that big sale at work, hoping you get to make love to your wife at night.”

“You can’t get by on hope. It doesn’t pay the bills and it doesn’t save lives.”

“You need hope and a simple code. A creed that guides you, compels you to go on. Mine’s the law.” Busch threw back the rest of his Coke.

Michael smiled, turned, and raised his glass. “Truth, justice, and the American way. Right on, Superman.”

“Thanks, Lois.” Busch forced a smile. He wasn’t getting through. “How about you, what drives you?”

Michael paused a moment and then simply said, “Mary.”

Before dawn, Byram Hills Memorial Hospital was a different world, no outsiders to deal with, no phony smiles or sympathy to help the confused and grieving. Visiting hours didn’t start until nine a.m. The medical machine of nurses and doctors prepared for the coming day’s business, scurrying about, filling out forms, prepping for surgery.

Like a ghost, Michael glided down the hall in the same clothes he’d left in, five hours earlier. He knew he shouldn’t be there, but it was hard for him to stay away. Besides, a little sneaking around always seemed to get his blood flowing. A file tucked under one arm, a big shopping bag in the other, he snuck along the corridor, quickly ducking in a doorway to avoid the notice of a passing nurse.

Mary was scheduled for another battery of tests this morning and Michael wanted to see her before they whisked her away. The bills for the testing alone had swiftly drained what little funds they possessed. If he didn’t come up with the money for her surgery and treatment soon, the hospital would discharge her to make room for someone else, and what little chance Mary had would surely evaporate.

Michael slipped silently through the door into Mary’s room, careful not to make any noise. She looked so tired, sitting at the little table next to her bed. She was always an early riser, up before the sun, she’d say, when the world was fresh and new. Her auburn hair was perfect, as if they were going to a royal ball, but then again it was invariably that way no matter the hour. Mary had always taken care of herself, not out of vanity but for her husband. Whether it was staying fit, doing her hair, or fighting the desire to wear grungy sweats, Mary strove to remain pleasing to her husband’s eye at all times.

Michael stooped to gently kiss her cheek. “Good morning.”

“Hi,” she answered warmly, kissing him back.

“How was breakfast?”

“I think it was reheated meat loaf in the shape of waffles.”

Michael couldn’t help smiling.

“Sleep OK?” she asked him.

“Bed’s too big without you.” He unloaded the bag: makeup; fresh clothes; bath towels, soft ones instead of the white sandpaper hospital standard. He pulled out her favorite book,
Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
by Dr. Seuss.

“You are so good to me. I was reading this to my students before I left.”

“I know.” Michael pulled out a tape recorder and placed it on the table. “They would like you to finish it. Record at your leisure. Liz said she’d pick it up and play it for them.”

“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” she said, with a tear in her eye.

Michael said nothing, but smiled as he continued emptying the apparently bottomless bag. Last but not least, he pulled out the goodies: cookies, soda, Ring Dings.

“Are you trying to fatten me up? I’ll never eat all that junk.”

“Actually, it’s for me.” Michael gave her a sly look. He pulled out a file marked
School Work
and offered it to her.

Mary took the file and stared down at it, wishing she were in class with her children. A chill came over her as she looked at the dozens of pictures sent by her students; she was so afraid she’d never see them again. “I was thinking—now, don’t get upset, it’s really just a precaution…” She paused. “Maybe I should get my affairs in order.”

Michael pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat down. “What?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that—”

“No! I don’t want to hear that. We’re going to get through this.”

“I know, I know.” She took his hand in hers. “I’m sorry. It’s just so much money….”

“Don’t say that again. St. Pierres never give up.” Michael was doing everything in his power to keep from losing control. “Never.”

There was a quiet knock at the door and Father Shaunessy popped his head in. “Mike, Mary—is this a bad time?”

Michael glared at the priest. His timing couldn’t have been worse.

“Could you come back in a half hour, Father?” Mary asked.

“Sure, sure.” The priest nodded as he closed the door behind him.

“Why is he here?” Michael’s anger was spilling over the surface.

“I thought—” But Mary didn’t get the chance to finish her statement.

Michael stood abruptly. “Thought nothing. Don’t even tell me you were doing the last rites thing.”

“Michael, you’re jumping to conclusions. I asked him here to talk and pray.” Mary’s voice was tight. She was now equally upset, but unlike Michael, she reined in her anger.

He paced the small room. “Pray? Do you really believe that if He was merciful He’d let this happen to you?”

Mary took a moment. She never thought she would have to defend herself, let alone her beliefs, to the person she loved more than life itself. Her anger dissipated as she answered quietly, “Michael, you have to understand something. There are two things I have always counted on to get me through hard times: you, and my faith in God. And right now, darling, I need both.”