Irish Coffee (4 page)

THE BELLS OF SACRED HEART
basilica tolled mournfully on the Friday, prelude to the funeral Mass for Fred Neville. Snow had begun to fall during the night, falling on the living and the dead, and students tramping through it to dining hall or early class heard without hearing the tolling bells. Few of them would have heard of Fred Neville, let alone his death. A decade ago he had been one of them, indifferent to the liturgies that went on in the campus church, weddings, funerals, baptisms. The hall chapels were the site of such devotions as students engage in. Sacred Heart was for special occasions. Students could be pardoned if they did not regard Fred Neville's funeral as a special occasion.

There are four seasons at Notre Dame, of course, but students know only three of them and fall and winter are the only ones whose beginning and end they observe on campus. Despite the excitement of football in the fall, winter is the season most will remember in future years, the campus walks winding between piles of shoveled snow, the leafless trees exposed in their spectral beauty, mere sketches of what they have been and will be again. In winter the world awaits its resurrection, spring is the Easter season when ducks and geese and swans move about on the melted lakes, and for seniors commencement looms. It is an academic conceit that the end of their time at Notre Dame should be called a beginning, but so in a way it is, for then they will join the great silent majority, the quick and the dead, that have walked this campus and, however little remembered, take indelible memories of it with them when they go. So it had been with Fred Neville with the difference that he had returned to find himself an almost-stranger in a place that had marked him for life. And now he was definitively gone.

Last night, when he had returned to the funeral home a second time and witnessed the arrival of Naomi McTear, Roger had received disturbing news. A hand was laid on his arm and he turned to face Lieut. Jimmy Stewart of the South Bend police.

“Is your brother with you?”

“He will be picking me up.”

“Good. Let's go in here.”

Jimmy Stewart led Roger down the hall to an empty room much like the one in which the body of Fred Neville lay.

“We may have a problem, Roger.”

“Hence your presence?”

He nodded. “Apparently it wasn't an accidental death.”

There had been an autopsy, just routine because Fred had been dead some days before his body was discovered and, while the usual tests were being run, the body had been turned over to the undertaker.

“No problem there, though we may postpone burial.”

“You don't mean the funeral won't take place.”

“That can go on. Why not? But the body will be brought downtown to the morgue.”

“Good Lord. His parents have come, all kinds of people will expect to accompany the body to Cedar Grove Cemetery.”

This cemetery was on campus, on Notre Dame Avenue just south of the bookstore, not to be confused with the community cemetery where members of the Congregation of Holy Cross were laid to rest in their own private Arlington under identical crosses, row on row. That was located off the road that led from the Grotto to St. Mary's College across the highway.

Phil came half an hour later, having got Marjorie safely to her door and through it.

“She chattered all the way home,” Phil said. And then he noticed Jimmy Stewart. “What's up?”

Jimmy Stewart took Phil away and put him in the picture. Roger returned to the viewing room and walked slowly up to the casket and stared at Fred with far different emotions than he had prayed for him earlier. He had been poisoned. When the report was given to him, Jimmy Stewart had gone to Fred's apartment, which was untouched although of course it had not yet been declared a crime scene. The Nevilles had postponed visiting their son's apartment until after the funeral, before they planned to return to Phoenix. There was no one else to clean up the place. Jimmy Stewart had taken the coffee mug from the table beside the bed downtown to the lab. In it were traces of the poison that had sent Fred into the next world. A dreadful thought had occurred to Roger. Had Fred administered the poison to himself?

“There wasn't a note?” Roger asked.

“I didn't really look. The apartment is sealed now of course and we will be going over it thoroughly.”

Nothing Roger knew of Fred suggested that he would kill himself but the events of the evening had made Roger wonder how well he knew his friend. He had been revealed to have a fiancée, whom he had never mentioned, Mary Shuster had appointed herself principal mourner, and there were indications that there had indeed been something between her and Fred. How little we know others, even those to whom we are close. He and Fred had spent so many happy hours talking, and he had sensed that Fred could be open with him about his non-athletic interests; there was an implicit confidentiality clause in all their conversations. It seemed impossible that Fred would not at least have hinted at his feelings, whatever they had been, for Mary. Griselda had certainly no doubt what they were; she was sure Fred and Mary had been in love.

But Roger thought of the evening when Fred had come to the apartment after dining with Griselda, to enlist Roger in the campaign to prevent her from leaving the basketball team, and Mary and her mother were there. There was little indication the two had even known one another. Indeed, Mary had all but snubbed Fred. Jealousy? The vast mystery of every human person struck Roger forcibly, as it often had before. What we say and do reveals who we are, up to a point, but one is a mystery to himself so how can we expect to penetrate the soul of another? The investigation that was about to begin would uncover many facts hitherto unknown—investigations always did—but they would only deepen the mystery, not dissolve it.

When he and Phil returned to their apartment, they sat up late discussing this surprising turn of events.

“He give you any clue he might do this, Roger?”

“Does Jimmy Stewart think it was suicide?”

“Why would anyone else kill him?”

“Why would he kill himself, Phil?”

Phil assumed his professional persona. “Whether or not he did has to be established before we ask why.”

It was nearly eleven when Father Carmody showed up unannounced. They had acknowledged one another at the funeral home but that was all. Now it was clear that Father Carmody had learned how Fred had died.

“You have to be our liaison with the police, Phil. We can't have a scandal.”

“Jimmy Stewart is the investigating officer.”

“Is that good?”

“Very good.”

Father Carmody looked relieved. The old priest was the unofficial custodian of the university's reputation, a man whose whole life had been lived here. He had come to Notre Dame as a teenager, when there was a preparatory seminary on campus, and lived his whole life at the university. So many things that had been personal experiences of Father Carmody were matters of history to others. He had been instrumental in Roger's being appointed the Huneker Professor of Catholic Studies, making him a free variable on campus, able to cross-list the courses he chose to give in several departments.

“You two knew him, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“His poor parents,” the priest said. “I had just a few words with them. Wonderful people. They were bearing up well under the blow of his death, but what will their reaction to this news be?”

Fred's death had been blow enough, but now the manner of his going would provide a testing time for his parents and doubtless for the two women he seemed to be connected with. And of course for his friends. Roger was glad that Phil would have a quasi-official role in the investigation.

So it was with mixed emotions indeed that Roger and Phil had gotten out of their car and walked slowly to the basilica with the bells tolling overhead.

A FUNERAL MASS IS NOT WHAT
it was. Not so long ago, the priest was vested in black, yellow rather than white candles stood on the altar, the sermon was devoted to generic remarks about the fragility of life and the certainty of mortality. And the lugubrious Dies Irae was sung. The liturgy was solemn and somber, all in Latin and conducted in the guarded hope that the deceased had made it into purgatory at best where the sins of a lifetime must be washed away. The chaste tones of Gregorian chant rode their measured scale. Dante's great poem depicted this halfway house to heaven as a seven-story mountain, up which the soul must painfully climb as it was purged of the effects of the capital sins. The stakes of life were put earnestly before those still living, and for the departed was implored an eventual entrance into paradise.

It is thus no longer. The tendency is to speak of the deceased as even now enjoying the beatific vision, swept up from a sinful life immediately into the presence of God. The homily is often an untroubled celebration of the life that has ended, given in the sunny conviction that the congregation was marking the passing of a saint. There is little somber about it, however grief-stricken the family might be. But grief is masked with smiles. A kind of jolly universalism is in the air, as if everyone must be destined for eternal bliss, with no suggestion that there could be any delay in entering into it. Seldom are lessons drawn for those who fill the pews.

Fred Neville's funeral struck a middle note between these two extremes. There was no eulogy of the deceased during the liturgy. Naomi McTear was prominent in the first pew beside the Nevilles, her claim upon the departed thus dramatically endorsed. But the first reading called this into question. Mary Shuster, clad all in black, her mantilla shading her eyes, appeared in the pulpit and read in clear and tragic tones the words of the epistle. Her tone, her manner, her dress, proclaimed her to be chief among the mourners. The church was hushed when she first appeared, the silence deepened as she read and when she concluded with “The Word of the Lord,” she might have been enlisting the almighty in her claim to be the bereft beloved of Fred Neville. She slowly lifted her bowed head and for half a minute stared out at the congregation in silence. Then she turned to descend and was lost from view. As if in relief, there was stirring in the pews and throats were cleared.

Jimmy Stewart was in the choir loft where Philip Knight joined him. Father Carmody's homily would have fitted well into the old liturgy, that into which he had been ordained and whose passing he lamented. He mentioned Fred by name, he noted the presence of the grieving parents, he reminded the congregation that though weep they must they should not weep as those without hope. And he urged prayers for the departed, that his soul might rest in peace. For the living he prayed for the grace of a happy death. Fred was neither canonized nor condemned, but the great mystery of death and our universal need for mercy was made clear to all. Roger Knight was comforted but not surprised that Father Carmody had found just the right words.

In the sanctuary were a dozen priests of the Congregation of Holy Cross; Father Molloy was the celebrant. The turnout was a show of respect for the deceased and a boost for the athletic department. Coaches, their spouses, and members of the various teams were in the pews. It was an impressive send-off.

At the end of the Mass, before the priests left the altar and the casket rolled back down the aisle by the six pall-bearing coaches, Father Peter Rocca, rector of the basilica, stepped forward.

“Because of the inclement weather, the casket will not be accompanied to its final resting place by the congregation. The Nevilles ask that you say your final farewells outside the church. Those who wish are urged to join the Nevilles at the faculty club where luncheon will be served.”

Looks of surprise were exchanged, but they were outnumbered by expressions of relief. A trudge through the still falling snow to Cedar Grove was not a prospect that appealed. Most of those in the church had been at the wake as well and could rightly feel that they had done their duty.

It had been deftly done, a first effort to deflect attention from the circumstances of Fred's death and forestall any scandal. It would have been premature to announce the suspicion of the police that Fred had not died from natural causes. The unstated assumption of the rector's announcement, for those who had ears to hear information that was not public, was that Fred was a suicide and the more quickly the results of the autopsy could be forgotten the better for the parents.

The post-funeral brunch at the faculty club was memorable for one thing. The grieving parents were already tiring of their role, the usual banalities had been expressed too many times, most were prepared to grab a bite and go. But the presence in the room of both Mary Shuster and Naomi McTear and the instinctive sense that there was a rivalry between the women that must eventually burst forth in words or action added a note of tension. Thus far the two women had not spoken to one another though it was apparent to Roger and he was certain to others as well that neither woman was ever unaware of the presence of the other. The immediate bone of contention had to do with the rights to the Nevilles. Mary had pride of place in the funeral home during the rosary, Naomi occupied the family pew at the Mass. Score, even. Who would manage to commandeer the Nevilles at the faculty club?

But Roger could not remain a spectator to the drama. Perhaps it was poor Marjorie's look of trepidation that decided him. He took up his vigil with the Nevilles, chattering away to one and the other, determined to stave off any incident. Phil had gone off with Jimmy Stewart, somewhat reluctantly missing the meal at the university club. It was a buffet and Roger followed the Nevilles through the line and guided them to a table. When they were seated, there was an empty chair. A problem. He levered himself to his feet and moved the chair against the wall, thus eliminating that all-too-inviting target for the two rivals.

“It was a lovely ceremony,” Mrs. Neville said, her eyes damp.

“Good sermon,” her husband said.

“That was Father Carmody.”

And then, as if conjured into the room by mention of his name, Father Carmody appeared in the doorway. Roger rose and flayed his arms, attracting the priest's attention. Father Carmody's vision was not what it had been, and the room was filled with people, but it would have taken a blind man not to see Roger on his feet, churning his arms like a windmill. People stared. Eventually Father Carmody did too and he came to the table. As he approached, Roger retrieved the chair he had set against the wall and bowed Father Carmody into it.

“I don't have any food,” the priest said.

“Sit still. I'll fetch some for you.”

And off he went to the buffet table, navigating through the crowd like an errant linebacker. Against all his principles, he went to the head of the line and began filling a plate.

“For Father Carmody,” he explained to the world at large. He repeated the explanation several times before turning and seeing with dismay that Mary Shuster had taken the chair he had vacated. Naomi McTear was entering the room from the bar, a Bloody Mary in her hand. Her eyes met Roger's and then by a fated triangulation they both looked at Mary. Naomi's eyes sparked and she started across the room. Roger, balancing the plate of food for Father Carmody, headed for the table. The vector of their approaches narrowed but Roger, despite his bulk, got to the table first and, as he served Father Carmody, interposed his enormous bulk between Naomi and the table. She would have to circumnavigate him in order to have a scene. Mary was deep in conversation with Mrs. Neville, the subject Fred.

“It was our secret,” she was saying. “I didn't even tell my mother. Not yet. You know why we thought it wiser to wait to announce our engagement.”

Mrs. Neville looked utterly bewildered at this remark. The source of her bewilderment then appeared, successfully getting around Roger's bulk.

“Have you met Naomi?” Mrs. Neville cried. She looked desperately at her husband. His hearing was not what it had been and was further impeded by the expensive hearing aid he wore. He was explaining the theory of the device to Father Carmody, who might have caught every other word, his own hearing not what it was. Besides, the background noise was the classic instance of what could make a hearing aid fail. The intricacies of Mr. Neville's digital device fascinated Father Carmody. Neville popped it from his ear and handed it to Father Carmody. The priest drew back as if reluctant to handle so complicated and expensive a piece of equipment.

“An ear horn would work better,” Neville said.

Father Carmody was surprised by this, having just heard Neville explain how the device had been programmed to correct the precise weaknesses in his hearing, that it was a veritable little computer in itself, adjusting to changes in the circumambient acoustical situation.

“You're not satisfied with it?”

“You know what digital hearing aids are?” He paused and then stuck a digit into both ears and grinned. Father Carmody's barking laugh rewarded him and he beamed. An observer might have thought that Neville was stopping his ears to some communication from Carmody. Roger took all this in in the interval between Mrs. Neville's acknowledgment of the arrival of Naomi and that young lady's response.

“I was Fred's fiancée,” Naomi said. She switched her drink to the other hand and extended the free one to Mary.

“Yes. I know you were. Fred told me all about it.”

“It was hardly a secret.”

Mrs. Neville glanced furtively at Mary, whose claim had been characterized as secret.

“No,” Mary said. “Nor that he had broken the engagement.”

“Broken!” Naomi glared at Mary and then thrust forth the hand on which the massive diamond was all too visible. “Haven't you noticed this?”

“I know all about that.”

“I love your dress,” Naomi said.

“It's what one wears in mourning.”

Naomi was expensively clothed in a bright dress of subdued floral pattern, a very short skirt and a long jacket. The height of her heels was a marvel to Roger. His eye caught Marjorie's and he beckoned her to the table, hoping that in numbers there would be an impediment to an open quarrel.

“Haven't I seen you on television?” Father Carmody asked Naomi.

Her anger fled and she smiled brightly at the priest. “I do sideline color on television.”

“At football games?”

“Yes.”

“An odd job for a woman.”

The smiled disappeared. “People used to think so.”

Marjorie arrived and looked anxiously at the others. Roger explained to Naomi who she was.

“Ah. Miss Havisham's mother.”

At that Father Carmody launched into an account of a woman sports reporter who had insisted on gaining entry to the locker room where players in various stages of undress had understandably taken her presence to be provocative. Things were said, parts of her anatomy were patted, she fled.

“Then she had the effrontery to bring suit against the players,” Father Carmody said with disgust. “For being in their birthday suits, I guess.”

Naomi's chin lifted and she looked frostily at the priest. It did not help that Mary decided to break her mourning by bursting into laughter. Naomi left them, moving majestically across the room. Others recognized her and soon she was the object of adulation.

“Bless you, Father,” Mary said.

“For I have sinned?”