The Prudence of the Flesh (9 page)

“Perhaps you saw my story on Father Dowling in the
Tribune
?”

“You wrote that?” Gregory Barrett looked at his visitor. Ned Bunting seemed of average intelligence, was certainly of more than average height, and wore an expectant smile.

“It was a labor of love.”

Good Lord. Someone should have translated it into English. “I know Father Dowling.”

“I understand you were classmates.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Why would he? But you see the connection between what I wrote of him and what I could write about you. Schoolmates, for a time priests together, and then a parting of the ways . . .”

“You will write no story about me, Mr. Bunting.”

“Yes. I will. The choice is whether I do it with or without your
cooperation. Of course I know the charge that has been brought against you.”

Once Gregory Barrett's life had been lived under the sign of Christian charity—every person was beloved of God and should be treated as such—but in recent years he had adopted the canons of civility as sufficient for his dealings with others. This had involved no outward change. In either case, striking a man would have been ruled out. When Madeline Murphy had made her accusation, he had felt a sudden surge of anger, but it had no target, certainly not that pathetic woman. He stood and for a moment was certain he would strike Bunting. What he did was come around his desk, take his visitor by the elbow, and escort him into the hallway. When he let go he gave a little push, and Ned Bunting staggered away, his expression one of disbelief. Then, noticing something over Barrett's shoulder, he reeled and crashed to the floor. Barrett turned to face Sinclair, the station manager.

“What's going on, Greg?”

“You saw what he did,” Bunting cried from the floor. “He assaulted me, a writer!”

Sinclair laughed. “I saw you throw yourself down on the floor.”

Bunting had a little trouble getting to his feet. He looked at Barrett as if seeking appropriate words and, finding none, glared at Sinclair. Then he was gone.

“What was that all about?”

“He wanted to write a story about me.”

Sinclair's brows went up. “What's wrong with a little publicity?”

“Did you see that piece in the
Tribune
about the parish priest?”

“I couldn't read it.”

“Now you have part of my reason for throwing him out.”

Sinclair supplied the rest of the reason without saying it and laid his hand on Barrett's arm.

“What is your topic today?”

“Willa Cather.
Shadows on the Rock; Death Comes for the Archbishop
.”

“Sounds good.”

It did, but the feeling that was usually his when he recorded his program did not accompany him to the studio. He loved Willa Cather; she had written two of the best Catholic novels in American literature but was not herself a Catholic. What would Willa Cather have thought of a man who left the priesthood? A man who had murderous thoughts about a would-be writer like Ned Bunting? Incompetent he might be, but the
Tribune
had run that piece on Roger. Imagine what he would do with Gregory Barrett.

The accusation by Madeline Murphy had the strange effect on Nancy and himself of returning them to the days when they had both changed their lives, marrying and going far from any reminders of what they had been, he a priest, she a nun. Over the years, the memories faded and it was as if they had never been otherwise than as they were. Then they had returned to the Chicago area, and within a year the accusation had come. It had begun when Madeline Murphy telephoned and talked with Nancy.

She told him of it, and they both verbally dismissed it, but how could Nancy fail to be affected by a call that accused her husband of taking advantage of a young parishioner long ago?

“I don't remember such a name.”

He wanted to deny it, to declare his innocence, to assure
Nancy that he had never seduced anyone. That would have been absurd, though, and for the first time he saw the effect of such an accusation: Any denial conferred on it some kind of reality.

“Well, you can't remember them all.” Nancy smiled and came into his arms. She was right. Humor was the only defense.

He prayed that the phone call would be a single event, some madwoman deriving satisfaction from seeing herself as a victim. Had he prayed so fervently in years? How had the woman chosen him to harass? There must be some connection between his priestly life and the girl. She knew that he had been a priest. Of course, there would be many who knew that. Amos Cadbury's suggestion that he talk with Roger Dowling was inspired.

“Of course I know Father Dowling,” Gloria said in reply to Tuttle's question. “I'm surprised you do.”

Almost as surprising was her knowing Tuttle, but Madeline had mentioned the lawyer, and Gloria wondered if he would like some paintings to hang in his office and managed to run into him at the courthouse. Now he had stopped by.

“My walls are filled with awards.”

“I have some small ones.”

She offered to come by his office to see which of her paintings
might fit, but the suggestion filled him with alarm. It turned out that he was nagged by his secretary.

Gloria got to know him better. If nothing else, it might make Ned jealous.

“I'm full of surprises,” Tuttle said in answer to her remark about his knowing Father Dowling. “The good father would like to meet our friend Madeline Murphy, and I want you to set it up.”

“Meet with her?” Like Ned, Gloria had come to like Father Dowling—seen from the pews on a Sunday, that is. Of course, they were comparing him with Monsignor Sledz, “the martinet of St. Bavo's,” in Ned's phrase, which sounded better than it meant because she wasn't all that sure of the meaning of “martinet.” (“Some kind of bird?”) Maddie's quarrel was with Gregory Barrett, but no doubt the clergy rallied around one of their own.

“Gloria, he may be the only one who gives a damn about her.”

“Well, thanks a lot.”

“He has talked with Gregory Barrett, sure. They were classmates back in the Ice Age. Maybe we shouldn't handicap priests, but if we did I'd put Dowling way out in front of those I know.”

“Who's that in the car?”

“A friend of mine.”

“He's asleep.”

“He's a cop. Peanuts Pianone.”

“Pianone!”

“The family's ambassador to the Fox River Police Department.”

“That's nice.”

“Peanuts is harmless. So what do you say? Do you talk to Madeline or do I?”

“Why didn't you just go ask her?”

Tuttle hesitated, about to lie. “I think this needs a woman's touch.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Time is of the essence.”

It was going on noon. Ned would be coming by for lunch. “Call me in an hour or so.”

“I'll come by.”

“Call me first.”

Tuttle hurried out to his car and hopped in, slamming the door. The Pianone ambassador slept on, but when the car lurched forward, so did he. Then the car went out of sight.

Ned didn't like the idea. “Madeline is putty in the hands of a priest,” he said significantly.

“Ned! You know Father Dowling.”

“Sure, and I thought I knew Monsignor Sledz.”

“This is different.”

“He'll try to talk her out of going after Barrett.”

“What if he did? You have your story.”

Ned frowned. “Quirk wants me to work with a reporter from the
Tribune
. A double byline.”

“Did you tell him what the story is?”

Ned looked shrewd. “Of course not. They'd cut me out entirely if they had any inkling there's a child in the case.”

Child. Gloria thought of Marvin. The son of a priest? Much as she liked Maddie, she found Marvin a little weird. What did he do all day while Madeline was at the library?

“He's pursuing his education,” Maddie said, her tone defensive.

“At home?”

“By correspondence. On the computer. There are online universities.”

Well, apparently she wanted to believe it. As far as Gloria could see, Marvin was a bum, prematurely retired in his midtwenties. Now he had taken an interest in his mother's grievance.

“You've told him about himself?”

Maddie's hesitation gave the answer to that question, but Marvin had told his mother she was crazy not to take the money offered to her by the archdiocese.

“He may be right.”

“I thought you understood.”

“Maddie, what is your best-case guess as to the outcome of all this?”

“Vindication!”

“You mean revenge?”

“Call it that if you like.”

To Ned, Gloria said, “Sometimes I could kick myself for helping her remember her past.”

“I wonder what else she's going to remember.”

They were sitting after lunch in Gloria's studio, pictures in various stages of completion cluttering the area, the smell of turpentine and gesso and paint. She was back to oils, if only because they took longer, and her inventory was filling the house. Madeline had told her that Pasquali, the head librarian, thought that her exhibit had gone on long enough.

“Give me another week.”

“Gloria, if it was up to me, they could stay there forever.”

Maybe that was the solution. She would donate them to the library.
Ned could write it up. They went together to the library. By agreement, they did not stop at the desk to talk to Maddie but went directly to Pasquali's office.

“This is Ned Bunting, Mr. Pasquali.”

“Of the
Tribune
,” Ned added.

Pasquali's wariness went. “What can I do for you?”

Gloria said, “It's about my paintings that have been on display here.” The brightness dimmed. Apparently he had not made the connection. “I intend to donate them to the library.”

“It will make a great little story,” Ned said.

“You mean a permanent gift?”

“As an expression of gratitude for what libraries have meant to me in my life. Especially this branch.”

“How do you spell your name?” Ned asked. It had been on the door and it was on a plaque on Pasquali's desk, but the librarian obligingly spelled it out for Ned. The prospect of publicity, of his name in the paper, had obviously driven out the negative judgment he had made of Gloria's paintings in telling Maddie he wanted them out of here.

“Those creeps looking at porn on our computers could paint as well as that,” he had grumbled.

“I don't think you would want to hang any pictures they might paint.”

Maddie had been proud enough of that retort to pass it on, but the sting had remained in Gloria's soul. Now her own vindication had come, with Pasquali babbling away into Ned's recorder. Ned had brought a camera as well, and he took a picture of the artist and benefactor at the side of the grateful future custodian of a dozen precious paintings by Gloria Daley.

Pasquali came out with Madeline and Ned Bunting, intent on giving Ned a tour of the place.

“Maybe a shot of the exhibit?” Ned suggested.

“Of course, of course.”

Pasquali led them off to the little windowless lunchroom to which the paintings had been removed. Maddie heard him calling it a temporary home for the paintings while he decided on their permanent disposition. Madeline fluttered her fingers as they went by the desk and winked. In a few minutes, Gloria was back.

“Do you know where he put my paintings?”

“In the lunchroom.”

“Ned gave him hell about that. Where can we talk?”

“The lunchroom?”

“Ugh.”

“Can we go out for a smoke?”

In back of the building was a loading dock, and it was there that the addicted among the employees of the Benjamin Harrison branch of the Fox River library withdrew to smoke, in good
weather and bad. They were more likely to die of pneumonia than of any ailment connected with smoking.