Mortal Friends, page 54
But how was he different from these? All his women, taken together or singly, had come to nothing, but for Nell, who had come, only, finally, to his son. These at least had the will to make of their barrenness a dare, daring God to make something of it. No wonder they sweetened that will with hate.
The priest opened a large carved door and stepped aside.
Brady entered.
Another priest greeted him with a simple bow and held out his hand for Brady’s topcoat. Brady surrendered it without speaking, and brushed the shoulder of his dark blue suit as if it were not perfect. The cleric led him into a great hall of a room, one wall of which was lined with windows. They were covered by thick dark Lenten velvet. At the far end of the room, huge in the light of the one exception, was a desk and, seated behind it, a man. The usher left. Brady made his way across the marble. He was self-conscious about the noise his feet made. It drew attention to the fact that he wore mere trousers and not a cassock. Every Catholic layman feels inferior for that at some time in his life.
The cleric rose behind his desk. He was bespectacled and thin in the fashion of Pacelli. His black robe was made special by its crimson piping and broad crimson sash that extended from his navel to his breast.
Eve alone of all women had no navel; Adam’s loss. Brady made an effort to reel in his mind.
“Mr. Brady?”
“Yes.” Live boldly, man, and let the dreams be timid. “And you are Monsignor Borella?”
“Yes.” The monsignor offered his hand with a grace and warmth that surprised Brady in such a setting. “Ruggero Borella.” He was not old. He held himself handsomely in a lithe frame. There was a pleasant modulation in his voice. He could almost have been French.
“Thank you for receiving me, Monsignor.”
“I hope I can be of service.”
“I appreciate your position and the value of your time.”
“I do as well yours also, Mr. Brady. Please sit.”
Brady moved a step toward the Catalonian side chair but did not sit, though the monsignor did. “I have these greetings for you.” Brady withdrew two envelopes from the inside pocket of his suit coat. He handed one to Borella.
“Ah, Archbishop Cushing!” he said, reaching across his desk.
“Yes.”
The monsignor sliced it open quite expertly with a blade that had once adorned some prince’s tunic, a ceremonial dagger. The envelope contained a letter from Cushing, his personal request for an apostolic rescript, and the petition for a dispensation from the impediment of mixed religion. Also included was the oath of the non-Catholic, signed, witnessed, and impressed with the Archbishop’s own seal.
“And this also,” Brady added, handing him the second envelope, “from myself. A meager offering.”
The monsignor took it and laid it aside. He would open it later.
“And, Monsignor, I bring you good wishes from Gennaro Anselmo.” Brady took his seat.
“Ah, Gennaro!”
“His interest in this matter is personal and discreet, but he asked me to convey it nonetheless.”
“Ah, Mr. Brady, rest assured. We know nothing here if not the exact measure of discretion.”
The two men exchanged the sparest smile, each with his reasons. Borella had an influential new friend in America, where the Church, even among the thorns, had grown to be so faithful and so generous. Brady’s journey through the labyrinth had not disappointed. He knew that the preparations for the coupling of the Bradys and the Lindsays would proceed now without further obstacles, and he had a larger sense that other things—as if Borella’s smile were God’s—would go his way as well. The two conversed easily for some moments then about a range of other matters, since it was clear that their mutual object had already been accomplished. Borella, in response to Brady’s polite questions, explained in broad outline how the Papal Offices were administered and the relationship of the Vatican to the Catholic dioceses worldwide. They were two bright and competent executives talking about their operations. When a seemly time had passed Borella stood and ushered Brady to the door and thanked him profusely for his visit, as if Brady had just rescued him and his family from catastrophe and not the other way around.
After Brady’s return from Rome the events leading to the wedding unfolded benignly, smoothly, with the apparent acceptance and even blessings of everyone involved.
At the same time, Estes Kefauver, whose campaign against interstate crime and political corruption made him popular throughout America, won every primary he entered save one. Nevertheless, the Democratic party, in convention that summer in Chicago, nominated on the third ballot the reluctant Adlai Stevenson, to Colman Brady’s great relief. His son had no connection with Stevenson. His time as a government investigator was over.
Colman feigned sympathy for Collins, who returned from Chicago crushed and defeated. He had become more involved in Kefauver’s effort than he ever expected to. Colman remembered his own bitter disillusion with politics.
The afternoon before his wedding Collins asked his father to walk with him for a while. Colman knew what Collins wanted to talk about, and he was ready and glad. They crossed Commonwealth Avenue and Storrow Drive and headed toward Beacon Hill along the Charles. It was a warm but overcast day.
“I hope the weather clears for tomorrow,” Collins said. “The wedding will be wrecked if it rains.”
“It won’t rain, son. Don’t worry.”
“You’ve arranged it?” Collins laughed and kicked at a small stone. It scurried down the path scratching like a fingernail down slate.
“No, not me. It won’t rain on J. Bolton Lindsay’s lawn. It wouldn’t dare.”
“It’ll be the ultimate test, won’t it? Of God’s position on the matter.”
“We know God’s position, son.”
“You have influence with everybody.”
Colman shrugged theatrically.
“I heard a story about your trip to Rome.”
“Oh? What?”
“About ten thousand Italians crowded into St. Peter’s Square pointing up to the balcony and saying, ‘Who’s the thin guy in the white robe and funny hat standing up there with Colman Brady?’”
“It’s not true, Micko. Don’t believe everything you hear about your old man.”
“Actually, I wanted to thank you. I never thought you’d pull it off. Jack can’t believe it’s all on the up-and-up.”
“He’s got the rescript, Latin and all. He’s happy.”
“Let’s just say he’s resigned.”
“Don’t start in on Jack.”
“I’m still irked at him. He insisted on those damn sessions with Janet. ‘Instructions,’ he called them. I wish I’d been here.”
“He’s just doing his job, son. He’s been a big help in this.”
“I thought when Janet refused to sign that paper you’d never get to first base.”
“She told you about that?”
“Of course.”
“I asked her not to.”
“She told me that too.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was interfering.”
“You were.”
“I know.”
“But it was your right. You are the old man, after all. I expect to interfere quite regularly in the lives of my kids.”
Collins thought this was the time to tell him, but before he could Colman spoke.
“She told me you have no secrets.”
“I guess we don’t.”
“Everybody has secrets.”
“Not us.”
“Young love.”
“Not that young, Pop.”
“I know. I thought you’d wind up an Irish bachelor. What are you, thirty?”
“Not until next month. Don’t rush me.”
“Once you’re thirty, son, you’ll never die a young man.”
“My first failure.”
“And your last.”
“Except Kefauver, of course. Poor old Estes.”
“It wasn’t your failure, for God’s sake. It was just that Stevenson’s sin—not wanting the presidency—was less grave than Kefauver’s—wanting it too damn much.”
“I suppose so. You’re right about them both having their sins, but you’ve missed what they are.” There was an overt bitterness in Collins that threatened to go miles beyond mere disillusionment.
Colman found that disconcerting, but familiar.
“Stevenson’s great sin,” Collins continued, “was defending Alger Hiss. But finally it was less grave, read ‘threatening,’ than Estes’ sin—attacking the Bosses who’ve sold their balls to the night crawlers.”
Colman remained silent.
“You know what I mean?”
Colman still did not reply.
“They really creamed him, came right out of their ratholes all over Chicago.”
“It’s just as well you’re out of it now, son. I remember how I felt when the steamroller came my way.”
They walked along in silence for some moments, letting the subject die.
Collins said, “I wanted to ask your advice about something, Dad.”
“I thought you might. I’ve already spoken to Carson Brown.”
“The Carson Brown?”
“Brown, Caruthers, and West. He’d love you to join the firm.”
Collins said nothing.
“Not only that. There’s a partnership for you.”
Collins stopped walking, forcing Colman to stop. Though they faced each other, Colman looked past his son at the B.U. sailboats, jibless and unsteady on the river. A one-man shell slithered upstream.
“There’s only one partnership I’m interested in. The words I was hoping to hear were that you needed me.”
“Brown handles a lot of our business, Micko.”
“I assumed as much, frankly. That makes your arrangement more convenient than dealing with, say, the Vatican.”
“I suppose you want to make your way alone, without any help from your father. It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” What was happening? Whence this blade between them?
“That’s one advantage of Washington. Don’t take this wrong, but I prize the fact that I’ve made my way down there on my own. Unless, of course, Rudolph Halley owes you something I don’t know about.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve never met him. And don’t be ridiculous about my offer. I’m not trying to run things for you. You know that.”
“You’re running the wedding. You’ve done everything but pick the bride.”
“That’s the only thing I would like to have done.”
They both smiled. They shared an eye for Janet and knew it. They resumed walking.
“Listen, Micko, you said yourself you’d interfere when you had your kids. You’ll just have to trust them to let you know where to draw the line. You tell me where and I won’t cross.”
“You can draw the line at Brown.”
“OK. Then we are friends.” Colman put his arm on Collins’s shoulder, but only briefly. “Besides, I only spoke to Carson when I knew your friend Halley wouldn’t get the Justice Department. I knew you’d need a job.”
“Maybe not.”
“How so?”
“The strike force plan is still on, and I’m still up for it. Stevenson offered Justice to Kefauver.”
Colman showed nothing.
“Estes asked me to go with him.”
“Well, then you’re all set.”
“Right. I guess so. All that has to happen now is for Adlai to beat Ike.”
“And you’ve decided to stay with it?”
“Yes. I want to see it through. Especially after the job the bastards did on Kefauver in Chicago. Every political machine in this country is controlled by gangsters, and so are most of the police.”
“I doubt if that’s true here, son.”
“Boston is one of the few places we haven’t scrutinized. But you watch. All we’ll have to do is kick the rock a bit to get the worms moving. They hate the light of day.”
“You asked for advice. Still want it?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t get involved in Kefauver’s personal vendetta or effort to even the score. He’s not God either, you know. And he’s probably no cleaner than most.”
“He is clean, Dad. He’s a totally honest man. You know why I trust him?”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a lot like you.”
“Hell, kiddo, you know me! I’d buy and sell your mother.”
“I know you would, but she’s dead.”
It was a bizarre joke, and their laughter seemed cruel and faithless, but they were momentary castaways on a rough sea and couldn’t help themselves. They thought they were in the same boat.
“You know, when I married your mother,” Colman said with a repentant tenderness, “our wedding was wrecked.”
“By rain?”
“Nope. By the Brits. A contingent of Tommies broke it up. They burned one of our houses. Will McCauley’s.”
“That’s quite a memory to know his name still.”
“Some things you don’t forget. I haven’t told you much about those days.”
“Maeve has.”
“Your mother was a beautiful lass, never more so than on that day.”
“Do you have that picture?”
Colman took out his billfold and withdrew an old photograph three inches square, lines like veins all over it, and shades of black and green. Nellie Deasy stared out at them from her place near the bone.
“Some blows don’t leave bruises, Micko. Some wounds are never struck. They’re the worst.”
“You never told me yourself, Dad.”
“I couldn’t, son. I still can’t. Forgive me. She died terribly. She saved you.”
“You loved her.”
“I still do.” He put the photograph back in its cramped womb. They walked.
“But the wedding itself, before Purcival showed, was fine. I forget the priest’s name.”
“Jack would be shocked. ‘Thou art to remember the priest forever!’”
Colman laughed.
After fifty yards, Collins said, “Purcival. He’s the man you killed.”
“One of them.”
“I’ve always wanted to ask you, but I never felt I had the right. I think I do now.”
“Then you’re a man, son. I guess I’ve always wanted to tell you. But how to do that without seeming . . .”
“Guilty?”
“Hell no! No guilt at all! I’d do it again! Absolutely.”
Collins stifled a shudder and thought, No man talks of his past in war and tells the truth. Collins recognized his father’s lie—that denial of regret and guilt.
“Anyway, we had a nice wedding up to a point. I wanted you to know.”
“I hope my wedding’s nice, too. At least we won’t be interrupted by the ‘Brits.’”
“That’s the advantage of marrying one.”
The sun shone brilliantly the next day.
An orchestra played the soft bars of its music while the guests arrived at Windemere, the Lindsay estate in Ipswich. A green and white striped tent took up a corner of the lawn, but the chairs, four hundred of them, had been set in rows along the soft incline facing away from it and toward the sea, which was just visible as a thin line of blue above a far ridge. The unmistakable sky of the sea was overhead and the wind brought a peace so deep no chill troubled it.
Maeve was nervous, extremely so. The entire business still seemed wrong to her, but who was she? What did she know? She’d long since learned the chronology of her qualms and the danger of clinging to them past their time. Colman had given her a lot of money for a new gown, a proper yellow one with chiffon sleeves. Her upper arms were not her best feature. She bought a wonderful hat at Bonwit’s with flowers in the band that made her look like Lady Davenport. She had composed herself for this wedding the way Beethoven or someone had composed the tune that orchestra was playing. Whoever heard of an orchestra before a wedding? Before church? But of course, she reminded herself, it wasn’t church. It was the Lindsays’ backyard.
J. Bolton Lindsay was looking out on the expanse of lawn from his study, watching the young attendants usher guests to their chairs. He was composing himself much in the way that Maeve had. A tall, thin man with a modest pencil mustache and a ring of white hair around his bald pate, Lindsay was aware that his friends and to some extent his family considered him an unfeeling man. It was true that he put his faith absolutely in the human faculty of reason, a matter which caused him no religious conflict because he believed with St. John that God was pure logos: that is, Reason itself. Ipsum Ratio. But it was also true that there were moments in one’s life when it required an act of will to grant reason its proper sway over one’s affairs, not to say one’s feelings. As now. It was perfectly reasonable for Janet to marry this young man, who was well educated and whose commitments were admirable and whose prospects were adequate. It was reasonable to alter the tradition of the family to have the wedding here instead of at Trinity, especially so since the Brady faction had put aside the more obnoxious requirements of their religion. In point of fact, J. Bolton Lindsay felt a certain limited pride that the marriage of his daughter should be the occasion of an ecumenical ceremony which could well contribute to the relaxing of Rome’s stringent attitudes and serve as a model for others. Archbishop Cushing and Mr. Colman Brady were to be commended for their relative open-mindedness. Lindsay, too, was an open-minded person. He was preparing himself now for his role as host. He was Lord of the Manor, after all. The Bradys and their friends would never have a hint of the quite unruly emotion he was only now succeeding in purging entirely as his rational faculty resumed its proper authority. And he was the Father of the Bride, after all. Janet, his most beloved child, would never have a hint that part of him—that most troublesome part—was in deep mourning for her. There was nothing he could do about that, because as a consequence of her choice on this day she was already, secretly but essentially, as one dead to him and his family. He lifted his hand idly and touched the pane of glass and remembered how he had adored her. The focus of his gaze shifted from the lawn and its people to his own reflection, into the eyes of which he looked with the immodesty of a god seeing the will he had composed and the mind he had set. All was ready.
