Stained Glass Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Part Two

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Part Three

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Part Four

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  Part Five

  1

  2

  Also by Ralph McInerny

  Copyright Page

  For Mary and Bill Dempsey

  Part One

  1

  Tetzel of the Fox River Tribune sat morosely in the pressroom at the courthouse seriously contemplating taking the pledge. He could remember the night before up to a certain point and then things went blank. He had come awake with a sore neck and a throbbing headache sitting at his desk in the pressroom and had no idea how he had ended up there. His hand lifted to massage his brow and tipped his hat from his head. When he stooped to pick it up off the floor, he nearly blacked out. The hat kept moving away from his groping hand. He sat back in his chair, hatless, and closed his eyes. Someone entered.

  “The top of the morning to you, Tetzel.”

  There was no need to open his eyes to know that it was Tuttle. He heard the little lawyer collapse in a chair whose squeak went through Tetzel’s nervous system like a laser.

  “Stop rocking, damn it.”

  “You’re not feeling well.”

  “Could you whisper?”

  “You should have left when I did, Tetzel.”

  The reporter opened one eye, the one nearer to Tuttle. “Were you there?”

  “Everyone was there.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Just after my curfew.”

  Tetzel considered asking Tuttle where “there” was, or had been, but he was at enough of a disadvantage already. “I feel awful.”

  “Better come across the street.”

  For a remedial drink? Minutes before, Tetzel would have found the suggestion emetic. Now it seemed only sensible. “Hand me my hat.”

  Tuttle swept it up and stood. He put the hat on Tetzel’s head and helped him rise. He guided the reporter down the hall to the elevator, steered him inside, and pressed a button. Tetzel felt that he was leaving his stomach on the floor they had left. His body broke out in a cold sweat. Vague memories of sobriety teased his mind. Once he had been a clearheaded reporter, a model for youngsters, a legend because of the novel he was allegedly writing. They arrived safely on the ground floor; the doors slid open, and Tetzel hung back. Before him, in the lobby of the courthouse, were busy men and women, hurrying this way and that. Tetzel was sure that each and every one of them could give a clear account of the way he had spent the previous night. Tuttle urged him forth, and they crossed the black and white marble squares to the revolving doors. They actually entered together, a tight fit, but Tetzel wondered if he would have dared the door on his own.

  Outside was more normalcy, sunlight, traffic, horns, the usually inaudible roar of the city. Tuttle wisely took his charge to the corner, and they crossed with the light. Ahead lay the friendly confines of the Jury Room.

  Once inside, Tuttle’s grip on his arm loosened and Tetzel moved like a zombie toward a far booth, as far from sunlight as any in the room. At the bar, Tuttle ordered a Coke for himself and a Bloody Mary for Tetzel. The bartender was watching Tetzel. The reporter looked as if he were one of the Flying Wallendas negotiating a rope high above a circus audience. His arms were extended for better balance.

  “He going to be sick?”

  “He is sick.”

  “Put him in the men’s room.”

  “Now, now, Portia, that’s no way to treat a steady customer.”

  “He isn’t steady.”

  “He will be.”

  Tuttle swept up the drinks, called, “Tetzel’s tab,” over his shoulder, and walked carefully to the booth. He put Tetzel’s drink before him and slid into the seat across from him. The reporter was contemplating the Bloody Mary.

  “Tell me about last night.”

  “What’s to tell?”

  “You don’t remember,” Tetzel said accusingly. He lowered his lips to the plastic straw and his cheeks hollowed. He inhaled half the drink before sitting back. A moment passed. Color came back to Tetzel’s face. Another moment and he sighed. “I needed that.”

  Tuttle advised against a repetition of the remedy. With his synapses responding, Tetzel was inclined to dispute the point. Tuttle opened the newspaper he had taken from the bar, turning the pages with an indifference that annoyed Tetzel.

  “Good Lord,” Tuttle cried.

  “What?” Tetzel asked, trying to signal Portia.

  “They plan to tear down St. Hilary’s.”

  2

  Amos Cadbury was the dean of the Fox River bar, seventy-nine years old and thus, as he insisted to himself, in his eightieth year. He was the sole surviving partner of the colleagues with whom he had formed the firm many, many years ago. He had stopped taking new clients a decade before, but he still brought business into the firm, passing new clients on to others with the assurance that they would benefit from the counsel of the oldest member.

  The oldest member. Amos was a lifelong fan of P. G. Wodehouse, and the author’s golf stories had become even more delightful since Amos had put away his clubs and, like the narrator of the Wodehouse stories, was content to sit on the clubhouse veranda watching golfers come and go on the course before him. Just below the veranda was the eighteenth green and, to the right, the first tee. The contrast between those beginning their round and those ending theirs seemed an allegory of life. The first tee is a symbol of hope, the triumph of expectation over experience; the eighteenth green was the supreme moral test as players frowned over their cards and fought the temptation to alter the record of their play. When they directed their electric carts up the path to the clubhouse, the idealists who had driven from the first tee were once more realists, the notion of par a mockery of their skills.

  A foursome had just left the eighteenth green when a ball lofted from the valley below dropped neatly onto the green and then spun backward, stopping mere inches from the hole. Amos waited for other balls to appear, but none had when a young man, his bag slung over his shoulder, came into view. He seemed still fresh and spry, unlike the members of the foursome, who, although they had gone round in carts, might have been breasting the tape at the end of a marathon. The young man was Hugh Devere. He took out his putter, dropped his bag at the edge of the green, and walked to his ball. He left the flag in as he tapped the ball into the hole.

  Hugh was one of the few golfers who would have been allowed to go round as a singleton. His play was sure and swift. Amos wondered how many groups had waved Hugh through, if only for the pleasure of watching the yo
ung man play.

  Amos lifted his gin and tonic in a toast as Hugh approached and was delighted when the young man joined him on the veranda. He took a chair and lit a cigarette.

  “An athlete smoking?”

  “I’m not an athlete, I’m a golfer.”

  “Let me see your card.”

  “Oh, I keep score in my head.”

  “And?”

  “Three over.”

  “Very good.”

  “Probably my last round before I head back to South Bend.”

  Several generations of Deveres had been clients of Amos’s, and all the males, like himself, were alumni of Notre Dame, Amos a double domer, undergraduate then law school. Hugh had gone off to Thomas Aquinas College in California but now had entered the architecture school at Notre Dame, thus salvaging the Devere record. Architecture is an undergraduate program, but, as Hugh put it, now that he had acquired an education, he would prepare himself for professional life. Relieved of the necessity of taking courses outside the architecture school, he would finish his studies at the end of the coming year.

  “Did my dad get hold of you?”

  “This is my day away from the office.”

  “He’s madder than hell.”

  “At not finding me in?”

  “The story in the Tribune.”

  Amos drew on his cigar. It was a feature of his Wednesdays that he read no papers and listened to no news broadcasts. He spent the mornings reading and then had lunch at the club, after which he took up his station on the veranda, where watching other golfers reconciled him to the fact that he himself no longer played. He waited to see if Hugh would pursue the subject, hoping he would not.

  “I can’t believe they will tear it down.”

  Amos remained silent, wishing the alarums and excursions of what was taken for news into deserved oblivion.

  “What will happen to Father Dowling?”

  “Father Dowling?”

  “So you haven’t read the story.”

  “You have the advantage of me there, Hugh. Tell me about it.”

  Amos listened in disbelief. There had been a story in the Tribune concerning the closing down of certain parishes in the archdiocese, and St. Hilary’s in Fox River was on the list of those slated for closing.

  “Dad is up in arms.”

  “Of course. He is a parishioner at St. Hilary’s.”

  “His grandfather donated the windows.”

  Hugh’s was alarming news indeed. The peace of the day dissipated, and Amos finished his drink and got to his feet.

  Hugh did the same. “Well, I’m off to the showers.”

  Amos watched Hugh as he walked away, young and carefree, as if he had not just destroyed Amos’s peace of mind. The venerable lawyer went inside, found a copy of the paper, and read the story, finding it even more upsetting than Hugh’s account. He went into the bar and telephoned Father Dowling.

  3

  Father Dowling was off on his monthly day of recollection and Marie Murkin, a bandanna around her head and wearing an ankle-length apron, was giving the rectory a thorough cleaning. Each time she passed the closed door of the pastor’s study, she fought the temptation to ignore the fact that it was the one room in the house on which she could not unleash her energy. Finally she opened the door and looked in, frowning at the stacks of books on each side of Father Dowling’s reading chair, the chaos on the desktop, the aroma of pipe smoke. That, at least, she could do something about. She marched across the room and pulled up the window, letting in the humid August air. When she turned on the air conditioner in the other window, she noticed Edna Hospers hurrying along the walk from the school where the seniors of the parish whiled away their day.

  What on earth was Edna’s hurry? Clearly she was headed for the rectory, and Marie felt a surge of the old undeclared war between them, the rectory housekeeper and the director of the senior center. Edna had a rolled-up newspaper in her hand, carrying it like a weapon. With some trepidation, Marie went to the front door.

  “Have you seen this?” Edna demanded when Marie opened the door and got out of the way. Edna had the look of a woman not to be denied.

  “We’ll have tea,” Marie said, snatching off the bandanna and freeing herself of her cleaning apron.

  “They’re going to close St. Hilary’s! They’re going to tear down the church, the rectory, everything.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Marie asked, following Edna into the kitchen.

  Edna slapped the newspaper onto the kitchen table and stood staring at Marie, angry tears in her eyes.

  “Nonsense!”

  “Read it.”

  “I’ll put on the water.”

  While she did, Edna began reading the story to her. Belatedly, Marie felt the force of Edna’s message. She stood at the sink with water spilling over the top of the kettle, mouth open in disbelief. The information was attributed to “reliable sources,” and the story concerned the archdiocese’s need to close half a dozen parishes that had been isolated by demographic changes. There, undeniably, the third on the list, was St. Hilary’s of Fox River.

  “Where is Father Dowling, Marie?”

  “This is his monthly day of recollection.”

  “Get hold of him!”

  “Interrupt his only day off in the month. Edna, he’s saying his prayers.”

  “He’d better be or else he may have lots of days off soon.”

  Marie went back to the sink, lowered the level of water in the kettle, and put it on the stove. Later she would remember that her first concern had been herself. She had been housekeeper here before Father Dowling came, a survivor of years under Franciscans she preferred not to think about. The rectory was as much her home as Father Dowling’s, maybe more. The thought that she might be turned into the street after her years of service filled her with dread, and then anger. “Over my dead body, Edna.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “Get out the cups, will you? I have some cherry pie.”

  “Cherry pie! Marie, this is the end of the world and you’re talking of cherry pie.”

  “I wonder if I should call Father.”

  “Of course you should. They can’t do this to him.”

  Father Dowling was spending the day at Mundelein, where he had been a seminarian and which was peaceful and empty before the resumption of classes. He had been assigned the bishop’s room for the day, and the chapel would be all his. Marie remembered the look with which Father Dowling had gone off, several books under his arm, his breviary in his hand. She had asked him if he had his pipe and tobacco.

  “Not today, Marie.”

  That was all, no explanation, but Marie hadn’t needed one. Honestly, she didn’t know what she would do if he didn’t smoke. He ate like a bird, he didn’t drink, he didn’t golf or pal around with clerical friends. The man was an anchorite. Thank God for Phil Keegan’s frequent visits.

  The problem was that she had no telephone number for his room at the seminary. When had she ever had to interrupt his day of recollection? She explained this to Edna. They were at the table now, the tea settling in the pot, slices of cherry pie before them. Edna ate half of hers before she pushed it away. “How can I eat cherry pie?”

  “You were doing pretty well.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  It helped to have Edna acting outwardly as Marie felt within. Still, she wasn’t used to being the calm and rational one in a crisis—and this was a crisis. Marie turned the paper toward her, started to read the story, then pushed it away. She would rather eat cherry pie. In her nervousness, Edna assumed the role of hostess and poured out the tea.

  “Lemon?” Marie asked.

  “Nothing. I’ll drink it straight.” She made it sound like liquor.

  “Edna, I can’t read that story to him over the phone. I can’t just tell him that they’re going to close the parish.”

  “Well, have someone else do it.”

  “Would you wan
t to?”

  Edna assumed a look of dread. “No!”

  Phil Keegan? He was possible, but Marie didn’t like the thought of Phil Keegan running interference for her with the pastor. Then the phone rang, and the problem was solved.

  “Marie,” Amos Cadbury said. “Is he there?”

  Marie could have cheered in relief. Amos Cadbury, of course. He was the perfect one to bring the bad news to Father Dowling.

  “He won’t be back until suppertime, Mr. Cadbury.”

  “You’ve seen this story in the Tribune?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time is supper, Marie?”

  “Can you come?”

  “Marie, I couldn’t stay away.”

  4

  The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius were not designed for a one-day retreat, but, for all that, Father Dowling found the little book written by the founder of the Society of Jesus a good companion as he spent hours in the chapel and other hours reading in his room. The campus was all but deserted, and on his walk from room to chapel and back again he was assailed by sweet memories of student days. Nevertheless, it was all the days between then and now that formed the subject of his meditations. What had the young man he was at the time of ordination thought the future held for him? In retrospect, he seemed to himself a somewhat shallow man, caught up in an unformulated dream of clerical advancement. He had been sent on to graduate school to get his degree in canon law. He had returned to Chicago and an appointment on the marriage court. That experience had been his personal undoing in one sense and the making of him in a more profound sense. Dispirited by those who came petitioning to have their marriages dissolved, annulled, declared never really to have happened, and at a time when annulments were rare to the point of nonexistent, save after years of waiting, he had sought refuge in alcohol. At the time he had been spoken of as a future bishop, first an auxiliary in Chicago, then on to a diocese of his own and then—excelsior, who knew how high he would rise? He had learned how low he could fall.

  Looked back upon, the time he had spent in a Wisconsin haven for priests with a drinking problem had been a second seminary for him. When he emerged, he sensed the attitude of former friends. The offer of St. Hilary’s in Fox River had been made almost with averted eyes. Here was the Ultima Thule of the Archdiocese of Chicago, at its far western border, being offered to the former white hope of the Chicago clergy. It was a parish that had been enclosed by roaring interstates, abandoned by most of its parishioners, all but moribund—and it was there that he had flourished. Signs of life appeared, signs appropriate to the parish. The school was no longer necessary to accommodate the children of the parish; there weren’t enough children there. So he had asked Edna Hospers to turn it into a meeting place for the many seniors in the parish. It had been an unequivocal success, drawing old people from beyond the borders of St. Hilary’s. The population of the parish stabilized; flight to the more congenial suburbs slowed, then stopped. Young couples began to buy the large houses at bargain rates. It was possible to imagine a new day for St. Hilary’s.