“It’s Cardinal Boyle’s fault,” Morgan said.
“Uh-huh. The Red Cardinal,” Carson said. It was a pun popular with Detroit conservatives, particularly the Tridentines. The color peculiar to a Cardinal is the most brilliant red imaginable. But when traditionalists called Boyle, “the Red Cardinal,” they meant “red” as a synonym for Communist. That Boyle was nowhere near in the neighborhood of being a Communist would not deter Carson, who could think of no more entrenched enemy than the godless Communist.
“He should go back to Russia,” Luca said.
“Do you think it was Boyle who gave permission for the whore’s funeral?” Morgan asked.
“Good question,” Carson observed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it went right to the top with all that publicity. That’s a very good question. Dwight,” he turned to Morgan, “why don’t you draft a letter to the Holy Father and tell him that a known prostitute who hasn’t seen the inside of a church since she was a kid gets a Christian burial in Detroit with a bishop presiding.”
“Oh, boy!” Morgan brightened. “That’s a great idea.”
“We’ve done it before and nothing happened,” Luca groused. “I don’t think even the Holy Father is gonna get tough with a Cardinal.”
“Don’t sell the Holy Father short-not this Holy Father,” Carson said. “If we keep him advised about what’s going on in Detroit, eventually he’ll act. I’m positive he will.”
“What’s he gonna do,” Luca asked, “excommunicate a Cardinal?”
“Maybe not,” Carson admitted, “but how about if he kicks him upstairs?”
“Huh?”
“Calls him to Rome,” Carson explained, “Puts him in charge of something not so important-ceremonies or something. Especially after that goddam council, there’s gotta be a lot of Curia offices that don’t do much anymore. It would serve Boyle right. After all, he had a lot to do with the council. Let him stew in his own juice.”
“I still don’t think it’ll work,” Luca repeated.
Carson stretched out a hand and let it drop on Luca’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Angelo, something is going to happen very soon that will make you very happy. In fact, it’s already in the works. And we won’t have to wait for Rome to act.”
Luca looked into Carson’s eyes hopefully. “What? What, Arnie?”
“I can’t tell you, Angelo. I can’t tell anybody. But when it happens-or when it keeps on happening-remember, you heard it here first.”
Morgan’s curiosity also was piqued. “What are you talking about, Arnie?”
“Yeah,” Luca said, “for God’s sake, if you can’t tell us who can you tell?”
“We’re with you, Arnie,” Morgan said. “You know that. Is it you who’s doing whatever it is you’re talking about? You need help. Who else could help you like we could? We want to help!”
Carson smiled smugly. “All in good time. As far as you guys are concerned, pretend I didn’t say anything at all. And you keep what I said to yourselves … got it?”
“Got it,” Morgan said. “But …” His brow furrowed. “… we don’t know what you said.”
“Keep it that way! Swear?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
An attendant leaned into the cubicle. “You okay now?”
“I think so,” Carson said.
“Then you better go on home. We need the space.”
They left, Carson wondering if he had said too much.
6
Sister Joan was the last to leave the funeral home. She had waited until all who lingered after the rosary had offered condolences. The funeral director had assured her that all would be ready for the 9:30 prayer service tomorrow morning at the funeral home followed by the fifteen-minute drive to St. Leo’s for the 10:00 A.M. Mass. She donned her coat and boots and started the drive home. The drive that would be repeated tomorrow morning with her sister as the main attraction, the star of the show.
Helen would like that. She had always conducted herself as the star performer in whatever was going on. It could be sports or amateur theater or dating, whatever: Unbashful Helen was the whole show. And so it would be tomorrow. For the last time, thought Joan, and choked on the unspoken word last.
She must get her mind off Helen and her horrible sudden death. She tried to pay attention to the neighborhood through which she was now driving.
This was easy. She was traveling up Trumbull past Tiger Stadium, whose one and only remaining attraction was the Detroit Tigers baseball team. Once upon a time, the Detroit Lions football team had played here also. The footballers had moved out to Pontiac.
This spot marked the site of professional baseball from shortly after its inception in Detroit before the turn of the century. It was almost hallowed ground. To the baseball purist it was holy ground. Here Babe Ruth and Ty Cobb and Ted Williams and Al Kaline had all excelled in this game that they loved so well.
Sister Joan was not a baseball aficionado, nor was she particularly drawn to sports, but she could appreciate the historical distinction of this stadium.
It was eerie to drive these brightly lit streets, now so barren and deserted. The snow, while it still covered the sidewalks, had been mashed into slush in the streets. In another four months these streets would be alive with people participating in the national pastime in Detroit. Trumbull Avenue and Michigan Avenue and Kaline Drive and Cochrane Street would be teeming with happy folks doing a happy thing.
But that would be later. Right now it was difficult to focus on a happy thought. Her mind was filled with the image of her only sister in a casket. And Helen’s soul …? Joan tried to focus on the words Archbishop Foley had spoken. Words of hope and promise and understanding and forgiveness in a judgment of love.
As she thought back on the events of this evening at the funeral home, she recalled the voice that had spoken so loudly, jarringly. What was it he had said-something to the effect that he could have killed the story?
She hadn’t had to turn around to know whose voice it was. Cletus Bash. She’d heard Father Bash often enough at meetings to recognize the voice and the arrogance it contained. She assumed Bash did not approve of the publicity resulting from her sister’s murder. She was at a loss to know how it possibly could have been handled any differently. Regardless, she was convinced that the primary cause of Bash’s irritation was that he’d been denied yet another opportunity to be featured on camera for the evening news. She was sure she and the others would hear about this again and again in memos and at staff meetings. She could barely wait.
The thought of Bash brought up another memory of this evening-at the very end of the wake service. She could visualize the scene as if she were a third party looking on at the event.
She had been standing with a small group of her nun friends when someone approached to talk to her. It was hard now to place who this person was. But Something told her she should remember.
Of course: It was Father Koesler. And she had greeted him almost as if he were a stranger. She winced. How could she have been so thoughtless! She had to blame it on exhaustion, distraction, preoccupation-the whole darn thing.
She would make it a point the next time their paths crossed to apologize and explain why she had been so distant. She was sure he would understand.
She was home, or very nearly there. Fortunately, she didn’t have to get out of the car to open the garage door. One of the very few luxuries of St. Leo’s was an automatic garage door opener. She pulled in through the open door, parked the car, got out, and exited the garage, starting the door on its downward path as she did so. Pulling her coat collar up tight, she started on the short walk around the corner to the front door.
As she reached the center of the metal fence and angled to take the next few steps to the front door, she recalled that this was exactly what her sister had done just a couple of nights ago. Helen had gotten out of the taxi at this very spot and taken these same steps. The last short walk of her life.