Dead Wrong Page 14

  “Surely. What can I do for you?”

  “Don’t let the dog out of the basement until I’m well out of here.”

  FATHER KOESLER recognized the voice immediately. He was surprised only that Eileen had already acted.

  It was just this afternoon that he’d had the conversation with her and Oona. Ordinarily, Eileen did not move this expeditiously. He hadn’t expected to hear from her for three or four days, maybe even a week or ten days.

  Eileen liked to be very circumspect. Faced with a task like confronting Maureen and convincing her to at least talk to her cousin about confession, it would not have been unexpected for Eileen to write and rewrite a script for her part of the dialogue.

  Koesler could tell, also immediately, that Eileen was distressed.

  “Oh, Father Bob,” she said tremulously, “I’m afraid I’ve spoiled everything.”

  Koesler thought he detected the choking back of tears.

  “Take it easy, Eileen … What’s the matter?” he asked, even though he was quite sure what the matter was.

  “It’s Maureen. Oh, I should have written it out—the script—like I usually do when I’m making a difficult telephone call. I don’t know where my brains are.”

  “Well, what happened, Eileen?”

  But Eileen was not yet ready to forgive herself. “It sounded so simple when you were talking this afternoon. I thought all I’d have to do would be to let her know that you know all about it and that you want to help her. I thought that would be all it would take. But … but … I didn’t …” She was crying.

  Koesler felt so sorry for her. “It’s all right, Eileen. It’s not your fault, whatever happened. Just take it easy and when you’re able then tell me what happened.”

  Several moments elapsed, during which Koesler continued to speak soothingly and Eileen gradually became more composed.

  “She … she was very angry,” Eileen said at length. “More angry than I’ve ever heard her. She wanted to know by what authority we presumed to tell such an intimate secret to you. She said it was her secret, not ours. And that we had no right—none—to violate the trust she had placed in us. Oh, she was so angry! As soon as she started to speak, I knew I was going to fail. But I had no way of preparing myself for all the anger and abuse that she heaped on me. It was awful.” She sounded as if she was going to break down and cry again.

  “Was that all you were able to get through to her, Eileen—just that you and Oona had told me about her situation?”

  “No, not quite. When she got over her first wave of anger, I tried to tell her what you were prepared to do … that you said she wouldn’t have to go to you for confession … that you could arrange for her to see another priest … one who would be kind and welcoming.”

  “And?”

  “And she got even more upset. She just said the obvious—you pointed it out this afternoon—that if she wanted another priest she could find one just as well as you could.

  “And that’s true, you know, especially since Brenda works in the chancery and Mary Lou got that job in a parish. It seems that the girls are in pretty good positions to ask around for just the right priest to hear Maureen’s confession.”

  Koesler didn’t want his disappointment to show through in his tone of voice. Eileen was dejected enough as it was. “You did your best, Eileen. Don’t go blaming yourself. All we’re doing is trying to help. The final move, if there’s going to be one, has got to come from Mo.

  “So … that was it? Anything else? Did you mention that I’d been to see Charlie Nash?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.” Eileen’s voice sounded slightly more upbeat.

  “And?”

  “And Maureen’s attitude seemed to change. She seemed to almost forget her anger and get interested in what I was saying.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “It was odd; at first she seemed just as angry that you would see her former lover as she was that we had confided in you. But then, she started to get more … uh … detached when I told her Mr. Nash had asked to see you rather than vice-versa. She wanted to know what had happened between you two.

  “So I told her, as accurately as I could remember your telling us. And when I got to the part where you said that Mr. Nash looked very bad and that you didn’t think he had very much longer to live, it was as if all her anger sort of dissolved, and she got kind of lost in thought.”

  “Did she say anything then … that you can remember?”

  “Uh … umm … yes. It was just before we hung up. She didn’t say anything to soften or apologize for her earlier anger. But she did say … wait a minute—she did say that maybe it was time.”

  “‘Time’? Time for what?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea. I almost forgot that. It was such a minor part of our conversation. The main part—ninety-nine percent of what she said—was all that anger about the fact that we had told you and now you knew all about her secret.

  “Honestly, Father Bob, that was the essence of our conversation. And that’s what most disturbs me: that part about maybe it being time for … whatever … That came just at the very end. And I really don’t know what she meant by it.”

  Neither did Koesler. But, mostly for Eileen’s sake, he wanted to draw something positive out of the uncertainty. “Maybe,” he said, “maybe the fact that Charlie Nash may be on his last legs is what Maureen has been waiting for. Maybe she’ll think that over and change her mind about coming around fully and going to confession again.”

  “Oh, do you think so?” The relief in Eileen’s tone was almost tangible. “Do you really think so?”

  “Could be. Let’s let this stew a bit and see what happens. Particularly if there should be some crisis in Nash’s physical condition, I might just try phoning Mo myself. It might just prove to be the opening we’ve been looking for.”

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Eileen enthused.

  “Yes, indeed it would,” Koesler agreed. “Let us pray.”

  With that, and with Eileen feeling much better, they ended their conversation.

  KOESLER REALIZED that he was responsible for Eileen’s temporary euphoria. But, he quickly decided, there was no harm in that.

  Deep down, he didn’t really have much hope that Maureen’s reaction to news of Nash’s failing health would lead her back to the sacraments.

  Whatever that reaction signified, it was an interesting development. For a very long time that evening, even after he retired, Father Koesler continued to ponder what it could mean.

  “Time.” Time for what?

  C H A P T E R

  14

  OF COURSE the doorman knew Ted Nash on sight. The liveried gentleman also knew that young Mr. Nash was expected by the elder Mr. Nash. However, no one had mentioned a priest.

  It was a nasty moment of decision. Should he simply wave young Teddy and his priest companion through? The doorman’s predecessor had done that once. The caller in question was a beautiful young lady who had visited Mr. Charles any number of times. It was obviously an oversight; the doorman exercised his practiced judgment and allowed her to accompany the others, each of whom had been specifically listed for admission.

  He never had the opportunity to admit another visitor. He was discharged forthwith. He was unable to obtain another position until he finally found work in Canada.

  On the other hand, Ted Nash’s short fuse was notorious.

  It appeared to be a no-win dilemma.

  Then, in an inspired moment, the doorman smiled. “Just let me call upstairs and make sure all is ready for your visit.”

  Even that conciliatory stratagem almost detonated Ted Nash’s temper. It did the waiting doorman’s sanity no favor when Charlie Nash’s houseboy left him hanging while he checked with his master. By the time Charles Nash had second thoughts on the subject, and word came down to admit the priest, the doorman stood in a welter of sweat.

  In the elevator on the way up to the penthouse, Father Deutsch ventured, “Are you sure
this is okay? I’ve never met your father, and he wasn’t expecting me. Did you see the look on the doorman’s face when I showed up with you? And that call to your father’s place—he wasn’t checking to find out whether your father was ready for us. I just missed by a hair’s breadth being left to cool my heels in the lobby while you went up alone.”

  “Yes, I noticed all that. I also noticed that Dad had to think about it a while before he evidently agreed to see both of us. But,” he added, “I expected this to happen.” He grinned. “Otherwise I would have ripped the hide off that doorman for making us wait.”

  “I’m still not so sure this is a good idea,” Deutsch persisted. “Your father didn’t invite me. And I’ve heard that nobody enters his presence without a clear and specific invitation.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I think it’s—yes, providential, that Dad wants to see me now. And to make sure divine Providence is operating, I have you along.”

  “But there’s no indication—”

  “The indication”—Nash never lost his temper with Deutsch, but he was perilously close to doing so now—”came to us in the form of Father Koesler.”

  “Koesler? But—”

  “My father has even less to do with Koesler’s kind than we have. Yet Dad actually invited that aging maverick to see him. I think Dad knows the end is near. And I want you to be available and on the spot the moment he asks for the sacraments.

  “If that doesn’t happen tonight, well, that’ll be God’s holy will. But at least Dad’ll be familiar with you … so that when he needs and wants you, you’ll be there, and he’ll be comfortable.”

  Deutsch shook his head. “I don’t know …”

  “I do!” Nash said emphatically.

  The question was settled; Deutsch knew it would not be wise to pursue the matter.

  The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and they stepped out into the tiny vestibule.

  Father Deutsch eyed the closed door, the obvious entrance to the apartment. “Do we just go in?”

  A sardonic smile briefly crinkled Teddy’s mouth. “No one, nobody, ‘just goes in’ Dad’s place.”

  The door opened, revealing an Oriental houseman in what appeared to be “hospital whites,” which were immaculate.

  The two men stepped into the room.

  It was, of course, Deutsch’s first visit. But unless his eyes were able to adjust to the dim interior, he wasn’t going to see enough to write home about.

  It was a huge room, that much Deutsch could tell. In the early evening, the lighting was remote and indirect. The picture windows, which stretched the length of one wall, and partway along another, revealed the river, Belle Isle and Windsor, twinkling lights, and the rush-hour traffic plowing homeward.

  After taking in what little he could distinguish, Deutsch noted the servant leaving by a door in the far side of the room. After a few moments he returned, guiding a wheelchair noiselessly across the room straight up to the waiting men. Then he took the visitors’ coats and hats and departed.

  Deutsch had spent all but a few years in the Detroit area; like almost everyone else, he was acutely aware of Charlie Nash. Now he was astonished at the man’s appearance.

  Until about fifteen years before, when he retired in favor of his son, Charlie Nash had been very much in the news. His photo ran in newspapers, magazines, and on television. He was involved in everything from celebrity functions, to ground-breakings, to court appearances when he was being sued—and regularly winning the judgment—or defending the destruction of wetlands.

  Deutsch remembered him as a dashing figure equally at home in a dinner jacket or a hard hat.

  But all that had little to do with this pathetic, wrinkled creature apparently confined to a wheelchair. Deutsch had deliberately to remind himself that he and Charlie Nash were about the same age— in their middle seventies. The priest recalled shaving this morning. No, the image in his mirror had not looked at all as decrepit as the senior Nash.

  Now Deutsch understood why Ted had wanted him to come tonight. Over many long years, Deutsch had ministered to a long, long list of dying people. Charlie Nash qualified. Ted had been wise in bringing them together.

  “How are you feeling, Dad?”

  “Well as can be expected,” Nash replied, borrowing the routine hospital response.

  “This is Father Deutsch, Dad.”

  Nash looked the priest up and down. Deutsch was unsure whether to extend his hand. The question was resolved; Nash made no move whatsoever to shake hands.

  “So,” Nash said, “this is the deacon.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Nash, I’m—”

  “It’s Dad’s way of embarrassing me. He calls all priests deacon. But only when I’m around.”

  “Well, Deac …” Nash began.

  “He also abbreviates,” Ted interjected, “but generally only when he’s feeling good about something, or when, for whatever reason, he likes the priest.”

  “Well, Deac,” Nash began again, as if his son had said nothing, “I’ve caught your show.”

  “My …?”

  “The service—Friday mornings!” Nash’s tone took on a decidedly pedantic quality. Deutsch could see where Teddy got his quick temper. But the priest suspected the son was no match for the father.

  “Oh,” Deutsch said, “the Mass. But I thought that was on closed circuit, just to Nash Enterprises offices.”

  “Father Art,” Ted said, “there is not very much going on at Nash Enterprises that escapes my father.”

  “Not anything,” Nash corrected.

  “I certainly didn’t mean to imply that you should be excluded from anything,” Deutsch said. “In fact, if there is anything I can do for you … if there’s any help I can extend, uh, spiritual, of course …”

  “Don’t push it, Father Art,” Ted cautioned.

  Charlie Nash was making some indefinable sound deep in his throat. It could have been laughter as well as choking.

  “Mr. Nash,” Deutsch said, “is there something …?”

  Still croaking, Nash waved his hand to indicate all was in control, though it certainly didn’t seem so.

  “Deac,” Nash said when he could finally articulate, “you think I let you come up here because I was worried about my ‘immortal soul’?” The noise began again. This time a tear or two wended its way through the wrinkles in the old man’s face.

  “Dad,” Ted said, “he’s only being solicitous, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Solicitous!” Nash hacked. He tried to force himself to breathe normally. After much effort, he was able to manage a wheeze that, for him, was close to normal.

  “No, no, Deac,” Nash said, “don’t count on hanging my spiritual scalp from your belt.” He turned to his son. “You know you shouldn’t have brought him, don’t you?”

  Ted shrugged. “It was worth a chance. Let’s be open: You’re not all that well, and one of these days you’re going to have to get serious about what comes next.”

  “What comes next,” Nash almost roared, “is death! What comes next is death! What is it about the word that frightens you, Teddy? Can’t you say the ‘D’ word?”

  “Very well”—Ted’s tone took on nearly the same vehemence as his father’s—”death! It can’t be around too many more corners for you. It’s long past time that you should’ve started preparing for death.”

  “I am.” Nash may have been smiling. It was difficult to tell. He fished around in a pocket of his wheelchair, came up with a cigarette, and lit it. Immediately, he began to cough as if he would bring up his insides.

  Deutsch was horrified.

  Ted, who had been through similar exhibitions many times before, looked on stoically.

  When the coughing abated, Nash held the cigarette up as if it were show-and-tell. “This,” he said, “is how I’m preparing for death. Nothing else has been able to kill me. Let’s see what the weed can do.”

  “Come off it, Dad,” Ted said. “You’re a Catholic. You raised me Catholic. Yo
u know what I mean. You should be preparing for what comes after death.”

  Nash’s eyes narrowed. “Your mother raised you Catholic—super-Catholic, come to think of it.” He cackled briefly. “I didn’t raise you Catholic. I was stuck with it, being Irish and all. I raised you to be a businessman. And I didn’t do such a goddam bad job, if I say so myself. Your mother almost ruined my creation. If she hadn’t been so off-the-wall holier-than-thou, she might have succeeded.”

  It took a moment for Ted to swallow what he considered a gratuitous insult to his mother. “If you didn’t want a priest,” he said, “why did you let Father Art in? Granted, you didn’t invite him and I was taking my chances by bringing him along. But you could and— by damn—you would have ordered him to stay downstairs, or to go home, for that matter. But you didn’t. You let him come up with me. Why? Why!” Ted finished on a victorious note. “Why, if you are so unconcerned about your soul, about death, about the hereafter?”

  Nash licked his lips but didn’t seem to moisten them. “Would you gentlemen care to be seated?” As he spoke, he pushed a button on the chair’s arm.

  The white-garbed young man entered the room. Wordlessly, he moved two spartan-looking chairs from the shadows of the wall to a spot nearby and facing Nash. Then, as silently as he had entered, he departed.

  Ted and Deutsch seated themselves. The priest immediately began shifting about, seeking an endurable position.

  “No reason you should be more comfortable than I am,” Nash commented. He would make no effort to make them feel at ease.

  “So,” Nash said to either his son or the priest, “you thought I let a priest in here to prepare me for eternity. Now, why would I do a thing like that?”

  “To ask God’s forgiveness for your sins before it’s too late,” Deutsch said righteously.

  “Sins?” Nash raised an eyebrow.

  “Just a few minutes ago, you used God’s name in vain,” Deutsch pointed out.

  Once again there was that guttural cackle deep in Nash’s throat. “God’s name in vain! If I was worried about my sins, that one would be the least of my worries, as you two soon may discover for yourselves. No, I’ve got other plans for the deac here.”