It was about to happen once more, God help him. Benbow didn’t want to go over it again, but he was going to. He recognized the signs.
He found himself paying less attention to the detective who was interviewing him. That was dangerous. Most of the questions were routine, background information; but, at any moment, the cop could slip in a trick question. That’s what cops were supposed to do. That’s what they did in Benbow’s books. The clever cop versus the clever crook. The cop always won in the end. That, of course, was fiction.
Because this question session could prove to be important, possibly crucial, Benbow wanted to pay attention. He simply was unable to do so. Memory was taking over. He was grateful that he’d been through this reminiscence so often that it was like seeing the same movie for the umpteenth time. He could play the tape, all the while paying minimal attention to the interview. He would have to rely on his instincts, which remained sharp, to alert him to any hazard the interview might generate.
Every age of man has its own peculiar problems. For purposes of this excursion, Benbow’s thoughts returned to his final year at Northwestern University.
How tortured and indecisive he’d been in the face of the choice between the ministry and a career in law. His family had a proud history in the legal profession. Going back to his great-grandfather there were attorneys and judges sprinkled through the legal and judicial system, from the practice of civil and criminal law to the Supreme Court of Illinois, to the Circuit Court of Appeals. His family quite naturally took it for granted that young David would take his place- and it promised to be a prominent place-as a barrister. One with a promising future.
Clouding this assured picture was the magnetic pull of the priesthood of the Anglican Church.
What attracts a young person to the ministry? Lots of things, increasing as one matures. With David it began when, as a small boy, he was taken to services by his parents on a regular basis. He was not the sort who had to be dragged to church. He was naturally fascinated by the ritual, the vestments, the music, and the unique ambience when all of that was mingled with the distinctive use of incense. Only occasionally was he attentive to a sermon. In time, he came to realize that nearly everyone shared that attitude toward sermons. And that, while ritual had enjoyed centuries to develop and ripen, sermons were only as good as a preacher’s weekly ruminations.
In his more mature years, deeper, more substantial realities of the priesthood beckoned.
Priests did all the engaging things David as a child had found compelling. They ministered to the sacramental life, they presided over Eucharist, they wore impressive costumes, they were shown respect quite universally.
But they also had entree into people’s deepest psyches. They instructed, they counseled. Priests were well advised to expand their psychology skills to be able to field more and more complex cases before needing to refer a client to a professional psychotherapist.
The more David considered a religious vocation, the more natural it seemed to be his life’s vehicle. He made his decision.
His family greeted his determination with varying degrees of opposition, resistance, and contravention. He was throwing aside a career in law that was made for him and he for it. He was sacrificing meaningful financial security to the detriment of a family that would one day depend on him. He was proving a deep disappointment to his father, his grandfather, many of his uncles, and their country club cronies. If he insisted on being so goddam charitable there were plenty of pro bono cases out there he could tackle. What was so goddam demeaning about a career in law anyway? It got nasty.
Through it all, he remained steadfast. Eventually, led by the gracious persistence of his mother, the family came around. It was not so much the acceptance of his chosen calling as it was the reluctant resignation to the inevitable. Trying to make the best of a most unhappy situation, his father, followed by uncles, aunts, and cousins, had to admit that the life of a clergyman was not as bad as many another such as, say, a tennis bum or similar sort of derelict.
Then came Martha Clarke. She was by no means David’s first girlfriend. Not even the first about whom he was serious. He was a most attractive and desirable young man. Tall and blond, with classic features; well built, though not athletically gifted enough to make any of the varsity teams, he attended many of their games and was a standout participant in many intramural sports, especially tennis and golf.
Above and beyond this physical charm and magnetism, there was the special appeal his future promised. It was no secret on campus that his family was larded with jurists, all with impressively lucrative careers.
Photos of various Benbows appeared regularly in the newspapers and local magazines. They qualified as visits with the rich and famous. In these “quality of life” sections of the daily press, in society columns that noted who attended which social function, it was rare that one or another of the Benbow names was not prominent in boldface.
And all of this one day would be David’s. And his wife’s. The line of those who yearned to be young Benbow’s wife-elect was extensive and cosmopolitan.
However, as David confided his hitherto secret desire to enter the ministry, one after another of these ladies-in-waiting bade him fond adieu. By the time it became fairly common knowledge that he was not going to become an attorney but a clergyman, as far as those Northwestern coeds who had been vying for him, he might just as well have been inducted into a celibate priesthood.
Enter Martha Clarke.
Martha was a slow bloomer. Unlike many another young lady on campus, she was serious. Serious about social concerns, serious about religion, serious about commitment, and, above all, serious about her studies. She was serious about nearly everything before David became serious about almost anything.
Thus, as David zeroed in on his religious vocation, became a more mature young man, and watched his friendships change both in quantity and quality, he was, without design, moving into Martha’s circle.
Years, even months, before they met, the chemistry would have been all wrong for David and Martha. Now it was near perfect. She could not imagine a husband more ideal than one who was serious about the truly important things in life and who was willing to pledge his future by entering the ministry.
They were together as often as possible, and they talked incessantly about their future. It was Martha’s decision, after some typically deep thought and prayer, to abandon her pursuit of a degree and get a job to support them while David was in the seminary.
At first, David vehemently opposed her sacrifice. In the end, he had to capitulate. While his family was beginning to tolerate the notion of his clerical ambition, their indulgence did not extend to supporting him-let alone his wife-while he pursued his goal. The seminary would require his total investment of time and energy. There seemed no alternative to Martha’s plan. She would work, he would study.
She chose real estate, principally because, irrespective of gender, there was virtually no ceiling on one’s prospects in that field. There was no perceived limit on how many houses one could sell if one worked at it in a dedicated manner. And dedication was mother’s milk to Martha.
So they were married.
Since Martha’s parents were dead, David’s father bent far enough to provide a splashy wedding for them. But shortly thereafter, cold reality set in. She worked, he studied. Both played their roles diligently. In time, David was ordained and assigned to an upper middle-class parish on the outskirts of Chicago. At this point, it became possible for Martha to withdraw from the business world and become a homemaker. Something she would of course have done with dedication.
But it was a little too late for that.
Martha’s diligence had begun to pay off handsomely and literally. She was earning David’s salary many times over. And it did come in handy-although, as often as he allowed himself to think of it, it did tarnish his self-image.