"We can't wait to have him over," she said.
"I know Nicky's looking forward to it too."
The intercom buzzed, and Sister Miriam's voice said, "Personal call on two, Father."
"Tell them to hold."
Professor Calder stood up and gave him a crisp handshake.
"Father Ryan, it's been a pleasure."
"That's mutual, I can assure you, Professor." He shook hands with Mrs. Calder and ushered them into the hall. They knew their way out.
Bill's spirits were high. He had a feeling in his gut that this was it for Nicky—out of St. F.'s and into a home that could nurture his mind, body, and spirit. He felt good about the imminent adoption. This was what it was all about.
On top of that, he had had a call from the Maryland Provincial yesterday to clarify a few items on his curriculum vitae. That could mean that either Loyola or Georgetown were interested in him. Either way he'd be in or near the nation's capital, right in the thick of things.
Nicky, old pal, we're both getting out of here!
He picked up the phone. "Father Ryan."
"Bill, it's Carol. Carol Stevens. I need your help."
Involuntarily he flushed with pleasure at the sound of her voice, even though it sounded tight, tense.
"Something wrong?"
"It's Jim. He's been looking through Dr. Hanley's old journals, hunting for the identity of his mother. I think he's found something that's really upset him."
"What?"
"He won't tell me a thing about it. I'm worried, Bill. He sounds like he's about to explode. We're supposed to talk the whole thing out tonight, but that seems a long time away. I was wondering if maybe you could—"
"I'll call him right now," Bill said.
The relief in her voice poured through the phone. "Will you? Oh, thank you! I hate to impose but—"
"Carol, this is what friends are for. Don't give it a second thought."
After jotting down the number and saying good-bye, Bill sat there a moment with his hand on the receiver, thinking.
Carol again. There didn't seem to be any escape from her. Just when he thought he was getting a handle on his obsession with her, she says a few words to him over the phone and he's on fire again. This had to stop. He had to beat this.
But first he had to see about Jim.
He lifted the phone and hesitated. As a priest he did his share of counseling in the confessional. But those were strangers, and they had initiated the encounter by coming to him.
This was different. Jim was an old friend, and from the sound of it, Jim didn't want to talk about whatever it was that was upsetting him.
Jim… upset. That was hard to imagine. Jim Stevens was usually pretty unflappable.
Except about his roots.
Bill had realized from their conversations during last week's night on the town that Jim's roots were an obsession with him, and thus a vulnerable area of his psyche.
Listen to me: Bill Ryan, S.J., parlor psychoanalyst!
But he had made a point of studying a lot of psychology in the seminary. He had come to see the interplay between the human mind and human emotion as the wellspring of faith. To speak to man's faith, you had to understand its mechanisms. And how better to understand faith than to study the human psyche?
What could Jim have learned to disturb him so?
He felt an unaccountable burst of sorrow for his old friend. Had the diehard, stonewall rationalist come upon something that he didn't want to accept? How sad.
He dialed the number Carol had given him. When he heard Jim's gruff voice on the other end, he put on his best hale-fellow voice.
"Jimbo! It's Bill Ryan. How's it goin'?"
"Just great." The flat tone made no attempt to hide the lie behind his words.
"Getting used to being a rich member of the establishment?"
"Working on it."
"So what's new?"
"Not much."
This was getting nowhere. Bill decided to come straight to the point.
"Find out anything new about your natural parents?"
"What makes you say that?" The words sounded as if they'd been ripped out of Jim—the first sign of emotion he'd shown since he'd picked up the phone.
Bingo.
"Just wondering. When we were out to dinner last week, you seemed satisfied that Hanley was your father and said you were going to comb the mansion for the identity of your mother."
Jim's voice was thick. "Yeah, well, maybe I didn't know as much as I thought I knew."
What's that supposed to mean?
"I'm sorry, Jim. I don't get it."
But Jim had leapt off the subject.
"Just a minute," he said. "Did Carol put you up to this?"
"Well, she's worried, Jim. She—"
"It's okay, Bill. I know she's worried. I haven't been playing fair with her. But I'll straighten things out today… I think."
"Can I help?"
"Bill, I don't think anyone can help."
A terrible, crushing sadness flowed across the line.
"Hey, surely—"
"Gotta go, Bill. Thanks. Bye."
And then the line went dead.
Bill sat there and knew with pitying certainty that his old friend had discovered the roots he had quested after for so long, and was being torn apart by what he had found.
3
Gerry Becker drove along Shore Drive to the Hanley mansion. He found the spike-topped wrought-iron gates closed and no car in the driveway. But that didn't mean Stevens wasn't there. He parked at the curb but remained behind the wheel for a while, staring at the huge place as the afternoon sun warmed the inside of the car and Big Dan Ingram yakked between the records on WABC.
He sat a little longer, basking in the clear March sky's preview of spring until Big Dan started playing "Daydream Believer." The Monkees. Perfect. Four jerks grabbed off the street get fame and fortune handed to them. Just like Jim Stevens. What a bummer!
He figured he should stop putting it off and get on with what he had come to do.
It was crow-eating time.
He pushed the gates open, walked up the drive, stepped up on the front porch, rang the bell, and held his breath.
He hated doing this. After all, the jerk had slugged him in the nose yesterday. So maybe it hadn't been in the best of taste to present the fruit of his whole day's research in that particular way. That didn't give Stevens the right to belt him. Did he think he could get away with that sort of shit because he was rich now?
But he had to stay on Stevens's good side. He wasn't going to let this story and the chance of a wire service pickup go blooey over one misunderstanding. If he had to eat a little crow today to ensure his exclusive on the story, well then, pass the mustard.
But after all this was over and the story was in print under his byline, he'd tell Jim Stevens to fuck off.
The heavy oak door swung open and Stevens stood there, staring at him.
"What the hell do you want?" Jim said.
His tone was hostile but his eyes showed something else. Becker wasn't sure what it was.
"I came to apologize."
"It's already forgotten."
"No, really. That was a stupid thing for me to do. Incredibly bad taste."
"Don't give it a second thought." His tone had gone flat, utterly emotionless.
Hey, this was going better than he had ever hoped. This was easy and damn near painless! He wished he could come in out of the cold, but Stevens kept the door almost closed and made no move to invite him inside.
"That's cool. Really big of you, Jim. So, have you turned up anything new we can put into the article?"
That strange look returned to Stevens's eyes. He said, "Don't give the article a second thought, either, Gerry."
Becker went numb. "I don't get it."