All Through The Night

20

On Friday, December 11th, Alvirah’s story about the baby left at the rectory door of St. Clement’s seven years ago appeared on the front page of the New York Globe. Almost from the minute the paper hit the stands, the phone calls began to pour into the special number at the rectory that Monsignor Ferris had hastily had installed.

His longtime secretary answered the calls, announcing that she was recording every conversation, and passed on to Monsignor the ones that seemed most likely to warrant further consideration. When he called Alvirah on Monday morning, however, the monsignor sounded glum. “Of the more than two hundred calls we’ve received so far, not one has any merit,” he said. “Unfortunately, a lot of them have been from indignant people saying that they have no sympathy for anyone who left a newborn out in the cold, even if only for a few minutes.”

“Have the police been around?” Alvirah asked.

“The Administration for Children’s Services came by, and the caseworker I talked to was none too happy, believe me. The one thing we can establish is that there’s no record of an unknown infant girl being found dead or abandoned in New York City at that time.”

“1 guess that’s something,” Alvirah said with a sigh. “I’m so disappointed this hasn’t led somewhere. And I thought it was such a good idea.”

“So did I,” Monsignor Ferris said in agreement. “How is the mother doing? Incidentally, I’ve already figured out that she must be that young woman who was around here so often last week.”

“But you still can answer honestly that you don’t know who she is, can’t you?” Alvirah asked with some concern. As usual, she was recording their conversation, just in case Monsignor said something that escaped her at first hearing.

“You don’t have to turn off your mike, Alvirah. I don’t know who she is, and I don’t want to know. By the way, what is this I hear about you hunting for a co-op?”

“My feet are walked down to stumps,” Alvirah admitted. “The Gordons are both nice people, but Monsignor Tom, I’ve got to tell you that while they may he fine at selling real estate, they are not the brightest things God ever put on earth. I swear they can take you into a pokey little dungeon and then tell you it’s charming, and, you know, the crazy part is that they believe it. Then they get all excited when they tell you that instead of the million-two the owner is asking, you can pick it up for only nine hundred thousand dollars.”

“Real estate people have to be enthusiastic about the places they show, Alvirah,” Monsignor Ferris said mildly. “It’s known in some circles as optimism.”

“In their case, try tunnel vision,” Alvirah responded. “Anyhow, I’m off with Eileen to see a place that she says has a spectacular view of Central Park. I can hardly wait. After that I’m going to go visit Kate and try to cheer her up.”

“I wish you would. She keeps reading her copy of Bessie’s will and finding a new way to get her feelings hurt. The latest is that Bessie’s signature was written with such force that the pen almost went through the paper. ‘It’s as if she couldn’t wait to give her house to strangers,’ she said.”

After hanging up, Alvirah sat for twenty minutes, lost in thought. Finally she put on her coat and hat and walked out onto the terrace.

The wind blew against her face, and she shivered, even though she was warmly dressed. I’m a failure, she told herself. I thought I was doing Sondra a favor-now she’s gotten her hopes up, and for nothing. She’ll be even more heartbroken. Her grandfather and boyfriend will be arriving tomorrow, and she has to keep up appearances in front of them as well as practice for the concert on the 23rd.

And I also gave Kate a smidgen of hope that I’d find some way to break this new will, but after looking at just about every empty co-op on the West Side, the only sure thing I came up with is that Jim and Eileen are nice people who must just luck into sales, because they sure don’t listen when you tell them what you want to see.

“Nothing so far,” she admitted sadly to Kate, when she stopped by the townhouse. “But as I always say, it ain’t over till it’s over.”

“Oh, Alvirah,” Kate said. “I think it’s over. What bothers me is that I feel as if I’m living on an emotional roller coaster. I keep thinking of Bessie on that last Monday when I left her sitting there, watching her shows-you know how much she enjoyed One Life to Live and General Hospital-and going on about them, talking a mile a minute, telling me all about each character, and how they were all the time doing these terrible things to each other. And all the time she was planning to do something terrible to me.”

That night Alvirah had one of her crime-solving bouts of insomnia. At one in the morning she finally gave up, went out to the kitchen, made tea and rewound her tape from the beginning.

Hercule Poirot, she thought. Think like him!

At seven, when Willy came out of the bedroom rubbing his eyes, he found a triumphant sleuth. “Willy, I may have a handle on this,” she announced with an excited smile. “It starts with Bessie’s signature on the will. You can’t tell much from a copy. This morning I’m going to march myself right down to probate court and get a good look at the original. You never know what I might find.”

“If there’s anything to find, you’ll find it, honey,” Willy said, his voice still sleepy. “My money’s on you.”