“May I get you something to drink?” the waitress asked.
“Yes,” the Reverend Mr. Quentin Jeffrey answered, “I’ll have a Beefeater martini, extra dry with a twist.”
“Very good. And … miss?”
“Just some coffee-decaffeinated,” Grace Mars, Jeffrey’s companion, said.
The waitress left to fill their orders.
Eyes accommodating to the dim interior lighting of Clamdiggers Restaurant, Jeffrey looked about the room.
Quentin Jeffrey, now in his late fifties, was a permanent deacon of the Roman Catholic Church. Indeed, he was head of the archdiocese’s permanent deacon program. Years previously, he had founded, established, and headed his own public relations firm. In his early fifties he’d sold the firm, becoming enormously wealthy in the process.
He and his wife traveled and, in every way possible, relaxed after the hectic life they had hitherto led. Then, long a faithful Catholic, Jeffrey became interested in becoming a permanent deacon.
The permanent deacon belonged to a diocese or religious order just as did priests. The deacon was ordained to do everything the priest does sacramentally except absolve from sins and offer Mass.
It was no exaggeration to say that Quentin Jeffrey was an invaluable catch for the Church. He had been eminently successful in the secular world. Indeed, on the local scene, as well as in circles beyond, Jeffrey was prominent, a celebrity. That he had chosen the diaconate for his later years added a healthy measure of cachet to a program that had not been widely used in recent centuries.
He had become a deacon in order to work with people on a spiritual level in a parochial setting. He had neither sought nor wanted to head the entire program. But when Cardinal Boyle asked him to take charge of it, he had accepted the responsibility. He considered his commitment to serve in the archdiocese of Detroit to be open-ended. Whatever the archbishop wanted of him, as long as he felt himself competent, he would do.
Then, tragically, his wife contracted pancreatic cancer. Jeffrey took a leave of absence to care for her around the clock. The leave was not of long duration. The cancer advanced quickly and decisively. In a few months, it was over. He returned to his duties in the archdiocese a changed man.
Before he lost her, he’d never quite gauged how much of his life he had shared with her, how much he had depended on her. The loneliness was more profound because where he’d been whole, now he was half.
But life went on. And one of life’s small pleasures was taking his secretary out for a pleasant dinner. It was a reward he gave himself with some regularity. He had no idea how much Grace Mars looked forward to these evenings. He only knew that she was darkly beautiful, an efficient worker, a reliable confidante, and an agreeable companion.
They made an eye-catching couple. He, well-dressed, well-groomed, with leading-man features and sculpted salt-and-pepper hair. She, with dark hair and dark eyes, deep dimples, even teeth, and tight skin. The fact that they obviously enjoyed each other added to the comfortable image they projected.
They were consulting their menus.
“What do you think, Quent?”
He looked up in mock surprise. “In a place like the Clamdiggers, what else? Clams.”
She laughed softly. She knew he didn’t like clams. He disliked all seafood. He was the proverbial meat-and-potatoes eater.
In honor of her reaction, he chuckled. “Okay, we’ll get serious,” he said. “The New York strip has a nice ring to it. And the lady?”
She glanced once again at the menu. “I think I’ll have the Caesar salad.”
“That’s it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No wonder you’re fading away to nothing.” The exchange gave him an opportunity to appraise her figure openly. Her modest dress hinted subtly at the delights beneath.
The waitress returned with a martini and a coffee. Yes, they were ready.to order, and they did.
“I must say I’m relieved that they caught that guy,” she said, turning to one of the more popular topics in the metropolitan area. They had just begun discussing the arrest of David Reading as Jeffrey was parking the car.
He smiled. “Did you feel threatened?”
“I think every woman feels she is in some jeopardy when some nut is out there killing females for no reason.”
“Actually, I don’t think the police have determined whether or not the man had a reason … at least as far as I’ve been able to follow the story.”
Grace shook her head. “It happens so often in this city. Guns, guns, guns, and killing. Sometimes it is completely senseless. Sometimes it’s revenge or intimidation or even accident. But when a couple of women are murdered by the same person, I think all women, especially those of us who work in the city, feel … well … vulnerable.”
Jeffrey was thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose that’s so. Well, at any rate, he didn’t murder two women; they got him before he could shoot the second one. Good piece of police work.”
“You didn’t go to the funeral.” It was a statement rather than a question; both she and Jeffrey had arrived at work on time this morning and she knew the funeral had started only an hour later.
“No, I went to the wake last night. Crowded-but good company for Sister Joan.”
The waitress brought Jeffrey’s salad. Grace’s Caesar salad would be served along with Jeffrey’s entree.
“Speaking of the wake and funeral”-Grace seemed appalled-”did you see that memo from Father Bash? I put it on your desk. About how all major stories must be channeled through the information department? Wasn’t that incredible?”
Jeffrey slowly chewed and swallowed some salad, taking his time about responding. “I beg your pardon in advance, Grace, but Clete Bash is an asshole,”
Grace blushed, though she knew he was. “He is a priest!” She smiled.
“Excuse me, a reverend asshole. Even he must know there’s no way of dictating a story like this. He’s just got a burr under his saddle because Joan’s picture was on TV and Clete Bash was nowhere to be seen.”
“You make it sound as if … as if he wants the spotlight all the time.”
“That’s it exactly, Grace: Bash wants to be important. I don’t think he has the slightest inkling of what an information office ought to be. For Clete it’s merely a springboard for his ego. Sometimes I wonder how far he’d go to inflate his vanity. Without that collar, he’d probably be in a breadline.”
“Quent!”
“Okay, check that: His war record might get him through the door somewhere. But, mind you, he’d be out on his ear in no time once they found out what kind of card player he is.”
The waitress brought their entrees.
“I don’t want to seem presumptuous, Quent,” said Grace, after the waitress left, “but shouldn’t that job have been yours? I mean, with your success in public relations, you seem a natural for the Office of Information.”
“Bash was already in place when I came on the scene.”
“Even so-”
“Our Cardinal Archbishop is not known for firing his employees, or haven’t you noticed? Except for more than adequate cause. And extreme ego needs doesn’t seem to be on his list.”
“Do you think the Cardinal knows?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, for instance,” Grace explained, “I’ll bet the Cardinal didn’t get one of today’s memos from Father Bash.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, you’re right there: Clete knows who’s dealing. Of course, he plays the sycophant to His Eminence. But my impression is that Cardinal Boyle does not get to work early every morning just to set a good example. He knows what’s going on. He knows what sort Bash is. Unfortunately for the rest of us, the Cardinal is able to live with a man like that in his administration.”
“I guess that is unfortunate.”
“The way to survive someone like Bash, Grace, is to have as little to do with him as possible.”
“Even me? After all, I’m only a secretary.”
“Grace, you have my complete and flat-out permission to act as if Father Bash has suffered a sudden and barely-provided-for death.”
They both laughed, and finished their dinner with small talk on more pleasant topics.
Ordinarily, Grace took the bus home from work each evening. Making allowances for the-at best-erratic dependability of Detroit’s public transportation, it was a simple, direct ride from downtown to the far west side of the city.
But on those evenings when she dined with Quentin Jeffrey, he invariably insisted on driving her to her apartment house. Sometimes he would accompany her to her door; other times he would remain in his car but wait until she had entered the building.
Grace tried to read some sort of message into these variables. When he stayed outside the building, did that mean that he was tired of her company? That this would be their final evening together?
When he entered the building, did he want to come into her apartment? He always declined her invitation. Was entering her building a metaphor for entering her body? She had to admit that, remote as it seemed, she enjoyed the fantasy.
Things were far less involved, at least on a conscious level, in Jeffrey’s mind. He was aware of no special reason for either procedure. It was merely that he was invariably concerned for her safety. He would never leave until she was at least within the protective walls of her building. Sometimes, for no perceptible reason, he felt particularly ill at ease about the neighborhood-an unfamiliar car, the front door left slightly ajar, something, anything. At such times, he would walk her to her door. She would invite him in. He would politely decline the invitation. Sometimes he felt quite strongly that he should accept. But he felt even more strongly that he didn’t want to complicate things.
Tonight when they arrived at her apartment building, he parked the car and wordlessly accompanied her up the walk and the stairs to her apartment. For the first time, he took the key from her hand, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.
Later, she couldn’t say why she did it. Maybe because this evening at dinner he’d seemed to share his feelings with her more openly than ever before. Perhaps it was his unique gesture of taking her key and opening the door.
Whatever the case, as he opened the door, she slipped her left hand to the back of his neck and kissed him gently on the lips.
Startled, he pulled back. She immediately sensed that she had misinterpreted the signs. She dropped her hand and moved back, only to be clasped firmly in his arms and pulled forward and upward. The kiss that followed was passionate.
Still locked in their embrace, they began moving through her door, when, without warning, a resident of an adjoining apartment opened his door and stepped out to retrieve his afternoon paper.
For an instant, all three were immobile in mutual embarrassment.
The man swept his paper from the floor and stepped back inside his apartment so hurriedly he almost stumbled. For Jeffrey, the moment was past, the magic gone. But not for Grace; Jeffrey had to peel her arms from his back.
“Come in, Quent, come in,” Grace pleaded. “It doesn’t matter. He went back inside. He can’t see us now. It’s all right.”
“No! Excuse me, Grace. I don’t know what-I’m sorry. My fault entirely. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He stepped away quickly and hurried down the stairs and out of sight.
Grace stood where he’d left her. She waited until she heard the outside door open and close.
He was gone. But not the memory
She entered her apartment, closed the door, leaned back against it, and closed her eyes.
Her imagination began to film a movie. Her neighbor was expunged. She and Quent, still locked together, moved into her room. They kissed, more and more deeply. They moved, as if in adagio, into the bedroom, where their passion overflowed.
Afterward, he held her as, completely relaxed, they basked in each other’s silent company.
Grace held the image all evening in happy contentment.
Quentin Jeffrey did not share her reverie fantasy. Immediately after starting his car, he turned off the heater. It was cold, but he was very warm. God, he thought, I’ve forgotten what it was like. He didn’t linger for any possible reappearance by Grace Mars. He quickly pulled away from the curb.
And then, as was his wont, he assessed the situation.
He had let his testosterone run rampant, even if only for a few moments. He thought he had convinced himself after his wife died that there simply was no outlet for passion in his life anymore. And now an unguarded moment had put the lie to that conviction.
The good news was he’d been able to extinguish the fire before it became a conflagration. At the very least, an affair with Grace Mars surely would contaminate the atmosphere at work. He’d seen that happen so often when he’d been in business. Sex between workers, especially between employer and employee, even if not actually in the work arena, usually led to disastrous consequences.
He hoped that his letting down the protective layers, even so briefly, would not jeopardize the genuine friendship, as well as the business relationship, that had grown between them. He didn’t think it had.
He had been driving with his mind in neutral. He shook his head and opened himself to the present.
There was something scheduled this evening. What was it? A gathering of some sort. Of course! How could he have forgotten poker with the gang? No wonder; after what had just happened-and after what had almost happened-he might well have forgotten his name.
But the game was set to start at 10:00. Later than usual. Perfectly acceptable; he could easily lose himself in a card game. And tonight he needed to get lost.
Here he was now, parked in front of his own home without a clear notion of how he got here. Force of habit, perhaps. There was still almost an hour before the game. Time to go inside and relax a bit.
He left his outerwear in the foyer closet. The thermostat had been programmed to have the house warm for his projected arrival. He poured a generous glass of Glenlivet neat, and slumped into his recliner chair.
He slid a mouthful of Scotch around in his mouth. Cleaning his teeth, he explained to himself. Also permeating his taste buds with that singular, satisfying piquancy.
He contemplated the glass, Martini for dinner and now Scotch. He didn’t used to mix his beverages like this. He didn’t used to drink this much.
Was his drinking becoming a problem? He didn’t think it necessary to admit that. He used to drink with Maryanne, his late wife, but almost always in moderation. A little wine before and with dinner occasionally. A nightcap. Nothing like it was now.
His attention turned to the end table across the room. On it rested a photo of the two of them. It was a posed portrait taken many years ago at a happy time of life. They had health, security, fulfillment, and, most of all, each other.
Now she was gone. And he was left with … what? A bottle?
He felt an urge to go over and turn the picture face down. He couldn’t bring himself to do that; he loved Maryanne too much. Though she was gone she was still a part of him.
And it was this dichotomy, her presence and simultaneous absence, that was tearing him apart.
If only she were alive. Sitting in this room. Now. They would be listening to music, and reading-he the newspaper, she a book. From time to time one would read aloud to the other and they would discuss what they were reading. One of them would say something silly. They would both laugh.
It was so quiet in this house. Not a sound. With the storm windows in, even the noise of the rare passing car was so muffled as to be almost unheard. So quiet. No one to talk to. Not even a companion.
He rose from his chair and walked slowly to the liquor cabinet. He refilled his glass. Not even any ice. He studied the glass again. It was going to be one of those nights when he drank himself to sleep.
No poker tonight; by the time he finished his second glass of Scotch he would be in no condition to play the game up to his usual standard of concentration. Odd; he considered himself capable of driving, but not of playing a game-albeit a game he considered an extension and measure of life.
He dialed the familiar number at St. Aloysius church and left his regrets for the evening on Clete Bash’s answering machine. It was his best shot. Bash would be sure to check his messages before the game. Never can tell when the media might want some information or, better yet, a statement.
He sank again into his recliner.
He was lonely. Terribly, terribly lonely. And it wasn’t just conversation he needed. If there were any doubt, the earlier events of this evening were a pretty clear signal.
Grace Mars was a desirable woman. She loved him. He knew that, even if before this evening he had not consciously acknowledged it. If it were not for canon law, if he were free, she would marry him. He could live very well with Gracie.
His mind was fogging.
Just a few months ago, his doctor had explored his drinking during a regular checkup. They had agreed he was not an alcoholic. Not yet. But his drinking had intensified, and the doctor had warned that this periodic compulsion to drink to the point of unconsciousness could lead to lost time spans-blackouts.
When he was in the mood to be brutally honest with himself, he had to admit that just maybe this had already happened once or twice.
If he were not careful, it could happen tonight.
With deliberate resoluteness he poured the remaining Scotch down the drain and, a bit blearily, turned on the television. It was a game show that, on top of what he had drunk, soon lulled him to sleep.
Before slipping off, he resolved that things would be better tomorrow. Things always looked more hopeful in the light of day.