Man Who Loved God

Six

A commotion at the apartment door signaled the arrival of other guests as well as several photographers-if one could judge by the equipment they carried.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Adams called to the new arrivals, “come in. Thanks for arriving so promptly.”

The photographers began checking the room’s lighting and their equipment.

Adams turned to Father Tully. “Remember my telling you that my main job is to be visible? This is one of the ways I can do just that. This week our faces-but mostly mine-will appear in the newspapers. Readers may forget that I was given an award. But they’ll remember that my picture was in the paper … again.

“Jack, Lou, Martin …” Adams called over his executive vice presidents. “Come on over and get in the photo. Al, Nancy, you come too.”

As the members of the group gathered and composed themselves as part of the tableau, they introduced themselves to Father Tully. The priest was grateful for their name tags: they would jump-start his memory if the names failed him during the evening.

“Father Tully …” Adams’s gesture indicated his three top executives. “… it’s mi casa, su casa. Our homes and our offices are open to you throughout your stay here.” The execs murmured assent without much enthusiasm.

There was little jockeying for position. Though everyone knew that the further one stood from the core couple, Adams and the priest, the more likely one was to be trimmed from the published photo, they also knew their place in the scheme of things. The pecking order held.

The plaque was brought to Father Tully, who presented it to Adams as the cameras clicked, whirred, and flashed.

“I know you’ll want this to be brief, Mr. Adams,” the priest said. “Peter Claver, a Jesuit priest who lived from about 1580 to 1654, gave himself without stint to the service of African slaves. He lived and died their generous servant. In his example, Mr. Adams, you have given your time and interest. Your contribution to our work has been constant, bounteous, and, I think, even extravagant. It is with great pleasure that I present you with this award from your grateful friends, the Josephites.”

A beaming Tom Adams accepted the plaque. “Of all the honors and awards I have been given, I assure you I value and prize this”-he raised the plaque slightly-”more than all of them. It shall have an honored place on my wall and in my heart-”

Another commotion at the door. A smiling, somehow feral Mrs. Al Ulrich made her entrance.

The mood was broken. With a frown, Adams quickly concluded. “Please, everyone, make yourselves at home. And on behalf of our banking family, please make our guest, Father Zachary Tully, welcome.”

The photographers checked the names of those whose pictures they’d taken. One even bothered to check the spelling of Claver. They shouldered their gear and left.

Adams got the welcome wagon moving by introducing Father Tully to the others in the photo group. The priest read the name tag of each as he or she was introduced.

Actually, he didn’t hold too great a hope that he would remember everyone. On the other hand, why would he have to? Outside of getting to know Tom Adams better, as well as going along with anything Adams wanted from the Josephites’ representative, the priest planned on spending as much time as possible with his newly discovered family.

But, for now, Father Tully shook hands with each person as introduced. There was Lou Durocher, vice president for mortgage and lending; Jack Fradet, the comptroller, vice president in charge of finance; Martin Whitston, vice president in charge of commercial lending. Then came the two hopefuls: Nancy Groggins with her husband, Joel, and Al Ulrich, whose wife, Barbara, had just finished making a production of having her wrap taken by an attendant.

The only ones now left for Father Tully to meet were the vice presidents’ wives, and, of course, the tardy Barbara.

The three vice presidential wives formed a pod. Whether openly or obliquely, they were studying Barbara Ulrich.

“What in the world is she dressed for?” said Pat Durocher. “She looks like she just stepped off Cass Avenue.”

“Oh,” said Lois Whitston, “let’s be more realistic and make her a five-hundred-dollar hooker.”

“Well her dress is certainly eye-catching,” said Marilyn Fradet, who always tried to say something nice about others. “That black sheath moves every time she does. Sometimes it moves while she’s perfectly still-as if it had a life of its own.”

“Please, Marilyn,” said Pat, “don’t use the word ‘perfect’ in any reference to sweet Babs.”

“And,” said Lois, “what’s with that question about who she’s dressed for? She’s dressed for our husbands.”

“What about her own husband?” asked Marilyn. “He’s right here. She couldn’t be making a play for anybody else … not when her own husband is right here! Could she?”

“She could and she does … and she is,” said Lois. “Everybody knows they haven’t slept together for months-maybe a year or more. But that doesn’t mean she’s given up ‘sleeping’-”

“Our boys are giving us the eye,” said Marilyn hastily, glancing surreptitiously at the three VPs. Marilyn was ill at ease with personal gossip. “C’mon, gals, let’s play in the appetizers.”

Father Tully excused himself and moved toward the VP wives. Conscious that Adams wanted his opinion on whether Ulrich or Nancy Groggins should become manager of the new branch, the priest aimed to cut through the small talk with the others so he could concentrate on Ulrich and Groggins.

“Mulatto,” Martin Whitston said, once Father Tully was out of, earshot.

“Mulatto?” Lou Durocher was unsure of the reference.

“The hair,” Whitston explained. “Tight to the skin. The lips and nose. Definitely Negroid.”

“But with his coloring,” Jack Fradet said, “he definitely could pass.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Durocher asked insistently.

“The priest,” Fradet said. “Father, uh, what was it?… Tully? Definitely a mulatto.”

“What difference does it make?” Durocher asked.

“It doesn’t make a bit of difference,” Fradet answered. “He shouldn’t be in town for more than a few days. He’ll be out of our way in no time.

“But that …” He nodded toward Barbara Ulrich, who was making her way toward Tom Adams.” That makes a difference. Can either of you guys find a flaw in that fuselage?”

Silence as the three engaged in their study.

“Look at those shoulders,” mused Whitston. “That’s the one thing I don’t like about otherwise knockouts: broad shoulders.”

“She’d have to have shoulders that size to keep those hooters up,” said Fradet. “And look at them. A bra, any kind of bra, would be superfluous. Anybody think she’s wearing a bra?”

Two heads shook simultaneously.

“And the waist! What did they used to call that?” Whitston queried. “Wasp waist-that’s it! Look how it highlights the soft curve of her belly. Magnificent!”

“How can you call her belly magnificent when you get a glimmer of those hips? See how they move when she walks. Makes you want to grab! I should say,” Fradet observed.

“And legs that don’t quit,” said Whitston. “Can you see how that dress outlines her thighs? Man, what a package!”

“And we haven’t even mentioned her face and her hair,” Durocher said. “Those full lips and fun-loving eyes.”

“Who gives a damn about her head?” Whitston snorted. “I think I could fool around with the rest of her forever.”

“Women’s bodies …” Durocher waxed philosophical. “Did you ever notice how, like in ice shows-dancers on ice … the Olympics, like that-the costumes? The men are always fully clothed, while the women wear just enough not to be naked. But with the cut of what they wear, they might just as well be.”

“Time to break this up and join our wives,” Whitston said. “You know it’s time to break camp when Lou starts in on the heavy stuff. Cover up the men and let the women show what they’ve got, I say. Vive la difference!”

“Yeah,” Fradet agreed. “The little ladies are glaring at us. Oh well, an anatomical study of Babs Ulrich is worth whatever we have to suffer now.

“Let’s go.”

Father Tully paid his respects to the three VP wives. To a woman, they were far more taken with the hors d’oeuvres than they were with him. So, causing barely a ripple, he raised anchor and moved on.

As he gazed about the room, Father Tully spotted Barbara Ulrich talking with Tom Adams. Just before turning to leave him, she reached up and straightened the white handkerchief in his breast pocket. Was it his imagination, Father Tully wondered, or had she inserted a piece of paper in the pocket?

One message delivered.

As she completed her turn away from Adams, Barbara was face to face with and only a short distance from Father Tully. He held out his hand. She took his fingers lightly, briefly. They introduced themselves.

“Now, what was it you were supposed to do?”

“Present the award to Mr. Adams.”

“Oh yes: the Peter Favor Award.”

“Claver.”

“Whatever.” She thought for a moment. “He gives your group lots of money, doesn’t he?”

“Mr. Adams has been quite generous.” Why, he wondered, should he find that question embarrassing?

She giggled. “I suppose you’re the reason his marriage broke up.”

“Hardly!” Embarrassment gave way to umbrage.

“Mickey used to give him trouble about all his donations. That’s why he split. He must have given a lot of that money to you. That’s why you gave him the award. So, instead of a wife, he’s got another plaque.” She giggled again, gave him a limp wave, and strolled away.

Somehow, for at least a few seconds, Barbara Ulrich had made Father Tully feel like a home-wrecking leech.

He heard a throat clearing behind him. He turned to face a smiling Nancy Groggins. They had been introduced when the pictures were being taken, but this was their first opportunity to actually converse.

“She’s something!” Nancy said.

“She certainly is,” Father Tully agreed.

“Did you notice her slip something in Mr. Adams’s pocket?”

“That was it, eh? I thought she might have been arranging his handkerchief. All in all, whatever it is, I thought it was a gesture halfway between wifely and sisterly.”

“‘Sister’ is not a title that fits Babs the way her dress does none of the women here would consider her a sister in the feminist context. And the men-in one glance-would know better.”

“Why would she do something like that? Such an intimate gesture, I mean?”

“Follow the money trail, Father. Her husband and I are up for the same position: manager of the new branch. It wouldn’t be any more money than we’re making now. But success at that position in that locality could mean a lot more to whoever gets it-and makes a success of it. And I firmly believe either Al or I could do just that.”

“I’m completely in the dark here. What might this position mean for the winner?”

“I-or Al-might displace one of the executive vice presidents. And don’t you think for a moment they’re not considering that possibility.”

“And an executive vice presidency would mean, that much more … financially?”

Nancy raised her eyes. “Roughly three to four times what we’re making now.”

Father Tully whistled softly. He never ceased to be amazed at the attraction high money circles held for so many people. It was almost literally a different world from that inhabited by priests and religious who worked with Christ’s poor. “That much!”

Nancy nodded. “Of course, financially, I don’t need the job as much as Al does. Only because my husband is in construction. He makes about what these VPs make.”

“And Mrs. Ulrich?”

“She’s not employed. Of course, if she ever wanted to really cash in on what she’s good at-never mind; I don’t want to go into that with a priest.”

“Well … what separates you and Al?”

“He’s white and I’m black. And it’s a black neighborhood. It’s a tough ’hood too. Are you going to confront that toughness with a feminine or a masculine personality? There are lots of intangibles. ‘We each have our own style of business, of employer/employee and customer relationships. We’re both successful where we are.

“Which of us stands a better chance in this new location? It comes down to a decision based on all these things and anything else the arbiter considers. And it’s Mr. Adams’s call.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Father, I really should mingle.”

They parted with a handshake.

Father Tully looked about. He had greeted, at least cursorily, nearly everyone. Right now there was no one nearby to meet. Host and guests had visited or were visiting the hors d’oeuvre table.

The three VP wives had clustered, balancing small helpings of appetizers in one hand and a drink in the other. Tom Adams was working the room. In a nice ecumenical move, Nancy Groggins chatted with Al Ulrich. Barbara Ulrich was flitting from one flower to the next. At the moment Father Tully spotted Barbara, she was shaking hands with Lou Durocher. Durocher exhibited only momentary surprise to come away from that greeting with a note in his hand. Which he immediately slipped unread into his pants pocket.

Second message delivered.

Just beginning his trek down the appetizer board was Al Ulrich. Father Tully reflected that he had talked with Nancy, the other candidate. And that Mr. Adams had asked his opinion on the two hopefuls. He joined Ulrich in line.

Ulrich looked up, did a doubletake, and smiled. “I haven’t had a chance yet, Father, to thank you and your order for honoring our boss.”

“Not at all. If anyone deserved the award, it’s certainly Tom Adams.”

“You just met him for the first time tonight, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be in town for a while?”

“About two weeks. I’m filling in for a local priest so he can go on vacation.”

“I hope that doesn’t tie you down too much. What I mean is, I hope you’ll get a chance to get to know Mr. Adams. He really is a terrific guy-above and beyond his financial contributions.”

As Ulrich selected another appetizer, Father Tully looked up to see Barbara Ulrich hand a paper napkin to Jack Fradet. Apparently the napkin contained a note of some sort. Fradet slipped it into his pocket.

Third message delivered.

Father Tully began to wonder about these missives. Did Mrs. Ulrich have one for everybody? Were they like party favors or fortune cookies? Strange.

Returning his attention to the table, there before the priest was a large platter containing an ample supply of deviled eggs, one of his favorite morsels. Would anyone notice if he went overboard? He slipped five onto his plate.

Ulrich chuckled. “Like ’em?”

“Well, yes, now that you mention it.”

They moved down the table.

“Speaking of liking,” said Father Tully, “it seems pretty clear that you like Tom Adams.”

“I’ve never met anyone like him,” Ulrich responded. “I mean, I’m not a particularly religious person. And I tend to be skeptical of people who wear their religion oh their sleeve.

“But it’s not like that with Mr. Adams. He puts himself and his pocketbook where his mouth is. I think if he could, he’d be the manager of the new branch himself. Of course, that’s not possible.”

“Speaking of that”-Father Tully, finished at the hors d’oeuvre table, stepped aside with Ulrich-”isn’t this some kind of cruel and unusual treatment to keep you and Nancy Groggins on tenterhooks over that job?”

Ulrich reacted as if he himself had been challenged. “Certainly not! This is a difficult decision. There’s a lot riding on this new branch. We aren’t one of the conglomerate banks. We’re taking a big risk opening in that part of town. If we succeed, we’re going to be a lot stronger. The city of Detroit needs a lot of this type of financial commitment. It needs a presence like ours.”

“And if this move fails?”

Ulrich shook his head. “The biggies will laugh us out of town. They’ll pretend that it would take the clout only they could deliver to make this work. It would weaken our position in communities where we’re already established. It would be a disaster for us. We really can’t afford to fail.”

“And it makes that much difference … who the manager is?”

“The manager sets the tone-or should. The policy of the banking unit. The measure of contact with our customers. That’s basically the role of the manager.”

“You sure you’d be the better choice?”

Ulrich’s smile was slightly twisted. “Nancy is qualified. So am I. I would never claim that Nancy couldn’t do the job. I think I could do it better. But Mr. Adams will be the final judge of that.”

“You really have confidence in him, don’t you?”

“Completely! Whatever he decides, I’ll accept.”

The priest took a glass of wine from a tray being carried by an ever-present waiter. As he turned, he noticed Barbara dabbing her lips with a lacy handkerchief. As she did, she slipped another of her notes to Martin Whitston.

Fourth message delivered.

What an interesting sideshow, thought Father Tully.

He had no idea how many at this party had been favored with one of Barbara Ulrich’s notes. He had seen at least four recipients: Adams, Durocher, Fradet, and Whitston. The president and his three executive vice presidents.

Somehow, Father Tully had a sneaking feeling that he would not be receiving one of Barbara Ulrich’s missives. Nor would he even learn what they contained.

The lights dimmed, then brightened.

Dinner was served.