don't. Uncle Mike didn't die the way they said he did. It may not have been an accident. That's why an autopsy—"
"What are you talking about?"
To Cass's surprise she couldn't remember the name of the man who had made her think this way—or what he had said the night before that she'd found so convincing.
She could see his face clearly, though, and remembered very well his earnest and generous eyes as he'd looked back at her on the street outside St. Gabriel's. He had made the autopsy seem so important, as if a doctor's dissections would tell them everything. But would it tell her where her father had gone when he disappeared? Would it explain what went so horribly wrong for her uncle?
"I don't know," she said vaguely.
"Then don't ever say such a thing again, to anyone. Do you hear?"
Only now, in the light of this fierce imperative, did Cass see what her aunt thought, and she stood up at her place, jolting the cup. "He didn't kill himself, Aunt Flo. That's not what I meant."
"Are you sure?" she asked, so weakly. Mike Foley wouldn't have been the first of the defeated fathers they knew to embrace that final defeat, that mortal one. Suicide would have consigned his soul to hell forever.
But no, that wasn't what she was saying. Cass put her arms around her Aunt Flo's shoulders. Mrs. Foley leaned into her, the goiter pressed warm against the side of Cass's throat. Oh, Aunt Flo.
Mrs. Foley kneaded her niece's thin body, weeping quietly. Cass stroked her.
After a few minutes Cass said with the simple authority that had now fallen to her, "The undertaker will almost certainly call you this morning to ask for your approval. I want you to give it to him."
"But won't an autopsy show if your uncle was drinking?" Mrs. Foley pulled abruptly back, applying the comer of her apron to her eyes. "Oh, look, I'm sorry, darling."
Cass's dark dress was covered with flour. Both women brushed at it.
"It doesn't matter if he was drinking, Aunt Flo."
"People will laugh at him if it was his own fault."
"But it wasn't his fault." Cass took her aunt by the shoulders again. This was the core of it for her. "That's the point. Not that he was drunk. Not that he was where he shouldn't have been. Not that what happened was his fault at all. That's the point. It's what we owe him, finding out what happened."
"If he was drunk, though"—she was a child at the mercy of a night fear—"even if it wasn't suicide, that means he died in mortal sin, without confession. Do you want
that
put out for your cousins and your brothers and sisters to know?"
The phone rang.
Both women faced it where it hung on the wall near the window, opposite the icebox. Mrs. Foley wiped her face with her hands and, crossing, wiped her hands on her apron. "Hello."
Mrs. Foley looked helplessly at her niece, who was slowly moving toward her. "What?" she said to the mouthpiece.
Cass drew steadily closer.
"Dr. Riley? I don't know him."
Cass heard the impending collapse in her aunt's voice. She put her arms around Mrs. Foley's waist, thinking, If we stand together with each other, we can do this.
Sean Dillon was his name. This call was proof that he'd meant what he said, that he was helping her. If we stand together—
Cass moved her head up and down, supporting her aunt, but also commanding her. "Say yes. Say yes. You tell him yes, Aunt Flo."
Sean Dillon, she thought again. How could she have forgotten that name? To have recalled it now exhilarated her. The sun hadn't risen above the eaves of the parish church yet, and already he had produced a doctor for the autopsy.
Mrs. Foley saw in her niece's will, as she had so many times, her
complete refuge. She did as she was told, letting go of her own impulse, which was so much easier to do than it ever would be letting go of her Mike.
The Stockyards Inn billed itself as the finest example of authentic Tudor architecture in the Midwest. With its multiple gables and finely wrought leaded windows, its mortar-and-beam
"What are you talking about?"
To Cass's surprise she couldn't remember the name of the man who had made her think this way—or what he had said the night before that she'd found so convincing.
She could see his face clearly, though, and remembered very well his earnest and generous eyes as he'd looked back at her on the street outside St. Gabriel's. He had made the autopsy seem so important, as if a doctor's dissections would tell them everything. But would it tell her where her father had gone when he disappeared? Would it explain what went so horribly wrong for her uncle?
"I don't know," she said vaguely.
"Then don't ever say such a thing again, to anyone. Do you hear?"
Only now, in the light of this fierce imperative, did Cass see what her aunt thought, and she stood up at her place, jolting the cup. "He didn't kill himself, Aunt Flo. That's not what I meant."
"Are you sure?" she asked, so weakly. Mike Foley wouldn't have been the first of the defeated fathers they knew to embrace that final defeat, that mortal one. Suicide would have consigned his soul to hell forever.
But no, that wasn't what she was saying. Cass put her arms around her Aunt Flo's shoulders. Mrs. Foley leaned into her, the goiter pressed warm against the side of Cass's throat. Oh, Aunt Flo.
Mrs. Foley kneaded her niece's thin body, weeping quietly. Cass stroked her.
After a few minutes Cass said with the simple authority that had now fallen to her, "The undertaker will almost certainly call you this morning to ask for your approval. I want you to give it to him."
"But won't an autopsy show if your uncle was drinking?" Mrs. Foley pulled abruptly back, applying the comer of her apron to her eyes. "Oh, look, I'm sorry, darling."
Cass's dark dress was covered with flour. Both women brushed at it.
"It doesn't matter if he was drinking, Aunt Flo."
"People will laugh at him if it was his own fault."
"But it wasn't his fault." Cass took her aunt by the shoulders again. This was the core of it for her. "That's the point. Not that he was drunk. Not that he was where he shouldn't have been. Not that what happened was his fault at all. That's the point. It's what we owe him, finding out what happened."
"If he was drunk, though"—she was a child at the mercy of a night fear—"even if it wasn't suicide, that means he died in mortal sin, without confession. Do you want
that
put out for your cousins and your brothers and sisters to know?"
The phone rang.
Both women faced it where it hung on the wall near the window, opposite the icebox. Mrs. Foley wiped her face with her hands and, crossing, wiped her hands on her apron. "Hello."
Mrs. Foley looked helplessly at her niece, who was slowly moving toward her. "What?" she said to the mouthpiece.
Cass drew steadily closer.
"Dr. Riley? I don't know him."
Cass heard the impending collapse in her aunt's voice. She put her arms around Mrs. Foley's waist, thinking, If we stand together with each other, we can do this.
Sean Dillon was his name. This call was proof that he'd meant what he said, that he was helping her. If we stand together—
Cass moved her head up and down, supporting her aunt, but also commanding her. "Say yes. Say yes. You tell him yes, Aunt Flo."
Sean Dillon, she thought again. How could she have forgotten that name? To have recalled it now exhilarated her. The sun hadn't risen above the eaves of the parish church yet, and already he had produced a doctor for the autopsy.
Mrs. Foley saw in her niece's will, as she had so many times, her
complete refuge. She did as she was told, letting go of her own impulse, which was so much easier to do than it ever would be letting go of her Mike.
The Stockyards Inn billed itself as the finest example of authentic Tudor architecture in the Midwest. With its multiple gables and finely wrought leaded windows, its mortar-and-beam
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