cushioned his head on my arm.
One side of his mouth twitched, a smile. The other side did nothing at all. “Telephone,” he said, fairly distinctly. “Archbishop …” He sucked some air through the side of his mouth. “Cardinal … Klammer …” Leave it to my father to get all the titles right.A tear trickled out of the closed eye, seeping away as if jealously guarded.
“He called? What did he want?”
“Lockhardt … Heff-Heffernan …” It was so difficult for him to speak. Hugh Driskill had come to this, drooling out of the corner of his mouth at the bottom of the stairs.
“Lockhardt and Heffernan,” I prompted. Who the hell was Heffernan?
“Dead …” It was a whisper now, as if he were running down, batteries going.
“Christ … they’re dead? Lockhardt’s dead?”
“Murdered … yes-yesterday …” He blinked again. Fingers fluttered at my side. Then he drifted off.
I called the hospital. Then I went back and sat down beside my father, took his hand in both of mine, willed some of my energy into him, returning the favor.
I willed my father to live.
2
S he jogged back to the modern tower on the Via Veneto and stopped to catch her breath in the marble and chrome lobby while she waited for the elevator. Sweat dripped from the tip of her upturned nose. Her tawny brown shoulder-length hair was held in place by a green band. She pulled the earphones out and an old Pink Floyd tape came to an abrupt end. She wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her gray sweatshirt.
She’d run three miles and was headed to the pool on the roof. She stopped at the eighteenth-floor apartment, shucked off the sweats, got into her bathing suit, wrapped herself in a thick terry-cloth robe, and ran up the three flights to the roof. She had the pool to herself and swam in a serious, disciplined way, pacing herself, thirty laps. The sun was purple, struggling up over the horizon, almost frightening seen through the dust and pollution of Rome.
By the time she was in her kitchen making coffee, it was six-thirty and she’d been up since five. She’d prayed and jogged and taken a swim and it was time to stop horsing around. It was time to get a handle on the day.
Sister Elizabeth enjoyed her life. She had not become a nun with unrealistic stars in her eyes: she’d thought it through in her organized way and things had gone well. The Order was proud of her. The apartment on the Via Veneto was owned by Curtis Lockhardt. He had personally spoken with Sister Celestine, who handled such matters for the Order from her office at the top of the Spanish Steps. There had been quick approval for her tomove in. The Order tended to treat its members as adults who could be trusted and respected.
It was Sister Valentine who had introduced her to Lockhardt and made the suggestion about the apartment. Lockhardt had subsequently become Elizabeth’s friend, too, and a valuable source of information useful in her work. It was a perfect example of the synchronicity which in a closed, stifling society like the Church made life so much more pleasant. The trick was always to make the machinery work for you, not against you. Elizabeth was gifted when it came, as it often did, to that arcane art. She was true to herself and true to the Order, and that was the foundation for making the machinery hum. Sister Val called it pushing the right buttons. They both knew how to do it though they weren’t pushing the same sets of buttons.
She drank coffee and ate toast and took out her Filofax to check the day’s schedule. At nine o’clock there was a delegation of French feminists, Catholic laywomen from Lyons, who were continuing a long-running guerrilla action against the Vatican and wanted coverage in the magazine. God help us all.…
She had been editor-in-chief of
New World
, the twice-monthly magazine funded by the Order, for three years. Its original audience had been Catholic women back during the height of the social and
One side of his mouth twitched, a smile. The other side did nothing at all. “Telephone,” he said, fairly distinctly. “Archbishop …” He sucked some air through the side of his mouth. “Cardinal … Klammer …” Leave it to my father to get all the titles right.A tear trickled out of the closed eye, seeping away as if jealously guarded.
“He called? What did he want?”
“Lockhardt … Heff-Heffernan …” It was so difficult for him to speak. Hugh Driskill had come to this, drooling out of the corner of his mouth at the bottom of the stairs.
“Lockhardt and Heffernan,” I prompted. Who the hell was Heffernan?
“Dead …” It was a whisper now, as if he were running down, batteries going.
“Christ … they’re dead? Lockhardt’s dead?”
“Murdered … yes-yesterday …” He blinked again. Fingers fluttered at my side. Then he drifted off.
I called the hospital. Then I went back and sat down beside my father, took his hand in both of mine, willed some of my energy into him, returning the favor.
I willed my father to live.
2
S he jogged back to the modern tower on the Via Veneto and stopped to catch her breath in the marble and chrome lobby while she waited for the elevator. Sweat dripped from the tip of her upturned nose. Her tawny brown shoulder-length hair was held in place by a green band. She pulled the earphones out and an old Pink Floyd tape came to an abrupt end. She wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her gray sweatshirt.
She’d run three miles and was headed to the pool on the roof. She stopped at the eighteenth-floor apartment, shucked off the sweats, got into her bathing suit, wrapped herself in a thick terry-cloth robe, and ran up the three flights to the roof. She had the pool to herself and swam in a serious, disciplined way, pacing herself, thirty laps. The sun was purple, struggling up over the horizon, almost frightening seen through the dust and pollution of Rome.
By the time she was in her kitchen making coffee, it was six-thirty and she’d been up since five. She’d prayed and jogged and taken a swim and it was time to stop horsing around. It was time to get a handle on the day.
Sister Elizabeth enjoyed her life. She had not become a nun with unrealistic stars in her eyes: she’d thought it through in her organized way and things had gone well. The Order was proud of her. The apartment on the Via Veneto was owned by Curtis Lockhardt. He had personally spoken with Sister Celestine, who handled such matters for the Order from her office at the top of the Spanish Steps. There had been quick approval for her tomove in. The Order tended to treat its members as adults who could be trusted and respected.
It was Sister Valentine who had introduced her to Lockhardt and made the suggestion about the apartment. Lockhardt had subsequently become Elizabeth’s friend, too, and a valuable source of information useful in her work. It was a perfect example of the synchronicity which in a closed, stifling society like the Church made life so much more pleasant. The trick was always to make the machinery work for you, not against you. Elizabeth was gifted when it came, as it often did, to that arcane art. She was true to herself and true to the Order, and that was the foundation for making the machinery hum. Sister Val called it pushing the right buttons. They both knew how to do it though they weren’t pushing the same sets of buttons.
She drank coffee and ate toast and took out her Filofax to check the day’s schedule. At nine o’clock there was a delegation of French feminists, Catholic laywomen from Lyons, who were continuing a long-running guerrilla action against the Vatican and wanted coverage in the magazine. God help us all.…
She had been editor-in-chief of
New World
, the twice-monthly magazine funded by the Order, for three years. Its original audience had been Catholic women back during the height of the social and
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