8

Janet dreaded the Sunday dinner, but she just could not put it off any longer. The one enormous disadvantage of the return to Boston was living in proximity to her husband’s family. She had to have them over. She had never entertained the McShanes and the Bradys at her own table. By the second week in September she was as ready as she’d ever be.

Collins was no help at all. He’d returned from Washington an abrupt shadow of himself. She read his troubles the way a farmer reads the wind, but she could not bring herself to ask what had happened to plunge him into such a bleak mood.

Maeve, Maureen, and Mr. Brady arrived first. Tony was a gem for the way he greeted them and took their coats. Janet watched him delightedly. He was turning out to be such a perfect young gentleman. By the time Collins had taken them on a tour of the house, Deirdre and her stuffy husband Horace arrived, and, on their heels, Father Jack. Collins ushered everyone into the front parlor, which, Janet thought, had turned out just elegantly. The Queen Anne settee was the perfect piece for the bay of the window. On opposite sides of the fireplace were a pair of crafted cabinets with blown-glass doors, in which Janet set out her china collection. She thought it the most exquisite display imaginable. It surprised her how important it had become to impress her husband’s family. Basically they were very simple people.

Everything went smoothly until they gathered at the dinner table. After each had been served—Maria was quite a competent table servant after two years in Washington—Janet invited them to begin. But they did not. An awkward beat fell as she raised her fork. She thought perhaps they were waiting for a toast, and she looked toward Collins.

Maeve said, “A word of Grace perhaps?” Janet knew Mrs. McShane did not mean it as a rebuke, but she was stung. Grace! Of course! Christ!

All looked at Father Jack, who blessed himself, and all did likewise except Janet. Even Tony blessed himself.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive through Thy bounty through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

They began to eat happily then, but the meal was ruined for Janet. It was stupid of her not to think of Grace. It had been the custom, on Sundays, in her own family. But no one said Grace in Washington. One’s habits changed.

The second blow came when Mr. Brady said grandly, “Well, Janet, what do you think of your husband’s new job?”

She tried to smile. She forced herself not to look immediately at Collins. These people would not see her surprise or her hurt any more than they would see the cleft rocks over which the tranquil sea sleeps. “Whatever Collins enjoys, I enjoy,” she said. Only then did she look at him. He was staring at his plate.

“I don’t know about any new job,” Deirdre said. “What’s the story?”

“He’s coming to work for me. About time, too.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Maeve said. “Brady and Son.”

Colman dropped his large hand on Tony’s head. “And then this one! Brady and Son and Grandson!”

Tony smiled up at Colman, but only briefly. He was an exact barometer of his parents’ mood, and he knew that, while his mother was mystified, his father was clutching inwardly at something awful.

Collins was staring at his plate as he said, “I’ve always wanted to be Dad’s partner.”

He looked across the length of the table at Janet. “And now that we’re back in Boston, it seemed like a natural time. My crusading days are over.”

A look of such bereft pleading crossed his face for an instant that Janet would have taken his hand in her own if the table weren’t between them, and she’d have said, “You can do what you want, darling. I’m with you whatever you choose.” It surprised and saddened Janet that Collins had found it difficult to confide his decision in her, much less to consult her about it. She could not imagine why he should not have told her. It was a right and natural thing for him to go to his father’s firm. She had always assumed he would at some point. She smiled at him. She wanted to assure him it was alright with her.

But he dropped his eyes again.

“I have some news to announce, too,” Father Jack said. “Pass the salt, Dee, would you please?”

“What, dear?” Maeve asked. “You sound happy about it, whatever it is.”

“I am, very. I spoke to Father Alban at Portsmouth Priory, and he’s agreed to take Tony.”

Janet’s fork hit her plate. “What?”

“That’s right. They’re willing to waive the exam. Tony’ll go right into the second form.”

Everyone was very quiet. Janet understood immediately that she alone did not know what he was talking about.

“Bob Kennedy went to Portsmouth. Tony’ll love it. It’s the best school in the country.” The priest had pointedly not said “best Catholic school.” He went on. “The English Benedictines are . . .”

“Tony’s going to Milton Academy, Father,” Janet said calmly. “We’re driving out this week.”

Tony wanted to vanish. A terrible panic unraveled itself in his chest.

Father McShane touched his napkin to his lips. “I had heard that.”

Collins said, “Perhaps this isn’t the time . . .”

“Tony,” Janet ordered, “see if Maria needs help in the kitchen, would you?”

The boy left his place. No one spoke until he was gone.

“You can’t send him to Milton,” the priest said gently.

“We are not discussing it, Father. Not with you.” Janet had never been more sure of herself. “This is a matter between me and my husband.”

“I hate the thought of interfering in a family matter, Janet, honestly I do.” The priest spoke with a tangible sincerity. He was clearly proceeding reluctantly, without relish or rancor. “But in a way this is my family, and this is a matter of faith and morals. I feel obliged by that. Besides, I looked into it at your husband’s request.”

Now Janet’s head did whip toward Collins. “Is that true?”

“I said he could look into it, but I never thought he’d do that.”

“Really, Janet,” Father Jack said, “Portsmouth is a wonderful school. The monk who’s the headmaster is a convert from Anglicanism, and before, he was headmaster of St. George’s in Newport. Surely you know about St. George’s?”

“I don’t care who he is or was. Tony is going to Milton.”

“Milton Academy is a Protestant school,” the priest said.

“You needn’t say the word as if it were filthy. I’m a Protestant, Father.”

“I intend no disrespect of your beliefs, Janet, but Tony is a Catholic.”

“We’re not changing his religion. Just his school.” Janet was trying to keep the fury out of her voice. She was trying not to look at Collins. Why was he permitting this humiliation?

“But Janet, my dear,” Father McShane said firmly but not unkindly, “you must respect your husband’s solemn obligation.”

He paused, letting his words gather mass the way dust does. He would have preferred it if it hadn’t come to this, but it had. “And you must respect the oath you took.”

“Oath!”

Janet stood, knocking the table. Her water glass fell and shattered. It was a cut crystal heirloom, but she ignored it. “I never took an oath!”

It was between her and the priest, simply, totally.

“You did. I saw it. I saw your signature.”

Janet’s glare went to Colman.

Colman sat unmoved behind a benign mask. He was not even blushing.

Janet said to him, “You signed my name!” The authority of her statement surprised even her. She was incredulous. She could not believe this was happening.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Colman said. “What?”

“You signed my name.”

“Janet,” he said, “you’re upset.”

“You’re damn right I’m upset. You forged my signature.”

“I did nothing of the kind. You may regret it, but you signed that oath yourself. I saw you.”

Janet sat down. Colman’s statement, the baldness of it, the certainty and, yes, the gentleness, was like a blow to the groin. She covered her mouth with her hands as if in an effort to prevent the air from escaping her body. Janet Lindsay had never been lied to before.

“So,” the priest said softly, “we are simply enabling you to keep your word.”

“Never,” Janet said, but in a tone barely above a whisper.

“What do you say, Micko?” Father Jack asked.

Collins shrugged. He had nothing to say. “This isn’t the best time to deal with this.”

Janet yelled at him. “Don’t let them think they’ll have their way on this. Tell them.”

“We want the boy in Milton,” Collins said.

“I forbid it,” the priest said. He was damned if his nephew’s immortal soul was going to be put in jeopardy by this woman.

Collins looked at Colman, but Colman’s eyes showed him nothing. He wasn’t getting into this one.

“You’re the father, Collins,” the priest said. “You tell her.”

Collins dropped his eyes.

The priest looked at Janet as if he had scored.

Janet leaned toward him, and pointed a finger at him. “I’ve as much right to make choices for the boy as he does.” She looked at Collins. He raised his eyes to meet hers. “Isn’t that true?” she asked.

He did not reply.

“Isn’t that true?” she repeated. On the word true her voice cracked. She could keep the panic away no longer. She had just asked him the question she had sworn never to ask again.

Collins sat there mute and immobile. It was all the answer she needed. At least his father had the spine to give words to his lie, and even credence. Collins could not look at her and she knew it, and she knew that Tony was his. She hated him for that. Did he know it? Was that why he leaned forward, gave the priest a deadly, brooding look—a falcon’s look—and said, “The matter is closed. Tony’s going to Milton Academy.”

But it was too late. Something unforgettable had just happened to Janet, something unredeemable. The sense of it, amorphous and vague, spread upward and outward from a place in her breast like a stain. It changed the hue of everything the way a gaunt brown lens brings out the ugliness in scenes. She would have scrubbed her very skin with coarse sand if that would have smoothed her permanent gooseflesh. She would have chipped at her own bones with an iron wedge if that would have softened the cracked edges in her. She would bicker with herself about it for a long time, trying to believe that this was the sort of graininess that gave each family its particularity, its cunning for survival. She wanted nothing so much as to find herself wrong, too WASPish, too righteous. But she had too much brain and too much self to settle into such a lie. She was not what they were. That was the point. The killing fact was plain and simple. There was something evil about her husband and his people. Something quite evil.

There were only two things into which, after that Sunday, Janet Lindsay could settle: a fierce determination to save Tony from them because by then her love for him was irretrievable, and a mannered, private despair at the terrible mistake she had made with her life.