Chapter 14
On Wednesday Father McCarrick climbed the steps to the landing in front of the church. He smoothed his cassock, not that it had wrinkles. Mrs. Blodgett didn’t allow them. His housekeeper pressed clothes as well as she cooked. She worked an iron strong and fast, steam puffing from the machine that breathed as hard as she did.
A car pulled in front of the Church of St. Ambrose, a little foreign job with a donut replacement for a front wheel and a plastic flower atop the antenna. A girl got out, supersized pocketbook slung over one arm, camera dangling from a lanyard around her neck. She dropped keys into the big bag, and fished out pad and pen as she climbed the concrete steps. She offered a limp hand and they shook.
“Sorry I’m late, Father. Debbie Feldman.”
One side of his mouth curled. “Not a problem, my dear. God loves the tardy too.”
He held the door open and she stepped into the vestibule. He touched the holy water in the bowl that hung from the wall, blessing himself as she watched.
“I take it you’re not Catholic, dear?”
“Jewish.”
“Beautiful religion. We have something in common—the Old Testament.”
She scratched her head and smoothed disheveled black hair before scribbling a note and pointing to the statue of St. Ambrose.
“Is that the Madonna?”
A smile. “No, dear, that’s our St. Ambrose, a pious and eloquent man. One of the first Doctors of Catholic theology.”
She looked around, pulled the door open to the church proper, and stepped inside.
He moved quickly and caught the door before it closed. “Go right in, my dear. Step right in.”
She was already at the last row of benches, looking toward the faraway altar, then up at the painted ceiling. She turned and looked at the choir, the balcony wall with its carved curves, crenellations, and curlicues, and the bank of gold pipes, a giant pan flute turned on end.
“Very ornate,” she said.
“All to glorify God, my dear. Glory to the Father.”
“Where’d Victor Rodriguez die?”
He folded his hands and closed his eyes. “A beautiful man, Victor. Such a pity. Frightening thing, really.”
“I heard it was up front. Near the altar.”
She set off down the wide main aisle, shoes slapping tile. He hustled to keep up, short legs making the bottom of his cassock dance. He pointed to the windows as he jogged.
“The stained glass, Ms. Feldman. Imported from Germany a hundred years ago. Back before the Germans got caught up in that World War business.” Hesitation. “No need to remind you about that, I imagine.”
She stole a glance at the overhead lights and adjusted the wheel on her camera.
“Invaluable art, Stations of the Cross we call them. Same as the windows in the cathedral at Cologne.”
She slung her behemoth of a pocketbook into a pew and it clunked heavily on the wood.
“First row, right?” she asked. “Which seat?”
He pointed at the seat near the aisle, the last seat Victor Rodriguez ever occupied. She raised the camera and the flash fired, bleaching the wood.
“We usually don’t allow cameras, Ms. Feldman, except for weddings. But I guess this is all right.”
She stood at different angles, shooting the seat in portrait and landscape orientations, near and far.
“Altar’s Italian marble, from the Carrara quarry in Tuscany. Same as St. Peter’s, you know. I’ve always wanted to go there. St. Peter’s I mean, not Tuscany, though I suppose I should visit both.”
She moved next to him, still hunting for the perfect angle to shoot Victor Rodriguez’s dying spot. He caught a whiff of stale coffee and stepped out of her way.
“The church is closing, you know. Heartbreaking for the parishioners, what’s left of them anyway. Cardinal’s trying to convince us to combine with St. Margaret’s over on the west side. Never happen.”
She turned to the altar, aimed quickly, and snapped a single picture.
“I heard.”
“We’re hoping the Archdiocese reconsiders, what with the history and beauty you’ve just seen. I hope you include that in your story. Subtly, of course. No quotes or anything.”
“Which one’s the Madonna?ˮ
He bowed his head, raised an arm weakly, and started toward the side altar. She passed him and stopped. He caught up.
“Would you like to light a candle, Ms. Feldman?”
She stared down at the bank of votive glasses, most of them empty, glass blackened, burnt wicks lying on the bottom. Two contained lit candles, one flickering, threatened by the liquid pool of wax it created. She drew a long taper from a holder, caught flame from the weak candle, and lit a fresh one.
He searched his pocket for change and found none. He placed his empty closed fist on the coin slot of the offertory can and shook the whole thing. The change inside rattled.
“Father, tell me about the miracle.”
“Pardon?”
She looked up at the statue. “When Victor Rodriguez’s body was found, the statue was crying.”
“Who told you that, Ms. Feldman?”
“I heard the tears were red, like blood.” She leaned over the candles to inspect the Madonna, stepped back, and refocused her camera. “I need a picture.”
“Of course.” He stepped in front of the candles and smoothed his robe. One hand on the rail, he lifted his chin the way Mrs. Blodgett had told him to, so neck and jowls were taut.
She lowered the camera. “I meant of the statue.”
He grunted and walked a half circle until he was standing behind her.
“Do you deny the miracle, Father?”
“I like to think miracles happen every day, Ms. Feldman.”
“Not like this one, I think. What action is the Archdiocese taking?”
“You’ll have to ask them, my dear.”
She nodded. “I plan to.”
She retrieved her heavy bag and slung it over the shoulder so it was bouncing on her back as she walked the main aisle. She fished keys and a pack of cigarettes out of it, and clutched them as she elbowed the door to the vestibule. He was close behind, breathing hard.
“Sorry my answers weren’t specific, Ms. Feldman,” he said as they burst through the front door into the sunlight.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m just very discreet, that’s all. Nothing personal. My training, you see. Vows and all that.”
She lit a cigarette and turned to face the church.
“Exactly how long have you been here, Father—at St. Ambrose?”
“Couple of decades.”
She nodded, braced her bag, and skipped down the stairs to her car.
“Seat of the Archdiocese is in Southie now, my dear,” he called. “Be careful. Traffic around South Station is hellacious.”
She slammed her car door and started the ignition. White smoke plumed from the tailpipe. A rev made the pipe shimmy and the muffler blatted like a sour trumpet note. She shifted into gear and drove away.
“Nice girl,” he said to himself in spite of her impoliteness. She hadn’t thanked him for his time and never even bid a proper farewell. No matter. Everyone needed forgiveness for something.
“God bless,” he said to the loud little car that created clouds behind it. “God bless, Ms. Feldman.”