Eminence Page 11

  “Come in.”

  She entered without hesitation.

  From the Channel 7 van, the TV crew watched open-mouthed. “Well, I’ll be . . .” said the reporter. “You probably will,” concluded his cameraman.

  In her relatively brief time on earth, Pat had lived a lot. She’d been everywhere, from the reflective depths of a cloistered Carmelite convent to the raunchy interior of a coed massage parlor. Buoyed by substantial and well-placed self-confidence, she usually took charge of whatever situation in which she found herself.

  This was a whit different.

  The house, at least what she could see of it, was packed. The men appeared to have come directly from work, but definitely not the assembly line. Three-piece suits—blues, grays, soft summer colors—abounded. And seemingly all complete—in the middle of the summer—with French cuffs. But, why not? From home to car to business to lunch to business to car to home, they never left the genteel comfort of air conditioning. Even now, with all the body heat abounding, she estimated the room temperature at about seventy degrees. Very pleasant.

  Most of the women appeared to have come directly from the beauty salon. In some cases that would undoubtedly be true. Evidently, they had more preparation than their menfolk, since they were attired for—what this was—a cocktail party. An après-miracle cocktail party!

  With her parochial school background, Pat was more than familiar with the Bible, particularly the New Testament. Try as she might, she could not come up with a Biblical scene to compare to this. Jesus seemed to travel in the company of the poor. So, after a major miracle no one would expect a bash at the “Top of the Temple” revolving restaurant.

  Wait a minute. Now that she thought of it, there was a rich guy . . . Gamaliel? No, that wasn’t it. Ah: Zacchaeus, that’s the one. The priest who had taught her class had said that from that text it was impossible to tell whether it was Zacchaeus or Jesus who was short. Jesus had come into town and was surrounded by a crowd. Zacchaeus wanted to see Jesus but couldn’t because one of the two of them was not tall enough either to see or be seen over the crowd.

  And . . . oh, yeah: Zacchaeus was a tax collector—not a popular guy even back then. But Jesus singled him out and stayed at his house. At which time, Zacchaeus got religion and said he’d give half of his fortune to the poor and pay up all his long-standing debts. Whereupon Jesus announced that salvation had come to that house that day.

  A miracle? A rich guy unloading half his fortune on the poor and making good on all the graft? No strings? Yes, indeed; that qualified as a genuine, first-class miracle. And since he was rich and hadn’t yet paid his debt to society, he must have still been loaded when he threw the party, so it must have been pretty extravagant.

  Somehow she felt slightly more at ease having established some sort of precedent.

  Wandering through the assemblage, Lennon spotted both Cynthia and Robbin, each working a different section of the crowd. Pat was not a devotee of the society section. She had only a mild interest in who was doing what with whom. But she promised herself to catch tomorrow’s accounts of this party, “What to Wear to a Miracle.”

  Several times, while wending her way through the throng, she motioned away uniformed waiters or waitresses bearing trays with glasses of white wine, or hors d’oeuvres. She was, after all, on the job. Or supposed to be.

  Someone touched her elbow. She drew back. She detested being handled.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. “You must be Pat Lennon of the News.”

  “That’s right.”

  He smiled. “I’m Emery Whitehead. Please call me Hank.”

  She stepped back and took stock as she offered her hand. He smiled again as they shook hands.

  She estimated his height at slightly less than six feet. A comfortable build . . . probably had been an amateur athlete. Now gone to seed and pot, not drastically, only slightly—yet decidedly. His dark thinning hair was parted down the middle and plastered against his scalp. His glasses were trifocals. It was a peculiar characteristic, but he seemed in a constant state of apology. Maybe the expression his mouth conveyed. She guessed his age in the late sixties or early seventies, but trying very hard to stay in the fifties.

  “Would you like to see the house?”

  Now that’s extraneous, thought Lennon. “Maybe later. I’d like to see your wife.”

  “She’s not well.”

  Lennon almost snickered. The standard line men offered when philandering. “I was given to understand she’s better . . . cured, in fact.”

  “Oh, oh, yes, of course. Her sight. Yes, of course. Well, she’s upstairs. Would you like to go up? Of course you would. Well, then, follow me, please.”

  Obviously, the nagging question was why she seemingly was the only media representative allowed in his home. Of course, Cynthia and Robbin would argue that they were media people. But Lennon tended to discount everyone but staffwriters who reported or commented on the news. Society was a thing apart. In any case, it did not seem the appropriate time to question her unique presence in the house. All in good time.

  As they climbed the open spiral staircase, Lennon observed, “That’s quite a group you’ve got downstairs.”

  “Some of our friends.”

  “One or two hundred of your closest friends,” she murmured.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. I was just surprised at the size of the crowd.”

  Whitehead was walking almost sideways ahead of Lennon so he could converse with her. “There would have been more”—he seemed to apologize—“many more. Our secretaries weren’t able to reach everyone at such short notice.”

  Inconsiderate of the priest, thought Lennon, not to have cured her earlier in the day so all their friends could have been invited to the party. “Given the time frame, your secretaries seem to have done a commendable job.”

  “Oh, you think so? Very good, then. Thank you.”

  They approached a closed door on the second floor. “The doctor and the nurse are with her,” Whitehead said. “I’ll just see if they’re through.” He knocked on the door.

  The door opened a crack. Low whispers passed between Whitehead and someone in the room.

  He turned back to Lennon. “The doctor’s almost finished. It’ll be just a couple of minutes. Would you care to return downstairs, have something to eat-or drink?”

  “No, I’ll wait here if you don’t mind.” This seemed as good an opportunity as any to discover why she alone, of all the journalists, was to be granted this exclusive interview. “I was going to ask you, Mr. Whitehead—”

  “Hank, please.”

  She considered his invitation inappropriate. “If you don’t mind, I’ll stick with ‘Mr. Whitehead’ for the moment.”

  The door opened. They were invited into the room.

  Lennon shelved the question for later.

  It was like walking into a darkened theater. She stood in the doorway while her eyes became accustomed to the gloom.

  The blinds were drawn and draperies pulled, effectively muting the early evening sun. From what she could make out, it seemed an attractive bedroom, tastefully decorated in basic whites and pinks. A bit too feminine. Separate bedrooms? Germane to the story? Time would tell.

  Lennon was introduced to Mrs. Whitehead, her doctor, and his nurse.

  Lennon flipped her notepad and clicked the point on her pen, grateful that her eyes were adjusting to the semidarkness.

  “May I get you anything, Ms. Lennon?” the nurse asked.

  “I could use more light.”

  “I’d prefer things the way they are,” the doctor said. “Protect the eyes. A precaution.”

  “Whatever you say, Doctor.” Lennon turned toward him. “May I ask you a few questions?”

  “Certainly.”

  “First, then, what kind of doctor are you?”

  “I’m an ophthalmologist.”

  “The best,” Whitehead added.

  The doctor cleared his throat
, indicating humble acceptance of the accolade.

  “You’ve been Mrs. Whitehead’s doctor for . . . ?”

  “The past . . .oh . . . twenty years or so.”

  “And she’s had this . . . problem how long?”

  “The past five years.”

  “Did it come on gradually?”

  “No, actually it was quite sudden. Oh, there was a touch of astigmatism, a little nearsightedness. But, then, out of the blue—”

  “Did you diagnose a cause?”

  “We performed every conceivable test. She’s seen specialists at the Mayo Clinic, several of the best men in Europe. We—all of us—were unable to find a somatic cause.”

  “Does that mean it was psychosomatic? Emotional? In her head?”

  “No, it does not.” He was a bit testy. “It means we were unable to find a physical cause, not that one did not exist.”

  She flipped a page. The previous page wasn’t filled, but she was beginning a new thought. “What happened this afternoon?”

  “I have no idea,” the doctor replied.

  “She went to a priest. He blessed her and touched her eyes and she could see.”

  “I’m acquainted with those details.” He was a bit testier.

  “So, what happened? Was it a miracle?”

  “A miracle?” he repeated. “What is a miracle? There are miracles of human endeavor. There is the miracle of a sunset. People do miraculous things daily.”

  He’s being cute, she thought. She hated that. Blind people don’t receive their sight daily! “She can see again, can’t she?” Lennon indicated the devices the nurse was packing. “I mean, your tests do indicate she can see again?”

  The doctor glanced at the equipment. “She can see as well as she did before.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She’s still an astigmatic and she’s still nearsighted. But, yes, she can see.”

  Interesting, thought Lennon. She didn’t know much about miracles but she would have assumed that miracles weren’t limited. She would have guessed the woman would have gone from blindness to perfect vision. She persisted in pushing the doctor toward a conclusion. “Even then, doctor, the readers will want to know: Was it or was it not a miracle?”

  “Ask a theologian. As I indicated earlier, I think the word is ambiguous. If by miracle, you mean some wonder God performs, I simply don’t believe in miracles.”

  She was tempted to ask if he believed in God. But—who cared? “What is the prognosis for Mrs. Whitehead, Doctor?”

  Obviously, as far as he was concerned, the interview was over. He rose, nodded to the nurse and prepared to leave. “We will monitor her condition very carefully. We hope that her present condition, whatever its cause, will prove lasting. We’ll just be guarded and cautious. If that’s all . . . ?”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Whitehead ushered the doctor and the nurse out of the room, suggesting they mingle, for a while at least, with the guests . . . partake of the buffet and bar. He suggested the doctor would know many of the people present. The doctor allowed as how that might very well be true.

  Doctor to the Stars, thought Lennon. She turned her attention to the miracle lady. This, after all, was the star of the show.

  Having consulted the News files before setting out, Pat knew Mrs. Whitehead’s age. She was an extremely well-kept sixty-six. Artificially strawberry blonde, lots of makeup—impeccably applied—attractive features, a once probably stunning figure—but no more. What had happened to the figure, Lennon wondered. What came first? Was it too many self-indulgent society breakfasts, luncheons, dinners, along with minimal—or less—exercise? Or was it spousal disinterest? None of these observations was material, but, as a backdrop, they would render the story three-dimensional.

  Mrs. Whitehead looked radiant—one might even say beatific. After all, she was on the receiving end of a reputed miracle. Could anyone blame her for playing St. Bernadette?

  Unlike “Hank,” this lady would be quite content to be addressed as Mrs. Whitehead. In great detail and with obvious relish, she narrated the events that had surrounded her cure in St. Stephen’s chapel earlier in the day. Lennon scribbled copious notes, the while “Hank” sat by looking happily apologetic.

  Mrs. Whitehead told of the young man who had preceded her and the blessing he had received. And then her moment in history. The surge of faith, the aura of some kind that seemed to enfold her; about being blessed with some relic or other, then wanting something more; about the holy priest’s sensing the supercharged moment, touching her eyes, at first gently, then with greater pressure.

  Then, it had happened.

  “What was it like, Mrs. Whitehead?”

  “Well, when he removed his hands, there was some pain. But—can you believe it?—a strangely welcome pain. Then there was a sort of light. Not a bright white. A sort of off-white. It was . . . frightening. This may sound ridiculous, but I’d grown accustomed to the darkness, to not being able to see anything. This was the first thing I’d actually seen in five years. I didn’t know what was happening and I was afraid to hope.

  “Then, gradually, forms began to take shape. The first thing I actually saw was that blessed man, Father Robert. Oh, not clearly by any means, just a fuzzy, shadowy outline. Then, little by little, the images became sharper. I could see! I could see! At first, I was afraid it was some sort of momentary aberration. But then, I knew. I could see!

  “But do you know, my dear,” Mrs. Whitehead touched Lennon’s arm, “I still don’t know what that dear priest looks like.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No. He had this cowl pulled over his head. All I could see was his simple monk’s habit and his delicate, healing hands!”

  Quite a recitation, thought Lennon. Should make a hell of a story. But it was not quite in the bag. “Mrs. Whitehead, how were you dressed this afternoon?”

  “Dressed? What do you mean?”

  “What were you wearing when you went . . . when you were taken to St. Stephen’s?”

  “Why, what I’m wearing now.”

  “In other words, when you were presented to Father Robert you looked pretty much the way you do now.”

  “Yes, of course. I haven’t had a chance to change . . . what with all the hubbub and all.” Mrs. Whitehead touched her hair self-consciously. Until this moment, she’d had no opportunity—nor had she thought of it—to check her appearance. She wondered, now that Lennon had called it to her attention, whether she was at all disheveled. “Is there something the matter?”

  “No, nothing. I was just trying to recreate the scene for myself and I wondered if you had changed clothes since you returned from the chapel. You look fine. Don’t give it another thought.”

  Lennon naturally was familiar with the area of the city where St. Stephen’s was. She knew it comprised the poor, many unemployed, blue-collar and, at most, a few lower middle-income families. In the group in that chapel, Mrs. Whitehead must have stood out like a sore thumb.

  In addition to her well-kept person, her accoutrements, including the triple strand of pearls, dripped money. She and whoever had escorted her to that neighborhood must have sorely tempted the local muggers. Vaguely, Lennon wondered if their car still had its hubcaps.

  But the holy monks—particularly Father Robert—had to have been well aware that this lady proclaimed where the money was.

  Which brought to mind an extremely relevant question: Why Mrs. Whitehead? Of all the people in the chapel, why had Father Robert selected her to be the beneficiary of what would seem to be his first significant miracle?

  Mrs. Whitehead claimed it was her faith that had inspired Father Robert to act. Maybe. Did that mean that none of the other suppliants had a like faith? Did it mean Father Robert could not recognize a belief as strong as Mrs. Whitehead’s in others?

  Or did it mean he went for the money?

  Possibly an unworthy inference, Lennon reflected; but it was from such unworthy questions that the best invest
igative stories sprang.

  “I’m sure you must be exhausted, Mrs. Whitehead,” Lennon said, “and I don’t want to tire you any more. Just one final question: Was today the first time you attended services at St. Stephen’s?”

  “Why, no, dear. This must be—Hank, where is Phyllis?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “That’s the way it is these days: You can never depend on people when you want them. Phyllis would know. She took me there each time we went. Well, at any rate, I believe we went three or four times.”

  “Successively?”

  “Success—oh, you mean without missing a Mass. No, as I recall, we attended Mass there the first couple of times with several days in between. Then we went yesterday . . . and of course today.” She nodded self-assuredly. “Yes, I’m certain that’s the way it was.”

  Under normal circumstances, Mrs. Whitehead would not have deigned to answer the question. But, then, under normal circumstances, she would not have granted this interview. These were not normal circumstances. For one, she was still stupefied by the maelstrom that had swept over her within just the past few hours. Also, Hank could be surprisingly forceful when he demanded something. And, without explanation, he had demanded that she give this—and no other—interview.

  In any case, she hoped the interrogation was now ended.

  It was. There were only a couple more immediate questions to be directed to Mr. Whitehead—”Hank.” Lennon bade good-bye to Mrs. Whitehead and thanked her for her time.

  Hank closed the bedroom door. He and Lennon stood alone in the hallway. They could hear the downstairs mingle of voices and clinking glasses.

  “I’ve got just a couple more questions,” Lennon said. “May I have a few more minutes of your time?” Glancing down the staircase and realizing the futility of trying to hold a conversation amid the din, she added, “Alone?”

  Whitehead reacted as if she’d given him a Christmas present. “Of course.” He led the way down the hall, ushered her through a door, and closed it behind them.

  Her antennae vibrated. Another bedroom. Very masculine. His. Thus answering the separate bedroom question. And raising another question: Would he be stupid enough to attempt a pass?