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The lady of the castle.
No. Daddy s here.
Ah.
I went to greet him. Evening, Father. Are you here to bring Mass
to the shut-ins?
Well, since it s you and there s no sign of herself, perhaps I should
be hearing confessions.
Come in.
I just stopped by to bring Normie some books.
Did he feel he needed to explain his presence at the house? That
was not like him at all.
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Have a seat. I ll get you a beer. I went into the kitchen.
Normie came in behind me and whispered: I asked him for books
about saints in Scotland and Ireland, so he wouldn t know it s the
angels I m after.
Good thinking.
My daughter had got it into her head, for some reason, that Father
Burke might be an angel. This had been going on for months now,
ever since she first saw him celebrating Mass in his white vestments.
She said there were spirits all around him on the altar. Normie had a
touch of second sight, or so I d been told by her maternal relatives in
Cape Breton. She had not yet come to a conclusion about Burke;
apparently there was still a great deal of research to do.
Ah, sighed the angelic one as the first sip of Keith s India Pale Ale
slid down his throat. Nectar of the gods.
The howling started up again. Burke looked over at the crib, then
at me. Don t you think you should pick him up, Monty? You re not
without experience in that regard.
He won t settle, was all I said.
Finally, Burke put his beer on the table and went to the crib.
Evening, Dominic. How s the little lad? At the sound of Burke s
voice, the baby fell silent. Burke picked him up, cradled him in his
arms, took the corner of his blanket and used it to wipe his face. The
baby smiled and kicked his legs. That s more like it, Burke muttered
to him, and stood there, irresolute. We were saved by the arrival of
Normie, who announced that she would take the now placid baby to
his room.
My own son arrived then, his blond hair curling out from under a
black fedora, a skinny tie askew against his white shirt; this signalled
that he had just come from a jam session with his band, Dads in Suits.
We chatted a bit about the blues-rock direction his group was going
in, then I asked him: How would you like to earn a few bucks,
Tommy?
Wouldn t say no. What do I have to do?
Research. Go through some old newspapers on microfilm. I won t
pretend it s exciting work.
Do you pay by the hour, so if it gets boring enough for me to fall
asleep I get more?
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I m afraid not.
I ll do it! I won t fall asleep! his sister exclaimed, when she came
back into the living room.
We ll find a job for you, Normie, don t worry. But this one s for
Tom. He has to go to the library and stare into a machine reading
newspapers in German.
I can learn German!
First lesson, Tom commanded. When I say Fraülein Klumpen-
kopf, you say Jawohl, mein Herr!
You don t know any real German. You only studied it in school.
Well, he knows more than I remember from my own studies, so
he s the man for the job. Get the reels showing Die Welt in the 1970s.
Look for anything about Father Reinhold Schellenberg. I m sorry I
can t be very specific. I heard something about him being detained or
arrested during a political demonstration of some kind, so I m espe-
cially interested in that.
You re letting Tom investigate the murder! I don t get to do any-
thing.
We ll get you out there in a trench coat yet, Normie, like the old-
time detectives used to wear.
Good. Father, make sure he keeps his promise.
Don t I always keep my promises, sweetheart?
Well, yeah, but maybe not this time.
The four of us played cards for a while, then Burke went home. My
kids and I hit the sack early. The baby woke up twice to be fed and
changed. The first time, at two, was fine. I had forgotten how brutal
that second awakening was just before seven o clock.
Maura came home just as the kids and I were clearing up after break-
fast. She looked refreshed, and chatted to me quite pleasantly about
her evening out. I drove Normie to her friend Kim s and dropped her
off. With a free day ahead of me, I decided to take a run over to the
choir school in case there was anyone I could buttonhole for informa-
tion. Things were quiet until I approached a classroom at the far end
of the main corridor. I heard raised voices and I peered in through the
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window of the door at the back of the room. I opened it and slipped
in unseen. I had walked into an argument. Jan Ford was seated behind
a desk, brandishing a hymn book in the direction of Father Sferrazza-
Melchiorre in one of the chairs. How she thought she would be able
to convert Enrico to her way of thinking, I couldn t imagine. But this
was the same person who had expected police officers in Florida to
side with her in her protest against the death penalty. She was not a
woman who would go down without a fight. William Logan slouched
in another seat, bored and above it all.
Jan had the floor. Music should be accessible, user-friendly
Will you please speak English! This from Father Sferrazza-
Melchiorre.
music that the people understand, that makes them feel good
about themselves, even if the music does not come up to the old elite
standards
The music you speak of is trash! Melodies designed to appeal to
the nursery! Babyish words and sentiments. All you hear in North
America is this talk of people feeling good about themselves, whether
they have done anything to merit all this good feeling or not!
Did it ever occur to you that we, as liturgists, have a role to play
in moving people to that feeling? To let them know they are welcomed
and empowered in their faith community?
All I hear from you, Signora Ford, is about the people.
Congratulating themselves in these embarrassing songs. Have you for-
gotten God? Did you not hear Father Burke yesterday when he spoke
of abandoning the self to God in worship?
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