The Good Priest's Son Page 10

  Tasker stayed calm. “Marc woke his mother up at three a.m.—he was that excited.”

  Mabry said “I guess I thought he was a grown-up man.”

  Tasker said “Grown enough to have a child of his own.”

  “Then why does he have to tell his mother every plan he’s got?”

  Tasker reached for Mabry’s hand on the table.

  Mabry withdrew it.

  But his father persisted. “Son, consider this—first, Marc Thornton may have killed his brother a few years back (I’m not sure of that yet); and second, you may represent the best hope this young man has ever glimpsed.”

  So while he gathered himself for the trip, Mabry considered that.

  When he got to the porch, it was ten past ten. The sunlight was strong but dry and mild, and a light breeze was rippling the high oak leaves. At first he heard nothing but that dim rustling. Then as he stood and looked back to the crossroads—a few pickup trucks parked at the store, the pool-hall beer sign already shining—he could hear a man’s low voice off to his right. He turned and walked that way. There in the porch swing, Audrey was seated; and Marcus was balanced on the rail beside her.

  He’d changed his clothes since 3 a.m.—a clean white long-sleeved shirt and navy blue trousers. And when he saw Mabry moving toward him, he stood up, smiled, stepped forward a little, and held out a hand.

  Mabry shook it. “You’re a man of your word, right on time.” When he looked to Audrey, she was hardly smiling but not as grim as she’d been at breakfast. “Further greetings, Audrey.”

  “Still morning, Mr. Kincaid.”

  So we’re back to last names. All right; keep talking. “Marcus, you ready to head for Raleigh?”

  “I am, yes sir.”

  Audrey stood at that point, and Marcus looked toward her with some apprehension. But when she spoke, it was only to Mabry. “You plan to be back here by suppertime?”

  Mabry said “After that handsome spread last night, I wish I could guarantee my answer is yes. But in case we get held up for any reason—this is a rental car—I’d better say no. If there’s any leftovers though, I’d be mighty grateful.”

  Audrey said “We’ll see what we can do.”

  Mabry and Marcus were down the steps and halfway out to the car before she spoke again. “Be careful with that boy. He’s all I’ve got left.”

  Mabry turned to face her. “He’ll be the one driving, but I’ll take extra care. We’re going to the museum and coming straight back.”

  With both eyes shut, she gave her permission.

  The men walked onward. Mabry surrendered the keys to Marcus, who took no more than five seconds to acquaint himself with the workings of the Dodge; and then they were off, backing out of the drive.

  When they made the first move forward, Mabry looked to the house.

  By then Audrey was standing at the porch rail, with her hand up in farewell, as if she might not see them again. The forthright honesty of her gesture swept over Mabry. How many times had women bade him provisional farewell? His mother, his grandmother, Frances, even Gwyn, his daughter Charlotte when she was a child, a dozen others. And what guarantee did he have that his father would still be alive when he and Marcus came back this evening? His eyes welled tears and before they’d got to the main crossroads—against his effort to force it down—he gave a hard sigh. Oh Christ, no.

  Marcus nearly stopped the car and looked over toward him. “You hurting, Mr. Kincaid?”

  At once it struck Mabry. He knows I’m sick. When did Pa tell him? He wouldn’t ask for details now. So he said “I’m no more hurt than we all are, after this awful business in New York.”

  By then the car was stopped in the midst of the two-lane blacktop. Marcus said “You think those Muslim guys have ruined this country forevermore like they’re claiming on TV?” It might very well be the gravest question he’d asked in his brief life.

  Mabry said “No, I don’t. But we can talk about that once we get a breeze underway.” He pointed ahead with all the authority of Lewis or Clark. “Let’s shove on forward.”

  Marcus said “And you’re not going to scare me?” He was grinning by then but still entirely earnest.

  Mabry laughed a little. “How could I scare you? You could bend me into pretzel shapes any minute you wanted.”

  Marcus said “I wouldn’t want that. But your dad has told me you’re maybe bad sick.”

  Mabry said “I see my dear pa has turned into a chatterbox in his old age. Marcus, here’s exactly all I know. For a few months I’ve had strange symptoms that may be M.S.—tingling in my hands and feet, sudden flashes of light in my eyes, and occasional patches of double vision. My doctors are saying they need awhile longer to know for sure what’s causing the problems. I asked you to drive me when I was flat worn out last night. You can bet your last penny I won’t get scary. And I won’t need any kind of nursing. I’m one of the safest adults you know.” He gave that a few quiet seconds to soak in. “Any more questions?”

  Marcus paused even longer than Mabry expected, but then he laughed frankly. “Just tell me what your upper speed limit is.”

  Mabry said “What’s legal in the Tar Heel State now?”

  “Sixty-five, most places.”

  Mabry said “Keep it just under seventy-four.” It was only then that he realized Marcus’s name was not on his rental car agreement. Oh what the hell? This is dear old Tar Heelia. They won’t give a damn, until we’re both corpses; and then it won’t matter, except to us two.

  In under two hours they were roaming the galleries of the State Art Museum, searching out various personal favorites and occasionally encountering one another by accident or at the will of Fate. At one o’clock Mabry asked Marcus if he was hungry.

  “Mr. Kincaid, I’m hungry all over the clock. You could wake me up at three in the morning, and I’d scarf down a cross section of a cow and three baked potatoes decorated all the way.”

  Considering Marcus’s rail-thin body, that seemed unlikely. But Mabry said “They’ve got a fairly nice café downstairs. Let’s pause for a bite.”

  That sat comfortably with Marcus; and in the bright restaurant, he ordered a bowl of guaranteed original Cajun gumbo, followed by a mile-high turkey club sandwich.

  Mabry also had the gumbo, then cheese and biscuits; and when they were near their last cups of coffee, he realized how little they’d said since leaving Wells—not quite what he’d expected, after Marcus’s volubility last night. Despite the odd class session here and there and a few summer seminars in conservation, Mabry had never really been a teacher; but now he thought of a way that might trigger Marcus again and help him show his hand, whatever it was. “I need a short visit to the men’s room now. After that, let’s find our two absolute favorite pictures in this whole building and tell each other why.”

  For all the serious response on Marcus’s face and eyes, Mabry might have proposed the hardest test invented by humans. Marcus said “It has to be my favorite in this one building, nowhere else?”

  Mabry said “God, man, there are surely enough splendid pictures here. It’s after all the single art museum in the country that’s entirely state-supported. Show some in-state pride!” He was more than half joking.

  Marcus’s body still seemed to hedge, but he hadn’t said no.

  So Mabry left him alone at the table, found the men’s room and was back in five minutes to discover that Marcus had called for the check and actually paid it—which was not the plan (he wouldn’t hear of any reimbursement from Mabry). When they both stood at last, Mabry said “You rather head on home now?”

  “Oh no sir, I’m ready. I just had to”—here at last Marcus paused to cross his eyes for comic effect (his first real levity of the day)—“contemplate my personal aesthetics and be absolutely sure of my choice.”

  In another three minutes, they were standing in front of Mabry’s choice—the large circular Botticelli Nativity with a winsome baby, four months old, looking toward the painter; his worsh
ipful mother hovering above him, St. Joseph snoozing in the middle distance and a long line of Magi winding through the far hills, bound for the baby.

  When they’d both stood looking for a silent while, Marcus said “Now you get to tell me why.”

  Mabry said “You don’t like it.” It was not a question.

  “Sir, I didn’t say that. But you set the rules of this game we’re playing—you got to say why.”

  Mabry went through a quick art-history lecture on who Botticelli was (a man apparently torn by a sense of sin for some unknown cause). Then he proceeded to a longer discussion of the surface of the picture—which passages were plainly in the master’s hand and which were painted by studio assistants (maybe most of the picture), places where the surface had been overcleaned in the nineteenth century, the traces of near six hundred years of small repairs. He thought he was finished when he finally conceded. “To be sure, some experts don’t think it’s a Botticelli at all—just a big old handsome exercise in the Botticelli manner by some skillful lad in fifteenth-century Florence, maybe with the master’s hands-on blessing.” He paused, looked round for a guard and saw no one. So he gave a short stroke to the heavy handcarved gilded frame with his long forefinger. Then he looked round again and actually touched the canvas. Then he whispered strongly to himself “Behave!” Then he looked back to Marcus.

  Marcus said “But that’s it?” He wasn’t laughing.

  Mabry grinned though. “What else do I owe you?”

  “I don’t know—maybe more than a sermon.”

  “Gosh, was that a sermon?” Mabry moved a step closer to the picture.

  But by then a guard had strolled in from the next gallery. He raised his voice—“Mister!”—then waved Mabry back.

  So Marcus led the way to the main door. “I’ll show you mine now.”

  Mabry followed him silently, still a little abashed (the guard was a black man). There were several good pictures by African-Americans in the upstairs galleries—Romare Bearden and Jacob Lawrence. Mabry thought they’d likely head for the elevator. But no, Marcus only led him into the next room and down a few yards to a very small picture—a favorite of Mabry’s own, one he always visited on any trip here. Mabry didn’t mention that; he waited for whatever Marcus might say.

  First, Marcus said “I could lie down right here and sleep for a week. This is one happy room.”

  Mabry said “I agree but I doubt that mean-ass guard would let us even kneel, much less lie.”

  At which point Marcus fell to his knees in front of the picture. The glum guard had followed them, and maybe it was only because Marcus knelt three yards from the wall that he didn’t make him rise.

  Mabry moved toward the painting as though he’d never seen it. On a wall of big companions, it was only about fifteen by twenty inches. And its plaque said “St. Paul’s Departure from Caesarea by Jan Brueghel the Elder.” Though he’d known it at close range for years, Mabry studied its crowded surface silently. Once, with a reproduction in hand, he’d tried to count all the heads and bodies of the mob strewn along the harbor—he’d forgot the total, more than a hundred surely. Most of the city, anyhow, had plainly turned out—either to bid that eternally difficult guest St. Paul a hearty bon voyage or to hustle the wild-eyed apostle on his way with no return ticket or to see the four ships in various stages of arrival or departure. But where was St. Paul? Between his visits, Mabry always lost the star of the show; so now he bent, at sufficient distance, and tried to find the eloquent apostle among the many outsized noses that Brueghel had maybe provided as thigh-slapping amusement for his guaranteed audience of Northern European goyim. Mabry thought he recalled that St. Paul wore a halo, but after two minutes he still hadn’t found him.

  Marcus got to his feet with his broadest smile. “Give up?” Clearly he understood Mabry’s present quandary.

  Mabry said “Afraid so.”

  “And you’re a certified licensed professional in the expensive picture business?”

  Mabry kept his smile burning, a little surprised to be embarrassed. “I confess I am, yes.”

  Marcus took a long look at his watch. “You ready for me to show you right now? I can give you one last sixty seconds, by the minute hand.”

  Though he’d never had a son, Mabry knew enough about men—boys—to know he should let Marcus show him, a resounding trump of a hapless elder. To take another minute, and find Paul now, would be the cheapest kind of grown-up triumph. It wasn’t easy, though, to say “I surrender. Show me the man please.”

  Marcus looked to the guard. Their eyes plainly met. Then Marcus stepped forward and all but touched the right man in the picture—Paul of Tarsus in his uncanny halo, escorted by soldiers, in the lower right corner, a tiny figure (maybe four inches high) to have altered the course of Western civ. Marcus looked back to Mabry—“Behold your man!”

  The guard said “You gentlemen better move on now.”

  In all his years of museum-going, Mabry had never heard quite such an order; but the tone of voice was low and mild. Did it have to do with the African-American blood the man shared with Marcus Thornton?

  Whatever, Marcus said to the guard “Can I just stand back and tell this white man what I know?”

  The guard actually chuckled—another first for Mabry—and said “Bring him on up to speed, sure; but you keep your distance, man. Behave yourself.”

  So Marcus said to Mabry “I’ve got two reasons for loving this picture as much as I do. First, it’s painted on copper—a sheet of copper, metal. Don’t ask me how. Then second, the best thing is the way he’s buried his one good man so you can hardly find him—just like in the world.”

  Mabry said “Good reasons, both. But of course you could spot St. Paul right off if you had eyes that could spot haloes in a big crowd of folks without them.”

  “Right!” Marcus said—he was truly excited—“but see, Mr. Brueghel” (he pronounced the name to rhyme with frugal) “rigged the whole scene to make you think you were the one soul in the entire world who could spot a good man. Nobody else in the picture can see him, nobody else in the whole museum, the guard can’t see him” (Marcus waved to the guard, who gave a long wink). “Just me and—now—you.”

  So Mabry thanked him.

  And Marcus accepted the thanks by patting his own left shoulder and bowing low from the waist toward Mabry.

  They were out of the gallery and moving through the Greek and Roman sculptures when Mabry decided to act on at least a part of the reason he was here at all. He’d thought of consulting an old friend, who worked in the conservation lab, about his Adger picture. But this morning, just before he left home, he’d decided not to bring the picture and very likely—if he saw his friend—not to mention it today. His and Gwyn’s hunch that some small treasure lurked beneath the boy’s surface was still potent in him. He’d likely keep it private for now.

  While Marcus was roaming through the book-and-gift shop, though, Mabry asked the woman at the information desk to phone Will Green in the conservation lab. He and Will had studied the craft together at the University of Delaware, and Mabry hadn’t seen him for maybe ten years. Hadn’t he heard that Will had progressed to the top of the ladder, director of conservation here?

  And so he had, though when a guard led them down to the door of the lab, Will looked like the same frazzled sheepdog of a boy he’d been long ago. And though they’d exchanged a few words on the phone two minutes before, at first he didn’t seem to recognize Mabry. He spent five seconds squinting to take his whole face in—a recently excavated bronze.

  Then, very oddly, Marcus spoke up in his mimicking voice from back-when. “It’s your old buddy Mabry—you used to call me Caid, the only person ever.”

  That did it. Will reached out, took Mabry by the upper shoulders, and kept on hunting around his face. At last he said, “Caid, my God, I truly don’t believe it. It’s you, intact.”

  Mabry wondered of course How the hell does this boy know my grad school nickname? but he s
aid to Will “I’m the actual last remains of Billy the Kid.”

  Will said “No, that’s me. You haven’t aged by so much as a molecule, except to get better.”

  Marcus said “Amen,” as though he knew.

  But Mabry said to Will “I don’t know whether to thank you or run. Or maybe both.” He gave a quick feint as though to flee.

  And Will said “How long are you in town for?”

  Mabry said “I’m visiting my father up in Wells—a few days more in any case.”

  “So you didn’t suffer at all on Tuesday?” Will thumbed behind him as though this Tuesday were a tangible presence.

  That reminded Mabry that Will had spent a night or two in Mabry’s loft when he was in New York on museum business maybe four years ago, so he gave him a quick rundown on his European vacation and the Nova Scotian detour, but by now he’d firmly decided against any mention of the Adger. Thank God I still haven’t showed it to Marc. He said “You’re clearly busy right now.”

  Will literally wrung his hands before him, a forced sign of busyness; but he also said “Please let me take you to lunch almost any day next week. Right this minute, though”—he pointed behind him in the same direction as this past Tuesday—“we’re setting a huge de Kooning behind a gigantic sheet of glass in a new frame we’ve made, and I’ve got to turn back and help with that.”

  Mabry said “Then maybe I’ll call you tomorrow and see.”

  Will apologized for the rush he was in; but before he left, he looked to Marcus and extended his hand. “I hope I’ll get to meet you properly another day.”

  Marcus said “My name is Marcus Dab Thornton—call me Marc or Dab. I’ll keep the same hope.”

  The odd turn of phrase held Will for a moment. Then he grinned at them both and was gone back into the hubbub of a framing crew whom he’d left holding a broad sea of glass.

  They were halfway up the highway to Wells, and Marcus at the wheel seemed in a kind of immensely careful but solemnly airborne trance whenever Mabry did more than make the occasional idle remark. At last Mabry said “I never knew anybody else with the middle name Dab.”