Reborn

2

Professor Albert Calder and his wife, Jane, struck Bill as a stuffy couple, the kind of people who consider themselves the intellectual superiors of most of the human race. But that was fine. Especially if they were going to adopt Nicky. They would need to be superior to keep pace with that boy.

So far Bill had overseen two meetings of the prospective parents and child here in St. F.'s, and both had gone well. The Calders were impressed with Nicky's quick mind, and Nicky had felt free to pull his child-genius routines without fear of alienating the adults. The Calders' references showed they were a stable, childless couple with a decent income and, although not terribly active in their parish, at least regular attendees at Mass.

It appeared to be a match made in heaven.

The next step was a weekend stay. The Calders were in his office now to make those arrangements.

"Okay, Father. Then it's all set," Professor Calder said. "We'll pick him up Friday afternoon after school."

He was in his mid-thirties, with thick, horn-rimmed glasses, a neat Vandyke goatee, and dark hair prematurely salted with gray, which he was letting grow over his ears. There were suede elbow patches on his tweed jacket. Here was a man who reveled in being a college professor.

Jane Calder was a short, plump redhead with a generous smile.

"We can't wait to have him over," she said.

"I know Nicky's looking forward to it too."

The intercom buzzed, and Sister Miriam's voice said, "Personal call on two, Father."

"Tell them to hold."

Professor Calder stood up and gave him a crisp handshake.

"Father Ryan, it's been a pleasure."

"That's mutual, I can assure you, Professor." He shook hands with Mrs. Calder and ushered them into the hall. They knew their way out.

Bill's spirits were high. He had a feeling in his gut that this was it for Nicky—out of St. F.'s and into a home that could nurture his mind, body, and spirit. He felt good about the imminent adoption. This was what it was all about.

On top of that, he had had a call from the Maryland Provincial yesterday to clarify a few items on his curriculum vitae. That could mean that either Loyola or Georgetown were interested in him. Either way he'd be in or near the nation's capital, right in the thick of things.

Nicky, old pal, we're both getting out of here!

He picked up the phone. "Father Ryan."

"Bill, it's Carol. Carol Stevens. I need your help."

Involuntarily he flushed with pleasure at the sound of her voice, even though it sounded tight, tense.

"Something wrong?"

"It's Jim. He's been looking through Dr. Hanley's old journals, hunting for the identity of his mother. I think he's found something that's really upset him."

"What?"

"He won't tell me a thing about it. I'm worried, Bill. He sounds like he's about to explode. We're supposed to talk the whole thing out tonight, but that seems a long time away. I was wondering if maybe you could—"

"I'll call him right now," Bill said.

The relief in her voice poured through the phone. "Will you? Oh, thank you! I hate to impose but—"

"Carol, this is what friends are for. Don't give it a second thought."

After jotting down the number and saying good-bye, Bill sat there a moment with his hand on the receiver, thinking.

Carol again. There didn't seem to be any escape from her. Just when he thought he was getting a handle on his obsession with her, she says a few words to him over the phone and he's on fire again. This had to stop. He had to beat this.

But first he had to see about Jim.

He lifted the phone and hesitated. As a priest he did his share of counseling in the confessional. But those were strangers, and they had initiated the encounter by coming to him.

This was different. Jim was an old friend, and from the sound of it, Jim didn't want to talk about whatever it was that was upsetting him.

Jim… upset. That was hard to imagine. Jim Stevens was usually pretty unflappable.

Except about his roots.

Bill had realized from their conversations during last week's night on the town that Jim's roots were an obsession with him, and thus a vulnerable area of his psyche.

Listen to me: Bill Ryan, S.J., parlor psychoanalyst!

But he had made a point of studying a lot of psychology in the seminary. He had come to see the interplay between the human mind and human emotion as the wellspring of faith. To speak to man's faith, you had to understand its mechanisms. And how better to understand faith than to study the human psyche?

What could Jim have learned to disturb him so?

He felt an unaccountable burst of sorrow for his old friend. Had the diehard, stonewall rationalist come upon something that he didn't want to accept? How sad.

He dialed the number Carol had given him. When he heard Jim's gruff voice on the other end, he put on his best hale-fellow voice.

"Jimbo! It's Bill Ryan. How's it goin'?"

"Just great." The flat tone made no attempt to hide the lie behind his words.

"Getting used to being a rich member of the establishment?"

"Working on it."

"So what's new?"

"Not much."

This was getting nowhere. Bill decided to come straight to the point.

"Find out anything new about your natural parents?"

"What makes you say that?" The words sounded as if they'd been ripped out of Jim—the first sign of emotion he'd shown since he'd picked up the phone.

Bingo.

"Just wondering. When we were out to dinner last week, you seemed satisfied that Hanley was your father and said you were going to comb the mansion for the identity of your mother."

Jim's voice was thick. "Yeah, well, maybe I didn't know as much as I thought I knew."

What's that supposed to mean?

"I'm sorry, Jim. I don't get it."

But Jim had leapt off the subject.

"Just a minute," he said. "Did Carol put you up to this?"

"Well, she's worried, Jim. She—"

"It's okay, Bill. I know she's worried. I haven't been playing fair with her. But I'll straighten things out today… I think."

"Can I help?"

"Bill, I don't think anyone can help."

A terrible, crushing sadness flowed across the line.

"Hey, surely—"

"Gotta go, Bill. Thanks. Bye."

And then the line went dead.

Bill sat there and knew with pitying certainty that his old friend had discovered the roots he had quested after for so long, and was being torn apart by what he had found.