“My impression of Whitston,” Groggins said, “is that he feels like he is confined by the financial limits of the Adams Bank. But, basically, he is satisfied at the moment. And he is supremely confident in what he does.”
“Then it sounds as if he’d be crushed if he were the one to be replaced.”
“Crushed?” The word was uttered at such a pitch that the others suddenly became aware of him. Immediately, Groggins lowered his voice. “I think if someone attempted to give him notice, he would do the crushing.”
Father Tully’s now empty plate was removed. What next? he wondered. “What about Mrs. Whitston?”
“Lois? She has her own personality, of course, but I’m not sure exactly what it is. Thing you have to remember, Reverend, is that all three ladies attached to these vice presidents have elected to lose themselves in their husband’s careers. Now, look at Lois for a minute.”
Father Tully looked. He saw a woman who seemed to be fighting. Fighting to keep her shape when she really wanted to compromise. Fighting to hold on to a youth that had passed maybe twenty or twenty-five years ago. It was a losing battle. But one she engaged in.
“Lois is a joiner. She’s a volunteer for the symphony, the art institute, the local PBS fund-raisers. She occupies herself with a lot of busy work. Occasionally, our paths cross at these events. Usually, she’s asking me to appear on behalf of one or another of ’em. She’s running after something, but I’m not sure what.”
The Fountain of Youth, thought the priest.
“Then”-Groggins had almost finished his steak-”there’s Jack Fradet, executive vice president for finance-the comptroller. He’s high-priced, and worth every penny. His job, mostly, is to forecast the financial climate in the United States. Marketing comes from his area. He audits the bank, complying with state and federal laws. He knows where all the skeletons are buried.
“Look at it this way: The bank is all about money. And Jack Fradet is in direct charge of all the money. Actually, the other two executive VPs report to him.”
Father Tully studied Fradet. A smallish man with thick, wire-framed glasses. Although Fradet wore a dinner jacket, the priest sensed he would be much more comfortable in corduroy trousers, a shirt buttoned to the neck, an elastic band holding up either sleeve, and an eyeshade. In short, Bob Cratchet in Dickens’s
“Plain, isn’t he?”
The priest nodded slowly.
“So is his wife.
“Marilyn is a stay-at-home. Their three kids are adults now. Once upon a time, they tell me, her entire life revolved around her kids while Jack’s life was immersed in his work, the bank. His reputation is impeccable. He’s really good at what he does. And he knows he’s good. But what he does includes very few people. He’s a loner. Among the few that are at all close to him there’s a sort of consensus that he considers himself a big fish in a very small pond. But the consensus goes on to hold that he would never make a move to leave Adams. This bank is his life-as far as anyone can tell.”
While Groggins finished his steak, Father Tully studied Marilyn Fradet. She was just “there.” Martin and Lois Whitston were seated on either side of Marilyn. The couple were talking to each other as if Marilyn were a pillar at Tiger Stadium that embodied the designation “obstructed view.”
When husband and wife had finished their dialogue and each began another conversation with others at the table, Marilyn continued to just sit there. She had barely touched her steak. She put Father Tully in mind of Lot’s wife immediately after turning back to, see Sodom and Gomorrah catch hell from God.
“Regular coffee, gentlemen, or decaffeinated?” A waiter filled their coffee cups.
“She certainly seems to be a million miles from this party,” the priest commented.
“Who?”
“Marilyn Fradet.”
Groggins glanced at her. “I’m told that’s the way it is. Seems like her kids would be doing her a favor to take her in. Talk is Jack has something on the side-if you catch my meaning.”
The priest caught it.
“I don’t know,” Groggins continued, “whether Jack’s paramour is a cause or an effect of his relationship with his wife.”
The priest shook his head. “Pitiful.”
“You said it. One of those relationships that, right at the beginning, should have been declared a failure and dissolv-” Groggins caught himself short. “Uh, sorry, Reverend. That’s against your religion, isn’t it? Divorce, I mean.”
The priest smiled. “No, no. The Catholic version of divorce is annulment. But before we work on the annulment-which has no standing in civil law-the couple has to get a divorce-which has no standing in Church law.”
Groggins’s brow furrowed.
“Don’t try to make heads or tails of it.” The priest chuckled. “Let’s just say that divorce has its place in Catholics’ lives. And if what you say is so, I guess it should have had a place in Mr. and Mrs. Fradet’s life. They certainly do not appear to be happy people.”
The waiters removed the last of the dinner plates and filled the remaining coffee cups.
There was a general shifting about in the chairs. Some fresh conversations were begun. Still, no one sought to engage either Father Tully or Jack Groggins in small or large talk.
“That,” the priest said, “leaves one vice presidential couple.”
“Lou and Pat Durocher,” Groggins identified. “Last and probably least.”
“Oh?”
“Lou is vice president in charge of mortgage and individual lending. This is the real meat and potatoes of the banking business. Lou and his staff do things-on Adams’s small level-like financing cars for college kids. And they provide mortgage money, of course. They make loans. They establish sales and market plans. This and commercial lending, run by Marty Whitston, are where the banks make money.”
“So why your remark that Lou Durocher was the least? The least of the vice presidents? A weak link?”
“A lot of people-Nancy among them-have their doubts about Durocher’s judgment. Some of his loans have been highly questionable. Now, whether or not a bank gives a loan is a judgment call. And not all loans work out. But Durocher’s batting average is as low as a rookie who’s struggling to make it in the majors. And, like it or not, even if it’s there by the skin of its teeth, Adams Bank is a major league organization.”
The priest measured Durocher in a more searching light.
“Nervous” seemed the appropriate word. He appeared uncertain about his smile. Should he turn it on or off? And the eyes … in almost constant movement. As if he felt tardy in comprehending what was going on. As if he had to catch up just to stay even with his conversational partners.
All in all, not the type to whom Father Tully would feel comfortable entrusting something precious, such as money.
Finally, Father Tully considered the other half of the last-and-probably-least team: Patricia Durocher, Lou’s wife.
In contrast to her husband, Pat seemed relaxed, enjoying a camaraderie beyond her husband’s grasp. And although she was sitting across the table from Lou, she seemed distant from him. She made no effort to include him in her attention or conversation.
Father Tully wondered if this sort of interpersonal behavior marked their less formal relationship at home. Were Lou and Pat also candidates for the divorce mill?
Dessert arrived. Fortunately, after a meal of such elegance, dessert was fresh fruit-strawberries, raspberries, grapes, and melon.
“The Durochers don’t seem to fit,” Father Tully observed.
“How’s that?” Groggins nibbled the succulent fruit.
“They just don’t seem compatible. Mr. Durocher looks as if he’s trying to catch up with this evening … maybe this life! While his wife appears very comfortable handling the chitchat that’s going on.”
Groggins studied the couple, pausing to spoon fruit. “I guess I just never paid all that much attention. But I think you’re right: this was not a union made by computer.”
“Well, I’m a bit surprised,” the priest said. “What seemed a difficult-if not tortuous-decision, now seems the
