Man Who Loved God

one of Jesus’s most popular stories.

Father Tully regarded Adams, and thought that unless his former wife was extremely religious and generous, she would have had a decided difficulty understanding him. And so they had split.

It all came down to this: Adams loved God and expected others to do the same.

The priest recalled the simplistic question and answer of the all-but-forgotten Baltimore Catechism: Why did God make you? Answer: God made me to know Him, to love Him and to serve Him in this life and to be happy with Him forever in the next.

That, basically, appeared to be the way Thomas Aquinas Adams lived.

Six

A commotion at the apartment door signaled the arrival of other guests as well as several photographers-if one could judge by the equipment they carried.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Adams called to the new arrivals, “come in. Thanks for arriving so promptly.”

The photographers began checking the room’s lighting and their equipment.

Adams turned to Father Tully. “Remember my telling you that my main job is to be visible? This is one of the ways I can do just that. This week our faces-but mostly mine-will appear in the newspapers. Readers may forget that I was given an award. But they’ll remember that my picture was in the paper … again.

“Jack, Lou, Martin …” Adams called over his executive vice presidents. “Come on over and get in the photo. Al, Nancy, you come too.”

As the members of the group gathered and composed themselves as part of the tableau, they introduced themselves to Father Tully. The priest was grateful for their name tags: they would jump-start his memory if the names failed him during the evening.

“Father Tully …” Adams’s gesture indicated his three top executives. “… it’s mi casa, su casa. Our homes and our offices are open to you throughout your stay here.” The execs murmured assent without much enthusiasm.

There was little jockeying for position. Though everyone knew that the further one stood from the core couple, Adams and the priest, the more likely one was to be trimmed from the published photo, they also knew their place in the scheme of things. The pecking order held.

The plaque was brought to Father Tully, who presented it to Adams as the cameras clicked, whirred, and flashed.

“I know you’ll want this to be brief, Mr. Adams,” the priest said. “Peter Claver, a Jesuit priest who lived from about 1580 to 1654, gave himself without stint to the service of African slaves. He lived and died their generous servant. In his example, Mr. Adams, you have given your time and interest. Your contribution to our work has been constant, bounteous, and, I think, even extravagant. It is with great pleasure that I present you with this award from your grateful friends, the Josephites.”

A beaming Tom Adams accepted the plaque. “Of all the honors and awards I have been given, I assure you I value and prize this”-he raised the plaque slightly-”more than all of them. It shall have an honored place on my wall and in my heart-”

Another commotion at the door. A smiling, somehow feral Mrs. Al Ulrich made her entrance.

The mood was broken. With a frown, Adams quickly concluded. “Please, everyone, make yourselves at home. And on behalf of our banking family, please make our guest, Father Zachary Tully, welcome.”

The photographers checked the names of those whose pictures they’d taken. One even bothered to check the spelling of Claver. They shouldered their gear and left.

Adams got the welcome wagon moving by introducing Father Tully to the others in the photo group. The priest read the name tag of each as he or she was introduced.

Actually, he didn’t hold too great a hope that he would remember everyone. On the other hand, why would he have to? Outside of getting to know Tom Adams better, as well as going along with anything Adams wanted from the Josephites’ representative, the priest planned on spending as much time as possible with his newly discovered family.

But, for now, Father Tully shook hands with each person as introduced. There was Lou Durocher, vice president for mortgage and lending; Jack Fradet, the comptroller, vice president in charge of finance; Martin Whitston, vice president in charge of commercial lending. Then came the two hopefuls: Nancy Groggins with her husband, Joel, and Al Ulrich, whose wife, Barbara, had just finished making a production of having her wrap taken by an attendant.

The only ones now left for Father Tully to meet were the vice presidents’ wives, and, of course, the tardy Barbara.

The three vice presidential wives formed a pod. Whether openly or obliquely, they were studying Barbara Ulrich.

“What in the world is she dressed for?” said Pat Durocher. “She looks like she just stepped off Cass Avenue.”

“Oh,” said Lois Whitston, “let’s be more realistic and make her a five-hundred-dollar hooker.”

“Well her dress is certainly eye-catching,” said Marilyn Fradet, who always tried to say something nice about others. “That black sheath moves every time she does. Sometimes it moves while she’s perfectly still-as if it had a life of its own.”

“Please, Marilyn,” said Pat, “don’t use the word ‘perfect’ in any reference to sweet Babs.”

“And,” said Lois, “what’s with that question about who she’s dressed for? She’s dressed for our husbands.”

“What about her own husband?” asked Marilyn. “He’s right here. She couldn’t be making a play for anybody else … not when her own husband is right here! Could she?”

“She could and she does … and she is,” said Lois. “Everybody knows they haven’t slept together for months-maybe a year or more. But that doesn’t mean she’s given up ‘sleeping’-”

“Our boys are giving us the eye,” said Marilyn hastily, glancing surreptitiously at the three VPs. Marilyn was ill at ease with personal gossip. “C’mon, gals, let’s play in the appetizers.”

Father Tully excused himself and moved toward the VP wives. Conscious that Adams wanted his opinion on whether Ulrich or Nancy Groggins should become manager of the new branch, the priest aimed to cut through the small talk with the others so he could concentrate on Ulrich and Groggins.

“Mulatto,” Martin Whitston said, once Father Tully was out of, earshot.

“Mulatto?” Lou Durocher was unsure of the reference.

“The hair,” Whitston explained. “Tight to the skin. The lips and nose. Definitely Negroid.”

“But with his coloring,” Jack Fradet said, “he definitely could pass.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Durocher asked insistently.

“The priest,” Fradet said. “Father, uh, what was it?… Tully? Definitely a mulatto.”

“What difference does it make?” Durocher asked.

“It doesn’t make a bit of difference,” Fradet answered. “He shouldn’t be in town for more than a few days. He’ll be out of our way in no time.

“But that …” He nodded toward Barbara Ulrich, who was making her way toward Tom Adams.” That makes a difference. Can either of you guys find a flaw in that fuselage?”

Silence as the three engaged in their study.

“Look at those shoulders,” mused Whitston. “That’s the one thing I don’t like about otherwise knockouts: broad shoulders.”

“She’d have to have shoulders that size to keep those hooters up,” said Fradet. “And look at them. A bra, any kind of bra, would be superfluous. Anybody think she’s wearing a bra?”

Two heads shook simultaneously.

“And the waist! What did they used to call that?” Whitston queried. “Wasp waist-that’s it! Look how it highlights the soft curve of her belly. Magnificent!”