dying for a cigarette. I hate to admit it, but it?s the Lord?s truth.?
I'm rising to shake her hand when my cell phone rings.
?Go on and get that,? she says. ?You gonna give me that ?scrip for my mama, Doc??
I move into the hall. ?Hello??
?Penn, this is Julia Jessup.?
?Julia! Are you all right??
?
I just got off the phone with that girl you used to date, or live with, or whatever.?
?Who? Libby Jensen??
?No! The one that wrote those lies in the paper this morning!?
?Caitlin Masters? Wait a minute. How did you talk to Caitlin? Did she call your cell phone? You?re not supposed to have that switched on.?
?I called
I'm not going to have half this town believing Tim was dealing drugs. There wasn'?t any damn meth in our house.?
?I know that, Julia.?
?And I know you?re upset. We need to talk about this face-to-face.?
?What you
to do is call that bitch and tell her what you just told me. Tell her to write a retraction in tomorrow?s newspaper.?
?Julia, listen, please. The last thing you want right now is Caitlin Masters poking around this story. All that matters is you and your son staying safe. That'?s all Tim would want.?
I hear a child crying, then what sounds like a hand patting flesh. ?You don'?t know what Tim wanted,? she says. ?It doesn?'t sound like you do, anyway. He wanted to make those bastards he worked for quit whatever they'?re doing. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn'?t listen. He said you were helping him, and now he?s dead. And I don'?t see you defending him. Maybe if Caitlin Masters put all this on the front page, something would get done. I'?ll bet she?d do it too. She already asked me for an interview.?
Beads of sweat have sprung up on my face. How can a woman who just lost her husband not see that what she?s proposing could cost her and her son their lives? Just saying it on the telephone has put her at risk, and Caitlin too.
?Julia, Tim came to me for a reason. He trusted me because I?'ve dealt with this kind of thing before, and because he knew I would do the right thing. But the right thing is rarely what your emotions tell you to do when you?re upset. I know you can?t see that right now, but you have to try. Julia?? Are you still there??
?I'm here.?
?Please forget about talking to Caitlin. Nothing good will come of that, and it could cost you everything.
Do you understand? Julia? Do I have to spell this out for you??
Her only reply is a strangled growl, a mixture of rage and frustration that rises to a crescendo, then abruptly ceases.
?Julia, as long as you stay where you are and keep quiet, you?ll be safe. You can call me tonight, and we?ll work out a way to see each other. All right??
?Christ,? she says in disgust. ?I'm hanging up.?
The phone goes dead.
I walk to the open door of my father?s office. Dad is bending over his desk to sign a prescription, while Jewel studies a photograph of our family when I was eleven and my sister seventeen.
?Ya?ll ever see Jenny anymore?? she asks.
?Not very often,? Dad confesses.
?She looks just like Mrs. Peggy, almost exactly.?
?I'm sorry, I?'ve got to run,? I tell them.
?Where are you going?? Dad asks.
?I have to find Caitlin. Thanks for everything, Jewel. No more warnings from me.?
The coroner smiles. ?Boy, I didn't make it this far not knowing how to take care of myself. Get out of here.?
With a quick wave, I turn and run for my car.
CHAPTER
23
Tim Jessup?s father is the last man I expected to hear from today, but four blocks from Caitlin?s house, I answered my cell phone and heard the old surgeon?s voice in my ear. Jack Jessup is the opposite of my father: arrogant, greedy, brusque with patients. Golf, money, and the respect of society are his primary obsessions, at least the ones I know about. Seen through his father?s eyes, Tim must have seemed a complete failure from the time he entered high school.
Dr. Jessup gave me no specifics, but asked if I could stop by the Catholic rectory in the next half hour. I assumed that he intended to ask me to read or say something at Tim?s wake. I wanted to see Caitlin as soon as possible?she had agreed via text message to meet me at her house?but since the cathedral and rectory are only a few blocks away from our houses, I agreed to meet the surgeon.
It?s close to dark when I pull up to the imposing mass of St. Mary?s Minor Basilica, a monument to the Irish immigrants who came to Natchez in the nineteenth century. The Irish dominated the Catholic faith here, leavened by a few Italian families who escaped indentured servitude upriver in Louisiana. Of course, Natchez has black Catholics as well, and they worship at the historic Holy Family Church on St. Catherine Street, but their journey, like so many in Natchez, was a parallel one. The dual cultures, shadows of each
other, stretch out toward infinity, a single breath apart, but never quite meeting.
The rectory is a modest building, built of the same brick as the cathedral. A long, gray Mercedes is parked in front of it, and behind this an older Lincoln Continental. As I approach the door, a woman bursts through and rushes past me. She looks familiar, but all I really register is a graying bouffant and pancake makeup concealing a face twisted into a grimace of rage and anguish. She disappears into the Lincoln, then races down the street with a squeal of rubber.
I wonder.
Father Mullen is a new priest, and young. I?'ve only met him on a couple of occasions, at civic functions. A well-educated Midwesterner, he seems somewhat bemused by the Southernness of his new flock. I wonder how he sees Jack Jessup, a clotheshorse who used to charge $1,000 to remove a mole my father would have cut off for $75.
I find Dr. Jessup and Father Mullen in the priest?s office, the surgeon?s expensive chalk-stripe suit a marked contrast to Mullen?s black robe. I can tell by Jessup?s posture that he?s disturbed about something. He?s leaning over the priest?s desk like a naval officer at the rail of a ship about to go into battle.
Judiciously clearing my throat, I say, ?Excuse me??
The surgeon turns sharply, but his face softens when he recognizes me. He motions me forward, and I shake his hand.
Behind him, Father Mullen looks as though he would rather be mortifying his flesh in a monastery than dealing with Dr. Jessup in his present state. The surgeon has intimidated more formidable men than priests.
