Jim was sitting alone on a bench with a briefcase on his lap. He was in full Roman collar and black clerics, and staring ahead of him as if he was in a trance. A light rain gave a sheen to the pathways and had speckled Jim’s clothes and hair with silver, but he did not seem to feel the rain or the sharp cold wind.
Reuben reached out and put a firm hand on his shoulder. Still Jim didn’t lift his head.
“Look, it’s effing freezing here,” Reuben said. “What about we get some coffee in the Fairmont?”
Jim looked up slowly as if waking from a dream. He didn’t say anything.
“Come on,” said Reuben, taking him firmly by the arm. “It will be warm in there. It will be nice.”
He was still mumbling platitudes and inanities as he guided Jim into the big, bustling, and always glamorous Fairmont lobby. All the elaborate Christmas decorations were gone, but the lobby was in a way always dressed for a holiday with its shining marble floor, gilt-framed mirrors, gold columns, and gold-etched ceiling.
“Tell you what,” Reuben said, moving towards the desk. “I’m going to get us a suite. Mom won’t let you go back to your old apartment, not without turning the town upside down—.”
“Don’t use your real name,” said Jim in a dull voice, without meeting Reuben’s eyes.
“What are you talking about? I have to. I have to show my ID.”
“Tell them not to reveal your real name,” said Jim in a half murmur. “And don’t tell anyone that we’re here.”
The desk was entirely cooperative. They had a fine two-bedroom suite with a beautiful view of the park and Grace Cathedral opposite. And they would not give Reuben’s real name to anyone. Of course they recognized him. They knew he was the famous reporter. They would be absolutely discreet. They registered him under the pseudonym Creighton Chaney, which he offered on the spot.
Jim was in a daze as they entered the parlor of the suite, eyes passing over the ornate fireplace and sumptuous furnishings as if nothing was penetrating, as if he were engaged in some deep inner contemplation from which he couldn’t quite wake. He sat down on the blue velvet sofa and stared at the gold-framed mirror above the mantel and then at Reuben as if he couldn’t make much sense of what was going on around him.
“I’ll call Mom,” said Reuben, “but I won’t tell her where we are.”
Jim didn’t answer.
“Mom, listen to me,” Reuben said into the phone. “I’m with Jim and I’ll call you as soon as I can.” He cut the call off at once.
Jim sat there, holding the briefcase, as he had on the park bench, staring at the gilded fireplace screen as if there were a fire in the grate when there was not.
Reuben settled into a gold velvet armchair to his left.
“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling,” he said, “to have something like this happen to a friend. Mom said you told the police everything you know, that they said they can’t do a thing.”
Jim didn’t respond.
“Do you have any idea who’s responsible? Mom said something about a drug dealer that you knew.”
Jim didn’t answer.
“Look, I know you don’t want to tell me. You don’t want me rushing in and making a meal out of the culprit. I get that. I’m here as your brother. Will it help to talk about what happened to your friend?”
“He wasn’t a friend,” said Jim in that same dull expressionless voice. “I didn’t even like him.”
Reuben didn’t know what to say. Then, “Well, I figure that’s confusing at a time like this, too.”
No response.
“I want to call Dad and tell him I’m with you,” Reuben said and he went into the bedroom on the right. It was as lavish as the parlor with an elaborately dressed king-size bed and a curved couch beneath the window. Surely Jim would be comfortable in these digs if he could persuade him to stay.
As soon as Phil answered, Reuben brought him up to speed. This was bad. He would go get Jim’s things from the apartment and stay with him tonight, if only Jim would allow. “He’s in shock,” said Reuben. “It’s like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m not leaving him.”
“I talked to your mother. She’s in a rage that I’m not coming down there, and I’m giving her ridiculous excuses just like I’ve done all my life for not doing what she wants. Call me back later, no matter what.”
Reuben found Jim seated on the couch still, but he’d laid the briefcase beside him on the sofa.
When he asked about getting Jim’s things, Jim looked up again as if waking from a dream. “I don’t want you to go over there,” he said.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ve got a suitcase with me. I always overpack. I’ve got everything you need.” He went on talking, because he felt somehow this was better than not talking, reflecting on what this shock might have meant to Jim, this happening in his parish. And he said from his heart that he was so sorry, so very sorry about what happened to the young priest.
When the doorbell rang, it was room service with a tray of fruit and cheese—the usual fare in such suites—from the manager of the hotel. And yes, they’d bring him a pot of coffee, too, right away.
Reuben set the food down on the coffee table.
“Is it a long time since you’ve eaten?”
No response.
Finally, Reuben fell silent, as much from not knowing what to do as respect for the fact that this was what Jim might want.
When the coffee came, Jim did accept a cup of it and drank it though it was very hot.
Then slowly Jim’s eyes moved to Reuben and he stared at Reuben for a very long time, looking him over in a slow, casual way, almost the way children look people over, without self-consciousness or apology.
“You know,” said Reuben, “if you do have any idea who did this …” He let the words trail off.
“I know exactly who did it,” said Jim. His voice was low and a little stronger than before. “I was the intended victim. And by now they know they failed.”
The hair stood up on Reuben’s neck. The old pringling began, and that inevitable heat in his face.
“They called him Father Golding the entire time they were beating him and carving him up,” said Jim, his voice darker with the first hint of rage. “He told me that as they put him in the ambulance. He never told them they had the wrong man.”
Reuben waited. “I’m listening,” he said.