Ed McBain - The House That Jack Built

The one in black and the little redhead.

“Dear friends in Christ,” he’d said. “As you know, you are about to enter into a union which is most sacred and most serious, a union which was established by God himself. And because God himself is its author, marriage is of its very nature a holy institution, requiring of those who enter into it a complete and unreserved giving of self. This union, then, is most serious because it will bind you together for life in a relationship so close and so intimate that it will profoundly influence your whole future.

“That future, with its hopes and disappointments, its successes and its failures, its pleasures and its pains, its joys and its sorrows, is hidden from your eyes. You know that these elements are mingled in every life and are to be expected in your own. And so, not knowing what is before you, you take each other for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and health, until death…”

They were alone in the chapel, the three of them.

No one there to object to the union.

Late-afternoon sunshine streaming through the stained-glass windows.

Father Ambrose looked down at the one in black.

“Do you, Arthur Nelson Hurley, take this person as your wedded spouse to live together in the state of holy matrimony, to love, honor and cherish in health, sickness, prosperity and adversity, forsaking all others so long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” he said.

Father Ambrose looked down at the little redhead.

“Do you, William Harold Walker…?”

You had to change the ceremony for them, of course.

Had to delete any words that might imply or even suggest that the act was a legally binding one. You also had to cut out all the words applying to gender, although some of them insisted you referred to one of them as “man” and the other as “wife,” rather than both as the androgynous “spouse.”

Over the years, though. Father Ambrose had evolved a ceremony that seemed to work for the participants. He thought of himself as one of the participants. Never mind Rome, the hell with Rome. Rome didn’t know what he was doing down here in this remote little corner of Florida, and he guessed they never would find out — not from him, anyway. The way Father Ambrose looked at it, if two men wanted to get married, then by God he would marry them. Two women, the same thing. Two alligators, two snakes, two warthogs, two chickens, two of any of the creatures the good Lord had made, if they wanted to get married. Father Ambrose would offer them the comfort of the holy sacrament and the hell with Rome.

He was fond of telling any homosexuals who found their way to St. Benedict’s the joke about the Catholic priest, did they know the joke? Well, this pair of homosexuals wants to get married, and they go first to a rabbi who says no, he won’t marry them, and then to a Protestant minister who says no, he won’t marry them, and finally to a Catholic priest who says, “Sure, I’ll marry you, what do they know about true love?”

The joke usually put his customers at ease, they were always very nervous when they arrived, and self-conscious, as if they were attempting to do something ridiculous and might therefore become the objects of laughter or even scorn. The joke, of course, implied that the Catholic priest was himself homosexual, a not farfetched surmise, but that was neither here nor there, since Father Ambrose was as straight as an arrow and always had been. His one and only sexual experience had, in fact, been with a girl. A long time ago, before his mother decided he had a calling to the priestly vocation. And yes, thank you, he’d enjoyed it, but his love for God was all-consuming, and he had not for a single moment looked back with longing on that afternoon of utter bliss he’d shared with fifteen-year-old Molly Pierson on the roof of a Chicago tenement, long, long ago. Occasionally, though, he wondered if Molly herself had ever married.

Never a week went by, even in the off-season, that someone didn’t knock on the rectory door and ask for Father Ambrose. Usually a pair of men. Now and then women. Women didn’t seem to need the church’s blessing, he didn’t know why. Maybe women didn’t need anyone’s blessing, maybe they knew they were God’s chosen and didn’t have to do a damn thing to prove it.

Knock, knock on the rectory door. Hello, we were just passing by, saw this lovely church, thought it might be a good place to get married. They’d heard about him, of course, the baldheaded priest who was willing to marry gays, his name was common currency in the homosexual communities of most American cities. He supposed sooner or later Rome would find out. Hell with Rome. Until then…

The looks on their faces when he said the words “And may God bless your union.”

Beatific.

The joy he himself felt, knowing he was bringing such pleasure, his anointed thumb making the sign of the cross first on one forehead and then the other, And may God bless your union .

Joy.

Exaltation.

But those two…

The one in black and the little redhead…

They had left him with a curious feeling of unease. He had felt for a fleeting instant that perhaps they hadn’t been homosexual at all , that perhaps the entire exercise had been a mockery. But for what purpose and to what end?

And then he remembered the questions they’d asked. While they were still sitting on the lawn chatting. Before he’d performed the ceremony.

Questions that had seemed pointed.

Well, not at first.

Merely inquiring at first about the availability of beachfront property here in Calusa.

Now that we’re about to take the big step, time to think about really settling down someplace. Seems like a nice community here, Calusa does.

This from the one all in black.

Do you think there might still be any property left on the beach?

This from the little redhead, all bright-eyed and blushing.

And then zeroing in on the Parrish house.

How about the house next door, for example? Do you think it might be for sale? Do you know who owns it? Do you think he might be interested in selling it? Would you know the owner’s name? How do you spell that last name? And it’s Jonathan, you say? Jonathan Parrish? Does he live there alone?

All this from the one in black.

He tried to remember now everything he’d told them about Jonathan Parrish, tried to remember at which point they’d seemed to lose interest and stopped asking questions.

He wished it would stop raining.

The thought of them coming back in the rain frightened him.

The two men sitting with Warren Chambers could have been nothing but cops. Or rednecks. Or both. They were both. Warren guessed neither of them liked the idea of taking orders from a nigger, but the pay was good. The one with the blue eyes was called Charlie. The one with the brown eyes was called Nick. Aside from the color of their eyes, they could have been twins. Massive shoulders and chests, thick wrists and hamlike hands. Colonel Oliver North expressions on their faces: arrogant, surly, self-righteous, challenging, self-satisfied, and smug. Warren would rather have been working with a pair of alligators, but it was tough to find experienced surveillance help down here in the boonies. Four cops in all on a daily round-the-clock basis. Six-hour shifts. Charlie had worked the six a.m. to twelve noon this morning. Nick had just come off the noon-to-six p.m.

They were sitting in a bar called Curley’s, off Route 41, near the South Dixie Mall. Warren was the only black man in the place. This was not unusual for Calusa, Florida, but Warren guessed Charlie and Nick were uncomfortable sitting here drinking with a nigger, even though he was paying for the drinks.