Free Flight Dreams by Michael Craft Page B

can remember.
    Inside, Father James McMullen sits at a rickety dining room table spread with paperwork that has outgrown his cramped office. He signs a document, stuffs it into an envelope, then tries to decide which pile of papers to tackle next, avoiding the tallest, the unpaid bills.
    It is late morning—almost lunchtime, he notes—and the house is quiet. A clock ticks on the mantel. Down the hall, in the kitchen, his housekeeper is fussing with something. He wonders what Mrs. Weaver has in mind for lunch, hoping it’s not tuna salad. He’s never liked those sandwiches, so quintessentially Catholic—not since he was a boy, when he had to eat them every Friday at school. Though he still observes meatless Fridays with everyone else in Assumption, Mrs. Weaver is apt to foist tuna salad on him any day of the week, describing it as “heart-healthy,” at least the way she fixes it, without mayonnaise, which makes it even worse.
    The stillness is broken by the phone, ringing once, in the kitchen. A few moments later, Mrs. Weaver appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Telephone, Father.” She turns to walk back to the kitchen, then stops to tell him, “Lunch’ll be ready whenever you are.”
    He rises from his chair slowly—not that it’s difficult for him, but he sometimes feels dizzy if he gets up too fast—and follows her down the hall. Mrs. Weaver resumes rinsing something in the kitchen sink. It’s celery. Tuna salad, alas, is inevitable.
    The old black Bakelite wall phone is mounted near the doorway. Next to it, thumbtacked to the woodwork, are the last three pages of a church calendar. Little paper shreds, remnants of the past nine months, sprout from its wire spiral. The priest picks up the receiver. “Good morning. This is Jim McMullen.”
    Smiling, he listens to the caller, but has trouble hearing over the water gurgling in the sink. “Yes, Mr. Manning? Where are you from?”
    “I’m a reporter for the Chicago Journal,” says the voice over the phone, “and I’m working on a story about Helena Carter, the heiress who disappeared about seven years ago. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”
    The priest’s smile fades. “I’m aware of the incident, yes. In fact, I had some correspondence with the woman’s home pastor shortly after her disappearance.”
    Manning says, “I spoke with Father Carey just this morning, and he told me about that.”
    “Then he must have also told you that I know nothing of her fate.”
    “He did,” confirms Manning, “but that was quite a while ago, and I couldn’t help wondering if there had been any further developments in the intervening years.”
    Father McMullen turns away from the housekeeper and huddles the phone into his shoulder. With anger mounting in his voice, he asks Manning, “Why would I conceal any knowledge of this woman’s whereabouts? The terms of her will are well known. Her fortune will go to the mainstream Church. What would be my motive for deception?”
    Mrs. Weaver turns off the water and is poised to begin chopping celery. Listening, she doesn’t move. The dried-out linoleum pops under the shifting weight of her feet.

Friday, October 9
84 days till deadline
    D RESSED TO RUN, MANNING stands on the sidewalk looking down the street. Though he has never been here, the place seems familiar, pieced together from countless recollections. It is midday, warm, and perfectly clear. Birdsong drifts from colossal elms that arch over the street to form an endless fluttering tunnel of green, dappled blue. There are no people, no cars. Except for the shifting light in the trees above, all is still.
    Neat white houses line both sides of the street—big clapboard houses with pitched roofs and open porches. Raised windows frame the soft folds of lace curtains, brilliant in the sun against the void of dark rooms within. Lawns are sheared smooth as carpets, yet no one mows them this fine day, no one trims their chalk-snapped borders with