Free Requiem for a Realtor by Ralph McInerny

always hitherto conquered them and been drawn back to thoughts of his vocation. An image of Father Dowling formed in his mind, memories came of their conversations, the topic of which had always been his putative vocation. It had been a pastoral instinct that had gotten him involved with Phyllis in the first place; he had wanted to give her the benefit of his knowledge of the canon law on marriage. He had not had to convince her that she really wasn’t married, that a civil ceremony was not what the Church meant by marriage. He had meant to comfort, not seduce, her with this legal lore.
    Registered, they crossed the lobby to the elevator.
    â€œPleasant dreams,” Verdi called after them. He might have been taunting a bridegroom.
    The sluggish elevator rose all too rapidly, stopped, and the door slid open. Phyllis took his hand and they started down the hall. She actually giggled and David was frozen with embarrassment. He had trouble with the key and she took it from him and got the door of their room opened. Inside, she tossed the shoulder bag she had brought onto the bed and threw her arms around him. When he bent to her, she swallowed him with her kiss. Then she pushed him away, picked up her bag, and said she’d only be a moment. Before she closed the bathroom door she whispered coyly, “Pull back the covers.”
    Then she was gone. He wanted to escape, but that was impossible. He could not bring her here and then just desert her. He waited, fully clothed, in an agony of indecision and guilt.
    When she emerged she was wearing a nightie that fell no farther than the tips of her fingers. She hopped into bed and then looked at him.
    â€œUndress.”
    â€œPhyllis…”
    â€œI’ll help you.” She was on her feet again, and again she giggled. It sounded horrible, a gurgle from hell. She was undoing his tie but he stopped her. Then she unbuckled his belt. He sprang back.
    â€œNo! Phyllis, this was a horrible mistake.”
    â€œOh, come on. Don’t be bashful.”
    Everything she said was wrong. How in the name of God had he got into such a situation? He dropped to his knees.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œPraying.”
    Expressions came and went on her face but ended with a smile.
    â€œAll right, let’s pray.”
    She knelt before him and again began to work at his belt. He slapped her hand, hard.
    â€œStop that!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWe have to go.”
    â€œDavid, we just got here.” She rose to her feet and tried to lift him from his knees. “Everything will be all right. Come to bed.”
    He remembered the pathetic Padre Jose in Graham Greene’s Power and the Glory, the faithless priest, teased by the neighboring kids who mimicked his woman when she called the apostate to bed.
    He did sit on the bed then, and she sat beside him while he tried to explain that they must forget what they had been about to do. They had weakened but not fallen. They must remember that God could see them in the Frosinone, too. She listened in silence. Then she got off the bed and went back to the bathroom. When she came out again she was wearing her clothes.
    â€œLet’s go.”
    â€œPhyllis, I’m sorry.”
    â€œI know.” But her voice was cold. How could he blame her?
    An hour after they came to the hotel, they left. No need to check out. He had paid in advance. But the manager watched them go with an amused expression. Perhaps he would think they were going out for dinner. The bed was mussed up, so the cleaning crew could think they had spent the night. He drove Phyllis home in the rental car, and they parted in silence.

4
    The news of the hit-and-run death of Stanley Collins filled Bridget with foreboding. She had no way of knowing if others were aware of the relationship between David Jameson and Phyllis Collins, but such things were never secret for long. Of course, her own certainty that David was up to no good had been