Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [28]
“Something tells me there’s not a happy ending.”
“Hardly,” said Ruth. “Nineteenth-century Bologna was part of the Papal States. Under church law, a child who was baptized could not reside in a Jewish home. It’s not clear how, but whispers about Edgardo’s secret reached all the way to the pope. One night the constabulary showed up at the Mortara house and took him away.”
“This is a true story?”
“Absolutely. The church’s position was that Edgardo could return to his parents if they converted to Christianity. Needless to say, Edgardo never came home. It was a huge international incident, but the pope wouldn’t budge. The boy even lived with him in the Vatican for a while. Edgardo ended up a Catholic priest, one of the protégés of Pio Nono.”
“Pio Nono?”
“That was the Italian name for Pope Pius IX.”
“That’s what Grandpa shouts from his bed. I thought he was railing against the post office.”
“Pio Nono is actually the main character in the play. Your grandfather was very moved by the story.”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“I mean it really impacted him,” she said. “Much more than I expected.”
Jack waited for her to say more, but she fell silent. “Because . . . he’s Jewish?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe something inside me made me want to think he was. Look at me,” she said, laughing at herself, “I’m eighty-three years old and still trying to please my mother. Oy vey.”
Jack smiled. It was easy to see how his grandfather had enjoyed her company.
His cell phone rang. Jack didn’t recognize the number, so he didn’t answer.
“I’m not saying it’s so,” said Ruth, “and the last thing I want to do is create an identity crisis for you. But I have heard of people literally on their deathbed, telling their children or grandchildren the truth about their ancestry. And you can’t always dismiss as crazy everything that comes out of the mouth of someone with Alzheimer’s.”
Jack’s phone chimed with an incoming text message. He glanced at it, then froze.
“It’s Pio Nono,” it read. “Call me. NOW!”
“Is something wrong?” asked Ruth.
Jack shook off the chills. “Will you excuse me one minute?”
Ruth seemed concerned, as if she might have said something to anger him, but Jack had no time to explain.
He hurried out of the cafeteria and found a quiet place to return the call from a dead pope.
Chapter Thirteen
Jack ran to his grandfather’s room.
It was creepy the way the message had referenced Pio Nono, and Jack feared it was a threat—aimed not just at him, but also at the man who had been shouting those words at the top of his voice.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he rushed toward the bed.
Grandpa was breathing but was out like a light, his mouth wide open. Ativan, Jack presumed—one of the anti-anxiety medications made famous by the Michael Jackson homicide, better known in nursing homes as the day-shift relief drug: Load up the patient at lunchtime, chart him as “nonresponsive” through sunset, and let the night shift deal with him. Jack would have a word with the prescribing doctor later.
He pulled up a chair beside the bed, retrieved the number from his cell history, and returned the call. After two rings there was a voice on the line.
“Got your attention, I see.”
“Who is this?” asked Jack.
“Someone you need to talk to.”
“How did you know I was in the middle of a conversation about Pio Nono when you texted me?”
“I heard you,” the man said, his scoff crackling over the line. “Is there any other way?”
For all the concern over confused residents wandering out of the building, Sunny Gardens wasn’t nearly vigilant enough about checking visitors. “Are you in the building?”
“That’s enough questions. Just shut up, relax, and listen. I’m not calling to threaten you or blackmail you. I’m calling to help.”
“Help me what?”
“Defend Jamal Wakefield.”
An