The Accidental Pope (23 page)

“He doesn't need me as badly as I need Ireland. I have done my work. It's up to the pope himself now. I requested that Tim Shanahan call you if the pope needs political advice.”

“I appreciate your faith, but Tim can do infinitely more. He'll be a big asset to the pope.”

“Exactly, Ed,” Brian agreed. “Timmy is the right man for Bill now. But I'm ahead of you. Tim has already talked to the pope. I'm not from Ireland for nothing. Let's have a taste of the Bush and I'm off to the pope's dinner. Then I'm back to the Auld Sod.”

“Sorry to see you leave, old friend. But I'll keep on top of Bill's problems as they come up. Now, let me lead the way to the sideboard and we'll have that good-bye toast. Should I see any trouble on the horizon, I'll call. I still wish you would stay around a little longer.”

“No. I've done everything I can do to promote God's will. Now it's up to Bill and the Holy Spirit.”

Ida, the housemaid, was standing in the doorway. “Will you be having dinner after the press conference, Mr. Ambassador?”

“No, thank you, Ida. Mrs. Kirby and I will have to grab a pizza and a glass of wine at Campo de' Fiori and watch all the people walk back and forth.”

He put his hand on the cardinal's shoulder and steered him toward the Nancy Reagan Sun Room. “The sideboard lies ahead.”

20

BUZZARDS BAY

At twelve noon in Washington an anxious group of bow-tied and miniskirted young State Department careerists were gathered around their TV sets to catch whatever snippets from Ambassador Kirby's six
P.M.
press conference in Rome might get through on the news. The Vatican Desk officer, Skiddy von Stade, and his staff were particularly anxious to hear what their newest “out-of-control” envoy might choose to impart.

Also watching the news that noon were the Kelly children, except for Ryan. Bishop Sean Patrick was with them. Live from Rome, Ambassador Kirby explained succinctly how Cardinal Comiskey of Ireland had asked him to go to Boston and escort William Kelly, a Cape Cod fisherman, to Rome.

“Did you know he was about to become the next pope?” a reporter asked.

“No, it seemed to me beyond the bounds of reason,” Ed replied.

“Did you notify the State Department you were going to meet Mr. Kelly?”

“I was asked by my Vatican contact not to do so,” Ed answered casually.

“So you ignored protocol and flew off on your own?”

The questioner seemed a replica of his press antagonists at home. “In a manner of speaking,” Ed replied nonchalantly. “I felt I was serving my country.”

“What happened when you got to Boston yesterday morning?” another reporter asked.

“I arranged to meet Mr. Kelly in Fall River, Massachusetts, and drive him to JFK Airport.”

“Did you know you were escorting the next pope?”

“As I said, it seemed highly unlikely, but I couldn't understand why else I was bringing a fisherman and, as I discovered, ex-priest to Rome during a papal conclave.”

“When did you notify the State Department of your self-appointed mission?”

“It wasn't self-appointed. I called in my DCM, acronym for deputy chief of mission, after hearing speculation that I had perhaps taken a plane to Monte Carlo or some other destination. One report had me going to a football match in Dublin with Irish friends.”

The camera cut to a chagrined-looking Seedworth and then swung back to the ambassador.

“When did you realize Bill Kelly would be the next pope?”

“I wavered in that direction when I saw him wearing a monsignor's cassock left for him at my residence.”

A voice burst out from the back of the knot of reporters and cameras. “Did you know that the president has nominated you to receive the Thomas Jefferson Medal, the State Department's highest award?”

“The president mentioned it to me on the phone this morning.”

“Do you expect to maintain a close relationship with Pope Peter?”

“Look, it's my job. The late pope and I were personal friends. It's important to the diplomatic relationship between our two governments.” Ed was trying to downplay the personal relationship.

Back at the State Department, those concerned with the Vatican assignment were worriedly mumbling to themselves. “Seedworth is a fool,” von Stade rasped. “Or at least he was fooled.”

*   *   *

In Buzzards Bay, Colleen, Meghan, and Roger, with Uncle Sean, had been listening to Kirby's press conference intently. Now, with their own press conference less than three hours away, Bishop Sean Patrick cleared his throat. “My guess is he's not the most popular ambassador with his colleagues at the State Department.”

“Darn it, he did what he had to do,” Colleen declared. “I'm so sorry I didn't see him when he picked Dad up in Fall River.”

“Look outside!” Roger shouted as he peeked out the window. “Already all kinds of TV cameras and people. Colleen, are we really going to be seen all over the world like on real TV shows?”

“I guess so, Roger,” she sighed. “Dad will be watching, so be good and don't do anything foolish.”

“Gee, Meg, too bad Ryan isn't here to be on TV,” Roger said. “When will he get back?”

“That's up to him, Roger. He's been out all day making sure the engine is good for another year of fishing. It was the last thing Dad asked him to do in case he needed money for a big overhaul. When we talked on the shortwave I told him to make up his own mind. He is captain now. And he's not happy about being the center of attention—the pope's oldest son and a fisherman like his dad, and of course like St. Peter.”

*   *   *

As Ed Kirby was finishing up his press conference, the pope's dinner for the cardinals was under way in the elegant dining room between the basilica and the Sistine Chapel. The 119 voting cardinals, along with some older ones disenfranchised by age, were at the various banquet tables. Some of the tradition-bound elderly prelates seemed more than slightly discomfited at seeing the pope flanked by Cardinal Motupu and Monsignor Cippolini.

Several tinkling taps of a spoon on a wineglass by the ever businesslike Engenio Cardinal Robitelli, now reappointed secretary of state, commanded the cardinals' attention. “Dear brothers, I am so glad that we can all share this time with the new pope before you return to the work God has assigned you.”

Robitelli,
camerlengo
until the election was finalized just a few hours before, looked about the ornate dining hall, fixing his gaze on one cardinal after another. “The more I have seen and heard over the last few hours, the more convinced I become that the Holy Spirit has spoken to us.” He caught Bill's eye and smiled. “Just as His Holiness, our Pope Bill, once guided his fishing boat safely to shore with his friends in Brian Comiskey's little homily. I also believe that with God's grace and the support of all of us in this great hall, he will be able to guide the bark of St. Peter to safe harbor.” He paused once again, looking at many of those present. “As Bill, our second Peter, promised those endangered priests when their ship foundered, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men once again.'”

Robitelli raised his glass. “So I propose this toast of welcome to Bill, Pope Peter II, to pledge to him our everlasting support throughout his reign.”

The cardinals all stood with their wineglasses held high and toasted the pope.
“Salute! Salute!”

Bill was covering his mouth to hide a smile as he and Brian exchanged glances. Cardinal Motupu noticed both. As the African prelate seated himself, he turned to Bill. “I noticed your amusement when the boat was mentioned. Did Brian leave something out of the infamous story?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, yes,” the pope confessed. “You see, the boat sank about fifteen yards from shore. We had to wade ashore and have the boat towed in the next day.”

“Oh, my goodness!” Motupu grinned. “So much for the bark of Peter.”

“But indeed all of them are fishers of souls today.”

Listening attentively Monsignor Cippolini began to piece together portions of what had occurred in the conclave that resulted in Bill's election. “Your Holiness,” he assayed tentatively, “when the cardinal led you away into the chapel I had a strange thought: Wouldn't it be bizarre if they wanted to see you rather than the papers you were carrying?”

“Of course you were right, Monsignor. It was bizarre and confused. But that's past now. We can laugh for a while and accept the result.”

After the sumptuous Italian meal of
carciofini e funghetti' sott' olio, zuppa di cipolle, risotto alla milanese, ipoglosso, patate arroste,
topped off with tiramisu for dessert, final toasts were downed. Most of the cardinals were suddenly anxious to start packing for the escape from their Sistine Chapel imprisonment after an early Mass the next morning. The newly constructed Santa Martha Hotel within the Vatican walls had improved the housing conditions for the cardinals spectacularly, but they were all eagerly looking forward to returning to their principalities. Their particular areas of authority throughout the world had been unattended and their power delegated for too long as it was.

Pope Peter glanced at his watch and noticed it was close to nine in the evening, three o'clock back “home” in Buzzards Bay. He had determined earlier that the press conference held by Bishop Sean Patrick and Bill's family would be telecast live in Rome. With Brian, Motupu, Cippolini, Robitelli, and Tim Shanahan, he retired to the papal apartments to see how it went.

*   *   *

The chaos inside the Kelly home was interrupted by a knock at the front door. Colleen opened it. The large figure of Trooper Joe Collins loomed in the doorframe. “Miss Kelly, it's about that time. Remember what I told you. If you start feeling uncomfortable with them, just give me the nod and I'll have you back inside here in no time. Bishop Sean Patrick is out there letting them know they need to be very proper. He may be able to deflect some of the heat. But I guess you already know that it's you they want to see.”

“Yes, Trooper. Thanks.” She turned to Meghan and Roger. “Okay, Roger, let's go out and get this over with before I develop an ulcer.” They emerged from the house to find Bishop Sean Patrick at the edge of the porch fending off a rapid fire of questions thrown at him amid a swirl of cameras, microphones, booms, and men and women pressing forward as the family came forth.

Seeing the Kellys, the bishop turned and raised his hands for quiet. “Please, ladies and gentlemen. Realize that the Kelly children here are bound to be a bit nervous with all this commotion and excitement about their father's unprecedented elevation. Let's try to do it the way they do at the White House. I'll point to individually raised hands and that person can ask his or her question. Following this format, I'm sure most of your concerns will be covered. So—”

He pointed to a woman reporter and the noise subsided.

“Colleen, may I call you by your first name?” Colleen graciously nodded. “When did you know that your father was going to be made pope?”

“When that cardinal came out and announced it on TV. The same as yourself.”

“But you must have known something before that, Ms. Kelly.”

Another reporter chimed in. “Cardinal Comiskey came here, we now assume, to tell your father he had been elected. Can you tell us how that came about?”

“I don't have the slightest idea.” The sincere puzzlement on Colleen's face and in her tone gave authenticity to her answer. “My guess, as you heard Uncle Brian—uh, Cardinal Comiskey—say on TV, is that they discussed many different laymen in the conclave and for some compelling reason decided to vote for my dad.”

“How do you feel about your father being made pope, Colleen?”

“To tell the truth I am confused, numb, and at a loss to understand how or why and even whether this happened. All I can say for certain is that I love my father, Bill Kelly, very much. Whatever job he chooses to do is his business and not ours.”

“You say ‘job,' Ms. Kelly,” a stern male voice called from the rear of the knot of aroused journalists. “Do you consider the papacy just a ‘job'?”

An obstinate expression spread across Colleen's face, and her two siblings shuddered.

“It is obviously what our father has chosen to do for rest of his life. If it makes him feel fulfilled, that's great!”

“But as a Catholic isn't it thrilling to be the first person on earth to be able to say, ‘Hey! My dad is the head of the Church' and be your father's hostess at Vatican dinners?”

“Lucrezia Borgia could say that almost half a millennium ago when she was poisoning her father's enemies at Vatican dinners.”

The unexpected answer to such a gracious question caused an uncharacteristic silence among the media representatives. It was followed by a flood of speculative queries punctuated by an authoritative shout from the rumpled female reporter representing the local
Buzzards Bay Journal.
“Colleen, I just called Father Milligan. He says you haven't been to Mass with your family in the two years he's been our pastor. Are you going to start coming now?”

“It's been more like three years,” Colleen answered forthrightly. “A couple of weddings, three to be exact. But not since my mother died of breast cancer at age thirty-five have I attended Mass.” Colleen turned to face a barrage of questions, pointing to a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses who seemed sympathetic.

“Colleen, do you believe in God?”

“I don't know,” she replied tartly. “I used to, until Mom died.” Standing before the crowd of reporters and TV cameras, Colleen presented a vulnerable yet unshakable figure.

At that, Bishop Sean Patrick moved forward, both hands held high, shutting off the high-decibel interrogation. “I just talked to the Holy Father an hour ago. If you'd like to ask about his reaction to this enormously unusual day, I will take your questions.”