The Accidental Pope (24 page)

The bishop pointed to a persistent reporter, who called out, “Have the youngsters spoken to their dad since he was elected pope?”

Bishop Sean Patrick put a hand on Meghan's shoulder, and she clearly replied, “Yes, he called me shortly afterward.”

“What did he say to you?”

She smiled a moment and then colored. “Why, he said the same thing he always says when he calls me on the shortwave radio from the fishing banks. ‘I love you, and miss you.'”

“What about the young son? Roger, is it?” a woman reporter called out.

The bishop placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and pushed him forward. “You talked to your father, Roger. What did he tell you?”

“He said there was lots of room where he is and miles where I could skateboard.” Laughter arose from the group of journalists. They all seemed to come to the same conclusion. There was no hidden agenda with the new pope's children. They were plain, honest young people who had gone through a family tragedy and seemed unimpressed if confused with their new circumstances.

“Bishop Sean Patrick,” a reporter called out, “Cardinal Comiskey stopped at your residence before coming here. May we know what you discussed there?”

“Yes, certainly. There was merely a simple request. ‘Sean, may I borrow your car?'”

“That's all?” an incredulous voice called out. “Come now, Bishop, you're pulling our leg.”

“No, really. I was more curious than you people here were. And he gave me the same reply as you got from him. A conclave secret. He wanted to borrow my car to visit his friends, the Kellys, before flying back to Rome.” Bishop Sean Patrick laughed deprecatingly. “I know most of you guessed that either the archbishop of Boston or I had been chosen as the next pope. Since I knew I wasn't worthy, I speculated that it must have been the archbishop. He's a great man and well respected in Rome, America, and throughout the world. Like the rest of you, I was totally in the dark. The only thing I had was a sealed envelope the cardinal handed me when he returned. He said to keep it in my desk until it was time to open it. When I questioned him he said I would know for certain the moment it needed to be opened. Naturally, I understand what he meant when I heard the announcement of Mr. Kelly's election. I didn't have to read the letter. I knew he was instructing me to be of whatever assistance I could to the Kelly children. And here I am.”

An assertive female voice rose above the murmurs. “Colleen, what do your brothers and sister really think about your dad being the Holy Father?”

Colleen laid a hand on Roger's shoulder. “Tell them what you think. Other than skateboarding.”

“I miss my dad. I just want school to get done. Then we can go and be with him.”

“Is that true, Miss Kelly? Are you children going to Rome to live?”

“Yes, we are!” Roger's voice rang out. “And Uncle Sean said maybe I could have two bedrooms.”

Smiles appeared on the faces of the reporters, and TV cameras zoomed in on the young boy. A microphone was thrust at him. “How old are you, young man?”

“I'm fourteen. I'm in the tenth grade.”

“And who is Uncle Sean?”

Roger pointed at the flushed bishop. “Him.”

“Are you related to the bishop?” a reporter shot out.

“No, not by blood,” the bishop answered for Roger and then continued. “I guess it's a special gift the children gave to me. Cardinal Comiskey is a longtime friend of Bill and the late Mary Kelly. He performed their marriage ceremony, baptized their children, and spent some vacations with them. The children have always called him Uncle Brian. I became part of the family a short time ago,” he said with a pleasant grin.

Then Meghan cut in, moving closer to the TV cameras. “Can I wave to my dad and say hello?”

The cameras zoomed in on her and a reporter held the mike close to her face. “Sure, honey. Go ahead.”

“Hi, Dad, I miss you. I love you.”

“Yeah, me too, Dad,” Roger broke in, waving to the cameras.

Colleen also waved. “We all look forward to being with you, Dad. Please forgive me for saying what I did. But I can't be a hypocrite. Maybe I can change someday.” She turned from the cameras and started to slowly walk toward the door, followed by Meghan and Roger. The reporters and cameras followed closely until three state troopers cut them off.

“Sorry folks, that's all the Kellys want to say. Please respect their privacy.”

Colleen turned and stared searchingly into the camera. “I expect my dad and I will have some interesting philosophical and religious discussions when we get to Rome.”

“Colleen,” a reporter called out, “are you an atheist?”

“Like I said,” Colleen called back, “the way things are, I wouldn't want to make any enemies with whatever or whoever is ahead of us.”

“Colleen, are you pro-life or pro-choice?” a woman's strident voice hurled at her.

Colleen smiled coyly. “I don't know. I haven't had to decide yet. 'Bye, everybody.”

Expressively, she raised her eyes skyward. As she ducked back into the house the press of the world knew they had one feature attraction in the new pope's family. Things would never be mundane with this one around!

As Meghan stepped through the door, followed reluctantly by Roger, who was enjoying the attention being showered upon them, the reporters turned to the bishop, standing protectively before the front of the house. “Bishop McCarrick, can you give us some more information?” another woman journalist pleaded. “I just flew in here from Chicago to cover this unprecedented story.”

The bishop stared back. “To be perfectly honest, we would only be venturing into the realm of hypothesis,” he replied. “The situation is unique in Catholic procedure and history as we know it. I might suggest that you get in touch with some of our historians, who could provide you information on past laymen who were made popes.” He shrugged expressively as cameras whirred and clicked in the midafternoon sunlight. “I never bothered to pay much attention to that kind of thing when I was studying for the priesthood.”

A stricken expression flitted across the bishop's countenance. He added hastily, “Not that I personally, nor, I believe, does any other American Catholic bishop, entertain in any way views contradictory to the decision of the conclave in Rome.” Abruptly the bishop turned and passed the troopers into the sanctuary of the Kelly home.

The many local neighbors and other onlookers were slow in dispersing, reluctant to miss any part of this unique American drama as all the journalists present grudgingly accepted the fact that the all-too-brief interview was over. Only one camera crew gave desultory attention to the tall, strapping young man as he appeared from somewhere below the Kelly home. Over his shoulder was slung a duffel bag.

Trooper Joe Collins confronted the purposeful youth. “And just where do you think you are going, mister?”

“Into my house. I'm Ryan Kelly.”

Instantly the newspeople recognized the oldest son of Pope Peter II. The trooper glanced down at the glassine pad of photographs in his hand. “Well, your face fits, but what happened to the long hair? It looks really wild in the picture your sister gave me.”

“I went to the barbershop and had it cut,” he snapped. “It didn't seem right for the pope to have a long-haired son captaining his fishing ship. May I pass now?”

Collins smiled and stepped aside. “Be my guest.” As Ryan stepped up onto the porch, three alert reporters and a MSNBC cameraman and his crew scrambled to get near him. “Mr. Kelly, could we talk to you a moment? What do you think about your father being made pope?”

Ryan stopped, threw his duffel bag down, and smiled directly into the camera and at the reporters. He seemed to be enjoying the attention. Raising his hand, he flashed what he imagined was a papal-type blessing. “Peace and good fishing,” he intoned. “We're going to need both if I'm going to keep the bark of Peter the Second afloat. I don't figure that being the pope's son will get me any higher a price on my fish in New Bedford, so when I go out tomorrow I'll have to hope that Jesus will lead me to enough fish to almost break my nets like he did for the first Peter. In other words, Daddy needs a new generator for his boat,” he explained.

“Are you a Catholic, Mr. Kelly?” a reporter asked.

“Of course. And on those long fishing trips with Dad he sometimes forgot he wasn't a priest anymore, especially if we were out on Sunday. Why do you ask?”

Then a smile of comprehension spread across his face. “Uh-oh! Colleen has been giving you her take on the religion thing.” A serious expression replaced the grin. “Well, you have to understand her feelings when our mother died. They were really terribly close, my sister and our mother. Colleen was just seventeen when we lost Mom. She's never forgiven God.”

The bishop stepped through the doorway into camera range. “Hi there, Ryan. I'm Bishop Sean Patrick.” He extended his hand.

Together they answered a few questions from the gathered reporters until they heard Colleen call out from inside the house. “Trooper Joe, Uncle Sean Patrick, please end this meeting.”

Between the bishop, Trooper Collins, and his backup state troopers, the reporters were cleared away, and Sean Patrick went back into the house. “A hectic first meeting with the press, to say the least,” he observed. “If you don't need me anymore today, I'll head back and get some of my own work done before dark. You have my number.”

“We're fine now, Uncle Sean.” Colleen took his hand in hers. “Thanks again for your support. We are so grateful.”

They stood up and Meghan gave him a hug. The bishop responded in the only way he knew how. He traced a sign of the cross on her forehead. “God bless you, Meghan. As I said, feel free to call me anytime if you need help or have any questions you think I can answer.”

Bishop Sean Patrick left the Kelly household and walked toward his car. Trooper Collins was politely moving the last of the reporters and camera crews away from the lawn. “Hi, Bishop. May I ask how things are going with the kids? That Colleen is a piece of work, isn't she?”

The bishop sighed. “I'm glad I won't be in Rome when she hits the Vatican”—he swallowed hard—“to join her father, the pope.”

“The neighbors are sending over some nice prepared dishes so the Kellys won't have to cook meals,” the trooper observed.

“Good.” The bishop chuckled. “Last I heard, Colleen was starving. Are you going back to Fall River now that the excitement is over?”

“I need to do some paperwork here and wait for backup help.”

“Good Trooper. See you in Church.”

*   *   *

In the apostolic apartment at the Vatican, Pope Peter II sat uncomfortably watching the sporadic press coverage of the papal family on the television set.

“Should be interesting when your young Colleen arrives,” Brian remarked.

“The others will have to control her,” Bill acknowledged. “She is at a rough age. Thinks she knows it all.”

“Meghan and Roger came through it very well. And Ryan looked sharp with his new haircut,” Brian observed. “And I was glad to see Bishop Sean Patrick beside them all the way. Your family is in for considerable attention and under great pressure.”

“Yes,” Bill breathed heavily, “and they seem up to it. Ryan, though! He seems to have become a responsible captain overnight.”

Robitelli stood up. “I'll be here in the morning, Bill. I'm more than afraid the Vatican will never be the same again.”

“And neither will he,” Brian chuckled, as he and Bill watched the weary secretary of state close the door.

“A touch of whiskey?” Bill suggested.

“I'll get it. I found out where the papal store is kept.”

*   *   *

Peace of a sort settled on the Kelly household. Ryan left to attend to the boat at the dock below. Over the next several hours, until nightfall, a number of cars came to deliver neighbors' gifts of love—flowers and food. By eight-thirty, Colleen, Meghan, and Roger were deeply engrossed in a game of Scrabble. Life was beginning to return to at least a semblance of what it had been before Brian Comiskey arrived. As evening fell, the doorbell rang.

“Go see who that is, Colleen.”

“Okay, Meg. Maybe someone bringing dessert to that grand supper.” She opened the door to see a swarthy, heavyset young man with a two-day growth of black beard standing there holding a box in his hand.

“Hi there.” Colleen smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I have something for you.” The man held out a box. “Lemme bring 'em in.”

Meghan and Roger looked closely to see who was bringing them more bounty. They did not recognize the face, and Colleen started to ask his name but was cut off in midsentence. The box dropped to the floor. The intruder had a pistol in his hand.

“Now, let's not have any trouble, folks, and no one will get hurt,” he growled.

Meghan screamed and moved to shield Roger.

“Stand still, little girl. I warn ya.”

“We don't have any money here,” Colleen cried out.

The intruder moved to the chair where Roger was sitting. “You may not have any, but your old man sure as hell does. I've heard all about the millions the pope has. So you can call your old man and tell him to get up a million bucks, quick, if you want to see this kid alive again. And no cops!”

“No, please, take me, not my brother!” Meghan cried.

“No, take me,” Colleen broke in. “He will be a problem for you, and my sister will need to be here to phone Dad. I'll be no problem to you.”

“Forget it, ladies, and shut up.” He grabbed the boy by the arm and yanked the frightened child from the chair. “Come on, kid, we're going for a ride. I'll call you in one hour, Kelly, and remember, no cops or you'll never see your brother alive again.” He moved cautiously toward the door, an eye on the women as he held the gun to the boy's head. He turned as he reached the door. “I mean business, girls. So don't screw with me. Out the door, kid!”