The Good Shepherd (29 page)

“They’ll find that out next year when -” Dennis began, but he ran out of air before he could finish the sentence.

“Clap that on your mug,” said Matthew Mahan, handing him the mask. “I’ve got some pills over here you’re supposed to take. Bill Reed thought there might be an allergic factor. They’re antihistamines.”

Dennis nodded. “The same ones I used to take back home. If they work, I may be all right by tomorrow morning.”

He gulped down the pills with a glass of water and lay back on the pillows again. “I’m really sorry -” he started to say.

“Do I have to start acting like the Pope and order you to shut up?”

Dennis smiled feebly. He was in no shape to disagree.

“I was supposed to go over to the Vatican this afternoon to see Cardinal Antoniutti or one of his boys about our nuns,” Matthew Mahan said. “In fact, before I left this morning, his office called to see if I could have lunch with him. It shows what the prospect of some red silk on your head can do for you in this town. But while I was saying mass this morning, I decided not to go.”

Dennis managed to look surprised without saying anything.

“If we can’t solve that problem on our own, I don’t deserve a red hat - or a bishop’s crosier, for that matter. The whole thing boils down to me doing a better job of explaining myself to those ladies. I haven’t tried to do it, really. Instead, I played the authority game to the hilt, I’m afraid. I’ve got to show them that I want the same things that they want for those poor people downtown. If I can’t do it, if I haven’t done it, it’s my fault.”

Dennis was glad that he was forbidden to say anything. What could he do but agree - and that might start an episcopal explosion.

Dennis noted the Cardinal’s hand moving back and forth across his stomach. “I’d better take some of my own medicine,” he said. “They’re giving a reception for us over at the embassy tonight. The four other American Cardinals arrived today. They all headed for the North American College. They’re all graduates, except Cooke, and he would have gone, except for the war.” He shook his head and smiled wryly. “One of the many clubs I don’t belong to, I’m afraid. During the council, I got awfully tired of inside remarks about the house on Humility Street. They’re a little like West Pointers when they get together. They’ve even got their own language. You’ll probably hear some of it in the coming week. They kid each other by saying, ‘Now you’re a real bag.’ That’s what they called themselves when they got decked out in their regulation cassocks, with the sky-blue piping on them. Don’t let them put you down with any of that junk. Personally, I think more college in America and less in Rome would make better bishops in the long run.”

Dennis suddenly had difficulty breathing again. Was it what Matthew Mahan had just said, or some unlistening physiological mechanism that was determined to strangle him for reasons of its own?

“Well,” Matthew Mahan said, “I’d better stop scandalizing you. But it’s the truth. It’s one thing to be loyal to the Pope on a spiritual basis. Letting the Curia run the American Church is another matter. On that point, I agree with old Davey. But I don’t feel we have to wreck the papacy to get our freedom.” He patted Dennis’s arm. “Go to sleep now, and I’ll read.”

Dennis fell asleep a few minutes later. His dreams were bizarre. They always were whenever he took antihistamines. Helen Reed was in almost all of them, sometimes naked, sometimes clothed. Most of the time she was laughing about him, or at him. But once, she appeared with a tragic expression on her face. O
withered is the garland of the war,
she sighed over and over again. Every time she said it, he grew angry. Suddenly, his anger became panic. She would always be there beyond the reach of his fingers, the touch of his lips. He was a dry stick, a man fashioned in the shape of a cross, doomed forever to stumble through the world while the faithful chipped relics from his meaningless timber.
Please.

He awoke to find the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and Matthew Mahan’s face so close to his face that it was a visual collision. The Cardinal’s steady blue eyes seemed to penetrate his own to the very depths of his soul. Did he know? More panic.

“It’s all right, Dennis, it’s all right,” he said gently. “You must be getting better. You haven’t had any trouble for a couple of hours. Were you dreaming?”

He nodded, the oxygen still hissing coolly down his throat.

“It must have been a bad one. You looked scared.”

He glanced at his watch. “There, that’s two minutes.” He took the mask off and hung it over the bedpost again.

“Haven’t you gone to dinner yet?” Dennis asked. He was pleasantly surprised to hear his voice so clear. The pills were working.

“Oh, I’ve been to dinner and came back a good while ago. I put the world’s oldest heretic to bed. I don’t want him dropping dead on me in the middle of Rome. How could we ever explain the odor of sanctity arising from the likes of him?”

Bewildered and appalled, Dennis looked over at the other twin bed. It was empty.

“I put him in my room.”

“Really - you shouldn’t be losing this much sleep, either,” Dennis said.

“I can afford to lose sleep a lot more than I can afford to lose a good secretary.”

If emotion was the real cause of his asthma attack, Dennis thought gloomily, he should be strangling to death now. God, or whoever was in charge of his peculiar pilgrimage (the ironic angel?), certainly had a sense of humor. How does the sour young snot who is already actively involved in betraying his benefactor respond?

“Really, I feel fine,” Dennis said desperately. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

“It’s five-thirty in the morning,” Matthew Mahan said. I’m going out to say mass at six. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get a nap after lunch.”

“What will you be doing today?”

“Oh, I’m still playing tour guide. We’re going to St. Peter’s this morning.”

“Don’t take Bishop Cronin along, unless you want to shock the true believers.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve had his tour of St. Peters. He’ll be on duty with you all day. I hope he didn’t shock you too much.”

“It was interesting. I’m not sure what Mr. and Mrs. McAvoy thought about it all.”

“Good God, I didn’t realize they were with you.”

“Mr. McAvoy just got a little more conservative. But Mrs. McAvoy seemed inclined toward getting radicalized. She was that way before she went on the tour.
Humanae Vitae
has really got her upset about the Church.”

Matthew Mahan nodded glumly. “She and most of the intelligent women in the diocese.” He sighed. “Anyway, I’m looking forward to our visit today. I was consecrated there by Pope John, at Bernini’s altar, the cattedra.”

“Was that before or after you heard Cronin’s lecture on it?” Dennis asked.

“Before. He didn’t emerge as a full-fledged radical until the council. He says that Pope John liberated the Church’s unconscious - including his own.”

“Why were you consecrated in St. Peter’s?”

“Because I couldn’t get consecrated at home. Old Archbishop Hogan was a terrible man. He made a habit of cutting to pieces anyone who started to get too much publicity or power.”

“How did old Hogan take the news?”

“How do you think? On the way home, I was supposed to stop over in New York with Mike Furia and a couple of other people. Mike’s company has a suite in the Waldorf Towers, and we were going to see a few baseball games and a play or two. A telegram was waiting for me at the Waldorf desk. His Excellency the Archbishop ordered me to return to the diocese immediately and assume my episcopal duties.”

“What were they?”

“He gave me every confirmation in the diocese for the next three years. And all the fundraising, of course. And the seminary. Matthew Mahan looked at his watch again. “It’s almost six. I’d better get over there to say mass.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Church of St. Peter in Chains. Have you ever been there? Don’t miss that statue of Moses by Michelangelo in the nave. Take some time to study it. When you get a chance, tell me what you saw.”

He picked up the face mask. “Need a whiff before I go?”

Dennis shook his head. “Your Eminence,” he said as the big man in black strode to the door. Dennis’s throat was tight, but his chest was remarkably free. “Thank you - for - for staying up with me.”

Matthew Mahan turned in the doorway, his lips curving into that cocky Irish grin. “It’s the least I could do. After almost killing you.”

Five minutes later, Bishop Cronin was in the room, telephoning for two continental breakfasts. “By God,” he said, “you’re cured. It’s a miracle, nothing less than a miracle.”

“I hope you’re kidding,” Dennis said.

“What do you mean, you irreligious young fool? Here we are in Rome, where there’s not a foot of ground that can’t be claimed by some damn crazy martyr who didn’t have brains enough to keep his head down when the centurions were out hunting Christians or some Italian hysteric who floated four feet in the air at the thought - the mere thought - of perpetual chastity.”

“Okay, who shall we give the credit to?”

“I’m torn between St. Patrick and Pope John, to be honest. I think we’d better give it to the latter. You fell on your kisser square across his coat of arms, a gesture of devotion which is typically Italian, to say the least. If we credit St. Patrick, we’d be in danger of summary vengeance by the maddened populace. After all, what was he? A mere leader of men, who preached into oblivion the oldest religion in Europe - I mean the Druids, lad - put together the best - I mean the holiest - national church in Christendom. What’s that compared to flying through the air or having the Virgin Mother appear to you, speaking pure Aramaic? No, we’ll give the credit to old Pope John. For one thing, he’s an Italian, and they don’t know what to do with him. They blame it on all the years he spent out of Italy, you know, as papal legate in Bulgaria and Turkey and France. He didn’t get back to Italy until he was seventy-three or so, too late to rebrainwash him.”

Breakfast arrived, and Dennis decided he was hungry. He smeared a piece of fresh Italian bread with butter and marmalade and took a large swallow of coffee. “I can’t get over the nursing care I’ve gotten,” he said. “The Cardinal sitting up all night with me -”

“I knew he would. I’ve had two heart attacks now, each of which carried me to within a handshake of St. Peter. Then for reasons best known to the Almighty, I was sent spinning back to my hospital bed, and who do I find sitting beside it at 3:00 or 4:00 a.m., looking like an undertaker about to bury his last client but himself. How can you help but love a man like that?”

Yes, Dennis thought gloomily to himself, how, how?

After leaving Bishop Cronin with Dennis, Matthew Mahan took a quick shower and shaved. Freshened, though a little lightheaded, he stepped into the hall and headed for the elevator. He was looking forward to saying mass at the Church of St. Peter in Chains. He wanted to combine what he had experienced there two nights ago with the words of the consecration. Out of this might come stronger, clearer insight.

He had not taken more than ten steps when a woman appeared in the hall about 100 feet ahead of him. She had high, delicate cheekbones, a sensual, rather arrogant mouth, and dark hair elaborately done in Empire style. A white evening dress fell from beneath her maroon cloak to the tops of her high-heeled silver sandals. She stared coolly down the hall at him for a moment, and her hand went instinctively to her hair, which was in some disarray. A mocking smile played across her lips. She turned and walked ahead of him to the elevators.

Well before he reached the door, Matthew Mahan knew that she had come from Mike Furia’s room. He was shaken by a strange combination of emotions. First anger, then a kind of fear. Was there anyone he could trust, anyone who did not betray him in one way or another? A new brutal loneliness assailed him. But now there was nothing, not even the faintest touch of the sweetness he had felt with Mary Shea. It was the bitter isolation that Jesus must have felt alone in the High Priest’s dungeon exposed to the whips and rods and insults of the temple police. All through his mass, Matthew Mahan struggled to accept the pain as Jesus had accepted it.

After mass, he met the somber gaze of Moses with a new, more anguished understanding of his sadness. He said a silent prayer to Pope John, asking him for guidance. Slowly he became convinced that he must do something. He could not look the other way as he had done more than once during the war in France and Germany. Then he had told himself that men who faced death every day had to be forgiven a great deal. When he saw lines of G.I.s outside a local whorehouse, he had always turned down a side street before he got close enough to recognize anyone. Maybe Mike Furia had been in one of those lines. Maybe Father Mahan should have descended on the customers in the style of a few chaplains he had known and lectured them angrily, ordered them to disperse. But for every convert that technique made, there were a dozen enemies. Besides, all that was long ago in a different world.

Mike Furia was more than a face in the congregation, a soul he was ordained to shepherd. He was a personal friend, a man with whom he had shared his life, who had often sought his advice, his help. To be silent now would be more than cowardice; it would be betrayal of Mike’s soul.

Pressing another 1,000-lira note into the sacristan’s hand, Matthew Mahan left the Church of St. Peter in Chains and walked down through the tunnel to the Via Cavour. The streets were beginning to fill with people. The explosion of motor scooters and motorcycles, the roar of accelerating autos, filled the air around him. He walked on past pawnshops and palazzos. At one point he found himself staring dully at the Fountain of Trevi, practically deserted except for a quartet of determined young Americans who looked ready to pass out from lack of sleep or too much marijuana, yet did their best to raise their voices above the splash of the water. They were singing a kind of lament. The only words Matthew Mahan could catch were “goin’ home, goin’ home.” It suited his mood, but he declined their invitation to join them.

By the time he reached the Hotel Hassler it was almost eight o’clock. Mournfully, with nothing to reassure him but a kind of grim determination, he knew what he was going to do. He would have to risk his friendship, his episcopal dignity - yes, even his self-esteem - without the slightest confidence of success. His stomach twinged. It was well past time for his breakfast mush, but that would have to wait. Up to the fifth floor in the elevator he went and down the hall to knock on Mike Furia’s door.

“Hey,” Mike said as he opened the door, “I just had breakfast delivered. Do you want to join me? I’ll call for another order.”

“Thanks, Mike,” he answered, “I’ll just drink your leftover milk.”

“Okay,” said Mike, returning to the dresser where his bread was already broken and his coffee steaming in his cup. Matthew Mahan took a glass from the bathroom and poured a few ounces of warm milk into it. He sipped it, while Mike munched on the roll and washed it down with coffee. The intense concentration he gave to swallowing the hot liquid made it seem a kind of primitive rite. He gasped with pain and pleasure. The massive body, the big dark face with the somewhat hooded eyes, was strangely threatening.

“What’s up?” Mike said. “How’s Dennis?”

“Fine, thank God. Listen, Mike, you’re not going to like what I’m about to say, but I’ve got to say it. I couldn’t face myself in the mirror or consider myself a priest if I didn’t say it.”

Mike Furia put down his coffee cup and stared at him, completely baffled. Two furrows appeared on his wide, tan forehead. He hunched his huge shoulders and leaned forward in his chair, so that he looked even bigger than he already was. “I’m listening,” he said.

“On my way out to say mass, I almost bumped into a woman coming out of this room. She - she obviously spent the night here.”

“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch.” Mike jumped to his feet and strode across the room, turned and walked back half the distance. “Matt,” he said, “it’s none of your goddamn business.”

Matthew Mahan shook his head. “Mike, it is my business. What kind of a friend would I be, what kind of a priest would I be if I let you lose your soul in front of my eyes without saying a word?”

Mike’s eyes could not have been more icy, more contemptuous.

“What possible - value - what good can a woman like that do you? Do you even know her name?”

“Of course I know her name. She’s a dress designer. One of the best in Rome. She’s separated like I am, and she can’t get married again because Holy Mother Church will put her in jail here in Italy.”

“I’m sorry,” Matthew Mahan said humbly. “I thought - I thought she looked a little like a call girl.”

“I have them, too, when she’s not available. I haven’t taken a vow of celibacy like you, Matt. I thought you understood that.”

“Mike, you’ve got a wife, a son. This sort of thing - only takes you further away from them. Spiritually, psychologically. There is the possibility of one of these women - what would Betty, Tony, say?”

Mike Furia threw back his head and laughed. Never before had Matthew Mahan heard such a cold, bitter sound. “They’d say, ‘Look, the Animal is at it again. Isn’t he disgusting?’”

The Animal. Matthew Mahan remembered the conversation with Dennis McLaughlin about Betty Furia being a monster. He had sat at a dozen dinners with this simpering woman who oohed and aahed over his every word. In her home, she had shown him her “grottoes” - the one to the Little Flower on the landing of the stairs, to the Blessed Virgin in her dressing room. He had beamed his approval of them all, and at her relic of the True Cross, her devotion to St. Blaise, who cured her of her sore throats, and St. Anne, who had saved her from death when she gave birth to her son, and St. Teresa of Avila, who always cured her headaches.

“You want to know the last time I had sex with my wife, Matt? That’s all I ever did with her, have sex. I’ve never made love to her. At least, not after the kid was born. The last time was May 5, 1959, ten years ago next week. Before that, we used to go two, three months without touching each other. We were separated a long time before we made it legal.”

“Mike,” said Matthew Mahan, “how could we be friends for so many years, close friends, and you never told me this?”

“I hinted about it often enough, Matt. But what did we usually talk about when we were together? Business. How to get another gymnasium built, another million raised. You didn’t want to hear my sad story. What the hell, you’re no parish priest.”

Nothing could compared to the pain of those words, not the pain of the ulcer, nor the humiliations inflicted on him by old Hogan. “I was a priest first, Mike. I still am.”

“Well, if you expect me to get down on my knees and beg your pardon - or God’s - forget it.”

“I didn’t - I don’t. I only came here to say I’m your friend - what can I do to help?”

For a moment, Mike Furia seemed to sway in the middle of the room. At first, Matthew Mahan thought the sway was inside his own head, a product of his weariness and humiliation. The big hands opened and closed, and he wondered what he would do if his friend drove one of those massive fists into his face. Then Mike spun away and sat down in a chair on the other side of the room. It was a gesture that seemed to say - I want to get as far away from you as possible. “I guess it’s about time we’ve had it out, Matt. I don’t believe any of it, the whole schmeer.”

“You mean the Church - being a Catholic?”

“You got it.”

“And this has been going on - for a long time?”

“A hell of a long time.”

“You had women even when we traveled together?”

“Sure. Every time. I need a woman every second or third night, Matt, and I usually get one.”

“But how do you explain - our friendship? The help you’ve given me? You’ve raised millions of dollars for the Church.”

“I raised millions of dollars for
you.
For our friendship. I believe in that - even if it’s in the past tense now.”

“Why?”

“Because you saved my goddamn life. What the hell, do you think that just because you talked me out of being a hit man, a boom-boom guy, I’d drop the whole code? No, Matt, you have a hand on me, as we used to say in the Family. You’ve got it for the rest of your life whether I like it or not.”

Instinctively, Matthew Mahan felt himself withdrawing his hand, as if it really was outstretched to clutch the prize he had won that day in Germany. And all the time you thought it had been sanctifying grace, a triumph of your priesthood. Instead, it was the pagan code of the Mafiosi. Swallow the humiliation, he told himself, swallow it, and remember there was still a soul here, a soul in torment.

“In a way, you blame me, don’t you, Mike? You blame me for almost everything that’s happened to you - the marriage, the boy.”

For a moment, the hard mask on Mike’s face wavered. The question hit very close to the truth.

“You picked out St. Francis Xavier University for me. That made it practically inevitable for me to meet that frozen Irish bitch from our sister school, Mount St. Monica’s.”

“Mike,” said Matthew Mahan, “there’s a lot of truth in what you’re saying. I took a tremendous amount of satisfaction from your career. You were one of my saved souls. The fact that you were also a personal friend and an enormous help to me as a fundraiser - well, I just assumed that was God’s way of patting me on the back, giving me a little reward for my rescue work. But now I see how much I let my self-satisfaction deceive me. It’s my worst fault. A form of pride - arrogance. I’m sorry, Mike.”

“Sorry for
what?”

“For failing you - as a priest.”

“You didn’t fail me. I never gave you a chance to fail me.”

“I never looked for the opportunity, either.”

He got up and walked leadenly to the door. Mike Furia let him go without another word.

At the end of the hall, a check on Dennis McLaughlin found him, Bishop Cronin, and a young Jesuit named Goggin discussing a trip to Isolotto, a town outside Florence. Dennis looked remarkably healthy.

In his own room, Matthew Mahan threw himself down on the bed and instantly fell asleep. Hours later, so it seemed, a phone rang in his ear. Jim McAvoy said hesitantly, “Your Eminence - the bus has been waiting.” He leaped to his feet and saw with chagrin that it was nine-thirty. He had slept about forty-five minutes. Splashing cold water on his face, he descended and resumed his role as tour guide. They spent most of the day at St. Peter’s, the Vatican Museum, and, thanks to some advance preparation he had made by mail, an exclusive visit to the Vatican gardens, where the Pope strolled when he wanted some outdoor exercise. They then made a dash to the catacombs of St. Priscilla near the Church of St. Agnes. After descending into the darkness and listening to lectures by a very amusing Irish brother at various points in the winding tunnels, they surfaced and visited the mausoleum of Costanza, the daughter of Constantine, one of the most beautiful Roman-Christian survivals in the city. The mosaics were not particularly religious. The dominant theme was the joy of wine and food. Later painters added some religious inserts. Matthew Mahan’s favorite was Christ portrayed as a beardless young man standing with St. Peter and St. Paul and their lambs at the four rivers of Paradise. The calm, serene confidence on their faces aroused a wistful sensation in him. Would there ever again be a time when the faith was as simple and as heartfelt?

That night, after the reception at the American embassy, Matthew Mahan gave a small dinner party for the closest members of his official family and his intimate friends in a private room at the hotel. Monsignors George Petrie, Terry Malone, Father Dennis McLaughlin, and Bishop David Cronin represented the clergy, and Mary Shea, Mike Furia, the McAvoys, and Bill Reed represented the laity. There was a great deal of kidding about Bill Reed’s stubborn unaffiliation with any church. Bishop Cronin, to Terry Malone’s humorless outrage, maintained that this proved Bill had more sense than anyone else at the table. To confuse matters, Bishop Cronin defended himself by quoting Pope John. “I do not fear the habits, the politics, or the religion of any man anywhere in the world as long as he lives with an awe of God.” Bill Reed declared himself ready to subscribe to that article of faith. Without it, anyone who practiced medicine would soon lose his mind, he said.