The Greatest Evil (28 page)

Father Vince Delvecchio had barely learned his way around the chancery when Monsignor Shanahan called in sick. Lacking the seniority to remain fixed in his fledgling position, Delvecchio was up for grabs.

He had been at work less than an hour today when he was called to the chancellor’s office.

“Vince,” Monsignor Jake Donovan said in his typically brisk manner, “Shanahan threw a shoe. Laid up. We’re short on the boss’s floor. Think you can handle it? Fine!” Donovan never waited for an answer when issuing a rhetorical command. “Go on down there and do a shallow dive. You’ll catch on before you know what’s happening.” Oblivious of the Irish bull, Donovan pressed on. “Anyway, Shanahan should be back in no time; how long does it take to beat a cold anyway?” He didn’t wait for answers to rhetorical questions either. “There’s a good man.”

Thus was Delvecchio dismissed to learn another trade.

He took no tools with him as he left the fifth floor. He had no idea what he’d need. As he entered the elevator, he noticed his name on the list of those the operator was allowed to deposit on the second floor. He reflected that he had received this assignment only seconds ago and already his name was in the Book of Life. Sometimes the mills of the Church did grind swiftly.

The foyer of “the boss’s floor” was a long rectangle with some doubtful art on the walls. At the far end of the foyer, in a partially enclosed work space, was the receptionist. Delvecchio knew her name. Jan Olivier. That was about the extent of his familiarity with the sacred second floor.

Beyond Jan’s station was an office. Mine, he thought. Temporarily, he hoped.

At the left of his office, the foyer turned a ninety-degree angle leading to the archbishop’s office. He couldn’t see that portion of the foyer, but he’d visited Boyle in his office more than once.

Hands jammed in trouser pockets, Delvecchio made his way along the carpeted floor. Reaching the receptionist’s station he turned to face her.

She smiled. “We’ve been expecting you, Father.”

His expression was grim. “I didn’t expect to see me down here.”

She laughed lightly. “We don’t bite. The archbishop wanted to see you when you arrived. I’ll tell him you’re here. Go right in.”

As he turned to enter Boyle’s office, Delvecchio heard Jan, in a low tone, announce his arrival.

He knocked; a firm voice with soft brogue overtones invited him in.

Delvecchio entered the spacious office with its broad windows overlooking Washington Boulevard. Boyle rose and extended his hand as he circled his desk.

Delvecchio took the proffered hand and began to genuflect as he leaned forward to kiss the episcopal ring. Gently, Boyle pulled him erect.

That’s right, thought Delvecchio, Boyle represented the new breed that was changing the changeless Church, even down to innocent conventions such as reverencing the ring.

Delvecchio didn’t learn much from Boyle about the duties of secretary to the archbishop. Except that the receptionist would help him. But not to depend on her too much; she had her own duties to attend to.

So, Delvecchio concluded as he left the archbishop’s office, it was he, a simple priest, and Jan Olivier against the world. He didn’t like the odds.

In fact, if anyone wanted to know—but apparently no one did—he was not happy about this entire adventure. It was grossly unfair to thrust him into this new position with no briefing, let alone training.

It didn’t matter. When Delvecchio was ordained, the bishop had enclosed the young priest’s hands in his own and said solemnly,
Promitis mihi et successoribus meis reverentiam et obedientiam?
(“Do you promise to me and my successors reverence and obedience?”) And the new priest had replied,
Promito.

This was going to test that promise.

He returned to the foyer. There seemed little point in going into his office; he didn’t know what to do there.

Jan was on the phone. She raised a finger, indicating she would be with him in a moment. And she was. “I’m supposed to teach you everything you need to do this job”—she smiled understandingly—“… right?”

He nodded.

“The problem with that,” she said, “is time: I haven’t got the time you need. And you’re wondering what to do right now, aren’t you?”

Again he nodded.

“Well, here’s what I think maybe a help …” She led the way into his office, where she picked up a small pile of phone messages from his desk. “This,” she said, “is the most urgent business. These are requests for … varying things. Most of them are calls from priests. Most of them want an appointment with the archbishop. Some of them have scheduled confirmation services at their parishes.. Of course each pastor wants the archbishop himself to conduct
his
service at
his
parish—”

“That’s impossible, right?” Even though Delvecchio had never been a pastor, it was patently obvious that if Boyle personally conducted confirmations at all the parishes that wanted him, that would take up just about all his evenings throughout the year.

Also, Delvecchio had been exposed to enough parish politics to know that it was not reverence, respect, or love of Boyle that motivated nearly everyone to want him for confirmation. No, they all just wanted to be known as important enough to rate the supreme arch-diocesan boss.

“Yes, that’s impossible,” Jan agreed. “So, when you return this type of call, you need to assure the pastors that late next month the schedule of which bishops go where for confirmations will be drawn up. ‘Every effort will be made at that time’”—her delivery made it obvious that this was the appropriate jargon—“‘to have the archbishop come to your parish.’”

“What,” he asked, “will that accomplish?”

“Buy time. It’s the best we can do now. The bit about drawing up the schedule in late December is for real.”

Delvecchio fingered through the phone messages. By no means were all or even most messages concerning who would come to confirm. “What about all the rest of these?”

Jan shook her head. “I’ve gone over them with Archbishop Boyle. I have little marks next to the phone numbers. All of those little marks mean something …” She shook her head as he started to ask. “… but it’s too complicated to go into right now.” She looked at him pointedly. “You may not think so, but just returning the confirmation queries will pretty much fill the rest of the day.”

“Really?” He found that hard to believe.

“You don’t know how tenacious some of these pastors can be. Some of them feel that having an auxiliary bishop is a negative commentary on their parochial work. They’ll chew your ear off to get some sort of special consideration.”

Maybe, thought Delvecchio. But I don’t think they’ll get much chance to chew these ears. “When do I learn what your shorthand stands for on the other messages?”

Jan bit her lower lip. “That’s a good question. There just isn’t time during office hours. How about this evening?”

“I’ve got a couple of appointments. But I can postpone them. How about if we meet at my residence? I have an office in the rectory.”

“You could be interrupted by phone calls,” Jan reminded.

He winced and nodded.

“How about dinner out?” she suggested.

“I’ve never been able to stick to business in a restaurant. Taking notes while eating seems incompatible.”

Jan shrugged. “Then it’s got to be my place. I’ve got a first-floor apartment in a large complex in Warren.”

Delvecchio hesitated. This was
solus cum sola—
one on one. The only time thus far he’d been alone with a woman was in a safe situation … under correct, even if not chaperoned, circumstances. Except when he was bringing Communion to a shut-in he’d never been alone with a woman in her apartment.

But this seemed safe enough. Strictly business.

He agreed; he would pick up Chinese takeout on the way over. She gave him the address and directions.

Bundled up against the cold, he arrived at her door a couple of minutes before seven. As she took his coat, hat, and scarf to hang up, she was mildly surprised to see that he wore not clericals, but a flannel shirt, chinos, and a sweater.

He noted her puzzlement. “Anyone sees me come or go, they won’t think I’m a priest.”

“Just a date.” She was sorry the moment the words left her mouth. This was to be business; there should be no hint, no overtone of anything else.

She had set out a series of papers on the coffee table. They sat together on the couch and ate as she explained the cryptic symbols—her shorthand transcribing the reactions of His Excellency to each message.

Along the way, they discovered that they both knew how to use chopsticks.

From time to time, her nearness distracted him. She really was a most attractive young woman. Her dress was so “Marylike” he could only guess at her figure. Though she was slender, he presumed she was curvy.

There was a delicate scent of just the right perfume. Her dark hair fell well below her shoulders. The corners of her extremely expressive eyes crinkled with humor.

Occasionally, she brushed against him as she reached for food or to turn a page. He found that somewhat stimulating.

Jan had long been aware of Vincent Delvecchio.

His name, of course, had become well known when he’d suffered the breakdown, recovered, and then been sent to Rome. What to do with this talented yet perhaps flawed young man had been a periodic topic in the chancery for sometime. As a secretary in the archbishop’s office, Jan was privy to much of the gossip.

Eventually, he had arrived at the chancery, his appointment after ordination.

While he did not seem to notice her, she was acutely aware of him: He was tall, dark, and handsome. She fantasized about him.

And now, here he was. In her apartment. Alone. Without making it seem intentional, she brushed up against him. She was aroused. But she did not let on.

They finished the Chinese dinner. She made coffee, chattering on about the symbols she’d devised to capture the thoughts and disposition of the archbishop.

They drank a lot of coffee while Delvecchio committed her hieroglyphics … or at least most of them … to memory.

By the time Delvecchio glanced at his watch, it was almost eleven. “Holy cow! Look at the time! And I’ve got early Mass tomorrow morning.” He stood. “I’d better get going.”

She handed him his scarf and stood holding his coat. “You’re a quick study,” she observed. After all she’d heard about him, she’d expected him to be sharp; still, his acumen surprised her.

“But not quite quick enough. There’s still a lot for me to absorb before I can be confident that I’m really filling in for Shanahan. Would you do what you did this morning? I mean, bring in the messages and record the archbishop’s reaction to them? Then I’ll go over them with you and see if I’ve got this all down. One more day will probably do it—that is, as long as we can put in another evening on this crash course.”

“Sure. I think I can swing that.” She helped him on with his coat. “Just remember that lots of people want to see the archbishop. But only a few will make it. The thing is that most of this business can be handled by lower-echelon personnel. We—well,
you—
have to steer these people to an auxiliary, or a monsignor, or a priest—or even someone like me. Mostly you’ll be a filter protecting the archbishop from having to deal with problems and questions that others can take care of.

“That sounds simple enough,” he said as she handed him his hat.

“Maybe because I’m oversimplifying it.”

“Maybe.” Ready to face November’s cold, he reached for the doorknob.

“Oh—”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to bring dinner. I’ll make it. Tomorrow’s Friday. You want to eat meat?”

Earlier in the month, the Vatican had announced that there would no longer be a law obliging Catholics to abstain from meat on Fridays. The announcement had triggered some simplistic humor. Such as, What is God going to do with all those people who are in hell because they ate meat on Friday?

It also caused a furor among traditional Catholics who looked on as yet another ancient tradition went down the drain.

Delvecchio glanced at her sharply. “Certainly not! Besides, the decree doesn’t become effective until December second.”

She tried to cover a blush. “Just kidding.”

“Okay. Well, see you at the office tomorrow, and here tomorrow evening.”

There was little traffic; it took him only half an hour to drive home.

She cleaned up in record time. They had spooned out portions from the cardboard cartons, so there were only the coffee cups to be washed. And since they had used chopsticks, aside of the serving pieces, there was no flatware to be washed.

Neither got much sleep that night.

He felt much like a teenager after his first awkward date. By contemporary standards it was extremely odd that this
was
his first date. He found his reaction curious.

He lay in bed thinking of her. He imagined he could still smell her delicate perfume. He figured her to be roughly his age, perhaps a little older. He found her beautiful and intelligent. He remembered his reaction each time she’d touched him … inadvertently, of course, but touch him she had. And he had reacted … involuntarily, of course, but react he had.

He wondered about her.

That he’d had no sexual experience was one thing. What with parochial school, the seminary, summer camp, his priesthood, sexual expression had been a forbidden fruit from early childhood on. Not many men in their early thirties were virginly intact.

But what about her?

She was an attractive, available young woman. She must be experienced in sex. The way he’d acted and reacted to her tonight must have seemed foolish and adolescent—if she was aware of it.

What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to behave when he was alone with a beautiful woman?

Well, he knew the answer to that!

The Church demanded that he never marry. And morality demanded that any sexual expression whatsoever be confined within marriage. Chaste! That’s how he was supposed to behave when alone with a beautiful woman—any woman.