"This isn't a court, Mrs. McKee," he responded mildly. "I'm not a judge. I'm just here to... take a look. To get some first impressions."
"Do you have any impressions yet, Father?" She was so intense she was almost quivering.
"Sure," he said. "One of the things the Church would be worried about is whether you were exploiting your daughter. I certainly see no evidence of that."
She nodded emphatically. "I won't let anyone exploit Erin."
"But here's another impression," Hurley went on. "Correct me if I'm wrong. Monsignor O'Malley vouches for you, but his letter indicates that you aren't active in his parish. I don't see any crucifixes or statues or other religious items here. It doesn't seem to me that you're especially pious. I'm not criticizing you, understand, I'm just curious. Why is it so important to you to meet the pope?"
"Not me," she corrected him. "Erin."
He shrugged. "Okay. Erin."
Even with the correction made, she had to pause before replying, as if this were a question she hadn't anticipated. "Erin is performing miracles," she pointed out finally. "I truly believe that, even if I'm not pious. So I think it's important for the Church—the pope—the world—to understand this, to recognize what's happening here."
Hurley considered, then shook his head. "You'll have to pardon me, Mrs. McKee, but I don't quite believe that—I mean, believe that you believe that. Let me ask you a question: Do you think that God is playing a cruel trick on you?"
She flinched, as if he had struck her. And then her eyes watered. "I don't—" she said, "—I mean, that's very harsh. God's plan is not always—"
She couldn't bring herself to finish the platitude. No, she was not one for easy answers. "I wonder," Hurley said, "if you want to meet the pope because that's as close as you can come to meeting God in person. So you can demand an explanation. Or let him have a piece of your mind."
"No, no, you don't understand," she protested, the tears finally leaking from her eyes. She stubbed out the cigarette. "I admit that at first—you know, she was just three years old. And yes, it did seem cruel. Of course it did. Because I was always so careful. Hold my hand, Erin. Let's look both ways before crossing, honey. And she was such a good girl. She never disobeyed. So we were out shopping, and maybe I got a little careless, and I turned my head, and—"
She stopped then, her eyes distant, her mouth open, as if she were standing on that street corner again and seeing it for the first time. She reached out her hand, and Hurley could feel her grabbing for the child who would be forever just out of her reach, in that one frozen instant of agony. "I could never understand," she whispered. "She was there, and then she was gone. Why did she disobey, that one time? But, you know, as the ambulance pulled away, I happened to look out the window, and I saw—but it never registered, not till now—I never connected—
"I saw a church. Across the street. We never took Erin to church; it just didn't matter enough to us. But she must have known, just the way she—She knew, Father. About churches. And she had to get there, get to the church, because that's where she needed to be. So she ran out into the traffic. The driver never saw her, and she didn't make it. And, you know, she hasn't been in a church since."
Sandra McKee fell silent. Hurley pushed his handkerchief over to her, as he had offered it to Kathleen Morelli the night before. She took it and absently wiped her cheeks. He could hear the sound of the TV in the family room—cartoon beeps and squeals.
"God's plan," she repeated. "If He has a plan, you know, it's beyond my comprehension. But still, doesn't it seem strange that the pope is coming to Boston now, after Erin has finally displayed her powers? Don't you think it's strange that he too is supposed to have healing powers? I want him to heal my baby, Father. I want one final miracle. I think God owes her that."
Hurley's heart sank. She wanted a miracle. He thought about her idea. Did God owe her—or any of us—anything? He didn't know how to respond. This wasn't the image of the Madonna in a tortilla, or hysterics collapsing at the touch of a televangelist. This wasn't something you could explain away with a cynical smile. But what could he offer her? "See, the problem is, the policy for the papal visit is strict," he explained. "It actually comes from the Vatican, not from us. No private audiences. There just isn't time. Every second is accounted for. I don't know—"
"You've got to help us, Father," she said, clutching his hand. "If you believe in God, if you believe in even the possibility of miracles, you've got to give us a chance. A chance to get back our baby."
"Even if I can, I think you're asking an awful lot of this pope," he pointed out.
"I think God has asked a lot of us," she replied.
Hurley considered. Considered what Doyle and Cardinal Monroe would make of the situation. And, oddly, what Kathleen Morelli would make of it. Who would she scorn more—the credulous woman hoping for a miracle, or the hardhearted Church that wanted to refuse her the opportunity for one? And how would she judge Joe Hurley's response? "I can't make any promises," he said to Mrs. McKee finally. "But I'll look into it. I'll see if we can figure something out."
Her face transformed. "I know you will," she said. "I just know it."
* * *
Before he left he visited Erin once more. She seemed to smile at him again. He thought about her mother's story. Was it possible that Erin recognized that he was a priest? He believed in the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come—he affirmed that at Mass every day. So why was it so hard to believe that this little girl had been touched by God? "Erin," he murmured, taking her hand. "I will try."
She smiled some more.
Mike McKee walked him back to the car. "My wife," he said, "is a bit obsessed with this idea of meeting the pope."
Hurley nodded noncommittally.
"Do you think he's a—you know, that he cures people—like Erin?"
"I've heard the rumors," Hurley said. "It's not something he seems to want to talk about, though. So I guess I have no idea."
"I've got to admit that this whole thing bothers me," McKee said as they reached Hurley's Toyota. "We've had enough heartache. I just don't think we can bear any more."
"I can't imagine what you've been through," Hurley admitted.
"You need to do what you have to do, Father," McKee replied. "But you should know that I'm terrified. If the pope doesn't improve things for us, then he makes them worse. And I don't see how he can improve anything."
"Are you asking me to drop this, Mr. McKee? You'd make a lot of people in the archdiocese happy if you were."
McKee gave a helpless shrug. "We've started down this road. Maybe at this point stopping is as bad as continuing."
Hurley shook his hand. "I'll help in any way I can," he said. And then he got into his car and drove back to work.
* * *
Hurley didn't report to Doyle about his visit. His initial impressions weren't what Doyle wanted to hear, he knew, and he decided that he needed some time to ponder them. He had no idea how to make the case that Erin McKee should meet the pope, and he had no idea if that was in fact the best thing for Erin, or her parents.
He called a couple of experts whose names he had come across, looking for guidance, but they both seemed to miss the point, preferring to focus on how to investigate the miracles rather than on the miracle-worker herself, and her mother's plan.
He decided to sleep on it, but that night his sleep was interrupted by the telephone. Eleven-thirty, he noted groggily as he picked up the receiver. He wasn't on call anymore. Who could be—?
"Hi, uh, it's Kathleen. Morelli. I'm sorry it's so late. Did I wake you?"
"Oh, hi. No, you—well, yeah. No problem, though. Good to hear from you. What's up?"
"I just thought I'd report in—about the investigation. I paid a visit to McAllister's lover tonight. The one you talked to?"
Hurley sat up and turned on the light, trying to clear his brain. She sounded odd, he thought. As nervous as Sandra McKee. "Right," he said. "Gary
."
"Yes. I called him up. He wasn't happy, but he agreed to meet me. Lafferty had already been to see him, it turns out."
Her voice was softer on the phone than in person, he noticed. Or perhaps she had just softened towards him, and her voice reflected this. "Did you learn anything?" he asked.
"I don't think so—at least, nothing you didn't already suspect from your conversation with him. He doesn't seem like a bad kid, and he really does seem to be fond of McAllister, despite everything that McAllister said about gays on the radio. He's an artist of sorts, and he's got all these nude sculptures in his apartment—they're okay, I guess, although I sure wouldn't give any of them to my mother for Christmas."
"Anything else?" Hurley asked. "Did he come up with any suspects this time—you know, some gay who had it in for McAllister and his hypocrisy?"
"Not that I could get out of him. He doesn't say it's impossible, just that he isn't aware of anyone."
So why are you calling me? Hurley wondered. Because she wanted to, he thought. Sitting alone in her apartment—lying in bed, perhaps, thinking over the day's events. Wanting to share them with someone... What kind of bedroom did she have? All frilly and feminine? No, more likely minimalist and functional. Messy. Underwear on the floor. Magazines piled on her night-table. And what was she wearing? Not a nightgown. A t-shirt, probably, or—
"Joe? Are you there?"
"Yeah. Sorry. Still waking up, I guess." Was it getting easier for her to call him Joe?
"Okay," she said. "So the next thing is to try and track down Bandini from his phone number on the holy card. Shouldn't take too long to get the basic information, and then we'll see what happens from there. I'll keep you posted."
"Well, thanks for the update," he said. "I really do appreciate your calling me, Kathleen."
"No problem. Sorry it was so late."
An awkward silence descended. Was it his turn to speak, or was it time to hang up and go back to sleep? He recalled his idea of apologizing to her for the way he had touched her in the car; it seemed absurdly out of place now. Instead he thought about Erin McKee. "I wonder if I could tell you about something that happened to me today," he said. "Nothing to do with McAllister or the pope—or, only a little to do with the pope. Anyway, I'd just like to get your point of view on it as, well, a skeptic."
"Sure, Joe. Of course."
She sounded happy to have a reason to continue the conversation. So he told her about his visit to the McKee's—his own initial skepticism and change of heart, the sympathy he felt for their plight. And his dilemma about what to do next.
"Jesus," she said softly when he was done. "That's a tough one. I don't know what to say."
"Do you believe in miracles?" he asked her.
"No, of course not," she responded. "All that stuff with relics, praying to Saint Anthony when you lose something—it's just superstition and misguided hope. Some people just want to believe. Like my father."
"Okay, but forget about the junk," Hurley said. "What about the possibility of miracles? The possibility that somehow, somewhere, something happens that is simply beyond human explanation, beyond the rules of nature."
"I don't know. It's hard for me to make that stretch. But I guess I can't say it's impossible."
"This little girl," he said. "If you could look into her eyes—I know it sounds trite, but you can feel God shining through her."
"Then you have to help her, Joe."
"But how? Does getting her an audience with the pope do her, or her family, any good? Maybe I should let Sandra McKee live with her dream instead of making it come true, and having her find out it solved nothing. And, incidentally, put me in the doghouse at work."
"But who are you to judge?" Morelli insisted. "They've put their faith in you. If there's any chance of another miracle, you can't deny it to them."
"I guess you're right. Although I'm still not sure what to do about it." Hurley glanced at the clock; it was after midnight. He didn't want to hang up. But it was time. "Anyway, thanks for listening, Kathleen. You've been a big help."
"I don't know about that, but you're welcome. Good luck with it, Joe."
"Thanks. Good night, Kathleen."
"Good night."
He hung up and closed his eyes. God help me, he thought. He hadn't wanted to think about it during the conversation, but he couldn't avoid it now. He was aroused. Just from the sound of her voice saying his name, wishing him a good night.
In a way it was easy to get past the centerfolds and Victoria's Secret ads. They were just fantasies, temptations to be overcome simply by being a grownup. Even Maria Gutierrez, or the miniskirted college student who smiled at him in the elevator of his apartment building, were scarcely more real.
But this was real; this was the fundamental threat to a priest's celibacy. This was what they warned about in the seminary. Not pouty expressions and long legs, but the intimate touch, the comfortable sound of the woman's voice, the sense that you could tell her anything and she would understand.
She would be lying in bed now, wide awake, the light out, staring into the darkness. And she would be thinking of him, as he was thinking of her. Wondering if she had been right to call, but glad she had. Frustrated and yearning, probably blaming the Church. But that wasn't the focus of her thoughts. Right now she was imagining how it would be when the moment came—putting her hand on his cheek, drawing his face down to hers, the feel of their lips finally meeting...
Hurley got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He splashed cold water onto his face, then turned on the light and looked into the mirror. Joe Hurley. Father Joe. What was he doing here? How had he ended up a priest, of all things, living alone in this crummy place instead of the fancy apartment he'd had when he worked on Wall Street? What would he be like in ten years, in thirty years? Only one thing was certain: If he was a priest, he would still be alone, because that was the way it was for priests, whether lowly curates or all-powerful bishops. He might share a rectory with an effeminate young guy right out of the seminary or a pickled pastor who had seen it all, but at the end of the day they would go to their rooms and he would go to his, and in the darkness there would be no one else, no one to hold, no one to comfort and be comforted.
Only his calling. Only his God.
He recalled talking to his father on the eve of his ordination. Kevin Hurley was a sales executive who had gloried in his son's football success but remained utterly perplexed by his decision to enter the priesthood. After two scotches he decided it was time to be frank. "I couldn't be prouder of you, Joe," he said. "But I'm also scared for you. I love your mother, but the hardest thing I've had to do in my life is to remain faithful to her. You're going to have to remain faithful to someone you can't even see. You're a better man than I am, and I don't know how you're going to stand it if you fail."
Running extra miles couldn't save him, ultimately, or putting in extra hours on the job. Hurley needed to stay connected to that invisible someone to whom he had vowed to remain faithful. He needed to pray. He left the bathroom and knelt down next to his bed. God, You have asked this of me, give me the strength to see it through, he began. Please don't abandon me, and I promise I will try, I will keep trying every day of my life.
God listens, but keeps His counsel. The room was silent. The long night pressed down on Hurley, endless and unforgiving. He put his face in his hands and continued trying to find the words that would save him.
* * *
Morelli hadn't prayed since her father died. But she prayed now, sitting up in bed, knees tucked under her chin. I shouldn't have called, she thought; I had to call. She had resisted the temptation all day at work, then after getting home from her interview with McAllister's lover. She had tried to go to sleep but couldn't. It hadn't helped, she supposed, that she'd spent the evening surrounded by sculptures of naked men; but this was different. This wasn't about sex but—but...
Please God, if You exist, help me do the right thing.
And w
hat was that? Was she trying to save Joe Hurley, or destroy him? Was she making the biggest mistake of her life, or would the biggest mistake be to let him go, to leave him to the weird, primitive rules of his outmoded creed?
All she knew for sure was that she ached for him, and she couldn't begin to understand how she could get through the day without seeing him, without hearing his voice, without feeling the touch of his hand on her arm.
And she knew somehow that he felt the same way about her, and this filled her with such joy and hope that she could scarcely breathe when she thought of it.
She was used to being disappointed, though, and she could feel heartbreak approaching like a freight train. Do the right thing. And stay alone in this cold bed in this lonely apartment, thinking about someday getting a cat but never quite ready for the commitment, dodging come-ons from married men and other assorted creeps. Never quite sure who she was, what she should be doing, how she could find happiness. How could she do the right thing?
She wasn't trying to save Joe Hurley, Morelli had to admit; she was trying to save herself. She stopped praying finally. It had never worked for her before, and it wasn't going to work now. She didn't know what she, or God, would do. She lay down and tried to sleep. Maybe her dreams would tell her something. But when they came at long last, they were of a strong man with a gentle touch and a crooked smile, living his life for the good of others. Her dreams told her only the obvious.
Strangely, absurdly, hopelessly, Kathleen Morelli had managed to fall in love.
Chapter 19
Dave Leahy didn't mind his job. He brought his Bible with him, and there was plenty of time to pray and meditate in the long hours between customers in the dead of the night. The money was not good, and his family complained bitterly about that, but they—and all of America, really—were entirely too obsessed with material goods. Poverty was liberating, and its sacrifices were good for the soul. They had to realize this before they wasted their lives getting and spending, when they could be worshipping Our Lord.
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