He appealed to James directly. “You would do this to me. You, of all people. I was your mentor. You know I don’t deserve this.” His lip curled in a sneer. “It’s not as if I’ve slept with little boys. I prefer women, and the women don’t seem to mind. I’ve been discreet as well. Where is the harm?”
“You took a vow,” James said. “The values of the Church have to mean something, or there’s no reason for us to exist. You knew that once. Or I thought you did.”
Father Herzog intervened, his clear gray eyes boring into Graf’s. “You can talk to the others if you like. You will find we are all of one mind on this issue.”
Graf looked at the three priests calmly sitting before him. He wanted to rail at them, to shatter their collective composure.
“Von Herzog the Father General, Heilman the Son, and James the Holy Ghost,” he spat. “The three of you sit there playing God. The grand patriarch, the dutiful son doing his father's bidding. And you, James, the unfathomable specter.”
“We are not playing at anything. We are only asking you to comply with the solemn vows you took. It is your choice.”
“You want me out,” Graf snapped. “You don’t think I’m good enough. You think you’re so superior, so holy, so worthy. But I know better.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “None of us are innocents here. I broke the celibacy rule, but there are worse things.” He glanced at Father Heilman. “I’m sure you agree, Father. And I’m sure we can all agree that certain matters are best left alone.”
Father Heilman returned his look. To his surprise, Graf saw no fear in his face, or guilt. The man was inhuman, he thought. They all were. Not a crack in the implacable wall of judgment. It was as if they knew what he was hinting at, and didn’t care.
He leaned back in his chair and glared at them. “You can’t dictate morality to me, when you’ve done much worse. You think my little sins of the flesh merit expulsion from the Church, while you have committed much graver sins. The Pope tolerates you because he thinks you are obedient. But if he learns otherwise…” He let them contemplate the unfinished threat and waited.
Graf closely observed the two elderly priests. Nothing was going as planned. Father Herzog and Father Heilman seemed composed. He hated that. He wanted a reaction. He wanted them to be human. Father James’s eyes held an intense expression of sadness and compassion.
“The only issue before us is whether you agree to honor the vow of celibacy in order to remain a member of the Society. We need your decision, and we need it before you leave this room.”
“Jetzt?! Jetzt gilt es zu entscheiden?” Graf was so angry he reverted to his native German.
“Yes,” replied Father Herzog in English. “You must decide right now.”
Graf attempted to regain his composure. The muscles of his face convulsed between a grimace and a sneer. He had once respected and admired the men in this room; now he felt only contempt. Why should he have to decide? Why not just lie to them and do what he wanted?
Graf grew suddenly very cold. He felt beaten. If he lied, they would know it. Herzog would pressure him, stare him down. He would get him to the very edge of control, the place where all lies become transparent. Graf felt his anger return. Good. His anger gave him strength.
He swallowed hard and spoke. “My answer is no. But others will agree with me, and will see this as unjust. I’ve served the Society for years. I do not deserve to be cast out in this manner.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Father Herzog in a voice full of sympathy. “Then, as of this moment, you are no longer a member of the Society of Jesus.”
Graf stood, turned around and strode toward the door. He turned around again with small jerky movements for a last look at the three priests. His face twisted in a grotesque mask of pain. “You always wanted this. You’re happy about this, aren’t you?”
"Nein," Herzog replied. “Wir sind nicht froh, sondern trauring, sehr trauring.”
Father Graf fled the room. He didn’t want their damned pity. He grew furious at the thought. They had no right. They thought they had beaten him, but this wasn’t over yet. He had all the means he needed to bring them to their knees.
***
“He knows what we did in the war,” Father Heilman said quietly after Graf had left. “We defied the Pope’s orders. The resistance cell we helped, back in the 1940s. The Jews and Catholics we smuggled out of Germany and Austria. The people…” he faltered briefly. “The people I killed.”
“To save the innocent,” James reminded him. Father Heilman had confessed the events of the war to him some time ago, and it moved James to know his fellow Jesuit was still troubled by them.
Father Herzog smiled gently. “He believes he can persuade this Pope to turn against us because we defied Pius the Twelfth. We put the Church at risk spiriting people and money out of Germany and Italy, caused innocent priests to be arrested and killed. That is what he’ll claim.”
“I’m worried about more direct actions he might take,” James said. “I know we had to do this now, but…”
Father Herzog laid a hand on his shoulder. “We must know the truth, James. One way or another.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Ostia
Wednesday, June 19
“You look like hell, James,” Michael said.
“It has been a rough day,” James replied.
They stood in the foyer of the villa, Susan next to James, carrying her shoulder bag and a suitcase. Michael tried not to look at her as Helena approached them.
Helena greeted James warmly, with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. She was radiant in a scarlet sheath, her auburn curls tied back to show off her fine bone structure and amber eyes. She looked exotic, sensuous and vulnerable.
“James,” she said. Her Italian accent barely detectable. Only an occasional lilt and the soft roll of her "r's" betrayed her mother tongue. “It’s been such a long time. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” She turned to greet Susan. “And this must be the writer you told me about. Welcome to Ostia, Miss Chambers.”
While the two women exchanged pleasantries, Michael gave them a sidelong glance. Susan looked as if the beautiful and self-possessed woman before her was the last thing she’d expected of Michael’s wife. Helena was her usual self, playing the gracious hostess. She saw Susan’s luggage safely delivered to the house staff, with instructions to put it in the guest room, then suggested they move into the garden.
The summer sun was setting, but lanterns bathed the foliage in golden light. A few well-placed torches kept away insects, a necessity in the summer months. The children were in the garden already, and Michael introduced them. Three year-old Luke made himself understood in the way that all young children did, with gestures and persistence. Six year-old Anthony spoke fluent English, a product of both the excellent English program at St. Bartolome’s in Rome and of frequent conversations with his parents. Watching their ease with both guests, Michael felt proud of his boys.
Helena offered Susan a tour of the gardens and the boys ran to a large grassy space with a soccer ball. Luke watched his older brother Anthony with admiration as he kicked. He ran for the ball and returned it to his brother never tiring of the game.
James filled Michael in on Graf’s ousting. “It was very hard on me. I once looked up to him. He was strong-minded but fair. But as the years went by, he changed and hardened. He became selfish and materialistic, constantly flouting rules. He became ambitious and impatient.”
“But what if Father Graf is your traitor? Wouldn’t it be better to keep him close where you can keep tabs on him?”
James gave a slight nod. “I thought about that, too. It’s a risk. But it was the Father Herzog’s decision to make, and we have to send a clear message to the rest of the order, and we need to do it now. Besides, it’s been an long time since anyone has been able to keep tabs on Father Graf.”
When dinner was ready, they all sat down at a table set up on the terrace. They talked as they ate abo
ut Italian politics, the weather, the landmarks of Rome, the beauties of Ostia. Michael barely touched his food, and he strained to act normal. Even when Helena left them for half an hour to put the children to bed, he couldn’t relax. His stomach felt as if he had swallowed a large lump of ice.
When Helena returned, James ducked into the kitchen and came out with crystal glasses full of chocolate mousse. He wore a boyish grin as he ceremoniously served the desserts. He radiated wholesomeness and good will. Helena seemed especially delighted by his company. She once told Michael that being around James made her feel protected, the way she’d felt as a little girl playing near her mother.
Susan ate a bite of mousse and gave James a speculative look. “You’re celibate. Right?”
Michael stared at her, but James only laughed.
“I’m a priest,” he said.
Helena seemed to see her dinner party falling apart and ever the good hostess, she changed the subject. “How many Catholics do you think there are in the world?”
“About seven hundred fifty million, I should think,” James answered.
“I had no idea there were so many,” Helena said.
“Not so many if you look at the entire world. Buddhists and Hindus outnumber Catholics by at least a billion people.”
Susan turned toward James. ”But how many Catholics go to church regularly? Not so many in the States these days. Isn’t that right, Father?”
His gentle smile didn’t waver. “Unfortunately, yes. About fifty-five percent still go to church most Sundays, but twenty years ago it was eighty-five percent. A worrisome trend, I must admit.” He glanced at Helena. “And Europe isn’t immune. Even here, high divorce rates and family instability are diluting religious attachments.”
“It would help if the Church stopped ignoring women,” Helena retorted.
Here we go, Michael thought. Helena and James rekindled an old argument: the Church’s failure to deal with birth control, female priesthood and the lesser position to which too many clergy relegated women throughout society. He glanced at Susan and saw a slight smile on her face, as if she relished the prospect of verbal combat.
Before he could intervene and turn them toward safer ground, Helena went on. “I find it appalling that the Church claims Mary consented at the age of thirteen to become the mother of God.”
“But she did,” James said. “There is ample evidence to show she consented.”
“Isn’t that the classic defense of the pedophile?” Helena asked. “In Christ’s time and even today in some countries in the Middle East and India, child marriages are customary. But that doesn’t make it right. In Europe and the U.S. we prosecute adults for preying on children. God would be arrested for impregnating a girl below the age of consent.”
“People didn’t live as long then,” James said.
Helena would not back down. “But human biology hasn’t changed. My point is she was too young to consent. The brain of a young teenager isn’t fully developed.”
“The mysteries of the faith require us to have faith,” James said.
“Don’t hide behind that nonsense. What kind of message is the Church sending to women? Only virgin children are pure? Experienced mothers are impure and unfit to raise Christ? It’s creepy and insulting when you think about it, but you would have me suspend rational judgment and just accept something I would tear your eyes out for thinking about my underage sister?”
For a moment, James looked uncertain. Finally he said, “Helena, you sound as if the Church is irrelevant to you.”
“No. I do want moral grounding for my children, and I did learn something from my Catholic education. I learned to love and respect my body, and I learned moral and ethical responsibility. But I want my sons to grow up to think for themselves and not to defer to ‘mysteries’.”
“There is much that is reasonable in Church teachings,” James said.
“I don’t completely disagree.” Helena gave him a mischievous smile. “But don’t expect me to take dietary advice from an apple-pushing, talking snake any time soon. The Church is steeped in medieval superstition, but we don’t live in those times. Women get educations, we work, and we have the right to vote.”
James smiled but gave no ground. “It’s good to know some fundamental truth is still being taught,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll solve the Church’s crisis of confidence after all.”
Susan interrupted. “Crisis of confidence or crisis of faith? I thought they were the same thing.”
James turned toward her. “I mean a crisis of confidence. The Catholic faith is based on love: love of others and of oneself. We are simply spiritual beings having a human experience. Recognizing the spiritual nature of our existence, we realize we are all part of the same universal continuum.”
“I agree with that, but it also means viewing women as complete humans of equal value,” Helena said.
“But we must not reject the truth along with errors, distortions and degradations that have crept into our dogma over the centuries. The crisis of confidence lies with the clergy, not with the truths in the faith.”
Susan savored the last of her mousse. “We’ve heard from James the priest. What does James the psychiatrist have to say? What is the most fulfilling way to live?”
James leaned forward, elbows on the table. Michael recognized his lecturer’s posture: focused and engaged, yet relaxed. James loved to talk about issues like this. Michael began to breathe a little easier. They might get comfortably through the end of dinner after all.
“We must balance our spiritual existence and the constraints of the physical world,” James said. “Strive to engage in activities that require constant self-development. Nurture and develop the physical body, but also our spiritual nature. We exist for a purpose: to honor our spirituality. When we do, we cannot help but love others. Hurting others is easily recognized as a crime against ourselves. It’s no coincidence that all religions teach this at their core.”
His sincerity touched Michael, even as it unsettled him. James spoke so clearly of his life’s meaning, turning himself inside out in front of them all as naturally as breathing. Michael knew plenty of men who easily talked about their sex lives, or their incomes and net worth. Some men even talked easily about romantic love. But the love James spoke of was different, love of humanity, love of the spirituality of others. No one else Michael knew, not even other priests, talked about this kind of love except inside a church, and very rarely even then. Spiritual love was the last intensely personal topic; it was the last taboo.
“You still sound like James the priest,” Susan said, clearly trying to bait James.
“There is a common assumption that one must conform to labels,” James replied mildly, “but I am surprised to hear it from you.”
Susan’s cheeks, already reddened by wine, turned crimson.
“Psychiatrists and psychologists have recently begun to accept the inseparable links between mental and physical health,” James continued. “And one day they will eagerly accept the importance of spiritual health.”
“A lot of people don’t think like you,” Susan protested. “People who think the way you do are asking to become victims. Like Christians thrown to the lions. Anyway, I think priests are hypocrites. They molest children, yet they want to preach to me.”
“I don’t walk around with blinders,” James said. “Honoring one’s spirituality doesn’t mean letting yourself be victimized by the ugly actions of others. Being savvy enough to recognize and disarm evil does no harm. Thoughts of hate and vengeance do; they harm the spirit and mind and body.”
Michael stared at Susan, seeing her clearly for the first time. Here, in his home, she seemed out of place. A child, and not a very polite child at that. Everything he had, his home, his children, his experiences, he’d created with Helena. He’d felt drawn to Susan because she reminded him of Irena and of a past he couldn’t change. But she paled like Irena’s ghost in comparison to Helena. He realized how much he loved Helena
, and how careless he had been.
He glanced at his wife. Helena was watching him intently. Her eyes reflected a stunned blankness, then shock and finally painful awareness.
Michael’s stomach felt even worse, as if the lump of ice were melting while his stomach filled with molten lava. He got up, turning away from Helena’s gaze, and fought to steady his hands as he poured them all a Frangelico nightcap.
***
Michael opened the bedroom door. Helena stood with her arms outstretched, palms on the wall in front of her, staring at the floor. Her dark hair hung down, hiding her face.
At the sound of his entrance, she lifted her head. Their eyes locked, and Michael felt naked. He went to his wife and took her in his arms, but she pushed him away. “What is going on between you and that woman?”
“Nothing,” Michael said defensively.
A flash of pain crossed Helena’s face. She wavered, clearly torn between accepting his answer and the instinct that warned her he hadn’t told her everything. At first her face held confusion and hurt and her body trembled with her internal struggle. Then she stood still for a moment and imperceptibly shook her head. She stood more erect yet relaxed. On her face was the same expression had seen in Father de Aragon. A willingness to face any truth, however unpleasant, and accept the consequences.
Michael understood for the first time what the expression “terrible beauty” meant. Helen’s face was beautiful but terrible because of the relentless honesty that was directed at him under circumstances he’d created. His chest tightened as she locked him in a calm and steady gaze.
“How dare you do this to us?” she said softly. “How dare you make a joke out of our marriage, and a fool out of me?”
Michael flushed. “Nothing happened. There is nothing between me and Miss Chambers. You’re imagining things.”
“Don’t ever tell me I’m imagining things.”
“I’m sorry, Helena,” he said in a deep soothing voice. “I was attracted to her, but that’s all. I swear it. I’ve just been so confused lately.”
Archangels: Rise of the Jesuits Page 16