Sanctuary Creek

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  “I told you that if they wanted to have a private here at the Creek that I’d be happy to officiate.”

  “And I appreciate that offer, Holiness. But it just wouldn’t be the same.” The President paused, then half-ordered, half-pled: “You owe me one, Peter!”

  Chapter Seven

  Samson had seen a lot of chits called in the past, but this one was a blockbuster.

  Without Donovan, there wouldn’t be a Sanctuary Creek. During the second year of the reign of Nicholas, then-U.S. Speaker of the House, Illinois Republican Ronald D. Donovan had personally masterminded the scheme ultimately leading to the enactment of the unique legislation that allowed its existence.

  “I know you’re up for re-election next year,” Peter said. “And I know it would make for some great PR for you in the primaries and the general, but I’ve got a… it’s just off-message.”

  “That’s not you talking, Peter. What’s the real problem? Is it the Guralski thing?”

  “Well when are your guys going to break something on it?” Peter urged. “When are you going to wrap it up?”

  “We’ve got everyone on it. I’ve got the Bureau, CIA, Treasury, State. You name the department or agency and they’re on it. What do you want me to do?”

  “Figure it out!”

  “It could have been just a local hit. The jerk had a lot of problems. Try to take a step back from it. It might be nothing.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve got the Secret Service.”

  “And you’ve got the Swiss Guard. We can put something together. It’s not a big deal. Shit— I get more threats on my life every day from nut balls and kooks than you’ll receive in a lifetime.”

  “Anybody ever go at you with an axe, Ron? It’s not real pretty when you see it close-up.”

  “I know. Take it easy.” He paused. “In fact, I was speaking with Archie the other day and we had occasion to talk about you. Tell you the truth, he’s getting a little concerned. You haven’t left the Creek in months. You’ve got to get out. Keep touch with your constituents. If you don’t, you’re going to start to lose touch with what’s…”

  “Hang on,” Peter said, motioning Samson to leave.

  * * *

  The Cabinet meeting went smoothly, nobody batting an eyelash when the Pontiff announced Samson was taking over as Secretary of Finance. Most of the discussion centered on the upcoming primary elections, his observations about matters discussed with the Council that morning, how the latest security measures were working at the Creek and how much of a pay raise should be granted to the work force.

  At the end, Peter directed that no more tours of the property were to be conducted including those already scheduled except for Tiff’s Specials, that none of the Cabinet were to leave the boundaries of the Creek for the next three days without his specific approval, Bishop assistants included, and that all communications with the media were to terminate until further notice unless approved in advance by Mannherz. Over before noon.

  * * *

  The door of the townhouse opened without a key, Samson not having locked the place up in years except when on extended trips. There was nothing of immense value to steal—not that anyone would be stupid enough to burglarize a house in the Creek—and the security presence of the Vatican Guard in recent months would be discouraging to the most Dillinger-esque of criminals. He picked up the phone as it began to chirp.

  “Hello?” Carter asked. “Is this the residence of the latest prince of the Church? Have I reached the archdiocese in exile of Cardinal Samson?”

  “Cut the crap.”

  “Do I have the wrong number? I thought I dialed ‘Et cum spiri 2-2-0!’”

  “Gimme a break.”

  “May I please drop by later, your Eminence, so that I may confess my sins?”

  Samson warmed to the game. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What kind of violations are we talkin’ about?”

  “Sixth commandment all the way!”

  He paged through the first five to find Carter’s rap sheet. “Thou shalt not commit adultery. One of my favorites.”

  “You been off the reservation lately?”

  “Me?” Samson responded, then cleared his throat. “Why? You heard something?”

  “Nothing, your Eminence, save for the fact that your standard penance is three Our Fathers and three Hail Mary’s.”

  “That’s just a rumor. Depends on what you’ve done. Fess up.”

  “It’s not so much what I’ve done, your Eminenceship. It’s what I’m thinkin’ about doing. So what model crosier you gonna get?”

  “A what?”

  “A crosier. You know, that humongous walking stick you get to carry around with the big hook on the top.”

  “Is that what they’re called?”

  “How long you been a Cardinal?”

  “You don’t really think that he made me a Cardinal, do you?”

  “Nah. I already got the whole poop from Mannherz’ lackey over in Information. There isn’t going to be any coverage. I guess you miss your chance to be on the network news.”

  “Who cares?” If Kimberly could see me now. “So what’s the reaction over at Party?”

  “Everyone’s tickled with the idea that our money guy has taken a leave to play with the holy guys.” He paused. “I certainly wish you luck and hope they name a successor for you real soon.”

  He suddenly sounded serious—too serious a departure from the tenor of the conversation up to that point. Samson had known him long enough to appreciate that if he wanted to joke and smoke, Carter could rock with the best. And when it got down to brass tacks, he could hammer with the best.

  “What’s going on?” Samson asked cautiously.

  “I ain’t sure.”

  “Come on. I can tell by that edge in your voice. Is Gayle back yet or are you still in charge.”

  “Jeff called earlier and said he’d wouldn’t be back until sometime tomorrow or at the earliest late tonight. Said something came up and he had to go to D.C. to see somebody.”

  “About what?”

  “He didn’t say who, he didn’t say why.”

  “That’s not like him. Not like him with you.”

  “Yeah. I know. But I can’t get a handle.”

  “What do you think…?”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it on the phone,” Carter said abruptly.

  “Okay.”

  “But look,” he continued with a hint of apology. “Did you have lunch yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Lemme grab a couple sandwiches and a couple cans of pop and I’ll meet you down by the lake. Half an hour?”

  “See you there.”

  “Hey… and don’t forget your crosier.”

  Samson went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice, took off his sports coat and then walked up the stairs, sensing the same fog bank of apprehension that had enveloped him three years earlier.

  He and Kimberly had met a year before Peter was elected to the papacy, a year after she’d tossed away a ten-year stint and big salary as an account executive at a top ad agency to pursue what she really loved: composing advert music and scripting alternate scores for established pieces. From their very first date—a group affair at a comedy club, then dinner afterwards at a Greek joint in Near North—he knew she was incredibly, deliciously special. He asked her that night, just before the perfunctory kiss, why nobody had taken her out of the field yet. “I can’t be taken,” she breathed after brushing her lips lightly against his. “I have to go voluntarily.” She paused, considering her parting comment. “Uh, for future reference, you might want to know I have epilepsy.”

  It only took him three days to decide that wasn’t an issue.

  She moved in a month later, they got engaged three months later and planned to be married a year later by Cardinal Rehmer. As it turned out, they were the first couple married by Peter in the Cathedral. She gave him the Lionne-Demilunes lithograph COMBAT RISK, one of 300 drawn from th
e original painting in the Pope’s office. He bought her a white Yamaha baby grand, both of which ended up in the living room.

  During the following fall and winter, on nights when they weren’t huddled in the den in front of the fireplace watching television, reading or just holding each other, Samson would sit in a magnificent leather lounge chair and ottoman she bought him for his birthday and gaze at the lithograph while she played sonatas and concertos, the music like a beacon from heaven. If he didn’t know better, he thought perhaps he’d died and gone there.

  He reached for the doorknob of her room and took a deep breath, just as he had the afternoon that sometimes seemed centuries ago, other times like yesterday.

  It was a cloudy Thursday morning. He’d arrived in Chicago on a red-eye from Tucson. He had just enough time to get back home, change his clothes, have a bite to eat and run back to the airport to catch a flight to New York for a meeting of Eastern Party higher-ups. Kimberly made breakfast but halfway through started in once more on the amount of time he spent away from her. The angry words escalated, he finally going upstairs to pack, she following behind, pleading for him to just once decide he didn’t have to leave. To stay home with her and spend the day in bed rather than on a jet. But with many millions of dollars in contributions on the line, a fundraiser including a speech by Archie Knight, no less, he declined. “Maybe when I get back!” he yelled as he slammed the door and walked to the waiting limo.

  The weather pattern he’d flown through a few hours earlier was ravaging O’Hare. He sat for three hours until all the east-bound flights were cancelled. He summoned a limo to take him back, happy that he could, in a roundabout way, grant Kimberly her wish. He called from the car but there was no answer. He had the driver stop on the way home to pick up 13 pink roses and a bottle of Dom Ruinart. It was going to be a great afternoon.

  The first thing he noticed when he entered the house was a sprinkling of music manuscript pages scattered about the living room, the remnants of a creative block tantrum she occasionally experienced. But seeing they hadn’t been cleaned up, he knew where he could find her—where she retreated to a small electric piano when the baby grand wasn’t delivering the goods. He heard no music coming from behind the door as he approached; received no reply when he knocked.

  Opening it, he saw her lying on the floor, face up. Eyes wide and blank. The first thing that occurred was that she had been playing around, a child who discovered her mother’s make-up collection, a dull, red smear on her chin, dark stains on her clothes and the carpet. He knelt next to her and touched her cheek. It was very cold.

  Her body was taken to the hospital on the grounds of the Creek—Peter and Carter and it seemed everyone showing up before the doctor delivered his analysis. The Pontiff stood next to him, arm around his shoulder, whispering a few times that the Lord sometimes worked in strange ways.

  Apparently, she’d been eating a sandwich when the seizure came on—an idle morsel lodging in her throat. And the bite she gave to her tongue, half severing it, didn’t help. But she didn’t suffer, the doctor consoled. Probably never knew what hit her.

  Samson opened the door, a musky, ancient library air washing into the hall. He noticed a small plate sitting on the love seat near the window, a cinder in its center, probably the remains of the sandwich she was eating when it happened. The second numbers of an alarm clock progressed quietly in digits right of 9:48 p.m., a time that had nothing to do with anything other than various power outages the Creek had experienced since it was last set. The stain on the rug was black. The power light of the piano glowed. He stepped to it and played the opening notes of the only song he knew, the only piece she’d managed to teach him, something called “Heart and Soul.”

  He glanced at the bookcase and gently picked up the photo of him and her and Peter. The colors were sharper than he remembered, the grin on her face more lovely than he recalled.

  He pushed away the curtain, a mist of dust floating into the air. He gazed out at Knight Lake; they’d walked completely around it scores of times. A tear meandered down his cheek as he looked to the ceiling, hoping she was looking down.

  “I’m doing the best I can, Kim,” he whispered. “Say a prayer for me, okay?”

  Chapter Eight

  He was sitting on the bench only a few minutes when Carter stepped up from behind, dropping a large brown sack into his lap.

  “Do you think you brought enough for lunch?” Samson asked.

  “You never know when a few friends might drop by during a picnic,” he lobbed back as he removed a sandwich, a bag of potato chips and two cans of Pepsi. Samson rummaged through the rest.

  “So what’s in here?”

  “A couple of turkeys, well, at least there’s one left. A couple of ham and Swiss Guards. A couple of tunas.” He thought a second. “Come to think of it, most of the Swiss Guard are tunas!”

  Samson roared, all the tension of the past few hours bursting out, Carter advising while he thought it was funny, he didn’t think it was that funny.

  “I’m sorry,” Samson said as he unwrapped one of the tunas. “I’m just really cranked up about this whole deal.”

  “I can’t even imagine. What’s… did you attend the Council meeting?”

  “That alone was worth the price of admission.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “I don’t know if I can tell you that.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “I know I could but I just don’t know if it would be the right thing to do. The deliberations of the Council are secret, you know?”

  “But that rule applies to them, not to you. You’re only a member of the Cabinet.”

  “Listen to this one, folks,” Samson said as he pulled the tab on a can of Mountain Dew. “First the major Party operative wants absolution, and now his old buddy is nothing more than a member of the Cabinet.”

  “You know what I mean, Ter. Now if Pete had made you a Cardinal, then I’d really be impressed. But as it stands, I’ll bet you’re just gonna be workin’ a slightly bigger set of books for awhile.”

  “Slightly bigger?”

  “Well, massively bigger. But that’s not the point.”

  “What is?”

  “The point is that you better not let it go to your head or when Jeff gets back and you get back, the two of us might have to cut your ego back.”

  Carter had spent three years in the seminary, but when it came to returning for the last waltz, elected to pursue his religion in a manner that would allow him to exercise his libido more than the priesthood permitted. Although he’d been married for almost ten years to the same woman, he had one of the most wandering minds Samson ever encountered. But as Carter always said, and even Michelle agreed, “They can’t put you in jail for thinkin’ or wonderin’.”

  I don’t know if you’re listening, Sir. I realize that in the past few hours I’ve been kind of caught up in my own stuff and I’ve been having a hard time keeping things in perspective. But I want you to know I appreciate very much that you gave me Carter as a friend. I know you didn’t go real crazy when it came to giving me a full roster, but you did give me Kim, and I’ve still got him and Peter, so I guess that’s a lot better than a lot of people get their whole lives.

  “So how’s old Chell?” Samson asked as he took a bite.

  “Old Chell’s fine.” Carter replied, taking one of his own. “I called her up as soon as I heard about your promotion and she just about had a seizure.”

  Samson looked when he heard the term. Carter seemed puzzled at the sudden attention then sighed, “Sorry, Ter. Figure of speech.”

  “I suppose I’ll have worse said to me over the next week or however long I get to be Cardinal for a Day.”

  “Besides from me and Pelosi, by who?” Carter asked.

  “Elliott didn’t seem thrilled about the announcement. Mitchell sure wasn’t.”

  “You gotta watch out for old Mitch Squared. I have literally no idea why Pete’s keeping that
little creep around.” He paused. “And you just know that Mitchy had his eye on that job. I mean, he could have gotten in for real. Little red cap, the whole nine yards. He could be a genuine Cardinal right now, Cardinal Samson, if it wasn’t for you.”

  “Shit. I thought that earlier but I really didn’t think about it.”

  “Well, Pete made him Chief of Staff, so why not continue the madness and make him a Red? Put him in the damn Cabinet! Wouldn’t surprise me in the least. And I don’t mean to sound seditious or anything, but, uh, and I don’t mean this against you, Ter.”

  “What?”

  “Popular consensus, especially since you left for Florida, is that the Main Man is succumbing to the pressure.”

  “What pressure?”

  “Bein’ the Pope.”

  Samson took a long sip of his pop and set it on the bench, staring across the lake toward the condos. The pressure of being the Pope. It wasn’t a new concept and certainly one gaining more credence. Not necessarily about Peter; about the position in general. He knew Peter wasn’t the same person who’d put on the Ring four years earlier. He wasn’t as patient as he once was, not as willing or able to take the time for certain pursuits. Like his essays.

  Samson’s favorite was Peter’s first, titled “On the Mystery of the Trinity.” In his final paragraph, he inserted a devastatingly simple comparison, an observation bringing home the mystery to millions of the faithful.

  CERTAINLY, IN THE FINAL ANALYSIS, WE AS MERE MORTALS CAN NEVER HOPE TO UNDERSTAND IN THIS WORLD, OR POSSIBLY EVEN IN THE NEXT, THE HOLY TRINITY AS AN ENTITY OR THE HOLY TRINITY AS A UNITY. ALTHOUGH GOD HAS REVEALED HIMSELF TO US IN THIS WAY, IT MAY AS A PRACTICAL MATTER BE A MYSTERY WE SIMPLY CANNOT APPRECIATE. BUT IT OCCURS IT WOULD BE EQUALLY DIFFICULT FOR A MAN OR A WOMAN TO EXPLAIN TO A SIX YEAR OLD CHILD THAT THE CHILD MIGHT SOMEDAY BE, ALL AT ONCE, A CHILD, A PARENT AND A SPOUSE.

  “He’ll be okay,” Samson recommended. “He’s probably just been working too hard.”

  “Working too hard?” Carter hooted. “Working too hard? He’s got everybody climbing the walls! He must have put in 90 or 95 hours last week alone. He’s making everybody absolutely, positively crazy.” He paused to finish the second half sandwich. “It’s like he has to know everything about every two-bit transaction going on in the whole organization. I think he’s even getting to Bitchy Mitchy, and you know that boy is never happy unless he’s got at least a dozen projects he’s gotta finish before the end of the day.” He reached into the sack and removed another sandwich. “Can you imagine that, Ter? Mitchy burnin’ out? Man, I’d like to see that one. I’d kill to see that one.”