The Shepherd's Calculus

by C. S. Farrelly

  “And tell us, Olivia, what does this mean for the presidential election?”

  “It could impact voting patterns. Realistically, the process is too private for anyone to know who you cast a vote for. But it’s possible this memo will make Catholics and possibly other religious voters think twice about casting a ballot for Archer. We’re not really going to know until November.”

  “Thanks very much.” Dan turned back to the camera. “That’s CNN correspondent Olivia Fontana reporting live from the Vatican, which has issued a memo instructing bishops and priests to block pro-choice candidates and those who vote for them from receiving Communion during Mass. To read the memo in its entirety, visit our website, and join us later tonight when we discuss this latest development with political strategists and clergymen.”

  The volume bar appeared at the bottom of the screen and decreased slowly until Dan’s words could no longer be heard. Based on the images of dairy cows and the closed captioning, he’d moved on to a segment about regulating growth hormones in livestock. Ally didn’t particularly care. She was still trying to wrap her head around the announcement.

  Instinctually, she knew this was a very good thing for Arthur Wyncott. At least with regard to their low numbers with Catholic voters. And even Ernesto Horta had admitted that members of his community responded to what the Church dictated. They would have to take a new poll and see how or if the news had any demonstrable impact on voter opinion.

  Mark turned to her. “Well?”

  Ally sighed. “It’s a big move. Any idea why the Vatican decided to get involved now? We’ve been lagging on religion in the polls for months. Casey had us in Philly weeks ago and placed coverage at Catholic churches in six other cities as well.”

  Mark shrugged. “My guess? Archer stepped up the rhetoric on the right to choose in his interview with 60 Minutes last weekend.”

  He was right. When Thomas Archer had emerged as a possible contender for an independent run, she was a senior in college. She couldn’t remember his stance on choice being a focal point in any of the coverage then. She knew he was prochoice, but he either had the cooperation of the reporters who interviewed him, or he refused to answer questions about the subject because it wasn’t what had come to be associated with him. His relief work in Central America got much more coverage. In fact, despite how monumental and public this assault on his position was, she wasn’t convinced it would be able to eclipse the image of Archer as the candidate who understood how many middle-class and low-income Americans were struggling.

  Milton Casey strolled through the door at that exact moment, an enormous grin on his face and looking less stressed than Ally had ever seen him.

  “This, ladies and gentlemen, is a beautiful day, isn’t it? It’s what we like to call a gift. A gift from Heaven.” He clapped Ally on the back as he glided, as if floating on a cloud of unexpected victory, through the bullpen and into his office. The phones that had rung only occasionally the past few days began ringing all at once. A shrill wave that prompted everyone to dive for their desks to grab them. Around her, a chorus of greetings (“Arthur Wyncott for President!” and “Good morning, how can I help you?”) and responses (“Please contact our director of communications” and “No comment!”) stopped and started, sounding uncannily like a third-grade music class round of “Three Blind Mice.”

  On one of the TVs, political commentators gathered for a roundtable shouted each other down about the ramifications of the memo. They ran clips of Archer discussing his stance on abortion and slapped a breakaway graphic of a statement from his campaign director across the screen: “It is Thomas Archer’s contention that America’s future should be determined by American citizens and American citizens only. While he remains devoted to his faith, he stands by his pledge to represent and serve all Americans of all faiths, no faith, and everything in between if elected.”

  Back at the roundtable, the head of a pro-life organization applauded the memo and said she’d endorse the Pope as a write-in candidate if doing so could save even one more of the unborn. Across from her, a red-faced columnist yipped that Rome needed to stay out of American politics and do what it did best: deny responsibility for rampant pedophilia. The entire office watched the coverage. The atmosphere vacillated between relief for the extra boon to Wyncott (“We’re already up six percent in the latest poll!” Mark shouted after hanging up his phone) and discomfort at the way civility had deteriorated on every channel, with commentators and pundits shrieking at each other. Eventually, Mark hit the mute button. “I can’t take it anymore,” he said and sat back down. Casey was still in his office with the door shut. They hadn’t seen him since his entrance, but every time Ally walked by, he was on the phone or scribbling in the margins of an enormous document.

  Ally was reading a copy of the actual memo online when Mark tapped on her desk to get her attention. He nodded to the TVs and cranked up the volume again. Fox News was interviewing Bishop Owen Feeney about the recent announcement. The host of the show, Storm Whitby, was a preppy, clean-cut man in his forties as well known in Ally’s office for his ludicrous name as for his consistent promotion of Arthur Wyncott. The camera cut to the right of Storm’s desk, where Feeney was seated. The skirt of his stately bishop’s simar robe fanned elegantly in stark contrast to the plush pillows of the large chair that seemed to swallow him. Ally recalled how shocked she’d been by his diminutive stature when they met the first time, and couldn’t resist a glance at his feet.

  The majesty of his robes didn’t just create an aura of piety; it successfully drew attention away from the way his feet dangled off the chair, almost but not quite reaching the floor. He stood when Storm approached, rocking himself forward off the chair with a robust push. After handshakes were exchanged and each expressed how delighted they were to be there, they got down to business. It was strange to see Feeney on TV. The night she met him in Milwaukee, he was dressed in plain clerical blacks, and when she saw him at the reception two months ago, she had been too intimidated to say hello. He was always surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, holding court with a speaking voice too practiced to be genuine and a raucous, booming laugh.

  Now that she watched him with Storm, he was, as usual, an impressive speaker, answering each question with confidence and ease. This memo, Feeney explained, was not an effort to subvert the democratic process. Rather, it was a reminder to Catholics of their “obligation of conscience” not to cooperate with practices that, even if permitted by civil legislation, were contrary to God’s law.

  Storm gamely tried to play devil’s advocate, reading from Thomas Archer’s statement on representing all of America, not just Catholic America. Feeney looked into the camera. Morality, he said, was a condition of humanity and transcended ethnicities and faiths.

  “Murder,” he concluded, “is wrong for America and wrong for every citizen of this world.”

  Storm let him have his moment to allow the words to sink in. Ally couldn’t contain a smile. He was impressive. And as she usually kept her opinions about controversial topics to herself, she got a small thrill from hearing someone articulate her feelings about abortion without embarrassment or compunction.

  Feeney concluded by endorsing Arthur Wyncott as that rare breed of politician who legislated and voted in a manner consistent with morality and God. It was, he said, a supreme kind of irony that a man who votes according to respect for God as man’s maker, and not according to man’s whims, should be the exception and not the rule. Storm, ever objective, nodded his head as though he were seated in the audience of a self-help seminar and not conducting live journalism. He thanked him, and Feeney stood to bow piously before exiting the soundstage. Ally looked around the room and knew instantly that they’d all seen it—the mesmerizing presence of a clergyman, dressed in ceremonial attire, speaking to the very core of their souls about what it meant to have been made in God’s image. Most of her colleagues were not Catholic, and if they were religious at all, very few of them were as devout o
r conservative as Ally. Still, as she peered at their faces, she knew they couldn’t help but be impressed. Feeney was more than a mouthpiece for Catholic dogma. He was a force and a presence.

  At the same time, her own enjoyment of the moment was tempered by an uncertain opinion about this turn she was witnessing. Wanting Wyncott to win and being pro-life was one thing—turning the ceremony of Mass into a political playground was quite another. She wasn’t necessarily offended or disturbed. But she couldn’t help noticing that she’d never seen Feeney appear on television to address the church’s role in sexual-abuse cover-ups. Figuring out just how she felt about this, however, would have to wait.

  Casey emerged from his office and told them all to cancel any plans for the next few weeks. Arthur Wyncott was ready to resubmit his bill on tort reform after months of tweaking it to garner more support. It would be his last bill before the election and, if they got it right, would be passed just two months before the voting booths opened, leaving voters to enter the booth with an image of Wyncott as a doer, not a talker. This meant the White House would be focused on building support for the bill with various members of Congress. He was going to need all hands on deck to help balance the campaign’s needs with those of Wyncott’s White House staff who were working overtime on the bill.

  “Remember, folks,” he said. “Tort reform could be a key piece of Wyncott’s legacy. We need to put everything we can into making this a success.”

  Ally audibly scoffed. Wyncott wasn’t so much looking for a legacy as he was delivering a kickback to his largest donors. Pharma and Big Tobacco had spent a lot of money on his first campaign, and it wasn’t a coincidence that he was now proposing limits on the kinds of litigation that cost them time, money, and business. Casey must have heard her. Too late, she realized he was looking directly at her when he said, “That’s the party line, people. So stick to it.” Her cheeks flushed. The smirk receded from her face.

  After Casey left for his lunch meeting, Mark pulled her aside for a lecture. “That kind of thing can sink a career, Ally,” he said. “I like you—I think you’re bright and you’ve got a lot of good ideas. You need to keep your emotions in check.”

  She meant it when she said she was sorry and thanked him for his candor and advice. “But—” she said.

  “But nothing, Ally,” he interrupted. “Don’t do it again.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you a little bit?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “That the bill was designed to serve his donors, not the public.”

  He softened a bit and regarded her with a cross between amusement and pity. “Oh, Ally. That’s the way these things work.”

  “Every time?”

  Mark shrugged. “Not every time. Just most of the time.”

  “But why?”

  “Because as of now, it’s totally legal. Wyncott’s not doing anything wrong by endorsing this. And it will help the public. Costs get driven up by high insurance premiums meant to protect businesses from overly litigious claimants. Once this passes, those costs will come down. Everyone will win. It won’t happen overnight, but eventually it’ll make a difference.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Mark. It’s the intention behind it. The intention of the bill is to reward his donors, not to lower prices for consumers. It’s the intention that matters, not the outcome.”

  Mark chuckled. “Oh no,” he said. “Sounds like we’re veering dangerously close to a theological discussion. Save your intentions for church. This is politics.”

  Ally smiled in spite of her misgivings. Mark had a gift for explaining things she didn’t like in a way that made it easier to swallow. Though they’d gotten off to a rocky start, with Mark feeling understandably put out by having to take her on, he was probably the closest thing she had to a friend in the office. He made an effort to get to know her and occasionally stopped by to joke about how orderly her desk was or how it was decorated. With Mark she felt free to talk about herself, about her traditional upbringing and faith, without feeling judged and to share parts of Catholic history that fascinated her. One of her personal favorites was anti-Catholicism in the United States. Pinned to the back wall of her cubicle was a series of antique anti-Catholic and anti-Irish political cartoons that had come with her from her dorm room in Milwaukee. The only one she framed, a stunning illustration by Thomas Nast, had run in Harper’s Weekly in the late nineteenth century. It depicted crocodiles rising from the river to gobble up a group of children huddled on its shores, their lanky snouts jutting out of the water and lined top and bottom with jagged teeth. Upon closer inspection, the crocodiles were not, in fact, man-eating reptiles, but Roman Catholic clergymen. Bishops with miters atop their heads and vestments on their backs slinking to shore, closer to their prey. Rising like a specter from the river behind them was Saint Peter’s Basilica, labeled “Roman Catholic Political Church.” Mark, who had never seen it before, had been at once shocked and amused. Knowing that Catholics had been discriminated against for their beliefs in the past made her feel more connected to and protective of her faith. It also made her understand why religion played such an important role for many of Wyncott’s voters. Mark respected that about her.

  So when he occasionally chided her about her moral and religious sensibilities, she knew it was good-natured.

  “You’re right,” she told him. “I’d just like it better if helping corporations was the by-product. Not the other way around.”

  He rolled his eyes in mock protest. “Catholics,” he muttered with a smile. “Just cancel your plans and be prepared to be on call.”

  “I never have any plans.”

  “You’re pathetic, Ally.”

  “I know.”

  It was good advice. She wasn’t senior enough to participate in any of the political maneuvering going on below the surface to guarantee the bill’s passage. But in the weeks that followed, she spent plenty of time researching where to run ads for it in the home states of Congress members who were holding out. News coverage of the bill and the ensuing debates were a welcome distraction from the controversy that swirled around the Communion memo. An archbishop in Colorado became the first person to deny Communion to an attendee at church services.

  He targeted Kathleen Bauer, the state’s governor and an advocate for making RU-486 available over the counter. No one in the office said it, but the move garnered far less attention than it should have only because it was Colorado. Such a move in Boston or Philadelphia would have created a frenzy. And maybe that’s why, thus far, bishops in those cities had refused to engage with the memo. Even though it had been perceived as a direct attack on Archer, he had yet to suffer being denied Communion. Still, news coverage had focused on the memo to the point that it eclipsed his press conferences on foreign policy and green-energy initiatives. Pro-life groups had taken to following him to Mass at his preferred church in Alexandria, Virginia, and peering through the windows, crying foul when his priest personally delivered him Communion. Not long after, the Church served them with a legal notice to cease trespassing.

  Milton Casey wouldn’t have admitted it to his staff, but he was irritated to learn Archer continued to receive Communion, despite his otherwise general disinterest in the inner workings of Catholicism. He was similarly disappointed that Colorado was the only place the memo had been followed since it was issued. He was beginning to think Feeney wasn’t holding up his end of the bargain, and he told him so when they next met. “It’s been close to a month,” Casey barked. “I thought you said your people do what they’re told. Why aren’t they blocking Archer?”

  Owen, who was carving the filet mignon on his plate, didn’t bother to raise his head when he responded. “I never said they do exactly what they’re told,” he said, chewing loudly. “I said they take instruction well and their reactions are easy to predict. You don’t want them to actually deny Communion to parishioners at large. Not even to Archer. That’s going to land them in hot water with the IRS
and anger voters in the pews. And the clergy don’t want to be dictated to like four-year-olds. Compromise is the goal here.” He paused to wash down his mouthful of beef with a sip of eighty-dollar wine. “You want them to meet the edict halfway. To reiterate why Archer’s the wrong candidate every Sunday, in lieu of punishing the people who show up. They’ll feel like they’ve met the spirit of the memo, and every week an authority figure will tell a closed audience of twenty thousand parishes, indirectly, to vote for your candidate. For the next six months.” A petite blond waitress nearby rushed to replenish the supply in his glass. Feeney dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Not even a Super Bowl ad could get Wyncott that kind of targeted exposure.”

  Casey left the meal feeling better. Feeney was right. Mulcahy hadn’t been far off when he described him as having a sharp business mind. Casey assigned a few staff members to help gauge the impact. The important thing, he stressed to them, wasn’t to get a sense of how many people—political candidates or John Q. Public—were being denied Communion. It was more important to find out if any parish priests were stressing Archer’s inherent incompatibility with their faith from the pulpit every Sunday. Pulling this information together was going to cost the campaign even more money. He would have to go back to their corporate donors. Wyncott’s allies in Congress were making progress on the bill, which would help. But Milton was starting to get an ulcer from robbing Peter to pay Paul. If the next six months of counting down to election night didn’t kill him, he told his wife on one of the rare nights he got home before she was already asleep, it might certainly leave him maimed.

  *

  Milton Casey wasn’t the only one worried about money on top of everything else. Peter Merrick’s last paid gig, with the Economist, had ended several months ago. He’d gotten distracted with his research on Ingram’s letters. Emma was patient about it, but her small therapy practice combined with consultation cases for the local family courts was only bringing in so much income. Peter watched the controversy over the Communion memo play out in the news, but his focus was elsewhere. All the same, when his phone rang with offers to write a few pieces on the controversy for some very well-respected publications, he put the mystery of James Ingram’s letters aside long enough to pay the bills.