In O’Rourke’s youth, the Virgin was like a member of the family. The nuns at St. Bernard’s Parochial School talked about the Blessed Virgin incessantly and how much she was loved by her son, Jesus. The nuns also said that May was named after Mary, and was the Virgin’s month. Every May the whole student body went up on the roof of St. Bernard’s and sang songs to a statue of the Virgin. “Bring flowers of the rarest, bring flowers of the fairest . . . Oh, Mary we crown thee with blossoms today . . . Queen of the angels, Queen of the May.” And all the children wrote notes to the Virgin—little prayers the nuns called ejaculations—and O’Rourke remembered how they were offered up in a fire, the smoke rising to the heavens where the Virgin now resided. O’Rourke’s prayer was that Willie Mays would not be killed in the Korean War and safely returned to the Polo Grounds. O’Rourke could remember the brightness of the day and the heat of the early summer as it made tar bubbles on St. Bernard’s roof. Then there was the smell of the still busy river, only blocks away, and the aroma of the bloody meat market around the corner. Today developers kill for the warehouses in the Meatpacking District; then it was an Irish-Catholic neighborhood full of stevedores.
Mary was also his mother’s name. Mary Kavanagh. Named by his grandmother, Rosanna. O’Rourke never knew his Grandma Rosanna, for she had died so, so long ago. All he had was an old sepia photograph of her, sitting at a table with his grandfather. Henry Street, Dublin, was stamped on the back of it. His grandmother was a Conway and from the photograph he could tell she had a big bust and a serene face. And she was devoted to the Virgin Mary, naming her only daughter, O’Rourke’s mother, after her. That’s all he had of his grandmother: an old picture, a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary that was hers, and a tombstone in Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin with her name on it. His grandmother had a kind face, a young face. How old was she when she died? O’Rourke didn’t know. His mother had few memories of her own mother because she was just seven when God had called Rosanna to heaven. “The good die young,” his mother had told him. His mother ended up in an orphanage in Sandymount. The Black and Tans used to visit, looking for rebels in the basement. But that photo of his Grandmother Rosanna stuck with O’Rourke. A mystery woman, like this mystery woman—the Virgin Mary?—in his dreams.
And now the hot roof of St. Bernard’s was out of O’Rourke’s dream and the mystical figure was back, dancing in front of him. Was this Virgin coming to tell him something important? The fog was lifting from the Virgin’s face. He could see her white scarf and her blue wrap, which she used like a burka, and there was a lone eye and it was familiar and, my God, could it be—
“You fucking asshole,” said Dr. Moe Luigi.
“Mother of God,” replied O’Rourke, waking up.
“Dr. Luigi!” said the woman in white.
“Oh,” said Luigi embarrassed, “excuse my language.”
“Where are my fucking glasses?” said O’Rourke to the white figure. O’Rourke was out of it. He didn’t know where he was. He was woozy and still high and everything seemed out of sync. Plus he couldn’t see a goddamned thing.
“Here you are, Mr. O’Rourke,” said the woman.
O’Rourke put his glasses on and saw the aged nun in the white Sisters of Charity habit. She must be eighty. She looked just like Sister Perpetua from the first grade. “Oh, Sister,” he said, “where am I?”
“You’re in St. Vincent’s,” the nun said.
“What in God’s name were you doing?” demanded Luigi.
O’Rourke was embarrassed. “I was fucking around.” He looked at the nun and felt remorse.
“With what?” asked Luigi.
“Cognac and blow.” The nun wondered what this blow was.
“Fool!” said Luigi. “You almost blew a gasket. Your blood pressure went through the roof, and you fainted. Lucky you didn’t have a stroke. Better clean up your act!”
“Moe,” said O’Rourke, “I’m sorry.”
“You’ll be sorry if you continue like this.” Now Luigi felt remorse because of the way he had read down O’Rourke. “I’ll never get any rest with friends like you,” he said by way of apology. “Why does stuff like this always happen in the middle of the night?” Luigi covered his friend with a sheet and brushed O’Rourke’s hair off his forehead. “Sister says you have a visitor. Do you want to see him?”
“Who?”
“Sam McGuire. Want to see him?”
O’Rourke smiled at Luigi’s misdirection. “Sure.”
“You’ll feel better in the morning,” said Luigi. “The blood pressure’s coming down. Then we’ll do some tests. I’ll send your friend in.” He put his hand on O’Rourke’s wrist and squeezed. “I’ll see you then.”
“Moe,” said O’Rourke sincerely, “thanks.”
Both Luigi and the nun left, leaving O’Rourke alone in the room. His eyes grew heavy and the truncated dream came back and he cocked his head at the ceiling, as if a slant would make the apparition reappear. He almost knew who it was when he was awoken by Luigi. Just a few seconds more and he would have solved the mystery.
“You okay?” asked Sam McGuire.
“Thanks for coming.”
“That’s my job.”
“How’d you know?”
“Mr. Pepoon called me,” she said. “I came right over.”
“Sorry I’m such a sorry pain in the ass.”
“You’re not,” said McGuire as she slowly bent down and kissed him on the forehead. She hesitated. “You’re my hero.”
“I’m nobody’s hero.”
“Well,” replied McGuire, “you’re mine.”
“Why?”
“Let’s see,” said McGuire, beginning to count on her fingers. “You’re kind. You’re passionate. You care. And even more important—you make me laugh.”
“All I am,” said O’Rourke, “is one drunken, fat Irish fuck.”
“Hey,” returned McGuire, “we’ll knock thirty pounds off you, and you’ll be a new man.”
O’Rourke shook his head. “I’m an asshole.”
“Yes, maybe,” she said, “but you’re my asshole.” Now McGuire showed her edge. “You’re too hard on yourself. You put yourself down too much. Everybody loves you. Don’t you know?”
O’Rourke was actually embarrassed. “Thanks, honey,” he muttered under his breath, afraid that the “honey” would insult her. O’Rourke knew he didn’t deserve to be treated this kindly.
“Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
O’Rourke cocked his head. “Do you hear it?” he asked McGuire.
“Hear what?” McGuire thought he was hallucinating; maybe he was still high.
“The keening.”
“I don’t hear anything,” said McGuire, “and I think it’s time for you to go to sleep.” She took O’Rourke’s hand in hers and O’Rourke wanted to hold her all night, but she slid from his grasp and left with a wave and that dazzling smile.
Why him? What did the Virgin want? It was haunting O’Rourke. He had never had a dream like that before. Who was it? He almost knew. He almost saw the Virgin’s eyes. He was full of pishogue, as they say in the Irish. Full of ghosts, full of superstition, full of the unknown. He remembered that his mother fervently believed in the “Three Knocks at the Door” as a harbinger of death. She swore it had happened to her in the late 1920s as she was caring for a dying boy in Dublin. All alone in the house with the child, she went to answer the door. No one was there. When she went back to the lad, he was dead. O’Rourke wondered about all the ghost stories his parents had regaled him with when he was a child. He smiled at the memory of his wonderful childhood, his wonderful parents, and wondered about the wail of the banshee that he was sure he just heard, out there, on West 12th Street.
13.
Coming from three different directions, Cyclops Reilly, Abe Stein, and Seán Pius Burke found themselves alone in the same elevator. The diminutive Abe looked up at the two tall Irishmen on either side of him and smiled. “I feel like a pastr
ami on Irish soda bread,” he said. Both Irishmen smiled back at him.
“You get my email?” asked Reilly.
“Sure did,” said Stein. “What are you up to?”
“Me?” said Reilly innocently. “What would I be up to?”
“Johnny Pie,” said Stein, “you know anything about this?”
“No,” said the monsignor, “and I don’t want to know anything about anything.”
The news conference took place in the small auditorium that was adjacent to the St. Vincent’s Hospital press office. The congressman was not crazy about the idea, but there was little he could do; in fact, coming back to the hospital made him feel like he was revisiting the scene of the crime. Madonna-Sue and her father had spoken with the Cardinal and had, reluctantly, agreed to attend. It was all for show and they had no choice. Peggy Brogan was there also, separated from the clique, a political wallflower who knew where all the bodies were buried.
When all the television lights and radio microphones were set up, the Cardinal stepped to the podium. On one side of him was Congressman Jackie Swift and on the other was the Reverend Chester Cockburn. “We are here,” the Cardinal began, “to put a moral imprimatur on this year’s elections.”
There was a hum from the group of reporters and the only thought on their minds was “Church and State.”
“For years now, Catholic politicians have run for office,” began the Cardinal, “freely disregarding the moral teachings of Holy Mother Church. The Church will not stand for this amoral conduct any longer.” He paused for effect. “Therefore, breaking tradition, I am endorsing Congressman Jackie Swift in his reelection bid. I am supporting the congressman specifically because of his stand against abortion and his efforts for Right-to-Life legislation.” The Cardinal turned to Swift, shook his hand and said, “Thank you, Congressman Swift.” Expecting applause, the Cardinal was taken aback by the silence in the room. He returned to the microphone. “It is not often that a crusade like the anti-abortion movement is given a signal from above,” the Cardinal said as he raised his eyes toward the heavens. “And God chose to send his most Holy Mother to Congressman Swift to deliver his message on high—abortions must stop!
“Also, I want to take this a step further,” said the Cardinal. “From now on, in the Archdiocese of New York, any Catholic politician who defies the teachings of Holy Mother Church on abortion will be denied Holy Communion. No one has an absolute right to the Eucharist.” There was a palpable tension in the room, for the press knew the “Wafer Watch” was underway. The Cardinal cleared his throat. “’The Reverend Chester Cockburn of Operation Free Fetus also has a statement to make.”
Cockburn, ever so proud as he shook the Cardinal’s hand, knowing the Cardinal’s endorsement helped legitimize his organization, stepped to the podium. “Never again in this country,” the reverend began, “will little fetuses be left defenseless. We will fight these Godless heathens in the Congress, in the streets, in the abortion clinics. We will do whatever it takes to stop the maiming of the innocent!” His eyes were raised to the ceiling as he spread his arms apart in imitation of Christ on the cross, looking instead like a loony bird about to take flight.
Swift was next. He looked sharp and healthy in his three-piece suit. “I just want to thank His Eminence, the Cardinal, and the Reverend Cockburn for their endorsement. I would also like to thank,” he added with a straight face, “Our Lady of Greenwich Village for her inspiration.” There were snickers from the media. “Now, we can begin the fight, and the fight will be right!” Swift was beginning to sound like Ian Paisley. With Cockburn on one side and the Cardinal on the other, Swift took their arms and raised them in triumph, like he had just won a heavyweight championship. The Cardinal surveyed the reporters. “Any questions?”
Abe Stein looked at Cyclops Reilly and knew the floor was his. “Ah, Reverend Cockburn,” began Stein, “as you may know, the Cardinal is very wary of so-called Catholic bashers.’I have a report here that after you accused the Buffalo Archdiocese of building low-income housing for poor blacks solely for the purpose of converting blacks to Catholicism, Buffalo’s Bishop Malloy accused you of Catholic bashing. What do you have to say about that?”
“It’s a canard,” said Cockburn. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for the Catholic Church.”
“So you’re saying Bishop Malloy is a liar, then?” continued Stein.
“Yes, wherever you got that information from, it’s a lie.”
Cyclops Reilly was ready. “Reverend Cock-burn,” he began.
“Ah,” said the Reverend, “that’s Co-burn. It’s pronounced Co-burn.”
“Nevertheless,” said Reilly, “you’re accusing the bishop—a member of the hierarchy of the Catholic Church—of lying? The Cardinal is always talking about Catholic bashing. Eminence, is this man a Catholic basher?”
“Who are you?” demanded the Cardinal, unaware of the connection between Reilly and Monsignor Burke.
“Cyclops Reilly, New York Daily News.”
“I know your stuff, Reilly,” said the Cardinal sharply. “Very biased reporting.”
It didn’t faze Reilly one bit. “Nevertheless, Eminence, is this man a Catholic basher?”
“Eminence,” interrupted Billy Eminence, “could you define ‘Catholic bashing’?”
“Catholic bashing,” said the Cardinal, “is the abuse of Catholics by Catholics and non-Catholics alike.”
“So Catholics can be Catholic bashers, too?” said Billy Eminence.
“Yes, Billy, Catholics can be accused of self-abuse,” continued the Cardinal. With that answer howls went up around the room as the reporters started laughing. Monsignor Burke turned his head to the wall so the Cardinal couldn’t see him.
“Friends,” said Cockburn, “let’s not fight over our differences. I happen to be a Protestant. But we all have lots in common. Like the Cardinal, I’m anti-abortion. I quake in the shadow of the Lord, for I am a man of God.”
“But are you a Catholic basher?” demanded Reilly. Cockburn was stonewalling him.
“You said before, Reverend Cockburn,” continued Abe Stein, “that you would ‘do whatever it takes to stop the maiming of the innocent.’ Are you advocating violence against doctors and women who use abortion clinics?”
“I said that we will take action to stop this holocaust of the fetus.”
“How?” asked Stein. “What are your means?”
“We will do what it takes!” A look came over Cockburn. “My heart leaps for joy every time one of them gets popped.” His face crunched into a scowl. “You won’t find me weeping over the grave of an abortionist. It’s time to scream bloody murder!” The Cardinal took a step back, disbelief on his face. Swift looked like he wanted to disappear.
“Reverend,” said Reilly as he went in for the kill, “you seem to be more interested in fetuses than in living human beings.”
“Fetuses,” said Cockburn, “are living human beings.”
“As alive as teenagers?” asked Reilly.
“Certainly.”
“I hope you don’t treat your fetuses like you treated that teenage boy up in Buffalo that you sodomized,” said Reilly.
“I never touched that boy,” protested Cockburn. “I have a wife and three boys myself.”
“Does your wife let you near them?” yelled Reilly.
“This is an outrage!” Cockburn screamed at Reilly.
“You’re more interested in fetuses,” yelled Reilly, “than the living who you are accused of sodomizing! Are you a sodomite?”
“I’m not. I’m not a sodomite,” shouted Cockburn into the microphone as the Cardinal came forward to try and calm him.
“How about you and your GodScou✞s?” continued Cyclops. “There’ve been allegations.”
“I demand the right to face my alligators!”said Cockburn desperately, unconsciously stepping into a Joycean word maze from which there would be no escape.
“These allegations are outrageous,” the Cardinal sai
d into the microphone. “The Church would never associate with a man accused of doing such terrible things.”
“How about your association with Father Bruce Ritter, Eminence?” said Reilly, referring to the notorious celebrity pedophile founder of Covenant House, who was feted by everyone from Sweeney to President Ronald Reagan as a hero savior of defenseless children.
With that Father Parnell Dowd, the archdiocese’s information director, stepped to the podium and took the Cardinal by the elbow and led him out of the room.
Congressman Swift, wondering how he ended up in the middle of this circus, searched the crowd for his wife and Vito Fopiano, but they had already left. He decided to do the same. He caught Brogan’s eye and they both headed for the exit. “I didn’t touch that boy,” the Reverend Chester proclaimed, over and over again. “I didn’t touch him.” he podium was now empty except for the Reverend Chester Cockburn, protesting his innocence.
Cyclops Reilly went to the pay phone and called Peccadillo Fogarty. “I got your headline for tomorrow, Peck.”
“Yeah?” said Fogarty.
“I AM NOT A SODOMITE!”
14.
Sam McGuire came into O’Rourke’s room at St. Vincent’s with a shopping bag filled with his clothes. After two days of blood tests, probes, and scans, it was finally check-out day. He would live, Moe Luigi had told him. Only with no booze, no drugs, a new diet, and lots of exercise. With those admonitions weighing on him, O’Rourke would be going home.
O’Rourke was asleep when she came in, his hairless chest quietly going up and down. There was no hospital attire in evidence. O’Rourke hated pajamas. He always slept nude. Peacefully asleep, O’Rourke showed none of the inner turmoil that daily tortured his very being.
McGuire remembered vividly the first time she had seen O’Rourke. She was a junior press secretary in Chuck Schumer’s campaign in February 1998 when panic had started to set in. Schumer was sitting at 17 percent in the polls, and everyone thought Geraldine Ferraro—the woman who had helped Walter Mondale lose forty-nine states to Reagan in 1984—was going to be the nominee against Senator D’Amato.
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