The Good Shepherd

by Thomas Fleming

  But Leo’s cruelest gambit, the one for which Dennis found it hard to forgive him, was the celibacy probe. Last year, in a moment of careless candor, Dennis had confessed to his anguish - yes, you had revealed your need, your wound - and Leo never let him forget it. As the liquor flowed, Leo made a point of giving certain girls more than a casual fondle, and then suggesting that they were ready to solve Dennis’s problem, at his, brother Leo’s, earnest request. And all big brother-father Dennis could do was play the dry stick, smiling wanly, no thank you, I prefer - what?

  What do you prefer, Dennis? That is the unanswered question.

  “This here’s St. Sebastian’s,” Eddie Johnson said.

  It had started to rain. Dennis peered through the blurred windows at the lights of St. Sebastian’s rectory. He rang the bell once, twice, three times. Finally, a short, bald-headed priest with a large paunch opened the door. Dennis introduced himself and asked for Father Disalvo.

  “He’s over in the school conferring with his black beauties,” was the answer. “But probably not in the first-grade classroom, where they belong.”

  St. Sebastian’s school was separated from the church and the rectory by a large blacktop playground, illuminated by glaring white lights. The pastor was obviously trying to keep away prowlers. The school was dark except for five glowing windows on the top floor. He trudged up six flights of stairs. On the final landing, he heard voices passionately arguing. “I say we gotta let the brothers do their thing, man. Screw this discipline.”

  Father Disalvo and his lieutenants were scattered around the eighth-grade classroom. Disalvo was sitting on top of a desk in the first row. Others were sitting sideways in their seats, their feet up on the seat across the aisle. Two lounged against the rear wall. About half of them were black. Along the wall nearest the door were two shaggy-headed young whites and a slim scowling blonde wearing granny glasses. Student leaders, no doubt. One of them looked vaguely familiar. On the other side of the room, surrounded by blacks, sat Sister Helen Reed. She had the same expression of intense dislike on her face that she had been wearing when they parted at Mount St. Monica’s earlier in the day. Trying to avoid her glare, Dennis found his eyes on the furniture. For a moment, the scarred brown desktops, the curlicues of black iron on the front and back legs, numbed his mind. He was a boy again, reliving those lost years when he sat at one of these desks, devoutly believing everything Sister said about God and man.

  “What can we do for you, friend?” Disalvo asked.

  His rather high pitched voice was disconcerting. Father Disalvo was wearing a dark blue work shirt and dirty chinos. The outfit was made doubly incongruous by his looks. He had wavy dark hair and a cherubic olive-skinned face. “The Pretty Ginny” was what his is fellow priests called him behind his back. No matter how tough he tried to look or act, Disalvo still somehow suggested a Christmas-card choir boy on his night off.

  Inwardly Dennis was nonplussed by Helen Reed’s hostile eyes. But he had always amazed himself by a strange ability to conceal inner turmoil behind a cool, even an icy, facade. “I’m Dennis McLaughlin, the Cardinal’s secretary,” he said. “His Eminence sent me down here. He wants to see you immediately. The car is waiting outside.”

  “What does he want to see me about?” Disalvo asked tensely.

  “I have no idea.”

  Disalvo glowered down at his feet for a moment. Dennis noticed he was wearing dirty white sneakers. “I would like to finish this meeting.”

  “His Eminence is not feeling very well. I think he’d like to get to bed early.”

  “Oh my, now would he?” mocked a tall, thin black in the rear of the classroom.

  “Okay,” Disalvo said. “If you cats don’t mind waiting. This shouldn’t take more than a half hour, maybe an hour at the outside.”

  There was evident dismay on every face, but they murmured vaguely that they would wait for their leader’s return. On the way, down the darkened school stairway, Disalvo said, “I guess I’d better change into clericals.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Dennis said, recalling the brisk admonition about his green sports jacket that he had gotten earlier in the evening.

  Father Disalvo trotted down to his rectory in the rain and came hurrying back five minutes later in black, his white collar shining in the streetlight’s glow. “What’s on the great man’s mind?” he said as Eddie Johnson headed uptown.

  “Something about a march or a demonstration he’s heard that you’re planning tomorrow.”

  “It’s not a march. I promised him there wouldn’t be any marches. I guess you’d call it a patrol.”

  They sat in chilly silence for a minute or two. Eddie Johnson stopped for a red light at Delaney Street on the northern edge of the ghetto. A half-dozen black teen-agers stood huddled in the doorway of a candy store. One of them dashed out and ran his hand clown the rain-slick front fender. Eddie Johnson blew his horn angrily and shouted, “Get your hand off this car, boy.”

  “Those kids could be in trouble before the night’s over,” Disalvo said. “St. Peter and Paul parish, just two blocks away, has a gymnasium that could be turned into a social hall. Instead, it’s open two nights a week, once for the Catholic Boy Scouts, and once for a parish dance - whites only.”

  “I know,” Dennis said. “I was a curate there for a couple of months. The pastor, Monsignor McGuire, is a beaut. During baseball season, he’s out at the stadium four or five days a week.”

  “Did you tell that to your lord and master?”

  “No. I gather he’s one of his best friends. They were classmates at the seminary.”

  “It’s worse than the Mafia,” Disalvo said bitterly. “You don’t say a word against anybody around here if he’s got the Godfather’s okay. How do you stand working for him?”

  “So far it’s been bearable. Interesting. You know, seeing the power structure from the inside.”

  “Doesn’t the arrogance get to you?”

  “Not really,” Dennis said.

  Is that because you more than match it with an arrogance (intellectual brand) of your own? he wondered.

  “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to take it,” Disalvo said. “Getting dragged up to the palace in this goddamn car like a tribune summoned by the Emperor.”

  “Time to become a tribune of the people?”

  “You’re goddamn right it is. Time and past time.”

  They were at the residence. The Cardinal awaited them in his office, his feet up on his Louis XVI desk, his high-backed leather chair tipped precariously. “Hello, Vinny,” he said in a hearty voice that struck Dennis’s ear as totally phony. “Buono sera, caro.”

  Defiance, ferocity, vanished from Disalvo’s demeanor. “Hello, Your Eminence,” he said, holding out his hand. “Congratulations.”

  Matthew Mahan shook hands without bothering to take his feet off his desk. “Sit down, Vinny, sit down,” he said. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, nothing,” Disalvo said, his eyes roving nervously around the shadowed office.

  “I hope I didn’t get you out of bed, Vinny.”

  “No, no. As a matter of fact, I was having a meeting. Of the Peace and Freedom Council.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry to interrupt it. Maybe you could tell me what it’s about now, and save yourself the trouble of reporting to me.”

  “Well - we were discussing this trip - that we’re going to take out to the university tomorrow. Talking about how we could break through the apathy out there.”

  “Trip?” Matthew Mahan said. “Are you going by bus?”

  “No. We thought we’d go on foot.”

  “A march?” Matthew Mahan said. His voice was still cordial, but there was a definite threat in the tone. “Remember what I told you about marches, Vinny? You’re not going to turn this archdiocese into another Milwaukee.”

  “This isn’t a march, Your Eminence. We thought of it as - well, a kind of patrol. No more than a few dozen people. According to the city
’s statute, you have to get a parade permit only if you have more than fifty people.”

  “Vinny, don’t try Jesuit logic on me. I’ve been through that mill. Are you going to carry placards?”

  “Well - we thought we might carry one or two.”

  “No,” said Cardinal Mahan in a voice that eliminated an argumentative reply. The Cardinal lit a cigarette. “How many people do you expect to have on the campus?”

  “I have no idea,” Disalvo said. “A hundred. Maybe 200.”

  Matthew Mahan roared with unfeigned laughter. For a moment, Dennis felt enraged. He had no great love for Father Disalvo. He was one of those rhetorical terrorists with which the nation abounded these days. A clerical Mark Rudd who sometimes veered close to the absurdities of Abbie Hoffman. But the man was probably sincere. It was bad enough to cow him. Laughing at him was detestable.

  “I’m sorry, Vinny. I’m not laughing at you,” Matthew Mahan said. “I’m just thinking of old Flappy Reagan, as we call him around here. Always in a flap about something. He told me they expected you to arrive with 10,000 screaming blacks to join at least 5,000 inflamed students. Do you see what I have to put up with?”

  The Cardinal took a deep drag on his cigarette and looked at it ruefully. “I’m not supposed to be smoking these things anymore.” He stubbed it out in the ashtray. “Okay. Let’s settle this right now. What do you want to do, Vinny?”

  “I want to lead a delegation from the Peace and Freedom Council. An integrated delegation. Maybe twenty blacks and about sixteen whites. From St. Sebastian’s Parish Hall to the university campus, where I’m scheduled to make a speech at 3:00 p.m.”

  “Take a bus. The thirteen bus will drop you off right at the campus gate.”

  “Your Eminence,” Father Disalvo said desperately, “I can’t go back down there and withdraw this proposal. I’ll look like a total fool. I’ll lose every bit of influence I have with these people. Especially the blacks. They’re getting more militant every day. They’re tired of marching on City Hall to demand that fair housing law. They see what’s being done in Milwaukee.”

  “And you see what Groppi’s doing out there, don’t you, amico mio. You’d love that kind of publicity, wouldn’t you, Vinny?”

  “I’m not in this for publicity,” Disalvo said doggedly, obviously repeating something he had said several times before.

  “Oh sure, oh sure. I bet you’ve got a dresser drawer full of press clippings down there in your room right now.”

  It was fascinating, Dennis McLaughlin thought, his mind cool once more. Watching His Eminence handle Father Disalvo was a little like seeing an old pro, the total professional, up against a brash, nervy newcomer to the power game. Father Disalvo never really had a chance. His confidence had undoubtedly been shattered by four or five previous sessions like this one. Now he was being jabbed, uppercutted, and one-two-punched without ever seeing where the next blow or the one before it came from.

  Earnestly, His Eminence was now assuring the victim that his heart was in his corner. “You know how much I care about those people, Vinny. I stood up for them in this diocese - in this country - when there weren’t a half-dozen other Catholics saying anything for them. God knows I’m one of the founders of the Catholic Interracial Council.”

  “I know, Your Eminence. But the situation has changed -”

  “I know it’s changed. And I know you’re meeting it realistically. That’s why I’ve given you all the freedom of speech I think you can handle. It’s a lot more than some of my pastors think you should have. You don’t seem to realize how much time I spend defending you up here. From Father Reagan, from the mayor. From half the people in the chancery office, for that matter. I’m on your side, Vinny. But never forget what I told you about that collar you’re wearing. If I ever took it off you, you’d be a has-been in two weeks. You’re getting attention because you’re a priest, Vinny. And because you’re a priest, you’ve got to demonstrate responsibility, prudence, if you expect me to stay on your side. Now look me in the eye and tell me that you really believe your effectiveness would be hurt if you backed down on this patrol.”

  Matthew Mahan’s tone reduced the idea to utter idiocy. He was now the benevolent father, talking to a headstrong child.

  “It would, Your Eminence, I swear it.”

  “All right. Then you can do it. But limit the number to twenty. Get me?”

  “All right, Your Eminence.”

  “Dennis, get that apostle of law and order, Father Reagan, on the phone for me.”

  Dennis retreated to his cubbyhole between the Cardinal’s study and the hall, dialed the university, and got an anxious Father Reagan on the phone. “Phil,” Matthew Mahan boomed into the phone on his desk, “I’ve got Father Disalvo sitting here in front of me. He’s coming out to visit your so-called educational institution tomorrow. Do you know how many people he’s bringing with him? Twenty! That’s right. He originally intended to bring thirty-six, but when he heard how nervous you were, as a gesture of Christian charity, and at my request, he’s reduced it to twenty. He also says that if more than 200 students show up, he’s going to apply to the Sacred Congregation for the Causes of Saints for certification as a miracle. Just to be a good fellow, he’ll attribute it to some phony Jesuit candidate. Who are you pushing these days, anyhow? No one? I’m overwhelmed by this outburst of humility. All right, Phil. Sleep tight. No one’s going to trash your office tomorrow.”

  Matthew Mahan gave the mayor pretty much the same treatment, only sticking the needle in from a slightly different angle. “I don’t know what you’d do without me to hold this city together, Jake.”

  Matthew Mahan hung up and sighed. Again Dennis sensed a touch of the theatrical. “What a disappointment that fellow has been to me on a personal level. So antagonistic. And he won’t take advice. On anything.”

  With an effort, the Cardinal brightened. “Well, Vinny, are you satisfied?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “Do we still understand each other?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  “Good. What are you going to talk about tomorrow?”

  “Mostly I’m going to attack Nixon. The war. Try to get more students involved in seeing the connection between the war and black poverty.”

  Matthew Mahan sighed again. “I don’t agree with it but - okay. Just remember, no talk about violence. I don’t want to hear even a hint that this city might burn.”

  Father Disalvo nodded glumly. “I got that message the last time, Your Eminence.”

  “I just want to make sure you’ve still got it. Okay, Vinny, good night. The car’s still waiting outside, isn’t it, Dennis?”

  Dennis nodded.

  The Cardinal held out his hand. “Thanks for coming up, amico mio.”

  Father Disalvo trudged into the night. Dennis McLaughlin looked at his watch. It was eleven-thirty. His followers, including Sister Helen Reed, would wait an hour and a half for his return - if they waited. Not exactly the sort of experience that kindles the illusion of charisma. Did His Eminence understand this, too? Dennis wondered. Was his application of the negative nuances of power that sophisticated?

  “Tell me frankly, Dennis, how do you think he feels about the deal we just worked out?”

  Dennis was too surprised by the question to find a diplomatic answer. Perhaps he did not really want to find one. “I think he’s mad as hell.”

  “Really?”

  To Dennis’s amazement, there was dismay, genuine dismay, on Cardinal Mahan’s face.

  “And the money - you just can’t believe the way he handles money. He’s the corporation, you know. He literally owns everything in the archdiocese. Every building, every cent in every bank account. I was looking at this year’s financial report the other day. He takes in about 800,000 a year in his cathedraticum -”

  “His what?”

  “Cathedraticum. It’s a tax of 5 percent the archdiocese levies on each parish. That means that the total take must
be around $40 million. Exclusive of the annual fund drive.”

  “Wow. This is fascinating stuff,” said Leo McLaughlin as he thrust another Bourbon and ginger ale into his brother’s hand.

  You are talking too much, a drowsy voice whispered in Dennis’s skull. But he did not care. He was not talking to Leo and his wife, Grace, although they sat open-mouthed on the couch. No, his audience was the young woman in the pale pink suit with a skirt that stopped at least a foot above her knees. He was talking to the dark hair that fell in a glossy fountain down her back, to the curve of those nylon-stockinged legs so insouciantly crossed, to the breasts that filled the white blouse and created a lovely hollow within which a gold cross rested. If Sister Helen Reed was impressed by the revelations of the Cardinal’s secretary, she did not show it. A Mona Lisa smile was all she deigned to bestow on Father Dennis McLaughlin. So he talked on.

  “When it comes to money, he’s got the instincts and style of a Renaissance prince. I think it’s a reaction to the bad time he had in the depression, when his father lost his life’s savings in a restaurant and had to take a crummy city job. He’s paying me $600 a month. I couldn’t believe it. That’s three times what a curate gets. He just laughed and said I was working three times as hard.”

  “Well, you are,” Grace McLaughlin said.

  “Oh, I suppose so. But I’m getting used to it.”

  “You like it,” said Leo. “You don’t have to think anymore.”

  “Is he going to publish a financial report this year?” asked Sister Helen.

  “Not if he can help it. The chancellor, Terry Malone, who’s to the right of Bismarck, is against it 100 percent. It’s easy for Matt to go along with him. There are figures in the draft report I saw that he wouldn’t like to make public. The cost of running the episcopal residence, for instance: $32,567.80. And something called travel expenses that came to $26,896.50.”

  “And he won’t give us $25,000 for our inner-city project,” Sister Helen said.

  “Careful,” Dennis said. “No revolutionary statements, please. Didn’t I tell you that my head is on the block if you girls try anything drastic? Let Father Disalvo play local radical.”