The Good Shepherd

by Thomas Fleming

  Still no sleep. Only these baffling words revolving through his tormented body. Gradually, Dennis concluded that the night flight to Europe was one of the most exquisite forms of torture devised by modern man. The Inquisition was mercy in comparison to it. Another two hours, and he would confess to any sin.

  In the first-class compartment, Matthew Mahan was reminiscing with Mike Furia about their first trip to Europe. “Did you ever think that we’d be going back this way, Matt?” Mike asked. “I sure as hell never did. But I bet you did. I can remember watching you in action on the troop ship and saying to myself, ‘That guy will be a bishop someday.’”

  “Oh, come on. I was so green and so seasick I didn’t know what I was doing half the time.”

  “You took charge. That’s what a bishop does, right?”

  “To be honest, Mike, I never dreamt of being a bishop. I didn’t think I had enough brains. I was pretty much convinced that the Lord intended me to get shot somewhere in Europe. That’s all big lugs like me - and you, for that matter - seemed to be good for then. And after our first day under fire, I was absolutely convinced I was going to get killed.”

  “You and me both.”

  Mike Furia brooded into a silver cup half full of Bourbon. “So here we are,” he said. “We didn’t get our heads blown off like we thought we would. Here we are, twenty-five years later, and when I ask myself why, what difference it made, I don’t have an answer.”

  “Now, Mike,” Matthew Mahan said. “It’s 4:00 a.m. Remember what I told you about 4:00 a.m. thinking?”

  “I know, I know. You told me. But you didn’t necessarily convince me.”

  “You put together a big business, Mike. You gave jobs to thousands of people. Good jobs, and you treat them fair and square.”

  “Three cheers,” said Mike, pouring himself another hefty belt of Bourbon. “I just happened to find out that’s the best way to do business. But that doesn’t give you the kind of satisfaction I’m talking about. Nobody in the company really gives a damn about Mike Furia. He’s a good meal ticket, that’s all. That goes for my brothers, my nephews, my cousins. I’m talking about the people who mean something to a paisan like me. You’re half Italian. You know what I mean. A man without a wife, a father without a son. What the hell is he? In ten, twenty years, I’ll be dead. The rest of the clowns in the family will either sell out or run the company into the ground.”

  “Mike, isn’t there any hope that Betty will calm down and help you and Tony get back together one of these days?”

  The contempt on Furia’s face suddenly made Matthew Mahan wonder if he knew the real story of why the Furias’ marriage had collapsed. Was it simply Betty Furia’s resentment over her husband’s constant traveling - and her fear of flying? Did marriages break up over such things?

  “She’s never going to let that happen, Matt. That’s her revenge - making sure my son hates his old man’s guts.”

  Another belt of Bourbon, and the expression on Mike Furia’s face was almost menacing. “What’s the answer? You got one, Padre?”

  “Prayer, Mike. Nothing else but prayer.”

  Mike slumped back in his seat and shook his head. “Padre, you’ve got more faith - a hell of a lot more - than I have if you can say that and mean it.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mike. You’ve got faith all right. I’ll do the praying for both of us.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Down another note, from grudging assent to unconvinced agreement. How often you have heard that in recent months, Matthew Mahan thought.

  “Mike. You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow afternoon when you get a couple hours sleep. Look, there’s the sun coming up.”

  Ahead of them, the horizon was a rim of fire. Racing toward the dawn at 600 miles an hour, they never really saw the sun rise in traditional, multicolored majesty. Within an hour, they were winging through mid-morning brightness, and the stewardesses were passing out hot washcloths to give the sleepless travelers an illusion of refreshment. A light breakfast came next and then the pilot was saying, “In a few minutes we’ll be landing at Rome’s Fiumicino Airport. The temperature on the ground is a cool 58 degrees. Light rain and some fog have lowered visibility to about a half mile. I regret to inform you that there has been a wildcat strike of porters and baggage handlers. I’m afraid it will mean some pretty annoying delays. . . .”

  How right he was. They sat in a leaden stupor in the three-story glass terminal building, inhaling acrid fumes caused by the radiant heat pipes just below the rubber floor. Mike Furia sat between Dennis McLaughlin and Davey Cronin, giving them a lecture on the history of the terminal building and the airport, which Matthew Mahan found very unpleasant listening. “They paid $21 million for this hunk of marshland that they knew was fogged in half the time. Why? It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that the land was owned by the Torlonia family, very big in the Vatican. Oh no. The runways were built by Manfredi Construction, and Castelli Construction put up the hangars. Guess who owns both of them? The Vatican. Provera e Carassi, another Vatican outfit, bid 5.12 million to build this abortion of a terminal. We bid against them, and we knew they had to be lying. A year later they went back and got another 4.38 million from the government to finish the job. And what have they got? An airport where big cracks appear in the runways every year or two. The whole damn place is built on shifting sand. A terminal that stinks, literally, because of this stupid rubber floor.”

  A small, slim priest of about forty approached them and introduced himself. He was Monsignor Roberto Gambino from the Vatican. He mopped his neck with a handkerchief, polished his silver-rimmed Pius XII glasses, and lamented the baggage situation in mournful, surprisingly good English. “Sometimes I think it is the capitalist system,” he said. “Italy is losing faith in it. There is no way to win rewards within it except by violence. It is turning us into a nation of sadists.”

  “Watch your step, Monsignor,” Mike Furia snapped. “You’re surrounded by American capitalists here.”

  “Oh yes?” said the Monsignor, blinking nervously.

  “You know what I’ve got here in my pocket?” Furia said. “$10 million. To expand the Italian branch of my company. This sort of thing inclines me to drop the whole idea of doing business with you people. And I’m Italian. How do you think it affects other American businessmen?”

  “Perhaps it would be better to give the money to the missions,” said Monsignor Gambino with a nervous smile.

  Was he joking? Matthew Mahan wondered. It was impossible to tell. Before Mike Furia could start shouting, the Cardinal decided to take charge of the situation. “Let’s go get our own baggage,” he said, standing up.

  “I’m with you,” Mike said.

  “Round up a squad, Sergeant.”

  With a nod and a grin, Mike strode among their slumped pilgrims and soon had a dozen of them, including Dennis McLaughlin and Timmy Mahan, waiting for orders.

  “I assure you, Your Eminence, it is utterly impossible,” murmured Monsignor Gambino.

  “The hell it is,” said Matthew Mahan. “Where’s the Bank of the Holy Spirit?”

  In a few moments, he was cashing a traveler’s check at the airport branch of the Banco Santo Spirito. He strode resolutely to the baggage section of the terminal, with Monsignor Gambino panting sweatily beside him, assuring him again and again that it was impossible. They marched through a door leading to the runways and were challenged by a security guard wearing a gun. Monsignor Gambino began explaining to him in Italian what these crazy Americans wanted. Not knowing that Matthew Mahan and Mike Furia spoke the language, Monsignor threw in several uncomplimentary comments. The remark about capitalism was obviously not an accident.

  Even though the priest in black beside him was a neo porporato (new Cardinal), Monsignor Gambino said, he had no right to interfere with the struggle of Italian workers for a just wage. These americani presimtuosi (arrogant Americans) must learn that they do not own the world simply because they have money. He ho
ped that the guard would not succumb to their dishonorable way of doing things.

  “Excuse me, Monsignor,” said Matthew Mahan in Italian. “I think you had better let me talk to this gentleman.”

  Monsignor Gambino’s mouth sagged. He began to stammer an explanation. He was afraid that the press would hear about His Eminence’s refusal to honor the rights of strikers and pillory him.

  “Monsignor,” said Matthew Mahan, “I think the best thing for you to do is take a taxi back to the Vatican, explain that you have become ill, and send a replacement to meet us at our hotel.”

  Matthew Mahan turned to the guard. With a broad smile on his face he said in Italian: “My mother was born in Rome, so that makes me part Roman. Where are you from?”

  With a nervous smile, the guard admitted that he, too, was a Roman.

  “Isn’t there an old saying that when two Romans argue there is always a solution - unless they happen to be enemies? Now surely, we are not enemies. That would be impossible because every Roman is my friend today. I have come here from the United States to salute the people of Rome and embrace their father, Pope Paul. You are about to give me the greatest honor of my life, a Cardinal’s red hat. If I offer you money, it is not a bribe. It is a gift from a full heart.”

  He put a 10,000-lira note - $16 - into the guard’s hand. “I’m at your service, Eminence,” he said. “What do you wish me to do?”

  Within sixty seconds, Mike Furia was at the wheel of one baggage truck after giving Matthew Mahan a rapid lesson in how to start one parked beside it. Timmy, Dennis, and the other volunteer baggage unloaders scrambled aboard and they headed for their planes, which were, fortunately, parked close to the terminal, their crews still aboard waiting for orders. There was no problem persuading the pilots to open the baggage hatches. Working furiously, the volunteers soon had both trucks piled high with suitcases. Two more quick trips and the big metal bellies were empty. By this time, all 250 of their pilgrims were down in the baggage area, eagerly grabbing their luggage and piling it on rolling carts. As the last pieces departed for the buses, Matthew Mahan casually slipped another 10,000-lira note into the security guard’s hand and murmured, “God bless you,” in Italian.

  By the time they reached the Hotel Hassler in Rome, it was 1:00 p.m. Matthew Mahan felt exhausted, and he was not surprised to discover alarming pains in his stomach. But he insisted on waiting in the lobby until everyone was checked into their rooms. This took another hour. Dennis McLaughlin, who looked equally weary, stayed beside him and did his best to expedite occasional tangles over missing luggage or Italian confusion over the spelling of Irish-American names. Mika Furia also stayed on the job, performing similar services. Finally, they felt free to stagger to the elevator and down the hall to their fifth-floor rooms. “I hope you don’t mind bunking with Bishop Cronin, Dennis,” Matthew Mahan said.

  “I hope he sleeps a little more than he did on the plane.”

  In the early hour of the morning, the bishop had entertained the pilgrims with some thirty-six verses of “The Some Old Shilelagh My Father Brought from Ireland.”

  “Oh, he will. He will,” Matthew Mahan assured him with a chuckle.

  Mike Furia stopped opposite his room, about halfway down the hall. “What’s the program?” he said, “Three hours of sleep and then tie on the feedbag?”

  “That sounds sensible,” Matthew Mahan said, “but I’m afraid I can’t join you tonight. I’ve got a date with a lady friend.”

  “Wow! A real Roman operator.”

  “Mary Shea. Do you remember her?”

  “Sure. I thought she lived in Venice.”

  “She’s lived here for years. I promised her we’d have dinner together my first night -”

  Matthew Mahan had thought that by being frank he would escape possible embarrassment. But he still felt strange. Or was it Dennis McLaughlin and Mike Furia who were feeling (or thinking) strangely and letting him know it with the expressions on their faces?

  “I’m afraid she still thinks of me as her spiritual adviser. Though I don’t think I ever gave her a word of good advice.”

  Mike Furia nodded. “We’ll have a nightcap, maybe. I’ll tag along with Dennis here and old Davey, like a good little celibate.”

  When Mike’s door was safely shut, Matthew Mahan said quietly to Dennis, “He’s upset about his son, the poor fellow. I can’t say I blame him.”

  “He ought to get divorced,” Dennis said as they walked down the hall. “As long as he goes on letting his wife ruin his son’s opinion of him, he’s going to be miserable.”

  “Is she really doing that?”

  “Haven’t you ever talked to him about it?”

  “I’m afraid not, really. I tried to help - when they were separated. Lately, all I’ve heard about is Tony.”

  “Tony didn’t get to be what he is by accident. My brother Leo knows him pretty well. His mother is the nearest thing you can get to a monster.”

  His weariness made it difficult for Matthew Mahan to control his feelings. For a moment, all he knew was a great confused shame. And you call yourself a priest? mocked a voice in his mind.

  He paused at the door of his room. “Let’s see, you’re right across the hall, Dennis.”

  “I’m afraid the porter has my bags on your truck,” Dennis said.

  “Oh. Come in then, come in.”

  He walked into the suite followed by Dennis. On the dresser was a huge spray of red roses with a large white envelope tucked among them. He ripped open the envelope and read: To the best Cardinal they’ve found yet. With much love, Mary.

  Dennis McLaughlin, bags in hand, was looking curiously at the roses. “From Mary Shea,” Matthew Mahan said. “This really looks suspicious, doesn’t it?”

  As usual, his attempts at humor made no impression on Dennis. “Someday I’ll tell you more about her. It’s a rather amazing story.” He gave the porter a 1,000-lira note and waved him out the door. “Let’s get some sleep,” he said. “If you go out tonight, do your best to slow old Davey down. He’s got a heart condition - which he consistently ignores.”

  Dennis McLaughlin nodded and lugged his bags into the hall, closing the door behind him. Matthew Mahan gulped down a handful of Titrilac tablets to quiet his complaining stomach, turned on the water in the bathtub, and stripped off his clothes. He plunged himself into the hottest bath water he could endure, and lay there for ten minutes, with a washcloth draped over his face. By the time he finished shaving, he felt almost human. Stepping into clean pajamas, he threw himself down on the bed and lay there, thinking about himself, his mother, Rome.

  He remembered the first time he had come to this supposedly Eternal City, leading a group of pilgrims for the Holy Year in 1950. He had been filled with awe, vibrant with deep emotion. He was finally visiting his mother’s city, the place where his priesthood had been born. It was his mother who had created - but never forced - his vocation, who told him on her deathbed, gasping for the breath that her failing heart had long denied her, “Someday you will go to Rome a bishop. That will be my first task in Heaven. When you do, think of me, pray for me at the Church of St. Peter in Chains. It was our family church. There - I received - my First Communion - only a week before we sailed to America.” He had visited the church on that first trip to Rome, and on the second trip, the second visit to St. Peter in Chains, a visit that still seemed half dream, half miracle.

  But now, after ten years as a bishop, something had happened to these old feelings. Throughout these ten years, he realized now, he had been moving slowly away from his mother, from her excitable, voluble ways, even from her fanatic devotion to all things Italian. She had become like the statue of a saint on the side altar of a cathedral, revered, but with a distant, almost automatic piety. More and more, he sensed his spirit turning to that stolid, silent man, who never said a word of approval - or of disapproval - about his priesthood. Only the cryptic sentence If you know what you’re doing, I’m for it; everybody’s got to live his
own life.

  The memory blended uneasily with the memory of his father dying stoically of cancer of the stomach, with never a sign of fear - or of faith. No, Bart Mahan had perfunctorily accepted the Host that his son had placed on his tongue each time he had visited the hospital. There was never even a hint that he prayed. Only silence, broken by small talk about baseball, city politics. More than once at that time, and in the intervening years, Matthew Mahan had puzzled over the mystery of that mortal silence. But he had always thrust it from his mind. A wordless threat lived inside it, somehow. But today, for some reason he did not completely grasp, he said a prayer. O Lord, help me to understand.

  What was there about his father that attracted his mind, his spirit, now? The calm, almost emotionless way that he accepted disappointment? He had lost the savings of his lifetime when the restaurant failed. But he never showed a tremor of regret of bitterness. He had accepted his job in the Parks Department and gone to work for the local Democrats, indifferent to their colossal corruption.

  You could certainly use some of that calm. Too much of your mother’s violent emotionalism has always been surging around inside you, controlled only with enormous effort and, to quote Bill Reed, at the expense of your stomach.