The Good Shepherd

by Thomas Fleming

  For just a moment, Father Novak’s bravado faltered. Perhaps he was facing his highly uncertain future for the first time.

  “What are you going to do - what sort of work?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not going to think about it until I finish my book. Martha - my - wife - is teaching in Lincoln Township.”

  “Is she in complete agreement - about your leaving this way - not waiting to be laicized?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the children - will they be Catholic?”

  “They’ll be people of God.”

  “Well. That means they’ll be good people. We can’t ask for more than that. God bless you, Emil.”

  Novak stood up. “Thank you,” he said. “I - I didn’t want it to end this way but -”

  But, but, but. Matthew Mahan let the word toll in his brain as he watched Novak vanish through the doorway. Life was full of buts and ifs. If Monsignor Paul O’Reilly had not confused his ability to manipulate the tired, bored old man who had the power in this diocese with the power itself, he might still be vicar-general. But he went out of his way to be obnoxious to Monsignor Matthew Mahan, fundraiser extraordinary. If Matthew Mahan had not tried to solve the problem of Monsignor O’Reilly’s hatred diplomatically, by giving him one of the best parishes at his disposal, Emil Novak might still be a priest. Yes, Matthew Mahan told himself mournfully, that was where the failure lay - in his assumption that politics was the answer, when a bishop, a real bishop, would have had the courage to confront the man and say: Your hatred of me will destroy your priesthood. But smoothies didn’t work that way. So now, ten years later, a priesthood has been destroyed, perhaps two.

  Matthew Mahan picked up the microphone of his Stenorette and began dictating.

  “Dear Monsignor O’Reilly, colon.”

  He stopped. What he wanted to say could only be handwritten. Official business could be dictated and typed. But this was not official business. He picked up one of his pens.

  Dear Monsignor O’Reilly,

  I hope you can read my atrocious handwriting. I just saw Father Novak. I wonder if we should both get down on our knees and ask ourselves what we have done. For many, many years, I knew that you hated me. For almost as many years, I returned the hate - which of course we both called dislike - with interest. I confess that more than once I enjoyed the thought of you sitting in your rectory, trying to understand how a lug like me could be presiding at the Archbishop’s house. I should have gone to you a long time ago and said, “I need your help.”

  I cannot speak for you. I don’t know what you could or should have done to prevent or resolve our failure. But I do know that you should never have allowed your hatred to spill over into the life of another priest. Torment me all you want, I probably deserve it. In fact, I am sure, like most enemies, we deserve each other. But why in the name of God did we destroy that young man’s priesthood? I dread having to answer that question someday. I hope you do, too.

  This is not simply a reproach or a confession. I am writing out of deep concern for the other young priest in your house, Father Cannon. Please give me your assurance without delay that you will exercise restraint and charity in any disagreement that arises between you and him.

  Sincerely yours in Christ,

  Matthew Mahan

  He put the letter in an envelope, addressed it to Monsignor O’Reilly, sealed it, and put it in his outbox. For a moment, he debated asking Dennis to read it. Was the smoothie, in his blundering and much too late lunge for sainthood, making a fool of himself? It was impossible to know. Showing a letter like that to anyone could only look like grandstanding. That was one vice that his father, God bless his surly old soul, eradicated early.

  Matthew Mahan could still see, feel, the day. A scorcher in July. He was in the seventh or eighth grade, pitching for the neighborhood sandlot team. After striking out nine in a row in the sixth, seventh, and eighth innings, he had called in the outfield and struck out the last three batters on ten pitches. As they trudged up the steps to the railroad bridge above the field where they played, he saw his father leaning on the sooty iron fence, watching them. That night at dinner, he had learned about grandstanding. What are you saying when you pull a stunt like that? You don’t need the other eight guys. Just leave it to Mighty Matthew. It’s bad enough that the guys you beat that way will hate your guts. But your own guys wind up feeling the same way.

  The next day, the vicar-general reported that the Archdiocesan Association of Priests would almost certainly pass a resolution calling for a full and complete report on the archdiocese’s finances at their meeting this weekend. There was even talk by some more militant members of a motion to demand the Cardinal’s appearance to give them an explanation of his policies in person. In other words, to defend himself against the accusations of Leo the Great. Vicar-General Petrie thought there was not much chance of this resolution passing. “But anything is possible these days,” he added with a sigh.

  In the past, Cardinal Mahan would have testily told his vicar to make sure neither motion passed. The extralegal Association of Priests and the archdiocese’s Priest’s Senate had been handily controlled by groups of loyalists, with whom George Petrie kept in constant close contact. But the Cardinal could sense in the vicar’s helplessness a certain satisfaction, an implied whisper of I told you so.

  This news led to another wrestle with an even more recalcitrant Chancellor Malone. Matthew Mahan decided the best possible response to the priests was the prompt publication of a full, honest financial report. The chancellor was appalled, dubious, sullen, as the Cardinal parried, evaded, and finally dismissed with regret his contrary arguments. “When can I get it, Terry?” Matthew Mahan asked.

  “I have no idea,” said the chancellor. “It’s certainly not something we should rush into. I’ll have to talk it over with our accountants. I’ll check with the people in New York to see what they’re issuing this year.”

  Matthew Mahan’s hopes drooped. “There’s no possibility of getting something out in a week or ten days?”

  “Not unless you want to put us in jail.”

  When Matthew Mahan tried to reduce this exaggeration to reality, he got buried in an hour of technical terms. There were, it seems, thirty-two different “generally accepted accounting principles” - all of them so general that they often contradicted each other. Should they use “flow through” or “comprehensive” procedures? The Accounting Principles Board of the American Institute of Certified Public Accountants recently frowned on flow through, but the archdiocese’s accountants still favored it. Then there was the new “costing” approach recently developed by a Big Eight accounting firm that had enabled one university to increase its government grants by 20 percent. Should they use that to state the costs of their parochial schools? If the state legislature passed the private school aid bill, it might make the difference between millions gained and lost. But stating the costs at their ultimate might panic pastors and parents, if no state aid was forthcoming. Then there were a number of bequests recently received by the archdiocese. Among these were stock in a chain of nightclubs, a herd of beef cattle, and a half-dozen oil wells in Oklahoma. They were all in the process of being sold, as canon law required. But stating their value before the sale was a complex matter. There was a question about the wisdom of selling the oil wells too hastily. The new federal tax law might permit some very juicy deductions from their income if they were held for a year, a latitude certainly permitted by canon law.

  There was the hint of a grim smile on the chancellor’s lips as he finally departed, promising the Cardinal that a report would be prepared with “all reasonable speed.” By now, Matthew Mahan realized he would be lucky to see a first draft in September.

  The next day, the vicar-general was back with news of two young curates who were asking for laicization. Almost too casually, he remarked that they had said Leo the Great’s articles were part of the reason for their making this negative decision. Petrie also reported
that Monsignor O’Reilly was attempting to organize the older suburban pastors, to force a vote at the next meeting of their deanery, asking the Cardinal to repudiate Leo’s allegations about his birth control beliefs with a ringing affirmation of Humanae Vitae. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they form one of those conservative pressure groups, like that Midwest outfit, Te Deum,” the vicar-general said.

  Later that day came Mike Furia and Chancellor Malone to hold a wake for the fund drive. An interim report now estimated they would fall short of their goal by $2,500,000. It was especially disappointing to find out that contributions had declined during the past week, in spite of the extensive news coverage of His Eminence’s triumphs in Rome.

  “That hurts the old ego,” Matthew Mahan said, silently adding: What you needed, what you needed.

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with a decline in your personal popularity, Matt,” said Mike Furia soothingly. “Terry here’s been telling us the day of personal fund-raising by amateurs is just about over. It looks like he’s right. You’ll have to rely on professionals, or tested techniques, from now on.”

  “Maybe the answer is really psychological,” Matthew Mahan mused. “What does the average guy think when he sees his Archbishop deplaning from his personal jet, being toasted and dinnered at the best hotels in Rome, marching up St. Peter’s aisle in gold vestments? Maybe he thinks about the trouble he has meeting his mortgage and decides we can get along without his $100 this year.”

  Terry Malone grumbled something about the importance of keeping up appearances. He obviously thought that the Cardinal was losing his grip. Morosely, he pointed out that their poverty solved at least one problem. There was no longer any need to debate building three new churches and three new parochial schools in the suburbs. That idea was kaput indefinitely.

  “At least I can look like a statesman to the National Association of Laymen,” Matthew Mahan said. “Who knows, I may even get a few lines of praise in the National Catholic Reporter.”

  “I hope not,” growled the chancellor.

  “Do me a favor, will you, Terry? Run a financial study of what the parochial schools will be costing us by 1976? Based on reasonable estimates of rising teachers’ salaries, costs, that sort of thing.”

  The chancellor gave him a very suspicious look, but he glumly promised to get to work on it. “I bet it will knock your head off,” Mike Furia said.

  Mike lingered for a few minutes after Terry Malone departed. He wanted to tell Matthew Mahan that he was leaving for a six-to eight-week trip around the world to check out his overseas companies. Mike had not resigned as chairman of the Cardinal’s Fund, but this trip, while the fund was sagging so badly, was the nearest thing to it. Although Matthew Mahan had asked for his resignation, he still felt like his old friend was deserting him. Get used to it, a voice whispered to him.

  But Mike was absorbed in his own problems. “I thought you’d like to know - I’m getting a divorce. My wife can’t believe it. The Animal is finally standing on his hind legs and fighting back.”

  The bitterness in these words pained Matthew Mahan. “Mike,” he said, “try to bring some charity, some understanding -”

  “Charity I’m trying. I’m giving her $5 million in company stock.”

  “I mean charity - from the heart, Mike.”

  “I haven’t got it, Matt. Not for her.”

  “All right. All right. We all have to do the best we can. At least you’re not looking for revenge. I hope you get married again - soon.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’ve got someone in mind.”

  “Do I know her?”

  “Yeah. But since I haven’t asked her, I’m not going to tell you her name. It’s probably a pipe dream anyway. By the time I get back from this trip, she’ll have forgotten my name - like my wife used to do.”

  “I hope not, Mike. I mean it. Have a good trip. I’ll be praying for you whether you like it or not.”

  No comment, only a brief smile from Mike. They shook hands, and he was gone.

  A call from Father Philip Reagan, president of St. Francis Xavier University. “Your Eminence, I feel I should tell you this personally. We’ve been forced to discontinue your nephew’s scholarship.”

  “Why?”

  “Well - the Student Council demanded an explanation of why he had one. These articles on the archdiocese’s finances in that underground newspaper - all the kids have read them, Your Eminence. It was common knowledge - although I only heard about it this morning - that Timmy’s marks were atrocious and half the time he’s on drugs. There’s no - adequate explanation for him having a scholarship.”

  “I trust he can finish the term.”

  “Yes - of course. As for him returning next fall, I don’t think he can do it without repeating a number of courses this summer.”

  “Why was this situation allowed to develop without anyone even bothering to tell me about it? I’m not talking about the scholarship now. I’m the nearest thing the boy has to a father. You knew that as well as anyone. Do you people run schools anymore? Lately, I get the impression that they’re running you.”

  “We’re doing the best we can,” Father Reagan said in a strangled voice. “I think Your Eminence should know that Timmy is not exactly one of your admirers. Rather the contrary. He supplied a lot of material for those vicious articles on you.”

  “I hope you have evidence for that statement.”

  “I can’t produce witnesses, Your Eminence, but we do have a rather effective intelligence system set up out here to help us anticipate crises. Some of the people working for us know Timmy very well. I could arrange to have you talk with the priest who’s running it.”

  “No. I’ll take your word for it,” Matthew Mahan said, hearing and hating the defeat in his voice.

  He called his sister-in-law to tell her the bad news. Predictably, she began to weep. He murmured soothing phrases into the phone until she calmed down. Then he told her more bad news. He was being forced to cancel her charge accounts. Perhaps she had heard about the series of articles accusing him-? No, of course not. She had heard nothing. The whole thing was incomprehensible to her. He told her not to panic. He would ask Mike Furia to raise her salary. But she would have to learn to manage money better. Cash would have to stop slipping through her fingers. “I’ll try, Matt, I’ll try,” she promised. “But I just think it’s terrible that anyone should attack you. . . .”

  He agreed, no question about it, it was terrible that anyone should attack such a paragon of sanctity as Matthew Mahan. He hung up and stared out the window at the vanishing sunlight. It was almost six o’clock. Except for twenty minutes at lunch, he had been behind this desk all day. Dennis McLaughlin appeared in the doorway to his office. “Why don’t you take a nap before dinner, Your Eminence?” he said.

  “What’s this Eminence stuff from you? Didn’t I tell you to call me Father?”

  “I’m sorry - everyone else -”

  “I can’t do anything about the rest of them. But I’ve got you right under my thumb. It’s Father or else.”

  “Or else you won’t take a nap?” Dennis said with a smile.

  For a few moments, Matthew Mahan felt almost good. A month ago, even a week ago, he and Dennis couldn’t have talked this way. Dennis would have retreated, hurt, confused by the apparent rebuke. Did it mean anything? Was it worth it? Worth the loss of respect and loyalty it might cost him - in fact, was already costing him - in his chancery office, worth the possible wreck of his authority as bishop? Yes, he thought. Let the ninety-nine stay on the hills.

  “All right. All right. I’ll take a nap. For a man who’s supposed to be an authoritarian, I spend an awful lot of my time around here taking orders.”

  Two weeks later, Matthew Mahan awoke at 3:00 a.m. He braced himself for a bout of pain, but his stomach was remarkably tranquil. Bill Reed had hauled him into his office a week ago and given him a very hard time about obeying his doctor’s orders, staying on his diet, getting more r
est, etc., etc. It was the worst tongue-lashing he’d received since the last time old Hogan summoned him to his sanctum to teach him humility. He had humbly confessed his faults and adhered scrupulously to his diet. So Brother Pain was keeping his distance. That was not why you were awake, Your Eminence, he told himself. No, he knew exactly why he was staring into the darkness, now. That call from Colin McGuiness, the episcopal vicar of the inner city, warning him that tomorrow’s meeting of the inner-city deanery was going to be anything but pleasant.

  The archdiocese was divided into a half-dozen deaneries, each governed by an episcopal vicar. Presiding at their meetings, held twice a year, had always been one of Matthew Mahan’s more pleasant chores. Many Archbishops sent auxiliary bishops to represent them, but he felt the meetings were an excellent opportunity to keep in touch with his priests. He had always tried hard to find an interesting speaker, sometimes a priest, sometimes a layman, for each meeting, and attendance was usually good.

  Father McGuiness had begun by remarking wryly that the attendance at tomorrow’s meeting was likely to be almost too good. Many young inner-city priests had been deeply disturbed by Leo McLaughlin’s articles. Father Vincent Disalvo was exploiting this disturbance with vengeful skill. There was almost certain to be a demand for the publication of an archdiocesan financial report. There might be even more ugly questions about His Eminence’s personal finances. Vicar McGuiness’s voice had trembled as he transmitted this warning. He obviously expected a blast of preliminary episcopal wrath. Matthew Mahan could almost hear Colin’s relief when he simply thanked him for the call and told him not to lose any sleep about it.

  It was 5:00 a.m. before he took his own advice, and even then he only slipped into a kind of waking doze full of disconnected, vaguely threatening images - Mary Shea weeping in Rome, Davey Cronin’s anguished face crying out wordlessly - until his alarm went off at six. He felt half drugged with weariness as he and Dennis plodded through the morning mail.