The Cardinal

by Henry Morton Robinson

  “What news from the miracle mart, Ownie?”

  “A tale of great wonder, Your Excellency. It will make your hair stand up like the porpentines.” Without prologue Owen plunged into his report. Rapidly condensing the Dockery-O’Doul dialogue, he came to his inspection of Father Flynn’s grave.

  “It’s an ordinary single plot with a thin slab of marble for a headstone. Nothing to distinguish it from a thousand other graves—except …”

  “Except what?”

  “Except,” said Owen Starkey, “that a hundred people, mostly cripples of one kind or another, came to kneel around it today. If Dockery’s estimates are correct, there’ll be two hundred tomorrow and two thousand next week.”

  “How are they behaving themselves?”

  “Not very well, I’m sorry to say. They’ve ripped all the sod off the grave and now they’re carrying away little bags of earth.” From his pocket Owen drew a cheesecloth affair somewhat resembling a tea bag, and handed it to his superior.

  Stephen fingered the earth-filled packet. “Whose idea was this?”

  “Dockery’s. He calls it a soil-conservation measure. His point is that everyone gets the same amount of earth, no matter how much money they throw into the tub.”

  “Money?” Stephen sat bolt upright. “Tub?”

  Father Owen struggled for lucidity. “Well, you see, Bishop, people were tossing coins and bills all over the grave, so Joe Dockery put a washtub by the headstone. Not counting the coins, about eighty-five dollars was thrown into it yesterday.”

  “What becomes of this money? Does Mr. Dockery pocket it personally?”

  “No. He realizes that the money isn’t his. He seems to think, though, that it should be spent in building a shrine—like Lourdes or St. Anne de Beaupré.” At the incredulous lift of his Bishop’s eyebrows, Owen Starkey went on. “Something’s got to be done, Your Excellency. The crutches are piling up fast.”

  This piece of information sent Stephen’s eyebrows still higher. If the lame and the halt were discarding crutches, walking away under their own power, the events taking place at Father Flynn’s grave must be viewed in a new light. He fingered the cheesecloth bag thoughtfully. Did the dust of this obscure priest, dead for fifty years, really have miraculous power? Or was the whole affair another example of mass hysteria?

  Stephen’s self-addressed questions were interrupted by the appearance of Amby Cannell in the doorway. The Vicar-General, buffer and liaison officer between the Bishop’s cot and the outer world, removed his meerschaum from its customary station. “The gentlemen of the press are here,” he announced. “A.P. and U.P., complete with photographers. They want a feature story on the ‘Gates of Heaven Miracles.’”

  “I’ll give them features, Amby—bedside features. Bring them in and have a stenographer take down what I say. Free press means free fancy to some of these chaps.”

  The leader of the press delegation, a veteran correspondent named Hotchkiss, made a frank opening. “Bishop Fermoyle,” he began, “miracles are news. This Gates of Heaven business looks like a Grade A miracle—and, you’ll pardon me for saying so—a gold mine. Before things get off on the wrong track, won’t you, as Bishop of Hartfield, make a statement?”

  “The only statement I can make,” said Stephen, “is that I can’t make a statement until every aspect of the Gates of Heaven situation is carefully investigated. Until the findings are sifted, weighed, and interpreted, I must be silent.” Stephen smiled. “I trust, gentlemen, that you will respect that silence.”

  The press spent a glum five seconds. Then a cynical voice spoke up. “That’s fine, Bishop. But who gets the money? There’s going to be boodles of it.”

  Stephen was candid. “By canon law, the bishop has sole responsibility for, and title to, all monies collected in his diocese.”

  They wrote that down. Then the U.P. man piped up. “Grounds Keeper Dockery says there’s going to be a shrine at the Gates of Heaven. He’s given out a story that Father Flynn’s skeleton will be dug up and put in a glass casket.”

  “Mr. Dockery has an active imagination and persuasive powers of speech,” said Stephen. “As a private citizen he may give free rein to both. As grounds keeper of the Gates of Heaven he is not, however, the final voice in diocesan matters.”

  A flash bulb snapped. “No pictures,” said Stephen.

  “Aw, Bishop, what’s the harm in a little picture?”

  Stephen disregarded the plea. “Monsignor Cannell, get that plate,” he said firmly. “I don’t mean to be arbitrary, gentlemen, but this is not a circus. If pictures are needed, my office will give you glossy proofs of the official photograph.”

  “One more question, Bishop Fermoyle.” Hotchkiss was speaking. “What form will your investigation take?”

  “The usual form prescribed by the Church. My assistants will interview persons allegedly cured and take written testimony from them. If miraculous cures are discovered, competent medical authority will pass upon the facts. The process may take some time.”

  Hotchkiss was a ferret for news. “You say it’ll take some time, Bishop. Pending the outcome of your investigation, mightn’t it be wise to close the cemetery?”

  The query was fair enough; Stephen answered it thoughtfully. “If the events taking place at the Gates of Heaven are truly miraculous—if God in His wisdom has bestowed the power of healing on the dust of this obscure priest—I would be guilty of a great sin in opposing His intentions. Not until all the facts have been studied can I risk a decision.”

  “May we quote you on that?”

  “You may. I’m afraid you won’t get it right, and that many of your readers won’t understand. But you may quote me.”

  The reporters filed out. Amby Cannell had barely closed the door behind them when Stephen issued a general directive. “Round up a dozen of the smartest, most active priests in the Diocese,” he ordered. “Get them in here immediately; I’ll brief them myself. We’re going to dig and dig, sift and sift, weigh and weigh, till the facts give us something to go on.”

  Stephen turned to his secretary. “You’re in charge of field operations, Ownie. Your first assignment is to tell Joe Dockery that I shall hold him personally responsible for the maintenance of order and a full accounting of all monies collected at the Gates of Heaven Cemetery.”

  FIFTEEN DAYS after the operation, Dr. John Byrne removed the bandages from Stephen’s leg. Two things were obvious; the long, curving incision showed no signs of infection, and the circumference of the leg was normal. Stephen uttered an aspiration of thanksgiving and gripped the surgeon’s hand. “Physician most worthy!” The neat sutures fascinated him. “What a dressmaker you’d have been!”

  No smile relieved the tension at the corners of John Byrne’s eyes. “It looks fairly clean to me, Steve, but we’re not out of the woods yet. The real test will come when you put your weight on it.”

  “When will that be?”

  “No telling. We’ve got to be sure that the lymphatic processes between skin and muscle are re-established. Meanwhile, immobility, bed rest—and no cheating on either for another two weeks.”

  “Afraid I’ll spoil your case if I get out of bed?”

  Dr. Byrne shook a sober jaw. “The only thing I’m afraid of, Steve, is the danger of infection. You see, the lymphatic system is the body’s chief defense against bacterial invasion. If a single streptococcus gets into that wound, your leg comes off at the groin.”

  “I’ll stay in bed,” promised Stephen.

  Diocesan activities took a bullish turn for the next ten days; Stephen’s hospital room became an executive chamber as heads of departments swarmed in with wire baskets of unfinished business. On his crowded calendar of appointments Stephen made a special place for progress reports brought in daily by Owen Starkey. The Gates of Heaven investigation had taken Owen and his assistants into all parts of the Diocese. By May 15 the list of completed interviews, signed and attested by lay and medical witnesses, numbered well over two hundred.


  Stephen glanced at the mass of papers in Owen Starkey’s brief case. “Pick me out a typical case, Ownie,” he said.

  Father Starkey selected a neatly typewritten sheet from his collection, and handed it to his superior. “Here’s about the way they run, Your Excellency.”

  The document consisted of two parts: a description of the interviewee and a signed affidavit reciting the facts of the case. Stephen read the following:

  Agnes Leenan, widow, age 46, occupation part-time domestic. Type of illness: persistent backache dating from birth of sixth child, 14 years ago. Other ailments: dizziness, spots before eyes, palpitations, ringing in ears, hot flushes [sic], swelling ankles, nightmares, rash on back of hands, distress after eating greasy foods. Subject wept throughout interview, apologized for odor of liquor on breath, quoted “wine for the stomach’s sake,” then offered interviewer bottle beer “for his parch.”

  Résumé of statement made by Mrs. Leenan: has always been a churchgoer, never misses Mass, contributes generously to the support of pastor when there is any money in the house. Special devotions: Rosary and Stations of the Cross. Treated by several physicians without beneficial result. Got some relief from a chiropractor in 1929. First heard of cures at Gates of Heaven five weeks ago. Visited grave of Father Flynn, said Rosary kneeling on grass beside grave, took a small bag of earth home after leaving fifty-cent piece on grave. Felt “airy” for a week; pain in back seemed to decrease. Now wears earth-filled bag around her neck. Says it gives “blessed relief.” Intends to make another visit to cemetery because back pain is gradually returning. Has no doubt that grave has miraculous powers, or that she will ultimately be cured.

  I have read the above and declare it to be a true and accurate statement made by me.

  (Signed) Agnes Leenan

  Attached to the statement was a note on the letterhead of a Hartfield physician. “I have examined Mrs. Agnes Leenan on two occasions in my office and diagnosed her principal ailment as a low back-pain syndrome, probably due to displacement of internal organs.”

  Stephen looked up in wry dismay. “Are they all like this, Ownie?”

  “Pretty much, Your Excellency.”

  “It’s not the stuff that miracles are based on, would you say?”

  Owen Starkey turned optimistic. “There’s one pretty good case here. Harold Trudeau’s the name.” He handed Stephen the paper containing Trudeau’s history. “Infantile paralysis at age of ten. Wore braces and crutches; unable to work for livelihood. Visited grave March 15, threw down crutches, and walked home. Now gainfully employed by the Hart-field Telephone Company.”

  “This is something,” cried Stephen, examining the medical affidavits attached to Trudeau’s statement.

  “I’m glad you think so, Bishop. The man is sober, fairly intelligent, and quite obviously cured. One leg is shorter than the other, but he gets around on it.”

  Stephen curbed his enthusiasm. “He might be a hysteric. …”

  “It’s possible, of course.”

  “Could you bring him in here? I’d like to see the man personally.”

  Harold Trudeau turned out to be a sallowish young man whose simpering diction and gaudy taste in cravats were clear compensations for the orthopedic boot he wore on his right foot. At the Bishop’s invitation he sat down and recited a fairly straightforward story of childhood paralysis and partial atrophy of the lower limbs. During adolescence made painful by his deformity he had worn leg braces, but had discarded them at the age of twenty. Thereafter he had depended wholly on crutches for support and locomotion until the day he visited Father Flynn’s grave.

  “I went to the cemetery to visit my mother’s grave—she died last spring,” said Trudeau. “While there, I saw a number of people kneeling around Father Flynn’s grave. I knelt down, said three Hail Marys, and rubbed a handful of earth onto my knee. When I got up I didn’t need my crutches.”

  “And you haven’t used them since?”

  “That’s right, Bishop. I can even dance now.”

  “Splendid,” said Stephen. “When did you start dancing?”

  The witness flushed. “Well, you see, Bishop, I’ve been kind of crazy about a girl for a long time, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with me, on account of—of my crutches. Soon as I got rid of them, I began to make time with her.”

  “I see.” Stephen tried not to glance at Owen Starkey. “And how are things turning out?”

  “Swell. We’re getting engaged as soon as I can save up enough for a ring.”

  “My congratulations, Mr. Trudeau,” said Stephen. “And thank you very much for coming.”

  When Harold Trudeau had limped out, Stephen fingered a dubious lip. “I wouldn’t call him a convincing peg to hang a miracle on, would you, Ownie?”

  “Scarcely. It was keen of you to pick up that dancing clue.”

  Amby Cannell came in with the latest edition of The Hartfield Item. “Latest communiqué from the miracle front,” he said humorously. Stephen glanced at the front-page photographs of Joe Dockery, showing newsmen the site of the new Gates of Heaven shrine. “Estimated cost to run into six figures” was the caption under the picture.

  “I hate to snap the axle off Joe Dockery’s dream cart,” said Stephen, turning toward his secretary. “But tomorrow morning, Ownie, I want you to go down to the cemetery and tell our enterprising grounds keeper that the show’s been called off. Bid him lock the gates and put up a sign, ‘No miracles till further notice.’”

  NEXT FORENOON (it was a Saturday), Father Owen Starkey battled his way on foot through the disorderly mob swirling about the gates of the cemetery. Overnight, the miracle rush had taken on a carnival aspect. Popcorn vendors cried their wares; at hastily constructed booths one could buy balloons, apples on sticks, gilt rosary beads, conch shells bearing decalcomania likenesses of Father Flynn, and any quantity of holy pictures and hot dogs. Between the entrance pillars, two currents clashed in a fierce tide rip as incoming miracle seekers collided with the outgoing horde that had already visited Father Flynn’s grave. Buffeted by these eddies, Owen Starkey reached the cemetery tool house, arranged his disheveled clothing, and rapped at the Dutch door.

  “Enter without knocking,” cried a voice from within. Father Starkey pushed open the upper half of the door and saw Joe Dockery engaged in the pleasantest of all tasks—the counting of money. His occupation had transformed him: gone was the clay pipe and leather cap. On the grounds keeper’s head a derby was tilted, and a gold-banded cigar jutted not too aromatically from his mouth. Sickles and lawn mowers no longer concerned Mr. Dockery. Metal more attractive dripped from his fists as he scooped double handfuls of silver coins from a washtub and poured them into a burlap bag on the table.

  Proprietary magnificence streamed from his person. He was ducal as he offered Father Starkey a cigar; viceregal as he tied the neck of a money sack with a twist of twine. “It comes in so fast, we bag it raw,” he explained to his visitor. “If this keeps up, I’ll have to hire someone to count it.”

  Owen Starkey let the news fall. “It’s not going to keep up, Joe. The orders are to close the cemetery gates.”

  “Orders?” Dockery started filling another bag with coins. “Whose orders?”

  “Bishop Fermoyle’s.” Father Starkey was trying hard to be firm. “The whole business has gotten out of hand, Joe. You must close the gates at once.”

  Exceeding pelf had made Joe Dockery bold. And jocular. “You’re kidding, Father.”

  “I’m not kidding, Joe. Bishop Fermoyle doubts the authenticity of these cures. …”

  “He can’t doubt the authenticity of this—can he?” Joe pointed to the tubfuls of hard and soft money lying about the premises.

  “The money’s secondary. The important thing is to stop the unseemly brawl going on here.” Father Owen spoke as sharply as his temperament permitted. “Start clearing the grounds; we’re locking the place up.”

  Torn between respect for the clergy and still greater respect f
or cash literally in hand, Joe Dockery temporized. “Orders are orders, Father, but I can’t lock the gates just on your say-so. It’d be like”—he struck a happy smile—“like your telling me to set fire to a barnful of twenty-dollar bills. I’ve got to see the orders in writing, with the Bishop’s signature and seal at the bottom of the paper.”

  “You’re laying yourself open to charges of disobedience, Mr. Dockery.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call it that, Father. Just get some little sign of authority from the Bishop—and click”—Joe made a turnkey motion with his hand—“I’ll lock up the place like that.”

  “You’re risking the wrath,” warned Owen Starkey.

  FIERCE AMAZEMENT gathered like thunderheads in Bishop Fermoyle’s eyes as Father Starkey tried to explain the grounds keeper’s lesè majesté.

  “Do I hear you correctly, Father?” Stephen sat upright in his hospital bed. “Are you trying to tell me that Joe Dockery refused to close the cemetery?”

  “He didn’t actually refuse, Your Excellency. He just wants written confirmation of your order. ‘Some little sign of authority,’ as he said.”

  Anger exploded in Stephen’s voice. “I’ll give him a ‘sign of authority.’” He tossed aside the coverlet, leapt out of bed. “Is there no one who can execute an order in this Diocese? Hand me my crutches, Father. Fetch me my clothes. This man Dockery must be curbed.”

  A much-shaken secretary was rummaging in the closet for his Bishop’s trousers when the wax-lily face of Sister Frances Veronica appeared in the doorway. At the sight of her patient hobbling about on his bandaged leg, she lost her composure for the first time in twenty-three years. “Bishop, Bishop,” she pleaded. “You mustn’t pound about so. Get back into bed. Dr. Byrne will be very angry when I tell him.”