“That’s why I’m here, Red. To try to make it hurt a little less.”
“That was some note she left, wasn’t it? You know, it’s been a running gag with some of my friends and me. I think it was Suzy who complained that my generation of women had no role models outside of Eleanor Roosevelt, and God, who could be Eleanor Roosevelt?”
“You’d sort of need an FDR, I guess.”
“With or without him, that was one hell of a woman. My God, in all the movies, the only way a woman succeeded was to land the guy. If she was an ambitious businesswoman, at the end she had to capitulate, choose between the whole world and some stupid guy. You know, when we were kids, Patsy and I, we loved Amelia Earhart. You know the joke Suzy and I had? We loved Amelia Earhart, and look what happened to her. She disappeared!”
“You’re here. Suzy’s doing what she wants. Other women are out there, babe. They’re beginning to reach out. You’re at the very beginning of something very important.”
“But it was too late for Patsy.”
“Think about it, Megan. She didn’t really expect any concrete help from you. She just wanted to touch base with the kid she was a long time ago. She wanted to go out with that kind of bravado. Instead of sleeping pills, I guess. There was nothing you could have done for her but what you did. Spend an hour or so talking, listening. Remembering.”
Megan turned around in his arms, distraught. “But I should have caught it. I should have …”
Mike put his finger on her lips. “Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Redhead, your little pal Patsy died a long time ago. A ground-down, middle-aged stranger came to see you to catch some memory. Not reality. She lived her own reality for a long time, none of it to do with you.”
“So why do I feel the loss so strongly? Why do I feel like I’d almost found Patsy again, and then lost her, twice? Why should I believe you?”
“Because I’ve had a very damn good teacher for a long time, Red. And because I’m the ‘story man’ and I like to spend my life making everything come out all right. That’s my job, kid. So you let me at it, okay?”
Mike held her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
AFTER A SHORT STAY AT THE VATICAN, where Eugene learned he still had both friends and enemies, he was assigned to the Archdiocese of New York to work as an assistant to “the boss,” the cardinal who ruled New York politics from the gothic residence next to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. It was known as the Powerhouse for good reason: the Boss had enjoyed unprecedented national influence for decades.
In Rome, Gene was informed of his elevation to bishop. He met privately with the aging, unlikely Pope, John XXIII. They spoke in comfortably colloquial Italian, and Gene was immediately aware of the intelligence and sharpness beneath the grandfatherly image. The press of the world relished the public sweetness of the man; the hard, shrewd residents of the Vatican had underestimated him completely on the same account. They had thought he wouldn’t live for more than a year or so following his election, at age seventy-seven. His very election was, in fact, a tactic intended to give the various factions more time for deliberation before selecting a Pope they really wanted.
Gene was surprised that the Pontiff knew so much about him. He had read transcripts of Gene’s television and radio talks. He studied Gene carefully and spoke knowledgeably about his past. He asked, quietly, where Gene had been happiest during his priesthood.
Without hesitation, Gene responded. “At the Gabon colony, with the lepers and the sisters and the doctors. It was where I felt my vocation most strongly.”
The Pope smiled. He was pleased with the answer. “Yes,” he told Gene, “to be among God’s own people. To be part of their daily lives. My own happiest days were as a parish priest.” He looked around the vast office, at the sumptuous surroundings, and shrugged. It was a peasant’s gesture, honest, instinctive. “And look where we are now, we two. God’s will. We cannot question it, can we, my son? Although”—he smiled the reconciled smile of an old man—“we have our memories. But we must serve where we serve God best.”
Gene felt a chill. It was the Pontiff’s way of preparing him for his next assignment. It was a warning that Gene must serve in a capacity best suited for the needs of the Church. As an individual, he did not matter.
After his meeting with the Pope, Gene was escorted to the office of Cardinal Capanari, who had long watched over Gene’s career with pleasure and a sense of pride. He had known Gene from his early days at the Vatican, followed his sojourn in Africa, and watched, amazed, his success as a fundraiser and television star in Los Angeles.
“In New York you will be close to your family. Surely that should please you, Gene. A bishop, at your age.”
Gene stiffened. “My family is one part of my life. They will always be close to me, regardless of where I serve. But, Eminence, you and I both know that I cannot successfully serve the Eminent Cardinal of New York, who sees himself as the American Pope.”
It was safe to speak this way to Cardinal Capanari. Under both Pius XII and Paul VI, he had quietly but firmly made known his opposition to the New York cardinal.
“Eugene, my son, there are reasons. The most basic is the one I have already discussed with you. He is, after all, the head of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith. You are not the only one who has complained about the misuse of Society monies for personal pleasure. You will be right there. You will be, so to speak, the keeper of the books. You could hardly effect such close guard from Los Angeles.”
“You think I’ll have anything to say about the distribution of the monies?”
“I think you will be in a position to oversee things. But, Gene, there is a more important reason. We, who love and respect you, want you in place. After all, the cardinal, I though he believes himself indestructible, will not live forever. And you know that he fell out of favor with Paul over the Vietnam War. Good heavens, Communist, Communist, Communist. You Americans are obsessed with the very word; we, here in Italy, manage to live side by side with our Communist children. But more than that—the cardinal has been steadily losing his power. He is no longer the political force he once was. He controlled the Church in America for so long. He once shaped the political life of New York City, sometimes by a single telephone call. But now, well, he is slipping away, isn’t he? You know how the Pontiff feels; for all his great compassion and forgiveness, he doesn’t really forget the past. Your New York cardinal called him, out loud, in many places, ‘a mere peasant.’ He has ridiculed and demeaned the Pontiff. He is no longer welcome here, where once he had such power. His followers at the Vatican, politicians all, have pulled back. When power begins to slip away, wise men fade and change sides.”
“But his probable successor is already in place, Eminence. I have no ambition in that direction.”
“His heir apparent is a fine man. An ambitious man and a very different man from His Eminence. But what is not generally known is that he is also an ill man. It will be a matter of time, Eugene. Years, yes, but what are years when measured in terms of the life of the Church? Your cardinal will be succeeded by his chosen man, who will serve for a few years, as his health permits. And he will need a protégé, who knows all there is to know about the needs of the New York Archdiocese. Gene, one day it will be given to you.”
Gene O’Brien felt a chill throughout his body. For a moment he heard a soft whisking sound, a suspension of time. He hadn’t experienced anything like it since his childhood. A warning, a premonition of a grand-mal seizure. The cardinal was alarmed at the sudden stiffening and pallor that came over his protégé.
“Eugene, what is it? Shall I send for a physician?”
Without waiting for an answer, the cardinal picked up the phone, and within minutes a Vatican physician was at Gene’s side. Very carefully the doctor asked the cardinal to wait outside.
“So,” the physician said, carefully monitoring his patient. “And when was the last time you had the grand mal?”
Gene shook his head. “Years ago, when I was a child of
ten or eleven. It isn’t going to happen, Doctor, it was just … sometimes, very rarely, I feel just on the verge. It has never progressed beyond a momentary dizziness, vertigo, nausea. It is under control now, I assure you.”
“Yes. I believe you, Bishop O’Brien. I shall prescribe something to help you sleep. You are, I think, exhausted. It is stressful, all this traveling and the tensions here at the Vatican. I understand you have seen the Holy Father. He is a lovely man, isn’t he?”
“Yes. A lovely man. Doctor, no sleep medication, please. And … what you and I have discussed … the grand mal …”
“Is between the doctor and his patient, as between myself and my confessor. I have been at the Vatican a long time, Bishop. A very long time.”
He told the cardinal that the bishop needed a light supper and a quiet time to sleep. He was suffering from exhaustion. Period.
Gene lay motionless on the hard, narrow bed in the celllike room he had requested. The only furnishings were bare essentials. He stared at the plain crucifix on one wall, below which was a prie-dieu. He could not distract himself with anything: he had to confront the truth.
When he had spoken with the Pontiff, he had seen beyond the soft, pleasant folds of a rather undisciplined man. The friendly eyes, which had spent a lifetime searching for the way to serve the Mother Church and God, were shrewd and clever beyond their innocence and kindness. Upon election, the man had become the Pontiff, the direct descendant of Saint Peter, chosen by God through the medium of the College of Cardinals. He was not like any other man, nor was he like the man he had been until then. And he was wise enough to realize it.
What Gene had seen, but could only now admit, when looking across the ancient, magnificent desk of the Pontiff, was a testament to possibilities. Here was what had been an ordinary man, serving in unexceptional capacities until, without notice, he had been elevated. But first, he had had to serve an apprenticeship.
No Pope ever elected had declined. Most Popes, while possibly overwhelmed, had grown into the assignment, though some grew more easily than others. This unlikely Pope had slid right into his vestments with an effortlessness that suggested his election had been not a fluke, but predestined.
Had Pope John XXIII dreamed, ever in his long life, that this would be his destiny? Had he known, that no matter what anyone else might think, however ridiculous the possibility might have seemed, it was inevitable?
As Eugene considered his own life, he felt suddenly confident that he knew his destiny. Ultimately, he had to admit to himself, and would have to admit to his confessor, his overwhelming pride and arrogance: he knew his destiny was to rise within his Church. He would become a cardinal. The reasons for his lifelong strangeness, his being regarded by others as “special,” different, were clear now; and he had to admit his joy, his sense of excitement, but, far deeper than that, his sense of validation. His guilt itself revolved around the unspeakable joy he felt at acknowledging that he was ready and eager to accept his destiny.
He would serve the New York cardinal as best he could, with forbearance, lack of confrontation, pleasant conciliation. He would not rise to the petulance of the old man, not accept his challenges. He would ignore his insults, his barbs, his known cruelties to those he considered his enemies. He would wait and he would serve.
And put in this time.
And eventually prevail.
To God alone knew what final role.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONGER THAN TEN MINUTES for Eugene to realize fully that he had been assigned to the camp of a bitter enemy.
The cardinal extended his pudgy hand and Gene bent his head and his knee, pressed his lips lightly on the ring, and stood up. He was a good head taller than the cardinal, whose round pink face, snub nose, and high forehead were just as he remembered. A few times they had met informally, at the Vatican. They had been diametrically opposed in their viewpoints and their politics.
The cardinal sat behind his magnificent desk and folded his hands on his lap. It was difficult to see his eyes behind the glint of his rimless glasses. He waited, motionless, for a full sixty seconds before gesturing the bishop into one of the uncomfortable but beautifully carved and upholstered chairs before the desk.
The cardinal touched the nose piece of his glasses, leaned forward slightly and said in his light voice, “Well, that’s a remarkable family you come from, then.”
The New England twang mixed slightly with a strange Irish lilt that must have been genetic. The cardinal had never spent any significant time in Ireland, from which he was two generations removed.
When Eugene didn’t answer him, the cardinal’s voice went just slightly higher.
“Whatever possessed your brother Charley to renounce the Holy Mother Church and become of all things, God help us, a Jew?”
Eugene raised his chin just slightly, but it was his eyes that gave away his fury. Pale and still, they settled on the Cardinal with the impact of two ice daggers.
“My brother had his reasons.”
“Saw those death camps, eh? Well, so did plenty of others, but they didn’t renounce their faith.”
“But my brother did.”
“You talk to him about it, did you, Bishop O’Brien?”
“My brother examined his conscience and spoke with his confessor. He made his own decision, Your Eminence.”
“And is risking his immortal soul. Or don’t you believe that?”
“I believe that.”
“And who was this … this rabbi that brought your brother into the fold of the Chosen People, may I ask?”
As if he didn’t know. As if he was asking information for the sake of his own enlightenment.
“Our cousin, Eminence. An ordained Reformed rabbi. My brother’s conversion was, I gather, carefully considered by him and not undertaken lightly. How I feel about it is another matter.”
“Ah,” the cardinal said softly, “and you are not your brother’s keeper, is that it?”
When the handsome face betrayed nothing, not the slightest flicker, the cardinal shook his head slightly.
“And all through your priestly years, you never could get your own mother to join the Church, could you? Not too persuasive, are you, Bishop O’Brien? Ironic, isn’t it, you being such a passionate fund-raiser for the Society for the Propagation of the Faith? A strange thing, won’t you admit?”
Eugene said nothing.
“Ah, well, to me it is a mystery. Why in the world would she choose to remain a Jew, when there was the enlightenment of her own six children to show the way?”
Gene’s voice was soft and deliberate. The cardinal leaned forward slightly to catch his words.
“The mother of our Savior was a Jewish woman. His earthly father was a Jew. And He Himself was raised in the Jewish religion.”
“Don’t you dare try to educate me, Bishop O’Brien!” And then, after a moment’s reflection, he leaned forward and smiled. “Ah, is that it, then? See yourself as the son of a Jewess, even as Our Lord was? Putting in your time until the day, is that it?”
When no response came, the meanness and stupidity of the remark agitated the smooth-cheeked cardinal. He cleared his throat.
“Well,” he said by way of dismissal, “get yourself settled in for a day or so. I’ll give you the advice my own dear father, may he rest in peace, gave me through all my lifetime.” He smiled, trying to set a more welcoming mood. “‘Always stay close to those smarter and better than yourself,’ he’d say. ‘It’s the only way to learn.’ And then he’d add, with a grin, ‘That shouldn’t be too hard for you to do.’”
He laughed bitterly and waited for the expected, usual protest: But, Your Eminence, who could be smarter or better than you? It was his familiar setup line. He waited, but the man before him gave no indication that he was aware of what was required of him.
Angrily, with a clumsy lurch, the cardinal stood up and held out his hand. He watched as the tall, slender, handsome priest came alongside him, be
nt his knee, lightly touched his lips to the ring.
The Cardinal dismissed him with a curt gesture.
The pretty-boy little bastard would really learn to bend if he wanted to survive.
For nearly two years, Bishop O’Brien worked out of the Powerhouse, which for many decades had been the true center of political, religious, and governmentally approved philosophical life in New York City. He witnessed the loss of the cardinal’s power as the young mayor, John V. Lindsay, rode into City Hall on his still-white horse.
Though he was still consulted about public issues, the cardinal’s advice was largely ignored. His accustomed influence in civil service matters diminished. He could no longer block or supervise the appointment of judges, commissioners, or political investigative groups.
Eugene dined at the cardinal’s table when he was summoned. He behaved quietly and inoffensively, but his very lack of reaction, his quietude and complacency, irritated the cardinal.
The other fortunates, chosen for their various talents to work for His Eminence, watched the bishop carefully. He did his assigned work without complaint, with diligence, and with success. He avoided any discussion of politics—local, state, or national. He had the appearance and attitude of a man quietly waiting. And watching.
Because of his elegant presence and his almost seductively persuasive voice, the bishop was a sought-after guest at fund-raisers, political dinners, Holy Name breakfasts. His academic background was impressive, including a doctorate in political science in addition to his religious degrees and a degree in business administration. He was offered appointments to scores of major Catholic universities, not only in the United States but throughout the world.
Occasionally the cardinal permitted him to conduct a semester-long course at Catholic University, at Notre Dame, at Loyola. But when reports of his effectiveness and his impact—and especially, his popularity among the young seminarians, who one day would become Church leaders—reached the cardinal, he would order the bishop back to his tasks in New York.
The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel Page 39