The Lawless One and the End of Time

by Lonnie Pacelli

  “Define practicing,” Paul said.

  “You just gave me my answer,” Carloni said. “The Vatican requires everyone working for the Vatican to be practicing Catholics, attending mass every Sunday, going to confession at least once a year, receiving weekly holy communion, not eating meat on Fridays during Lent. Tithing is strongly encouraged but no one will check on your tithing habits. Is this a problem?”

  In his years at Harvard he never imagined being accepted or rejected for a job because of his worship habits. He took a sip of water, stalling for time while he thought about his answer. The opportunity was just too good to pass up. “No problem,” Paul said.

  “Good. I want you to go through an interview loop with some of my associates, then after I get their feedback, we’ll make a final decision and discuss offer terms. Any other questions for me?”

  “Just one,” Paul said. “Will I have direct interaction with the pontiff?”

  “Plenty.”

  “That’s great, thanks.” Paul knew that the pontiff was the head of the executive, legislative, and judicial branches of government in the Vatican City, whatever he said was law. Being in a position to advise someone with such sanctioned power over not only Vatican City but millions of Catholics around the world was an adrenaline rush for Paul.

  “Very good, I’ll get back to you with an interview loop schedule and when you should plan on being in Rome. Pleasure talking, Paul.” Carloni arose from his seat, smoothed the front of his slacks, and kissed Paul on either cheek.

  “Thank you, Ed.” Paul reciprocated the kiss. Carloni went back to his desk as Paul walked out of his office, down the hall, gave the assistant a quick wave, and out the door.

  Paul decided to stop at the supermarket to see his brother and sister. On the walk he thought about his meeting with Ed, the opportunity to work with the Vatican, the peculiar requirement of being a practicing Catholic. His family rarely attended church together growing up. He didn’t have anything against the Catholic church but going to church just wasn’t that important. What he did admire, though, was the charisma the current pontiff Pius XIV possessed, how he captivated audiences with his speeches, and the power he possessed. Pius XIV was able to get a meeting with any world leader and could sway opinion seemingly at will. He saw it at the 2041 annual ethnarchy chairperson meeting in London. Pius XIV addressed the leaders on corruption in food rationing and called for an independent council on fair rationing across the ethnarchies. He successfully influenced the ten chairpersons to form the council with the pontiff as its head. These were the ten most powerful people in the world of different religious beliefs, but they saw Pius XIV as a man who loved people for who they were, not who they worshiped. Having the ability to observe Pius XIV and learn from him was a priceless education.

  Paul got to the supermarket, opened the door, and caught the familiar whiff of cheeses and Italian meats. Alberto was slicing salame, Anna was stocking shelves.

  “Hey, sibs!” Paul said.

  Anna got to Paul first and kissed him. Alberto waved to him from behind the meat slicer, finished his slicing, and hugged his brother.

  “How you doing, bro?” Alberto asked.

  “Great, Mom is doing well; she’s going to the mausoleum on her own this morning.”

  “Really? She’s OK with going by herself?” Anna asked.

  “She insisted on it,” Paul said. “I think she was kind of happy to do it on her own, maybe it’s an independence thing.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Alberto said. “So, what were you doing this morning?”

  “I talked with Ed Carloni about a job in Rome.”

  “What did you think of the job?”

  “Amazing opportunity. If I get it, I’ll get to work with the Vatican and travel to the United States every month.”

  “The Vatican?” Alberto asked as he grabbed some prosciutto and put it on the slicer. “What would you do there?”

  “Work on the abuse case backlog.”

  “Ooh, interesting stuff,” Anna said. Alberto was just about to turn on the slicer when his phone rang. His heart jumped when he saw the name.

  Dented Folding Stool

  2041

  A lberto took another quick glance at the phone. “It’s Naples Hospital,” Alberto said to Paul and Anna. Alberto took a deep breath and answered the call. “Hello?” He said.

  “Mr. Ambrosi?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Ellen Giannini at Naples Hospital Emergency Department. Is your mother Ida?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was involved in an accident, she’s in the ED. Can you come right away?”

  “Is she OK?” Paul and Anna could see the concern on Alberto’s face.

  “We need you to come to the ED right away please.” The fact that she didn’t answer Alberto’s question led him to think the worst.

  “We’ll be right there.”

  “Thank you.” Giannini hung up.

  “It’s Mom, we need to go to Naples Hospital.”

  “Is she OK?” Anna asked.

  “She wouldn’t say. Let’s just go.”

  Alberto, Anna and Paul quickly closed the supermarket, got into Alberto’s car for the five-minute drive to the hospital. None of them said a word in the car; not knowing their mother’s condition conjured up worst-case thoughts in their minds. They arrived at the hospital, the car screeching into the lot and parking in the first spot they could find. The three ran into the hospital up to the reception desk.

  “I’m Alberto Ambrosi, my mother Ida is here. Can we see her?” Alberto asked the receptionist.

  “Just one moment.” The receptionist picked up the phone, “The Ambrosis are here.” She hung up.

  “Ms. Giannini will be with you in a moment,” the receptionist said.

  “Thank you,” Alberto said. He turned to his siblings. “This can’t be good.”

  Anna was already crying, Paul trying in vain to comfort her with a brotherly hug. They then heard the echoing click click click of a woman’s heels on a tile floor, the sound getting louder as the woman approached them. “Mr. Ambrosi?”

  “Yes, I’m Alberto Ambrosi, my sister Anna and brother Paul.” They each shook Giannini’s hand.

  “Let’s talk for a minute,” Giannini said.

  “Where’s my mother?” Anna asked through sobs.

  “You can see her in a moment,” Giannini said in a quiet, reassuring tone. She led them into a small room with four chairs and a table, a box of tissues on the table and a blue button on the wall by the door. Giannini closed the door behind her and pulled out a chair to sit, the rest following suit.

  “Your mother was hit by a car this morning.” What the Ambrosis didn’t know was that Giannini was a grief counselor. “She was in a crosswalk when a driver ran a red light and hit her. Paramedics responded within five minutes and transported her here. She had multiple internal injuries, a broken hip, and concussion.”

  “Had? She used the word had?” Paul thought as Giannini was talking. “Is she dead?”

  “We did everything we could for her, but we couldn’t save her. She passed away at ten past ten this morning.”

  “Ten past ten,” Paul thought. “She was coming back from the mausoleum. This wouldn’t have happened if I were with her.”

  The three were at a loss. First Joseph died in June and now Ida in July. Two parents lost in two months. Anna’s sobs turned into loud wails, her face buried in Paul’s chest. Paul and Alberto silently cried. Giannini sat there patiently, available for any questions.

  “Can we see her?” Paul asked.

  “Of course, but she is badly bruised.”

  “I don’t want to see her, not that way.” Anna said.

  “I’ll go,” Alberto said. “Paul?”

  Paul nodded. Anna stayed in the room while Giannini led Paul and Alberto to their mother. She was still in the trauma room where a technician was cleaning up. They walked in, Paul noticing his mother’s bag, heavily scuff
ed from being scraped along the pavement during the accident. Leaning against the wall, next to the bag was the folding stool, the top of it dented from being driven over by the car that killed her. He walked over to the bag and picked it up, hearing the clinking sound of the broken cup and thermos inside. He picked up the folding stool that he had carried for his mother each morning. He looked over at her in the bed with Alberto holding her hand. Paul was sure she died because he wasn’t with her. He could have seen the car coming and held her back. He went over to his mother, held her other hand and stroked her hair. The two sons just stood there in silence for ten minutes, looking at her, stroking her hair, holding her hand, wiping their tears. Alberto then broke the silence. “We should go back and be with Anna.”

  Alberto, Paul, and Giannini walked back to find Anna, her wailing subsiding to somber sobs. As Alberto and Giannini went into the room, Paul noticed another room across the hallway. “Can I go in there for a minute?” Paul said, still clutching the folding stool.

  “Of course,” Giannini said.

  Alberto and Giannini went back to be with Anna, while Paul went into the room across the hall and closed the door. The room had the same four chairs, table, tissue box and blue button. Paul put the dented folding stool on the table, pushed one of the chairs aside clearing a place on the floor, dropped to his knees, and fell forward onto his forearms, his head in his hands. It was just him in the room, allowing himself to let loose, not caring if people outside the room could hear him. He never allowed himself to openly grieve when his father died; he wanted to be strong for his mother. This was his time to grieve for both his parents. His thoughts were all over, oscillating between blaming himself for her death and being angry at God for allowing this to happen. He decided it was time to blame God.

  “Why did you let this happen? Both of them in two months! She didn’t deserve this! He didn’t deserve the pain you put him through! What kind of God does this?”

  He then thought about Carloni telling him he needed to be a practicing Catholic to get his job.

  “You do this, then you expect me to worship you? What kind of egomaniac are you?”

  Paul got up off the floor and started pacing in the small room, like a tiger pacing around his cage, his tears of sadness turned into full-on rage at God.

  “She did nothing to you! You took her for no reason! FOR NO REASON! You put him through so much pain! You’re not a loving God, you’re a narcissist! I’ll never forgive you!”

  Paul continued his pacing and yelling for 15 minutes, then slumped in one of the chairs, completely drained. He said what he needed to say and meant every word. After a few minutes he composed himself to be strong for Alberto and Anna.

  He walked out of the room back into the room where Alberto and Anna were hugging, exhausted from crying. Giannini had left earlier, telling them to hit the blue button on the wall if they needed anything. Paul went over to his siblings and the three hugged each other.

  “Let’s go home,” Paul said. They left the hospital, Paul still holding the folding stool with its fresh dent.

  The next day, Paul, Antonio and Anna went to the same funeral home that handled Joseph’s arrangements for Ida. The directions to the funeral home director were simple. “Do the same for Mom as you did for Dad,” Alberto said. After making the quick arrangements, Alberto and Anna went to the supermarket and Joseph went home. He decided to do his walk to the mausoleum one more time. He wanted to feel like his mother was with him, so he carried the dented folding stool. He walked along the same route, then came to the intersection where Ida was killed. He didn’t know anything about the driver or what had happened. He noticed fresh skid marks in front of the walkway and a stain on the street that could have been blood, he wasn’t sure. It really didn’t matter, knowing wasn’t going to bring her back. He arrived at the mausoleum and started the long walk toward Joseph’s plot. He noticed a man standing in front of the plot and heard a grinding sound. As he got closer, he saw what the man was doing--etching the date of Ida’s death into the plot’s cover. Not seeing a date there when Ida was alive bothered him but seeing a date of death made him furious all over again. He turned around and walked out, banging the dented stool on the door jamb as he left.

  Ida’s funeral was a surreal repeat performance of Joseph’s. Same people, same format, except this time, Alberto gave the eulogy. The reception was in the same downstairs location with the same food and same faint formaldehyde smell. Some attendees gave the standard “sorry for your loss” line to the Ambrosis, others just came and hugged them, not knowing how to console someone who lost both their parents a little over a month apart. Carloni approached Paul.

  “Paul, I am so incredibly sorry,” Carloni said.

  “Thank you, Ed.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

  “You can.” Paul was expecting Ed at the funeral and was ready to talk to him. “I want to continue forward with the interview loop as soon as possible.”

  “You don’t need to do that, Paul, we can give you some time.”

  “No, I want to push ahead. Let me know when you can have the loop set up and I’ll be there.”

  Carloni saw the determination on Paul’s face. He was sure of the ask. “I can do that, but if you want to defer just let me know.”

  “I don’t want to defer.” Paul didn’t want to sit home wallowing in guilt or seething in anger. Pushing forward with his career would keep his mind off losing his parents.

  “OK then. You’ll hear from me in a couple days. You take care, Paul.”

  “Thanks, Ed.”

  “Paul, it’s time to go to the mausoleum,” the funeral director said. In the funeral instructions, Paul told the director he wanted to be at the mausoleum when Ida was put into the plot with Joseph. Alberto and Anna didn’t want to watch, so Paul went alone in the hearse.

  “Just a minute,” Paul said. He went to the coat room in the reception hall and grabbed his mother’s bag and the dented stool. “Let’s go.”

  Paul sat in the front seat of the hearse as they drove to the mausoleum, his left arm over the seat back, his hand on Ida’s casket. When they got to the mausoleum, attendants helped unload the casket onto a rolling cart, then into the mausoleum. Paul followed the casket, dented stool in hand. He looked at the door jamb seeing where the stool left its mark the last time he was there. Squeaking wheels from the rolling cart and echoing footsteps accompanied the long walk to the plot. Joseph noticed the freshly-filled plots, seeing those that had two names, one with a death date, one without. They got to Joseph’s plot, the cover already removed. He looked in and was hit by the pungent stench of decomposing flesh before seeing Joseph’s casket. His casket was pushed to the back end of the plot, making room for Ida’s casket at the front. The attendants adjusted the rolling cart’s level so the casket could slide from the cart into the plot.

  “Do you want a minute before we put her in?” The funeral director asked.

  “No, but can I put something in between Mom and Dad?”

  “Sure.”

  Paul placed his mother’s scuffed bag in the plot. The bag still had the broken coffee cup and thermos she took with her to the mausoleum each day for her talks with Joseph. He then started to put the dented stool in but stopped.

  “Just the bag,” Paul said. He didn’t want to part with the stool.

  The attendants slid the casket in, pushing the bag into the plot so it rested between Ida and Joseph’s caskets. Two of the attendants then lifted the stone cover and secured it to the plot. The attendants left, with only the funeral director and Paul remaining.

  “You OK, Paul?” The funeral director asked as he put his hand on Paul’s shoulder.

  “All good, I’m going to stay here for a minute. I can walk home from here.”

  “Alright, take care of yourself, Paul.”

  The funeral director made the long walk to the mausoleum entrance, his footsteps echoing until Paul heard the bang of the front door close. The
mausoleum was silent--just Paul, his parents, the other plot occupants. Paul stared at the death dates of both his parents on the plot cover, still shocked at the short time between their deaths. After a few minutes he made the long walk to the front door, lunging his steps and counting the number of big-boy steps from his parent’s plot to the front door.

  Shame

  2041

  T he next day Carloni sent Paul the interview loop, three attorneys and two Vatican Cardinals all on the following day. That morning Paul took a train from Naples to Rome’s Termini Train Station. One of Carloni’s associates was waiting there for him and took him to their offices in Vatican City. One after one the interviews happened, the interviewers vetting Paul for understanding of the law, integrity, communication ability, and project management capability. Each asked about Paul’s willingness to be a practicing Catholic. He came across as if he were eager to worship and willing to be a practicing Catholic. The thought of worshiping a figure he so detested made him want to vomit, but he was able to fool his interviewers into thinking there was no issue. He got a thumbs-up from each of the interviewers and Carloni offered him the job at 250,000 hera a year. Paul asked if he could start in a month so he could go back to Naples and help his siblings finalize his parents’ affairs. On September 8, 2041 Paul joined Carloni’s law firm, working in Vatican City.

  For the next three years Paul thought about nothing but his work. Each month he traveled to the United States, visiting every diocese at least once a year, more if there were known abuses or allegations. He personally met with every accused minister. He had a sixth sense about whether each one truly committed abuse or was wrongly accused. If he smelled guilt, it was only a matter of time before his interrogation skills wore down the abuser to admit wrongdoing. The abuser was immediately dispatched to Vatican City where he met with the pontiff one-on-one to explain his actions.

  There were over a hundred meetings between the pope and confessed abusers during the three years, always ending with the abusers leaving the pontiff crying in shame. The guilty abuser would then stand in front of the Apostolic Signatura, the Vatican City’s legislative body, to be further shamed and sentenced, then be interred for life in a Vatican-run prison just north of Vatican City, commissioned by Pius XIII. Each prisoner’s physical health was of utmost importance, they were well-fed, clothed, and medically cared for.