by John Ayang
Fr. Callahan took his turn to brief the Cardinal on the previous six days since he had left for Rome. Dr. Regis Murphy had continued his negotiations with Turner and Stendhal for an out-of-court settlement of the suit and, according to him, there was a silver lining on the horizon. Stacy had already done a substantial job looking into the background of the case, especially cataloguing the nuts and bolts of the conception process of the child who would later become Fr. Cletus Nicholas McCarthy. The papers which Hannah and Jennifer gave her, as well as a few phone calls, had yielded incredible results and she was building up a formidable defense for January 8, should the Murphy negotiation fail. The Cardinal was pleased that everything pointed to success of the case in favor of the Church and Fr. McCarthy. He looked forward to a nice wrap-up that would, hopefully, hurt no one very much. He wondered how Fr. McCarthy was doing, if he had indeed taken a vacation and how he was coping. He made a mental note to go on a vacation himself as soon as everything calmed down.
They soon arrived at the Chancery and Fr. Callahan eased his car into his usual parking spot in the back lot of the Chancery and let the Cardinal out. He helped him transfer his briefcase into the trunk of his car, which was two slots away from his own. Then the Cardinal went into the Chancery and boarded the elevator to go to his office. He took out his phone and called Bishop Montano to meet him in his office for his own briefing. As the elevator doors opened, he ran into Stacy, who was waiting to take the elevator down and go home for the day.
“Ah, Ms. Donovan,” the Cardinal greeted. “How’s your day?” The Cardinal always greeted every Chancery staff he met with the same inquiry, ‘how’s your day’, to which he would get the usual response, ‘good so far, Eminence’.
“Good so far, Your Eminence,” Stacy replied, catching the Cardinal’s infectious smile. “You’re back. How was the trip? Or, more precisely, the meeting?”
“Fine, Ms. Donovan. Just fine,” the Cardinal replied, nodding his head to emphasize the veracity of his word. “The good Lord always protects His Church. And this time? I think He’s going to do it again.” Then he switched his attention to Bishop Montana, who had just emerged from his office, heading toward them. “There you are, Marmon. Let’s go to my office for a brief update of events,” he said, moving stoutly in that direction. Stacy and Bishop Montano fell in behind him, glancing at each other and wondering what good news the Cardinal bore that put such a radiance in his demeanor.
“Welcome back, Eminence,” Bishop Montano greeted, expectantly. “Had a peaceful flight?”
“You bet, I did, Bishop,” the Cardinal replied. “And I believe the good Lord is hearing our prayers. We will soon achieve peace of mind again in the not-too-distant future.”
The briefing session was indeed brief. Each person took turns updating the others. Stacy spoke last, and, after updating the men on her next strategy, actually asked the Cardinal to call off Dr. Murphy’s negotiation, as it turned out that it was a waste of time. She assured them that as she thought from the beginning, she was now quite sure Fr. McCarthy had no case to answer. Cardinal Umberto and Bishop Montano were not quite swayed yet to call off the negotiation. Rather, they settled for asking Dr. Murphy to go somewhat easy on it and talk only once a week with Turner and Stendhal, as opposed to calling them every other day, as he was currently doing. Fr. Callahan was asked to call and set up an appointment for Fr. McCarthy to meet with the Cardinal before leaving for his vacation, if he had not yet left. By the time they came out of the briefing, the Cardinal had just a little over three hours to rush home, shower, and take a nap, to be refreshed for the evening Vespers and Christmas party with the priests.
Stacy made a call to Fr. McCarthy and relayed all they had discussed and the plan of action. She told Fr. McCarthy that she was trying to talk to someone in Norfolk, Virginia, who, she surmised, might be a star witness to testify at the January 8 hearing, and whose testimony she thought would be in his favor. She told him that the Cardinal and Bishop Montano were not ruling out an out-of-court settlement, if it came to that. Then she assured him that he would not need to be in court after Bishop Montano told her he might still be away on vacation by January 8. After inquiring and ascertaining that Fr. McCarthy’s parents were doing well, she turned off her phone, opened the passenger-side door of the black Corvette that pulled up and slid inside, and smiled back at the well-shaven face of John McCarthy that was smiling at her.
Stacy and John McCarthy started seeing each other after they met at the McCarthys. John was surprised at himself. He had never felt for any of the numerous ladies he had dated previously what he felt for Stacy. And there was no doubt in his mind that he would like to settle down with her and start a family, bearing the blessing of Fr. McCarthy, of course. He wondered when he would have the right opportunity to break the news about his intention to Fr. McCarthy, as he would never go beyond just dating Stacy without letting Fr. McCarthy know.
“Had a nice day at work, honey?” he inquired, sort of sweetly.
“Whoever has a nice day at work, John? C’mon!” Stacy responded, giggling and presenting her cheek for a peck, a gesture that was becoming routine for them whenever they would meet. “It wasn’t bad, though. Things are beginning to shape up pretty well for your nephew.”
“Well, if it ain’t bad, then it’s nice,” John quipped, in the raw jargon of the farmers of the plains. “That’s my adopted philosophy. And if things are shaping up pretty well for Fr. Cletus, as you say, then, I guess, you had a nice day at work,” he concluded, syllogistically.
“Non sequitur,” Stacy replied, with a coy, toothless smile that John had come to like about her because, as he thought, it made her look prettier and sexier. “Keep praying for your nephew.”
“Gosh! Of all the things you should demand from a poor sinner like me,” John replied with fake exasperation. She glanced at him and gave a spurt of cheerless laugh, rolling her eyes prettily at him for his phony self-deprecation.
All the way to South Post Oak, they talked and laughed like teenagers in love. Stacy giggled at every one of John’s jokes and he felt good inside. ‘Get a lady laughing, and you are more than half way into her heart’, John recalled the time-tested cliché and delighted himself testing it out on Stacy. As he dropped her off at her parents’ place, he promised to swing by that evening and take her out for dinner. Patricia Donovan had noticed the blossoming relationship and secretly encouraged it, longing for her daughter to marry and get out of the house and out of her embarrassing spinster status. Geoffrey Sr. couldn’t agree more. He had begun feeling awkward with his daughter still living with them, even though he was the one who insisted on her not wasting money to rent an apartment when he had plenty of rooms in the house. Stacy had resisted initially and went ahead to negotiate with a realtor to buy a house of her own, but after a month or two of the deal not really coming through and the economic benefits she had, she caved in to her dad’s idea. After all, they didn’t bother her. She could come and go as she pleased and, in the past, had brought a couple of dates to the house without their so much as asking who it was, but none of them had worked out.
John McCarthy was different, probably because he was more mature than Stacy’s previous prospects. He treated her with the utmost dignity and respected her views and opinions. Working on Fr. McCarthy’s case was a surefire way for Stacy to study John from close up, and she seemed to like what she saw so far. So, like her parents, she was anxious to keep him, though not desperately so. As John dropped her off to pick her up later, she made up her mind that if he again asked her to stay over at his place, she would accept, just to test the waters.
She waved to John as he revved the Corvette into full speed and disappeared down the road within seconds. That was the one thing that intrigued her about her beau. At 52, he had the spirit of a 30-year old and exuberantly embraced life with verve. And Stacy loved that about him because whenever they were together, there was never a dull moment. But
she had reservations about his uncanny love for driving fast, and she made a mental note to remind him to always go easy on the gas pedal since life had no duplicate.
She entered the house through the corridor door and went straight to her rooms, a self-contained apartment in the house. Her father and Geoffrey, Jr., were watching some game on TV and making so much noise that they didn’t hear her sneak into the house. She dropped her coat on the settee and went over to the answering machine, which was blinking. There were two messages on it and the first one happened to be from a Doctor Horacek. She quickly sat down and played it in full, wondering how on Earth he got her home phone number. Then she quickly remembered that she, herself, had mentioned it as one of the numbers to contact her by. When she traced him to a clinic in Norfolk, Virginia, from the information she gleaned from the papers Hannah gave her, she was anxious not to miss his call if he made the effort to reach out to her at her request. It was crucial that she talk to him, since he was the resident attending when Fr. McCarthy was conceived at the hospital in Norfolk. So, she had left all her contact numbers on his voicemail, including her home number. She now thought that was a bad idea. It demonstrated how desperate she had been to get firmly back in the saddle, so to speak, after being rattled by the sudden disclosure made by the plaintiff, Dr. Eshiet. The message gave Saturday, December 22nd as the possible and earliest date that she could visit and speak with Dr. Horacek. In his message, Dr. Horacek clearly spelled out the address and the Houston number at which she could reach him. She was surprised to see that the address was not very far from their home. It was on the west side of Missouri City. She wondered if she should visit Dr. Horacek with John or go alone. Eventually, she decided she would go alone, but she would leave a message with the address for John, just for his information. The second message was just a reminder that the single young adults group she belonged to at Ascension Church was due to meet Saturday after the morning Mass. She deleted the message and mulled it over in her mind whether she should continue to consider herself as single. She quickly answered her own question in the affirmative, seeing as John had not yet proposed. She sighed and got up to shower and change before he came back for her, making a mental note to pray a novena for their relationship.
Houston, Texas
Thursday, December 20, 2012
TWO DAYS AFTER the Cardinal had come back from the Vatican, Fr. McCarthy stopped by his office to say hello and to get the latest information before flying out on his vacation. Just as he did two months back, on the fateful day he was first informed of his infamous suit, the Cardinal came out from his seat to greet him. This time he gave him a hug, rather than the usual official handshake. The Cardinal looked straight into Fr. McCarthy’s eyes as he spoke.
“Good morning, Fr. Cletus. How are you coping so far?” the Cardinal inquired, somewhat more solicitous than usual. “Are your parents doing alright?
“I’m doing fine, Your Eminence,” Fr. McCarthy replied, hesitantly. “But it’s hard. I’m still struggling to come to grips with the whole issue, but I’m alright and my parents are doing fine, too.”
“As you know, I met with the pope and am glad to inform you that the outcome was very positive,” the Cardinal said, hoping to raise Fr. McCarthy’s spirits. “So, you can proceed on your much-needed vacation with less worry. I have assigned Fr. Paschal Egbuna to stand in for you while you are gone.”
“Is there a particular reason behind that assignment, Your Eminence?” Fr. McCarthy asked, looking quizzically at the Cardinal. “I mean…Fr. Paschal is Nigerian. Of course, the Eshiets will be pleased to have one of their own performing the pastoral duties, as opposed to me.”
“You are very smart, Fr. Cletus,” the Cardinal said, looking straight at Fr. McCarthy in return. “Yes, and no. Yes, Fr. Paschal has served at Our Lady Queen of Peace as a Parochial Vicar for two years, and the peopled like him, across all cultures—Caucasians, Africans, Hispanics, etc. He is our best bet to hold the fort while you are gone. And no, his assignment is not to appease your legal opponents, although there is a substantial presence of Nigerians in the parish, I am also privy to the fact that not all of them are in support of the legal action taken by the Eshiets. We have got to look at issues objectively, Fr. Cletus,” the Cardinal concluded, putting his left hand on Fr. McCarthy’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture.
“I understand your point, Your Eminence, and I accept your decision totally,” Fr. McCarthy said. “Though I had hoped for a more neutral person. I’m not saying that Fr. Paschal is biased. I was just referring to the fact that his racial background might give the wrong message to others, but, then again, it may not.”
“No, Fr. Cletus, it won’t,” the Cardinal assured. “Rest assured that by the time you come back from your vacation, you’ll meet a relatively peaceful parish and a welcoming one. We have Dr. Murphy working on an out-of-court settlement of the case. Stacy is building up a formidable defense, in case that fails. Fr. Brady and Sister Ellis will visit your parents while you are gone and keep them abreast of the Archdiocese’s plan of action. From the canonical point of view, your priestly ordination and faculties are not affected in any way….” The phone rang, interrupting Cardinal Felice. He excused himself to pick up the receiver, stating at the same time, for Fr. McCarthy’s benefit, “That must be Cardinal Dolan, the President of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops. We have been going back and forth about your case since I came back from Rome.”
“I beg to take my leave, Your Eminence,” Fr. McCarthy seized the hiatus to make his exit. “I will keep in touch.”
“Please, do. And have a grace-filled vacation,” the Cardinal replied, waved good-bye to Fr. McCarthy, and proceeded to take the call from Cardinal Timothy Dolan, who basically wanted to offer his ongoing fraternal support and to state that he was available for fraternal advice if Cardinal Felice needed any. He also assured Cardinal Felice that he would raise the case at the next Bishops’ Conference so that an interim policy could be drafted to cover situations in which children born via IVF who express a genuine desire to study and become priests, could be accommodated without being punished by rejection for the sins if their parents. Cardinal Felice informed him that the pope, during his meeting with him, seemed to lean toward such a policy, since he decided in favor of Fr. McCarthy’s ordination not being annulled. The two Cardinals agreed that the final statement in the form of a decree would still have to come from Rome. Then they hung up.
The next morning, at precisely 10:10 a.m. Italian time and 5: 10 a.m. Central (Houston) Time, Jennifer’s and Fr. McCarthy’s flight touched down at the FCO, Fiumicino, Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in Rome. It was a chilly morning as they emerged into the sunlight and waited their turn to board a taxi to their hotel, the Hotel Sant’Angelo on the east side of the Vatican. Snow lay thick and heavy on the ground. ‘A very ungodly time to take a vacation in God’s city’, Fr. McCarthy thought, ruefully. Though it was beginning to get cold in Houston as they left, winter time in Rome was not to be compared to Houston weather. Fr. McCarthy thanked God that Jennifer had insisted they bring heavy winter clothes
They missed two taxis before they realized what was happening. In Rome, you had to hustle to grab a taxi, otherwise, if you were not fast enough, you could spend the whole day waiting to be given your turn, which nobody was very willing to do.
“I guess, as they say, when in Rome, behave like the Romans,” Fr. McCarthy said as he secured a taxi for himself and Jennifer. He put their luggage in the trunk and went around to his side of the passenger’s seat. Of course, he noticed another peculiar thing about them which could make them stand out. Their luggage pieces were the largest, and, moreover, they had two apiece in addition to their carry-ons. He recalled hearing in a conversation many years back that Americans were the only people in the world who did not know how to travel light. When they left Houston, he had worried whether he had packed enough clothing and toiletries to last him for the more-than-two-we
eks’ vacation he was embarking on. Now he realized that they were the most encumbered visitors to Rome. He shrugged resignedly and wondered how others managed it. As they rode along, they could see that on some side streets, snow plows were still at work. A few people were shoveling the white fluffy stuff from their driveways, but most of the driveways were still thickly covered. Rome, during winter time, was a city that woke up gradually in the mornings, but went to bed abruptly in the evenings, so to speak.
Fr. McCarthy was thankful again for the watchful Jennifer, who noticed in time that the driver was going to take a longer route in order to charge more. She gave him the directions and threatened to notify the police if he tried to go out of the way to prolong the commute. It worked, as they made it to the hotel in less than ten minutes.
“Well, that’s the best part of having you on this trip,” Fr. McCarthy gushed. “I would have been had, and mercilessly so, if I’d come alone. I would’ve just relaxed in the backseat, thinking I was being taken straight to my hotel.”
“I did that the first time I was here a few years ago,” Jennifer said. “And I paid dearly for it. So, my being that alert was due to that experience. They say ‘va bene’ to everything you say and before you know what’s happening, it’s no longer va bene, but che peccato.”
“Ok. I’ve learned two Italian phrases now: va bene and che peccato,” Fr. McCarthy said. “Do you speak fluent Italian? I forgot to ask.”
“No, Cousin. I know a few words and I get by with those. Don’t worry. Most Italians speak English, even if a little awkwardly. We’ll get by.”
They started talking about the places they wanted to visit while in Rome, chief among which, of course, was the Basilica di San Pietro. For Fr. McCarthy, everything in Rome looked ancient and drab. He thought the same thing about their hotel when they got out of the taxi and he looked up at the hotel building, which was dull brown and of an architectural style that could have been from the sixteenth century. A concierge appeared from the foyer to help them carry in their luggage and babbling some Italian phrases, which Fr. McCarthy thought was meant to assure them that they would enjoy their stay. They checked in at the front desk and the concierge carried their luggage to their rooms. Jennifer’s room was next to Fr. McCarthy’s, as they had requested. They wanted to stay close since it was his first time in Rome.
