The Senator and the Priest

by Andrew M. Greeley

  I screamed several obscene words which I would not permit to my daughters.

  Tommy seemed unaffected.

  “Poor Tony,” he said. “He’ll be terribly disappointed by morning.”

  The atmosphere of a large room in which election returns are watched is odd, a mixture of hope and fear, victory and defeat, joy and sadness. Every change in the tally you’re watching increases the dread and the expectation. One is either a little bit closer or a little bit further away. The neurosis which pervades the room makes everyone edgy, both laughter and curses inappropriately vigorous. An anteroom perhaps to a mental institution in which everyone was eating and drinking too much.

  Oh, when is it going to end!

  Two of the national networks had now ruled Rodgers Crispjin as the victor, mostly on the flashes emanating from the newsroom of the Chicago Examiner. The Daily News on the other hand reported with its usual caution that the race was much too close to call while Channel 3—which was receiving the same tallies showing up on our monitors—said that Senator Moran was edging away from Senator Crispjin.

  We had in fact never lagged behind the opposition from the very first tallies on the monitor. With 20 percent of the ballots we were 13 percentage points ahead of the opposition.

  “We can’t be that far ahead,” said a very anxious and somewhat overweight South Side Irish woman.

  Our own interests were frustrated by the national interest in the presidential election.

  Joe and Dolly would appear periodically in the family group around the candidate’s easy chair. He himself remained relaxed and serene, occasionally muttering something barely intelligible after he’d done some calculations.

  About eleven-thirty we picked up five thousand more votes.

  “DuPage,” Joe intoned.

  “Truly?” my poor little Tommy asked.

  “Then we have it … We’ll win by maybe 100,000 votes! Women of the house, the champagne please!”

  Rosie and Maryro and I popped open the bottles and filled the plastic goblets we’d brought along.

  “Gentlepersons,” Tommy stood on a chair, which I held steady, not quite convinced that his sense of balance had returned. “I proclaim victory. We’re going to win bigger than anyone had expected. The scandal of last Friday evening backfired. A hundred thousand votes, a veritable landslide.”

  Quite sober, as he would remain all evening, he began “A Grand Old Name.” Then the kids grabbed their instruments and did “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” Chucky and Rosie sang “Rosemarie,” their favorite theme song.

  I was afraid to count our chickens before they were hatched.

  A phone rang, the one next to Tommy’s chair. I picked it up.

  “Mary Margaret,” I whispered.

  “How y’all doing down there,” the President-elect said. “Having a little celebration? You’re entitled to it. Do you think you can get the Senator?”

  “I’ll just snap my fingers, sir.”

  “The President is on the line, Tommy!”

  He jumped off the chair and came running.

  “Congratulations, Mr. President! I’m glad ABC is about to call it for you. I hope I can ride along on your coattails. You on mine? I don’t see it … Hey, you’re right … It doesn’t much matter so long as we’re both winning. I’ll look forward to it … Your first call? … I really appreciate it, sir. Have a good vacation.”

  The room turned dead quiet.

  Tommy took a deep breath.

  “That was the President-elect. ABC will shortly proclaim him the victor. Apparently we carried Illinois by more votes than he did …”

  A mega cheer exploded. Then on the TV monitor Channel 3 put a check after Tommy’s name.

  I answered another phone.

  “Yes, Dolly, I’ll tell him … Boss Man, Dolly says we should come right on down!”

  The young people, cousins, aunts, uncles, and friends, led us down to the main ballroom playing “Happy Days Are Here Again!” They struck it up the second time as we entered the big hall. Then “Mary, a Grand Old Name,” which opened my tear ducts. Finally as Tommy reached the podium, myself dragged along, they turned to “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”

  Finally the crowd settled down.

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t get too close to the edge of the platform,” Tommy began. “And if I hold on to my wife so I won’t fall off again.”

  After another wave of cheering, Tommy brought the crowd under control.

  “The President-elect called me ten minutes ago and assured me that we both had carried Illinois. He thanked me for providing coattails. I don’t think that’s true. But he did say that I was the first one he called after ABC declared him the winner. I thanked him in the name of all of you who have worked so hard. Happy days are indeed here again!”

  Our pickup orchestra played that again and then its favorite Mexican serenade, during which my husband kissed me like he meant it. I have little recollection of the rest of the evening until we were home in bed about three in the morning. I won’t, however, forget our romp of love. Together we’d beaten the bad guys. We had proved that we were smarter and stronger than they were.

  Happy days were indeed here again.

  EPILOGUE

  BEFORE THE week was out Bobby Bill and a dozen of his aides and beneficiaries were indicted, including Senator Crispjin. The editor of the Examiner was fired and his replacement announced the “retirement” of Leander Schlenck. Tommy flew back to D.C. on Thursday for a conference between Democratic congressional leaders and the President. Marytre went with him because the Ursuline Academy was less tolerant than Gonzaga was with missing class days. The rest of us moved in with Chucky and Rosie for a few days. We’d go back on Monday. Maryro spent a lot of her time on the cell phone with Daniel Leary.

  Then on Saturday morning, I received a phone call.

  “Mrs. Moran?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Father George of the Clementine fathers. I have been searching for your husband, but I have learned he is in Washington. Father Anthony has had a very serious accident. I am here with him at Little Company of Mary Hospital. His condition is critical but stable. He would like it very much if you could come here and visit him. Now.”

  “Yes, of course … Where is that hospital?”

  “Little Company of Mary, Ninety-fifth and Central Park.”

  “I’ll leave right away. Should I bring one of my daughters?”

  “Yes, by all means, Father Anthony would very much like to see her.”

  Maryro and I were both in jeans and blouses. We grabbed windbreakers.

  “Why are we going to visit that man, Mom?”

  “Because he is badly injured, maybe dying, and he wants to talk to us.”

  “God will like that, won’t he?”

  “She.”

  We both laughed.

  Father George greeted us at the door.

  “Mrs. Moran, so good of you to come … And I believe you are Mary Rose—the one in the song.”

  “Just as my mother is the grand old name.”

  “Briefly, Father Anthony had a terrible accident driving home from Joliet the other night. He probably fell asleep at the wheel. He was pinned in the car for twenty-four hours before the state police found him. His condition is critical but stable. The doctors think he will recover. He most strongly wanted to talk to someone in the family. Just for a few minutes.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  We stood at the side of the bed. A young Asian woman was watching the monitor. She smiled politely at us.

  “Father Anthony,” I said softly.

  He opened his eyes, blinked and then smiled.

  “Mary Margaret,” he said reaching out to take my hand. “I’m so happy to see you. And, let’s see you … Yes, you are Mary Rose. I believe I baptised you.”

  My daughter walked around to the other side of the bed.

  “Yes, Father.”

  He held both our hands.


  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. They didn’t think I was going to survive. So I wanted to make peace with all of you, especially you, Mary Margaret. I have behaved very badly towards you for all these years. God is displeased with me. I begged him to give me a chance to talk to you. I had much to think of when I lay in that car …” He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  I looked at the nurse. She smiled, as if to say there was no immediate danger.

  “Maybe later, if I really recover, we can get together again, this time as friends instead of rivals. All I want to do now is to beg your forgiveness. I am very sorry for what I did and said. Tell Tom that I beg his forgiveness too. Please, please forgive me!”

  Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Yes, Father Anthony,” my daughter spoke first, “of course we do and we love you very much.”

  She kissed him on his forehead.

  “We begin a new life, Father,” I said. “Let the past be as if it never were.”

  I pecked at his cheek.

  A wonderful smile crossed his face,

  “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you very much.”

  Father George met us in the hospital corridor.

  “That room was filled with grace, Father,” my daughter said.

  “He is a different man,” I added.

  “We have noticed that too. Perhaps he had some sort of near-death experience. He is very aware of God. Thank you for coming.”

  “I’m sure Tommy will drive out here tomorrow when he returns to Chicago.”

  “Thank you both once again … I am not unaware of past tensions.”

  “Like Mom said to him, Father, the past is now like it never was.”

  “I’ll drive, Mom,” my child said. “You call Daddy on the cell phone.”

  So I did what I was told and dialed my husband.

  I finally found him as he was leaving the hotel where the Administration to be was setting up camp.

  “You’re crying, Mary Margaret,” he said. “I hope it’s not bad news.”

  “No, Tommy love, unbearably good news.”

  “I hope you’re not driving …”

  “Our stalwart eldest is driving … You’ll find this hard to believe.”

  I told him about our encounter at Little Company of Mary Hospital.

  He listened in silence.

  “Tommy, are you there?” I asked when I was finished with the story.

  “You know our friend the night visitor?” he said in an unsteady voice.

  “Yes.”

  And we both laughed. And laughed, and laughed.

  Grand Beach/Chicago

  Feast of the Holy Rosary

  2005

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  My story is set in the present with all its political stress and strain. However, all the characters, lay and clerical, are products of my imagination. None of the denizens of the Capitol and the Beltway are based on any real people, though of course they represent certain tendencies in American political life. The two United States Senators from the Prairie State are both friends of mine. Senator Thomas Moran is not like either of them save in that all three are Democrats. I take no stands on some of the arguments between the Catholic Church and Catholic political leaders. However, I am sympathetic to the dilemma of Senators like Thomas Patrick Moran and I agree with him that continued efforts to force Catholic politicians to impose the Church’s teachings on the rest of the country by denying them the Eucharist will lead to the disappearance of Catholics from the country’s political life. No one will remain to support the Church’s traditional teachings on war, poverty, and social justice. The two newspapers bear the names of extinct Chicago journals and are not meant to represent any current newspapers in the city.

  Some readers will accuse me of “partisanship” because my protagonists are Democratic—they wouldn’t complain if I had made them Republicans. Rules for Republicans are different. In fact I am a Democrat and have been all my life. I make no apology for alignment with the party that, whatever its faults may have been, has always remained the party of the poor and the oppressed. Moreover, it would be difficult to write a story about the United States Senate and hide one’s own partisanship.

  My neighbor at Grand Beach, Lawrence O’Rourke, covered the United States Senate for thirty-eight years. I am more grateful than I can express to him for his help in telling this story. He is not responsible, however, for any mistakes or errors I might have made.

  The idea for this story came into my imagination from reflections on the two Mayors Daley, neither one of whom have ever engaged in negative campaigns. “You can’t do that to people’s kids,” the first Mayor insisted. Both men were/are by character and conviction and maybe genes incapable of attacking other candidates. It seemed to me that this trait could well be imitated by all political candidates. Hence the story is dedicated to them. As the late mayor said, “You can’t do that to people’s kids.”

  ALSO BY ANDREW M. GREELEY

  FROM TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES

  BISHOP BLACKIE RYAN MYSTERIES

  The Bishop and the Missing L Train

  The Bishop and the Beggar Girl of St. Germain

  The Bishop in the West Wing

  The Bishop Goes to the University

  The Bishop at the Lake

  NUALA ANNE MCGRAIL NOVELS

  Irish Gold Irish Love

  Irish Lace Irish Stew!

  Irish Whiskey Irish Cream

  Irish Mist Irish Crystal

  Irish Eyes Irish Linen

  Irish Tiger*

  THE O’MALLEYS IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

  A Midwinter’s Tale

  Younger Than Springtime

  A Christmas Wedding

  September Song

  Second Spring

  Golden Years

  All About Women

  Angel Fire

  Angel Light

  Contract with an Angel

  Faithful Attraction

  The Final Planet

  Furthermore!: Memories of a Parish Priest

  God Game

  Jesus: A Meditation on His Stories and His Relationships with Women

  The Magic Cup

  Star Bright!

  Summer at the Lake

  The Priestly Sins

  White Smoke

  Sacred Visions (editor with Michael Cassutt)

  The Book of Love (editor with Mary G. Durkin)

  Emerald Magic: Great Tales of Irish Fantasy (editor)

  *Forthcoming

  Praise for Andrew M. Greeley

  “Greeley has hordes of fans who devour his books as fast as he can write them.”

  —Booklist

  “Immensely entertaining.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Irish Cream

  “A fascinating novelist … with a rare, possibly unmatched, point of view.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Greeley writes with passion and narrative force.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “An expert on the emotions that make us human.”

  —Star Tribune (Minneapolis, MN)

  “A genuinely fine novelist.”

  —Associated Press

  “A master storyteller.”

  —The Cincinnati Enquirer

  “A genius for plumbing people’s convictions … That and his rich literary imagination make him truly exceptional.”

  —Cleveland Press

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE SENATOR AND THE PRIEST

  Copyright © 2006 by Andrew M. Greeley Enterprises, Ltd.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

/>   Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  eISBN 9781429920506

  First eBook Edition : June 2011

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7653-5504-1

  ISBN-10: 0-7653-5504-3

  First Edition: November 2006

  First Mass Market Edition: October 2007