Standing behind the bishops, among a group of other priests dressed in simple white chasubles and matching tapestry stoles, Louise saw Father Alec Fisco, the earnest, young associate pastor of the cathedral. Father Alec had come to see her over the weekend. Louise had gone along with most of what he had suggested about the funeral plans. She just didn’t care much about the details. She was too stunned.
She looked around and thought of the day she married Bill. They had been so young, the future so promising. They were going to have it all. And they did, for a while.
Louise watched as the archbishop sprinkled holy water over the dove-gray casket. “I bless the body of William with the holy water that reminds us of his baptism.” The pallbearers then placed a white pall, with black and gold trim, over the casket.
The procession began down the marbled main aisle of the cool, majestic place. First, the incense-swinging thurifer leading the way for the cross flanked by two white candles carried by college seminarians dressed in their white albs. Next, a deacon carried the Gospel book, then Father Alec, who would give the homily, followed by a large gaggle of concelebrating priests. The bishops from Brooklyn, Paterson, Metuchen, and Camden walked in pairs, followed by Archbishop Sweeney. Behind him were his crozier and miter bearers. Cardinal Gleason and the cardinal archbishop of Philadelphia, both in their red choir dress, came next. This was Sweeney’s cathedral, and he would be the celebrant of the funeral Mass.
Bill’s draped casket, escorted by the six honorary pallbearers, five men and one woman who had been part of Bill Kendall’s life. Louise had at first been touched when Yelena called and asked if she could be a pallbearer. Louise didn’t really like herself thinking that Yelena probably got a charge out of being the only woman. Well, it was fine with Louise. Yelena certainly had the size to pull it off. Besides, Bill had liked her.
Louise, William and Range walked together slowly down the long, white and green aisle, bringing up the rear. Louise spotted faces from KEY News. There was Eliza Blake. She made a mental note that she wanted to get hold of Eliza and ask if she’d consider pinch-hitting for Bill at the New Visions for Living fund-raiser. Louise almost smiled, amused that her brain was tending to details even at Bill’s funeral. Bill had always kidded her about being so organized.
The three took their places in the carved white-oak front pew. Louise was aware of thousands of eyes upon her. She stood erect, fixing her eyes on the altar ahead. The clergy had taken their carefully orchestrated positions on the elevated sanctuary. The funeral ceremony started.
Archbishop Sweeney began the opening prayer for one who died by suicide. “Almighty God and Father of all, you strengthen us by the mystery of the cross and with the sacrament of your Son’s resurrection. Have mercy on our brother, William. Forgive all his sins and grant him peace. May we who mourn this sudden death be comforted and consoled by your power and protection. We ask this through Christ our Lord.”
Fifteen hundred voices answered, “Amen.”
What would Bill, the former altar boy from a small town in Nebraska, have thought if he could see what was happening now? Louise stared at the marble angel with the open hands affixed to the altar rail in front of her, and wondered about the man who had come so far only to end like this.
Why, Bill? Why?
Chapter 26
What a sendoff this was! He wondered how many would turn out for his own funeral.
Judge Dennis Quinn watched Bill Kendall’s casket glide down the main aisle of the cathedral. He stood among the weepy troop from New Visions for Living. Dennis, before everything had happened, had acted as treasurer of the organization, which raised money to buy group homes for the mentally retarded. He’d even played a clown at parties for the residents. Kendall, until his death, had served on the board of directors. Generous with his money, Kendall was also generous with his time. Those associated with New Visions for Living were not only proud to be connected to Bill Kendall the famous anchor, they valued knowing Bill Kendall the man.
Dennis watched Louise Kendall and her son take their seats in the front pew.
Bill worried so about that kid. Dennis remembered going out with Bill to approve the first group home that New Visions bought. After they had thoroughly inspected the five-bedroom colonial with the fenced-in yard, Bill had remarked, “Maybe my William will live here someday.” Back then, Dennis’s heart had gone out to the guy. All that dough, and he still couldn’t make everything all right for his kid.
That was then.
But Bill had discovered that Dennis had been siphoning off funds from the charity and threatened to turn the judge in if he didn’t repay the money.
Kendall really was a sucker, though, Quinn thought, suppressing a smirk. When the judge said the money was gone and that disclosure of the embezzlement would kill his poor twice-widowed mother—to have her only son felled by scandal—the sap fell for it.
But Kendall had come up with that miserable payback plan. It had been agony.
As everyone listened to the first reading from Scripture, Dennis reached into his pocket, took his handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of his dry eye. It was important that none of the others sitting all dewy-eyed and sniffling alongside him this morning suspect his true feelings. They, who were such Bill Kendall worshipers, must think that he, too, was mourning the loss of Bill.
But he wasn’t.
Chapter 27
During the second Scripture reading, Yelena Gregory sat in the front row on the left-hand side of the cathedral with the other pallbearers. It had been a long walk escorting Bill’s casket down the aisle.
She cast a glance to her left. The KEY News team sat in the pew beside her. Pete Carlson, Eliza Blake, Mack McBride, Harry Granger. She took some solace from sitting next to them, united in paying their respects to Bill.
Pete looked ill at ease. That was understandable. He probably felt awkward as the guy taking Bill Kendall’s spot. Relax, Pete. No one can really take Bill’s place, so don’t even bother to try. You’ll be better off if you are your own person.
Of course, Yelena had to admit to herself, the pressure was really on him. Gone were the days when management waited patiently for on-air talent to catch on with the audience. The pressure would come from corporate and Yelena wouldn’t be able to protect Pete. If he didn’t deliver the ratings in short order, someone else would be brought in. Yelena knew that the someone would be Eliza Blake. Viewer calls and letters were running high in support of her. There had been a few negative opinions expressed about the Mole article, but not enough so far to raise any real worries.
She’d reassure Pete later. She hated to see him hurting.
Pete, her lover, her own. She still marveled at the fact that he found her so desirable. No man had ever wanted her the way Pete did. It was a precious dream come true.
But what if people found out? If they knew, she’d be unable to push for Pete in executive meetings. And then what? Pete wouldn’t like that. She knew it made him happy when she boosted his career. And she so wanted to make Pete happy.
Again, Yelena thought of Bill. Just last week, he had come to her and told her to watch out for Pete, that Bill suspected Pete was too close to the Wingard campaign and wouldn’t be able to be objective in reporting on the presidential race.
Yelena looked over at Pete. She wasn’t going to confront him. And with Bill dead, she didn’t have to make that choice.
Yelena was paying no attention to the Scripture reading. Instead, she looked across the aisle at Louise and William Kendall. Bill had loved that kid so. This whole thing was sad. But she wouldn’t cry, not here, not in public. The president of KEY News had to appear strong.
Chapter 28
He had agonized over what he was going to say. According to the Church, his must be a spiritual discourse to the congregation, not just a recap of the man’s life. Father Alec was well aware that the funeral was not really for Bill Kendall. It was for the people left behind, for family and friends in mourning. It wa
s for the people attending, reflecting on life and death and what Christians believe about the meaning of life and death. Bill Kendall no longer needed to be consoled.
From his position on the altar, Father Alec looked out at the nave of the cathedral. It was full. He recognized many faces. He supposed that the highest ranking would be the vice president of the United States, though there were others sitting there today who had more power. He noted male and female TV personalities and anchorpeople, show business faces, political types and even some foreign dignitaries. He had seen the secretary general of the United Nations arrive. There were hundreds of others he did not recognize. Father Alec could only speculate on who they were and what they did. Try to remember this, he thought. You won’t see an assembly like this again.
When the cathedral had been planned, it had been thought that it would be a worshiping place for wealthy Catholics. But Newark’s fate had dictated the cathedral’s. Its primary use now was for large ceremonies such as the ordination of new priests. The elite lay population which sat there today was an anomaly.
Archbishop Sweeny loved it. His cathedral . . . showcased on national television today. For once, not the innocuous second fiddle to Saint Patrick’s. Father Alec looked over at the cardinal archbishop of New York, sitting across from Sweeney in the sanctuary. He wondered just how bugged Gleason must be, watching Sweeney sitting in the cathedral, the throne of marble with the crest over it, the bishop’s chair.
So far, so good. The bishops had taken off their miters and readjusted their skullcaps. Sweeney’s beanie was the violet of the bishop, Gleason’s the cardinal’s red. The deacon was proclaiming the Gospel.
Father Alec was nervous. Bill Kendall had requested that the young priest deliver the homily. Archbishop Sweeney hadn’t been thrilled. That would normally have been his domain. Though Father Alec didn’t like the idea of stepping on his superior’s toes, and he was nervous at the prospect of addressing this daunting group, he wanted the chance to speak at the funeral of the man he had come to know and respect. Father Alec was keeping his promise.
The time came for Father Alec to mount the steps of the ambo, the elevated marble pulpit on the right side of the altar. The ambo’s marble had come from the same quarry as the marble for Michelangelo’s David. At the bottom of the curved staircase leading up to the speaking platform were two statues, St. Francis de Sales and St. Cyril of Alexandria, the patron saints of wisdom and brevity, respectively. His hands briefly touched the feet of both saints as he began his climb. Please God, let me do this right.
He looked out at the sea of faces. Some of them stared expectantly at him, others were looking around at the marvels of the cathedral, some fiddled with hemlines and handkerchiefs in breast pockets. He knew that some—in fact most—of his audience was not Catholic. But one of his goals this morning was to have as many as possible leaving the cathedral wishing they were.
Father Alec swallowed and began.
“Many of you here this morning make history. Some of you report it. All of you, for one reason or another, have chosen to come here today to pay your respects to Bill Kendall, a man who made his living telling the public what went on in the world each day. Explaining today tomorrow’s history.”
They were listening.
“So I thought it would be appropriate to begin with a short history lesson. And I do promise to keep it short.”
Many in the audience smiled. He could feel them being pulled in.
“We sit here today in a magnificent setting. The Cathedral Basilica of the Sacred Heart. Majestic, awe-inspiring, a tribute to man’s imagination and his ability to implement and execute his ideas, and even his dreams.
“What most people don’t know is that cathedrals were built to house a treasure. The French cathedral in Chartres was built after Charles II presented that tiny town with the tunic worn by the Blessed Virgin at the Annunciation. The cathedral was built to house that tunic, that treasure. The Cathedral of Notre Dame holds a nail from the True Cross.
“But the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart is a modern cathedral; it was not built to hold any particular relic. This cathedral was built to commemorate the treasure of the immigrant spirit here in Newark. The Irish and English and Polish and Italians and Germans came here to Newark, all in search of a better life. They worked hard and prayed hard, and their hard-earned money was earnestly donated to build this structure. The altars in the semicircle behind this sanctuary stand in testimony to Newark’s immigrants. Saints Patrick and David and Lucy Filipini and Boniface: the saints of the old countries standing benevolent guard in the cathedral of the new. The treasure of the hopes and dreams of the people of Newark is the treasure of the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart.”
Archbishop Sweeney sat a little taller on his throne. Father Alec’s hands gripped the marble pulpit tightly and went on. He knew that this would be the place he would most likely lose them. Up to this point they had followed him, comfortable with facts.
“Most of us believe that we are given life for a purpose. Whatever our faith, we believe that we are here to do something with our lives. I would like all of us to imagine that, in a way, we are all meant to build a cathedral with our lives, to find our treasure and build a beautiful cathedral to keep it safe.” Father Alec paused and looked out at his audience.
“What was Bill Kendall’s cathedral like?”
He stopped and looked directly out to the front pew and into the eyes of Louise Kendall. He waited for her to realize that he would be speaking directly to her. Her eyes engaged his.
“God gave Bill 17,233 days to build the cathedral of his life. We watched as Bill Kendall reported triumphs and tragedies, told the stories of heroes and villains, covered space shots, stock market ups and downs, coronations, inaugurations, wars, other people’s lives and deaths. He shed light on the events of the world as we know it. And for many of us, that was the Bill Kendall most of us knew.
“You didn’t have to know Bill long, however, to discover the treasure of his cathedral, what meant the most to him, what sat at the heart of the cathedral of his life.
“For Bill, his son William was his greatest treasure.”
The priest saw Louise take William’s hand.
“Bill was a loving and devoted father to William and was known to have remarked on more than one occasion that, he had gotten much more from his son, than he had given. Bill told a friend that because of William, he had really learned how to pray and he was grateful for that. But Bill, the realist, knew that not everything can be solved by prayer alone. He became very active in fund-raising and, through his efforts, there are more group homes for ‘sperial’ people, more places for them to have dignity and independent lives. Bill Kendall tried to make a difference. He illuminated the need for people to do something to try to make the world a better place, a place closer to God.”
Father Alec couldn’t, wouldn’t, use the word suicide in the homily, but he had to address it. Everyone here knew the anchorman had killed himself. There could be no getting around it. He caught sight of Eliza Blake. Her eyes were filled, the corners of her mouth turned downward.
“What some considered problems, Bill Kendall counted as challenges. And that’s why, gathered here in this holy place, so many of us feel lost, bewildered at the events of the past week.
“I think it is fair to say that many of us have felt desperate at some point in our lives. We’ve felt alone. Far and removed from everyone, even God. This is where belief in God can help us through, help us make our peace with what is, help us accept and go on.
“Did Bill Kendall get the chance to finish his cathedral? I think the answer must be yes. Bill Kendall now stands before Christ in heaven—Christ his Savior, who loved Bill every minute of every one of those 17,233 days. He loved him, most of all, at the last moment of that last day. Bill’s final legacy to us may be in shaking us, reaching us, reminding us by his startling death that, whether we make history, or report it, all of us still have a chance, still have som
e time to build cathedrals of our own.”
Chapter 29
An earnest expression fixed on his face, Pete Carlson listened as the young priest rambled on. He hated to hear this babble about how wonderful Bill Kendall was. It only made things harder for him, more for him to live up to.
The fact that Eliza’s thigh was brushing his as they sat next to each other in the packed pew was the only pleasant part of this whole spectacle. He could feel the warmth of her leg through her silken dress and his fine wool slacks. He was drawn to her at the same time he was threatened by her.
He saw Mack McBride take Eliza’s hand. It annoyed the hell out of him.
From the corner of his eye, he observed the somber faces around him. He had arranged his expression accordingly. It was difficult to feign sorrow, when he was actually pleased. It was even more difficult to keep his mouth shut as everyone had been speculating about why Bill had taken his own life. He chose to keep what he knew to himself, at least for the time being.
Like any newsman, Pete had his sources. He knew why Bill Kendall had wanted to die.
Chapter 30
Range Bullock watched as the gray casket slid into the back of the hearse.
He’d never thought it would end like this. In all the time he and Bill had spent together, Range had never once imagined that his friend was the kind of man who could take his own life.
How close Bill had come to death a few years before! Bill had barely pulled through after that accident they’d had while doing some stories in Eastern Europe.
Range remembered waiting in the pathetic hospital in Bucharest, worrying that he’d be shipping his best friend’s body home. He’d tried to prepare himself psychologically as Bill fought for life.
This time there had been no such mental preparation. No warning.
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 9
