The Delegate made a note on a pad at the enormous desk behind which he was sitting. “Winterbook favorite, very interesting.” There was a touch of green on the bushes in the Archbishop’s garden. Spring came to Washington early. Spring, Easter … Holy Thursday, a time of rebirth, a time of renewed commitments.
“The point, Monsieur l’Archevêque, is that since the Cardinal recommended me as his successor, I feel an obligation to make it clear to you, and through you to the Holy See, if necessary, that under no circumstances will I serve. In the classic words of the American General Sherman, ‘I will not run if nominated, I will not serve if elected!’”
“Of this General Sherman, I have heard,” said the Archbishop. “He also said ‘War is hell,’ did he not?”
It was said of the Delegate that he had learned more about America in three months than his predecessors had in seven years. He probably knew more about the Church in America than did many of Sean’s colleagues in the hierarchy. “He did, Monsieur l’Archevêque. I hope I have made myself clear?”
The Delegate smiled. “Oh, yes, Bishop Cronin, you have made yourself very clear. I will keep in mind what you have said. I am sure, however, that if the Holy Father should insist, you would be happy to serve.”
“This is not a diplomatic visit, Monsieur l’Archevêque,” Sean said. “I am not engaged in complicated Irish-American politics. I gave that up a long time ago. I leave that to my brother. You would be well advised to inform the Holy See that under no circumstances will I be Archbishop of Chicago or archbishop of anyplace else.”
The Delegate nodded. “But of course I will tell them if you insist, Bishop Cronin.” He made another note on his pad. “I may be able to persuade them that you really mean it. However, I must tell you that … oh, yes”—he glanced at his notebook again and then laughed pleasantly—“oh, yes, Bishop Cronin, you are surely the winterbook favorite.”
* * *
“You what?” said Harold Wheaton, one of Washington’s auxiliary bishops, that evening while they were eating dinner in the high-ceilinged dining room of the rectory at the bishop’s parish, a rectory that was built when Abraham Lincoln was President of the United States.
“I told the Apostolic Delegate to take my name out of the running. I meant it, Harry. I don’t want you, or your boss, or any of my friends, or any of your friends, or anybody campaigning for me. If anyone asks why, tell them ‘for spiritual and personal reasons.’”
“You’re not going to resign from the priesthood, are you?” Harold Wheaton was incredulous.
“No, I’m not thinking of leaving the priesthood.”
“What if the choice is you or Quinlan or that old fool O’Malley or some other horse’s ass?”
Sean hesitated. “My answer would still be no.”
“No one ever said you were an easy man to figure out, Sean. I will pass the word that this is not the usual discreet political tactic. But you know what? I think like every other crazy thing you do in your life, this is only going to enhance your chances of becoming the angel to the Church of Chicago.”
Sean sighed. Damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. “They’re going to be awfully embarrassed when I turn them down.”
Later that evening, in the guest room of Bishop Wheaton’s rectory with the street noises of Washington barely audible outside, Sean stared once again at his journal. Nothing to add. He had said no and he meant it. That was that.
The thought of calling Nora, which had been with him since he had awakened in the morning, returned again, insistent, demanding. She was spending most of the time in Washington, having opened up an office in a building just down the street from Lafayette Park. He glanced at his watch: nine thirty.
He dialed the first six numbers of the house in Georgetown, hesitated over the seventh, and then slowly replaced the phone in its cradle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
1976
Nora sighed in relaxed contentment. The sun, the sound of the water, the warmth of the beach on a day in late June were the greatest tranquilizers in the world. Ever since she had been brought into the Cronin household, Glendore had been home much more than the house on Glenwood Drive. It was good to be home again. The first year in Washington had been difficult; her fortieth birthday, a husband who was a more tolerable little boy than he used to be, but still a little boy, the difficulties of opening the Washington office for Cronin Enterprises, and her trips around the country and around the world had worn her out.
“Old girl can’t take it any more,” she said, patting her belly and reassuring herself that it was still presentably flat.
She insisted that July was the month for the family to be at Oakland Beach. Eileen and Mary, students at Notre Dame, not St. Mary’s—What, oh, what, is the world coming to? thought Nora—were perfectly content to put off summer employment until August. Paul, however, had managed to mess up his schedule so badly that he would only be there for part of the Fourth of July weekend.
She was angry at Paul. It was important that their far-flung family spend some time together. Paul didn’t need a junket to Puerto Rico to boost his senatorial image; he was a shoo-in no matter what Jimmy Carter—the likely Democratic candidate—did or said. And subcommittee meetings in Washington in the summertime were ridiculous, especially since, even if he lost the Senate race, Paul would not return to the House of Representatives. Yet he was afraid of being accused of absenteeism, or so he said, so the most he would be in Oakland Beach was for the weekend of the Fourth and perhaps one other weekend at the end of the month.
Paul was running a remarkably intelligent and cautious campaign. Yet every once in a while he did something foolish. It had been only with grave difficulty that she had talked him out of adding South Africa to his tour. He would almost certainly say something wrong there.
Nora began to anoint her shoulders and back with suntan lotion. Noreen was on the golf course, and the older girls were sailing on the Mary Eileen. Another hour of peace and quiet before the three of them came storming in.
The phone next to her on the sundeck rang. “Damn!” she protested. She dropped the suntan lotion as she picked up the phone. “Nora Cronin,” she said in her best businesswoman’s voice.
“I want to sell the Sears Tower and buy the Merchandise Mart, Mrs. Cronin. Do you think you can act as the broker in the deal for me?”
“Good morning, Monsignor McGuire.” She smiled affectionately. “I’m sorry, I’ve already sold the Sears Tower to someone else. He was a little short Italian who claimed that he worked for the Institute of Religious Works.”
“Then you’re really in the world of high finance, Mrs. Cronin. Just hang onto your purse when the people from the IOR are around.”
“Nonsense, Monsignor. The Chicago Irish are much smarter than Vatican bankers.”
“Funny you should mention them, but I need a favor, Nora.” Jimmy was suddenly serious. “Can you come down here and take off our hands one utterly exhausted bishop? The man’s literally stumbling around, bumping into things, he’s so tired. When the Archbishop’s resignation is effective in September, he’s going to become administrator, and we don’t need an administrator who hasn’t had a summer vacation.”
Nora hesitated, but only for a moment. “Of course, Jimmy. I’ll be down there tomorrow morning and give him his marching orders.… Is he going to be the next archbishop?”
“Odds-on favorite, but you know Sean. He’s told Rome that he absolutely, positively, will not accept the job.”
Nora retrieved the fallen suntan lotion with her feet. “And I’m sure he’s convinced them he means it.”
“Somebody is going to have to tell him to take the job, even if he doesn’t want it.”
“Who?”
“Come on, Nora Riley Cronin.” Jimmy was his carefree, merry self again. “There’s only one person who can get away with giving orders to Sean Cronin, and it ain’t the Pope.”
“See you tomorrow morning, Monsignor.”
She
unfastened the halter on her swimsuit and rolled over on her stomach. This was the year that she and Sean were going to have to finally sort things out. It wasn’t going to be easy. Mary Eileen’s death had brought them together again, but there was still an awkward, halting friendship, haunted by unexorcised demons from the past.
* * *
“Sean, you look like hell,” Nora said. She was standing at the door of the Auxiliary Bishop’s office in the chancery skyscraper.
“Nora, I’m busy.” He looked up from the desk, frowning at her.
Oh, God, he was tired. She had seen faces like that on the old men at the home where Mary Eileen had lived and died.
“You shouldn’t come down here without an appointment.”
Nora laughed. “Would you look at who’s turning into a pompous churchman. Even his own sister can’t come into his sacred office without getting permission.”
Nora turned to the handsome black woman working in Sean’s outer office. “Mrs. Jackson, will you get Monsignor McGuire for me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mrs. Jackson. She was no doubt overjoyed to see somebody who would give orders to the Auxiliary Bishop.
“Nora, please. I know I’m tired … overworked.… I should have called you before, but this morning is just too much. Now if you’ll let me get back to work.…”
“No way am I going to let you get back to work, Bishop Cronin. Ah, there you are, Monsignor McGuire. I take it the Bishop has a hectic schedule of appointments for the next three weeks even though it’s summertime and there are no confirmations or anniversary celebrations?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Monsignor McGuire.
“Monsignor McGuire,” she said, “cancel them all. The Bishop is leaving with me after lunch to spend the Fourth of July weekend with his family. He will be permitted to return here only when we are ready to certify to you that he will not be a boorish, insufferable ogre. Is that clear, Monsignor McGuire?”
“Absolutely, Your Holiness,” Jimmy said. “When they call and ask for Bishop Cronin, we will just say, ‘Bishop who?’”
She turned to Sean. “Now is that clear to you, Bishop Cronin?”
Sean smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ll be in front of the cathedral rectory at one thirty. You be there too. With your golf clubs. Understand?” She gave up trying to hide her maternal smile.
Sean looked younger already. “Yes, Your Holiness,” he said.
“Well, am I glad that’s settled,” Jimmy said. “Vacation for the rest of us begins when we get rid of the boss.”
Nora dusted off her hands as though chewing out an overworked bishop was a piece of cake. “Where I am, Monsignor McGuire, I’m the boss.” To herself she said, Oh, God, Nora, this is going to be a tough one.
* * *
It took until the bicentennial weekend for Sean to relax and realize how tired he really was. It seemed that he had been tired ever since he had been ordained twenty years before. St. Jadwiga’s, graduate school, the council, the Birth Control Committee, parish work at the cathedral—no time to relax, no time to think, not even much time to pray. No wonder he was a wreck. No wonder even Jimmy McGuire couldn’t take him any more and had to have Nora come and drag him off.
The renewal and rededication themes of the bicentennial celebration were a powerful sermon for him. Indeed, he gave a sermon on these themes at a small Mass he said for the Cronins and some of their neighbors on the morning of July Fourth. He talked about tall ships and tall spirits and freedom and hope and recommitment and persuaded himself that it was time to revive his own spirits and renew his own life—he would not work so hard, he would take more time off, he would learn how to pray again.
A tiny voice deep inside of him expressed skepticism.
In the afternoon, while Nora was presiding over the preparation of the festival dinner, Sean and his brother relaxed at the beach. Paul had been thoroughly drubbed on the golf course once again by his youngest daughter.
“It isn’t even close any more,” he said. “She was twelve strokes up on me yesterday. Today she was seventeen strokes up—not because my game was worse but because the little brat shot a seventy-six.”
It was hard to tell whether Paul was proud of his daughter or felt threatened by her.
“Will Nora let her go on the golf tour when she’s older?” Sean asked.
“I’m sure she will. Not that it would make much difference. Noreen will do what she wants to do. But, as Nora says, that’s one child we’ll never have to worry about.”
“Amazing how much she’s like her mother at the same age,” Sean said. He put aside the book he had been reading and tucked it under his beach chair. “A lot more confident, though, not a trace of awkwardness … maybe happier.”
“Oh, yes, a lot happier,” Paul agreed. “She doesn’t have Dad around to hound her. You know, little brother, I sometimes think it’s a good thing that the old man is out of our hair. He would have made life miserable for the kids.”
For a moment Sean seethed. What a damn-fool, stupid, patronizing, unkind thing to say. They were having a spectacular Fourth of July weekend while their father was practically a prisoner in the Hancock Tower, with his nurse and his inevitable television set. Then he realized that Paul was probably right. Michael Cronin would have made his granddaughters’ lives difficult. “Dad’s slipping,” he said. “I don’t think it will be much longer now. I hope you get a chance to see him before you go to Puerto Rico.”
“Oh, I will. No problem. It’s just that my life is so crazy I don’t know where I’m headed half the time.” Paul shrugged, his shoulders hinting at the enormous burdens carried by a member of the House of Representatives.
“What does that labor convention in Puerto Rico have to do with the senatorial race in November?” Sean was curious. “Are there going to be that many delegates from Illinois?”
“Oh, 1976 doesn’t have anything to do with it.” Paul waved aside the question and took a swallow from his beer can. “It’s ’80 and ’84 that I have in mind. They invited me to talk, and it’s a good place to start building for the future.” He blew the foam off his lips.
“You’re thinking that far ahead?”
“Yes, though sometimes, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure why. I’d just as soon laze around Oakland Beach all summer with Nora and the kids. However, I’m in the game and I guess I have to play it out.”
And a little prudence. The words sprang into Sean’s mind, but not to his lips. Although he’d become politically cautious, his brother had, if anything, grown personally more reckless through the years. He drove faster, swung his golf club more fiercely—especially when it was clear his daughter was going to beat him. And he had plunged into the lake for a swim the day before, braving a treacherous undertow and four-foot waves. What was it in Paul that made him court danger?
“What’s on your mind?” Paul said. “You suddenly turned serious on me. You thinking about Dad?”
“No. I was thinking about how difficult a politician’s life must be.”
Paul waved both his arms expansively. “Don’t feel too much pity for us. We love the attention, the public eye. Once you’re addicted to it, it beats everything, even sex. Anyway, I think I’ll have a swim. The little hellcat can’t beat me at that. At least not yet.” He strolled toward the inviting waters of the lake.
“Be careful,” Sean shouted after him, instantly wishing he had swallowed his words.
“Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.” Paul laughed and dove under a cresting wave.
The next senator from Illinois had put on a little weight, and his muscles were not as hard and taut as they used to be. Yet, even if he was somewhat out of condition, he was a handsome and appealing figure.
* * *
The evening before Paul was to leave for San Juan, Nora and the two men in her life dined at the Apricot Restaurant in La Porte and then returned to the balcony overlooking the lake for coffee and Irish Mist. Paul lit a cigarette, Nora put th
e coffeepot on a small table, humming a Sousa march. The air was humid and still, the lake a black blanket under the stars. Mosquitoes and fireflies buzzed around them.
“Don’t go to San Juan, Paul,” Sean said suddenly. “Stay here for another week. You need the rest. We ought to spend more time together.”
Nora fought to hold down her panic. For a moment it sounded like Amalfi all over again.
“Sean’s right,” she said. “You do look tired. You don’t need that talk for your campaign. Besides, you should get a checkup.”
Paul laughed. “You’re beginning to sound like a worried suburban housewife. I’m fine, never better. I’ll see the doc during the August recess. Besides”—he waved his cigarette—“I can’t let the union leaders down.”
“Don’t go,” Sean repeated.
“Why not?” Paul was curious.
“I don’t really know why not.” Sean was deadly serious. “I have a feeling about it, that’s all.”
Nora had never heard Sean sound so gloomy. “What kind of feeling?” she asked. He was frightening her.
Sean shrugged his shoulders. “I’m being foolish. Forgive me. Exhaustion must finally be catching up.”
“Don’t worry, Sean,” Paul said. “If I’m not here to fight off the terrors, Nora will take care of you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
1976
Nicole Shields had persuaded Paul—nagged him, might be a better way of putting it—to leave the hotel and drive to the beach on the west side of the island. It was terribly hot, but there was a breeze coming off the Caribbean and the beach was deserted. Nicole pulled her sweat shirt over her head, undid the bra of her bikini, and ran toward the water. Paul tagged along behind.
Nicole turned to him. “Not afraid of the ocean, are you? Or are you afraid of me?”
Without high heels, she was a small woman: short like her mother but much more slender. Her body had the piquant appeal of an early teenager, but her seductiveness was not so much in her face or figure as in an enormous sexual energy. “A little bit of both,” he admitted. She grabbed his hands and drew close to him, pressing his palms against her naked breasts.
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