The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  “College, Dad,” Colleen corrected her father. “Second year at the community, remember?” Bill nodded. “Dad, have you and Ryan got your nets fixed yet?”

  “They’ll do for the next fishing trip. I have more darn repair knots in the net than original ones!” He smiled at his daughter. “How about some breakfast?”

  She stood up. “Breakfast will be ready by seven o’clock. Waffles, bacon, and in honor of the Vatican, cappuccino!”

  “Wow! To what do I owe all this special service?”

  “Well, you’re still a close friend of God through Uncle Cardinal Brian.” Colleen gestured toward the TV set. “So I have to be nice to you—just in case there really is a God in heaven.” She had taken to obliquely criticizing dependence on religious faith.

  Bill repressed the slight frown that threatened his face. He and the children had all been devastated by Mary Kelly’s death from cancer three years earlier and it had affected them in different ways. Colleen had been particularly close to her mother, and the loss had instilled in her a deep sense of desertion by God. Since the funeral she had stopped going to Mass, and Bill never pressed her on the matter.

  Colleen left the room for the kitchen. “Bring it in here,” he called after her. “I’ll watch a bit of the TV special on the conclave just to see if Brian is in any of it.” She soon returned with a tray and placed it in his lap, then sat down beside him.

  “Thanks, Colleen. Looks delicious.” He began to devour it.

  “Will you stop for lunch in town?” she asked.

  “Nah, too much repair work to do. Remember, I’m leaving at six-thirty tonight. We’ve got to be out on the banks at sunrise tomorrow or the fish will swim away.”

  “But you’ve got to eat! We want you to stay healthy—so us kids can keep taking all your money.”

  “Sure you do. So I’m thirty thousand in debt right now.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad.” She smiled encouragingly. “You’ll make it. You always do. And just think, Ryan will handle the captain’s job in a year. Won’t you be proud of him then? Imagine, my brother, only twenty-one years old and captain of his own boat! Incidentally, I heard Captain Charlie is sick and can’t go out on this trip. Did you find someone?”

  Bill looked at her sheepishly. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Meant to tell you. His name is Ryan!”

  “Dad, you didn’t! You said yourself he needs time to season. He’s barely three years out of high school.”

  “Times are tough, Colleen. One less captain’s pay will help us considerably, and I think Ryan will do OK. I noticed last trip that I shouted at him very seldom. I was reminded of the time I asked my dad when I would get to captain a boat and he said, ‘when I have to shout at you half as much as I do now—I’ll think about it.’”

  Bill nodded and smiled at his reminiscence. “It’s true Ryan is just twenty-one, but my God, he’s six foot four, weighs two hundred twenty-five pounds, and could wrestle a lion.”

  “I guess he takes after his father,” Colleen laughed.

  “In any case, I did tell our mate, Manny, to keep an eye on him. We’ll be back in three or four days with a boatload.”

  “Mom said you didn’t make captain until you were thirty-eight.”

  “Ten years trying to be a good priest didn’t help make a seaman of me.”

  “Hey, look, Dad!” Colleen exclaimed. “There’s Uncle Brian on TV again!”

  “Yes, yes,” Bill replied. “That’s an old repeat from after the funeral. They must be running out of new material.”

  “You were close, weren’t you? Mom always said he was your closest friend at the seminary.”

  “Yes, we were buddies, you could say. Had a lot of fun together.”

  She caught the glow in his eyes as he spoke. “Dad, do you miss being a priest? Are you sorry you have four kids on your hands?”

  He looked back with a steady gaze. “No, I wouldn’t trade my years with your mom and you kids for anything.” He paused thoughtfully. “Naturally, there are some feelings of guilt for going back on a commitment, but I know Christ has washed away my failure in his own blood. If I have a faraway look, it is directed at Brian. Imagine … a cardinal of the Church! He could do anything.” Bill paused, suddenly remembering how talk of religion could upset his daughter. He laughed. “Except hit an inside curve ball.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. I was in my sophomore year when he came out for the baseball team.” Bill stared at the cardinal answering questions on the TV screen. “He was good at anything when he put his mind to it. He’d never played baseball in Ireland, just soccer, and we didn’t have a soccer team. But he worked hard and finally became a dandy second baseman and pretty good with the bat, but he always had trouble with the curve!”

  Bill glanced at Colleen and chuckled at her look of relief now that he was away from the subject of religion. “I reminded him of that when he was made bishop … just to keep him humble!”

  Colleen laughed. “That’s sweet. He owes you one.”

  “I never thought of it that way. How are your college classes coming?”

  “I have a makeup exam today on Renaissance art. Missed it last week. We had a birthday party for Roger, remember? Where’s Ryan?”

  “Good lad. Already on the boat.”

  Bill finished his breakfast and walked across the living room to look out the window at the fisherman’s cove below his home. His thoughts wandered once again to seminary days and to Brian. He had always been impressed with Brian’s resolve. It had inspired him after his original enthusiasm at hearing God’s call to the priesthood weakened, whereas Brian’s only intensified. Bill’s father had accepted his son’s announcement that he was joining the priesthood with little joy. He had been counting on Bill to join him in the fishing business. However, the more the elder Kelly visited his son in the atmosphere of the seminary, the greater his understanding of Bill’s spiritual aspirations grew.

  Brian Comiskey often spent his vacations and holidays with the Kellys and soon became one of the family. After their ordinations, Brian was sent to Rome for advanced study, and, following completion of his doctoral thesis, he was assigned to the Pontifical Institute for Justice and Peace, an important Vatican agency dealing with various worldwide humanitarian concerns of the Church. After completing his first four-year tour, Brian wanted out of the Vatican and out of Rome. He petitioned for and was assigned to a parish and a part-time professorship at Maynooth University in Ireland.

  Bill Kelly had found himself teaching at a prestigious parochial high school in San Francisco but got bored and was transferred to various parishes in the Boston area. He found them interesting enough but far from the challenge he had set for himself as a missionary in some developing nation. High-strung and energetic, Bill felt increasingly frustrated and unfulfilled by the unending routines of the parishes.

  In the fifth year Bill was assigned to an old Irish pastor in a predominantly Portuguese immigrant community on Cape Cod. Although a big tourist area in the summer, it was quiet the rest of the year. Here he was near his family, yet kept routinely busy in his parish, where he built a playground for immigrant children and learned to speak Portuguese. Then, as fate would have it, his old pastor sent to Ireland for a niece to act as his housekeeper.

  Mary was then a lovely colleen of eighteen. For three years the youthful priest and vivacious Irish lass, together on almost a daily basis, struggled to resist their natural, almost fierce attraction to each other. But when Bill finally, impulsively swept her into his arms and kissed her, he was crushed by his own weakness and confused by the sheer power of his emotional upheaval. He drove to see his superiors in Boston, finally asking for their assistance in releasing him from his vows so he could get married. The shock to the family when he told them he was departing the priesthood was almost as devastating as when he had told them he was entering it.

  He asked Mary if she would consider marrying him when he received his dispensation. Overjoy
ed, Mary repeated the thrilling proposal to her uncle. Being a priest of the old school, he was affronted and immediately sent her packing back to Ireland. A letter in which her uncle painted an evil picture of the situation, far worse than the innocent facts warranted, prefaced Mary’s arrival at home. Mary was not welcomed with open arms. Lost and adrift, she wrote to Bill for help. The day Bill received the letter, he called his old classmate, Brian.

  Soon he learned how close the two men still were despite the separation of time and distance. Brian, already a monsignor, found Mary a job in one of his parish schools and kept Bill informed of her activities.

  After a year and a half of waiting, Bill’s dispensation finally arrived and he flew to Ireland to bring Mary home to Cape Cod. They went somewhat fearfully to the pastor at the local church on the Cape. He too was older and Bill feared the worst. But when the priest told them that they could plan a wedding in two months, their fears were turned to tears of joy. “A certain priest friend of yours named Brian Comiskey has been in touch with me,” their pastor mentioned. “He will be coming over here to perform the wedding ceremony. Let him know the date.”

  That thoughtfulness and care sealed the bond between the two men forever. Brian later came to baptize three of their four children. He regularly spent a week’s vacation with them during the summer months. With Mary Kelly’s death especially, Uncle Brian completed the Kelly family circle. But even Brian had been unable to reason with the grieving Colleen, who refused to believe that if there really was a just God in heaven her mother would have died and left them.

  Bill turned from the window to go down to the docks. It was the last week of September. He could hardly help wondering what his famous friend was doing inside Vatican City. Undoubtedly, Brian was deep in prayer as he prepared to help select the new leader of the Roman Catholic Church.

  3

  CAPPELLA SISTINA

  While the outside world was kept informed by constant repeats of past TV interviews and stories, the little world behind the conclave doors began to take on its own special character. The official mourning and reflection period over, a sense of excitement tinged with anxiety prevailed as the cardinals filed into specially prepared chambers to begin the process of electing a new pope. The magnificent Sistine Chapel had been meticulously swept for bugs or other electronic devices by two highly trained and trustworthy security technicians.

  But even before the Sistine officials had put their security experts to work, two days in advance of the conclave, the cardinals were obliged to swear a solemn oath. Under pain of excommunication, they were forbidden to ever discuss the balloting “either by signs, word, or writings or in any other manner.” The cardinals also had to promise and swear “not to use devices designed in any way for taking pictures.” It was apparent that Pope Paul VI, who laid down these rules, and Pope John Paul II, who affirmed them, were well acquainted with the foibles and proclivities of the princes of the Roman Catholic Church.

  Every cardinal was an individual with his own distinct ideas. Yet together they possessed an esprit de corps similar to that of any body dedicating itself to a distinct purpose. All confessed to one faith and shared one common bond. All believed to the depths of their souls that divine guidance would shape the outcome of their deliberations, come what might, and that they were, each one, chosen specifically by God to select his next representative on earth.

  Thus, for these princes of the Church, an intense animation emanated from the very gathering itself. Each was acutely aware that the world outside was awaiting the outcome of this conclave. They were aware also that their decision would have a profound effect not only on the Catholic Church but also on the entire sectarian and even secular world. Their growing apprehension was born of the knowledge that many divisions existed among them. Much time, reflection, and compromising lay ahead before any final decision could be reached. Also, much active politicking.

  Although the camerlengo, who as the chamberlain of the Holy Roman Church was in charge of the proceedings and was not supposed to be a candidate for the papacy, Robitelli had apparently convinced the deceased pope to appoint him to the position just prior to his death. Thus he was both ruler of the conclave and contender for the election, a position that almost guaranteed him succession to the throne of St. Peter.

  Cardinal Robitelli had informed the other assembled cardinals that he would open the first session of voting at three in the afternoon, and precisely at that hour the camerlengo struck his gavel on the table before him. He looked out over this group of equals with what seemed a friendly smile. “Benvenuto al Vaticano. Dear brothers, you are certainly aware of why we are here. The Holy Spirit will be our guide; therefore, we have nothing to fear. Put yourselves at ease and we will begin the preliminary process of electing three scrutineers, counters and tabulators of the votes,” he explained in three languages to ensure that all the cardinals understood the procedure. “And then we go to the first vote.”

  This brought appreciative chuckles from the assemblage. A raised hand from the African, Augustine Motupu, brought a slight frown of annoyance to Robitelli’s brow. Rules of procedure did not permit interruptions; the African was surely aware of this.

  “Cardinal Motupu, I see your hand is raised. Is there a problem?”

  The black cardinal rose to his feet and cleared his throat nervously. “No, Your Eminence. That is, I don’t perceive it as a problem. I just had an idea and would like to address this illustrious group for a moment if I may.”

  “This is highly irregular, Cardinal Motupu. You received a copy of the rules for this election several days ago.”

  “Yes, yes, Your Eminence, I read them through. It is in regard to those rules that I wish to speak.”

  The camerlengo was caught so off guard by the statement that he failed to reply immediately to Motupu. The pause was taken as a sign of consent by the African cardinal. “Dear brothers, as you know, I have on occasion in the past requested that the Holy Father review this method of election and perhaps give consideration to an election by acclamation, which has been done in the Church before.” A gasp of astonishment, almost a hissing sound, was audible. “I would like—”

  The sharp banging of the gavel rang out. Robitelli was now fully recovered and showed marked signs of irritation.

  “Dear brother,” he interrupted testily, “we are aware of your opinions of concern expressed to our late pope. We are aware also that nothing resulted from them. We must and will proceed according to the process laid down by Pope Paul VI in the year of Our Lord 1975. As camerlengo I have both the duty and the authority to run this conclave in that manner. We will commence voting until we have a two-thirds-plus-one majority. With the tragic death of our brother in South America we now have one hundred nineteen voting cardinals. Thus the number of votes necessary to elect a pope is eighty.” He nodded to Motupu. “When our new pope is elected, you may take your proposition up with him.”

  The silence in the room suddenly lay on the gathering like a shroud. Cardinal Motupu felt stripped naked in front of all. Robitelli immediately realized he had allowed impatience to color his demeanor and tried to smooth it over. “I’m sorry if I spoke overly quickly, dear brother. It’s merely that … as you can see … this camerlengo posture is new to me. I feel I must follow the rules exactly as laid down. Perhaps we can entertain your ideas again afterward, when we have finished the election. There are many ways to elect a pope, as we are all aware from our history. Right now, however, we have a proven method, and we will abide by it until this particular election is over.”

  Cardinal Motupu slowly seated himself in silence. Robitelli was back in control.

  “Let us first elect the three scrutineers.” He suggested three cardinals who were immediately elected unanimously. The next order of business was the introduction of the handful of staff allowed to be in the conclave with the voting cardinals. The dean of the college of cardinals was presented, followed by three masters of ceremonies, a clerical assistant to
the dean, and two physicians. All had subscribed to the oath of secrecy that each cardinal had solemnly taken.

  “This afternoon we will take the first vote of this conclave,” Robitelli announced. “Tomorrow morning we will take the second and third. In the afternoon we will cast our fourth and fifth ballots. Each day we will take four votes. If at the end of three days we have not elected a pope we will take a day of prayer and reflection and start again. If at the end of thirty ballots we still have not elected a pope, a simple majority will carry the day.”

  Robitelli could hardly restrain a smile, knowing that he could almost certainly command a simple majority of the cardinals eligible to vote. “After the ballot is cast this afternoon, we will return to the Domus Sanctae Marthae. In this new hotel within the walls of the Vatican, for the first time in the history of the Church the cardinals will enjoy comfortable rooms with showers and soft beds. If any cardinal is sick during the conclave, his vote can be taken from his room.”

  Within minutes Robitelli’s organizational skills brought everyone in focus and the first vote was taken. Every cardinal had studied the rules of procedure. On a rectangular piece of paper with the words Eligo in Summum Pontificem (I choose as Supreme Pontiff) at the top, each voter wrote the name of his choice in disguised handwriting.

  The paper was folded twice, and one by one the electors approached the altar. Holding his ballot above a large silver receptacle, each one proclaimed aloud, “I call as my witness Christ the Lord who will be my judge, that my vote is given to the one who before God I think should be elected.”

  It was well over an hour before the 119 electors present had all cast ballots and returned to their armchairs. The votes were counted by the three cardinal scrutineers, and the choice on each ballot was read aloud to the voters. One of the masters of ceremonies then collected the ballots and burned them, sending the first stream of chemically induced black smoke up the chimney of the Sistine Chapel. The outside world was thus notified that the voting for the next pope was under way.