The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  Questions were hurled at him as he walked to the gate. He answered none, and soon, followed by the press, he entered the gate to catch the Alitalia afternoon flight to Boston. Several reporters tried to buy tickets on the flight. But Pullella and Simon got the last two cancellations.

  Brian Cardinal Comiskey was on his way to America at last. He sat by the window in first class, looking out at the boarding area. He smiled and shook his head. He could see Father Farrell in the midst of a knot of cameras and reporters, presiding as though he were the pope himself.

  7

  FEED MY SHEEP

  At the moment Brian Comiskey left the conclave, it was eleven-thirty in the morning in Rome and five-thirty A.M. on Georges Bank off the rugged New England coast. Ryan Kelly went into the captain’s compartment of their ninety-foot fishing trawler, Mary One, to wake up his father. They had fished for four days on the bank and after one more day they would be heading back to port.

  Ryan stared at his father in disbelief. Bill Kelly’s face seemed to be glowing in the lifting darkness of dawn. Ryan marveled at the exultation on his father’s features. “Hey, Dad, what were you dreaming about? You look like you’ve seen Moses and Elijah on the mountain.”

  “I’m happy to note that you remember your Gospel studies,” Bill replied dryly.

  “Seriously, Dad, our catch has been good, but not that good.”

  “Just a funny dream. Get the crew moving. I’ll be in the wheelhouse in fifteen minutes. We’ll drag one more day and head home tonight.”

  All day the dragger crew dropped and hauled in the bottom-scraping nets, adding to the catch they would deliver to the New Bedford market by dawn the next morning. Manny, the faithful first mate for twenty years with Bill, and before Bill with his father, kept a curious eye on his boss. Bill Kelly indeed seemed transformed—different, at least—from the stoic former-priest-turned-fishing-captain. His countenance seemed to glow with some new but very palpable inner presence.

  It was after supper and the ship was on automatic pilot now for New Bedford. Ryan came up to the wheelhouse to sit for a while with his father and Manny. As he entered he caught half a sentence that included his name. Bill turned to his son and smiled. “Come on in, Ryan. Sit down and you can hear the answer to the question I just put to Manny.” Then, to his first mate: “Well, Manny, what do you say? Don’t kid me. Is this guy ready to move up a notch or not?”

  Manny glanced at Ryan with a friendly smile and wink. Then he turned back and, true to the captain’s expectation, the mate’s smile vanished as he paused to frame his response.

  “Being captain can be a nightmare as well as a thrill. I’ve watched Ryan develop. He knows every job on this tub. Of course, there is no way someone can be trained to handle captain when problems rise up among the men … or the weather … or in an accident. Then it’s more instinct than skill. It’s all in how someone uses the new authority. There’s a fine line between being one of the guys and giving orders that will be instantly obeyed.” Manny sighed and his expression lightened. “That’s really about all I can say.”

  Ryan eagerly joined in the conversation. “Wow! Dad, do you mean you might make me captain sometime? Of which boat? This one? The Mary One?”

  “Maybe sooner than you think,” Bill said thoughtfully. “Don’t you have the watch?”

  Ryan nodded and stepped out onto the deck, making his way forward to relieve the crewman watching for other boats in these waters. Manny’s eyes followed him. “One thing I didn’t say, but yes, Ryan has the right attitude. He’ll make a first-rate captain.” Then, after a long pause, a grin crossed his face.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Your son. He said when he woke you up this morning you looked like you’d had a happy dream, and he hoped it was about his mother.” He refocused on Bill’s face. “You know, you do look like the happy fisherman right now. The rest of us have noticed it all day, a sort of glow and a light step on the deck.”

  Bill’s face took on a sober, serious expression as he looked at his mate and longtime friend. “Manny, I never asked about religious ideas, but I know you are a Catholic like me.”

  “I’m not an ex-priest,” Manny said.

  “Once a priest always a priest,” Bill murmured. Then, “Manny, could I bounce something off your brain?”

  “Sure. Can’t say I’m much of a Catholic, though. Mostly I go to Mass because my wife drags me there. But I have faith in God. Out here you need it. What’s on your mind?”

  “Well, now, don’t laugh at me, Manny, but do you believe in visions, prophecies, apparitions, Our Lady of Fatima? Stuff like that?”

  “Yeah. I guess so. I just accept what the priest says in Church. I sure don’t have any background like you to be able to argue about it. Are you telling me you had a vision?”

  “Yes. I don’t really know, but I feel warm all over. I think, well, something like that happened early this morning. Yes. It’s so weird when I think about it, it gives me the shivers. It also exhilarated me from the time Ryan woke me up.”

  “Yeah, he mentioned your look this morning. Like I said, he hoped it was his mother you were dreaming about. God, Bill, did you see the Blessed Virgin or something?”

  “Maybe Our Lady of Fatima was there, Manny. I felt like I was in a fog, but I could clearly see her and hear her. I seemed to be seeing myself standing alone with a mist around me. Then I heard this voice: ‘Peter, do you love me more than these others?’ I looked around, startled, and suddenly I said, ‘Yes, Lord, you know I do.’” Bill seemed surprised by his own explanation. “‘Feed my sheep, William,’ I heard. Then I cried, ‘What do you mean? Who are you?’ And I heard a soft whisper. ‘He’s coming for you.’”

  Bill paused, searching his mate’s face. “That’s it, Manny. I could dismiss the dream part as just a dream. Our Lady of Fatima has been on my mind since the Vatican released the third prophecy earlier this year. I know that quote of Jesus to Peter—it was sung at my ordination at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in Boston. But God! I was wide awake when I heard the whisper. I saw the clock, five o’clock. It was almost time to get up, but I felt totally wiped out so I thought I’d try to grab a few more winks. Then Ryan shook me awake and I noticed the clock again. It had only been five minutes. But I felt like I was on top of the world. I was so rested, so elated … I can’t explain it.”

  “God, Bill. It sure would scare the hell out of me … especially that ‘He’s coming for you.’ What does that mean? Is that all?”

  Bill shook his head. “I thought at first it was something I ate. The cold crab cakes. But later … er…”

  “What happened later? For God’s sake, tell me, Bill. Tell me,” Manny implored.

  “In a few minutes I fell back to sleep and I saw the vision of Our Lady of Fatima. She told me about the many challenges to the Church and the world. I don’t know, Manny, I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Bill pressed the rosary beads in his pocket and, deciding not to reveal anything more to Manny, merely said, “Thanks for listening to me.”

  8

  IRISH BREAD WITH CARAWAY SEEDS

  Victor Simon of AP and Mario Pullella of Reuters jumped onto the Alitalia flight to Boston at the last minute and made one more attempt to question Cardinal Comiskey. He politely reiterated that he was on conclave business, which had to remain secret. Again, he assured the two veteran reporters that he would be gone only a few days and, upon his return, the conclave would elect a new pope. Brian had been bumped up to first class earlier by the head flight attendant, Lucia, who gave instructions to the rest of the crew that His Eminence was not to be disturbed. Comiskey was so tired he didn’t touch his food and immediately fell asleep.

  The Alitalia flight approached its three-thirty P.M. landing at Boston’s Logan International Airport on time. The call from Rome by Cardinal Cushman had been acted upon at once by Bishop Murray at the Boston Archdiocese. The instructions were explicit. “Brian Cardinal Comiskey will be arriving on Alitalia a
t three-thirty P.M. You are to meet him there. Don’t ask any questions. Don’t inform anybody where you are going. Take him back to the chancery at Lake Street, where he will stay overnight. Then make arrangements to transport him and meet with Bishop Sean Patrick McCarrick at Fall River early the next morning. Keep everything as tightly confidential as possible.”

  Only an hour after the call from Cardinal Cushman, CNN telephoned to confirm the story that Cardinal Comiskey was on his way to Boston after an unheard-of absence from the conclave. Bishop Murray was smart, alert, perceptive, and well connected, all reasons for his rapid advance upward within the Church hierarchy. Turning on WBZ, the all-news radio station in Boston, he heard in minutes that Comiskey was on his way to Boston to collect information needed at the conclave. Bishop Bill Murray reacted immediately to the fast-spreading news as all the media began ringing the chancery.

  Bill Murray called his friend Benny Tauro, the Italian-born, totally Americanized public relations director at the Massachusetts Port Authority. Benny had already heard that Cardinal Comiskey was aboard the Alitalia flight and had been about to telephone Murray when the call came in from the chancery.

  “Yeah, Bill.” Benny did not waste time with titles. “I’ve already got security standing by. The VIP room will be cleared if you need it. The Irish around here can hardly wait to see the cardinal from Ireland! What’s his mission?”

  “Don’t know, Benny. Now look, I’ll be at Logan to meet him. Help me get him off the plane, and you escort him through customs. Please ask the state police to allow my driver to park his car outside the baggage exit. I suspect there will be a lot of press waiting for him outside customs.”

  “Do you want a press room or the VIP lounge cleared for any media meeting?”

  “No. What I heard from Rome is, he will be as brief as possible with the reporters. We’ll get in the car and go to the cardinal’s residence on Commonwealth Avenue and Lake Street, in Brighton. Some of the press will follow us and there may even be reporters on the plane trying to tail him. Let’s just get him into my car as fast as possible.”

  “You got it, Bill.”

  “Thanks. See you about three o’clock, then, Benny.”

  An anxious Bill Murray and his young priest driver arrived at Logan International Airport in advance of the flight and was dismayed at the crowd of photographers, TV cameras, and reporters already waiting for Cardinal Comiskey. State Trooper Jim Harrington and his partner, Steve Long, were standing outside by their patrol car at the curb, just outside the baggage carousel where passengers would pick up their luggage and carry it through customs prior to getting outside. Bishop Murray thoughtfully fingered the silver cross that hung around his neck, setting off the severe black suit and silk vest that reached to his collar. Benny Tauro was waiting and took his arm. “We can sit in my office until the flight makes its final approach, then go out to meet him as he comes up the inner ramp.”

  A large photo of Benny and Pope John Paul II hung prominently on the wall. The photo had been taken at the airport when the Holy Father made his first visit to the United States as pope. Benny and Bishop Murray left the sanctuary of Benny’s office to meet the cardinal’s plane. The press were milling around. Reporters recognized Bishop Murray from the archdiocese and began bombarding him with questions. The smiling, friendly bishop replied like a mantra, “I’m as anxious as you to hear what Cardinal Comiskey has to say. I have no specifics as to why he is coming here to Boston.”

  “Isn’t it absolutely forbidden for a cardinal-elector to leave the conclave before a new pope is chosen?” a reporter respectfully shouted.

  “I don’t know what it’s about, Danny,” the bishop replied to a reporter he knew from WBZ-TV. It was Murray’s job to represent the cardinal in his absence and handle critical and complex public relations situations.

  “Aw, come on, Bishop,” another reporter wheedled. “What did the Vatican tell you when it called? Was it Cardinal Cushman from inside the walls?”

  “I couldn’t say. Like all of you I was asked to come here and meet the cardinal.”

  Adroitly, Bill Murray and Benny Tauro verbally jostled with the press a few more moments, then left the area outside customs to meet the plane as it was preparing to unload passengers. Cardinal Comiskey was the first to walk through the gate, carrying his only luggage, an overnight satchel. Bishop Murray, Benny Tauro, and Trooper Harrington introduced themselves and led him to customs, ahead of the planeload of people arriving from Rome.

  In moments, Cardinal Comiskey cleared customs and found himself surrounded by the media. In reply to the torrent of questions about the conclave and amid snapping flashbulbs, he politely explained to the press that he was on official business. “As all of you well know, I am not permitted to talk about my assignment, and I hope you will all respect that. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific but I do expect to be on my way back to Rome very shortly. When I arrive I expect the conclave will move forward rapidly toward electing a pope. There is really nothing to be concerned about. This is a matter of routine and protocol. I am carrying out an official function. Let me repeat that I expect we shall have a new pope very shortly after my return to Rome.” And, he thought, it will be Eugenio Cardinal Robitelli unless God really does make his own choice and perform the needed miracle.

  “Are you staying at Lake Street?”

  “Is it about finances? Vatican Bank?”

  The cardinal walked to the waiting car and gratefully slid into the backseat of the sedan. Bishop Murray stepped in beside him. “I’m afraid, Your Eminence, that when we reach the sanctuary of the chancery, the press will be outside, hoping for some scraps of information. I can understand the speculative frenzy gripping the newsrooms of not only Boston but the nation, and even the world,” he observed. “I have asked Father Peter Conroy, editor of The Pilot, our organ here, to assist with the media. He will be there when we arrive.”

  “I can only say this mission was not to be avoided,” Comiskey replied. “I’d personally rather be in Ireland. I’ve so much work to do, and the All Ireland Football championship is being played in Dublin this coming weekend. Nobody wants this conclave to end more than me.”

  It had been some years since Comiskey had visited the chancery of the Boston Archdiocese. The same old trolley tracks, still in frequent use, ran down the middle of Commonwealth Avenue. Approaching Lake Street, across the tracks as they left Boston behind them, he could see Boston College, where he had studied in what was now the Tip O’Neill Library.

  They crossed the trolley tracks before Lake Street, drove down Commonwealth Avenue, and took a right turn into the driveway of the chancery, which wound around the back of the cardinal’s imposing residence. As the car stopped at the entrance, Bishop Murray stepped out, carrying Brian’s bag.

  “By the way,” Brian said, “I’d like to make a personal phone call to an old friend of mine who was ordained with me and is now a fisherman on Cape Cod.”

  “I’ll take you to your room. You can make any calls from there. I think our lines are secure, but you never know for sure in this day and age of surveillance,” Murray said as the pair walked past the large paintings of the former archbishops of Boston hanging on the wall.

  “I’ll be careful what I say, Bill.” Brian and Bill Murray were already on a first-name basis. “And I’d best let Bishop Sean Patrick know he can expect a visit from me tomorrow morning.”

  “He’ll be delighted. Fall River is one of the best and most diverse working-class dioceses in this state.” Murray was careful not to betray his curiosity regarding the cardinal’s mission.

  “Sean Patrick. Yes, a wise and kind man,” Brian observed as he followed Bill past the offices and up the stairs to the bedrooms.

  “Shall I plan an early supper? You must be tired, and you’ll want to catch some sleep.” Brian’s bedroom faced Commonwealth Avenue. Bill pointed to the window. “You may have noticed, the press is gathering across the street. I don’t know what news they think they’l
l discover. Father Conroy is there talking to them. We’ve asked them to stay on the other side of the tracks. They’ve asked for somebody to do live interviews. I told Peter to do them, even though he doesn’t have anything to say. He told me that he felt like he was back at St. John’s Seminary taking his canonical examination before ordination.”

  “I know the feeling.” Brian smiled, recalling his days at the seminary with his dear friend Billy Kelly.

  From the moment he had left Rome, Brian had been aware of the fatal weakness in his plan to accept Bill Kelly’s refusal and return within forty-eight hours. Bill was a fisherman, a hands-on captain of his small family fleet. Brian remembered that Bill went out to Georges Bank for four to six days at a time and might well be at sea when he arrived. Of course Bill Kelly would come in from the bank if one of his children radioed him to do so, but every ship at sea listened to the radio traffic and it could cause a problem if one of his children identified the reason for calling Captain Bill in to shore. Brian unpacked his satchel, drew out his address book, and, breathing deeply, put the call in to the house in Buzzards Bay he knew so well.

  To his delight, Meghan answered the phone. She let out a shriek and gasped, “Wow, is it really you, Uncle Brian? I heard on the radio you were in Boston. What happened?”

  “I can’t tell you why, but as long as Church business brings me nearby, I thought I might try to get down and see my Cape Cod family. Maybe have some lobster stew and apple pie like your mother used to make?”

  “Uncle Brian, we’d be thrilled. Colleen makes lobster stew almost as good as Mom’s. Dad is at sea, but he expects to be at the dock in the morning. I’ll call him on the radio.”

  “No, don’t do that, Meghan! The media are all over me. I don’t want them disturbing you. As long as your father is coming in, not a hint. Understand? I have a lot of reading to do tonight. Besides, I may not be able to come down there after all.” Brian crossed himself at the lie but it was for the Church, he rationalized.