The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  “I understand, Uncle Brian. You’re a busy man. Mum’s the word.”

  “Hopefully tomorrow, then, Meghan. God bless.”

  A weary Cardinal Comiskey descended the regal stairs to be met by Bishop Murray and a young priest, Father Charlie Burke, assigned to drive him to Fall River the next day.

  Father Peter Conroy came in from talking to the media gathered across Commonwealth Avenue. “I never saw such a circus,” he remarked. “It’s worse than the nanny thing or the O.J. fiasco. Let’s look at the news.” He walked into the library and turned on the television set. Immediately, they were looking at the front of the chancery televised from across the street. The commentator was intoning that Cardinal Comiskey of Ireland had arrived less than an hour before. Then on the screen the picture switched to Rome, St. Peter’s Square.

  “And now, Rome. Father Farrell is giving his own expert view of the situation. It’s after eleven o’clock P.M. there, and the world is focused on Rome and Boston.”

  Father Farrell talked for several minutes, summing up what had happened and speculating on the purpose of the cardinal’s unorthodox “breakout” and his flight to Boston. Then the picture switched to the scene outside the library windows, where a gathering crowd of press and television awaited developments.

  The Sisters of St. Joan of Arc, French-Canadian nuns living on the fourth floor of the chancery residence, brought in tea, sandwiches, slices of Irish bread, and a stick of butter. Hungrily, Brian buttered the bread and started to chew it. “Irish bread! I don’t get as good in Ireland as I do in Boston. You have the best Irish bread going,” he complimented the sisters. “And it’s not even made by an Irishwoman; it’s made by French-Canadian sisters.” Brian sipped the tea and buttered a second slice of bread.

  “Caraway seeds make the Irish bread,” the cardinal continued, ignoring the excitement across the street and on the news. “You either like caraway seeds or you don’t like caraway seeds. I remember my dear father complaining about the caraway seeds when my mother put them in,” Brian laughed. “Father complained because the seeds got caught between his gums and false teeth. The little seeds would stick in there and he had a terrible time getting them out. But my mother made the bread the way us children liked it.”

  Bishop Murray, the two priests, and the attending nuns marveled at how completely Cardinal Comiskey was able to ignore the worldwide commotion of which he was the central figure. It was all Bill Murray could do to restrain himself from hinting at a leading question. Father Conroy said that he, as editor of The Pilot, the oldest Catholic newspaper in America, was sitting in the middle of the biggest story breaking in the world. “The only editor in the world so close to the story, yet he knows no more than the throngs of newsmen standing there across Commonwealth Avenue,” Peter grumbled.

  “Peter, Peter,” Bishop Murray reproved him, “you must remember that you are a priest first and a newspaper editor second.”

  “Why didn’t you think of that when I wanted to stay in my nice hometown parish, St. Ann’s in Readville?”

  Brian enjoyed the jousting between Bill and Peter. “Someday this situation will be clear and simple.” He finished eating his sandwich. Inwardly he doubted that this would ever be the case.

  Cardinal Comiskey and Bishop Murray talked and watched the expanded television coverage of the event occurring just beyond the library windows and in Rome. Finally, exhausted, Brian went up to his room, read his breviary, and soon was asleep. Twice he awoke during the night and peered out the window at the trucks with dishes pointed skyward as reporters, police, radios, and public address systems crackled. By this time, several hundred curious bystanders had also joined the all-night vigil.

  At five-thirty the next morning Brian showered and went downstairs to the chapel, where he celebrated Mass with Father Conroy for the five nuns. At the conclusion, Brian led the small gathering in a song to Our Lady as they had never heard it sung before. Brian had a more than serviceable Irish tenor voice and they were quite delighted. They had never heard even their own cardinal sing it so euphoniously.

  The nuns swiftly prepared a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and a pot of tea. Bill Murray joined Brian. Father Conroy left the chancery and made several visits to the press corps, giving them such trivia as he could: Cardinal Comiskey had pronounced Irish bread made in Boston superior to the same fare in Ireland, and “How much he enjoys being back in his home away from home, Boston.”

  “Cardinal Comiskey,” Conroy said, when he returned from addressing the restless reporters, “it would be a gracious gesture if you could talk very briefly to the press. I promised them that if they would let you alone, you would meet with them for a few minutes. I can set up a microphone and lectern out back behind the chancery and invite them to walk across Commonwealth Avenue to our side. They would be happy with that. They say that they have to file stories and their bosses are shouting at them. After you have spoken to them, Father Charlie Burke can drive you out of the chancery grounds onto Commonwealth Avenue, down to the turnpike, and on to the Southeast Expressway, and you’ll be off for Fall River. Is that OK?”

  Then he gave Cardinal Comiskey a conspiratorial grin. “They all have their cars parked across Commonwealth Avenue in the Boston College parking lot. It will take them at least ten minutes to walk back across the trolley tracks, get their vehicles, and drive back across again. By that time you will be on the turnpike and they’ll never know which way you went.”

  “Good thinking, Peter,” Brian complimented the editor-priest. “Let’s get them all over here and I’ll think of something to say before our escape.”

  The chancery staff quickly set up the lectern in front of the statue of the Blessed Mother. A master microphone was installed into which the press could plug their own personal mikes. Father Conroy went across to the press camp and invited them all to come over across the street to the chancery grounds. There Cardinal Comiskey would talk to them.

  At eight A.M. just in time for the final segment of the morning news broadcasts, the chancery back lawn was crowded with over a hundred members of the various news media. Cameras were recording this event with worldwide repercussions. It was obvious to everyone that something most unusual was afoot in the process of electing the next leader of the one billion Catholics throughout the world.

  As Brian Comiskey appeared before the cameras and press, he thought unenthusiastically about his situation. Back at the Vatican the other cardinals were protected from this international around-the-clock live coverage. The foremost decision they had to make was probably whether to have red or white wine with lunch. He was thankful that, according to Meghan Kelly, Bill would not be docking until midmorning and would thus miss the television coverage of Brian’s arrival in Boston. As Brian took his place in front of the statue of the Blessed Mother, he was suddenly acutely aware of the impact his leaving the conclave had had on the world. None of the cardinals, except perhaps Robitelli, had realized what shock waves would traverse the globe after the mention that one obscure Irish cardinal had left for a quick trip to Boston.

  For the first time real apprehension gripped him as he looked out over the swelling throng. He offered up a silent prayer and mentally crossed himself as he faced the world alone, personally representing the entire sacred hierarchy of the Catholic Church. Perhaps humility and pretending an aura of insignificance would carry the moment, projecting an image of routine and calm on the cardinal’s visit.

  “For me it is always a blessing to return here to Boston,” he began. “I have a special love for this city, where everyone welcomed me so warmly after I left Ireland as a very young man and came here to study at St. John’s Seminary. And I want to thank the people of the United States for their prayers and expressions of sadness on the passing of our beloved Pope John Paul II. The pope often talked of his love for America and about his special memories here. He lectured at Harvard and attended socials at the Polish American Club in South Boston, and, while archbishop of Krak
ow, even received a plaque from the Veterans of the Kosciusko Post”—Brian glanced about at the faces of the reporters arrayed in front of him and smiled—“along with a heavy dose of indigestion from the undercooked kielbasa.” This last drew a reluctant chuckle from impatient reporters who had stood outdoors in the cold waiting all night.

  “He often spoke of his first visit to the United States as pope, right here in Boston. He had just left Ireland, but the rain that greeted him made the constant drizzle of my country feel like a warm and beautiful spring day.”

  “What’s going on in Rome?” a reporter shouted.

  “What are you doing in Boston?” another added.

  Yes, Brian thought, there was no way he was going to con this dedicated group of news hounds. “Look, I—I’m on a special assignment. I have instructions that I can’t discuss at this moment. I will be in the area for only a short time, and when I have completed the conclave’s business, perhaps tonight, certainly by tomorrow, I will return to Rome and we will choose a new pope.”

  “An American pope?” someone shouted.

  “Are you looking for something red hot on a specific cardinal?” shot out of the throng, probably from an anti-Catholic writer. Brian recalled from his study of Church history that the Boston Globe had the reputation of being anti-Catholic and anti-Irish even in this most Irish Catholic city. He instantly remembered a documented report by noted Church historian Monsignor John Tracy Ellis, from the Catholic University of America, in which the scholar called the Boston Globe “the most anti-Catholic newspaper in the United States.”

  “Come on over to our morgue at the Globe. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for in our files,” a second Yankee reporter, H.M.S. Duckwell (“Poppy,” as he was called by his classmates at Exeter Academy), added. Brian had been prepared for barbed questions from Poppy because Father Peter Conroy had told him how to recognize the skinny reporter by his large bow tie and wide suspenders that carried his wrinkled pants up almost to his chest.

  Before he could form a suitable reply another question was shot forth. “Where are you going now, Cardinal Comiskey?”

  “Again, I’m not at liberty to reveal any details,” Brian answered lamely. “In a short time, your questions will be answered, this will all be behind us, and we’ll elect a new pope.”

  Father Charlie Burke drove up behind the assorted reporters and opened the front door to the car. Cardinal Comiskey wished the gathered press a good day, slipped into the sedan, closed the door behind him, and they were abruptly on their way. Long before the reporters could run back across the wide avenue bisected down the middle by busy trolley tracks, get into their vehicles, and pursue their ecclesiastical prey, the cardinal’s automobile had driven up Commonwealth Avenue and headed into Newton, where they backtracked and picked up the Massachusetts Turnpike into downtown Boston, then entered the Southeast Expressway on their way to Fall River.

  Father Charlie Burke knew that he was to deliver Cardinal Comiskey to Bishop Sean Patrick at his Fall River residence. After some minutes of silence Brian said, “I’m sure you were given instructions not to ask any questions, but how did the Red Sox fare this year?”

  After listening to a dissertation on why the Red Sox had once again failed to win the pennant or even go into the playoffs, Brian asked who was conducting the Boston Pops Orchestra. “I used to love going over to hear Arthur Fiedler conduct, and then John Williams.”

  It was a one-hour drive to Fall River, and Brian mostly prayed silently, but kept an uneasy vigil for helicopters, the paparazzi, and other media. So far, so good. Father Burke speculated that in the newsrooms in Boston, editors and bureau chiefs were putting out calls to everyone they knew in the surrounding area to be on the outlook for a black Chrysler with the license plate numbers some of the reporters were alert enough to mark down as the car sped away from the chancery.

  The cardinal and the young priest talked about Bishop Sean Patrick and his history as a kind and caring priest who had organized soup kitchens and homeless shelters for the night people of Washington, D.C., and then around the Port Authority in New York City, where in the Franciscan church there he had established a home for abused and runaway children.

  It was a beautiful, early October morning when they arrived in Fall River. To Brian’s relief, the bishop’s residence seemed devoid of reporters and cameras.

  As they pulled into the wide circular driveway of Bishop Sean Patrick’s residence, a priest came out the front door of the large old colonial house to greet them. “Good morning, Your Eminence. I’m Father Raphael. The bishop is expecting you.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Brian slid out of the front seat.

  “Do you want me to wait for you, Brian?” Father Burke asked.

  “Please do, Charlie. You must be hungry by now. Let’s see if our brothers here can find you a piece of bread.”

  Father Raphael was quick to reply. “Most certainly, Your Eminence. The bishop wanted me to ask you if you would like to have tea with us. I’ll chat with Father Burke while you meet with the bishop.”

  Inside the residence Cardinal Comiskey was immediately shown into the bishop’s office. Bishop Sean Patrick (his last name, McCarrick, was seldom used), a bearded man with thinning white hair, was one of the most active and respected bishops in the country. A welcoming smile illuminated his face and Brian sensed an aura of complete kindness and love of his fellow man about the venerable cleric.

  Bishop Sean Patrick extended his hand, grasping the cardinal’s with a firm handshake. “So good of you to visit our humble abode, Your Eminence. From what we have been seeing on the television all this morning, it’s nice to see you without a pack of reporters at your back.”

  Cardinal Comiskey laughed. “Please, Sean, you’ve known me since I was ordained at the seminary and used to visit here on Cape Cod. And before I forget, let me extend my warmest wishes this day of the feast of St. Francis of Assisi, the special day of your Franciscan order.”

  “Why, thank you, Brian. You have a good memory. And how are the renovations going in the wake of the damage to the Church of St. Francis in Assisi?” They chatted about the earthquake that had caused extreme damage to the historic Church in Italy.

  “And a beautiful fourth day of October you are enjoying,” Brian concluded. “I regret that time is of the essence.”

  “I understand, Brian. I am trying to restrain my curiosity.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you much. The conclave matters are all secret. I can only say that since I am down here, I’d like to drive over to Buzzards Bay and see my old friend Bill Kelly.”

  “Yes.” The bishop clucked his tongue. “I remember him when he was an assistant parish pastor in this diocese. He did wonderful work with the Portuguese immigrant children; spoke the language, arranged camps for them. We excused him from his vows, as I recall, and he married a very pretty Irish girl. That was an interesting time. Her uncle was the parish priest of St. Anthony of Portugal Church, a poor parish in the mostly fishing town. Didn’t like his niece and his assistant prelate having a relationship.” He chuckled. “Billy Kelly is the head of the Southern New England Fishing Council. He’s a good family man and good to his workers, and he still cares for the Portuguese children.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly. Sean, as you know, Bill’s wife—Mary was her name—succumbed to cancer some time ago.”

  “Yes, I believe that I heard that. How terrible for such a wonderful family.”

  “I’d like to see him as long as I’m in the area. He is one of my best friends and I feel like his family is my family.”

  The bishop was too kind, and wise, to remark that it seemed odd that a cardinal coming out of the conclave to elect the next pope would have time to see an old friend from the seminary. Instead he said, “I can have you driven to Buzzards Bay, or”—he paused—“why don’t I drive you down myself? We can talk on the way. Or we can remain silent.” He gave Brian an owlish look.

  “I think I’d be better off g
oing alone. I might just have lunch with Bill and his children and try to get the late-afternoon flight back to Rome. If you can arrange for me to rent a car—”

  “Nonsense. You can use mine. Give Bill Kelly my warmest wishes.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Anything else I should know now?”

  “The U.S. ambassador to the Vatican will be arriving within the next few hours in Boston. He doesn’t know what my mission is, but he may be a part of it. He will call Bishop Murray, who will direct him to call you as a means of locating me. You can tell Ambassador Ed Kirby anything you know of my plans and whereabouts. It is possible that events will not proceed the way I am trying to steer them according to the conclave’s instructions. I am beginning to think that God, the Holy Spirit, whatever, is taking things into His own hands, and as I see it my mission is do God’s will, according to his call. Ambassador Kirby will be an integral part of doing God’s work as He moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform.”

  Bishop Sean Patrick smiled. “Your Eminence, thoroughly confused though I am, I will carry out whatever wishes you express to me.”

  “Good. Then I’ll head for Buzzards Bay and contact you regarding my plans after I have seen my old friends, the Kellys. Your place is just a last stop on my visit to America, and it is solely designed to keep people wondering what I’m doing and where I’m going. You’ll be hounded by the media. They’ll want to know if you’ve been elected pope or have an idea of who has.” Brian smiled. “You haven’t. The conclave isn’t over yet. Are you with me so far?”

  “If ‘nowhere’ is with you, Brian, I’m right on track.” He laughed. “Anything else I can do for you? Let me know if you want one of the priests to drive you to Buzzards Bay,” the bishop offered.

  “No. I don’t want to turn a simple visit into a major media event by heading out of here with you or one of the priests. I need to keep them guessing. Call me at Bill Kelly’s house when you hear from Ed Kirby and I’ll tell you my plans. I will probably fly out of Boston tonight. And if I know that family, I’ll be stuffed with lobster stew and apple pie shortly after noon.”