The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  Back at the State Department, those concerned with the Vatican assignment were worriedly mumbling to themselves. “Seedworth is a fool,” von Stade rasped. “Or at least he was fooled.”

  * * *

  In Buzzards Bay, Colleen, Meghan, and Roger, with Uncle Sean, had been listening to Kirby’s press conference intently. Now, with their own press conference less than three hours away, Bishop Sean Patrick cleared his throat. “My guess is he’s not the most popular ambassador with his colleagues at the State Department.”

  “Darn it, he did what he had to do,” Colleen declared. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see him when he picked Dad up in Fall River.”

  “Look outside!” Roger shouted as he peeked out the window. “Already all kinds of TV cameras and people. Colleen, are we really going to be seen all over the world like on real TV shows?”

  “I guess so, Roger,” she sighed. “Dad will be watching, so be good and don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Gee, Meg, too bad Ryan isn’t here to be on TV,” Roger said. “When will he get back?”

  “That’s up to him, Roger. He’s been out all day making sure the engine is good for another year of fishing. It was the last thing Dad asked him to do in case he needed money for a big overhaul. When we talked on the shortwave I told him to make up his own mind. He is captain now. And he’s not happy about being the center of attention—the pope’s oldest son and a fisherman like his dad, and of course like St. Peter.”

  * * *

  As Ed Kirby was finishing up his press conference, the pope’s dinner for the cardinals was under way in the elegant dining room between the basilica and the Sistine Chapel. The 119 voting cardinals, along with some older ones disenfranchised by age, were at the various banquet tables. Some of the tradition-bound elderly prelates seemed more than slightly discomfited at seeing the pope flanked by Cardinal Motupu and Monsignor Cippolini.

  Several tinkling taps of a spoon on a wineglass by the ever businesslike Engenio Cardinal Robitelli, now reappointed secretary of state, commanded the cardinals’ attention. “Dear brothers, I am so glad that we can all share this time with the new pope before you return to the work God has assigned you.”

  Robitelli, camerlengo until the election was finalized just a few hours before, looked about the ornate dining hall, fixing his gaze on one cardinal after another. “The more I have seen and heard over the last few hours, the more convinced I become that the Holy Spirit has spoken to us.” He caught Bill’s eye and smiled. “Just as His Holiness, our Pope Bill, once guided his fishing boat safely to shore with his friends in Brian Comiskey’s little homily. I also believe that with God’s grace and the support of all of us in this great hall, he will be able to guide the bark of St. Peter to safe harbor.” He paused once again, looking at many of those present. “As Bill, our second Peter, promised those endangered priests when their ship foundered, ‘Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men once again.’”

  Robitelli raised his glass. “So I propose this toast of welcome to Bill, Pope Peter II, to pledge to him our everlasting support throughout his reign.”

  The cardinals all stood with their wineglasses held high and toasted the pope. “Salute! Salute!”

  Bill was covering his mouth to hide a smile as he and Brian exchanged glances. Cardinal Motupu noticed both. As the African prelate seated himself, he turned to Bill. “I noticed your amusement when the boat was mentioned. Did Brian leave something out of the infamous story?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, yes,” the pope confessed. “You see, the boat sank about fifteen yards from shore. We had to wade ashore and have the boat towed in the next day.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Motupu grinned. “So much for the bark of Peter.”

  “But indeed all of them are fishers of souls today.”

  Listening attentively Monsignor Cippolini began to piece together portions of what had occurred in the conclave that resulted in Bill’s election. “Your Holiness,” he assayed tentatively, “when the cardinal led you away into the chapel I had a strange thought: Wouldn’t it be bizarre if they wanted to see you rather than the papers you were carrying?”

  “Of course you were right, Monsignor. It was bizarre and confused. But that’s past now. We can laugh for a while and accept the result.”

  After the sumptuous Italian meal of carciofini e funghetti’ sott’ olio, zuppa di cipolle, risotto alla milanese, ipoglosso, patate arroste, topped off with tiramisu for dessert, final toasts were downed. Most of the cardinals were suddenly anxious to start packing for the escape from their Sistine Chapel imprisonment after an early Mass the next morning. The newly constructed Santa Martha Hotel within the Vatican walls had improved the housing conditions for the cardinals spectacularly, but they were all eagerly looking forward to returning to their principalities. Their particular areas of authority throughout the world had been unattended and their power delegated for too long as it was.

  Pope Peter glanced at his watch and noticed it was close to nine in the evening, three o’clock back “home” in Buzzards Bay. He had determined earlier that the press conference held by Bishop Sean Patrick and Bill’s family would be telecast live in Rome. With Brian, Motupu, Cippolini, Robitelli, and Tim Shanahan, he retired to the papal apartments to see how it went.

  * * *

  The chaos inside the Kelly home was interrupted by a knock at the front door. Colleen opened it. The large figure of Trooper Joe Collins loomed in the doorframe. “Miss Kelly, it’s about that time. Remember what I told you. If you start feeling uncomfortable with them, just give me the nod and I’ll have you back inside here in no time. Bishop Sean Patrick is out there letting them know they need to be very proper. He may be able to deflect some of the heat. But I guess you already know that it’s you they want to see.”

  “Yes, Trooper. Thanks.” She turned to Meghan and Roger. “Okay, Roger, let’s go out and get this over with before I develop an ulcer.” They emerged from the house to find Bishop Sean Patrick at the edge of the porch fending off a rapid fire of questions thrown at him amid a swirl of cameras, microphones, booms, and men and women pressing forward as the family came forth.

  Seeing the Kellys, the bishop turned and raised his hands for quiet. “Please, ladies and gentlemen. Realize that the Kelly children here are bound to be a bit nervous with all this commotion and excitement about their father’s unprecedented elevation. Let’s try to do it the way they do at the White House. I’ll point to individually raised hands and that person can ask his or her question. Following this format, I’m sure most of your concerns will be covered. So—”

  He pointed to a woman reporter and the noise subsided.

  “Colleen, may I call you by your first name?” Colleen graciously nodded. “When did you know that your father was going to be made pope?”

  “When that cardinal came out and announced it on TV. The same as yourself.”

  “But you must have known something before that, Ms. Kelly.”

  Another reporter chimed in. “Cardinal Comiskey came here, we now assume, to tell your father he had been elected. Can you tell us how that came about?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea.” The sincere puzzlement on Colleen’s face and in her tone gave authenticity to her answer. “My guess, as you heard Uncle Brian—uh, Cardinal Comiskey—say on TV, is that they discussed many different laymen in the conclave and for some compelling reason decided to vote for my dad.”

  “How do you feel about your father being made pope, Colleen?”

  “To tell the truth I am confused, numb, and at a loss to understand how or why and even whether this happened. All I can say for certain is that I love my father, Bill Kelly, very much. Whatever job he chooses to do is his business and not ours.”

  “You say ‘job,’ Ms. Kelly,” a stern male voice called from the rear of the knot of aroused journalists. “Do you consider the papacy just a ‘job’?”

  An obstinate expression spread across Colleen’s face, and her two sibli
ngs shuddered.

  “It is obviously what our father has chosen to do for rest of his life. If it makes him feel fulfilled, that’s great!”

  “But as a Catholic isn’t it thrilling to be the first person on earth to be able to say, ‘Hey! My dad is the head of the Church’ and be your father’s hostess at Vatican dinners?”

  “Lucrezia Borgia could say that almost half a millennium ago when she was poisoning her father’s enemies at Vatican dinners.”

  The unexpected answer to such a gracious question caused an uncharacteristic silence among the media representatives. It was followed by a flood of speculative queries punctuated by an authoritative shout from the rumpled female reporter representing the local Buzzards Bay Journal. “Colleen, I just called Father Milligan. He says you haven’t been to Mass with your family in the two years he’s been our pastor. Are you going to start coming now?”

  “It’s been more like three years,” Colleen answered forthrightly. “A couple of weddings, three to be exact. But not since my mother died of breast cancer at age thirty-five have I attended Mass.” Colleen turned to face a barrage of questions, pointing to a middle-aged man wearing thick glasses who seemed sympathetic.

  “Colleen, do you believe in God?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied tartly. “I used to, until Mom died.” Standing before the crowd of reporters and TV cameras, Colleen presented a vulnerable yet unshakable figure.

  At that, Bishop Sean Patrick moved forward, both hands held high, shutting off the high-decibel interrogation. “I just talked to the Holy Father an hour ago. If you’d like to ask about his reaction to this enormously unusual day, I will take your questions.”

  The bishop pointed to a persistent reporter, who called out, “Have the youngsters spoken to their dad since he was elected pope?”

  Bishop Sean Patrick put a hand on Meghan’s shoulder, and she clearly replied, “Yes, he called me shortly afterward.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  She smiled a moment and then colored. “Why, he said the same thing he always says when he calls me on the shortwave radio from the fishing banks. ‘I love you, and miss you.’”

  “What about the young son? Roger, is it?” a woman reporter called out.

  The bishop placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and pushed him forward. “You talked to your father, Roger. What did he tell you?”

  “He said there was lots of room where he is and miles where I could skateboard.” Laughter arose from the group of journalists. They all seemed to come to the same conclusion. There was no hidden agenda with the new pope’s children. They were plain, honest young people who had gone through a family tragedy and seemed unimpressed if confused with their new circumstances.

  “Bishop Sean Patrick,” a reporter called out, “Cardinal Comiskey stopped at your residence before coming here. May we know what you discussed there?”

  “Yes, certainly. There was merely a simple request. ‘Sean, may I borrow your car?’”

  “That’s all?” an incredulous voice called out. “Come now, Bishop, you’re pulling our leg.”

  “No, really. I was more curious than you people here were. And he gave me the same reply as you got from him. A conclave secret. He wanted to borrow my car to visit his friends, the Kellys, before flying back to Rome.” Bishop Sean Patrick laughed deprecatingly. “I know most of you guessed that either the archbishop of Boston or I had been chosen as the next pope. Since I knew I wasn’t worthy, I speculated that it must have been the archbishop. He’s a great man and well respected in Rome, America, and throughout the world. Like the rest of you, I was totally in the dark. The only thing I had was a sealed envelope the cardinal handed me when he returned. He said to keep it in my desk until it was time to open it. When I questioned him he said I would know for certain the moment it needed to be opened. Naturally, I understand what he meant when I heard the announcement of Mr. Kelly’s election. I didn’t have to read the letter. I knew he was instructing me to be of whatever assistance I could to the Kelly children. And here I am.”

  An assertive female voice rose above the murmurs. “Colleen, what do your brothers and sister really think about your dad being the Holy Father?”

  Colleen laid a hand on Roger’s shoulder. “Tell them what you think. Other than skateboarding.”

  “I miss my dad. I just want school to get done. Then we can go and be with him.”

  “Is that true, Miss Kelly? Are you children going to Rome to live?”

  “Yes, we are!” Roger’s voice rang out. “And Uncle Sean said maybe I could have two bedrooms.”

  Smiles appeared on the faces of the reporters, and TV cameras zoomed in on the young boy. A microphone was thrust at him. “How old are you, young man?”

  “I’m fourteen. I’m in the tenth grade.”

  “And who is Uncle Sean?”

  Roger pointed at the flushed bishop. “Him.”

  “Are you related to the bishop?” a reporter shot out.

  “No, not by blood,” the bishop answered for Roger and then continued. “I guess it’s a special gift the children gave to me. Cardinal Comiskey is a longtime friend of Bill and the late Mary Kelly. He performed their marriage ceremony, baptized their children, and spent some vacations with them. The children have always called him Uncle Brian. I became part of the family a short time ago,” he said with a pleasant grin.

  Then Meghan cut in, moving closer to the TV cameras. “Can I wave to my dad and say hello?”

  The cameras zoomed in on her and a reporter held the mike close to her face. “Sure, honey. Go ahead.”

  “Hi, Dad, I miss you. I love you.”

  “Yeah, me too, Dad,” Roger broke in, waving to the cameras.

  Colleen also waved. “We all look forward to being with you, Dad. Please forgive me for saying what I did. But I can’t be a hypocrite. Maybe I can change someday.” She turned from the cameras and started to slowly walk toward the door, followed by Meghan and Roger. The reporters and cameras followed closely until three state troopers cut them off.

  “Sorry folks, that’s all the Kellys want to say. Please respect their privacy.”

  Colleen turned and stared searchingly into the camera. “I expect my dad and I will have some interesting philosophical and religious discussions when we get to Rome.”

  “Colleen,” a reporter called out, “are you an atheist?”

  “Like I said,” Colleen called back, “the way things are, I wouldn’t want to make any enemies with whatever or whoever is ahead of us.”

  “Colleen, are you pro-life or pro-choice?” a woman’s strident voice hurled at her.

  Colleen smiled coyly. “I don’t know. I haven’t had to decide yet. ’Bye, everybody.”

  Expressively, she raised her eyes skyward. As she ducked back into the house the press of the world knew they had one feature attraction in the new pope’s family. Things would never be mundane with this one around!

  As Meghan stepped through the door, followed reluctantly by Roger, who was enjoying the attention being showered upon them, the reporters turned to the bishop, standing protectively before the front of the house. “Bishop McCarrick, can you give us some more information?” another woman journalist pleaded. “I just flew in here from Chicago to cover this unprecedented story.”

  The bishop stared back. “To be perfectly honest, we would only be venturing into the realm of hypothesis,” he replied. “The situation is unique in Catholic procedure and history as we know it. I might suggest that you get in touch with some of our historians, who could provide you information on past laymen who were made popes.” He shrugged expressively as cameras whirred and clicked in the midafternoon sunlight. “I never bothered to pay much attention to that kind of thing when I was studying for the priesthood.”

  A stricken expression flitted across the bishop’s countenance. He added hastily, “Not that I personally, nor, I believe, does any other American Catholic bishop, entertain in any way views contradictory to the dec
ision of the conclave in Rome.” Abruptly the bishop turned and passed the troopers into the sanctuary of the Kelly home.

  The many local neighbors and other onlookers were slow in dispersing, reluctant to miss any part of this unique American drama as all the journalists present grudgingly accepted the fact that the all-too-brief interview was over. Only one camera crew gave desultory attention to the tall, strapping young man as he appeared from somewhere below the Kelly home. Over his shoulder was slung a duffel bag.

  Trooper Joe Collins confronted the purposeful youth. “And just where do you think you are going, mister?”

  “Into my house. I’m Ryan Kelly.”

  Instantly the newspeople recognized the oldest son of Pope Peter II. The trooper glanced down at the glassine pad of photographs in his hand. “Well, your face fits, but what happened to the long hair? It looks really wild in the picture your sister gave me.”

  “I went to the barbershop and had it cut,” he snapped. “It didn’t seem right for the pope to have a long-haired son captaining his fishing ship. May I pass now?”

  Collins smiled and stepped aside. “Be my guest.” As Ryan stepped up onto the porch, three alert reporters and a MSNBC cameraman and his crew scrambled to get near him. “Mr. Kelly, could we talk to you a moment? What do you think about your father being made pope?”

  Ryan stopped, threw his duffel bag down, and smiled directly into the camera and at the reporters. He seemed to be enjoying the attention. Raising his hand, he flashed what he imagined was a papal-type blessing. “Peace and good fishing,” he intoned. “We’re going to need both if I’m going to keep the bark of Peter the Second afloat. I don’t figure that being the pope’s son will get me any higher a price on my fish in New Bedford, so when I go out tomorrow I’ll have to hope that Jesus will lead me to enough fish to almost break my nets like he did for the first Peter. In other words, Daddy needs a new generator for his boat,” he explained.

  “Are you a Catholic, Mr. Kelly?” a reporter asked.

  “Of course. And on those long fishing trips with Dad he sometimes forgot he wasn’t a priest anymore, especially if we were out on Sunday. Why do you ask?”