The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  A titter arose from the audience, but the pope continued with his explanation. “It took me a while, with some counseling, to get my head screwed on right. So, yes, I do understand about sex urges, but due to my own upbringing I have only one view of sex.” He stared out at the audience. “That is as a relationship between men and women.”

  Pope Bill smiled consolingly at the questioner. “I suppose that means, at least from your point of view, that I can’t be objective. But I don’t feel inclined to do a scientific study, if you know what I mean!”

  Cardinal Bellotti had covered his face again at the pope’s candor as laughter rose in appreciation of the joke and the pope speaking his own personal feelings. “From a scriptural point of view, I guess I would be inclined to follow St. Paul’s views—that it is not the normal manner of sex. As he said in Romans chapter one, verses twenty-seven and eight…” Once again Bill paused, looking directly at the young man standing in the midst of an obviously hostile audience. “‘Men abandoned the natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed indecent acts with other men and received in themselves the due penalty for their actions.’ I never quite knew what that last part meant. But now that we have the crisis of HIV and AIDS, I wonder if that is what he was talking about. I suppose the only way my theory could be proven would be to dig up some of the ancient grave sites of the early Romans of his time and check to see what the remains might reveal.”

  Bellotti dug his fingers into his face as the pope went on. “Since Scripture is not taken very seriously in the modern world, I doubt that will ever occur. So all I can say to you, my friend, to give some comfort, is that you continue to pray to Jesus to guide you. God created us all out of love, and you were made in his image just as I was. On my part I will certainly make it known that we need to understand all people regardless of their own views and preferences, even when we don’t agree with them.”

  Bill Kelly bestowed a sympathetic smile on the handsome youth, microphone still in hand, although Cippolini was obviously anxious for the priest in the aisle to retrieve it.

  The pope had a few more words of comfort for the unsure youth. “As Jesus said to Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane, ‘The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.’ We all need God’s grace and strength to be what he wants us to be. God bless you for your question.”

  The young questioner turned to his equally attractive male companion as he relinquished the microphone. “Well, not exactly what we wanted to hear, but at least some understanding … I guess.”

  Bellotti removed his hands from before his face and glared at Cippolini in the aisle, trying to choose the next questioner with more care. From the raised hands in the audience Cippolini spotted an elderly harmless-looking gentleman and signaled the young priest in the aisle to hand the microphone to him. The old man grasped it purposefully and stared at the pope as Bill strained to see and hear where the next question might come from.

  In a stern, powerful voice the interrogator began. “Mr. Kelly.” He paused as a gasp of dissent at this disrespectful address swept the audience. “Don’t you feel a measure of shame at the fact that you betrayed your priestly vows to become a married man?”

  Dead silence once again. Only Bellotti smiled in acquiescence. Several angry faces turned to the man who had asked such an impertinent question. Others bowed or shook their heads as if to block the moment out. Two people in the room responded immediately. One was a Swiss guard who began walking toward the questioner in the event he had more than asking a rude question on his mind. The other was Bill Kelly, sitting calmly and looking at the gentleman still standing there, confronting him.

  “Why, yes, sir. Certainly I have always felt ashamed of that, and of the many other sins I have committed during my lifetime. But I believe God is loving and forgiving and that he continues to love me and all of us despite our myriad imperfections. I thank God for giving me another opportunity to serve you and His Church.” Some in the audience, moved with emotion, rose to their feet and applauded.

  The man now holding the microphone spoke again, with evident pain. “One more question.” His voice rose and cracked slightly. “Do you forgive me for asking that question?” He handed the microphone back to the young priest, who was still startled by the colloquy.

  Bill looked at his daughters, then at his audience. Meghan grasped his hand as he regained his composure and leaned forward toward the microphone in front of him. “My friend, there is nothing to forgive. Perhaps you have satisfied the doubting experienced by the many who are pained by my election. All you got was a simple fisherman—Bill Kelly.”

  The direct assault proved fortuitous. As if on signal, more among the audience began to clap. The applause lasted at least half a minute, though it seemed an eternity. Al Cippolini caught the pope’s eye, and, by his nod of approval, Bill knew they were out of the woods. The audience was suddenly developing a rapport with the Kellys.

  Questions turned to the children, husbands and wives, skateboards and stitches, the oldest daughter and how she was faring in Rome this Christmas. Finally the question Bill had hoped would be asked was posed to Meghan.

  “Miss Kelly, have you ever thought you might be considered to be something like the American president’s daughter? A First Daughter?”

  Thoughtfully Meghan admitted that she had given consideration to just this; she had worried about what sort of role she should play in the world as, indeed, a First Daughter of sorts. “I have never been a person who wanted attention. However, even before our plane landed in Rome, an idea came to me about trying to play a small role to stop all wars.”

  She glanced about an enthralled audience. “I have not had the chance to discuss this with my dad or anyone else for that matter … But I thought I might invite the other First Children of the world to the Vatican and have them all persuade their parents that war should not be allowed in the world. As I settle into being the daughter of Pope Peter II, I wonder what I can do to keep alive the hope I think all children in this world share. We do not want to be sent into another war. Any ideas the people of the world might have on accomplishing this goal will be appreciated, studied, and sent to qualified men of the Church, including my dad.”

  On cue from Monsignor Cippolini, Bill rose from his seat. “You have made this audience a heartwarming event for my children and me, and we are grateful.” He raised his hands out toward the audience. “May the love of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit descend upon you and keep you and protect you and your families. Remember to pray for us. There is much that has to be done. Too many people are suffering in our world. I personally am overwhelmed by it.” He turned to assist his daughters. As they walked off the stage, the pope paused to glance at Monsignor Cippolini, who seemed to be waiting for the signal.

  “Bring him to me, Al, if he’s willing.” Meghan looked at her father, puzzled. “The old gentleman, Meghan.” He bent close to her ear. “He’s a former priest.”

  Meghan was startled. “What?” She clucked her tongue. “Takes one to know one.” She watched as Monsignor Cippolini hurried up the middle aisle.

  * * *

  It was now six o’clock. Jan Christensen knocked on the door to the papal apartments, unprepared for the surprised stare of a fellow guard posted outside. Meghan let the young man in. “Hi, Jan. Colleen said we should expect you. She’ll be with you in a moment.” She ushered him into the family room, where Roger was busily engaged in a video game. “Roger, come and say hello to Mr. Christensen. He’s come to take our big sister out for dinner.”

  Roger stood up reluctantly, bothered that his video game had been interrupted. He stuck his hand out, and it was lost in the grip that met his own. “Hello, Roger. I’m glad to meet you. One of my fellow guards says you have a tough head.” Roger was not a little awed by this paragon of health and strength, his tight-fitting sports shirt revealing such conditioned muscles.

  “You ever slash anyone with that ax you carry?”

  Me
ghan flashed a reproving glare at her brother. “Roger, mind your manners!” She turned to Colleen’s date for the evening. “Mr. Christensen, pay no attention to him.”

  Jan smiled at Roger. “Those things are mostly for show. You know, the Middle Ages.”

  “How will you protect us if you don’t have your ax, Jan?” Colleen entered the room, all smiles, wearing a flowered dress that enhanced her figure. Walking directly up to him, she squeezed his arm, letting her hands slide slowly down his side to feel the holster his jacket was hiding. He blushed as he turned to Meghan and Roger.

  “So, if you don’t mind, we will be off to a little restaurant just off the Piazza Navona. I’ll bring Colleen back early, I promise.”

  “Jan,” Colleen appealed, “I’m the big sister here, please. Now let’s go, Janny. We have lots to talk about. Sorry Dad isn’t here. He’s busy doing pope stuff.” She winked at her sister and held Jan’s arm as they exited the apartment and walked down the hallway.

  Smiling, Jan winked at the guard as they passed. Jan’s wildest dream, one talked about by many of the guards for hours, was coming true. He was dating the pope’s beautiful daughter.

  * * *

  In his library Bill sat quietly facing the older, nervous gentleman who had confronted him in the Paul VI auditorium. Milton Drapeaux had calmed down, having told his story. He gratefully sipped a brandy that Monsignor Cippolini had offered him. The history was similar to many Bill had heard, had indeed been part of years ago. A former priest, professor at a Catholic university in Paris, he had been caught up in the early exodus of priests when he married a former nun he had met in one of his classes. Within five years he had lost his newfound mate to AIDS via an unfortunate blood transfusion. Cut off thereafter from family and friends, who viewed him as a disgrace, he had spent the next uncounted years living with his pain and guilt.

  He worked at menial jobs to keep from starving. Now he had spent the last of his savings to come to Rome. His hope was to meet this new man in the Vatican who was like him. Perhaps he would understand. He had been there. The pope listened quietly to the man’s tale, nodding periodically at some of the more painfully related events. Finally it was all out.

  Milton Drapeaux sipped his brandy and waited to discover what Bill Kelly would think of his background. The pope chose his words carefully. “Father Drapeaux, I understand your problems. I have walked in your shoes. Tell me, have you any experience in research? I’m talking about moral theology, which you say was your specialty at the university. I thought you might have some skills along those lines.”

  The man looked at him, and a gleam of dignity came into his eyes. It was the first time in more than twenty years that someone had called him “Father.” “Why, yes, during my summers off at the university I was a loner, not much into the social life, so I volunteered to do research for the other professors. I also volunteered to work with inmates in a men’s prison, helping several get high school and university diplomas.”

  The pope turned to look at his friend and now confidant, Alonso Cippolini. Their closeness made it easy for them to communicate without words.

  “As a matter of fact, Father Drapeaux, Monsignor Cippolini and I were only recently trying to find someone who might have the skills and necessary background to do some research for us here at the Vatican, someone who might be able to canvass all former priests still alive. I would like them to consider serving as active priests again, if they meet the challenge. They have much to contribute. As you know, we are short of them.”

  Drapeaux’s mouth dropped open. He stared at the pope in disbelief. “Your Holiness, I was totally unaware that the ban on former priests had been lifted. This is amazing!”

  The pope gave a regretful smile to his slightly stunned new friend. “Father Drapeaux, you have to realize that things get done rather slowly here. It’s hard to get good help.” He turned to Alonso. “Don’t tell me, Monsignor Cippolini, that you didn’t get that rescript typed and published yet!”

  Cippolini had to cough. It was at times too much even for his quick mind to deal with. Popes were not supposed to lie, much less talk about rescripts that did not exist. He rubbed his mouth to avoid a smile. “Why, no, Your Holiness. We have been so busy arranging your initial papal audience, we forgot about the rescript … put it on the back burner.”

  The pope smiled and turned to the older, worn-looking man in front of him. “Father Drapeaux, you look like you could use a few weeks to recover from your ill health. Monsignor Cippolini will find you a room here in the Vatican where you can begin to plan your strategy. You may need to brush up on saying Mass again. Despite your sixty-eight years you seem to me to have some good ones left ahead of you. Alonso here will take you to his favorite clerical store; you can choose a new wardrobe. Charge it against the account Al will set up. If you have any questions before you start my research, call Al. He knows exactly what we need. Now, if you would like, we can have some supper with my children.”

  He paused, shot a look at his wristwatch, and exclaimed, “Darn! Al, I forgot all about our young man coming to pick up Colleen. By now he’s arrived, and, knowing my daughter, they’re on their way. I got so interested in Father Drapeaux’s fascinating story of his life I forgot all about it.” He stood up, leading his lost lamb out the door and giving a cheerful, dismissing nod to Monsignor Cippolini en route.

  31

  A VATICAN CHRISTMAS

  Pope Peter II was tallying the overwhelming daily problems facing Augustine Cardinal Motupu in Africa. Fresh outbreaks of the lingering troubles in Ireland were constantly brought to his attention as Cardinal Comiskey did his best to heal never-ending breaches of peace and widening disagreements between splinter groups on both ends of the religious spectrum. And of course right here in the Vatican, he had to face the stern visage of Cardinal Robitelli whenever he proposed something that was anathema to standing dogma or canonical law. Yet Bill Kelly was resolved to enjoy the Christmas season.

  The cardinal secretary of state was horrified and angry at the prospect of laicized priests serving in the Church again as newly “active” even though this was now precisely the case at the highest order of Catholicism, the papacy. Robitelli’s genuine concern seemed to center on how this ‘second coming’ as he scornfully referred to the pope’s suggestion might affect those thousands of priests who had proven faithful to their vows and also how it might resonate among the people in the pews. Despite Pope Peter II’s assurances that the whole project would be accomplished gradually, shrouded in a certain amount of obfuscation, the two men would never come to terms.

  Also, Pope Peter had insisted on a more flexible Head of the Papal Household office, with Monsignor Cippolini filling the post. Day-to-day home life was becoming more relaxed for Pope Peter II.

  Robitelli, foreseeing dire consequences for the pope’s near-heretical initiatives, arranged a private meeting with certain dedicated, trustworthy traditionalists within the Vatican. The conventional-minded Vatican denizens hastily summoned by Robitelli found themselves trapped in something of a paradoxical situation: how to save the Church from this freewheeling renegade and at the same time show obedience to a pope they had themselves recognized as the leader of the Church.

  But Peter II was resolved to enjoy Christmas with his family and with friends like Ed Kirby and his family.

  The season was well under way when Ryan Kelly arrived quite unexpectedly, to the delight of the rest of the family. Ryan had decided that the loss of a couple of fishing trips to Georges Bank over the Christmas holidays could be sustained. On a sudden impulse he had taken a bus to Boston, bought a round-trip tourist-class ticket to Rome, boarded an Alitalia flight, and the next thing he knew he was drinking Peroni beer at thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic. A bowl of gnocchi all’etrusca, with tomatoes, cream, and cheese—a famous dish of the Tuscan region of Italy—topped off with scrumptious tiramisu, was followed by a few hours of sleep. He was awakened by a flight attendant who asked him if he would like
some cappuccino or juice. They would be landing at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport in approximately thirty minutes.

  Ryan went through customs and immigration with no trouble, and no one recognized him as the son of the pope. He went to the money exchange and bought a hundred dollars’ worth of lire, which he felt should be enough for cabs and expenses. A sharp-eyed taxi driver spotted him as an American tourist and picked him up.

  “Vatican … er … Vaticano,” Ryan ordered. The driver nodded and began the drive toward Vatican City. As the taxi threaded its way through the outskirts of Rome into the centrum, Ryan expected to hear Christmas carols blasting from stores and watch crowds of shoppers buying presents, Santa Clauses everywhere ostensibly collecting for charities.

  He was surprised at the mild, pleasant temperature he was enjoying and the dearth of commercial activity he noticed as they entered Rome proper. What he did see were groups of what had to be mountain people ambling, shambling along the sidewalks and spilling over into the streets. Each small group of three or four men, looking like shepherds, played on bagpipe-type musical instruments. Flapping arms pumped air from sacks and produced a cacophonous sound describable only as very un-Christmas-like. Later he would discover that they only came down from the mountains at Christmastime to play their unique-sounding homemade instruments.

  The cab driver shouted spurts of invective out the window of his vehicle at the disorderly groups merrily lurching about the streets. As the driver sped in and out of the heavy traffic in the densely populated city, Ryan could see countless pushcarts with fresh fruit and vegetables. He also observed many cathedrals and Churches—like one on every corner, it seemed—and police cars everywhere. Men were sitting in sidewalk cafés sipping cappuccino and watching women examining the local produce.