“I’m a little worried about this meeting,” he confided to Dennis as they left the residence to walk through the May sunshine to the waiting limousine. He told him about Colin McGuiness’s call.
Dennis nodded grimly and got in the car feeling like a man on the way to his own execution. He had heard the same things from his brother in far more vivid terms. Ninety percent of the younger priests in the diocese had read the series, Leo boasted, and their respect for the great man was gone forever.
To compound their difficulties, the deanery was meeting in the gymnasium of St. Sebastian’s Church. That made Father Vincent Disalvo the host, and he was obviously enjoying it. When they arrived, his black militant and white student followers were eagerly serving coffee to the sixty or seventy priests sitting on the steel folding chairs on the floor of the gymnasium. The only consolation in sight was the refusal of the archdiocese’s four black priests to go along with Disalvo. They obviously resented his grab for leadership and sat as far away from him as possible.
Vicar McGuiness shook hands with Matthew Mahan at the head of the steps leading to the stage. “Hello, boss,” he said. “How are things?”
“Snafu, as usual,” Matthew Mahan said. He was startled to note that Colin was almost bald and on his way to a middle-age paunch. The years went by so quickly. Colin had been his secretary for the first two years of his episcopacy.
“I’m afraid things aren’t much better down here,” he said. “I know you expect me to do something to head off this kind of thing but -”
“I know you’re not a magician, Colin. Let’s see how the situation develops.”
He looked down at the audience and was startled to see eight or ten nuns sitting in the center of the priests on the right-hand side of the aisle. “Who invited them?” he asked Colin.
“The Ad Hoc Committee.”
“What’s that?”
“The Ad Hoc Committee for a More Relevant Deanery.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything. What is it? Who’s on it?”
“I don’t know. I only heard about it yesterday.” Colin tried to smile, but the result was a sick smirk. “It’s not exactly a vote of confidence in my vicariate.”
“Who’s on it?”
“Who else? Vinny Disalvo, Vinny Disalvo, and Vinny Disalvo, plus four or five more yes-men.”
This time, Matthew Mahan had to force a smile. He remembered rather mournfully that he had enjoyed Colin McGuiness’s jocular sarcasm when he was his secretary. He also saw in the contrast between his bland, mediocre face and Dennis McLaughlin’s cool intelligence the distance he had traveled in the last ten years.
“Who’s the speaker, Colin?” he asked.
As a step toward autonomy, he had entrusted the task of finding speakers to the local vicars. It had not been a particularly successful experiment. Lacking Matthew Mahan’s prestige, they were unable to attract first-rate people. “I’ve invited this fellow from New York, Monsignor Joe Snow. He’s the Associate Vicar for Religious. An old pal of mine from Rome. His mother is living in St. Patrick’s parish with a married sister.” Colin glanced nervously at his watch. “He should be here any minute.”
George Petrie arrived, cool and debonair as ever. The vicar-general usually acted as the chairman at deanery meetings. “Good morning, Chairman George,” Colin McGuiness said, mock Chinese style. “Whatever you do, do not declare one of those nuns out of order.”
“That won’t be necessary. It’s obvious that they are out of order.”
“I can’t take those kinds of puns at 10:00 a.m.,” Matthew Mahan said.
Monsignor Snow arrived. Tall, ruggedly built, with a hawk nose and a complexion that at first looked swarthy and was actually pale. One of those heavy-bearded men who always looked like he needed a shave. He proceeded to give a speech that Matthew Mahan could only consider a disaster. Delivered in a rasping voice, it might have come from a man of eighty.
“There is a cliché which religious bandy about these days and it sounds specious. It is this phrase: The spirit is moving. I ask what spirit? Whose spirit? I submit that the spirit of God cannot be at the heart of any movement that refuses to recognize the divinity of the Church. For some religious, the word ‘structure’ is a dirty word. But any intelligent mind recognizes the need for some form of structure for the stability of any organization.
“The spirit of God cannot be at the heart of any movement that refuses to recognize the teaching authority of the vicar of Christ on earth.
“The spirit of God cannot be at the heart of any movement that accepts as infallible the fuzzy opinions of pseudo-theologians (and their number is legion) and rejects out of hand the teaching magisterium of the Church.
“The spirit of God cannot be at the heart of any movement which indulges in the contestation of religious authority.”
Monsignor Snow declared that under the cloak of renewal and adaptation, many tragedies are taking place and have taken place. “Change most certainly was needed in religious life but not destruction nor revolution. Everything that is old is not bad, and everything that is new is not good. The ideal is to hold onto the best of the old and to accept the best of the new. Change for change’s sake is utterly ridiculous.”
Applause was light. A priest sitting next to Vincent Disalvo - his name slipped through Matthew Mahan’s tired brain - stood up and said, “As a member of the Ad Hoc Committee for a More Relevant Deanery, I would like to suggest to the vicar that from now on the members of the deanery should be consulted on the choice of speakers.”
“The chair has not recognized you, Father,” said Monsignor Petrie. “You are out of order in the first place. And in the second place as well. Your comment is grossly impolite to our distinguished guest.”
“We don’t have time for politeness,” called a voice several rows behind Father Forgotten-Name.
“I don’t agree. We have time for politeness. And for order,” said Monsignor Petrie. “You all know the rules of these meetings. They are in force. They will remain in force. If anyone has a question or disagreement with the speaker, I trust it will be substantive.”
Total silence. Roma locuta est, thought Matthew Mahan wryly. If only it were finita.
Monsignor Snow leaned over and murmured in Colin McGuiness’s ear. He in turn murmured in George Petrie’s ear, and he in turn explained to the audience, “Monsignor Snow’s mother is ill. He only has a few hours in the city and he’d like to spend as much time with her as possible. If you have no questions, he’d like to be excused.”
Monsignor Snow thrust his rolled-up speech into his inner jacket pocket, banged down the wooden steps beside the stage, and stalked out of the gymnasium. “If that’s what they’re preaching in New York,” Matthew Mahan murmured to George Petrie, “perhaps we ought to declare them a mission territory.”
“He’s probably going back to suggest that Cookie do the same thing for us,” the vicar-general replied. “Who do you think has more clout?”
“Oh well, I’ve always wanted to be a missionary bishop.”
Studying the rows of faces before him, Matthew Mahan tried to judge their mood. The young ones all looked saturnine. The pastors, almost all of them sitting in a clump in the first few rows on the right, looked depressed.
“Before we go on to business from the floor,” George Petrie said, “Cardinal Mahan would like to say a few words to you.”
In the first row, Monsignor Paul Scanlon, massive as ever, with a senatorial head of gray hair, raised his hand. Another good pastor who had presided over St. Luke’s parish for twenty years, watching it change from Irish to Spanish. Unfazed, he had spent a summer in Puerto Rico and came home speaking the language fluently. He was getting a little old, but he was still an effective, impressive priest. “May I presume to inject a bit of business first, Mr. Chairman?”
“I suppose so, Monsignor.”
Scanlon rose and sonorously presented a resolution, offering the unanimous congratulations of the deanery to Cardinal Maha
n on his elevation.
“That isn’t business,” said George Petrie, “that’s a pleasure. May I hear the ayes in favor?”
There was a rumble of assent. “Any nays?” asked George with a jovial smile.
About ten or fifteen voices from various parts of the audience responded. Some were clear, some were murky, but they were definitely saying nay.
George Petrie lost his aplomb. “I can’t believe what I just heard. Do the nays have the courage to identify themselves and give us an explanation for this gratuitous insult?”
Matthew Mahan leaned back in his chair. He was aware of a faint smile frozen on his face. In search of a casual gesture, he lit a cigarette. He could hear Bill Reed rasping at him, You must cut out smoking. For an insane moment, he wondered if those young nay-saying voices knew that there was no reason to congratulate His Eminence. What if he told them? Told them the whole story about frater taciturnus?
There was no response to Vicar-General Petrie’s challenge. “George, may I,” Matthew Mahan said, and slid the microphone down the table in front of him. “I think we’re being rather childish,” he said. “I think Monsignor Scanlon has gotten a clear majority for his resolution. I thank him for it, from the heart. I know many of us would like to see it unanimously approved. But maybe we can’t expect unanimity in these confusing times.”
The silence was stony. What do you expect, a round of applause for your benevolence? Matthew Mahan asked himself.
He stubbed out his cigarette and moved the microphone closer to him.
“Now I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes about St. Clare’s Hospital. I know there has been considerable opposition to my plan to close it. I’ve reconsidered that plan and have decided to try to keep the hospital open on a new basis - operating largely as an outpatient clinic. I’ve acquired the services of one of the best doctors in the city, William Reed, to plan and direct this change. It isn’t a perfect answer, I know. But to keep the entire hospital going would require the investment of millions to practically rebuild the whole plant from the ground up. It’s still going to cost us almost $1 million on an outpatient basis. We’re going to triple or quadruple the present emergency room facilities, and we’re also going to provide a lot more psychiatric counseling. I hope I will have your support for this decision. And I hope you will do your best to win the community’s support.”
The priest sitting next to Father Disalvo raised his hand and was recognized by George Petrie. “As vice-chairman of the Ad Hoc Committee, I would like to request a recess so we can respond to what His Eminence has just told us.”
“Will five minutes be enough?”
Five minutes would be enough. The Ad Hoc Committee members rose and filed out of the gymnasium. There were sixteen or seventeen of them, all young. Eddie McGuire rose from the ranks of the pastors and walked to the stage. He looked dreadful. He must have lost fifty pounds in the last six months. “Matt,” he said, “you’ve got to get tough with those young punks. You can’t let them walk all over you.”
“Now, Eddie, don’t get carried away,” Matthew Mahan said. “Nobody’s laid a foot on me yet.”
Eddie looked dubious, and Matthew Mahan asked him how he was feeling. “Lousy,” he said. “I thought I had this thing licked, but now they tell me I’ve got to start cobalt treatments.”
Matthew Mahan promised to remember Eddie in his masses. They discussed other ailing members of the class. Eddie seemed to have a list in his head. The return of the Ad Hoc Committee rescued Matthew Mahan from depression. Their vice-chairman reported that the chairman, Father Vincent Disalvo, would like to say a few words.
Father Disalvo rose to his feet, smiling. He gave Matthew Mahan a respectful salutation and then began demolishing the Cardinal’s plan for St. Clare’s. First of all, the community would never accept Bill Reed, an uptown rich-folks doctor. The new head of the hospital should be black, and from the downtown section.
As for psychiatric services - were the psychiatrists going to be white? If so, the black community wanted nothing to do with them. A white psychiatrist was incapable of treating a black man or woman because he had no conception of the black experience.
The whole idea of turning the hospital into a clinic was unsatisfactory. How did His Eminence have the temerity to plead poverty in the light of recent revelations about the archdiocese’s finances - and his personal finances? The hospital should be kept open on a full-time basis, and the millions needed to rebuild and modernize it be committed to the task immediately. Let us have an end to hoarding the Church’s money and above all an end to personal indulgence in spending it. The money belonged to the Christian community, not to one man.
In the back of the hall, Dennis McLaughlin writhed inwardly as Matthew Mahan tensely tried to answer these charges. He called on his black priests to comment on the psychiatric problem. Bulky George Rollins, the leader of the group, soberly declared that a white psychiatrist who worked with black people for a reasonable length of time should have no difficulty understanding their special experience, if he had two functioning ears.
“We’re not interested in what the Oreos think,” Father Disalvo sneered.
To Matthew Mahan’s dismay, George Petrie made no attempt to tell Disalvo he was out of order. Instead, the vicar-general turned to Matthew Mahan and asked him sotto voce what an Oreo was. Black on the outside, white on the inside, Matthew Mahan scribbled on a pad in front of them, while Rollins and Disalvo exchanged more insults. After letting epithets reverberate through the hall for several minutes, the vicar-general reluctantly (so it seemed to Matthew Mahan) gaveled them into silence.
Matthew Mahan tried to regain a civilized tone as he defended Bill Reed’s undeniable whiteness. He was a personal friend and was contributing his services free of charge. He had the experience. Matthew Mahan had seen him organize and run one of the most efficient and effective field hospitals in Europe during World War II. He guaranteed Dr. Reed’s competence, his dedication. Moreover, as a former head of the county medical society, he was in a position to persuade many other doctors to donate their services to St. Clare’s. Once the reorganization was completed, Dr. Reed would no doubt be happy to turn the job over to a black man.
Emotion thickened Matthew Mahan’s voice as he took up the last charges - that the archdiocese was hoarding money and that he himself was spending it for his own selfish purposes. Neither accusation was true.
The young priest who was Disalvo’s alter ego leaped to his feet. “The members of the Ad Hoc Committee would like to know why you have failed to issue a financial report again this year.”
“I had a conference with Chancellor Malone two weeks ago, and we decided to go ahead and issue one, even though it might be wiser to wait - and profit from the experience of other dioceses. I hope we can get it out before the end of the year.”
“I hope it will include a thorough statement of your personal finances, Your Eminence.”
“What do you mean?”
“A number of priests were deeply concerned by the evidence brought to light by a columnist of the Hard Times Herald. We are even more concerned that you have made no attempt to deny any of these charges. All you’ve done is fire the man who wrote the articles from his job on the diocesan paper.”
“I did not fire Leo the Great McLaughlin; he quit his job before I returned from Rome. As for answering the charges, I prefer to let my life and character speak for themselves.”
A mistake. A lance of pain shot across his body. But what else could he say?
“Some of the evidence has been sustained by an independent investigation by this committee. St. Francis Xavier University has admitted that they gave your nephew a full scholarship at your request.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew Mahan could see I told you so on George Petrie’s face. The words the Cardinal had spoken to Eddie McGuire a few minutes earlier mocked him. They are laying several dozen feet on you now, Your Eminence, they are walking up and down your torso and pivo
ting on your face, while your loyal followers watch with mounting horror and dismay. Doesn’t the old smoothie owe them something? How far do you carry this would-be-saint business? Into a new kind of loneliness, wholly unexplored by the pseudo-saint, utterly unsuspected by the smoothie?
“Father, what are you trying to achieve? What is the purpose of this inquisition?”
The words had spoken themselves. Involuntary, a force inside him, using his own trembling voice.
“I guess you might say we’re trying to start a Project Equality inside the Church.”
For a moment, rage stormed in his chest. He thought he would collapse, choking with fury, right there on the platform. With an agonizing effort, he controlled himself. “Father,” he said in the same trembling voice, “the Church is not a debating society. It is not a city council, a state legislature. We are witnesses to a truth, bearers of a responsibility that goes beyond limited political realities. Speaking before God, I am prepared to say that I have administered the affairs of this archdiocese with honesty and good faith.”
Wrong, wrong, wrong, cried another voice inside him, while a jagged lightning bolt of pain cut through the center of his body.
“Then I take it, Your Eminence, that you consider yourself above questioning, above petty details like $10,000 or $20,000 of the people’s money handed over to your relations. I suppose the same principle applies to all other aspects of your administration. Well, at least we know where we stand.”
Father Forgotten-Name sat down. Matthew Mahan stared at him, unable to think, much less speak. He saw Father Disalvo reach across his own lap and shake Father Forgotten-Name’s hand. This was not what he intended, not what he deserved. I am Joseph, your brother. Why couldn’t he say that? Why couldn’t he find words that communicated this cry? Because the dismay in George Petrie’s eyes, the grim expectation on the lined, solemn faces of Eddie McGuire and his fellow pastors would not permit him. He was trapped between the old and the new, between power and grace.
“I will not say anything about disrespect, about the moral aspect of publicly accusing - judging - a man in direct contradiction to the spirit of the Gospels. I merely want to say - I merely want to say -”
The Good Shepherd Page 41
