by Glenn Cooper
‘Well we’ve got to do something,’ Sue said.
‘Do you have any other ideas?’
‘I do, actually. I don’t know if Mr Anning would go for it but what about this …?’
Torres knocked on the library door. Anning had returned to the ranch from Houston that afternoon for the Sunday Mass and was immersed in a book and a bottle of bourbon. He invited her in and offered her an adult beverage, as he called it. She politely declined and said she was having ever greater concerns about the mental and physical health of the girls. They were taking care of the babies but little else, and all of them were only picking at their food.
‘What is it, a collective hissy fit about this Pedro fellow and their horses?’
‘Being a teenager isn’t easy, Mr Anning, and being a new mother isn’t either. Then you mix in the special pressures they have being away from their homes and families and suddenly being considered holy women with holy babies and being put in front of crowds and TV cameras.’
Anning reached for a toothpick and went after a bit of steak from dinner. ‘There’s another way to look at their situation, Lidia. These girls, each of them, were poor as church mice. They lived like cockroaches and now they’re in a mansion and are adored by a minimum of the five hundred and forty million people who saw them last Sunday live on television. I’d say they’re spoiled brats on easy street.’
‘Mr Anning, I’m sure you’re right but I think there’s something we can do, a small thing to make them feel better and behave better. I’m concerned that if they don’t want to cooperate they may make a scene on Sunday inside the church.’
She mentioned the mooning threat.
‘They wouldn’t.’
‘Oh yes, they would.’
‘Christ. On live TV? What is it you have in mind?’
That evening, Sue gave the girls the news with Mrs Simpauco and Mrs Torres on hand to properly translate. As she talked she cradled JJ in her arms and cooed at him every so often. The other babies were sleeping but JJ had been a little colicky. The bulldog was curled up in her little bed under the cribs.
Anning had said yes to Sue’s proposal. He had agreed to bring their families from overseas to stay with them in the mansion.
‘My whole family?’ Maria Mollo asked.
‘Your parents and your brothers and sisters,’ Sue said.
‘Me too?’ Maria Aquino asked. ‘My mother and the kids?’
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t want my dad to come,’ Mary Riordan said. ‘Trust me, Kenny will try to sell anything that’s not nailed down. My brothers and sisters would be good, though.’
‘When they come?’ Maria Aquino asked.
‘He said it will take a few weeks to arrange for the visas but he’d start to work on it in the morning,’ Mrs Torres said.
‘What about Pedro and the horses?’ Mary asked.
‘Not part of the deal, kiddo,’ Sue said. ‘But this is good, no? I mean how much fun will it be having your families here?’
All of them smiled and asked if they could get cheeseburgers.
‘Fuck it,’ Mary said, when the cook came up with a big tray of food. ‘Kenny can come too.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
An even larger audience – more than 600 million people – watched the next Sunday Mass broadcast from the Cathedral of the Blessed New Virgin Marys and, over the following two Sundays, the ratings climbed ever higher. The girls dutifully wore their white dresses and behaved themselves in front of the cameras. During the week, they did their schoolwork, ate the food put on their plates, and stopped complaining about Pedro and the horses. They were even civil to the nuns.
But every few days they would ask Sue about the arrival of their families and Sue would pass their questions up the line. Mrs Torres assured her repeatedly that the visa applications were in process and that when she had definitive news she’d let her know. The girls had Sue take them down to the second floor of the mansion where, with the bulldog trotting along, they made inspections of all the empty guest rooms and drew maps of which member of whose family would stay where.
After the second Mass at the cathedral, activities at the ranch ramped up. There had been constant meetings. County public health officials had grown alarmed about the burgeoning population of the tent and RV village, which had come to be called Miracle Village. When the census hit seven thousand, they had threatened to pull a variety of permits. At first Anning had fussed and fumed about this being private property (not to mention Texas) and his rights to do whatever the hell he wanted to do on his own land, but then he and Pole had concluded that this wasn’t an all together negative development.
‘Randy, we don’t need to be overly focused on the numbers of followers locally,’ Pole had said, ‘just the way that the Vatican has never been overly focused on the numbers of people who come to Mass at St Peter’s. The only metrics that count are the numbers of parishioners we have. We need NCC churches all over the world. We need an NCC church in every parish there’s an Old Catholic church. We can’t effectively compete otherwise. The local numbers are wonderful, the TV numbers are amazing, but that’s not where the action’s at.’
‘Hell, I don’t disagree with you,’ Anning had said, sipping a bourbon on the porch. ‘It just rankles me when a bunch of pencil-necked geeks come on to my land to tell me what I can and cannot do. All these damned people in Miracle Village are a logistical and security nightmare. I don’t really mind capping off the population, to be honest. You’re right, we ought to concentrate on monetizing the six hundred million folks in TV land.’
Pole arched an eyebrow. ‘Monetize? Really?’
‘Maybe not the best word but you know what I mean. We’ve got to get them contributing to the charities that we think are worthy and get them to pay our Peter’s Pence at our collection plates on Sundays. You can’t separate money and influence, you know.’
Pole had been nursing a bourbon too. It was a fine autumn evening and he had been feeling rather buoyant. ‘I do know that. I’m putting the finishing touches on a document I’d like to share with you soon. It’s a proposal to support renting worship spaces in all major cities in all fifty states to push the celebration of Mass down to the grassroots. We’re just getting to the critical mass – no pun intended – of priests defecting from Vatican control to populate the effort. I think it can serve as a blueprint for international expansion.’
‘That’s fine. I look forward to reading it. Our numbers are up, Celestine’s numbers are down. Happy days.’
‘Indeed they are. And Randy, I’ve made some scribbles on the architectural plans for my Apostolic Palace. I think you’ll like my suggestions.’
‘Oh, I’m sure I will, Your Holiness. I know it’s your number one priority – after saving souls, that is.’
Cardinal Da Silva was used to maintaining a challenging schedule of official duties, but the past few weeks had taxed him to the point of exhaustion. His own staff at the secretariat was concerned about his health and one of his most trusted monsignors had contacted Sister Elisabetta to see if the pope might persuade him to have a bit of a rest – even a couple of days off might be beneficial.
She called on him at his formal office in the Apostolic Palace where he had just concluded yet another crisis meeting of Curia personnel.
‘Sister, how nice to see you,’ the cardinal said. ‘How is the Holy Father?’
‘Tired, like you.’
He laughed. ‘And you don’t also look like you could fall asleep in that chair?’
‘It’s an occupational hazard these days,’ she said. ‘Seriously, I wonder if I can prevail upon you to take a small vacation. It might be an inspiration to the Holy Father.’
‘It’s difficult to see my way clear to doing so,’ he said. ‘Have you seen the latest figures? We’ve had hundreds of resignations of clergy and nuns from all over the world. We lost three more cardinals this week – OK, all right-wingers, but still. Attendance at Mass is steadily down on a
week-by-week basis. Contributions to Catholic charities are also way down. Even attendance at the papal audiences and the pontiff’s Sunday Angelus is down.’
‘I know, I know,’ she said wearily.
‘And Pole’s numbers are up, up, up. This so-called New Catholic Church is gaining traction.’
‘People do like a good miracle,’ she said.
‘Speaking of which, how can I contemplate taking even a single day off when the Congregation for the Causes of Saints is formally meeting tomorrow? They need to make a determination fast – one way or another.’
‘I’ve spoken to Cardinal Vaughn,’ Elisabetta said. ‘He’s not used to working under this kind of timetable. He usually has years for his deliberations, not weeks!’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Da Silva said ruefully. ‘Listen, while I’ve got you, I had a conference call with the C8 earlier today. They’re not in a panic but they’re not far off one either. They want to recommend a drastic escalation of undertakings to the Holy Father. They want to wield the ax.’
‘Excommunication,’ she said, rubbing her face.
‘Excommunication latae sententiae, those excommunications reserved for the pope,’ he said, nodding. ‘The thinking is that we need to act now and issue the decrees against Pole and all the priests and bishops who have celebrated Mass with him.’
‘Under what grounds?’
‘Multiple grounds. Under canon law they are schismatics who have willfully withdrawn from the authority of the reigning Roman pontiff. They are apostates. They are heretics. Cardinal Della Queva would be the one to draw up the charges. I’ve already commissioned a draft.’
‘When would we release it?’
‘Let’s see what the crowds look like during the papal audience this Wednesday. It’s as good a barometer as any.’
‘All right. What else?’
‘They recommend the pope make written and video statements on denouncing the schism, announcing the excommunications, and reaffirming the values of the Holy Roman Church. He must also warn clergy who might be contemplating leaving the Church that excommunication will also be their fates. Finally, he must warn parishioners that any confessions, absolutions, Christian rites administered by a priest in the so-called New Catholic Church, are without weight and are null and void. We must metaphorically burn these heretics at their metaphorical stakes. Celestine is a fighter. Let’s give him powerful weapons.’
Sue was walking down one of the rear halls at the mansion where George Pole had been given a temporary office when she heard Anning’s voice through a half-open door. It was a Saturday night and Anning was back at the ranch for Sunday Mass. She wasn’t a natural snoop but she picked up a few alarming words so she stopped, dropping to the floor and pretending to tie her sneaker laces.
‘So you have no intention of bringing their families to the States,’ Pole said.
‘Hell no. I just told Torres I would so she could quiet them down and prevent a ruckus. The last thing we want is their mamas and papas here, treating them like little girls. And they’d probably all be pains in the asses too with this demand and that demand. These girls have to grow the hell up. They’re mothers. They’re more than mothers; they are religious icons. You think Holy Mother Mary behaved like a prima donna two thousand years ago? The hell she did. And she was probably younger than them.’
‘What will you say to them when they don’t arrive?’ Pole asked.
‘Visa problems. I’ll keep moving the timeline.’
‘And what if they stop believing you and revolt like Mrs Torres said they might? If they refuse to cooperate on public events? If they disrupt Mass?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it, George – goddamn it, there I go again – Your Holiness. I think in the short, medium, and long run we’re going to be better off if we ship these girls back to where they came from. They did their jobs as holy vessels. It’s the baby Jesuses that are important to our church. Sure we venerate the Virgin Mary but it’s Jesus Christ who’s the foundation of Catholicism.’
‘We can’t just separate mothers from their children,’ Pole said.
‘Sure we can. Happens every day. Social services comes along, makes an assessment about unsafe parenting, and children are made wards of the state. Betsy and I will adopt them in a New-York minute. Well, I’ll have to bribe her to go along but that’s my cross to bear. I’ll bring in a team of psychiatrists and social workers to attest to the instability of the girls and a friendly judge will do the right thing. I am so sick of their whining, I can’t wait to see the back of them. I will raise the boys right. We’ll get the nuns to help. When they’re older the boys will understand what is required of them. When they’re older, they can go back to their own countries, go to wherever it makes sense and preach their gospels. It’ll be a beautiful thing and the NCC will just explode in popularity.’
‘You certainly have thought this out, Randy. Of course I’ll back you on this. When do you want to pull the trigger?’
‘Soon.’
Sue heard a shuffling from inside the room, stood up, and fast-tiptoed down the hall.
When she got to her room, she let her anger out in a rush of bitter tears. After she collected herself, she washed her face and poured a wine from her mini fridge. It took her less than five minutes to make a decision.
She poked her head into the girls’ bedroom to see if they were still awake. They were in bed playing on their phones. The babies and Lily were asleep.
‘Hey guys,’ Sue said. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Is there news about our families?’ Mary asked loudly.
‘Sort of. Can you keep your voices down?’
‘Why?’
‘In case the nuns wander past. Here it goes. I made a decision tonight. I’m going to leave.’
‘Sue not go,’ Maria Mollo cried, throwing off her quilt.
‘You can’t leave,’ Mary said. ‘I will burn this fucking house down if you leave.’
‘Don’t swear,’ Sue had said. ‘And please don’t burn down the house.’
‘I love you,’ Maria Aquino told her, climbing off her bed and wrapping her skinny arms around her neck.
‘Look,’ Sue had said after calming them and sitting them down on the carpet. ‘Here’s the thing. I’m definitely going but I want you to come with me.’
They looked bewildered.
‘What about our families?’ Mary asked.
‘They’re not coming. I just found out.’
‘Why not?’ Mary asked.
‘I don’t think Anning ever intended to invite them. He lied to get you to behave.’
‘Then tell that bald-headed wanker we’re not going to his fucking church tomorrow.’
‘At this point I almost think that’s what he wants you to do. Oh, Christ, Mary, the Marias aren’t going to understand everything I’m going to say about your families, the babies, and you guys. You’re going to have to make them understand in your own way.’
‘Go on,’ Mary said. ‘You talk and I’ll act it out for them in living color.’
For the next several minutes Sue talked and Mary, wide-eyed herself, translated a story to the wide-eyed Marias of their babies being yanked out of their arms and the girls being sent back home without them. Sue was impressed at how masterfully Mary was able to communicate something this complicated to the other girls. Using simple words like, ‘Mamas and papas no come,’ and pantomimes involving babies being snatched from their arms and being booted out of America, the girls grew frantic.
When she was done Sue asked them if they understood everything. Then she told them they couldn’t cry and tomorrow they had to act like nothing was wrong. They were mothers now and their most important job was protecting their children.
Mary had one more question. ‘What about Lily?’
‘We can’t take the dog, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not?’
‘She barks, remember?’
‘Could we leave her to Mrs White? She likes her a lot.
’
‘That’ll work,’ Sue said.
Sue returned to her bedroom and unplugged her phone from its charger.
‘Hello, Professor Donovan, this is Sue Gibney, the midwife. Yes, I know I’ve ignored all your texts. I apologize. You came back to the ranch? When? God, I’m sorry, I had no idea. Do you have a moment to talk now?’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Sue waited until after breakfast.
Mrs Torres usually ate alone in her office and that’s where she found her.
‘Got a minute?’ Sue asked.
‘Sure, what’s up?’
‘I need to take a few days off.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s my sister. She’s in the hospital. I need to go back to Santa Fe.’
‘You never mentioned a sister.’
‘We’re not that close but, you know, when someone gets sick …’
‘I understand.’
‘It’s just for a little while. It’s serious but not that serious.’
‘When do you need to go?’
‘I thought I’d leave late tonight.’
‘Oh good. I thought we’d have to get them to Mass today without you.’
Sue showed some mock horror. ‘Heaven forbid.’
After Mass, the girls had as ordinary an afternoon as they could. They played games in the afternoon, they breastfed the babies, and had a wash before dinner. Meanwhile Sue’s afternoon was anything but ordinary. She packed a few things of her own but mostly furtively gathered up some bare-minimum essentials for the girls and their babies when no one was looking, interspersing them among her own things in her case. Her plan involved getting the babies as tired as possible and the girls kept them out of their cribs well into the night.
Over dinner, staff members were curious about Sue’s departure but she played it down and asked Sister Anika if the sisters were ready to hold down the fort with the girls.
‘I believe we’re up to the task,’ she replied stiffly as there was no love lost between the women.
Over dessert, Clay Carling, the security head, slipped into the room and cut himself a hunk of pie.
