Now, he regretted that he had not thought more clearly before making his decision to return. For this was a kind of purgatory he could scarcely bear. A self-inflicted punishment that drained his soul of passion for his sacerdotal work. It made him half a man and half a priest—as neither whole, as both a failure.
If this was the Almighty’s way of testing him, he had surely failed and could now only sit anxiously awaiting God’s retribution—and wondering what form it would take.
Then, to his eternal agony, he learned.
Tim was at his happiest when in the parish school. He visited often, teaching the youngsters prayers and religious songs, and trying to awaken the love of God in them.
He would go along on their outings, ostensibly to share the responsibility of shepherding them, but in truth because he felt most at ease in the outside world when he was in their company.
One sunny morning they were visiting the botanical gardens. The weather was exhilarating, and his heart grew light. Though other parts of the neighborhood had become almost unrecognizable, the beauty of the flowers had not changed.
He felt young again. And pure.
It was so warm that the children were able to sit on the grass to eat their sandwiches and milk. The Sisters asked Tim to say a few words.
Inspired by the miracles of nature around them, he quoted from Christ’s Sermon on the Mount. Gesturing toward the gardens he pronounced, “ ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory …’ ”
He was struck dumb in midsentence. Scarcely fifty feet beyond where they were gathered, a dark-haired mother and her little boy were walking hand in hand, smiling and chatting with a petite, white-haired woman.
There was no doubt. It was Deborah and her mother. And her child.
Realizing that his own young audience had fixed their attention upon him, he rushed to conclude his words.
“ ‘Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field … shall he not much more clothe you?’ ”
Striving to keep his emotions in check, he asked one of the girls, “Dorie, what do you think Jesus means by this?” As the little girl stood up and began her simple exegesis, Tim let his eyes focus once more beyond their group.
He could barely see her now in the distance. Yet even that sight was sufficient to tear at his heart. Deborah had come home. Married to another. To someone she had loved so much that she had borne a child to him.
That evening, he walked into the dining room and poured himself a large glass of whiskey. He then went to the living room, moved a chair close to the window, and opened it so the wind could soothe his face.
He took a swallow and began to berate himself.
Why are you surprised, for heaven’s sake? Did you imagine she’d become some kind of Jewish nun and light a candle to you every night? You stupid Irish dolt. She’s gone on with her life. She’s forgotten.…
He raised his glass and toasted, “Good for you, Deborah Luria. You’ve wiped me from the slate of memory. You’ve given no more thought to … what we were.”
He took another swig, and let the alcohol unlock his true emotions. At first he did not even realize it, but tears began to wet his cheeks.
And then he murmured half-aloud, “God damn you, Deborah. He can’t love you half as much as I do.”
57
Timothy
Tim did not dare to call from the parish phone, nor even from Father Hanrahan’s house, since Sister Eleanor, who had been doing the priest’s domestic chores for years, was apt to walk in any time.
Feeling guilty for his furtiveness, he bought a copy of The Tablet, handing the news vendor five dollars and requesting change in silver.
“Going to play pinball, Father?” the old man jested.
“Right you are, Mr. O’Reilly.”
He even had to think about which phone booth to use, fearing he might be discovered by a chance parishioner.
As an act of desperation, he took the subway to Fulton Street, found an office building with a bank of telephones, and hid himself where he was certain he would not be seen or heard.
“Hello, Tim. Nice to hear from you.”
“I’m grateful that Your Eminence had time to take my call.”
“Don’t be silly, I’m always glad to hear from you. Actually, this whole thing’s providential, since I was planning to ring you. What’s on your mind?”
“Eminence,” Tim answered, “I—this is very hard to say …”
“Tim, your voice sounds despairing. I hope you’ve not lost your … commitment. Here in Boston, priests are leaving as if the whole cathedral was on fire.”
“No, no,” Tim rushed to say, “but I can’t explain it on the telephone. Could I come up and speak to you privately?”
“Of course. I’ll fit you in tomorrow morning if you can get up that soon.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Tim sighed with relief.
Set on a hill in Brighton, the Cardinal’s mansion was hardly grand by Roman standards, but in what was once a Puritan stronghold it was lavish enough.
Tim waited nervously on a bench at the end of a long marble corridor. Ten minutes later, a pair of tall mahogany doors opened, and the cardinal’s secretary, a dark, broad-shouldered Cuban, began to motion the visitor to enter. He himself was suddenly blocked as Mulroney moved his portly presence to the doorway and called out, “Come in, my boy. Welcome to the land of the bean, the cod, and the Red Sox.”
As he put his arm around Tim, and led him into a comfortable small parlor, he looked back at the Cuban priest. “Father Jimenez will bring us some tea, and we can start right in. I’d have invited you to lunch, but I’ve got to dine with a faculty committee at Boston College and try to hold my ground while they dun me for money. I thought I’d spare you that aggravation till you’re a cardinal yourself.”
His Eminence leaned back in a leather chair whose color almost matched his garb, and said, “All right, my lad, I’ve never seen those eyes of yours look dimmer. You’re unhappy. Tell me what’s the matter.”
Tim had spent the night before wondering what pretext he could find, what story he could manufacture—and yes, if necessary, what lie he could pronounce—to induce the cardinal to have him transferred from Brooklyn.
“It’s funny, Tim,” Mulroney remarked, “I’ve known you since you were a fresh-faced seminarian, then a scholar-priest in Rome, and in all that time you never seemed to age a day. But now I see a shadow on your face. I can only conclude you’re in the grip of a terrible crisis. And—notwithstanding what you told me on the phone—you’re suddenly disappointed with the priesthood. Am I right?”
“No, Your Eminence,” Tim quickly responded, “not at all. It’s just—”
This was the sentence that he could not complete—until abruptly he decided that—despite the risk—the truth would serve him best.
“There’s a woman—”
The prelate put his forehead in his hands and murmured, “Almighty Father, I knew it would be this!”
“Don’t misunderstand,” Tim interrupted quickly. “What I mean is—there was. She lived in my parish.…”
“Yes?”
“But this was long before I was ordained,” he added frantically. “I was a seminarian—and, yes—I did sin with her.” He hesitated for a moment and then added, “I loved her once with all my heart.”
The cardinal fidgeted. “And now?”
“And now I’m back where I can see her. It’s unbearable—”
“Is she married?” the prelate interrupted.
Tim nodded. “She has at least one child.”
“Ah, good,” the Cardinal could not keep from saying. “Have you two spoken?”
“No, I’ve only glimpsed her from afar. But it was—”
“The pain of memory?” the churchman inquired. Compassion colored his words.
“Yes, that’s exactly it. I don’t think I can survive much longer at
St. Gregory’s and not go mad.”
Mercifully, Father Jimenez entered with a tray of tea and butter cookies. As he set it down on the Cardinal’s table, Mulroney looked up at him and smiled. “That’ll be fine, Roberto, you can leave it there.” His secretary gave a reverent nod and quickly evanesced.
The Cardinal looked back at Timothy, whose blue eyes were broadcasting anxiety, and smiled. “Father Hogan, I was beginning to wonder if my faith was being tried. But, Deo gratias, you’ve restored it.”
“I don’t understand, Eminence.”
“Tim, ever since I myself was honored with the Archdiocese of Boston, I’ve been searching for a pretext to get you transferred so I can watch your star rise without a telescope. Just a few days before you called, the perfect occasion presented itself.”
He paused, then added with a mournful undertone, “I’m only sorry that the circumstances are somewhat unhappy. While you were at the Greg did you happen to come across a chap named Matt Ridgeway?”
“Once or twice. He was two years ahead of me, and I’ve always enjoyed his articles in Latinitas. He has such a sense of humor—not to mention a magnificent grasp of the language.”
“You can’t imagine what wonders he wrought for the Latin studies in our schools,” the Cardinal continued. “I appointed him a special director for Classical Languages, and he traveled the length and breadth of the Commonwealth spreading, so to speak, the gospel of the gospel.” The prelate signed. “He was such a gifted young man.”
“ ‘Was,’ Your Eminence? Is he ill?”
“To be frank,” Mulroney answered somberly, “his departure is symptomatic of a kind of illness within the Church itself. He wants to marry. He says he can’t bear the solitude. And, quite candidly, that’s something even I can understand.”
“Yes, Eminence,” Tim replied, heartened by the sudden intimacy of their conversation.
“I’m doing my best to help Matt get his laicization from Rome, but that sort of thing is becoming much more difficult. I think the Curia, not to mention His Holiness, were a little startled by the number of defections when John XXIII ‘opened the window.’
“Anyway, Tim, the point is that the Archdiocese of Boston is without a director of Classical Languages and without a strong-enough candidate to shoulder the burden. Surely this will make the authorities look with favor on your immediate transfer. How soon can you move up?”
“Could I discuss that with Father Hanrahan? I wouldn’t want to cause him any undue hardship.”
“Of course, Tim. But I’m sure that my old friend and successor, the Bishop of Brooklyn, can get him another A.P. in time for you to assume your duties on the Fourth of July. Then we could make it a double celebration.”
The Cardinal glanced at his watch. “Oh my, if I don’t arrive in time, I’ll never be able to defend the Faith against those Deans at B.C.”
Before boarding the return shuttle, Tim tried to phone Father Joe at the parish office to share the good news with him, but was told that Hanrahan had left for home.
Just then he heard the last call for his flight. He rushed to make the plane, already feeling lighter at having a burden lifted from his heart.
58
Timothy
Tim arrived back at the apartment a little after eight P.M. and knew instantly that something terrible had happened.
There was only a single plate set at the table, where gray-haired Sister Eleanor was sitting statuelike, her gaunt face a mask of worry.
“What’s the matter, Nell? Where’s Father Joe—has he been taken ill?”
“No, no,” she replied. “But he’s had to leave quite suddenly to give Last Rites—I know they call it something else now.”
“Yes, ‘Anointing of the Sick,’ ” Timothy replied impatiently. “Who’s dying?”
The nun suddenly went pale. “I don’t know. It’s someone with pneumonia,” she answered nervously. “I didn’t catch the name.”
Tim persisted, sensing that she was hiding something. “Tell me who it is,” he demanded.
Browbeaten and frightened, the Sister blurted out, “Your mother, Father Tim. He’s gone to see your mother. The hospital says she asked for him.”
His mother?
If, as Tuck and Cassie had forced him to believe, his mother was incapable of rational discourse—or even recognizing her own son—how could she be lucid enough on her deathbed to remember Father Hanrahan and send for him?
Tim sprinted to the parish office and frantically searched the desk drawers for the key to their minibus while interrogating Father Díaz about the fastest route to Mount St. Mary’s Nursing Home. He then dashed off into the street, climbed behind the wheel, fumbled for a moment trying to ignite the motor, and drove off with a jolt.
Tim pressed the pedal to the floor, driving recklessly. It was an almost suicidal act, as if he were afraid that what he would learn this night would so profoundly change his life that it might be just as well to lose it on the way.
Ninety minutes later as he stopped for gas, he suddenly noticed Hanrahan’s old Pinto in the parking lot of the adjacent Howard Johnson’s. While the attendant filled his tank, he dashed madly toward the diner, where he found the old priest sipping tea to calm his nerves.
For Tim this was no time to stand on ceremony.
“All right, Joe,” he said abruptly, “don’t lie to me anymore. Why did they never let me see my mother? I’ll drive the rest of the way with you so you can tell me everything.”
He had barely self-control enough to keep himself from grabbing the old priest and shaking him.
Five minutes later they were on the road again, Tim doing the driving—and Joe Hanrahan nervously trying to explain.
“You see, Tim, she was hallucinating. Saying things that could lacerate a person’s heart.”
“You mean you’ve heard her?”
“Yes,” the priest admitted meekly. “It was my duty as a pastor.”
“And what about my duty as a son?”
“It was to live your life, my boy.”
“And all these years you’ve been lying to me,” Tim raged.
Hanrahan was tight-lipped as they turned off the thruway and started to ascend a narrow winding road. In barely half a dozen minutes they would reach the hospital.
There, Tim would find the answers for himself.
Stone pillars and an iron gate. A painted sign on which two meager lines were traced: Mount St. Mary’s Nursing Home.
Tim was too agitated to comment on the pallid euphemism for “asylum.” All he could think of was that after so much pain he at last had reached the destination of his childhood longing.
A trio of nuns, one of them apparently Mother Superior, was waiting at the door.
“Father Joseph,” they greeted him, anxiety and love commingled.
“Good evening, Sisters. Sorry this is such a sad occasion. Oh, this is my new Assistant Pastor, Father Timothy.”
Two of them saw no special significance in Tim’s presence. The third, a novice in her twenties, had not yet acquired the skill of looking at priests’ faces without seeing them as men.
Flanking Hanrahan, the two other sisters escorted him along a darkened corridor.
Walking several paces behind, the young woman turned to Timothy and whispered, “Father, please don’t be offended. But I’m struck by how your eyes resemble hers.”
“Yes,” he remarked softly, “I’m her son.”
“I thought so,” she whispered. “Margaret’s talked about you often.”
She has? he shouted inwardly.
“What did she say?” he asked aloud.
“Well,” the young nurse replied, “she’s delusional, as I’m sure you know. With due respect, it’s clear you’re not the Messiah.”
“No,” Timothy said, barely audibly. “What has she said that was rational?”
The Sister blushed. “That you were ‘beautiful.’ She spoke about your eyes.”
She only saw me for a week or so, and still she
recalls my face, Tim thought. “Sister, what exactly is the diagnosis of her case?”
“Don’t you know any of this?” the puzzled novice inquired. “Well, if you read her charts—and there’s more than twenty-five years of them—the word that seems to recur is ‘schizophrenia.’ ”
“What else do these reports say?” Tim asked her quickly, as he watched Father Joe and the other nurses disappear around a corner to the right.
“Well, lately her condition’s been exacerbated by senile dementia. And of course this terrible pneumonia’s raised her fever. I’m afraid you’re going to find it quite upsetting to see her, Father.”
“I’m prepared,” Tim answered, staring into space. Not saying that he had been preparing for this moment all his life.
At the end of the long, silent corridor a ray of light shone on the dark linoleum. It was an open door. Father Hanrahan and the two older nuns had already entered.
Timothy was frightened to the marrow of his bones. The young Sister sensed it, and put her hand gently on his sleeve as they entered the room.
What Timothy saw was not a person. It was an emaciated wraith. Tufts of tangled white hair framed her wrinkled, hollow-cheeked face. The only thing that seemed remotely human were her eyes.
His eyes.
Despite the tubes in her arms, the woman was pulling at the bars that framed the bed. She was coughing horribly, her lungs full of fluid.
Then, their glances met.
Margaret Hogan merely stared. And mad and dying as she was, knew instantly who had walked into her life just at the end of it.
“You’re … Timothy,” she said hoarsely. “You’re my son.”
His heart was about to break.
Then once again a wave of madness washed across her consciousness. “No, you’re the angel Gabriel, or Michael, or Elijah, come to take me off to Heaven.…”