Hounds of Rome

  “But now you’re smiling.”

  “I forgive easily. The forlorn look on your face told me you were contrite.”

  “Will three Hail Mary’s suffice for my penance?”

  “Only if you start giving your students a better break.”

  He decided to chance teasing her a little, but hopefully not to the point of making her angry. The spiked punch emboldened him. He arched an eyebrow. “And what may I ask are you doing at a faculty party? You’re a student, aren’t you?”

  “I do some teaching as a grad assistant,” she said. She smiled and sipped her drink. She looked at him over the edge of her glass. “May I ask what you’re doing here? I understand you’re a Lecturer, a part-timer. That doesn’t really qualify as faculty either.”

  He thought the comment was illuminating. She had been checking up on his official status.

  “Can we go somewhere for coffee after the party?” he asked, completely surprised at hearing himself say it. He tried to cover up. “I’d like to learn more of what the students are saying about me.” He already knew what the students were saying about him, but it might serve as an excuse to spend some time alone with her.

  “Why? I know little more than I’ve told you before. In a word, they think you’re too uptight. One of them says quite openly that you are a hard-ass, Father.”

  “Perhaps if you’ll come have coffee with me, you can give me some pointers on how to soften up. You are a therapist, after all.”

  The room was crowded. She was standing very close to him. Her soft chestnut brown hair reflected golden highlights. He detected a slight trace of springtime perfume. It made him feel he was outside under a blue sky instead of in a crowded party room. As she sipped her drink, her questioning eyes searched his face. He knew she was trying to make up her mind, wondering why this priest really wanted to see her alone. He waited an eternity for her answer.

  “All right,” she said almost in a whisper. “After I circulate a bit. I’ll see you at the front door in about half an hour.”

  *****

  They decided to have dinner together. He drove her across town to a restaurant in Chevy Chase to avoid prying eyes at places near the university. Even so, there were stares from people who wondered about a clergyman, middle-aged, Roman collar, probably a priest, having dinner with a young woman. The people who were of a charitable turn of mind ignored them thinking she could be a niece or a cousin. The busybodies whispered.

  She agreed to call him Steve, although being Catholic, it made her uncomfortable calling a priest by his given name. She had never called a priest by his first name.

  “We’re in an academic environment,” he argued. “It’s not like being home in a parish church. Besides,” he laughed, “calling me Steve is a lot better than the names some of my students call me. I’d settle for Steve any day.”

  Taking a sip from his wine glass, he told her his story. He began way back. Back to his days in the seminary. He spoke of the wonderful days he had spent in Rome at the Vatican. “Ever been to Rome?”

  “Some day,” she said. “Of course, I’ve read about it, but I’d like to hear more first-hand about it.”

  “It has breathtaking wonders...and I mean more than St. Peter’s, the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel. Rome has the remnants of a great civilization that flourished almost two thousand years ago, albeit a cruel and conquering one. One of my favorite pastimes in Rome was to walk or jog along the Via Appia Antica—the old Roman Appian Way just south of the city, and imagine Caesar’s legions returning from a far-off war, my iPod playing Resphigi’s Pines of the Appian Way. The music portrays the return of the conquering army.”

  “You sound intrigued by the old Roman army. Did you ever have a desire to join the army?”

  “Not really, but I admit to being intrigued by power and majesty. That’s one reason why I became a priest. What more power could a person have than to be a spokesperson, to intercede for others with God? In a church with ten people or a thousand people, the priest is the focal point.”

  “Sounds like a bit of ego there, Father Steve,” she said grinning.

  “OK, back to the Appian Way. You know, it stretches 500 miles from Brindisi on the southern coast of Italy all the way to the gates of Rome. Of course, Italy now has a new Appian Way—a modern highway to the south; that’s why the Roman road is referred to as the ancient Appian Way. It’s a cobblestone road in surprisingly good shape even after two thousand years. I was also fascinated by the tombs of famous Romans that line the road and the catacombs with entrances along the way. The catacombs have been played up in Hollywood movies as Christian hiding places during the Roman persecutions, and perhaps they were, but there’s no real evidence of that. They may have been simply underground cemeteries, and not only Christian—there are also some Jewish catacombs.”

  “The Hollywood version is more intriguing,” she said grinning.

  “If you’re ever in Rome, I’ll have my friend Angelo take you on a tour of the catacombs.”

  “Who’s Angelo?”

  “He’s the Italian priest in charge of the San Callisto Catacomb. We’ve been friends since our days at the Vatican. In fact, we were university roommates for a couple of years. I’ve visited Rome a few times since and have seen my old friend. He lives in the priest-house built on top of the catacomb. If you ever visit the catacombs, let me warn you—it’s pitch black down there and if you let the guide with the flashlight get too far ahead and he turns a corner leaving you in the dark, I can assure you, you’ll get the cold shivers.”

  “I understand there are quite a few catacombs under Rome.”

  “Yes, about fifty of them. But, including San Callisto, only about five are open to the public. The entrances were sealed for almost a thousand years, and the catacombs were really discovered by accident in the sixteenth century. Many have never been fully explored. San Callisto, for example, has numerous passageways that reach out almost fifteen miles under Rome.”

  When dinner was served, Steve Murphy went on to talk about his early days as a curate and his eventual rise to pastor. After some hesitation, he finally told her about the recent, abrupt, unexplained action of the archdiocese. He hoped that by telling her, it would explain his behavior. Perhaps explain why he was considered such a tyrant in class. She was sympathetic. She understood anger and depression—they could be serious conditions encountered in psychotherapy. It was clear to her that his anger, which should have been directed against the archdiocese, was misdirected towards his students and almost everyone else. She leaned closer to him. She studied his face across the table. She sensed that his anger was giving way to depression.

  “But why, oh why,” she asked puzzled, “would the archdiocese do a thing like that to you? It doesn’t add up. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Whoa,” he said abruptly. “This is a turnabout—you sound like you’re inviting me into the confessional.”

  “Sorry, but I just can’t understand why they’ve done this to you. It begs for more explanation.”

  “Who in God’s name knows what’s going on?” he said softly, miserably. “I don’t. It could be anything: an anonymous complaint about the new church I was building? Was it atrociously expensive? Or was I guilty of drinking too much? You realize, of course that when you say three Masses in a morning, that’s six partial chalices of wine. Who wouldn’t smell that on your breath? Especially heavy red church wine. There’s something else. A sexton saw me not long ago with an arm around a young altar boy, I was simply comforting him after he took a bad fall. I may have a hard shell, but inside, a soft core. I believed, and still do, that some of these kids needed a friendly arm around their shoulders.”

  “An arm, that’s all?”

  “That’s all. What I’m saying is that virtually anything can be taken the wrong way. False accusations are nothing new.”

  “But if there was a formal complaint, wouldn’t the archdiocese have consulted you about it? Aren’t you c
onsidered innocent until proven guilty in the eyes of the church? And even if they thought you were guilty, wouldn’t the first offense result in a warning?”

  “I would have thought so,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders and taking another sip of wine, “but I’m sure you know—the church’s first reaction is to transfer the priest to someplace else. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about you.”

  “I don’t have a long history like you do.” She hesitated. “Sorry. I guess that sounded like a comment about your age. It wasn’t meant to be. I was born outside of Boston, actually about twenty miles west of the city, in Concord.”

  “I grew up in Wayland,” he said surprised. “Just a few miles away.”

  She thought a moment, then brightened. “You’re one of the Murphy’s of Wayland. I’m impressed. Your father was a congressman. Wayland is where the swells live, old money,” she said laughing. “Are any of your family still up there?”

  “My mother and father are both dead; however, I have a brother, Jonathon who still lives in Wayland. No other siblings. Jonathon’s in real estate. He doesn’t need the money—only does it to keep busy. He’s eighteen years older than me. I keep telling him it’s time he retired.”

  Janet was curious. She thought the age spread between two brothers seemed unusual. “Was either of you adopted? Or is Jonathon your stepbrother?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of. And by the way, it isn’t just the action of the archdiocese that has me upset. I found out not long ago that my brother has a medical problem—he’s in an early stage of Lou Gehrig’s disease. My father died of it. The scary part is that it seems to run in our family.”

  “That’s a tough one. I understand it sometimes settles in the throat in the early stages. Difficulty talking and swallowing. Then, trouble breathing and loss of coordination.”

  “How did we get back to talking about me and my family? But while we’re discussing me, I suppose I should tell you I had a serious run-in with the chairs of both departments I work for. They say I’m a terrible teacher. Too tough...expect miracles from the students. I could actually be dropped.”

  “Have you ever thought of leaving the priesthood, especially after the way the archdiocese has been treating you?”

  “No. I’ll just stay and take whatever lumps are coming to me.” Pushing his dinner plate away, he grew silent as he propped an elbow on the table and rested his cheek in the palm of his hand. He stared down into his coffee cup. Then he dropped one hand flat on the table.

  “Now you sound like you’re feeling sorry for yourself. All your world has been giving you a hard time hasn’t it, Steve Murphy?” she said, lightly chiding him, trying to cajole him out of his funk. Then reaching over, she put her hand on his. The gesture was meant to soften her comment. She did it impulsively because he looked so crestfallen.

  The touch of her hand electrified him. No woman had ever held his hand in that way before. Nor did he draw his hand back. Her hand was soft, warm and spoke of caring. Although he was middle-aged, he was childlike emotionally, continually making new discoveries and discovering new needs. At this point in his life, in this restaurant, at this table, the attraction of this beautiful woman was one of the discoveries.

  5

  The seaplane taxied out through the narrow inlet into the bay. It was one of those rare fall days when the Chesapeake Bay was flat calm. Not a ripple ahead of the pontoons as Steve pushed the throttle forward. As the plane gained speed, the smooth gray water surface almost looked like a concrete runway spread out in front. Two large rooster tails fanned high behind the pontoons of the plane as the engine roared for takeoff. Easing back on the wheel, Steve smiled over at Janet sitting in the copilot seat as the plane rose into the cool clear morning air. The little plane climbed up into the blue, the towering spans of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge looming before it.

  “Go under the bridge,” Janet said excitedly.

  “Hey, I’m crazy but I’m not that crazy,” Steve said over the noise of the engine. “I know you can fly under the Golden Gate Bridge but here in Maryland it’s against the law. Take a good look. You see that most of the bridge is supported by columns. There’s just a short suspension span in the middle for ships. Another thing, it’s really two bridges side by side. Interested in some sightseeing information about the Bay?” he asked as the plane soared over the bridges.

  “Of course, that’s what I came for.”

  He was disappointed. He had hoped she was there mostly to be with him.

  “Who owns the plane?” she asked.

  “It’s a one-day rental.”

  “I didn’t know you were a pilot. A flying priest. And on pontoons. You could be a missionary. You could bring religion to snowbound Eskimos in Alaska or natives in southseas backwaters.”

  “It could happen, I suppose.”

  “Do you fly a lot?”

  “When I have time.”

  “Can you fly a bigger plane with more than one motor?”

  “I’ve had quite a bit of multi-engine experience. I have a commercial pilot’s license—instrument rating and all. My family owned a pontoon plane when my father was alive. When I was a kid he took me up occasionally and let me hold the stick. That’s what gave me the incentive to take lessons and get qualified. My family had…. in fact, we still have a house on a small lake in New Hampshire. My brother, Jonathon goes up to the house in the summer, but I haven’t been there for years. I believe the plane is still there although considering Jonathon’s condition, he may be leery of flying it off the lake.”

  “You mean the pond,” she laughed. “Have you forgotten that we New Englanders refer to them as ponds? Walden Pond, for example.”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied, with a quick look over at his passenger. He smiled. “You mean like Pond Winnepesaukee.”

  “There are exceptions for really big ponds,” she said as she playfully poked an elbow into the side of his rib cage.

  “Careful,” he warned, smiling, as the plane dipped slightly to the left. “The FAA says there should be no physical contact with the pilot—especially when you’re up in the air. But about Wayland and New Hampshire,” he continued, “I haven’t been home in a long time. When I was a kid, I was very close to my father. Are you sure you want to hear this?”

  “Of course. I can understand you better if I learn about your family. That’s what Family Systems Therapy is all about.”

  Steve glanced over at her. “Good grief,” he laughed, “I’m being analyzed by a shrink. The rest of the story is not very pretty and I have to say I have never quite figured it out.”

  “Maybe I can help,” she said smiling.

  “Actually, it’s kind of weird. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but my mother was a lush. And it galled me the way she fawned all over my brother. The old saying, he could do no wrong; I could do no right. When my father wasn’t around, and my older brother did something wrong, mom would get angry and I’d get slapped around.”

  “It’s a common thing in dysfunctional families.”

  “Dysfunctional? I never thought of it that way.”

  “With an alcoholic parent, it sure wasn’t a normal family.”

  “I thought that by becoming a priest, she’d see some good qualities in me. But, although she was a Catholic, or at least called herself a Catholic, she thought it was stupid. I was wasting my life. Anyway, enough of that.”

  Steve banked the plane to the left. “We’re passing over Greenbury Point and just off to the right is the Severn River, and on the opposite shore the Naval Academy. If there aren’t too many sailboats out there I might try landing on the river later on. If not, I can taxi in from the Bay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Shrine cafeteria where I’ve been having most of my lunches is OK but it certainly isn’t gourmet and I occasionally have a strong urge for fresh seafood. See that small building and attached dock on the north side of the river? That’s where we’ll have lunch after we do some sigh
tseeing.”

  Steve banked the airplane to fly south. The dome of the Annapolis State House was visible in the distance. “Recognize Annapolis?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’ve walked around there a few times. Kind of touristy, I find. Crowded in warm weather, but fun.”

  “Now we’re south of Annapolis. Look down below. That’s the Thomas Point Lighthouse. The hex-shaped building on stilts. Time was when there were lots of them on the Bay, but they aren’t around anymore except for a couple on shore used as tourist attractions. They became obsolete first by radio navigation, later by satellite navigation.”

  “What’s that big island across the bay?”

  “That’s Tilghman’s Island. That’s where Michener lived when he wrote the book Chesapeake. I suppose he wanted to be immersed in the local culture.”

  “Speaking of immersion,” Janet asked, arching an eyebrow, “how is your total immersion Latin class doing?”

  “Not good. In fact, I’m going to drop that approach. If the class ran night and day continuously for a whole week the way Berlitz does it, fine, but it doesn’t seem to work when you see students in class only three times a week for fifty minutes. When they come back on Wednesday, they’ve forgotten everything they learned on Monday.”

  “They’ll thank you for dropping it. And they might just drop calling you a hardass.”

  “Janet, do you see that dark narrow jagged band that runs down the middle of the Bay?”

  “Yes, what is it pollution?”

  “No, it’s deep water. Thousands of years ago during the last ice age, the Chesapeake Bay didn’t exist. There was only a narrow one-hundred-foot deep trench from the Susquehanna River up north in Pennsylvania that ran down through the middle of this area all the way south to the ocean at Norfolk, Virginia. Then, when the ice age ended, the river overflowed its banks and formed the Chesapeake Bay.”

  “Steve, what’s that huge shadow down there under the water? Sunken ship?”