He left Lucy scrambling to rearrange his appointments and get Dominic to fill in for him, and climbed into his car for the drive downtown. Somehow, somewhere in the back of his mind, he had known this was coming. There had been too many calls from Monsignor Crowell in the past few months, and with what had happened over the past weekend, things were bound to come to a head.
For this trip, he had even managed to ditch his shadows. Since he'd been working at the rectory for a change, none of his self-appointed bodyguards had been with him to argue.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, it was nice that people cared enough to put themselves out this way. On the other, it was a relief to be going somewhere by himself. He spent so much time in the company of others that his car was an escape, a place of solitude.
He could listen to music of his own choosing, or just take time to think things over and clear all the junk from his head. Because he certainly accumulated enough junk in the course of a day. Of course, like most priests, he was wonderfully forgetful when it came to information that people wanted to keep private. It was a talent developed over years of hearing confessions from people he still had to be able to greet with warmth and love only minutes or hours later. The worst secrets died a rapid death in his memory cells.
Today, however, there was little room for anything except discomfort about the interview he was facing. It was strange to him that he'd been in the parish only six months and for some reason was facing serious opposition. He honestly couldn't think what he had done to make any of his parishioners so upset with him. Of course, he knew he must have done something, however minor. He wasn't holding himself free of responsibility. But it troubled him that he had no inkling of who or why. Perhaps today would clarify the issues and give him a clue so he could mend fences. He hoped so.
But regardless of his hopes for the meeting, he was well aware that Monsignor Crowell didn't like him. Which meant there would be a great deal of unpleasantness along the way as he tried to discern what was really going on.
He was kept cooling his heels in an anteroom for twenty minutes. Not surprising. He'd been around the block enough times to recognize an exercise of power for the sake of power. He'd seen it frequently in the navy.
But at long last, he was summoned into the monsignor's august presence, into an office full of enough antiques and icons to suggest it was an extension of the Vatican. The room, however, failed to intimidate him. How Crowell chose to spend his own money was Crowell's business. Brendan vastly preferred his own situation, where he had next to nothing to spend, and what he had could be given where it was needed.
For reasons known only to himself, Crowell had chosen to wear a cassock in a diocese where cassocks were relegated to the backs of closets as impractical. He also wore a pectoral cross big enough to blind. It was as if he were trying to remind Brendan that the full weight of the church stood behind him.
Brendan took the chair Crowell waved him to. Pleasantries were exchanged in the briefest possible fashion.
“Let's get straight to business, shall we?” Crowell said, steepling his hands.
“Yes, of course,” Brendan replied. Trying to look more relaxed than he felt, he settled back and crossed his legs.
“I’m sure,” the monsignor began, “that you've noticed this office has had to make a number of calls to you in the past month or so.”
“Yes, I have. But they were all very vague, Monsignor.”
“Deliberately so. However, I have called you here today because a serious charge has been leveled against you. I thought, in your interests, that we would keep it just between the two of us for the moment.”
“You're very kind.” But Brendan's normally somnolent radar was beginning to beep. Loudly.
“I also want to give you the chance to make a confession. We can work this out, Father. There are programs available to help priests like you.”
“Like me?” Brendan's heart began to beat faster. “What do you mean?”
But Crowell chose not to answer directly. “The important thing here is to avoid scandal for the Church. I’m sure you agree with me.”
“Always.”
Crowell smiled. “I knew you would. We want to handle this as quietly as possible, and help you to regain your spiritual purity.”
Brendan's heart was still beating rapidly, but now it was beating with anger. “I’m not aware that I’ve compromised my spiritual purity in any significant way, Monsignor.”
Crowell arched both eyebrows. “Then the situation may be more serious than I thought.”
Brendan couldn't quite keep a touch of acid out of his voice, although he tried. “It might be very helpful to me if you would tell me what it is I’m supposed to have done.”
“The Church has many homosexual members, Father. That is of no concern to us as long as these people remain chaste.”
Brendan began to sense where this was heading. “Monsignor, I am chaste. I have always been chaste. I have never once broken my vow of chastity.”
“But you may have stretched it a little?” The eyebrows rose again.
“No. Never.”
Crowell sighed. “I wish you wouldn't make this difficult for us, Father. We have reports to the contrary.”
“What reports? From whom?”
“They were made in confidence.”
“Of course.” Brendan stood and walked a few steps before turning again to face Crowell. “I repeat, I have never broken my vow of chastity. And I am not gay, not that it should matter, given my vow.”
“Please sit, Father. I don't care to have you towering over me.”
Brendan sat, but on the edge of the chair this time.
“We have,” Crowell continued, “received complaints about your relationship with this young man who was so unfortunately murdered and crucified.”
“The poison of dirty minds. He was planning to enter the priesthood, and I was guiding him.”
“Yes, yes. I believe you.” But it was evident that Crowell did not. “However, there was that in your relationship which led some to believe otherwise.”
“Monsignor, I can't help what others choose to believe.”
“Yes, you can. You can be more circumspect for one thing.”
Brendan gritted his teeth, but managed a nod.
“But to get to the heart of the issue. This morning we had a very disturbing phone call from a man who says that not only were you having an … affair with young King, but that you had one with a young man when you were in the navy. That young man also died under unfortunate circumstances.”
“What?” Brendan was out of his chair like a shot. “May I remind you, Monsignor, that bearing false witness is a mortal sin?”
“Calm yourself, Father,” Crowell barked. “And sit.”
Like a dog, Brendan thought. He was being talked to like a dog. Which Crowell evidently believed he was. He sat, biting his tongue.
“These are serious charges, Father. The diocese cannot afford to ignore them. In reviewing your file, I note that you did indeed leave the navy very abruptly. Then you went into seclusion for two years.”
“That was only part of —”
“Father, hold your tongue. You can deny all of this, but it remains that it looks bad. And the police are asking about your relationship with young King as well. It would be unfortunate for the diocese and the Church if this came out in the papers.”
Brendan knotted his hands together, biting back words of self-defense, reminding himself that he had taken a vow of obedience. It was the one vow he'd ever broken in his life, but now was not the time to break it again. As calmly as he could manage, he said only, “Yes, Monsignor.”
Crowell rocked back in his chair a bit. “That's better. Now, since you deny all of this, I suppose we're going to have to have an investigation. I’ll speak to the bishop about it. But in the meantime … in the meantime, Father, I expect you to keep a low profile and do nothing, I repeat,
nothing
untoward. And if this comes out in the papers, we'll have to remove you immediately.”
“Yes, Monsignor.”
“Then we understand one another.” Crowell smiled. “I hope you are what you say you are, Father. For the sake of your eternal soul.”
If Brendan's eternal soul was at risk, it was only because of the uncharitable thoughts he harbored toward Monsignor Crowell on his way back to the parish. Words like
pig, snake,
and
jackass
even passed his lips. Vile, vicious rumors treated as facts, and all of them, of course, spread anonymously. There was a reason Paul included gossip among his list of repugnant sins in his Epistle to the Romans. Then he reminded himself of what Paul said at the start of the next chapter: “Therefore you have no right to judge, for you do the very same things.” He was surely not so holy that he could judge anyone, not even Crowell.
Still, the interview stuck in his throat like a fish bone. Yes, he went out of his way to welcome gays and lesbians in his parish. They were children of God, and needed the grace and nourishment of parish life every bit as much as anyone else. Truth be told, he agreed with the many Catholics who thought it was high time the Church fully recognized gays and lesbians, although he didn't see that likely to happen anytime soon. And yes, Steve King was gay. He was also celibate, or so he had told Brendan. And even if he weren't, it could in no way excuse the horror that had been committed upon him.
As for Brendan himself, well, the rumors were simply ugly lies. And of course, in Crowell's eyes, Brendan was guilty until proven innocent, as if there were any way he could
prove
that he was both straight and chaste.
“The bigger question,” Dominic said as they sat across the table in the rectory having a late-night snack, “is who is spreading these rumors, and why. I think this confirms the detective's suspicions. Someone is out to get you, my friend.”
“I try not to be paranoid,” Brendan said, although in fact he was becoming
very
paranoid.
“This isn't paranoia. This is a fact. Someone is out to ruin you.”
Brendan sighed. He was weary to his very soul. “I’m so tired, Dominic. I feel like every homily is a lie. I feel like … like I’m casting pearls before swine.”
“You are,” Dominic said. “In part. Look, I haven't been at St. Simeon's long, but I’ve been here long enough to know that the vast majority of the people here would kiss the ground you walk on. I’ve never seen such warmth. If I’d known it was like this, I wouldn't have spent most of my priesthood in an office downtown. But there are five thousand members in our parish. You can't expect to please all of them.”
Brendan nodded. “I know. Maybe I’m just worn-out from Lent and the rest of it.”
“Maybe so. Or maybe, just maybe, in addition to being a priest, you're also a human being. With human frailties and weaknesses and needs. And human grief.”
“That's no news flash, Dominic. I know I’m human.”
Dominic tapped his head. “Up here you know, yes. But you need to know down here.” He tapped his chest. “You need to accept that you're angry and hurt and frustrated, and you feel deeply wronged. And that there's a very good reason for that. Because you have been. Christ told us to be as cautious as serpents and as gentle as doves. You're a good dove. But you need to learn some caution. Find a rock and stay under it until this mess blows over.”
“But you can't —”
“You'd be amazed what an old man can accomplish in a good cause,” Dominic cut in. “I’ll handle the parish. You keep your head down and let Chloe and that detective handle this. I have a feeling they'll do just fine.”
“I have a feeling they'll do more than fine,” Brendan said with a half smile.
Dominic winked. “Yes, that too.” He paused a moment. “By the way, what happened when you were in the navy?”
Brendan drew a deep breath and pushed the remnants of his sandwich away. He rose and shook his head. “I learned how wrong I can be. How very wrong I can be.”
Chloe and Sister Phil were playing cards at Chloe's house, a couple of blocks from St. Simeon's. They liked to play rummy as a background to their chats, and as usual, Chloe was cleaning up. Beside them on the dining table was a bowl of Chex Mix and a couple of glasses of cola.
The house itself was small and snug, not the kind of place one expected for a successful attorney. But Chloe wasn't ever what anyone expected. She seemed quite content in her small, comfortable, and slightly shabby home. Phil had an apartment that she shared with a couple of other sisters, but she liked the relative peace of Chloe's house. For her it was sometimes a great escape.
Tonight their conversation was neither idle nor peaceful, and finally Phil put her cards facedown on the table. “Okay,” she said, “I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but I’m going to tell you anyway.”
Chloe looked up, forgetting her own hand. “What?”
“Lucy told me that Father was summoned to the chancery today by Monsignor Crowell.”
“And?”
“I don't know. Lucy said Brendan seemed angry when he got back, but he didn't say anything.”
Chloe arched one eyebrow. “So you naturally called the chancery.”
“Well, of course. Not that it did me any good.” Phil reached for a handful of Chex Mix, allowed by genetics to be scornful of such things as calories and fat content. “Nobody seems to know what's going on. Whatever it is, Crowell is evidently playing it very close to the vest.” Phil wrinkled her nose. “I don't trust that man.”
“Why not? I don't know much about him.”
“No reason you should. You're just a parishioner. But the word at the chancery is that Monsignor is a very political creature who has his eye on the corridors of power.”
“Which corridors?”
Phil crunched and swallowed. “Oh, the corridors at the Vatican.”
“Whew.”
“Exactly. Whew.”
“How likely is that?”
Phil shrugged. “The Church is both human and divine. Unfortunately, the human sometimes gets in the way of the divine. Does brown-nosing and money make it easier to ascend? Of course. Is it the only way? I hope not.”
Chloe surprised her with a small laugh. “God forfend.”
“Exactly.” Phil's green eyes sparkled humorously. “Actually, I’m sure it's not. Look at our bishop. Bishop Cruz is one of the kindest, most godly men in the Church. I’m sure he had to be politic on his way up, but the goodness of his heart is unquestioned. Will he ever be a cardinal?” Phil sighed. “I doubt it. Let's just say I don't think he's politic enough in some quarters.”