No Greater Love (22 page)

These and other highly controversial matters troubled Eileen to her core.

This led to many a heated reasoning session with her husband, to no conclusion. If anything, Eileen's protestations drove her husband into a sort of underground indoctrination of the boy. At best, Eileen could only attempt to counter the questionable teachings and principles of her husband.

The result: a very confused young lad. He loved his parents, both of them equally, but in different ways.

And then there was church.

Generally, regular church attendance is associated with women more than men. This pattern was broken decisively in the case of Bill Cody.

At one time, a young Bill Cody had been a faithful altar boy, serving Mass daily. He was a shoo-in for the seminary. Although he eventually dropped out, he was proud of having spent those years in training for the priesthood.

That's where Al was headed from the time his father took him to Mass, explained everything, and gently but firmly let him know that the father would consider himself the luckiest and proudest person on earth if his son became a priest.

The pressure was building.

The mother could see clearly the pitfalls. Cataclysms were about to rattle the present Church structure. The priesthood, once one of the world's most stable vocations, would be shaken to its foundation. The hierarchy was shoring up the floodgates.

But the day was coming, Eileen knew, when things would have to change sharply. And the traditional male priesthood would become obsolete.

Perhaps even worse than what might become of this sublime vocation was the fact that Al was being brainwashed. That was a harsh term, but it accurately described what Eileen saw in what her husband was doing to their son.

Eileen Cody, the product of a miserable childhood, desired above all that her son, her only child, lead a happy and fulfilled life. But how could he? He was being given no choice in the form and function of that life. While she, his mother, was forced to sit by as her husband pushed the boy down a conceivably disastrous path.

Of course, “good” Catholic parents—especially mothers—wanted a priest son. But “good” Catholic parents usually had large families—sons and daughters to provide grandchildren, and comfort in one's old age. Less usually did an only child become a priest.

And how many young men who didn't really want to be priests served time as they guiltily waited for the deaths of their parents to free them from a priesthood that they had entered only to please those parents. Was that what Al faced? Would he suffer through years of priestly misery, only to finally leave, a shell of a human being, on his father's death?

Time, now, was perilously short. Everything she had tried had failed. Not one of the dozens of irons in the fire had worked.

The proposed Easter vacation retreat, she had to admit, was a last ditch attempt. Bill had seen through it, as inevitably she had known he would. And he had just shot it down. There was no getting around him. She had tried every which way. He was the power who was driving this disaster forward to the rocks.

There was no doubt about it, her back was to the wall. If something drastic didn't happen soon, Al would make a lifelong commitment. He would be doomed.

If there was no way around Bill, there had to be a path through him.

She had to eliminate Bill. The question was how.

Eileen Cody would sleep very little this night.

Eighteen

Patty Donnelly was in the sacristy vesting.

In a gesture intended to mollify the conservatives, some of whom inevitably would be in attendance, she would wear a traditional set of vestments.

She kissed the amice before letting it lightly rest on the back of her head, then tucked it around the neck and tied it after wrapping the strip around her body and back again.

Next she donned the alb, the long white gown that covered all but her head, hands, and shoes. The cincture tied around her waist let her adjust the alb so it would hang evenly.

The maniple she draped across her left forearm and pinned to the alb.

The stole traditionally marked a person's stature in the Roman culture of the Caesars. Until relatively recently in the Church, deacons wore the stole draped over one shoulder. Priests wore it over both shoulders, but crossed in front. Bishops wore it over both shoulders but hanging straight down in front, indicating that bishops had the “fullness” of the priesthood.

Patty wore the stole over one shoulder. She was about to become a priest, but she was still, as they termed it now, a deacon in transition.

Lastly, she slipped over her head the chasuble. The outer garment in ancient Rome. The back of this vestment was pinned up.

It was time for the procession to begin. The organ thundered and the choir sang. It was most impressive.

As she entered, the congregation in the crowded cathedral stood and applauded. She had never been more happy.

The ordination Mass began. After the welcoming prayers, Bishop McNiff, as rector of the seminary, testified that she was worthy.

Cardinal Boyle, as ordaining bishop, in a loud voice asked if anyone knew of any reason why this candidate should not be ordained. It was meant ordinarily as a rhetorical question. In this company there was an anxious moment of silence, in which Patty's many friends hoped and prayed no one would speak.

But a voice rose from the rear of the cathedral.

Those close to the sanctuary thought they heard someone shouting, “I object! I object!” followed by confusing sounds of tumult. A contingent of police wrestled the protester out the narthex doors to the sidewalk of Woodward Avenue, where he was arrested and carted off.

Gradually the interruption was played out. Everyone wondered who the interloper was. Those who'd managed to get a brief look at him described him as rather tall, a bit heavy, with straight black hair. He could have been that deacon, Bill Page. He was dragged out so rapidly that it was difficult to make an identification.

In any case, the ordination ceremony settled down and proceeded.

Patty knelt at the top step of the altar. Cardinal Boyle put both hands on her head, pressed down lightly, and held that position for a few moments. “Thus,” read the commentator, “in sacred silence is the sacred character of the priesthood conferred.” Then, one by one, all the priests in attendance took turns placing their hands on her head, sharing their priesthood with hers.

One by one the powers of her calling were spelled out publically.

The stole was crossed over her other shoulder.

The words attributed to Jesus, “Receive the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you shall forgive, they are forgiven. Whose sins you shall retain, they are retained,” demonstrated her power to absolve.

She was invited to offer Mass, to offer sacrifice for the living as well as for the dead, in the name of the Lord.

Finally, the pin was removed that had held the back of her chasuble.

She was a priest forever, sang the choir, “according to the order of Melchizedek,” the King of Salem, who, as priest, uniquely offers bread and wine in sacrifice. He moves in and out of the Bible in three verses.

Patty was completely fulfilled.

The ordination Mass continued. Now it had become concelebrated by Cardinal Boyle, Bishop McNiff, and all the priests gathered in the sanctuary—including the Reverend Donnelly.

The prayers moved the ceremony through the offertory into the Canon of the Mass when the new priest for the first time pronounced the words that Jesus had spoken at the Last Supper: “This is my body. This is my blood.”

In a short while, everyone was urged to share a greeting of peace. And for the first time at a Mass, Patty was at peace, complete peace. Her life was no longer incomplete. She no longer yearned for something that everyone told her she could never have. She had it. And no one could take it from her.

After the Communion service, the ordination Mass would have come to a swift conclusion if not for a surprising development.

Another—and, as far as Patty was concerned—unexpected ceremony began.

Bishop McNiff climbed into the pulpit and read from an official-looking document. It came from Rome, the Vatican. It was the announcement that the Reverend Patricia Donnelly was named titular bishop of the Bronx, New York, and an auxiliary bishop of Detroit.

Once again Cardinal Boyle read a notice informing anyone who had an objection to this appointment, to speak up now or forever hold his or her peace.

This time several voices were raised in protest.

Once again the police whipped into activity and the objectors were carried from the cathedral and carted off in the paddy wagon.

Members of the second procession took their places surrounding Patty. Another ceremony had begun.

Patty was led back to the altar and told to kneel. She had to be coached at every turn, since she'd had no reason to anticipate this development.

Someone held a book of the Gospels and rested it on the back of her bowed head. Unintelligible words were spoken.

Someone else came with a vessel of oil. He emptied the oil on her head, later necessitating a shampoo to degrease her hair.

Quite obviously, it was time for something else to happen. But no one seemed to know what.

Cardinal Boyle looked around, his heavy eyebrows nearly meeting at the bridge of his nose. Clearly, he was angry. “The miter!” he demanded, in what for him was a loud voice. “Who has the miter?”

“I gave it to Mickey—the altar boy,” one of the priests in attendance said. “I gave him strict instructions not to put it down under any circumstances. The only one he could give it to was you, Your Eminence. So that you could put the miter on Bishop Donnelly's head. I don't know where Mickey is, but I'm pretty sure he's still holding the miter.”

There followed an unorganized search for the altar server, while the congregation buzzed about what was happening.

Then a nun shrieked. She had found Mickey, his cassock raised and his pants dropped. He was sitting on a toilet. He hadn't exactly put the miter down. He had put it on. He was wearing it.

“I'm sorry, Father,” he apologized, “but I had to wipe.”

Someone snatched up the miter. It was not the nun; she was frantically searching for a priest to hear her confession.

Miter returned, the ceremony continued with the congregation still in the dark as to what had happened.

Cardinal Boyle, now smiling broadly, placed the miter on Patty's head. Then he handed her the crosier. It had all happened so rapidly and unexpectedly that Patty was near breathless.

But there was no time to stop and put some order into the proceedings. Tradition called for her to process through the cathedral, carrying the shepherd's crook and blessing the congregation.

She was about to begin, when Cardinal Boyle touched her arm and beckoned her to follow him out the back way.

In some futuristic manner, after the fashion of
Star Trek,
Boyle and Donnelly were beamed inside the Vatican, into the Sistine Chapel.

Well over a hundred Cardinals were seated in the chapel. Bishop Donnelly was, indeed, the only non-Cardinal there. There was no mistaking it, they were present at a conclave, a meeting to elect a new Pope.

There were two unoccupied chairs at the rear of the chapel. But they were tipped forward as if reserved for someone else. Just like the refectory and those rotten deacons. However, in this case, a gracious Cardinal, noticing them standing, invited them to be seated.

She turned to Boyle. “What am I doing here? This is restricted to Cardinals.”

Without turning his head, Boyle replied, “You won't be permitted to vote.”

Once again, an ecclesiastical figure was telling her what she couldn't do, what she couldn't be. Even though she had never wanted to be a Cardinal, she thought it discriminatory that she was blocked from that office.

The Cardinals had just taken a vote. No candidate had won a simple majority. This had been their forty-first ballot. Prayers were said to the Holy Spirit for guidance and direction.

Now another vote was begun. One by one, the Cardinals marched, wobbled, or waddled to the altar, where a silver chalice waited for their ballots. Again the ballots were counted. There was a majority for the first time in this conclave. The name of the nominee was …

The silence was almost palpable. The nominee was Patty Donnelly.

The Cardinals looked at one another. How could this be? Who here would dare vote for a mere bishop—an auxiliary bishop at that! Titular head of some presumably fictitious diocese—the
Bronx!
And a
woman!

“But I'm a woman!” she said to Cardinal Boyle.

Boyle shrugged. “Anyone can be Pope, as long as the Cardinals vote for that person.”

A Cardinal approached Patty, knelt before her, and asked if she would accept the office.

“What do I say?” she asked Boyle.

“Nolo
means you refuse.
Volo
means you accept.”

Patty gave it a brief moment's thought. Then she cried in a loud voice,
“Volo.”
And she hugged herself.

One by one, the Cardinals approached and offered her obeisance.

She was ushered to an adjoining room and outfitted in white-on-white with scarlet trim. The Papal colors set off the highlights in her blond hair rather nicely, she thought.

All the while, white smoke billowed from the special vent on the roof of the chapel. Hundreds of thousands of people crowded into St. Peter's Square.

The new Pope—Popess?—stayed just out of view. behind one corner of the balcony.

A Cardinal came out on the balcony and read from an impressive scroll:
‘Annuntio vobis guadium magnum. Habemus Papam!'”

The crowd went wild. Then it quieted to hear the most important part of that “great joy”—the name of the new Pope.

“Patriciam …” The crowd became hushed. Was the Cardinal looped? He couldn't be serious. It sounded for all the world as if he'd said Patriciam. Feminine for Patrick!
Patricia?
Impossible!