Prince of Peace (25 page)

Neighborhood women leaned from their windows up and down the street to watch. One wiped a tear from her eye with the corner of her apron: such innocence! And what the world would do to it! It was a lovely spring afternoon befitting the ceremony, and the sky itself was blue as Our Lady's cloak. Father Mahon, looking stately and benign in his alb and gold-encrusted cope and attended by acolytes, each with his candle struggling in the breeze, stood on the top stair of the church entrance like a potentate reviewing his parade. He seemed indifferent to the implication when the nuns steered the cross-bearing eighth-grade boy and the garland-bearing eighth-grade girl at the head of the procession past the church, around the police barricade that closed the street and out onto the Ninth Avenue sidewalk, going downtown.

It was the height of rush hour, the sidewalks were crowded with the usual peddlers, but also with secretaries, shopgirls and clerks on their way home from work. The avenue was already jammed with automobiles heading for Lincoln Tunnel and buses for the Port Authority. Before the May procession intruded, the commuters had achieved, despite their numbers, the efficient, steady progress of their daily exodus. The alteration in the rhythm of that progress caused by the Holy Cross children was slight at first, but it was enough. Dozens of pedestrians slowed, then made room for the procession by spilling out into the street. Drivers cursed them, but they too slowed. At the intersections where the streets cut into the avenue, nuns raised their arms at the auto traffic as if it was Red Sea water. The commuters were amused at first, and they waited even if they had the light while the sisters waved the children through. "...Queen of the Angels..."

Policemen who saw it knew damn well what the effect of the disruption would be, but they had all been in such processions themselves, though not in midtown at rush hour. They weren't going to tell the nuns to beat it. They stopped traffic altogether and nodded at the sisters as they passed. One truck driver leaned out of his rig and joined in the chorus: "...Queen of the May..."

The decorum of the children was perfect. Those boys and girls, ordinarily the after-school bane of the fruit merchants and of the cops and of the newsstand hawkers, now went by with their eyes cast down and their hands in steeples.

But it was apparent on second glance, third at most, that this May procession was different. In every tenth rank of children was a pair of seventh- or eighth-graders carrying between them a large sign blazoned with the letters
S.O.S.
And trailing the procession were the ten tallest children carrying a large blue banner with white letters that read, "Save Our School From Robert Moses."

Michael had been walking behind Sister Anne Edward. He caught up with her. "You were right, Anne! You were right!" His exuberance overflowed. "You are
fantastic
women! Fantastic!"

She laughed. She was delighted with how it was going too. "You're not so bad yourself, Deacon!"

He fell into step with her. Taking the procession out onto Ninth Avenue had been her idea, but Sister Rita wasn't convinced until Michael had joined Anne in arguing for it. Without permits, which the police would never have granted, it was illegal to disregard traffic signals as they were doing, and the tie-up was building. "I think we have their attention," he said.

She gestured over the heads of the children at the line of automobiles. "They drive through here every day without a thought for the neighborhood and what they do to it. Maybe now they'll get the idea that people live here."

Michael waved at a glaring motorist, and through his grin he said, "They get it, Anne. They get it."

Under her breath she said, "They look mad, don't they? God, I hope nothing happens."

"Relax. Nothing will happen. It's a May procession! The folks who use Lincoln Tunnel will just get home late for dinner, that's all!"

Anne touched his arm. "I hope so, Michael. I wouldn't admit this to anyone else, but the whole thing makes me nervous. I can't believe we're doing this. Do you think it will really make a difference?"

"Hey, the parents and children of Holy Cross School have to be reckoned with, right? Now Moses will know it."

"And so will the cardinal."

Michael grimaced. "Let's leave him out of this." He clutched her arm, and they laughed like adolescents who had just defied a parent, although the parent didn't know it yet.

Her eyes flashed with delight. "Thanks, Michael." In that setting, despite her habit, she was the opposite of the churchly women enshrined by piety. The meek Bride of Christ? The Mother of Sorrows? The Woman Bathed in Tears? Her heart pierced seven times? Passive? Forbearing? Long-suffering? O Mary, we crown thee with flowers today? Not this woman. She was neither tough nor hard-boiled. On the contrary, she was caring and vulnerable. But threaten what she cared about and she became strength itself. She seemed more alive and more full of energy than any woman Michael had ever known. (What? All three of them?) It pleased him to think that his support had helped her to muster the nerve for this. She had helped him to muster his.

A stymied driver honked his horn angrily, and Michael waved at him. "Bless you, brother!" he called.

"Michael!" she said, half-teasing, but only half. "We shouldn't take pleasure in their discomfort."

"Yes, we should! It's them or us, Anne. And my money is on our side!" (What? All three dollars?)

She grinned at him happily. "We're doing it, aren't we?"

"Damn right. I'm going to run ahead. Try to keep the line up to pace here, Anne. I'll slow them a bit in the lead. And I want to make sure nobody bothers the kids when they make the turn at Thirty-ninth Street. Hell, I want to walk in front with them! This is great, Anne!" He clapped his hands and threw his fist in the air. Michael Maguire was a man of action again at last. Spontaneously he blew her a kiss as he turned and then, with an athlete's stride, ran out into the street and along the line of the procession. There were singing children on one side of him and irate motorists on the other. One could almost hear that young, smitten nun saying to herself, "Go, Michael! Go!"

 

By four-fifteen traffic all over midtown had slowed to a virtual halt, and the first radio reports were going out about what the WINS reporter dubbed "The SOS Parade." What was this anyway? Parochial school kids taking on Commissioner Robert Moses? What did he want with their school anyway? His Mid-Manhattan Expressway had been shelved, hadn't it? But you never knew. It was one thing for Moses to be blasted by Sutton Place matrons over his destruction of a playground above the East River or by the left-wing crowd who wanted Joe Papp to put on Shakespeare in what Moses called "my park," but Catholics? Nuns? The archdiocese? Was the commissioner taking on the cardinal? That would be the battle of Titans!
Find out what the hell is happening over there!

By the time the procession had wound its way past the new Port Authority building at Forty-second Street, down to Thirty-ninth, across to Tenth Avenue and back up to Forty-third Street, bollixing traffic for an hour, the news organizations represented at Holy Cross included the
Herald-Tribune,
the
Post,
the
Daily News,
WMCA, WINS, WOR and a camera crew from WPIX-TV. The
New York Times
reporter who'd called the monsignor told his editor nothing newsworthy was occurring, and he would, after the storm broke that evening and the next day, be roundly rebuked.

After the last hymn was sung, Mary's head fittingly crowned and the throng of children dismissed with a blessing by Father Mahon, Monsignor Ellis appeared from inside the church vestibule. He had obviously been waiting for Father Mahon to finish. The pastor looked at the rheumy priest with contempt as the altar boys led him past, into the church. Then he faced the crowd. The children had begun to disperse, but many of their parents were there now, filling the street. They, together with the reporters, waited for Monsignor Ellis to speak. He fingered the row of red buttons on his cassock, but not nervously. These people didn't threaten him. Only phone calls from the chancery did that, and by God he was going to see that he got no more of those on this matter!

"I have a statement to make," he declared in his preaching voice. He waited, skillfully collecting their attention. Cameras ran. He said, or rather, proclaimed, "The May devotions of this parish have the sole purpose of honoring Our Blessed Lady. They have significance for the Church, but not for the world. Therefore some of you have wasted your time in coming here, unless of course you have been edified by the innocence of our children, which would be to the good. As for those of you who are parishioners: my dear people, I appreciate your concern. Rumors abound. Next we'll hear that our beloved church itself is marked for demolition! Nonsense!" He paused, then repeated that word, slamming his fist into his palm for emphasis. "I am authorized by the cardinal himself to say that nothing anyone does with Lincoln Tunnel is going to bother Holy Cross School one bit! You can rest assured, my dear people, that the cardinal would not permit it, and..." His finger shot up; this is the last word. "...neither would I!"

He turned away abruptly and disappeared into the church. The reporters murmured in protest, but no one went after him. This was another era. The press had yet to stumble upon the fact of its omnipotence, and newsmen hadn't begun to claim the right to ask anyone anything. They began to drift away, wondering what the hell had happened to the story.

When a camera crew from a TV station goes out, though, it's different. They
have
to get something whether it's used on air or not. The footage of the procession, of angry motorists shaking fists at altar boys, of the sweet girl on the ladder placing a little rosebud crown on the head of the statue, was all too good to waste. But there had to be some one-on-one with somebody in authority. The longshot of the monsignor on the steps wasn't enough. But he was gone. At first the TV crew foundered. Then, instinctively, they drifted toward Tenth Avenue instead of Ninth and found themselves in front of the convent. A tall young nun was standing there, as if waiting for them, in her stark, black, oh-so-photographable costume. She was holding oversized rolled papers—perfect visuals—and she said so sweetly, "May I help you?"

Michael watched the broadcast on the late news that night alone in the rectory common room. Father Mahon was already asleep and the other priests were still out. At first his solitude depressed him, but as the news segment came on he was profoundly relieved that he didn't have to watch it with the others. WPIX broadcast a first that night: a nun, without a hint of overt defiance but with a steely undertone all Catholic viewers recognized, apparently contradicted the pastor of her parish. The heart of the report was a dramatic juxtaposition of Monsignor Ellis's brisk denial that the school was threatened and Sister Anne's statement, buttressed by the set of blueprints she displayed, that the Triborough Bridge and Tunnel Authority intended to condemn the school the week after the term ended and to complete its demolition by the middle of July. When the reporter asked her why the archdiocese had not addressed the issue, she replied that the archdiocese had expected the matter to be resolved quietly, at the parish level. Unfortunately that didn't seem possible now. She and the principal and the parents of Holy Cross were confident that the archdiocese would now intervene and Monsignor Ellis would be shown to be right after all. There would be no problem about the destruction of the school because, the Sister of Charity said, the cardinal would not permit it. The news report concluded with the revelation that Robert Moses had been confronted by a reporter only moments before, coming out of a reception in his own honor at the Tavem-on-the-Green. He claimed never to have heard of Holy Cross School and said that, anyway, he was in the business of building things, not tearing them down. When the reporter told him the nun had Triborough blueprints that assumed the demolition of the school, he said, "If she has our blueprints, then the nun's a thief."

After the news, Michael changed his mind and decided that even the biting sarcasm of Father Rice or the cloistered murmurs of Father Keegan would have been preferable to what he had—the company only of an ominous dread so palpable that it might have been another person opposite him in the gloomy room. What the fuck had they done? What would happen now? He felt like that rebellious teenager again, but now his parents had been sent for by the headmaster. He snapped the television off, poured himself an inch of whiskey and sat again. The chair creaked, then the room filled with silence.

Within minutes restlessness overwhelmed him. He went to his room, donned his rabat, collar and suitcoat and went out. On the street he turned automatically toward the convent. He stopped in front of it and stared up at the one room from which light shone. Hers? Had she seen the news? Did they even have television in there? With a shock he realized he didn't know. He'd known nuns all his life, but at what distance! Tonight he wanted to know how she was feeling. Was she afraid? But why should he know her innermost thoughts if he didn't know what color her hair was? He had watched her walking in that procession, watched the swish of her skirts, waiting for a glimpse of her flesh, a flash of white at the ankle or the nape of her neck, as if such meager sights would have opened to him her secrets. The arms and ankles and hair of certain premodern nuns were more alluring, vastly more erogenous, than the displayed pubes of vacuous movie stars are today. Michael was disgusted with himself. It's sexual, he thought. Only sexual! But he shook himself. Of course that wasn't so. It wasn't
only
anything.

He suddenly had the image of himself as a moonstruck courtier looking up at the window of the infinitely unattainable princess in her tower, and he laughed. Where was his mandolin? He laughed. Instead of long golden tresses up which he could climb, she had a shaved head. His life was a fairy tale on its ear. He was jealous of the charming prince for whom she was saving herself, but, alas, that was Jesus.