Prince of Peace (26 page)

He realized for the first time that he had become in some way ridiculous. He was worried about her? But she was not the one who had, apparently, handed herself over to a piety of deference and submissiveness. Why wonder if she was afraid when, so much more to the point, he was. Afraid of Cardinal Spellman? Monsignor Ellis? Robert Moses? But Michael Maguire had medals to prove his courage. What were such old coots to him? What had happened to him over these years? But he knew. He had known all along.

It humiliated Michael to admit it, but what he was afraid of was the world outside the seminary, outside Orders, outside the Church. He was afraid of the world's dreary rootlessness, its shallowness, its- paucity of transcendent meanings, what seemed to him a vast milieu of self-squandering. He equated it both with the shrill terror of the battlefield and with the devouring angst of his years in prison. The Church had saved him and had become his refuge, the rock on which he'd built a life for the sake of others. But somehow this fine, one might even say noble, choice had been trivialized, demeaned. He was no longer an honorable man whose strength of will was legendary; he'd been reduced by the process of "priestly formation" to a passive, dependent subject. Now that he had, almost despite himself, dared to defy the Great Parents—and hadn't he done even that out of the arrogant illusion that he was supposed to be in charge, at the head of parades?—he was terrified of getting slapped down. And for now at least he depended totally on the will of his superiors for his place in the snug, safe haven of the Church. So of course he was afraid of the cardinal and the monsignor. They were the ones who could force him out, exclaústrate him.

But wait! With startling clarity he saw that Sister Anne Edward was the one to be wary of, the one to fear. He saw that she was going to be the one to take the weight now, and that if he stood with her, he was gone. He would be kicked into the world, alone and with nothing. He would have kept faith with her, but he would have failed his vocation, his commitment and God. He would be cursed forever.

But how could he not stand with her? He had encouraged her, supported her, cheered her on. It was Lennie Pace all over again, but now his immunity from consequences, his own safety, wasn't up to luck or the bad marksmans'up of the enemy. It was up to him.

Years later he told me that he walked to Greenwich Village that night, thinking to visit me. I was by then shackled by Freshman Composition to my junior post at Fordham. He realized at the last moment, rightly, I think, that I would have understood his anxiety less well even than one of the crusty priests he lived with. He was suffering a particular kind of panic, the discovery that beneath the illusion of clerical strength and altruism, he was utterly without direction, will or potency. Priests, he thought, could understand this, and that made him all the more afraid of not being one. He continued to walk all the way to the Battery, and then back. "In the dark night of the soul," Fitzgerald said, "it is always three o'clock in the morning." Michael did not know it, but it was a measure of his courage that he simply allowed himself to feel that desolation, even though he was years from understanding it. He was wrong to think it was just seminarians who panic when they finally see what they've become. Hell, every man has a night like that soon after the trajectory of his life suggests itself. That's when most of us get serious about drinking or sex or work or prayer. Michael walked, he told me later, just walked.

He followed Broadway up through Times Square. A derelict, sprawled against a building, spied his Roman collar and called out, "Hey, look at that! A fucking priest!"

Michael waved. "How'd you know?" And they both laughed.

At the newsstand on Forty-second he bought the morning papers. There was nothing on the
Times
's front page or the
Trib's,
but the
Daily News
blared, "Moses: 'The Nun's a Thief!'" and featured a photo of Sister Anne Edward above the caption, "Sister Mary Felony."

Michael studied the picture. Her eyes were large and, framed by the black headgear, emphatic, looking directly at the camera, directly at him. Her face seemed extraordinarily expressive, caught in a moment of intensity, and he could almost hear her describing what Holy Cross School meant to the children, to the families, to the nuns who'd given their lives to it and to the thousands of New Yorkers who'd learned to think and believe there. She was the defender of them all, and their rights had become the center of her life. Michael knew he was not like her in that.

He folded the papers under his arm and walked slowly through the last of night, aware of the sour air of the city in his nostrils and on his tongue. It seemed to him that the recognitions he had wearily come to finally, even those, were things he could find a way to live with. But here was another one, and it was impossible; he was not concerned with the school or the parish or even his own vocation as much as he was concerned with her.

 

From his room he telephoned as early as he dared. When the phone was answered Michael had a moment of panic in which he couldn't remember her name, and he felt very foolish. A nun answered brusquely, "Holy Cross Convent."

"May I speak to Sister Anne Edward, please?" He had an adolescent's dread of identifying himself. He didn't recognize the awkward boy his feelings had reduced him to. It was a mode he'd bypassed altogether.

"One moment," the nun said, and he was relieved.

When Sister Anne came on there was no animation in her voice.

"Sister Anne, it's me, Michael. Forgive me if I'm calling too early." He tried to picture her. Was she dressed? Was the phone pressed against her black bonnet? When they went down the hall for the telephone did they cover their heads?

"I've been up forever, Michael."

"Me too," he said. "I never went to bed." Walking away the night after years of monastic discipline had been, even in his mood, an adventure and his exhaustion pleased him. Indicating it was like bragging. "I couldn't sleep after the news show. I wanted to say you were magnificent. I almost called you right then. I was really proud of you."

Sister Anne was taken aback by what he said and for a moment couldn't speak. He would learn soon enough that his simple statement of support thrilled her, relieved her, enabled her once more to believe in what she'd done. She'd been expecting him to back away. "If you had called," she said, "you'd have found the line busy. Mother Superior called from Tarrytown."

"What did she say?"

"I'm transferred."

"What?"

"I'm leaving shortly, Michael. I'm glad you called. It's a chance to say goodbye."

"But why? Everything you said was perfect. You even gave the chancery its way out." He knew it wasn't true even as he said it, and in a part of himself he didn't approve of, he hoped they would get her out, that they'd make her disappear.

"I didn't have permission."

"For what?"

"For anything. The procession, which she called 'a profane use of the sacred'; the television interview, which she called 'the height of impudence.'"

"You weren't impudent."

"I
felt
impudent, Michael. I really did. It communicated. Mother said I was contemptuous. And do you know what?" Michael realized that she had begun to weep. "I am."

They were both silent for a moment, then Michael said, "But Sister Rita backed you up, didn't she? She's the local superior. She was in on everything."

"Mother gave it to her too. She 'deceived the pastor!' We're both ... Oh, Michael, Mother said they're pressing charges. They're claiming the blueprints are stolen property."

"That's ridiculous, though. It's a red herring."

"Rita's frightened. It's not her fault. She's the one who said I didn't have permission."

"Oh, God."

"It's not her fault. You can't imagine what it feels like over here, like we've done something awful. Apparently the cardinal's very upset. He called Mother himself. He's furious. He says I put him on the spot."

Michael laughed. "I guess you did."

Sister Anne Edward laughed too. "I did, didn't I?"

"Wonderfully. I admire you enormously." He paused, to choose his next words carefully. This was thin ice but he wasn't flashing across it this time. "And I'd be proud to take my share of the blame with you."

"Michael, you can't! You're just a deacon. The cardinal would fire you in a minute. I'm telling you, he's furious."

"But, God, Anne, I led the parade! We all did it. You. Me. Sister Rita. Even Father Mahon."

"Well, I'm the one on record."

"But you shouldn't be alone."

"Michael, I can take it!" she said, suddenly impatient. "I knew what I was doing. Let me see it through."

His lungs clutched in his throat. He couldn't think what to say.

She said quietly, "I loved going down Ninth Avenue with you. It felt wonderful to me. I felt free and strong and was doing something I believed in. I still believe in it. And I'm grateful to you for that." He sensed her gratitude and her affection; once he'd have soared with happiness for either.

She was letting him off the hook. If he was going to stay on the hook with her, now was the time to say so. But he simply couldn't. It was a moment that he'd remember for the rest of his life.

"Where are they sending you?" That's it; a cool question, a little distance.

"The Mother House for now."

"In Tarrytown?"

"Yes."

"I'll call you."

The nun laughed, but not bitterly, as far as he could tell. "Not there you won't."

"I'll come and see you. I'll pass as your confessor."

"What I'll need is a lawyer. Michael?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful." And she hung up.

He stared at the phone, thinking, What is this? The Iron Curtain?

 

Michael found Father Mahon in the common room, drink in hand, though it wasn't nine yet. He was hunched over the
Herald-Tribune
spread on the hassock. When he looked up at Michael he was smiling. "He's dead," he said.

"Who?"

"Moses. Did you see what he said?"

"I did."

Father Mahon laughed and slapped the paper and leaned back, spilling his drink. "He's slipping. The old Bob Moses would have kept his mouth shut and won. He'd have said he was too busy planning the World's Fair, and then they'd have asked him about that. Now the son of a bitch thinks he can say whatever the hell pops into his head."

"I think they might be serious," Michael said. "I just talked to Sister Anne Edward and she said they're threatening to press charges."

The priest stared at him for a moment. "But the plans aren't stolen."

"It says 'Property of Triborough' all over them."

"But you got them from the cops."

"I did, that's right. But I don't—"

The phone rang. Father Mahon was the priest on duty and he immediately got up, composed himself and crossed to the wall phone outside the common room. "Guess what?" he said a moment later. "It's your cop friend."

Michael took the call. Then, obviously shaken, he went back in to sit by Father Mahon, and he indicated the priest's drink. "Maybe I should have a belt of that."

"I wouldn't recommend it. What did he say?"

"He had no idea the blueprints were controversial. He assumed I'd returned them two weeks ago."

"And he doesn't want his name associated..."

"That's right. I promised to keep him out of it."

Father Mahon sipped his drink and raked what hair he had nervously. He eyed Michael. The booze wasn't calming him the way it usually did. The first drink worked wonders most of the time. He said, "Damn. Now maybe she is a thief."

Michael lit a cigarette, but his hands shook.

Father Mahon was thinking out loud, not quite addressing himself to Michael. "These bastards would spike their mothers for the extra base. And, Jesus, maybe Moses didn't make such a dumb move after all. Suddenly the damn issue isn't the school anymore. It's the blueprints." He fell silent for a moment. When he looked up, his gaze had sharpened. "They can't press charges. Spelly can't let them rough up a nun. He and Moses will have talked already. Moses will agree to lay off. Spelly will agree to get the troublemakers out of here."

"She's gone already."

Father Mahon nodded. "No more processions, no more S.O.S. School year ends. Go ahead with plans. Moses gets his ramp. Spelly gets his cool million, or whatever. Holy Cross gets it in the eye. One, two, three." He drained his glass. "And you, my boy, will have learned a lesson."

"What if I called up the reporter and said I was the thief."

The priest grunted. "I knew you were a war hero. They didn't tell me you were a kamikaze pilot. You ask an easy question. The answer? One, you call up your reporter. Two, Spelly boots your ass out, making you just another schmuck layman for whom he has no responsibility. Three, they
do
press charges and, four, you go to jail." Father Mahon got up and crossed to the bar. "You'd just like to make it a little more difficult for them, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Michael said. He wanted to find a way to stand by Anne. He wanted to find a way to live with himself.

As the priest poured his drink, he said, "Only one son of a bitch around here can do that."

Michael waited.

Father Mahon took a swallow, then faced him. "Me."

"You?"

He nodded, and he said gravely, without bravado, "I could stop the bastards in their tracks."

Michael waited.

"I was the presiding priest yesterday. I had the vestments on. I had the holy water. That was
my
procession, not some nun's!" His eyes flashed and suddenly there was a veteran preacher's energy in his voice, conviction, solemnity. A throng was before him now, a throng, Michael realized, of reporters. "I am the priest in charge of Holy Cross School. It is the duty and privilege assigned to me by the pastor of my parish. I am responsible for the welfare of that school, and the idea to save it from the expansion of Lincoln Tunnel was mine!
I
stole those blueprints!
I
told the nuns to make those signs.
I
told the kiddies to march down Ninth Avenue! And I regret none of it. And I come before you now to say that God won't let Robert Moses make a laughingstock out of one of my nuns! A thief indeed! The only thing that girl has ever stolen are the hearts of the countless children to whom she has dedicated her life. Robert Moses, for all his power—and yes, for all the good he has done—must not be allowed to demean the sacred vocation, the infinite sacrifice of every nun in this city! A thief? This Bride of Christ? This woman clothed in mystery? We do not expect those of other faiths to adopt our beliefs, but we insist that they respect them! Robert Moses has insulted every Catholic in New York. The man already controls every park, every bridge, every tunnel, every highway, every public works project! Does he also want to steal, like a
thief,
the archdiocese of New York? Is it his to decide which Catholic child shall have access to a parochial school? Is it his to decide which woman is worthy of the veil? Is it his to decide which Catholic parish lives or dies? I tell you it is not. And if you doubt my word, then I bid you, go downtown to that beautiful old cathedral, named for the patron of the humble Irish immigrants who have broken their backs and spilled their blood to build the great
public
monuments of this city for which Robert Moses, like a
thief,
steals all the credit. Ask the leaders of the great Irish building trades about that! And ask the Irish contractors if
they
think nuns are thieves! And at Saint Patrick's Cathedral, you ask His Eminence Francis Cardinal Spellman who
still
controls the archdiocese of New York and who alone has authority over its parishes and schools and who alone has the cherished responsibility to protect its children from the anti-Catholic assaults of the secular world and its women religious from the gratuitous insults of outsiders! You ask Cardinal Spellman who the thief is! I promise you he will neither repeat nor countenance the vile slander of Robert Moses!"