Wandering in Exile (5 page)

But Patrick could see the doubt in their eyes. They would march and make speeches, but in the end, everybody knew—those in power did as they pleased and had the gall to say it was for the public good.

Miriam chatted with everyone around them, growing more and more indignant with every step she took, heels hard on the old cobblestone. She opened her coat as she grew warm and he tried to look somewhere else. He wasn’t afraid of her; he was afraid of himself.

He shouldn’t have come. It was only leading himself into temptation but he couldn’t help it. She made him feel like no one else ever had. She made him feel like he shouldn’t have to go through life alone anymore, despite everything he had been taught.

He stopped himself as they walked up Winetavern Street. He had no right to think of her like that. She had enough to do in rebuilding her life without the likes of him mooning over her like some lovesick schoolboy. But still, there were times when even just the thought of her made his days seem a lot less empty. Who could a priest take his loneliness to? But he could never allow himself to think about anything else. It was bad enough that she had fallen from grace but to take him with her? That could never be forgiven. But they were doing nothing wrong. They were taking part in a public protest, in public. What harm was there in that?

She looked over at him and he smiled back to let her know he was happy to be out walking with her at night, in torchlight, even if it was for a lost cause.

The year of the three popes had been very hard on the bishop. Rumors were rife of intrigue in sacred places, echoes of the times when popes murdered each other like kings. It was all they needed now with the Church being attacked from all sides.

Not that he wasn’t up for one more fight; what bothered him the most was something far more fundamental. How could they sell the idea of being anointed—rather than appointed—when the Holy Spirit couldn’t pick a winner to save His life? The ruddy-faced man had raised the same question the last time they met at Moss Twomey’s funeral. The bishop had thought long and hard about going. The Boys were out of favor but he had known Moss since they were young and starting down the paths they were given.

He went, but wore his hat and scarf in the hope that prying eyes would pass over him. And, as they filed out to their cars, he and John Joe had the chance for a quick chat. They still enjoyed each other’s company but they were both buckling under the weight the years were piling on them. They had lost their places of prominence in Irish life. Decisions that had been made behind closed doors could now be openly challenged in foreign, less friendly courts. Some of the darkest secrets from before were beginning to surface and, although both their hands were clean, they would still be called out for betraying the people’s trust.

The bishop more than the other. John Joe could still claim lineage to the ‘Men of 16,’ and those that had kept the flame burning. All the bishop would have to cling on to was the love of God—to evoke forgiveness for all the sins of Rome.

And on top of that he had Fr. Dolan to deal with, an ambitious sort who disdained anonymity, claiming instead that the people should know what their Church did on their behalf. The bishop didn’t approve of all of that even though he had to agree that Fr. Dolan had really perked things up since he took over. Dan Brennan had let the parish go so Fr. Dolan brought in a lot of new-fangled ideas with him. He harangued the married couples into Marriage Encounter and had galvanized the whole parish around the killing of Anthony Flanagan. He even had Jerry Boyle and that Fallon blowhard out talking to parents about the danger of drugs. And he’d set up a new youth club where he could get to know the local lads and lassies and give them somewhere to go—other than getting into trouble. But the bishop could see that the new broom would end up sweeping Patrick Reilly out too.

He could have given him the parish but he didn’t. Not because of the nepotism of it all, but rather because he couldn’t put that cross on his nephew’s shoulders. Patrick was at one of those crossroads that people have to face at some point in their lives. He’d been a priest long enough to know what it was really like and not the way his mammy had told him. By now, he’d have learned what it meant to be really alone and apart.

Patrick was going to have to decide and his uncle didn’t want him deciding until he had a chance to sit back and contemplate his life from the Holy See. That was where the bishop had made his decision in the years leading up to the war, when the Church and the rest of the world had sat back while the black crows spread their cloaks. They were beholden to Franco and all that flocked to his side, even the Austrian, but later when the smoke cleared, they had backed the wrong horse and the Communists were still spreading their godless creed.

He came back to Dublin and became a monsignor after that. There was more than enough going on in Ireland to keep him busy and not be second-guessing himself. And in time they made him a bishop, to guide his priests with only God’s silence to rely on.

His nephew had phoned to say that Fr. Dolan was making it difficult for him to connect with the young people, instead sending him to tend to the sick and the aged. The bishop advised patience and reminded Patrick that he could still go to Rome. All he had to do was to say the word and the bishop would make it happen. But Patrick still hadn’t made up his mind and the bishop didn’t want to have to order him.

He knew he wouldn’t have to. Fr. Dolan would drive his nephew out with all the new and wonderful ideas he brought back with him from America. He could fascinate for hours with his stories of Boston. The way he made it sound it was a wonder that he should ever have chosen to come back to Ireland, but the bishop had to take priests wherever he could find them. There was talk that the new pope might drop in and he wanted every parish running like clockwork.

So he called Patrick in for a friendly chat—to feel the velvet around his iron fist.

Patrick was shown in on the hour, looking as sheepish as ever. Mrs. Mawhinney announced him and frowned. She had told the bishop to go easy on him and the frown was to remind him. The bishop wasn’t offended; she’d been around long enough to have her say.

“Patrick, are you well?”

“I am, thank God, and yourself?”

“Still living when all around me are dying.” He reached for his desk drawer and poured two nips. He offered one to his nephew and stared at him for a moment. “Well? Have you given anymore thought to Rome?”

“I have, but I can’t leave now. Isn’t the pope supposed to be coming over later in the year?”

“Ah, that’s still just talk you know. Our people and his people are still trying to figure it out. I don’t think anything has been decided yet.”

He sipped from his glass so his nephew wouldn’t know he was lying. He just didn’t want his nephew run over when Fr. Dolan swept up in a Cadillac and drove off with the pope before poor Patrick would get near him.

“You need to speak up soon or the position might be gone.”

“Well if Your Grace doesn’t think . . .”

“It’s not that at all, Patrick. Fr. Dolan just wants to make the parish more like he’s used to and he might be right. Over in America they have to compete with all those evangelists on the television. Fr. Dolan has a bit of the impresario in him and the likes of you would be better off teaching than playing second fiddle to the likes of him.”

Patrick sipped his whiskey and almost made a face. His uncle always enjoyed watching him. He still looked so much like the young man who came to see him years ago—just before he finished secondary school. When he had come to tell him he had decided on the priesthood.

“And you don’t think I have anything to offer the people?”

“It’s not that, Patrick. I just think that a young man like you, with your love for studying, could serve the Lord and the Church better doing what makes you the happiest.” He let it sink in but they both knew he wasn’t really giving the young priest any options.

“Very well, Your Grace. I’ll go. When should I travel?”

“You can go over any time you like. You’ll enjoy being in Rome. It gets a bit hot but you’ll be used to that in no time.”

They finished their drinks and Patrick rose to leave.

“You’ll not regret it,” the bishop repeated a few times as he ushered his nephew out.

When he sat back down, he poured another nip. He had no choice. Fr. Dolan was making a fuss about Patrick and the ex-nun. Fr. Dolan knew all about her from Chicago and made sure the bishop knew too. “An undesirable sort,” he had called her and the bishop had no defense. Patrick was better off out of there, for everyone’s sake.

Miriam got to Bewley’s early and found a table near the back. She wanted a little seclusion in which to re-read her letter. She hadn’t heard from Fr. Melchor in a while, though she wasn’t surprised. The last time she met him in Rome, she could tell he was up to something.

He had been banished there rather than face possible conviction at home. Neither the State Department, nor the Society of Jesus, had any appetite for a public trial and he had taken the option his superiors offered and agreed to the position in Rome.

But she knew he would never let that be the end of it. He had been angling for a teaching position in Central America and wrote,
I only want to
‘strive especially for the propagation and defense of the faith and progress of souls in Christian life and doctrine,’ while
spreading liberation theology among the downtrodden!

Miriam feared what he might get up to there, but he wrote about it like it was nothing.

What else can they do with me? I have done my penance and my superiors are happy to believe that I am reformed in their image. They have, however, insisted that I do not go back to the States. It seems that in trying to be Christ-like, I have offended the sensibilities of those who claim to be a Christian nation.

Miriam smiled at that. John Melchor could always cloak his casuistry within his cassock. But she worried, too. He had always shown disregard where others might be afraid for themselves and what their dissent might cost. Not Fr. Melchor though. He always said that a true Christian would suffer death rather than go along with the murder and repression of any who disagree. He said the Church had done enough of that. And his country.

My beloved United States has gone from being the policeman to the world to being the hired thug of despots. But the world will, as it must. The shah has gone to Egypt and some ayatollah is taking over. I doubt he will be our puppet for very long. Everyone is blaming the president. They say he isn’t strong enough on the world. He can’t be that bad, though, he commuted Patty Hearst’s sentence. Maybe he will put in good word for me—if it comes to that.

His mood changed again as he went on to write about the death of Pedro Joaquín Chamorro Cardenal. He was
blasted from this world by cruel men with shotguns. The people of Nicaragua knew who was responsible and over 30,000 rioted against Somoza. I must find a way of doing what I can in this.

Miriam knew exactly what he meant and worried for him, but she had to smile again as she continued to read.
Don’t worry about me. Tell me all your news. How are the Mother-loving Catholics of Ireland accepting you?

“Sorry I’m late; the buses seem to hide when it rains.”

Miriam folded her letter away and smiled. “Not at all Deirdre, I was just catching up with an old friend.”

She caught a passing waitress’s attention and watched her friend while she ordered. She didn’t look too happy. Danny had been pestering her to go over but Deirdre wouldn’t go without her parents’ approval.

“Have you asked them yet?”

“Not yet. I just haven’t found the right time.”

“Is there ever a good time to ask your parents if you can go live in sin for a few weeks?”

“I know. It’s not like I’m still a child. And besides, he’s been away for over a year.”

“That might be what they are afraid of.”

“Danny’s not like that. And neither am I for that matter.”

Miriam started to laugh. “Not that I would know anything about that type of thing.”

She had tried. She tried to do all the things that women did to suggest interest without being overt about it, but men never responded to her. She knew why—men just weren’t into hitching up with ex-nuns. Deirdre had told her that she probably intimidated them but Miriam knew better. She had once been married to Jesus; no man alive would try to follow that.

“So who was the love letter from?” Deirdre smiled.

“Father Melchor. He is about to get himself into trouble again.”

“And you are worried about him?”

Miriam smiled. “To know John Melchor is to worry about him. He has no concern for his own safety and always answers when social injustice calls. He said that the war made him like that. He was a bombardier in the Air Force and took part in the fire-raids over Tokyo. He said it changed his life. He had nightmares for years.”

“It must have been awful for him.”

“It was. After he got out of the Air Force he spent a few years in Mexico trying to forget, but he couldn’t so he became a Jesuit. Since then, he has been using the protection of the collar to speak out.

“He galvanized us all to do whatever we could to protest against Vietnam. That was when I got into trouble too. We got caught pouring pig’s blood on draft records. We weren’t formally charged, as the Diocese got involved and promised to look after the matter internally. I was banished to Ireland and John was given a desk job in a basement somewhere in Rome.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

“Never. I would have regretted not doing it no matter what it cost me. I’m just not one of those people who can sit silently by while . . . but you know all that. Tell me, what are you going to do about Danny?”

It was Deirdre’s turn to look troubled. “I think I will wait until I graduate and then I might think about going over for a few weeks. They wouldn’t mind that?”

“And do you think Danny Boyle will wait for you?”

“I’m not asking him to. I told him I couldn’t this year.”

“Are you testing him?”

“No! Not at all. I’m just letting fate take its course.”

They fell silent for a while until Deirdre looked at her watch and gulped down the rest of her coffee. “I’m sorry. I have to run and catch my lecture.”

She rose and gathered her things but Miriam stayed where she was.

When Deirdre was gone, Miriam ordered one more coffee and thought about all that she had given up, both as a nun and as an anti-war protester. It didn’t make sense to her anymore. Evil was openly rewarded while people like Fr. Melchor and her paid dearly. She wished she didn’t know that. She wished she were still like Deirdre, still able to believe in something.

Billie knew Danny was still hung up on the girl he left behind and hadn’t wanted to push him. She hadn’t wanted to change the way things were between them. He was off limits but she liked hanging around with him. He was safe. The only time they ever messed around was on St. Patrick’s Day. She’d had a little too much to drink and they both decided that she could stay at his place and that nothing would happen.

“Are you saying,” she had asked as she twirled in the falling snow, “that you don’t find me even the least bit attractive?” The snow was heavy and wet and would be gone by morning, but tonight she was happy—drunken happy, but happy.