The Purity of the Church Turf, cont.

"I tell you, Reeves, I handled it masterfully!"

"A most gratifying sensation, your Excellency."

"Once old Cardinal Henley blanched at the mention of St. Leonides -- and I must say, I wouldn't have thought a chap with a face that red could blanch -- Berggo would give no better than even money on a head to head with Ginger's pile."

I finished my brandy, and shook my head as Reeves stepped forward to refill the glass. The Sub-Committee would be reconvening at eleven the next morning, so I had to make an early night of it.

"I bided my time," I continued, "until I could get Poleslip alone, then talked my way round to his giving three to two against the field as a side bet."

"A not altogether reckless bet on Bishop Pulverhampton's part, your Excellency."

"Absolutely, Reeves. I didn't want to press him too hard, or he might suspect that I'll be bringing a ringer to the contest."

"A ringer, your Excellency?"

"A dead cert. And you're the one who put me onto it."

"Are you referring to the refurbished Lady's Chapel of the Cathedral of St. Glaphyra, your Excellency?"

"Got it in one, Reeves. Your niece, was it, who sent you some snaps of the grand unveiling?"

"Yes, your Excellency. My second eldest sister's daughter Amelia. She has an understanding with the young architect Bishop Legendre hired for the renovation, and wished to know my unbiased opinion regarding his work."

The brow rose. "That must have taken some tact."

"Indeed, your Excellency. I was at some pains striking the right balance between aesthetic criticism and concern for my niece's feelings."

"I should jolly well think so, Reeves! How was it you described it to me? The absolute nadir of something, wasn't it?"

"'The absolute end of unthinking anti-incarnationalism' was one form I gave to my thoughts, your Excellency. Another was 'embracing the nadir of iconoclastic nihilism.'"

"A bit industrial strength for tender hearted youth, what? No girl wants to hear her sweet baa lamb called an anti-incarnational nihilist."

"She has never referred to the gentleman as her 'sweet baa lamb' in my hearing, your Excellency, but I share your opinion of the inadvisability of presuming her willingness to discuss the topic in a purely objective manner."

"Sentiment aside, Reeves, would you say that the Lady's Chapel of the Cathedral of St. Glaphyra is, pound for pound, the ugliest thing to be found within consecrated walls from sea to shining sea?"

"In my aesthetic judgment, your Excellency, yes."

"Then, as your aesthetic judgment is known to be flawless, I have but to convince old Pimples Legendre to enter it in the contest, and Poleslip's covering three USCCB meetings for me is as certain as things get in this vale of tears."

There was the briefest of hesitations, no longer than the time an Aberdeen terrier spends deciding on the perfect spot on your leg to sink his teeth into, before Reeves said, "So it would seem, your Excellency."

I've worked with Reeves long enough to know that a hesitation like that is fraught.

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The Purity of the Church Turf



"What ho, Berggo!"

"What ho, Willie!"

"What ho, Poleslip! What ho, Ginger! What ho, Eustance!"

"What ho!"

"What ho!"

"What ho!"

Greetings done, silence settled upon the junior members of the Sub-Committee on the Use of Holy Water Outside Ordinary Time. We junior members ourselves were settled upon the furniture in the Reading Room, which have the most comfortable chairs at USCCB HQ. The senior members of the Sub-Committee, including two cardinals and three archbishops, were hard at work in an upstairs conference room, and just as happy as we were to have us out of the way until it was time to vote.

As I swirled the ice in my bourbon and s., I took another look around the Reading Room. As pleasant as it was, you had to watch out for the Oldest Member of the American Episcopate, who liked to haunt this chamber and corner unwary young bishops with long, unlikely tales from his youth.

Once, I even spotted an otherwise harmless looking bishop who was trying to read over by the window. We were both dashed uncomfortable about it, but he did the decent thing and left.

This afternoon, though, the five of us were alone. Three were restoring our tissues after a satisfactory lunch, and Eustace had simply unhinged his jaw to allow his thoughts to flow freely.

Ginger -- you may know him as Bishop Edgar Port-Canantrop -- was peering with nearsighted eyes at a photograph he had drawn out of a briefcase on the coffee table in front of him.

"I say, Ginger," I said, knowing this crowd generally relied upon me to set the conversational sails. "What's that?"

"Eh? Oh. It's a photograph."

I gave him a moment, in case there was more to come on the B-side, before prompting, "A photograph of what?"

"A Confirmation class from this past spring. One of the parents sent me a copy. My chancellor insisted I work on catching up on my private correspondence during this trip."

"Why do chancellors always assume we've nothing but free time when we come to Washington?" Berggo asked as he stood up and stretched. He walked around behind Ginger and bent down to look at the picture.

"I always love to see --" he began, but then straightened up immediately with a strangled cry. He peered forward again, but again shied away from Ginger's picture like a vegetarian discovering an ox tail in his salad.

"Berggo, you ass," Poleslip said. "Stop bobbing up and down. You're making me seasick."

"Come and see," Berggo said ashenly.

"Let's have a look then." Poleslip leaned forward and took the photograph from Ginger. "That's you in the middle, right?"

"In the mitre, yes," Ginger nodded.

"And there are the kiddies arrayed about -- ooh." Poleslip's eyes grew wider as he lowered his eyebrows. It was a striking effect.

"What is is, Poleslip?" I asked, marvelling at the effect the photograph was having on the company.

"It's... that's...," Poleslip explained. "That's quite a... a striking sanctuary the church has, isn't it?"

"Don't be a chump," Ginger answered sharply. "It's not striking, it's horrific. That frieze around the altar alone kept me up at night for a week. Be thankful you can't see the tabernacle. Taken as a whole, this church is easily the ugliest monstrosity to ever visit the nightmares of a liturgical space designer."

"Oh, don't say that, Ginger," Eustace said, finally adding his oar to the conver.

"But Eustace," Poleslip sputtered, "you haven't even seen the photograph."

"I don't have to," Eustace answered with calm assurance. "Because I have seen what they've done to St. Leonides in my own diocese. The interior is that than which nothing uglier can be conceived."

Berggo clapped his hands excitedly. "Gentlemen! We have here two bishops who freely admit to grave ugliness in a church under their care. Who can say how many of the whole Conference feel this way? Do not disappoint me, my brothers. The time has come for us to act!"

"Act?" I replied. "Act how?"

"Why, with an ugly church contest, of course!"

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Reeves and the Motu Proprio That Binds, concl.

"Thanks again, bish," he said, looking like a fish who looked like a cat who just ate a canary.

"Not at all."

"I leave for Rome next Monday, and Ernesto has insisted I stay at St. Aldhelm's with him 'til then."

"Capital!" I said, catching the bartender's eye for another round.

"By Jove!" he went on. "Personal secretary to the president of a pontifical commission, and I'm just three years out of seminary!"

"I shall watch your future career with interest."

"Thanks again, bish."

"Not at all."

I took a sip of my drink -- Reeves would approve of the speed a pectoral cross induces among the bartenders in the upper bar at the downtown Knights of Columbus hall -- and added, "I still can't think why Reeves couldn't turn you up at the jail the other evening."

"Who did he say he was looking for?"

"Why, you, of course."

"That explains it," young Thos. said with a nod. "I'd given the police a false name."

"A false name! What on earth for?"

"I didn't think either of us wanted word to get round to Sister Agatha about such a trifling misunderstanding."

I considered this. "Yes, I see your point. Still, I'm surprised Reeves didn't press the matter. It couldn't have taken too long to work through the list of men in stir for impersonating clergy."

He shrugged. "Perhaps he didn't think of it. Ernesto had the advantage that he didn't know what my real name was anyway."

"A dashed good thing for all of us Stinker was so remorseful he insisted on turning the jail inside out. Reeves spoke to him on the phone just before we headed out for the evening, and at the end of the conversation Stinker swore he'd spring you or bust."

"And talk about luck! One of his oldest friends, just settling in at HQ, and needing a personal secretary."

"Not the position I'd wish for myself, my boy, but I couldn't be happier for you."

Young Thos. looked stricken for a moment. "The chaps from Latine Dictum are disappointed, of course, but they understand the need to scale back."

"Quite. As I always say, one doesn't lose one's point man on the Old Missal without having to adjust."

"And Ernesto has promised to do what he can until you find my replacement."

"It couldn't have worked out better if someone had planned it."

"Pardon, your Excellency." Reeves had materialized at by elbow. "Sister Agatha is on your cell phone, inquiring about her protege. While your standing orders are to do what is possible to keep her from reaching you, I thought perhaps --"

"Say no more, Reeves," I interrupted, holding out a hand for my phone. "You are quite right. This is one call from her I look forward to." That alone should give you a sign of how rum a week it had been.

"There is a quiet alcove this way, your Excellency."

"Thanks."

Excusing myself from young Thos., who was now mumbling greetings out of an Italian phrasebook to himself, I followed Reeves across the barroom. "I say, Reeves, I hope you're not put out by all this."

"All this, your Excellency?"

"There I was, up to my eyebrows in the soup as we headed for the Matrons' gala. And by the time it was finished, the skies were already starting to clear. For once, I didn't need one of your schemes. In fact," I added as we reached the alcove, "if you had been your usual brainy self at the jail and not insisted your quarry was cataloged under the proper name, all would not now be served up en croute."

"The consequences of my choice of action are indeed gratifying, your Excellency."

"Good of you to take it so well. Carry on, Reeves." I pressed the "mute" button on my phone and surprised the party on the line by calling out, "What ho, aged religious! Pax vobis!"

And I meant it.

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Reeves and the Motu Proprio that Binds, cont.

Monsignor Reeves returned at a quarter past martini. I was dealing with the dividend, and reviewing the notes for my after-dinner speech to the Matrons of St. Monica, when he materialized just inside the study door.

"Ah, Reeves," I said, my mood considerably improved by the joke I had just inserted before the final benediction. "Place our young lawbreaker firmly in the third story guestroom -- you might give some thought to how the door could be locked from the outside -- and hurry back. I've got a perfect clipper about Saint Augustine and a Manichee playing golf I want to try out on you."

"I'm afraid Fr. Connaughton is not here, your Excellency."

"Not here? You mean he's given you the slip already? Did he sign on for a three to five year stint as prison chaplain before you has a chance to spring him?"

"I have not seen him since late this morning, your Excellency. The policemen at the jail where he was reportedly taken have no record of him there."

The Booster constitution is one which rebounds quickly from all but the nastiest shocks. And in fact, mine had done so much rebounding all day long that it didn't trouble to bound first at this latest shock.

Instead, I merely remarked, "The fellow's a perfect Houdini, Reeves. He not only disappears from the poky, but he manages to convince the screws he was never there in the first place."

"That possibility did not suggest itself to me, your Excellency."

"No, no, of course not. It's far too simple and straightforward to be true. No doubt Masons, or possibly the Fourth Dimension, lie behind this mystery. As things stand, however," I added, glancing at my watch, "we have thirty-five minutes to get to the Matrons of Saint Monica's gala, and I would rather misplace every last blasted priest of Berggo's diocese, though it mean a battalion of irate Sister Agathas, than to slight the Matrons."

"The prudence of a timely arrival this evening is manifest, your Excellency."

"Besides, Stinker DiPietro will do the worrying for all of us. He called a while ago, you see. Felt awful when he learned that young Thos. really was a priest."

"Monsignor DiPietro is a man of great sensitivity, your Excellency."

"He still would have hit him, of course. You remember how he laid out Pat Murtaugh at our priests' retreat back in Ninety-Seven. But he would have hit him with the respect due a man of the cloth."

Reeves remained silent. He didn't approve of rough stuff from a chap wearing the purple, I knew, but he couldn't help admiring a chap who insisted on a different punch against each ecclesial rank. Semper dignosco, was one of Reeve's watchwords. Always distinguish.

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Reeves and the Motu Proprio That Binds, cont.

My nerves were not soothed by MacDougal's new habit of ending his every remark with the words, "in jail."

"I can see, gentlemen, that you're all a bit soggy round the collar," I said soothingly. "But I can assure you that this sort of thing happens all the time."

Three pairs of eyes shot wide open, like school doors on the last day of term.

"That is to say," I added quickly," not all the time. Never, in fact."

"Look, Bishop --" MacDougal began.

"Except for today, of course," I added as a point of clarification.

"But one of your priests is in jail!"

"When you get down to it, you know, canonically and so forth, he's not really one of my priests."

The last day of term effect was repeated.

"He's sort of on loan, don't you know. The agency sent him round, in a manner of speaking. An expert on the old Missal, and all that. So naturally Monsignor DiPietro didn't know who he was."

"But he attacked him and had him put in jail!"

"Yes, well, you see, old Stinker DiPietro's a bit old fashioned. You can't just spring a chap like young Thos. on him and expect him not to counter with a left hook and a call to the lads at the station."

"I tell you, that old fellow's a madman! He should be locked away, not running a fine parish like St. Aldhelm's!"

"Ah, oh," I said with delicacy. "The former nuncio, you know."

"Nuncio?"

"They're great friends. Knew each other in seminary, I gather." It was hard for me to imagine Cardinal Fratricidelli as a seminarian. My own days in seminary were passed mostly in paralyzing fear of dropping the heavy brass candlestick I carried in procession whenever a visiting archbishop offered Mass. Cardinal Fratricidelli might have squeezed a brass candlestick in two, but he would never have dropped one.

"In any case, the as-was nuncio had recommended Stinker for his current assignment." I passed a hand across the troubled brow. "They still keep in touch."

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Reeves and the Motu Proprio That Binds, cont.

"It was the map, Reeves."

"The map, your Excellency?"

"Yes, the introduction of the map marked the point at which things went south." I took a healthy sip of bourbon and s. "Until that chap with the moustache pulled out his map, I thought young Thos. was going to pull it off."

"Did you indeed, your Excellency?"

I waved a defeated hand. "Yes, yes, Reeves. I know you were never under any such illusion yourself."

"It did seem, your Excellency, that you had lined yourself with hope. I have long been of a mind that, in a theme so bloody-faced as this, conjecture, expectation and surmise of aids incertain should not be admitted."

"'Bloody-faced' may be a bit strong, Reeves, but the lads of Latine Dictum sure meant business."

"Their interests are of a singularly focused nature, your Excellency."

I stood up to pace. "Still, I insist that we were ahead on points until that bally map came out. Young Thos. seemed to grasp what was required of him from the opening bell."

"Fr. Connaughton has proven himself quite adaptable, your Excellency."

"His suggestion of a Latin Mass aimed at circus and carnival workers caught us all by surprise, I think it's fair to say, but once they got their heads around it the Latine lads were all for it."

"It did hint, your Excellency, at a revision of scope in their planning."

I nodded. "Planning they certainly had. In spades. All those lists and petitions and documents. And then there was the map, which pushed our blasted extraordinary use coordinator over the edge."

"He did appear visibly stimulated, your Excellency."

"And well he might be. Color-coded parish boundaries, population distributions, and who knows what else. To someone as scatterbrained and excitable as young Thos., waving around that much information was like waving a red flag in front of a bull."

"An apt simile, your Excellency. There was a note of the taurine in Fr. Connaughton's rush to examine the positioning of the high altar at St. Aldhelm's."

"Twenty-seven. That was what they agreed upon, was it not? Twenty-seven Sunday Masses according to the 1962 Missal."

"That was the last figure spoken of before they departed, your Excellency."

"And that questionnaire you mentioned you'd sent around. How many priests do we have who said they feel qualified for it?"

"Four, your Excellency. Additionally, a few of the younger priests expressed an interest or willingness to learn."

"So on a good day, we might be able to manage perhaps a third of the Masses my diocesan coordinator has pledged."

"That is an optimistic estimate, your Excellency. In addition to the priests, we require --"

The telephone interrupted the litany of unmet requirements, and I thanked God for this small favor. Reeves answered the phone, listened for a moment, then said, "Good evening, your Eminence. Yes, Bishop Booster is available. One moment, please, while I transer you."

He pressed the hold button and handed me the receiver. "Cardinal Fratricidelli would like to speak with you, your Excellency."

I started like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons. The cardinal had been the papal nuncio for years, in which role he became convinced that I was a barking looney. It was an understandable mistake, under the circs., but it did not make for warmly fraternal conversation between us. Nor did the fact that, at his cheeriest, he has the demeanor of a man whose thoughts are never far from his hobby of ripping apart iron girders with his hands.

"But he's not the nuncio any more!" I yipped. "He's been recalled to Rome for something or other. Why would he want to speak with me?"

"His Eminence did not confide in me, your Excellency."

"What exactly is his new job in the Eternal City?"

"Cardinal Fratricidelli is the president of the Ecclesia Dei Commission, your Excellency."

"Ecclesia Dei? Wasn't I just talking about that commission with someone recently?"

"Yes, your Excellency. It was mentioned several times in this morning's meeting. Its responsibilities include overseeing the implementation of Summorum Pontificum."

I gaped. "You don't think... young Thos. couldn't have... not so quickly...."

"The timing is certainly remarkable, your Excellency."

"Advise me, Reeves!"

"I should take Cardinal Fratricidelli off hold as soon as possible, your Excellency. Though it is difficult to judge for certain after such a brief exchange, his Eminence sounded like a man wrestling with strong emotions."

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Reeves and the Motu Proprio That Binds, cont.

"Dash it all, Sr. Agatha, I won't --"

"Do be quiet, Willie. I did not travel all this way to listen to your blathering."

"But you can't expect me to --"

"What I expect, Willie, is that you will find a place in your diocese for young Father Thomas here."

I eyed the specimen, who sat perched on the edge of an armchair staring at the wall clock in rapt fascination. I would have said he had unhinged his jaw, the better to concentrate, but he lacked a visible jaw. The overall effect so strongly suggested a daydreaming fish that it was all I could do to refrain from offering him an ant egg.

"He wants some rounding, as I say, and the opportunities do not exist in our diocese. Something musical, perhaps, or the rector of a shrine. You do have shrines here?"

"Oh, rather," I said, my parochial pride a bit stung. "Some jolly fine ones, too. It's just that we're full up with rectors at the mo."

"Well, I'm sure you'll find something suitable." Sr. Agatha rose. "I shall check back in a week. Goodbye, Father Thomas."

"Hm? Ah." Father Thomas unmoored his gaze from the clock and smiled at the room at large.

"I am quite certain you will not disappoint me, Willie. Not this time," Sr. Agatha added, with a look that could make a cardinal deacon feel the sleeves of his rochet were too tight.

Then she left the room, if "left" is the mot juste for someone who moves with the self-possession of a Romanesque abbey.

I sank back into my chair with a sigh. It was too early in the day for a restorative, so there was nothing for it but to survive the after-effects of a visit from Sr. Agatha on my own natural resources.

We Boosters are made of stern stuff, but I was already feeling stretched thin when a disembodied voice, speaking at my elbow, sent me a foot and a half straight into the air.

"I say, old man, I thought she'd never leave."

I pivoted the loaf, and, discovering Father Thomas at the side of my desk, remembered I wasn't alone in the room. He was tossing a commemorative coin the Knights of St. Barnabas had given me in the air and catching it, with a great deal more vim than I had thought him capable of. In place of a daydreaming fish there stood before me a fish ready to spit on his fins and get cracking.

"So tell me, bish, what does a cleric do for fun in these parts?"

My mind, not satisfied with reeling, boggled. "Fun?" I managed to say.

"I always felt I could do great things at a Newman Center. Or maybe one of those specialized ministries." He peered at me through his round spectacles. "Do you have any Gypsies here? Or marriage support groups?"

I shook my head. "While I appreciate your... your enthusiasm, I think perhaps it would be best if --"

A shimmering near the door informed me that Reeves had entered. "Ah, Reeves, just the man I was wanting."

"That is gratifying to hear, your Excellency. The departure of Sr. Agatha did not go unnoticed by the gentlemen whose appointment her arrival delayed. They have requested that I confirm your intent to see them."

"Blast it, Reeves, my mind's on other things right now." I glanced meaningfully toward young Fr. Thos., who had picked up an old copy of the diocesan newspaper and was reading the advertisement on the back page. "Who are these men again?"

"They represent the diocesan chapter of Latine Dictum, your Excellency. They are here to discuss your plans for implementing Summorum Pontificum."

"Or if the cemetery needs a chaplain," Fr. Thomas murmured thoughtfully.

"Do I have plans for implementing Summorum Pontificum, Reeves?"

"You have not revealed any to me, your Excellency."

I am aware that in some quarters it is whispered -- and in other quarters, it is called across the courtyard -- that, while I will do in a pinch for confirmations and consecrating new churches, Monsignor Reeves is the real brains of the diocese.

It's certainly true that I rely on his advice to pilot me around the shoals that threaten our ecclesial ship. Still, I have been known to have an idea of my own once in a while, and the idea I had at that moment was red hot.

"Very well, Reeves, show the Latine Whatsit chaps in. I'm sure they'd love to meet our new, er, Diocesan Extraordinary Use Coordinator." I gestured toward Sr. Agatha's protege, who was nodding his head vigorously at something in the business notices of the newspaper.

To say that Reeves stiffened would not be strictly accurate; he was already as upright as possible. But there was a slight hesitancy before he said, "Very good, your Excellency," that told me the wisdom of my plan was not immediately evident to him.

While he went to fetch the visitors, I turned to young Thos. "So, tell me, young -- er, Father. Any chance you know a spot of Latin?"

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Reeves and the Motu Proprio That Binds

If there's one complaint I have about my diocese, it's that the weather is dashed inconsistent. If the morning is nothing but sunshine and blue skies, no sooner will I have rearranged my schedule to accommodate an afternoon constitutional across the links than a V-shaped depression will enter from off-prompt to soak with rain whatever doesn't get blown across the river.

The weather inside the chancery can be even less predictable.

So it was one morning, when I looked up from my eggs and b. to admire the dappled sunlight in the garden outside. I can't swear there was a snail on a thorn within view, but I definitely saw a lark on the wing.

I was asking myself, not for the first time, what it was about thorns that snails found so attractive, when I became aware of the presence of Monsignor Reeves, my secretary.

"What ho, Reeves," I said, toasting him with orange juice.

"Good morning, your Excellency," Reeves answered. "If I may say so, you seem in high spirits today."

"I am indeed. You know, Reeves," I went on, since the occasional comment has led me to suspect that Reeves is not altogether satisfied with the average depth of conversation in the house, "it seems to me that Aquinas could have saved us all a lot of trouble if, instead of going into the whole Five Proofs of the Existence of God wheeze, he had merely said, 'Sunny summer mornings, Q.E.D.'"

"An insightful observation, your Excellency. You are perhaps alluding to the thought of Richard Swinburne, whose book --"

I set down my glass firmly. "Now, Reeves, I'm not as well read on all these poets as you are, but I do recall something about this Swinburne fellow, and I hardly see what any of that has to do with a beautiful morning."

"You would seem, your Excellency, to have in mind Algernon Swinburne, the Victorian poet whose verses --"

"Reeves."

"Yes, your Excellency?"

"I was merely commenting upon the fine weather."

"Yes, your Excellency."

"Swinburnes should not be multiplied beyond necessity, wouldn't you say?"

"A prudent policy, your Excellency."

Reeves is a capital secretary, but if you give him his head in these matters, in no time he will be informing you of the trade policies of King Kapataputti of Ongalangala, died 1405, and their influence upon the harmonic minor scale. All fascinating stuff, of course, but a bit much to follow before you've finished your second cup of tea.

We went on to discuss my schedule for the day, neither of us imagining that the day was lurking behind the door in my office swinging a sock filled with sand.

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The Great Diocese Handicap, concl.

"Not feeling a bit down, are you, Reeves?"

"Not to my knowledge, your Excellency."

I eyed the fellow. Monsignor Reeves had taken news of the collapse of his plan with manly reserve. I wondered, though, whether the shock of failure had somewhat unnerved him. In the days since, he had been rather distant on the whole subj., as though the memory was still too fresh.

I decided a little pastoral care was wanted. "I think, Reeves, we must face up to failure and move on. The best laid plans of mice and men, and so forth, as you often remind me. Even Homer nods."

"Very true, your Excellency."

"On the other hand, what lasting harm has been done? Admittedly, Cardinal Vittoria thinks I'm some sort of criminal lunatic, but such misunderstandings are common within the episcopate. And Pimples did lose out on the Congregation to that Italian chap."

"Bishop Giovanni Fulsca, your Excellency. He was ordained a bishop by --"

"Yes, yes, Reeves. We shall review his C.V. in due time. My point now is that Vittoria's visit was no batsman's paradise for Pimples anyway. Mark my word, Reeves, a chap who will kick a football through a chap's window in the middle of the night is a chap who isn't destined for Congregations in Rome."

"They would seem mutually incompatible destinies, your Excellency."

"And true, Berggo didn't get his new cathedral. But do you know, I spoke with him yesterday evening, and he sounded quite relieved. 'I would hate to leave my dear lambs,' he said. A turn of heart" -- and here, I'm afraid, I registered a touch of disapproval, considering all the trouble Berggo's fickleness had put me through -- "that seems related to the Knights of Columbus raising three hundred fifty thousand dollars for his soup kitchen project."

"A shared goal does smooth over differences, your Excellency."

"He went so far as to say he would never have been happy with St. Glaphyra's. His very words were, 'A right horror it looks in the bright light of day.'"

"The aesthetics of that cathedral do not speak to the broad experiences of the human soul, your Excellency."

"And how, Reeves!" I poked through the mail Monsignor Reeves had brought me, reaching for a picture postcard that caught my eye. "On balance, the one lasting pain brought on by this whole affair was the lost opportunity to bet on the shuffling of bishops. Even there, though, your note of caution stopped me from placing a loser."

A sound like a sheep coughing on a distant peak came from the spot where Monsignor Reeves was standing. "As it happens, your Excellency, I --"

"Great Scott!" I exclaimed. "This postcard is from Pimples! Dateline Seattle, he writes as follows: 'Many thanks, old thing, for taking the rap. Now I'm taking the job you were to get, as Apostolic Visitator.'"

"Yes, your Excellency. Rumors abounded that you were to be named to that post."

At these words, my each particular hair stood an end, like quills upon the fretful porpentine. "But... an Apostolic Visitator! That would have completely ruined my fall schedule!"

"Undoubtedly, your Excellency. It seems, however, the impression you left on Cardinal Vittoria was such that minds in Rome were changed regarding the wisdom of assigning you to that post."

"But Pimples...?"

"After your hasty departure, Bishop Legendre and Cardinal Vittoria had a long and pleasant conversation, your Excellency. I have been informed that, in the course of their talk, they agreed that the Congregation was not the place for Bishop Legendre, football broadcasts being too rare in Rome, but that he would very much enjoy serving as Apostolic Visitator."

"Well, well, well. So even though your plan failed, we've all landed on our feet."

"So it would seem, your Excellency."

A cog turned a notch. "Tell me, Reeves. I don't mean to pry, but is it possible... that is, did your plan for me to visit Pimples take into account the possibility..."

"I did not wish to trouble you with rumors regarding the position of Apostolic Visitator, your Excellency. It did occur to me, however, that a day or two in the company of Cardinal Vittoria, under stressful circumstances, might prevent the appointment, which I took the liberty of feeling sure was a consummation you would devoutly wish."

"Certainly, Reeves."

"Furthermore, your Excellency, I placed modest bets on your behalf against your appointment, and also against Cardinal Legendre's appointment to the Congregation. The parlay paid off in three Eucharistic Congresses and one retreat of your choice."

"Did it indeed?" I leaned back and let out a deep breath. "I feel positively storm-tossed by events, Reeves. A retreat sounds like just the thing to recover."

"Yes, your Excellency. You are scheduled for a four-day retreat at a Redemptorist house in the Adirondacks next week. You need only give one two-hour conference to a women's sodality on the first day."

"Just the stuff! I say, Reeves, you have family in the area, don't you? Why don't you come with me, and take a few days to visit them?"

"Yes, your Excellency, my sister and her family. Thank you, your Excellency."

"Not at all, Reeves. When one lucks into something like this, I think it best to share the good fortune."

"If I may say so, your Excellency, that is an attitude toward which Divine Providence tends to respond with further good fortune."

"At least I've always found it so, Reeves. And what's the rest of it?"

"Benedicamus Domino, your Excellency."

"That's it, Reeves. Benedicamus Domino."

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The Great Diocese Handicap, cont.

"Oi!"

I don't know if you've ever been "Oi"ed at by a Spanish cardinal looking down from his bedroom window on the shady side of midnight. It is not an experience one soon forgets. Spanish cardinals can "Oi" with the best of them, pouring into that brief expression the full passion of the Mediterranean temperament.

Pimples had vanished like a magician's rabbit the moment the ball had left his foot, and I could see the right reasoning of the thing to be done he had employed. But before I could follow suit, Cardinal Vittoria addressed me by name. "Booster? Is that you?"

"Oh, ah, what ho, your Eminence! Up late too, what?"

"What are you doing down there?"

"Me? Oh, you know, just out for an evening stroll. In the nights lift up your hands, and all that. I find that nothing clears the mind quite like emptying it, and what is more empty than a garden in the middle of the night? Not another soul here. I'm quite alone. Well, of course now you've joined me, if it can be called joining me when you're still --"

"Bishop Booster, do cease babbling."

"Oh, right-o."

"I take it, since you are alone, that you must be the one responsible for this object that came crashing through my window a moment ago."

"I? No, no! I strongly oppose crashing objects through windows. Ask anyone. Perhaps it was a prowler."

"And are the prowlers of your country, Bishop Booster, in the habit of throwing pointed balls through bedroom windows in the nighttime?" the cardinal asked, and if he was trying to keep the skepticism from his voice he failed.

"Not that I've heard. But there is a university in town. Perhaps it was a fraternity prank."

By way of answer, Cardinal Vittoria said nothing. Sister Mary Kathleen, the headmistress of Ss. Soter and Caius Day School during my time there, had also frequently employed this technique, under not dissimilar circs., so I knew from experience that, if the silence weren't broken, I would blurt out the full truth.

"Well, cheerio, then!" I offered, and, pivoting briskly, set off at a dignified trot toward a hedge some distance from the light spilling from the cardinal's window.

Had a surgeon examined me as soon as I achieved full concealment, he would have been baffled by the two red circular marks in the center of my back, until I explained they were made by the burning stare I could feel Cardinal Vittoria directing at me during my retreat.

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The Great Diocese Handicap, cont.

"I should not advise it, your Excellency."

I set down the 'phone. "You interest me strangely, Reeves. Do you mean to say the odds are not with me?"

"An outcome in your favor would require Bishop Legendre to be assigned to Rome, your Excellency."

"Precisely, Reeves. Then all the other reassignments will follow as the night the day. And on Pimples's appointment, I happen to have a gold-embossed tip, laying on velvet. That's what makes the whole proposition such a daisy."

"It is true, your Excellency, that Bishop Legendre's assignation to the Congregation is regarded as a fait accompli by those in the know in the Vatican."

I furrowed the b. "You speak in riddles, Reeves."

"The matter is multilayered, your Excellency."

"What you give with one hand, you take with another."

"This is a situation that illustrates the adage, 'If it 'twere done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly,' your Excellency."

"And where does the cat come in, Reeves?"

"Your Excellency?"

"I thought there was a cat i' the adage."

"That would be a different adage, your Excellency. 'The cat loves fish, but does not like to wet her paws.'"

"I'm not altogether certain I've ever heard that one, Reeves."

"It is alluded to in a monologue by Lady Macbeth, your Excellency, who bemoans that her husband is letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'"

I chewed on this for a moment, then said, "Bring us back round to Pimples, Reeves."

"Yes, your Excellency. Bishop Legendre's appointment is to be announced the first Tuesday of next month. Prior to that time, however, he will be visited by Cardinal Vittoria."

"Not unexpected, Reeves. Vittoria is something of the power behind the throne in the Congregation."

"An apt observation, your Excellency. His visit is, as it were, the final T to be crossed prior to the announcement of Bishop Legendre's appointment."

"But why should his visit throw off Pimples's appointment? He must already know all about him."

"They have never spent time together socially, your Excellency. In the three days Cardinal Vittoria will be a guest of Bishop Legendre's, it is likely the cardinal will discover something off-putting about him."

"Off-putting about Pimples? Why, he's the soul of geniality!"

"Yes, your Excellency. But, as is common among such open-hearted persons, there is one subject on which he is adamant and humourless, a subject on which Cardinal Vittoria happens to hold an equally adamant, but opposite, position."

"Do you mean to suggest, Reeves, that Vittoria might come away so hot under the collar he'd squash Pimples's appointment?"

"The potential is there, your Excellency."

"This is red hot stuff, Reeves! What's the bone of contention?"

"The superiority of American football to soccer, your Excellency."

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The Great Diocese Handicap

"What ho, Berggo! I wasn't expecting to see you till November."

"I was in a neighboring diocese, and I thought I'd pop in," Berggo replied distractedly.

"I'm certainly glad you did, old thing. Let me clear my schedule, and we'll lunch at my club."

"Willie," Berggo said as he absent-mindedly pulled copies of the Patrologia Latina off a shelf and dropping them on the carpet, "what do you think of when you hear the name St. Glaphyra?"

"When I hear the name St. Glaphyra?"

"Yes, the name St. Glaphyra. Do you think of Principalities singing to Dominions in aeviternal beatitude?"

"When I hear the name St. Glaphyra?"

"Yes. Doesn't the very sound of the name St. Glaphyra bring to mind the beauty of morning in Eden before the Fall?"

"To that question, Berggo, I must answer no."

"No?"

"An emphatic no. A no without qualm or doubt."

There was a moment's pause, then Berggo's eyebrows, which normally float harmlessly in the middle of his forehead, fell down upon his eyes like an avalanche on an Alpine village. "No, of course you wouldn't. You always were a fat-headed ass with no soul."

I nodded. "I see that this Saint Whatsit has gotten up your nose. Are you going to tell me about it now, or over lunch?"

The Most Rev. Patrick Berger collapsed in a chair. "Oh, Willie," he sighed, "I've just seen the Cathedral of St. Glaphyra, and I know that we were meant to be together."

"Oh, the Cathedral of St. Glaphyra. I thought the name was familiar. That's old Pimples Legendre's pile."

Berggo looked up eagerly. "You know it, then, Willie? You've seen St. Glaphyra's with your own eyes?"

"Rather. Pimples has me over from time to time to help out with women's sodality pilgrimages and what not. Women's sodalities and I go together like billy-o."

"Then you know what a lovely, exquisite, well-mannered place it is!"

"Er... yes, they've always treated me well there."

"Exactly, Willie! Exactly!" With that, Berggo sank into the chair in a reverie.

Which suited me, if you want to know, because if there was a mot less juste than "lovely" for the concrete monstrosity that served as Pimples's cathedral, it was "exquisite," and I could tell by his manner, and more than half a lifetime dealing with him, that Berggo was in no mood to let pass any slight at his current fancy.

Still, there was the matter of the unexploded mine he had set between us. "I say, Berggo, what was that you said about you and St. Glaphyra's being meant to be together?"

"Isn't it obvious, Willie? I must be transferred to that see."

"But, I mean to say, you silly ass, what about your current see?"

Berggo shot me a look like a duke who had been reminded that his sister had married a street sweeper. "Kindly do not mention my current see in my presence. We are not at present on speaking terms."

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Extricating Young Beaky, concl.

"I owe it all to you, Willie. I can't thank you enough."

"Think nothing of it, just following the code, you know. I shall watch your future career with interest, young Becksmith."

And, with proper camaraderie restored, Beaky rang off.

I smoothed the brow and looked to where Reeves sat polishing the phrases in the speech I was to give to St. Cecelia's Guild the next Sunday. "Extraordinary, eh, Reeves?"

"Your Excellency?"

"I mean to say, this time yesterday Beaky wanted to wring my neck, and now it's all I can do to stop him from wringing my hand in eternal gratitude."

"A most desirable change of affairs, your Excellency."

I eyed the fellow. "You know, Reeves, through the years I have made a study of your methods."

"My methods, your Excellency?"

"For fishing chaps out of the Mulligatawny. I'm afraid you've left your fingerprints all over this one. Unless I completely miss my mark, in l'affaire Becksmith you employed the trusty old study of the psychology of the individual."

"A very perceptive observation, your Excellency. When Mother Mary Dahlia suggested Bishop Becksmith's letter be intercepted, it occurred to me that, should his Excellency learn of the attempt, he could be counted on to shed the regrettable timidity that had heretofore been a factor limiting the suitable use of his skills in service of the Church."

"I'll say. Tigers will be telling their grandchildren about the day they heard Beaky roar in Cardinal Fratricidelli's office. And it was you, of course, who leaked word to him that there was a burglar on the prowl?"

"Yes, your Excellency. I was somewhat economical in the truth, as I had not telephoned Mother Mary Dahlia with the plan to have you attempt to steal the letter, but it was necessary to coordinate the timing as carefully as possible."

"Certainly, Reeves. These matters require delicate planning. But I don't see how you could know Beaky would react so strongly to the idea of his letter going astray. I'd have expected him to shrug his shoulders, asking permission first, and give it up for a lost cause."

"I based my judgment, your Excellency, on certain statements Bishop Becksmith made during our phone conversations."

"Phone conversations?"

"Yes, your Excellency. His Excellency had requested my assistance with the letter he was preparing, and our work extended over several weeks. He alluded numerous times to the passion that drove him to compose it."

My mouth fell open. "So you knew about his blasted letter all along!"

"Yes, your Excellency. The letter, while in my opinion insufficiently nuanced on certain matters, is the product of an inventive and original mind. Despite Mother Mary Dahlia's worry, there was little doubt that, if concerns over his retiring personality were allayed, Bishop Becksmith's abilities would be noticed."

"And allayed those concerns were, Reeves. Beaky was just telling me on the phone that he's off to Rome to head up one of those new bureaus they're always creating."

"Most welcome news, your Excellency."

"Indeed, and now I needn't quail every time the phone rings in fear that it's Mother M. D. calling to throttle me over the line for failing in my quest."

I paused to finish my drink, as we had reached a delicate point in the convers. "Which brings up another point, Reeves. I can't help but notice a certain running theme, as you might say, to be found throughout your otherwise sterling plots -- viz., that while they all pan out in the end, they too often seem to turn, in whole or in part, on me getting it in the neck."

"That has never been the end sought, your Excellency."

"Certainly not, Reeves, and yet. Well, take this most recent example. All's well that ends well and all that. We Boosters take the broad and flexible outlook and dwell not upon the past. Still, to launch Beaky off on his exciting new adventure, your plan led to me crawling about behind furniture, fumbling for a cover story, and being sized up for a long-sleeved overcoat by the president of the USCCB."

"The suffering you endured is regrettable, your Excellency. I arrived as soon as possible, but there was some risk that the events of the day would fall disproportionately on your head. Mention of Bishop Webster, however, calls to mind a message from him I regret to say I have neglected to deliver."

The Booster spirits, which had recovered their mid-season form, now took a stumble. "I suppose he's consulted with a nationally known loony doctor on the case of potty bishops?"

"Not to my knowledge, your Excellency. He wished me to inform you that, in light of what he termed your medical impairment, he would be pleased to receive your resignation from the national committees on which you serve, should you choose to tender them."

"Tender my resignations!" I leapt from my seat. I don't often leap from my seat, but when I do, it stays leapt from. "Do you realize what this means, Reeves!"

"From the perspective of the bishops' conference, your Excellency --"

"Oh, blast the perspective of the bishops' conference! From my perspective, it means I won't have to be sprinting back to the infernal sauna known to schoolchildren as Washington every other week to listen to Rotter and Pinkie natter on about the rural road paving bills before Congress. It means freedom, Reeves. What a stroke of luck!"

"So it would seem, your Excellency."

"I mean, you can't stand there and tell me you planned this part, can you, Reeves?"

"I would not presume to do so, your Excellency."

I snapped my fingers. "Oh, I've just thought of something! I never did make it to that shop to buy the icon for you. I suppose I'll have to put off resigning until after the next trip."

"That won't be necessary, your Excellency. I was able to purchase the icon at the shop myself, prior to meeting you at Bishop Webster's office."

"Did you? Well, well, Reeves. It seems like we both lucked out. That being the case, nothing more need be said on the matter of my role as chief prop in your stagings. Carry on, Reeves."

"Very good, your Excellency."

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Extricating Young Beaky, cont.

"You say you missed the couch?"

"Er, yes. When one is light headed, you know, one's sense of distance is not in top form."

I will, of course, always be grateful to Ronnie Webster for speeding my exit from the nuncio's presence with a few words about matters best dealt with by fraternal dialogue between American bishops. But his insistence that we go straight to the USCCB offices to hash it out, and the evident doubt with which he was greeting my explanation, served to cool the gratitude noticeably.

"All this from the weather, you say?"

"Yes, dash it. What sort of a city is this where they keep all the fresh air indoors?"

When I tell you that -- on top of the events of the day, the story I was stuck with, which in the most flattering light could hardly be considered a pip, and the way Beaky was positively smoldering at me from across the room -- there was no restorative available at the USCCB stronger than black tea, I think you will pardon my uncharacteristic lack of buoyancy.

"How has your health been generally, William?"

"He's about to take a turn for the worse," Beaky prognosed.

"Please, Thomas," Ronnie said in soothing tones. "I respect your feelings, but at the moment --"

"At the moment, I am taking a turn for the worse!" I put in. "I see a mirage of Reeves, my secretary, standing before me."

This much, at least, was the unvarnished t. It wasn't so much the shimmering mirage that alarmed me -- Reeves always shimmers -- as the fact that a slight dampening of the spirits was no longer the worst effect the weather had on me.

The mirage spoke. "If I may say so, your Excellency, your vision is not at fault. I took the liberty of traveling to Washington this morning when I discovered that you had forgotten to bring your medicine with you."

Since Reeves does not babble, I naturally assumed my hearing was now going. "Did you say 'medicine,' Reeves?"

"Precisely, your Excellency." Reeves extended a small glass bottle filled with some sort of liquid. "This, I believe, is the proper dosage for your condition."

I took the bottle doubtfully. It seemed like the proper dosage for a village with malaria. Still, if Reeves said I should take it, I would take it, but I was dashed if I knew where all this would lead.

I looked at the others as I uncapped the bottle. Beaky seemed to be sizing up Reeves, uncertain whether this was a trick that might free me from his wrathful grasp. Ronnie was gazing at me as though some particularly thick scales had just fallen from his eyes.

I sniffed at the dark brown liquid, and knew in an inst. that what I held was bourbon. For the first time all afternoon, the way was clear before me. "Right you are, Reeves," I said. "My medicine. I feel better already."

And with a quick but earnest "Cheers!" I downed the whole dose, in the sure and certain knowledge that the presence of Reeves bearing cocktails (for a splash of soda was evidenced to the palate on the way down) signified that he knew all and possessed the formula to win me through to home.

"Now that he's feeling better," Beaky snarled, "is it okay if I break his arms?"

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Extricating Young Beaky, cont.

I don't know if you keep up with those notes and letters that come flying out of Rome like wasps out of a nest struck by an innocent mashie on a backswing in the rough. If so, you know that one of Rome's idees fixes is that the importance of what's known in the trade as "episcopal dignity" should be talked up at every opportunity.

I could see now that the chaps in Rome had a point. Crouching behind the sofa in Cardinal Fratricidelli's study, my own episcopal dignity was in need of all the bucking up Rome could dish out, and I wouldn't have turned up my nose at a kind word from Constantinople, either.

It would be a mistake, however, to believe I was entirely occupied during my ordeal with thoughts of the universal Church. I beguiled a good deal of time considering particular responses to Mother M. Dahlia the next time her blasted spiritual son got it up his nose to lecture the Pope on the failings of his Prefect of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith in re canon law, moral theology, and the sacraments.

On the bright side – it is the Booster nature to search out the bright side – listening to the papal nuncio chat with his assistant made me for the first time grateful I had turned down an opportunity to study in Italy after my ordination. Had I done so, I would surely have been able to understand more of their conversation. Judging by the full-bodied Italian laughter, scored for both quantity and quality, that followed the two words I did understand – "Vescovo Booster" – it was not a conversation I would have enjoyed, even if I weren't listening to it while hiding behind the furniture.

After six or seven years, the pleasantries were interrupted by the sound of a bell offstage. The assistant, I supposed, left the room, and within a month or two returned to announce, "Bishop Webster and Bishop, ah..."

"Becksmith," supplied a voice.

It was, in fact, the voice of Beaky himself, though if he hadn't spoken his own name – thereby providing the final clue to the puzzle – I may not have recognized it. It contained a certain whatsit one does not ordinarily associate with Beaky's voice.

"Welcome, my dear brothers," Cardinal Fratricidelli said, using words I had never heard when fewer than forty other bishops were present.

"Hello, Calvino," Ronnie Webster replied. He is the USCCB president, and justly so, yet I must say he rose several notches in my estimation simply by daring to look the cardinal in the eye and call him by his first name. At least, I assume he looked him in the eye. I couldn't see it myself from my vantage point. "I apologize for not calling ahead –"

"I'm here to hand deliver a letter," Beaky's voice interrupted. Steel, I realized. A hint of steel was the new note Beaky had added to his speech. It seemed so out of place, I was tempted to peek over the top of the sofa to see if he still kept his lower jaw unhinged while listening to others.

"Hand deliver?" The cardinal's voice sounded as surprised as I was at Beaky's tone.

"I have written a letter that I wish you to read and forward to the Holy Father," Beaky explained with measured care, like a man speaking to a maitre d' who had misplaced his luncheon reservation for twenty. "I had mailed a copy of it to you, but now I wish to deliver it to you personally. I have it on good authority that someone soon will make an attempt, if he has not already, to steal the copy I mailed."

"Extraordinary!" Cardinal Fratricidelli said, and I couldn't have agreed more. "Who would want to steal your letter?"

"A certain snake with legs, your Eminence, someone whom in the days of my innocence I considered a friend. I refer to that blot on the Apostles' escutcheon, Bishop William Booster."

"Booster?" If the cardinal was attempting to register utter surprise at this denunciation, he would not have been called back for a second audition.

"It's unclear, Calvino," Ronnie put in, "exactly what William might have had in mind, if indeed there is anything to this."

"But this is a simple matter to make clear," Cardinal Fratricidelli said, and if the delivery of his previous line was somewhat flat, there was something in the way he spoke these words that interested me strangely. "Let us merely ask Bishop Booster what his intentions are. He has been lying behind that sofa, for reasons of health perhaps, since I entered this room half an hour ago. Shall we wake him and put the question to him?"

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Extricating Young Beaky

As everyone who, like me, has passed through Sr. Bernard's fifth grade American History class at St. Jude Thaddeus Academy knows, when the time came to establish a capital city for the United States, it was Maryland who coughed up the acreage. "Awfully sporting of Maryland," about sums up my own fifth-grade reaction to this fact.

Years later, however, as I found myself swimming through an August afternoon in Washington, DC, on my way to a church supply store to pick up an icon for my secretary, Monsignor Reeves, I wondered whether, in unloading this particular piece of real estate, Maryland hadn't come out the clear winner in the deal. If, in fact, "swindle" rather than "deal" wouldn't be the mot juste.

These political ruminations were interrupted by the sound of my cell phone. I had scarcely managed a welcoming "Hallo!" down the line when a voice rushed upon me with the force of the Scotch Express.

"Willie, lad, is that you? Tell me, where in blazes are you?"

"Right here," I replied, looking around to make sure.

"Try not to be an ass for just a moment, will you? Are you or are you not in Washington, DC?"

The p. dropped. "Mother Mary Dahlia! How nice of you to call!"

"Of course it is. Now answer the question, blast you!"

Mother M. Dahlia is one of those Natural Forces in the Church who are always founding congregations, opening orphanages, and telling cardinals to put a sock in it. Her brusqueness toward me was a sign of fondness; she has known me from my youth, even before I had ever set foot in Sr. Bernard's fifth grade American History classroom.

"I am indeed, as you suggest, in Washington, Mother M.," I told her. "Though how you guessed is beyond me. Have you ever wondered whether, when swindlers get together, they begin the proceedings with a teary-eyed toast to Maryland, the standard against --"

"You'll be teary eyed when I get hold of you if you don't stop babbling for a moment."

"Oh, right ho."

"Now then. I suspected you were in Washington because Reeves told me you should be, for one of your USCCB committee meetings. Though, knowing you were traveling on your own, it was entirely possible you were wandering through downtown Seattle, wondering why you were there."

"Seattle would certainly be an improvement. I hear the summers there --"

"Teary eyed, Willie."

"Ah, right."

"The reason I want to know whether you are in Washington, DC, is that I need you to do a small favor for me."

"Absolutely, aged mother! Always glad to lend a hand to one of your projects."

"And I do appreciate it, Willie, dear. Though this particular favor isn't exactly for one of my projects. It's more of a favor for one of your brother bishops."

"Not Beaky, by any chance?" The Most Rev. Thos. "Beaky" Becksmith was Mother M. D.'s spiritual son, though even she would admit he was a work in progress. One of several assistants to a Midwestern cardinal, Beaky made me look positively Solomonic by comparison.

"Er, yes, actually. It does have to do with Tommy. But only indirectly."

"I see. If Beaky is playing to type, what you're telling me is that he is as we speak neck-deep in the bisque -- not unlike Washington in August, I might add -- and completely unaware of his predicament."

"That's right."

"So, naturally you turn to me for help in devising a way to ladle out young Thos. before he goes under for the third time."

There was a bark over the phone like a German shepherd stifling a laugh at the sight of a French poodle. "Don't be absurd, Willie. I turned to Reeves, and he's already provided the solution."

"Oh." I had to admit that this made even more sense. Monsignor Reeves was widely known to have a ready answer to any conundrum. I put it down to all the fish he eats during Lent. "And you want to run his solution by me?"

"I want you to execute his solution. Even you shouldn't be able to mess it up, and since you're already in Washington, you're the obvious choice."

"Ah, the plan requires a man on the spot, is that it?"

"Exactly. All you need to do is drop by the papal nuncio's office and pick something up for me."

At the thought of dropping by Cardinal Fratricidelli's office, involving as it did the very real possibility of seeing the nuncio himself, no joy welled in my bosom. As it was Mother M. Dahlia asking, though, I answered readily enough, "Certainly, old thing! Will they have it ready for me?"

"Unlikely. It's a letter Tommy imprudently sent, via the nuncio, to the Pope. You need to steal it before Cardinal Fratricidelli opens it."

Labels: Reeves And Booster

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Reeves in the Summertime, concl.

“I use the word ‘baffling’ advisedly, Reeves. You see, after being distracted by Berggo I gave up the loaves and fishes wheeze as a lost cause and segued as smoothly as possible into an a capella rendition of ‘Come Holy Ghost.’”

“Baffling seems a strong word for that, your excellency. The melody plays to your strengths as a singer.”

“You stray from the tale, Reeves. It was not my a capella rendition of ‘Come Holy Ghost’ that is unaccountable. In fact, I’ve tried the same gambit once or twice in the past when I’ve noticed an audience begin to freeze over in the shallows, and it’s always been a smash. This time, however, just as I was beginning the second verse, a plump fellow in a Roman collar stood up in the back of the room and began singing ‘Kumbaya.’”

“'Kumbaya,' your excellency?”

“’Kumbaya,’ Reeves.”

“A most perplexing action on his part, your excellency.”

“You may well say it was a most perplexing action on his part, Reeves. It threw the whole room into pandemonium.”

“It is not difficult to imagine the confusion, your excellency.”

“There were boos, whistles, and shouts from all corners. A few joined in ‘Come Holy Ghost,’ a few in ‘Kumbaya.’ The meeting dissolved before my eyes. A fellow named Figg was all but ripped in two like a wishbone between two hearty female academics.” As the memories returned, I wished briefly for something stiffer than tea. “Then something warned me as if in a dream to depart for my own country by another route, and I slipped out a service door, through some hidden corridors, onto the street, and into a cab to the airport. It was in the cab that I met Berggo, who had been moved by a similar spirit of discretion.”

“A decision of commendable prudence on your parts, your excellency.”

“Yes, we rather thought so.”

“Your story provides the context for understanding the message I received at five forty-five this evening, your excellency. Mr. O’Brien called at that time, asking me to inform you that the meeting was a disastrous ruin.”

“A disastrous ruin?”

“Those were the words Mr. O’Brien used, your excellency.”

“Just as well, wouldn’t you say, Reeves?”

“There appears to be no irrecoverable loss, your excellency.”

“Assuming Figg came through with both shoulders still attached.”

I mused.

“One thing, Reeves. I believe that plump fellow in the Roman collar had been introduced as a sociology teacher in an East Coast seminary.” I paused delicately. “You don’t happen to know any plump sociology teachers in East Coast seminaries, do you, Reeves?”

“There is good reason to believe the priest in question is the Reverend James Farmer, your excellency. I have not seen him in some years, but while we were at seminary together he was known for his fondness for starches.”

I was momentarily stunned by the thought of Reeves in a seminary. It was hard to believe he hadn’t been given purple socks with a silver cup at his christening.

“And what good reason, other than fondness for starches, is there to believe the priest in question is the Rev. Farmer?”

“I had suggested to Fr. Farmer that, should you happen to sing ‘Come Holy Ghost’ at Mr. O’Brien’s meeting, he should begin singing ‘Kumbaya,’ your excellency.”

I set my tea cup down with firmness. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me, Reeves, that you plotted behind my back to turn that meeting into a disastrous ruin?”

“The fundamental charge is supportable, your excellency.”

“We are agreed that it was no great loss. But why suggest me as his cue?”

“That would plant the idea that you were somehow responsible for the collapse of the meeting, your excellency.”

“But why…?” I am not ashamed to admit that at this point I sputtered. Given the hour, the state of my nerves, and the distance to the closest cocktail shaker, you would have sputtered as well.

“I am reminded of a second phone message, your excellency. This was from Cardinal Fratricidelli, who called at six thirty p.m. to congratulate you on diffusing a potentially damaging situation.”

“He did?” I unhunched the shoulders. “Ah." I unclenched the hands. "The scales fall.” I unfurrowed the brow. "Thank you, Reeves."

“It was necessary to correct the cardinal’s impression that I had provided you with some advice, your excellency.”

“Was it? Oh, yes, Berggo had told him my attendance was your idea.” A thought struck me. “But won’t your friend, Fr. Farmer, find himself in the soup when word gets out of his, what did you call it, perplexing action?”

“Fr. Farmer had called me to discuss his dissatisfaction with seminary teaching, your excellency. His bishop has been reluctant to transfer him to a quiet parish. The disruption he caused at the meeting should prove sufficient to prompt his bishop to change his mind.”

“You are a marvel, Reeves.”

“I endeavour to give satisfactory stewardship of my talents, your excellency.”


As I was shaving the following morning, I realized a way in which I could thank Reeves for his help, and I resolved to surprise him with it, as he had surprised me. There was some confusion when I called the photography studio – the young woman who answered seemed to think I was confirming an appointment rather than making one – but I did have my official portrait changed to one with a more spiritual, if less natural, expression. Of course, Berggo thought I looked like a calf startled by a sudden gunshot, but Reeves approved.

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Reeves in the Summertime, cont.

With the tea coursing through my veins, I was beginning to feel more like a human and less like Rocky Marciano’s least favorite punching bag. “I opened by mentioning that the gathering brought to mind the miracle of the loaves and fishes.”

“Indeed, your excellency?” Despite the hour, Reeves looked as refreshed and capable as always. “I would have thought the circumstances would have suggested the parable of the sower.”

“Parable of the sower, eh? Well, I can see why, of course, but as bishop one occasionally likes to go beyond the obvious. Teaching office and all that.” I took another sip of the Lapsang S. “Of course, you know sermonizing has never been one of my strengths.”

“A correctable weakness, your excellency. I have just finished an excellent book on hermeneutics by the Dominican –“

“You know my policy on hermeneutics, Reeves,” I said with charitable reproof. “And as it is neither the early afternoon nor have I recently finished a satisfying but not overfilling meal, we shall table all mention of hermeneutics and excellent books on same until such conditions obtain.”

“Certainly, your excellency.”

“Now, as I was saying, although I am not an excellent sermonizer, I thought I got off to a fairly good start. Setting the scene, you know. But then I happened to glance down at Berggo, who was sitting in the front row next to Cardinal Fratricidelli. The cardinal whispered something in his ear, and Berggo’s face registered such abject horror that I completely lost track of what I was saying.”

“If I may, your excellency, I have found that is it generally unhelpful to make eye contact with Bishop Berger when one is making any sort of public presentation.”

“Sound advice, Reeves. Afterwards, I asked Berggo what he meant to signify by that look of gaping dread. He told me the cardinal had merely whispered, ‘So far, so good,’ and he was giving me a smile of confident reassurance.”

“A most regrettable failure of communication, your excellency.”

“My thought exactly, but the damage had been done. I couldn’t quite manage to pick up the thread of discourse, and after a minute or two of hemming I sensed I was starting to lose my audience.”

I fell into a brief reverie.

“Would you think it an act of vainglory, Reeves, if I said I am not completely without singing talent?”

“Certainly not, your excellency. Your voice is a pleasant tenor, with surprising robustness in the lower registers.”

“Thank you, Reeves. I would have said much the same, in all humility.” I wasn’t sure what was so surprising about my robustness in the lower registers, but now was not the time to quibble.

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Reeves in the Summertime, cont.

“Who invited the Vatican apparatchik?”

The speaker, a tall, thin specimen named Figg from one of those Northeastern colleges, looked at Cardinal Fratricidelli like a cobra appraising a particularly ill-kempt mongoose.

“Bishop Booster did,” Berggo injected before I had a chance to clear my throat.

“Ah, Professor Figg,” the cardinal said with a grimace that would have made an abbess think she had food on her chin. “Teach any good heresies lately?”

“Only that old one about God loving everyone equally,” the professor replied. “How about you, Cardinal? Betrayed anyone to the tender mercies of the Inquisition this week?”

“Oh, yes, one a day without fail. That’s why this room is filled with fear.” Cardinal Fratricidelli waved his hand to indicate the groups of people chatting amicably before the afternoon session came to order.

I was standing a bit too close and flinched when he gestured, which seemed to irritate him. “Bishop Booster,” he said, “weren’t you going to say a few words?”

“Oh, ah, yes. Seeing that you two already know each other, no introductions needed and all that, reminds me of the story of the fat nun who went into a casino –“

“Not a few words to us! To the entire group!”

Figg’s glasses flashed in my direction. “Is this true, Bishop Booster? I thought you were here in strictly a learning capacity.”

I leaned in toward Figg, the better to avoid seeing the expression on the cardinal’s face. “That’s right. That is to say, no, although I was. To speak.”

Figg was taken aback, or at least took a step backward, and said, “I, ah, see.”

I turned to murmur in Cardinal Fratricidelli’s ear. “I’d better just go remind Mr. O’Brien that I was planning on speaking after lunch. He, erm, may have forgotten.”

The cardinal’s face did not register unadulterated credulity, but he said nothing. He happened to know Milton O’Brien, and therefore knew it was entirely possible for O’Brien to forget almost anything that wasn’t related to the amusement business. The morning’s exposure had taught me O’Brien was a decent enough sort, but a bit of an ass. You know the type.

Berggo joined me as I strolled, as casually as possible, over to where O’Brien was staring glassy-eyed at the laicized priest sociologist, who was gesturing freely toward him with a glass of ice water.

“What are you going to say?” Berggo asked me sotto voce.

“I haven’t decided,” I answered. Cardinal Fratricidelli hadn’t been more than two feet from my elbow since I made up my nipping-dissent-in-the-bud story (passing it off as one of Reeve's plans was a rare stroke of genius from Berggo), and although strictly speaking the elbow is not directly involved in rational thought, the proximity was enough to keep me from doing any advanced planning.

Still, a Booster is never wholly unprepared, and no bishop is unfamiliar with speaking extempore. I possessed a few stalwarts that could be trusted to see me through anything. My a capella rendition of “Come Holy Ghost” was a sure crowd pleaser, for example, and I had a sermon on the parable of the sower that was adaptable to any occasion.

“Well, whatever you do,” Berggo said, “for pity’s sake spare us the parable of the sower.”

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Reeves in the Summertime, cont.

I staggered into the hotel bar, feeling like a three pound trout hooked on a ten pound line. I was trying to gather my wits enough to speak to the bartender, but before I had a chance he waved his hands and a drink materialized on the counter before me. I clutched at it and tasted. A perfect bourbon and s.

I gazed in awe at this wonder-worker standing before me, but the barman simply shrugged. “We’re three blocks from the USCCB, bish,” he explained. “I’ve seen that look before.”

He frowned suddenly at something behind me, and another revitalizer hit the bar just as Berggo hit the stool next to mine.

“This is ghastly,” Berggo sputtered before taking a long draught of bourbon.

I nodded. “If the Knights of St. Celestine ever hear about this meeting, I’ll be in for years of decidedly frosty luncheons.”

“I should have suspected something was wrong when Sister Agatha encouraged me to come here. But I assumed the meeting was sound, since Reeves let you come.”

“Er, yes, quite. Look, why don’t we move to a booth?” I dropped some money on the bar, knowing from experience that to wait for the Most Rev. Patrick Berger to offer to pay was a near occasion of the sin of despair.

Once tucked into a booth, Berggo fortified himself with another healthy sip of restorative before unburdening himself. “I was cornered by this … this …”

“Hearty female academic?” I suggested, drawing from my own experience.

“The mot juste. Or mots justes, I suppose, although it doesn’t make much difference while speaking, does it? Anyway, this hearty female academic collared me during the first break and launched into some prepared remarks on deontology and Greco-Semitic socioculturalism, the upshot of which was to thank me for breaking with the Vatican in my support for women priests.”

“What did you do?”

“I gave her a look of stern disapproval.”

“And she …?”

“Offered me an antacid.”

I nodded. Berggo’s looks of stern disapproval are often mistaken for looks of mild stomach discomfort. “A laicized priest sociologist followed me into the men’s room to press me for statistics on reception of Communion at weddings in my diocese,” I said. “Apparently, there is a conjecture in something called game theory he believes proves Canon Law permits Methodists to receive Communion.”

“Methodists?”

“He says he needs further data on Presbyterians.”

Berggo suddenly let out a sort of squawk, like a slumbering parrot grabbed from behind by a four-year-old.

“You spoke?” I said.

“I was just laughing at how much that ex-Marine-type fellow who just came into the bar looks like the papal nuncio.”

“Gark,” I said, or words to that effect.

“But of course it can’t be Cardinal Fratricidelli,” Berggo went on, “because he’s in Washington, and we … we’re ….” His voice trailed off.

Had someone detonated a lightweight but powerful landmine under the table in the next booth just then, I would not have heard it over the sound of Cardinal Fratricidelli’s voice. “Booster! Berger! What are you doing here?”

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