The City Below (17 page)

"Hello, Monsignor."

"Father Collins," Loughlin said with a bare nod. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, of course not. We're right in the middle of things."

"Then I
am
interrupting."

"We were just finishing up the Litany of the Saints. You know, 'Keep the pope and all the clergy in faithful service ... Bring sill the people together in trust and peace. Lord, hear our prayer.' That stuff." Collins smiled abruptly, unsure why he wanted to make Loughlin think he'd been at the hooch already.

But Loughlin refused to take the bait. He nodded and said quietly, "'Bless those chosen men, and make them holy.'"

"Exactly."

Loughlin glared at Collins. They'd known each other forty years, having knelt side by side in this very sanctuary to be ordained by Cardinal O'Connell. Collins had already been tapped for the Greg in Rome. He was
expected
to become a brilliant theologian, so when he did, no one gave him credit Loughlin had been universally disliked even then, but he was fastidious and well organized, and already his gift for anticipating the wishes of superiors had set him apart. Collins knew that if Loughlin had not yet forced the pledge on him, it was only because Loughlin knew that Cushing liked the way he poured.

"Since I have interrupted anyway, may I?" Loughlin indicated the line of kneeling men.

"Of course, Monsignor. The lads have waited five years. They're in no hurry." Father Collins sat once more in the
cathedra,
but now there seemed some small presumption in it.

The chancellor turned and took four steps that brought him to the edge of a broad oriental rug. He stopped as if the rug marked a boundary. This prig was all boundaries.

"I'll need only a moment, gentlemen." Loughlin ran the tip of his manicured finger along one edge of the manila folder. "The ceremonies next week are scheduled for eleven o'clock Vesting will begin at ten-thirty. Prior to that, the sacristy will be reserved for private forum interrogatories. You are to report here at eight-thirty sharp."

"Interrogatories?" Father Collins said from his place behind Loughlin. "We don't require the oath anymore. That went out two years ago."

Loughlin's irritation showed itself in a tightening of the muscles in his face and neck Clearly he wanted to display no reaction, but his lips went white from pressing against each other. He pointedly did not look toward the fool in the cardinal's chair as he said, "Not the 'Oath Against Modernism.' Instead, an affirmation entitled 'A Solemn Declaration Concerning
Of Human Life.
'" Loughlin's eyes panned across the faces of the men in front of him.
They
were his concern, not Collins. "His Eminence has directed that admission to Major Orders is contingent upon each candidate's individual affirmation."

"Impossible," Collins muttered, but not so openly that Loughlin had to acknowledge him.

Indeed, Loughlin pretended not to have heard. Instead he asked, "Who is head student?"

An impassive Terry Doyle raised his hand.

Loughlin curled his fingers at him.

Doyle felt numb as he got to his feet and crossed the sanctuary.

The monsignor held the manila folder out like a diploma. His eyes burned into Doyle's alone. "Here is the text. You are to acquaint your colleagues with it. Each one is to be prepared to affirm the proposition aloud and to sign one copy, according to canonical form."

Doyle took the folder. He automatically said, "Thank you, Monsignor," and hated himself at once. He returned to his place, but instead of lowering himself to his knees again like the others, he asked, "May we stand, Monsignor?"

Loughlin nodded.

While the men rose noisily to their feet, Doyle opened the folder and glanced quickly at the single page it held. The mark of the cardinal's seal, the crimson hat with its draped and tassled cord framing the cross-bearing shield, was imprinted above a dozen lines of text. But shit, if it wasn't in Latin! "
Auctorita
" was one word that leapt out at him, "
obsequium
" was another.

"Now you may resume—"

"Monsignor!" Doyle blurted. He glanced at Father Collins, whose dead eyes were a warning. But he continued. "Will there be an opportunity for discussion?"

"There has been quite enough discussion."

"But the men may have questions." Doyle looked quickly to his right and left, but no one joined him.

Loughlin spoke with an eerie placidness, a false smile. "The declaration is crystal clear. It is a matter of restoring the confidence of the faithful in the teaching authority of the Church. The confusion must be dispelled. That is the first duty of His Eminence and therefore of his priests and you his candidates." Loughlin lowered the pitch of his voice and slowed his pace as he concluded, "Any hesitation on this matter will be taken as a sign of a disqualifying moral intransigence."

"Would questions indicate hesitation, Monsignor?"

"At this point, in this case, yes. Most assuredly."

Terry realized that he was supposed to shut his mouth now, but he couldn't stop himself. "'Declaration,' you said. 'Affirmation,' you said. But not an oath? This won't be an oath?"

Loughlin stared at him, not answering.

Terry took half a step forward, out of line. "Will we be expected to place our hands on the Bible?"

"What is your name?"

"Terence Doyle."

"Yes, Mr. Doyle. I will hold the Bible for you myself. As head student, you will be the first to make your affirmation, or if you prefer, to swear your oath. Do you have any other questions, Mr. Doyle?"

Still acting, as it seemed to him, involuntarily, Terry now dropped his eyes and answered with a subdued "No, Monsignor." He closed the folder between his hands. He was aware suddenly of the silence of his classmates. It rose as their only reaction into the reaches of the groined vault, where God was.

Caught When it came to doctrines they knew to be outmoded, those men had honed the skill of slipping through the cracks of interpretation and definition. In all these years no one had called them on it. Once the seminarians were ordained, they too would be untouchable, free to quietly apply what they
really
believed in parishes and Newman Clubs and CYO gatherings—in confessionals where, above all, they intended to be kind. Not like this bastard. Here was a snare they had not seen. They'd stepped into it so blithely, and now it was sprung and each man felt hung upside down by his ankle, and each felt alone.

Doyle heard Monsignor Loughlin's footsteps clacking across the sanctuary, but he could not bring himself to watch him go. Instead, he stared at the smudges his perspiring hands had made on the folder, and that sight made him feel ashamed.

***

Once, Squire loved bringing flowers to hospitals, but it had been years since he'd made deliveries himself. Cronin's Kerry Bouquet had stores now in six Irish neighborhoods around the city, and each one was a local center of Squire's other activities. He was a busy man.

He carried a paper cone of two dozen long-stem red roses, each one perfect, each one a bloom he'd chosen himself at the market that morning. Approaching a hospital, as he did the Mass. General now, up the narrow West End street a block from the river, he had always been especially aware of how perishable flowers were. Cut flowers, even the freshest ones, were already dead. In hospitals, flowers were rightly taken as a kindness, but to Doyle they were a sign of the death everyone was working so hard to push back More than once it had occurred to him that, instead of cut flowers, people should bring to the sick pretty cards that said, "For your sake, we spared some roses." But then, hell, the roses would the in the ground. And he'd lose business. His train of thought served to deflect the feelings he had about this fucking hospital where his mother had died.

Doyle was a heavy man now. He was only twenty-five, but his body had the thickness of someone older. His hair had changed color slightly, more brown than red now—or was that a result of its being longer? He wore dark glasses against the bright morning sun. He sauntered with the flowers in the crook of one arm and with his free hand in his trouser pocket He was dressed in loose-fitting garments, unusual for the time, that flowed around his limbs as he moved. His pleated flannel trousers, oversize cardigan sweater, and soft-collared polo shirt buttoned at the throat were not black exactly, but shades of blue, gray, and green that were close to it. His garb was low key and studied at once, an antistyle more suited to, say, an artist than to a small, if ambitious, businessman.

Doyle picked up his pace as he drew near the looming gray hospital building which, with the metallic curve of windows running its height, looked like the stern of a mammoth ocean liner. He pushed through the revolving doors into the art deco lobby, a glittering space three stories high. Not a ship, he now thought, an airline terminal. A huge painting on the far wall struck him at once, as it always had: a portrait of a dour, Coolidge-era Yankee whose disapproving expression suggested that he foresaw that the likes of Nick Doyle would enter this place as more than delivery boys. Doyle took his sunglasses off and studied the picture for a moment A pipe was hooked in the man's left hand, a gold chain draped across his vest His name was prominently etched in the wall below the painting:
GEORGE ROBERT WHITE, PATRON, TRUSTEE.

Four couches were arranged in a square below the portrait. On each of two of them sat a lone woman, one sucking on a filter cigarette, the other staring vacantly into the air. The smoker had pulled the standup ashtray close, to hold on to it.

To the left was a long hallway that led to the emergency room. Straight ahead was the main hospital corridor, but, blocking it, a uniformed guard sat at a small table behind a mahogany sign-stand:
Authorized Visitors Only. Observe Visiting Hours. Observe Silence. Children Not Admitted.

The guard was watching Squire, who nodded, then crossed the lobby toward the information desk in the far right comer. He weaved easily through the sparse traffic of doctors and nurses.

A prim woman, middle-aged but pretty in a tightly wound way, looked up at him as he approached. She wore a beige cashmere sweater and a string of pearls. Doyle's eyes went right to her fingers. In addition to her gold wedding band and discreet diamond, she wore a cameo ring, a pointedly unostentatious ornament Her flawless nails were painted with clear polish. He noted her blond-gray hair, pulled back from her face in a tidy bun. She smiled at him and the skin around her eyes and mouth broke into a delta of tiny wrinkles. Her self-assurance drew him. A volunteer, some State Street lawyer's wife, no doubt, Mrs. Brahmin was there to help, and now she would be ever so glad to help
him.

"Hi," he said with such warmth that for an instant the woman seemed to wonder if she knew him. "How are you today?" He shifted the flowers to his other hand, reining the whacky impulse just to hand them to her.

"Very well, thank you," she answered.

And Squire liked it when he saw color rising from the skin at her throat, at those pearls, a blush climbing quickly to her temples.

"May I help you?"

"I hope so." He leaned over the desk. He noticed her legs. Even these ladies were wearing short skirts now. Her calves were sinewy and tanned, and at once he saw her on a tennis court, slender, one long stride to the ball, her brown arm bringing the racket around, an arc of sunlight.

"I'm here to see Tory, Candace Tory." Squire smiled, wanting to hold her eyes an instant longer than was usual, and succeeding. He sensed her breasts shivering inside the illumined fur of her sweater.

She turned to her card file, hooked her finger in the middle, and pulled the first half forward in its tray. With a set of practiced flicks she went through a dozen cards, too quickly for him to see. "No ...," she said, then repeated the movement through the same cards. "I'm afraid ..."

"Really?" Squire leaned closer, letting his haunch settle on the forward edge of her desk.

She adjusted the tray so he could see. "Tippet," she said, "Toomey, Tophet, Tucci. No Tory."

Tucci, G.,
the card read, and, as he expected, diagonally across it, in red letters,
No Visitors.
Room P504.

"Candace Tory, you say? Perhaps her card is out of order." She flipped a dozen more cards. "No ... no ... it's just not here."

"Oh. Well, I'm probably early. She was being admitted today, for an operation tomorrow."

"I don't have her yet. We get the card from Admissions. I don't have her yet. I'm sorry. Perhaps you could—"

"No, I'm sure I'm early. I guess I'm a little anxious." Worry flickered across Doyle's face.

The woman leaned toward him. He could sense the energy in her hand, wanting to touch him?

He stood up. "I'll come back, but..."

"What?"

"I'd love it if these flowers could be in her room when she checks in. Could I?"

"Certainly." The woman swung around to point down the main corridor, past the guard. "The flower shop is at the far end of the building. The candy striper takes a cart around every hour. You could leave the flowers with her. Admissions keeps them posted too, as patients come in. Just ask the candy striper to watch the cards for the name of your ..."

"Friend. She's my oldest friend. She has a tumor."

"I'm sorry."

"So I can just go ahead down there?"

"Of course." The woman turned to catch the guard's eye and gestured at him, an exquisite display of inbred authority.

"Thank you."

"Your friend will be fine, I'm sure. This is a very good hospital,
very
good. A Harvard hospital."

"I know." Squire smiled again, but deliberately remote this time. Only now did he pick up the faint scent of her perfume, and it aroused his sudden wish to see her nude. How cool would she be then? How ready to help?

Just as cool, he decided. Even readier. He imagined her poised and amused, those breasts languid, that hair loose, those thin hands, rings and all, on his shoulders, that unpainted mouth at his ear, whispering, "Very good,
very
good." Balling her would be striking out the pitcher.