The Gathering (15 page)

Father Simpson leaned back in his chair, quite self-satisfied. He had pulled it off.

Still there were some loose ends. “I must caution you: This—what I’ve told you—must be our secret. You may tell no one … no one. For one thing, if this got out, people would be knocking my door down. They would never understand that I lost this privilege when I used it for you. I was given this power to use only once. And that will be used for you. Once we go through with this convalidation ceremony, the power I have to do this will be gone.

“It’s like a genie’s three wishes,” he said, driving his point home. “Once the last wish is used up, that’s all there is; there isn’t any more. And that’s the way it is with this: Once we do it, that’s all there is; I can’t do it again … for anyone … any time.

“On top of that, how many other priests were given this power I don’t know. This Vatican decision took place only once, and it happened many, many years ago. I have no idea who the other priests were. And it was so long ago that I’m sure that most, if not all, are either dead or have used the privilege long ago. We’re just lucky that I saved my power till now.

“So,” he pronounced, “for the sake of my sanity, it’s our secret.”

They nodded, wide-eyed and solemn.

“One more thing, Lily: Once we go through this ceremony, just begin living your faith again. What I mean is, don’t confess what we’ve done. There’s no reason you should confess it. It’s not a sin. Just begin receiving Communion again. If any parishioners ask you about it, just tell them—without going into detail—that we were able to fix things.

“Do you all understand?”

All nodded, again wide-eyed and solemn. They understood.

Lily was ecstatic. George was happy for her. Stanley was numb.

He loved his mother. In his young life, he loved no one as much as he loved her. He had never seen her as happy as she was now. What would happen if he were to tell her his true feelings about going to the seminary?

It wasn’t that he didn’t love the Church. It wasn’t that he didn’t respect the priesthood. He just didn’t want to be a priest.

That should be easy enough to understand. Not everybody who becomes an altar boy pines for the priesthood.

He wanted to be a secretary, an office clerk. He would be good at that. He loved detail work. He enjoyed picking up loose ends for others. He was not the type who dreamed gigantic dreams. He was the indispensible one who dotted i’s and crossed t’s.

A priest doesn’t do that, he thought. A priest isn’t a detail man. A priest is that heroic figure who runs huge parishes, who builds churches and schools and rectories and convents.

A priest finds jobs for the unemployed. He counsels people. He instructs people. He leads and guides.

He wears a special uniform that everyone recognizes. When he enters a room, conversational language becomes instantly self-cleansing.

He presides at weddings and wakes and funerals. And when somebody dies he knows just what to say to comfort the mourners.

Stanley did not want to do any of that. More fundamentally, he didn’t think himself capable of those enormous responsibilities.

On the other hand, he loved the Mass. For him, it had proven to be the perfect prayer. He could well see himself at the altar wearing all those majestic vestments, whispering the sacred words that change bread and wine into the living presence of Jesus Christ.

But that was it.

Mass usually took from thirty minutes to an hour. The question that frightened him was, What to do with the remaining twenty-three hours of each day?

He couldn’t do it. But he had to do it.

It was the perfect example of a dilemma.

Was there an alternative?

He could wait until this Missionaries’ Privilege was used, then find some excuse for not going to the seminary.

But what sort of story would deliver him? Health problems? Granted, he wasn’t the most robust kid in captivity; he was skinny and caught colds frequently, along with an annual case of the flu. But just about everyone suffered those same winter woes.

Was he too dull to qualify academically? Hardly. On the contrary, he was a better than average student.

And not to be disregarded was his history as a pious and faithful altar boy.

Prima facie, he had to admit he was a pretty fair candidate for the seminary, if not the priesthood.

Stanley was desolate.

As he and his parents prepared to leave, Stanley was further shaken when Father Simpson asked him to stop by the rectory tomorrow after Mass.

What could Father want to see him about now?

Father Simpson had everything he wanted.

He had bugged Stanley unmercifully. And now things were looking up for everyone involved.

Except Stanley.

The next morning, faithful as usual, Stan served the Mass. He then accompanied the priest to the rectory.

As they ate breakfast, the priest turned from small talk to more serious subjects.

“Son,” said Father Simpson, who would never be a father in the conventional sense, “I know you’ll be going to the seminary mostly for your mother’s sake …” He paused, hoping he had set the proper mood.

“By now,” he picked up, “I’m sure you’re going to apply for the seminary next spring. I mean, that’s settled … right?”

“Yes, Father.” The words were barely audible.

“Speak up, son. I can hardly hear you.”

“Yes, Father!”

“This thing that we’re doing for your folks is pretty complicated. Do you understand it?”

“N … no, not really.”

“That’s all right.” In fact, as far as Simpson was concerned, completely missing the point was perfect. The less anyone knew of this concoction of Simpson’s the better. “Even the Vatican knows little about this favor granted to the missionaries and through them to me. So we don’t want to mess this up … do we?”

“No, Father.”

“Okay. Good. Now, this is what we’re going to do: Next May when you apply for the sem, your folks will give you your certification of baptism and confirmation. I will give you their marriage certificate. It will be predated to the day when their civil marriage took place—that’s so we don’t have to go through all that paper chase and explanation of how you were born out of Church wedlock and only much later were your folks married in the Church. It’s water under the bridge.

“So, son, this is how we’re going to do it—” He stopped, noting the boy’s abstracted expression. “Believe me, Stanley, it’s done all the time,” he assured. “Just goes to show you: If you want to mess things up and create problems for everybody, you can do it. But why is what I say! Why?” His gaze fixed on Stanley. “You clear on that, son? Any questions?”

There were indeed questions, but Stanley trusted his priest and was used to doing as he was told. “No, Father.”

“Good. Now, there’s only one more thing—but it’s a biggie.”

Stanley’s attention was riveted.

“From now on,” Simpson declared, “you’ve gotta hide your light under a bushel. Now I know you’re a smart cookie,” he said, before Stanley could remonstrate. “But you gotta rein yourself in. No raising your hand every time you know the answer. Answer if you’re asked—but no volunteering. You can shine on written exams. That way you and your profs will know that you’re not slow. You can pass everything without your classmates and pals knowing just how smart you really are.

“Got all that?”

Stanley frowned. “I think so, Father. But … if you don’t mind: What’s all this for?”

“A decent question, son. What we want you to become is an average—maybe a little better than average—student. You see, we don’t want you to be singled out. Better to be a statistic rather than a star.

“Suppose you are outstanding in something—anything to do with the priesthood. Supposing one of the chancellors discovers that you’re outstanding. Maybe he wants you to be named a monsignor, or, heaven help us, a bishop.

“Then they start digging into your past. They want to make sure you can do the job they have in mind. Certainly they want a biographical sketch for the newspapers.

“Suppose they discover that your folks were married in civil law but there’s no record of their being married in the Church … no notice of it in the marriage register, and nothing in the baptismal book.

“You see, son, that’s something even I can’t do. I can’t push the lines apart enough to enter a marriage record.

“But I don’t want you to worry. It’s all on the up and up. It’s just that it’ll work out better if you don’t stir up any sand in the water. I mean, I don’t know whether Rome could even find the record of the Missionaries’ Privilege in the archives by this time.

“I think that what we—you and I—have got to keep in mind always is that beautiful smile your mother wore when she understood we could fix up her marriage. And the even more beautiful smile when she called you ‘my priest.’

“Now, what I want you to do, Stan, is make a big success of your eighth grade, and get ready for next May, the application, and the test.

“After that, just aim to be no more than ordinary, just average. You’re not to stand out in anything. Got that?”

“Yes, Father.”

“That’s the boy! Now, if you have any doubts or questions, bring them to me … nobody else. Got it?”

“Yes, Father!”

“O … kay! Now, let’s see a smile on you that is as perfect as your mother’s.”

As he left the rectory, Stanley tried to hold the smile. It felt so artificial. He would have to work at it.

He would have to work at many things. But he would work on those things. He would do it motivated only by his love for his mother.

Damn Father Simpson!

No, that was not too strong a curse. For some unfathomable reason, this priest wanted Stan in the seminary and ultimately in the priesthood.

Was there such a thing as the Missionaries’ Privilege? Maybe. There were lots of things Stan didn’t know or understand about his Church.

But all those things were of no account. He was going to make his mother happy.

   
TWELVE
   

T
HANKSGIVING DAY, 1942.

The dinner was scheduled to be celebrated at the Smith home. It would be a sizable gathering. The Smith twins of course. The Toccos had given permission for Emanuel to dine with his friends. Alice McMann was grateful to be with her friend Rose.