The Good Shepherd (14 page)

At the residence, Mrs. Norton peered from the other end of the hall, seconds after the big iron front door clanged shut. He gave her the two sheets of diet data and asked for some cream of wheat for his supper. “I’m afraid this is going to be an awful nuisance for you,” he said.

“Oh dear, dear,” she said. “Oh dear, dear. I was saying only the other day to Mrs. Finch that you didn’t look well to me, for all the flesh on you, you were eating like a bird. This won’t be any trouble. Not a bit of trouble at all. I’ll have the cream of wheat up to your room in only a minute or two.”

Calling Dennis McLaughlin on the telephone intercom, he asked him to come down and take the prescriptions to the drugstore. The new Cardinal trudged wearily up the stairs to his second-floor apartment, wondering why he was the last person to discover that he was visibly overtired. He did feel exhausted now, but it had been a lulu of a day. He thought for a moment about Sister Agnes Marie, and the pain made a rapid reconnaissance from one side of his abdomen to the other.

On the second-floor landing, he met his secretary, wearing a blue turtleneck sweater and green tweed sports jacket. He gave Dennis the prescriptions and said: “I seem to have an ulcer. At least that’s what the doctor says, based on an educated guess.”

“Oh. Oh. I’m - sorry.”

“So am I. I’m afraid you and the rest of the crew will have to do more, so I can do less.”

Dennis nodded and started down the stairs. Suddenly Matthew Mahan felt compelled to say something about his outfit. “Dennis,” he said, “would you, as a personal favor to me, only wear those kind of clothes when you are off duty?”

It was almost unfair. Taking advantage of your illness. Was it also unwise? Speaking from weakness instead of strength? “It’s more or less what I’ve asked all our priests to do. I sent a letter to them last year, laying down some guidelines.”

Father McLaughlin looked more wistful than angry, gazing up at him from the darkened staircase. “I’m sorry. I went downtown with my brother for a few drinks. Do you want me to change now?”

“No, no.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Again.” He smiled guiltily. “Father Reagan, the president of St. Francis, called. He’d like to speak to you about the demonstration that Father Disalvo is planning to hold on the campus tomorrow. He sounded very uptight.”

“All right. I’ll call him. As soon as I’ve finished my mush. That’s what I’m condemned to eating for supper.”

Matthew Mahan turned away abruptly, again displeased with himself.
Wrong, wrong.
You must learn to handle this illness without any pleas for pity.

In his bedroom, he switched on the television to get KTGM’s ten o’clock news. B-52S flew high over South Vietnam in response to the latest enemy offensive. The bombs drifted down, as he had seen them fall in countless other film clips while a voice-over named their unseen target. “As of last Sunday 33,063 Americans have died in Vietnam fighting. A figure fast approaching the Korean War total of 33,629,” the invisible announcer said. Matthew Mahan turned off the sound and called “Yes?” to a sharp rap on the door. Mrs. Norton came out of the dark hall like an apparition, his steaming cream of wheat on a tray. “Here it is, Your Eminence,” she said. “It takes only a jiffy. Any time you want some more, let me know. I’ve a nice pitcher of cream here. It gives it a scrumptious taste, in my opinion.”

Midway through the cream of wheat, the international news ended, and the local news began. He turned on the sound and listened to himself answering nice harmless questions from Jack Murphy. Downstairs, the telephone rang. A moment later the red light on his phone came aglow, and he picked up the receiver. “It’s the president of St. Francis University,” Mrs. Norton said. “He called before and I connected him to Father McLaughlin. No doubt he’s forgotten to tell you.”

“No, he told me,” said Matthew Mahan mildly. “I’ll take the call now.” He sat down in his Barcalounger beside his bed and switched off the sound on the television.

“Good evening,” said Father Philip Reagan. He was one of those almost too handsome boy geniuses in which the Jesuits had seemed to specialize during Matthew Mahan’s two student years at St. Francis. In fact, Reagan had taught him freshman Latin. He had been considered a brilliant classical scholar in those days. But as far as Matthew Mahan knew, Reagan had never fulfilled his early promise. Typical of too many Jesuits of that era, he thought. Posted from one job to another, fundraising for the missions one year and giving retreats the next year and running a university the next, they became jacks of all trades, masters of none. “Can I jump the gun a little and call you Your Eminence?” Father Reagan asked. “At least, I want to extend my personal congratulations and the best wishes of every member of our faculty.”

“Thanks,” said Matthew Mahan. “What’s the problem? Not another financial crisis, I hope.”

Last year, Chancellor Malone had caught the Jesuits negotiating a private $2-million loan from an out-of-state bank. In a fierce test of influence and willpower, Archbishop Mahan had won an unconditional victory both in the countinghouse and in Rome. The Jesuits had been forced to withdraw their loan application and borrow the money through the archdiocese, thereby admitting to Matthew Mahan that the university was in perilous financial health.

“Oh no, oh no,” said Father Reagan. A little more humility crept into his voice, however, which was why Matthew Mahan exhumed the topic in the first place. “It’s this rally they’re going to have out here. Solidarity Day, they’re calling it. Father Disalvo says that he’s planning to lead 10,000 blacks out here. He estimates there’ll be 5,000 students to greet them. Our campus security people tell me they can’t possibly handle a crowd that size.”

“Are you sure your information is correct? Father Disalvo promised me the last time we conferred that he would clear all his plans for future demonstrations with me. I haven’t heard a word about this.”

“I only know what my security people tell me.”

“Don’t you know by now that cops and lawyers love to anticipate the worst? Lately, I’m inclined to add mayors and university presidents to that list.”

As he spoke, Mayor Graham (“Jake”) O’Connor’s rugged Irish good looks filled the television screen. His lips moved soundlessly, but Matthew Mahan was sure that His Honor was heaping hypocritical praise on Cardinal Mahan’s head, proclaiming how pleased he was that the Pope had seen fit to reward their Archbishop for his long years of service to the Church, etc., etc.

“What am I supposed to do about this big demonstration, presuming it exists?” Matthew Mahan asked.

“I was hoping - that you’d forbid it. Forbid Father Disalvo to participate in it, at any rate. That would pretty much defuse it.”

“Meanwhile, you can go on pretending to be in favor of free speech and free association while poor slobs like me get pilloried in every underground newspaper from here to California.”

“We are prepared to issue a statement supporting your stand to the limit. After the violence of Columbia - and Fordham.”

“Oh yeah. They trashed the administration building at Fordham, didn’t they? No wonder you’re nervous.”

“Your Eminence,” said Father Reagan forlornly, “I wish you’d try to understand our position. We’ve got several thousand very restless young people out here. We’re doing the best we can.”

“Oh, I suppose so,” Matthew Mahan said. “It’s just an irresistible temptation to stick some pins into you guys after all those years of you acting as if the diocesan clergy didn’t exist, pretending that you were the whole Catholic Church.”

“I don’t think we ever -”

“How’s my nephew doing? When I heard him describe the grab bag that you’re offering in place of a comprehensive philosophic education, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be better off at the state university, where they don’t discuss religion at all.”

“He’s doing quite well, I believe, Your Eminence.”

On the television, the mayor had been replaced by owlish Dominic Montefiore, the head of the City Council, and then by none other than Father Reagan. Having pummeled him into humiliation, Matthew Mahan felt a little conscience-stricken. “Calm down, Phil,” he said. “I’ll get hold of Disalvo tonight and straighten this thing out.”

Grateful murmurs from Father President. Matthew Mahan hung up and turned on the sound in time to hear his old friend, Steve Murchison, the city’s Methodist bishop, filling the screen with his slow, Gary Cooper grin and telling the people how pleased Protestants were by Pope Paul’s latest choice for the cardinalate. “His Eminence and I were chaplains together, you know. The 409th Regiment. I’ve seen him do things under fire that only a man inspired by tremendous love for his fellowmen would even think about doing. He saved my life one night outside Düsseldorf. I came walking down a road that the Germans had zeroed in with a half-dozen machine guns. Father Matt, as we called him then, jumped out of a shell hole, hit me with a flying tackle, and the two of us went sailing into another shell hole on the other side of the road - full of water. I was going to drown him, I was so mad. Then I saw those machine gun bullets kicking up the dust where I’d been standing ten seconds before.”

Matthew Mahan turned off the sound and dialed Steve Murchison’s number. He answered the phone himself. “What are you trying to do to me,” he said, “making me sound like Superman and Batman rolled into one? The next time I get on television, I’m going to tell them a few things you did - one in particular - for me.”

“How are you, Matt?”

“I could be better, but you know why.”

Murchison chuckled. “Remember what I used to tell you, about you Romans being too
visible
with all your schools and colleges and what have you? That’s why you’re a target these days for every radical nut that can find himself a TV camera to talk at. You’ve got to learn to travel light, Matt.”

“You may have something there, Steve. Anyway, I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate all those things you said just now on the tube, even if most of them weren’t true.”

“I don’t need absolution, you Irish faker, and you know it.”

“Good night, Steve. God bless you.”

Matthew Mahan dialed the mayor’s private wire. His Honor answered the phone. “Jake,” he said, “I just wanted to thank you for the nice things you said on television. I only wish you meant them.”

“You know how it is, Matt. We politicians have to stick together.”

“I wish you’d stick a little closer to me when it comes to getting that parochial school aid bill through the state legislature.”

“I told you before, Matt, and I’ll tell you again. All your goddamn crummy schools ought to go out of business tomorrow. Having gone to them, I speak with authority. You won’t get me to say a word for them.”

“You know I’m a born Democrat, Jake. But if the other fellows are inclined to help us on this thing, you may find me awfully cool when you run for governor or senator or whatever it is you’re going for next.”

“If that’s the price I have to pay for winning, I prefer to lose. Believe it or not, Matt, I actually care about this city, this state, this country. Your goddamn parochial schools have wrecked the public school system in this city. Would the blacks be able to scream de facto segregation, if we had your catechumens in the public schools? Would we be getting all this shit about black culture and African studies, instead of learning how to read and write? Why don’t you make yourself a real hero, Matt? Why don’t you announce that you don’t want the legislature to pass that bill? Why don’t you get out of the education business before you tear this city and state apart?”

Matthew Mahan felt his temperature rising in five-degree leaps to the boiling point. In public, His Honor pretended to be a model Catholic. This was his private personality. He talked to his Archbishop as if he were an uncooperative ward leader.

“Why don’t you stop trying to be an expert about a field in which you know nothing? Why don’t you try just once to see the situation from my point of view? I’m responsible for the souls of those children you’re telling me to send into the public schools.”

“Oh, what the hell,” the mayor said, “we’ve already had this argument four times, and you keep coming up with that same garbage. You make it sound like you’re throwing a lot of little lambs to an army of wolves. The public schools aren’t that bad. Have you ever been in one?”

“No, I just read the papers about them. Have you been in one lately?”

“Yes. They’re trying to do a good job in an impossible situation - a situation you helped to create by segregating 70 percent of the white kids in this city.”

“We’re integrating our parochial schools.”

“Yeah. What are you up to now, 5, 10 percent?”

“Thirty, 35 percent downtown.”

“Wow. We’re up to 90 percent in most of the public schools down there.”

“Well,” Matthew Mahan said, as pain prowled in his stomach and he realized once more that arguing with Mayor O’Connor on this topic was futile, “I didn’t call you to get into this tonight. I wanted to find out if you have any information about a parade being planned by Father Disalvo tomorrow. From downtown out to the university.”

“No,” said the mayor, instantly alarmed. “Have you? I’ll call the police commissioner and check back with you. It sounds like a lovely way to burn down half the city.”

“Now, don’t get excited, Jake. I have no intention of letting Disalvo do anything of the sort. I’ve kept him on a very tight leash. Not that you ever give me any credit for it.”

“I’ll give you a few white points. I’d give you a lot more if you’d shut him up. If you don’t, I may arrange to do it with a couple of nightsticks.”

“Now, now, Jake, don’t revert to the style of your predecessors.”

“When it comes to Disalvo, I wish you’d revert. On parochial schools, I wish you’d stop reverting.”

Cardinal Mahan hung up, seething. In his anger, he remembered being present in the office when Archbishop Hogan had phoned City Hall about getting a dropout priest fired from a job as a playground instructor in the Parks Department. (Was it Fogarty? The man’s name was never mentioned.)
Catholic children play in that park. I won’t have them exposed to that kind of immorality, Your Honor.
From the other end of the phone came nothing but
Yes, Your Excellency. No, Your Excellency. Right away, Your Excellency.